Bliss Park Daredevil

Thought for the Day

How we perceive things plays such a huge role in our actions that follow. Seems a rather obvious statement and yet I can think of various times when what should have been clear was not and what I did while logical to me was completely out of sync with common sense.

We’ve had a few coolish mornings in the last few weeks and it feels good. Fall is a great time of year. Our young students have re entered the halls of learning. The summer gardens are shutting down production except for squash, pumpkin and okra here in Georgia. The hummingbirds have grown even more vigilant and territorial eating nectar, natural and man made with a voracity not seen before. They have a long trip to make soon. After the heavy, energy sapping heat of summer the coolness of fall is welcome and invigorating.

Every year when the seasons begin to change I am reminded of an incident that occurred when I was a youngster, recently endowed with a new Schwin bike which I had bought with my own funds. It took place at Bliss Park about four blocks from my house.

I rode into the park and saw a group of friends gathered around some upended picnic tables. A natural curiosity drew me to the attraction. I watched long enough to see the purpose of the rearranged tables. They had fashioned a kind of ramp from the tables in order to see how far they could get their bikes to fly in the air. The idea was to ride the bike as fast as they could to the ramp. Once they reached the ramp they would disembark the bike and let it freewheel off into the wild blue yonder.

The bikes never achieved what I thought was much of a flight and the reason was quite clear to me. As the riders approached the ramp they would slow the bike as they got off with such clumsy care. I immediately thought the way to achieve maximum flight was to ride as hard and fast as possible to the ramp, jump straight up off the bike without impeding its progress. When the area was sufficiently clear I announced my intentions and waved them clear of the ramp.

I made a large circle on my bike to achieve ideal distance from the target. I pedaled hard and fast to reach maximum speed, as I approached the ramp, I steeled my body for the jump and positioned my feet on the pedal for a spring into the air. At the ramp I threw myself into the air and watched my bike fly off into the air as I came crashing down on the picnic tables completely out of control. My focus was completely on the flight of the bike. What would happen to me after I left the vehicle never occurred to me. Ouch!

The Doctor called it a herringbone fracture and put my arm in a plaster of paris cast. I wore it for what seemed a lifetime and found all kinds of creative ways of scratching the itch. I gathered satisfaction from the distance the bike flew which was far greater than anything the others had achieved.

The weakness in planning while quite obvious never settled into my character with sufficient strength to help me avoid future catastrophes that planning would have helped me avoid. On the other hand, that kind of focus is quite useful for other activities. You know which kind I am sure.

Herb Ratliff, August 20, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Work in Progress

Thought for the Day

We are all a work in progress. Even the David was just a block of marble when Michaelangelo started. If I don't look like a work of art today just remember I'm not finished yet. There's a lot of work to be done before you can look at me and say, that's all he will ever be.

©Herb Ratliff, August 16, 2012, All Rights Reserved

H.A.L.T.

Thought for the Day

H.A.L.T. is a reminder to the type A aspects we all suffer from occasionally. What confounds and confuses most of us is not terribly complicated. It is "common sense" which we have leaned isn't very common. Here's what it reminds me to do.

H. If you are hungry eat something. You'd be amazed what not eating can make you do. It is easily fixed but a surprisingly frequent cause of seriously bad behavior. 

A. If you are angry pause. Anger needs to be released. Find a way to release it without injuring yourself or your property and apply the same standards to other people and their property. Easy peasy.

L. One is the loneliest number. If you are lonely call someone, visit a friend, help someone else. You are living in your head. Get out!

T. If you are tired, rest. Take a nap. Go to bed. Check your eyelids for light leaks. Rest, you are no good to yourself or anyone else if you are not rested. It literally can kill you. 

A University of Chicago study proved it, twice. It was done with mice and the subject was sleep deprivation. Fifty years ago when the study was done the first time, the mice died and it confused the researchers who felt they did not understand the cause of death.

Recently the same experiment was done again, same result. H.A.L.T. remember it, use it. In the parting words of Spock, "Live long and prosper."

Herb Ratliff, August 15, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Confrontation

Mornings Before School

Little girls respond with

the delayed look,

slowly, 

over their shoulder

and up

right into your eyes

with a hint of

disdain.

Boys begin with 

muscle tension,

the trace of a 

head shake

and

direct refusal

followed 

by a plea

for mercy 

or 

reason

to prevail.

In the end

both relent

but

there is no surrender

only

impatient delay.

©Herb Ratliff, August 14, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Fish Story ...conclusion

Thought for the Day

From yesterday's post....

I watched as it moved past the boat and on toward the back of the cove. When it went out of sight I still was staring at where it had been. As I sat there staring at the water something gradually became apparent to me. There was a path, for lack of a better term, where the fish had been. It was like a little path. Hmmmm. I looked at the other end of the boat. I stared at the water until I began to see little differences, yes, there it was, a little path was there too.

"Well, I'll be dammed."

I sat there staring at the path until I caught some movement in the water. Sure enough, there it was again. He was so damn casual I felt like asking him about the weather.

I think you've already figured out the hour I told "you know who" about isn't going to be accurate. I always seem to underestimate how long it will take to fish, and tell people things. Stop by tomorrow if you like and I'll try to finish this fish tale, true fish tale.
Conclusion:
I continued watching until he moved out of sight again. Slowly, I stood up to get a better view. I thought since the water was so clear I might be able to see where he was going. I steadied myself and scanned the area where I guessed he would be.

The cove was quite weedy which is why the fish liked it so much. A foot below the surface you could see a loose, fine weed a bit like the cellophane grass in an Easter basket. After my eyes adjusted to the distance I could see an oval track just as clearly as if I were at the Indy 500. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration but there was an oval path where the fish had been swimming. I could no longer see the fish but it was obvious he had been circling. I have fished for a long time. I have seen a lot of strange things. But this was something else again.

I watched the fish make a couple of circuits and then I had an idea. The kaboozi's were gone. I had to try something else. I decided I would try a plastic worm on a hook with a bobber. That way I could adjust the depth of the worm and watch to see how the fish reacted to the bait. I would also be able to wiggle the worm when I saw the fish approaching it. OK, that should work. So I rigged the line, tossed it in the path of the fish and waited.

It seemed to take longer for the fish to make the circuit with the bait in the water. After what seemed a very long time I decided he had been spooked. I was too close to the path. The action of putting the bobber and bait there was too disruptive. I was about to give up when he swam into view. He looked more wary than before. (They can too. A fish can look wary. They have to pay attention to their surroundings. Nature is a very stern teacher.)

I wiggled the worm a bit. He slowed and approached it but passed by without taking the bait. Crap! Maybe it will look better next time. I waited. I waited some more. Having a fish that big, that close doing things that predictable made catching him that much more important. Then I thought, maybe I could just net him. Nawww, that's no way to fish. So I waited.

I don't know how many passes that fish made with nary a nibble but I almost left many times. Finally when I was at my wits end he took the bait. Bam! He broke the line. It's true. I swear, he broke the line. Well, I thought, that's it. He'll never take that bait again. So I started to pull up the anchor and then, I relaxed my grip on the line and thought I'd give it one more shot. So this time I rigged the big rod and used a steel leader. I hooked the bobber into the swivel on the end of the leader, put it back in the water and waited.

To my great surprise he took the bait on the first pass. I set the hook hard. The response was explosive. He dove fast and deep making the line whine at a high pitch and the rod bend in half. He was heavy and full of fight. No fish I had ever caught there had been anywhere near that strong. I held the rod high and pulled against him trying to keep him from getting in the weeds on the bottom. He pulled back with a vengeance and then, the line snapped. Damn! I was devastated. That's it, I thought and began packing up my gear.

I retrieved all of my paraphernalia and put it in the tackle box. I cleaned the weeds from the net, wound the line back on the reels and reached for the anchor. I took one last, long look. About twenty five feet from the boat a red and white, round bobber floated along as if powered by an inboard motor.  The fish was still hooked. It may have been the first fish locator of its kind. I watched and laughed as the monster fish continued to make its way around the oval track with the bobber marking his progress.

And then, I realized the fish was mine. I could lie in wait and when the fish came by the boat I would reach out, grab the bobber and land the fish. I had only to move into position and lie still enough to keep the boat from rocking. There was nothing left to do but wait.

It was eerie watching a bobber moving along the water surface. The circuit was about a hundred feet in circumference. The pace was painfully slow. My heart was beating fast and I was focused on the bobber like a lioness on a springbok. As the bobber rounded the lower end of the oval the anticipation was gigantic. My muscles tensed in readiness. My left hand gripped the gunwale, my right hand was forming into a talon. I got it so quickly and pulled it into the boat so fast it seemed weightless. It was an evil looking fish, unlike anything I had ever encountered. But he was mine.

Normally I released fish after catching them. This one was going back. I put him in the live box and  hoisted anchor. It was time to head back. I wanted to ask a neighbor what this strange fellow was.

The fish turned out to be a dogfish or bowfin, amia calva. It's an unpopular predator that is known to lake fisherman but since the bulk of my fishing was in streams I had never seen one. The greeting I got from my wife was not pretty but quite understandable. I had been gone three and a half hours. It seemed like minutes to me. That's the way fishing is. It's hard to explain if you don't do it.

After that incident I didn't have much credibility estimating length of time when it involved fishing activities. It isn't that I did before but it got worse. I can still see the look on her face when I told her I released the fish. She wasn't exactly angry, it was more like she was really, really confused. She had a fundamental inability to understand that in a contest of wills destruction of the competitor is not necessary for a victory. Actually it's quite possible for a high stakes contest to end with both parties earning a satisfactory result. That's why I have always loved fly fishing for trout. We both win.

It is a true story. I promise... on my fishing gear.

©Herb Ratliff, August 10, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Fish Story

Thought For The Day

This is going to be hard to believe but I swear every word of it is true. Really, there is just no way anyone could make up a story like this. So I hope you'll give me the benefit of the doubt. Here goes.

It was one of those mid May, spring days in Michigan the Chamber of Commerce dreams about. The sky was that streaky, whitewashed blue, the wind a 2 - 3 mile an hour zephyr and the temperature about 68 degrees. The water was crystal clear. When you looked at the water from the cottage it looked like a sea of silver dollars glittering in the sun. When I saw it I knew it would be a slap in Mother Nature's face not to go fishing.

Yes, I knew I had promised to go to the hardware store to get the door closer and I would.  What difference would an hour make in the greater scheme of things? So I went into the closet and got a couple of spinning rods, a net, tackle box and hat. What else did I need? Everything else is in the tackle box. I should be good to go. As I started out of the house the mother of my children sent an icy breath my way making the hair on the nape of my neck stand erect. Then the chill slid down my spine as her words wrapped around me like a blizzard.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm just going to go out for about an hour. Then I'll go to the hardware store."

"You said you would take care of the door, first thing."

"And I will, right after I get back in from a short, tiny, little .... Can you believe how beautiful it is? I'll be back in a little bit."

"Sure you will, what's a little bit?"

"An hour, I just have to... The bass are on their beds. This is perfect, absolutely perfect.  O K ?"

"One hour? You are standing here, in front of me, with rods and tackle, telling me that you will be back here, in this house, in one hour. Really?"

"Yes, I've gotta go."

I ran down to the boat, put in the gear and headed out toward Hidden Lake. On the way I stopped a couple of times and landed some two pound bass. I even caught a couple of Northern Pike. I was pretty anxious to get to Hidden Lake, a little cove, where I had a lot of luck catching three to five pound bass. I sat the rod down and started the boat motor. I headed south to my favorite spot.

The cove I thought of as my own was free of the local rabble so I dropped anchor and began preparing my rods for action. I've always had a lot of luck with a kaboozi. They just seem to be magnets for...

"What? A Kaboozi? You don't think I'm going to tell you what I really use do you? Please."

Bass love them. Pike do too. The problem was I only had two. That would have been fine but I use very light tackle and pretty fine mono. It makes the fishing a lot more fun but you do break a fair amount of line resulting in the loss of lures. Oh, well, it's what I had so I'll just make it work, I thought. On my first cast I got a strike, set the hook and lost the fish and the lure when the line broke. Darn! I put another rig on the line and also put a rig on the other rod which had a higher test line, just in case. When the bass are on their beds in the spring they are very protective and quite aggressive. There is usually pretty good action during that time.

I caught two more bass and a pike. I lost another rig on the lighter tackle and then I saw the strangest thing I had ever seen in that water. There was a very dark fish about thirty inches long swimming by the boat so nonchalantly, it looked like it was strolling on the Champs Elysee in Paris at midnight.

"What in... What the heck is that?"

I talk to the air when I am alone. It's harmless. I get in less trouble talking to the air than people. People can get an attitude. I was transfixed. I watched as it moved past the boat and on toward the back of the cove. When it went out of sight I still was staring at where it had been. As I sat there staring at the water something gradually became apparent to me. There was a path, for lack of a better term, where the fish had been. It was like a little path. Hmmmm. I looked at the other end of the boat. I stared at the water until I began to see little differences, yes, there it was, a little path was there too.

"Well, I'll be dammed."

I sat there staring at the path until I caught some movement in the water. Sure enough, there it was again. He was so damn casual I felt like asking him about the weather.

I think you've already figured out the hour I told "you know who" about isn't going to be accurate. I always seem to underestimate how long it will take to fish, and tell people things. Stop by tomorrow if you like and I'll try to finish this fish tale, true fish tale.

©Herb Ratliff, August 9, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Daphne Koller

Thought For The Day

Meet Daphne Koller

http://www.ted.com/talks/daphne_koller_what_we_re_learning_from_online_education.html

I'm going to keep this very short and simple today.

I am going to tell you something that I learned from a very generous, creative person.

You can take online classes free, from Stanford, Duke, Princeton and over 100 universities.

https://www.coursera.org/

The YMCA Story ...Conclusion

Thought For The Day

The new YMCA Membership was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I felt like I had achieved some special status and indeed I had. I had been the recipient of another person's act of kindness. That event would color my life and lay in wait to teach me a life lesson when I was old enough to understand it.

The year that followed was filled with events and activities that eventually dimmed the gift and allowed it to come to rest in a space called "entitled". I always knew the membership was the result of someone's generosity but not with the brightness of that first day. That's natural, you say? Maybe so but if we think a gift is what we deserve perhaps we feel less inclined to return the favor. Then, the value of the gift is diminished rather than enhanced by living in our garden.

Debussy explained that music is the space between notes. And so, a space began a new era in my life.

When I went into Junior High, grades 7-9, there were more organized sports activities. Some were provided by the schools and others by city leagues. Basketball was a favorite city league activity but in school I became interested in track and field. It was during this period that I began to work in my fathers Shoe Repair Shop after school and sometimes on Saturday. That made a sporting life difficult at first and eventually eliminated it. In high school, there was a brief period of activity when I made the tennis team. After that I was back at work and never participated in organized sports again.

After high school I went to college. I went to BYU for my first year and the first semester of my second year. When I came back home I went to work at Saginaw Malleable Iron in Plant Engineering. It was a great job and I would learn more there than I could have in college. It would change my life in other ways and create some more "spaces" so there would be music in my life.

During the two plus years I worked at "Malleable" I did a lot of growing. And this is where we get back to the YMCA.

After I had been there for a year there was a United Way Fund Drive. The GM philosophy was to support the "Fair Share" concept of giving. I had serious objections to being forced to do that. I was already giving ten percent of my gross income to church. It was expected by the church, promoted by my parents and at the end of the year members were expected to go to a tithing settlement meeting with the bishop and promise they had "tithed", 10%. My feeling was that if I was giving that much to my church The United Way should be happy with whatever I deigned to give them. GM did not agree. I was told that working there was a privilege and my participation was mandatory.

I was twenty, knew pretty much everything and was as stubborn as stubborn gets. I found myself at loggerheads with GM management. That's not a good place to be. Fortunately I had a boss, Charley Luther, who was the toughest, smartest and gentlest man I would ever know. He took me aside and we had a little visit. He took the company line and I took the "me" line. Then he began itemizing the organizations the United Way supported and I must say I was impressed but I explained that my church provided for hapless members who were sick, disabled and temporarily out of sorts and wasn't what I was doing just as important as supporting the United Way?  His response was classic. He told me that what I was doing was the least I could do if I supported my church.  He said doing the least you can do is not the spirit of good will. Then he asked if there were any organizations I admired that my church didn't support financially.

After some posturing I admitted the YMCA was certainly a worthwhile organization. He said he did too and that the United Way supported the YMCA. Then he said that I might look upon my gift to the United Way as a gift to the Y. In my beleaguered state I said, but your gift is taken from your overall gift, you are asking me to make an additional gift. Then, he said he made an additional gift too. He donated five memberships that were to be given to deserving kids every year.

Well, that did it for me. I gave my "fair share".

Giving what you can to things you believe in is not measurable by normal accounting practices. When the heart and mind work in concert there is a resonance created that rivals any of the great symphonies. The gift to the giver is to be in that moment, in that music, at that time. That's kind of what love is, don't you think. When you give all you have, your riches are beyond measure.

©Herb Ratliff, August 7, 2012, All Rights Reserved

The Y M C A

Thought For The Day

One of my great pleasures growing up was going to the YMCA. It was within walking distance from my house. There I could play basketball, swim and run on an indoor track.

The YMCA building had been around for a long time. It seemed an ancient place but that in no way diminished its attraction to me. Trips to the "Y" were limited because there was a charge for use. That charge could be paid on a per visit basis or you could purchase a membership for the year. Both methods of payment were very reasonable. It seems to me a daily pass could be had for twenty five cents. I do not remember what an annual membership cost. A daily pass was the only method within my reach at the time.

When I went to the Y it was typically on a Saturday and it was for the whole day. It was there I became acquainted with the swimming pool as an attraction. My parents were not comfortable around water and their fear of the water was clearly transmitted to me. I did not allow that fear to move into my house though, I learned how to swim at the Y. That is not really an accurate statement, "I learned not to be petrified around the water" would more honestly represent the truth. The gym was available for open basketball as well as organized league activities. My first basketball team play was there. My age at the time was between 9 and 12.

One Saturday I went alone to spend the day. I have five sisters. Getting out of the house and going to a place with more than one bathroom was adequate motivation. The pool and the gym were over the top. When I got to the front desk the attendant was talking to someone so I had to wait a bit. When he finished he looked down at me and ask what I needed. I requested the day pass. His face changed expressions. He asked if I came here often. Yes, I told him. He asked my name and opened a drawer to examine some cards. After he found what he was looking for, he looked at it carefully and then at me. I, naturally, thought I had done something wrong.

The attendant left the immediate area for a couple of minutes. When he returned he said that I had a membership. I told him I did not. A soft smile began to appear on his face and he said that I did indeed have a membership. I was flabbergasted. How could this be? I began to explain the inaccuracy in detail to him and he raised his hand and said. "It is a gift." At that moment I was convinced I was the first person in my family to be a "member" of anything. I believe I grew a foot as I stood there. I'm not sure I have ever been happier or more grateful for anything in my life. I used that membership as much as time would allow and quietly thanked that attendant for years after. But there's more to this story. I'll tell you the rest tomorrow.

©Herb Ratliff, August 6, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Grapefruit, Lots of Grapefruit

Thought For The Day

I love Ruby Red Grapefruit. As a matter of plain fact I prefer Ruby Red Grapefruit juice to orange juice and I am a big fan of orange juice. The thing is, as Clint Eastwood put it so well in one of his Spaghetti Westerns, "A man's gotta know his limitations.

When I lived in Florida most of the inhabited space was on a strip of land that was fifteen miles wide from the beach to the everglades. There was mostly farmland beyond that or parks. From time to time I would venture out beyond civilization to see what was happening but most of the time we lived on that narrow band of land with everyone else.

One Sunday afternoon, Lindsay, my daughter, and I were suffering from a little case of "Cabin Fever". We considered a trip to Canada or San Francisco but since she had to be in school at 7:30 Monday morning we decided against it. Florida is flat. The highest points are the overpasses for the turnpike. You have to drive north about four hours before the topography changes significantly. So we decided to explore the farmlands to the west.

Canals, vast fields of crops varying according to the season from Green Peppers and Tomatoes to Strawberries and farther west Sugar Cane. In the area where we lived, West Palm Beach, there wasn't a lot of citrus. There were ornamental orange, grapefruit and lemon trees but not much in the way of commercial production. That is not to say there was none. A couple of places existed as tourist destinations and over sized fruit markets. They produced a pretty substantial crop. The fruit was transported by large trucks driven by daredevils and hot rodders. It was not a pleasant thing to be approached by a speeding load of fresh oranges or grapefruit. Sometimes the overloaded trucks, driven by drivers that might have been too, would lose a part of their load which would spill along the road.

I do not like waste. It just goes against my grain. When I see perfectly good fruit lying on the side of the road I just naturally feel I should take advantage of the offering. Lindsay thought so too. So when we came across an extraordinary cache of fresh Ruby Red Grapefruit we stopped and commenced to transfer it from the roadside to the interior of my somewhat aged Cadillac. Now, you wouldn't think from looking at a grapefruit that a few of them would take up much space. But as we gathered and transferred them, well, we filled the car and then the trunk. Sadly, we were disappointed to leave so many on the side of the road but we had done all we could.

There was barely enough room for Lindsay and I after we loaded up. We looked at each other with rather blank expressions and then started laughing over what we had done. When we finally got the bounty into the house we had to consider what we might do with them. I think we gave some away. We juiced a lot of them and froze the juice. We ate some of them. But we did not waste a single grapefruit. Not one.

A little footnote about the "Groves" near West Palm Beach. They are gone. I was there in February for a visit and intended to visit Knollwood Groves. It had been owned by the co stars of the Amos and Andy radio program. We loved going there was so much to see. They offered a little tour of the groves on a wagon pulled by a tractor right through the middle of the orange trees. When we returned we could see the juicing being done and then we went to the little store. There was a bakery there and they made the most delicious apple pie. It was sliced and kept whole, slid to one side and exposed the layers of the apple.

There were tables and chairs under a huge Banyan tree and it felt cool in it's shade. It's gone and so is the apple pie and a lot of other things. Like the words from a Beatles song, "Life is what happens while you are making other plans."

©Herb Ratliff, August 2, 2012, All Rights Reserved

'

Spotting Celebrities

Thought For The Day

Travel, especially air travel, carries with it an implicit expectation of encounters with celebrities. Perhaps it is a louder expectation if you are in and around Los Angeles but it is always there. Airports equal adventure.

For much of my life I was a passenger on an airplane. The flying started in 1980. I took a job with Citigroup which required me to spend every other week on the west coast. It would go something like this: Monday morning at seven I would board a commuter in Flint and fly to Chicago. At O'hare I would connect with a flight to San Francisco or Los Angeles, usually San Francisco. I had an arrangement with the Mark Hopkins Hotel for a room that allowed me to leave things there so I didn't have to carry them back and forth to Michigan.

Once I was located in San Francisco there was often travel from there to other cities: Los Angeles, San Diego, Portland, OR, Seattle, WA and so on. It was a far cry from what I had been doing and stretched me in lots of ways. I liked what I was doing. It was interesting and exciting. The travel was a bonus and at the time it was fun. I always expected to see someone who was newsworthy but as you might guess rarely ever did.

Once in LA I saw Wilt Chamberlain while sitting in a seat next to Dinah Shore and across the aisle from John Garfield. That was fun because Dinah Shore was such a lady and very engaging. She had the most beautiful skin and soft brown eyes. She talked with me like we were old friends on a short flight between LA and San Francisco. But the most memorable encounter I had with celebrities was in Nashville.

I would see celebrities once in a while from a distance. I usually made no attempt to interact with them. But, when I saw Justin Wilson at the Delta information counter in Nashville and since I was going there myself it was just too much. He had made me laugh so hard, so many times I had to thank him for his funny stories. I promised myself to be brief and polite. Thirty minutes later I was laughing out loud and trying to catch my breath. In fact I had forgotten that I stopped to ask a question about the gate location. When I finally got around to asking the information attendant told me I had better go if I wanted to catch the plane.

I bolted from the desk, thanking Justin Wilson as I ran away. I was focused on the marquis when I knocked a man to the floor. I reached down to help him and saw Pat Boone all crumpled up and not a little bit annoyed. I apologized, brushed him off and ran to the gate. After all the miles I had flown and all of the dignitaries I thought I would see, most of it happened in a thirty minute span in Nashville while looking for a gate and trying to get there. But, that's not all.

About two weeks later I was in Orlando and forced to take a commuter from there to West Palm Beach. There was a terrible storm brewing that you often see during summer in Florida. A large bank of Cumulus Clouds black as night were on the edge of the airport. The flight had been delayed but the boarding crew seemed to think it would be a short wait until we were cleared to board.  I wasn't all that sure I wanted to board the plane anyway, but I was looking forward to getting home. I had been away for over a week.

We eventually were allowed to board with assurance the storm was out of range and we could fly safely. Mixed feelings emerged but I walked out on the tarmac toward the stairway set up to board "the little plane that could." As I reached for the handrail a body bumped into me and pushed me away from the stairs. When I looked at the perpetrator, it was none other than, you guessed it, Pat Boone. We went to our seats. We sat side by side in tiny seats on the crowded plane and he said, "Do I know you?"

©Herb Ratliff, August 2, 2012, All Rights Reserved

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVvIpFhBmqw

I Wonder

Thought For The Day

I wonder if death is like a cool drink

on a cruel, hot, humid day in August

or the last bite of a bowl of ice cream.

Could it be complete indifference  or

complete happiness, ultimate satisfaction.

Do you think there's fear or resignation?

Could it be the greatest pleasure, saved for last

knowing you would be unhappy living 

while knowing it was waiting?

I don't mind waiting 

but I was thinking....

©Herb Ratliff, July 31, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Daydreams

Thought For The Day

Who pulls the strings 

that make us dance 

or 

lie  softly on the edge 

of sleep?

From my spot

under the staircase

I see you

walking back and forth in the kitchen

flour on your apron

strands of soft hair 

around your eyes 

focused fiercely 

on the crust 

for cherry pie.

©Herb Ratliff, July 27, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Morning Light

Thought For The Day

Do you remember

 waking up

 on a summer day 

when you were a child?

I listened to the birds

I mean really listened

Not to identify them

Just to hear them.

There were no plans

Only possibilities

Cornflowers, clouds

Bumblebees, grasshoppers

and tall stems of grass

with a sweet taste.

©Herb Ratliff, July 25, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Hoxeyville, The End of the Story

Thought For The Day

Fred wowed the crowd with his peerless performance. He was born to be on stage or in front of people at the very least. He thrived on it.

He actually won the grand prize.He refused it, saying it was in violation of the rules of a fraternity he belonged to which did not allow him to accept gifts.
We did a few songs together and the crowd seemed happy enough with our offering. It was one of those times when part truth and part fiction becomes a real event. It was good enough to find it's way onto the header for section two of the local newspaper.

Other than create the expectation of an article on Hoxeyville in Life Magazine, we did nothing terribly wrong. While they believed that, they stood taller and dreamed larger than before. We told them there were no guarantees that it would make the final cut. We told them that it would be a while before anything happened at all. And the whole time it lived in their lives, life was good and they were special. Who knows when they finally gave up on the dream? Maybe they never did. I hope not and in a way they are more famous now than they would have been in a magazine article then. Approximately 2.3 billion people have access to the internet. At it's peak Life's circulation was just over three million.

And the girl? She was a lovely young lady and it was my privilege to spend a little time with her on that evening a long time ago. Nothing we did would compromise her beauty or character. She made me the envy of our little group and that made me happy. And the truth is, she didn't believe a word of our story.

Fred Doerr died in April 22, 2009. He was 68. I hadn't spent much time with him since college. He was living in Saginaw and I live near Atlanta. He left me with a lot of memories. I will cherish them.

Doug Jensen is teaching business law at Reed College near Seattle. I have kept in touch with him over the years. He is still ever the gentleman, perfect manners, thoughtful and a lot of fun. He still loves to wet a line as fly fishermen are fond of saying. He goes to the Bob Marshall Wilderness every year to renew his outdoor spirit.

So there you have it,  Hoxeyville - The Life Magazine Project

©Herb Ratliff, July 20, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Hoxeyville, Part IV

Thought For The Day

When I saw her I knew I had to meet her. She was surrounded by friends and admirers. There was nothing to do but make our entourage more interesting than what she was doing. With the casual, in charge air of  a war correspondent I walked up to her and said:

"I'd like to get some pictures and interview a few people. Who should I speak to for permission?" 

The look I got from her told me she was right where I wanted her to be. She almost stuttered when she asked who I was and  why I wanted to take pictures. I decided at that moment to see if it would work. 

"Herb Ratliff, free lance journalist. We're doing a piece for Life Magazine." 

Then I just waited. There was a pause while she moistened her lips and swallowed. She pointed out the Mayor, who was watching our exchange. When we made eye contact he moved toward me smiling. Bingo! We're in.

When the Mayor came over we introduced ourselves around and explained our reason for being there. We were doing a series of articles about small towns in rural areas. Michigan was our current focus. 

I asked if he was willing to participate. He couldn't say yes fast enough. He invited us to stay for the festivities. He even offered to show us his collection of different types of wood. He also had a collection of animal fetuses in formaldehyde. (I could have lived without that.) He said there was going to be a program that evening and a talent show. 

"Would you fellows like to participate in the talent show?" He asked. 

Fred, Doug and I looked at each other and grinned. This was working out much better than we expected. It was getting on toward dinner time. The Mayor invited us to stay, offered his home for showers and promised a great evening of fun. 

While Doug showered Fred and I worked out a little program to perform for the talent show. Fred was able to magically simulate the sounds of a variety of musical instruments. That would be a part of the program. Doug, Fred and I would sing a couple of songs for the rest.

Now, where did that lovely wood nymph go?


Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! - Nymph in thy orisons,
be all my sins remembered.
--Hamlet, scene i

.................to be continued

©Herb Ratliff, July 19, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Hoxeyville Part III

Thought For The Day

Cadillac is only about two and a half hours from Saginaw.  Not a long enough trip for us to even begin to tap the energy such an outing creates.  We sang songs, laughed, talked about girls and discussed fishing for trout. The idea of wading in a stream to fish was still a novel idea to me but I was  game.

The first order of business was to look for a place to set up our camp. Michigan has long been a friend to the outdoor types. During those years it was not that unusual for people to grab some shuteye in a picnic area. As I recall we found a nice spot by the river, set up a place for a fire and a tent. We pulled a couple of fallen logs around to sit on and we were ready to set up housekeeping. There was and still is a lot of State Land in Michigan so we didn't worry about trespassing. 

I don't know if you have ever thought about it but a river seems deep just because it's a river. There is a vastness to water that exists in my visual senses. No one ever thinks of the Mississippi River as shallow. It is the Mississippi. That by definition makes it wide and deep and long. You do not need a map or a depth gauge. It is an American epic, therefore deep. Some of that carries over to ones perception of all rivers. Water, it's where we grew from a tadpole to a baby. It sustains our life. It's over 70% of our body and our planet. As Norman McClean said in, A River Runs Through it. "I am haunted by waters."

I was reluctant to get in the river. I didn't refuse, I was just slow to test the wading idea. After a half hour of it I was hooked. Some fifty years later it's harder to get me out than in. We spent the day wading and fishing. It was a blast. We caught a few trout and lost many more. We had the stealth of a rogue elephant with a toothache. The first night was a predictable boys camping trip, hot dogs, potato chips, brownies my mom had made and some kind of carbonated, sugar laden beverage, pure heaven.

The next morning we broke camp and headed out for another spot to try our luck. We had met some people who said there was a river near Hoxeyville, a little town about thirty minutes from where we were camped. We headed for the Pine River, one of Michigan's many rivers that had native trout. We would spend the bulk of the day fishing the Pine. There were a lot of fish, nothing in the way of trophy size behemoths but we never lost our optimism.

Finally, after a really long and tiring day, we reluctantly decided to break from the fishing. We exited the stream and found our way to the local roadway system. Once there we headed back to the car and the promise of a good meal. That was before we saw the girl on the fire truck that changed the whole nature of the trip and our identities. Did you ever wish you were a photographer for Life Magazine or a free lance writer?

©Herb Ratliff, July 18, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Hoxyville Part II

Thought For The Day

Fred Doerr's behavior made Pandora's fiasco look like a misdemeanor. The lad was endlessly creative, persistent to a fault and more fun than a passkey to FAO Schwarz. When paired with Doug Jensen, an early version of Dr. Niles Crane and me, Opie without freckles there was no hope for the world which crossed our path.

When the call came from Doug to head north and go fishing, Fred and I jumped all over it. An adventure of any flavor was always welcome. Just being with Fred was an adventure. You were never able to predict what he might do. He was fearless, without boundaries and as convincing as Clarence Darrow. While all of that lay neatly packaged in the back of your mind you could never see it coming. It being whatever kind of jackpot he would eventually get us in.

Fred was musical. He could sing pretty well. He was persuasive and he loved adventure and the lure of the unpredictable. He was my friend and an endless source of inspiration and intrigue. Fred didn't always start things but everything that happened caromed off his brain like a cue ball gone mad.

Doug Jensen could have been an adviser to the king, even then. He probably is now. He was the picture of self control, excellent manners, thoughtful behavior, meticulous grooming and a generous nature. Doug has never known the pleasure of dishabille. His world is orderly, controlled and predictable. I still remember his mother and sister. The were elegant, gracious, well groomed and articulate. His father was personable, generous and a fantastic public speaker. Why Doug chose Fred and I as his travelling companions is still a mystery to me but the truth is we had a hell of a good time.

I'll begin the story about that trip tomorrow. And just so you know. I can document the upcoming story. It actually made the newspapers.

©Herb Ratliff, July 17, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Hoxeyville

Thought For The Day

The first time I ever went trout fishing was with Doug Jensen and Fred Doerr, friends from my church. So when Doug suggested the trip to me I simply told my parents who I'd be going with and it was an automatic OK. My parents were not big on authorizing trips out of town.

I grew up in Saginaw, Michigan, a town built on the back of Michigan's forests. When the area had been stripped of it's trees a new kind of industry was taking shape. General Motors foundries and steering gear manufacturing facilities were beginning to spread across the landscape. But, that's another story. Michigan was a natural wonderland for hunting and fishing. Just an hour or two north of Saginaw there were forests, lakes and rivers in abundance. That's where we were headed.

Fishing had not been a big part of my life. I had done a little fishing at Boy Scout camping outings but that was either from a boat or a dock. What Doug was offering was wading in the stream and fishing. That sounded interesting. It also sounded strange. My parents were deathly afraid of water. I never saw them swim, ride in a boat or dangle their feet in the water. If any of their children got near the water they panicked. That had made natural water sources an unknown to me. I took swimming classes at the YMCA but that was entirely different. I began building danger into the adventure.

Doug explained the fundamentals of trout fishing to me. He said we would use spinning rods, split shot and hooks. Our bait would be night crawlers. To fill out our equipment package we needed old tennis shoes. They would protect our feet while we waded. He said that trout had a soft mouth. I had no idea what that meant but he explained the process to me. It basically meant we should not jerk hard on the line if we got a bite. If we did we would likely pull the hook out of the trouts mouth and injure the fish.

I asked Doug where we were going. He said we'd head up toward Cadillac and look for a good place near there.There were lots of streams in the area. At that particular time in Michigan many people had cottages in the north country. Many of them were small, primitive buildings. That offered only minimal sanctuary, but a chance to be in a natural setting before returning to the factories. that made it possible for them to afford a home away from home. Cadillac was an area with a lot of these cottages.

Doug said we would find an area that had a river by watching the terrain. When we saw a valley, we knew there would be water at the bottom of the slope. We'd look at the area and decide it it were primitive enough for us to set up camp and do some fishing.

It might help if I told you a little bit about Doug and Fred. If I don't you won't believe a word I say.  And, believe me what I am about to tell you could test our relationship. But I promise, it really did happen this way. I'll tell you about Fred tomorrow.

©Herb Ratliff, July 16, 2012, All Rights Reserved 

We Had Some Chickens

Thought For The Day

My grandpa Johnson was a farmer. When he was alive I was too young to know much about farming or life on a farm. But, it was sufficiently different enough from my normal lifestyle to be pretty interesting.

Living on a farm is a classroom for self sufficiency. Attica, Arkansas is in the northeastern corner of the state. It is quite flat but, there are plenty of rivers, springs and lakes. There was a small creek near my grandpa's farm and a spring which provided refrigeration for the Johnson family perishable goods. The Spring House was where fruit, meat, butter, milk, and eggs were kept. 

The largest quantity of meat was kept in the smokehouse. The meat was salt cured and didn't smoke very much at all, only a couple of weeks a year. That confused me. I don't think I was ever there when the smoke house smoked.

There were animals to support life on the farm: milk cows, pigs, chickens and assorted horses, mules and dogs. Each of them had something to offer. Dogs were sentry's, guardians and hunters. Milk cows need no further explanation. Pigs ate a lot, rolled in the mud, ate slop and then became residents in the smoke house. The horses, mules and dogs performed services that seemed too difficult for grandpa to explain satisfactorily. And the chickens? Now there is a useful animal.

Chickens provided eggs, of course, feathers, their entire bodies and often provided a bit of entertainment. They were also self sustaining. A chicken gestates for 22 days on average. They can live for 7 -  8 years, 14 is the record life span. It only takes three to four months before they mature and they begin laying eggs in 4 - 6 months. This does not mirror the lifestyle of the chicken you eat. I am going to spare you that detail. They are a product controlled by profit motives. You know what that does to anything.

On a farm with chickens you can eat eggs indefinitely, chicken occasionally, with sensible management of resources, make a mattress or pillow and sit in a rocking chair while you enjoy the scratching, clucking and pecking of the barnyard denizens. But watching peaceful chickens clucking around the yard was not my idea of fun. I liked to throw rocks at them.

Right alongside the chicken yard was a stand of sweet corn. Once in a while the chickens would wander off into the cornfield. The rooster considered this behavior unsafe since he was unable to keep a wary eye on them and any predator that might have designs on a chicken dinner. So when the chickens would wander into the field, he would go find them and chase them back into the yard. I thought he was a bit of a bully and saw no danger anyway. So, when he chased them back into the yard, I would pick up a stone and throw it at the rooster. I wasn't that good with my aim so the rooster was not in any great danger of bodily injury. Nonetheless, the rooster would, on occasion, look at me with a jaundiced eye when the pebble came too close to him.

Now chickens, roosters too, have bad days and good days. And, all things considered, the country fowl don't have a bad life, albeit a short one, and so most days little irritations just don't cause them any aggravation. But, every now and then, they just seem to get up on the wrong side of the nest, so to speak, and just come a spoiling for a fight at the least provocation.

It was a dry, dusty afternoon and I had grown tired of whatever my cousins were doing. I decided that I would go "play with the chickens" for a while. I made my way around the smoke house, behind the corn crib and into the sweet corn plot. Once in, I moved slowly and quietly through the rows, (they were two feet over my head) until I caught sight of the rooster. I had a pocket full of pebbles from the creek where I had been playing. I reached into my pocket and tossed a stone at the rooster. It was so dry that it looked like an explosion when the pebble hit the ground beside him and continued on a rebound into his side. At that moment, he jumped like he had been shot and I felt like I had just shot my first elk in the Wind River Range of Wyoming.

I continued to throw pebbles and for some unknown reason, kept hitting the rooster. What happened next happened in ultra slow motion. 

The rooster raised his head and looked at me with reddish-yellow eyes filled with fire, the hackle on his neck looked like razor sharp mini blades of death. His comb was erect, his head held high and his chest was blown into an exhibition of raw power and fury. He put down his head and began advancing toward me with a menacing walk that increased in speed as he got closer and closer.

I was paralyzed. My feet refused to move. I had forgotten to breathe and so I was gasping for air. It was then he hit me with his full fury and began pecking and wing flapping around my head and shoulders. I found my legs and my lungs and began running and screaming back into the barnyard. The hens then joined in the fray. I was near death until my grandpa stepped in and shooed off the birds and saved me from an untimely demise. 

He looked into my tear streaked face and told me to calm down, the chickens were gone. I was still sobbing when my mother came running out of the house. Before she reached me he quietly said, "This won't be the last time you'll get henpecked." I didn't really understand what he meant then, but I do now.

©Herb Ratliff, July 13, 2012, All Rights Reserved

What I Did The Summer of 1959

Thought For The Day

In the summer of 1959 I was seriously in need of a job. I was beginning to panic. There seemed to be nothing available and from out of the blue I got an offer I couldn't refuse.

If you remember 1959 you'll recall that was the year our President, Dwight D Eisenhower made the first phone call to Canadian Prime Minister, John Diefenbaker by bouncing a radio signal off the moon. Now, we use satellites as bouncers. The US launched half a dozen satellites that year and sent a couple of monkeys into space which returned unharmed.

Jack Kilby of Texas Instruments filed a patent for the Integrated Circuit.

It was also the summer of the "Kitchen Debates". Richard Nixon, then Vice President and Nikita Krushchev, Russia's top man exchanged barbs. Nixon proclaimed that our technological advancements in kitchen appliances would make kitchen duties for  women easier and Krushchev retorted, "Russian women aren't confined to the stove." (I know, you were wondering when that started.)

One of the more notable enterprises of 1959 was the introduction of the Xerox 914. There had been "wet" process copiers for a while but the Xerox was the first dry technology system. Hence, Xeros, Greek for dry and 914 which alluded to the capability of reproducing a 9" by 14" document.

My job? I was in church discussing the serious lack of work opportunities with a friend within ear shot of my mother. A gentleman from the congregation overheard us and approached, he said he had a rather large field of sugar beets that needed to be hoed and would pay us .75 cents an hour to do it. My mother accepted the offer almost before he completed the sentence. I had been thinking of an executive position. Welcome to humility. Mother said something about "living by the sweat of your brow" and I mumbled something inappropriate that was thankfully lost in the exchange.

"Thank you?" It took all my strength to say it. Fortunately my friend accepted the job too and so my summer was spent in the fields hoeing sugar beets for seventy five cents an hour. 

Sometime, if your job really seems like the pits. Go out into an agricultural area and find a field of low lying crops. Walk out into the field and stand at the edge of the field. Turn and look the full length of the row and imagine making certain that no weeds are in that row after you have walked the entire length and removed them. Your reward is to turn and walk back on the next row all day long. 

Just for the record, seventy five cents wasn't that much in 1959 either. But, after a full day I would accrue $6.00 and $30.00 for the week. I didn't date much that summer.

©Herb Ratliff, July 9, 2012, All Rights Reserved

While You Were Out: Part II

Thought For The Day

From yesterday: While You Were Out


On a fourth of July weekend somewhere around their child's third year I invited them over for a cookout. As fate would have it the event we speak of was just after the Berber carpet was installed.  In planning the event I gave no consideration to child care. Since it was a cookout, hot dogs and hamburgers seemed the logical choice along with cold slaw, potato salad and baked beans, finished off with chocolate cake and ice cream.

This is going to take a little longer than I thought. Stop by tomorrow for the rest of the story.

Part II

When my friends arrived I was almost surprised to see their daughter. I was not accustomed to being around people with small children. She was a lovely child, pretty and charming but then she started exploring. A three year old in an adult males apartment is not a pretty sight. Everything needed to be picked up and put in a holding area until the tiny explorer left.

This is when my obsessive nature began to rear it's ugly head. I began thinking about the food. How could I manage cooking, serving and controlling a three year old with baked beans, chocolate, ketchup and mustard on a paper plate? I knew the guests would not be concerned about my cream Berber carpet. I could see the ketchup on it, being ground into the fibers with grubby little hands. Damn! What could I do?

Seems like something else was happening of interest, maybe Wimbledon. Anyway, there was something being watched on tv and people were wandering around inside and out chatting, munching exploring. I was preparing the hot dogs and hamburgers while obsessing over the carpet and ketchup.

When the burgers and hot dogs were finished I placed them on a buffet table along with condiments and accessory dishes. I invited people to help themselves to food and went back into the kitchen to take a quick inventory of what was out and what would come out later. Then, she caught my eye. The little person was getting her own food. Damn! I rushed over to help her. She didn't require any assistance. (I think that's the adult version of: "No! Me get.") I was hovering over her with fear and trepidation and wondered why her parents were so calm and relaxed. I needed a quart of Maalox.

To my absolute amazement. She got her food, accessorized it, ate it and put her plate in the waste basket without a crumb hitting the floor. (I , on the other hand, had developed a bleeding ulcer.)

When folks left I sat on the patio for a bit and then went to the pool and took a swim. I didn't realize how tired I was until I woke up from an hour long nap. When I awoke I was starved. It was then I realized I had not eaten. I was seriously hungery.

I went back to the house and fixed myself a couple of hot dogs, slathered with onions, ketchup, et al, loaded my plate with potato salad, cold slaw and baked beans; threw on a couple of brownies and headed for the TV room to watch some more tennis. As I hustled through the living room I stumbled when the plate started to give way under the weight of the meal atop it. Only then, in painfully slow motion, did I see what all of those things that I worried about a three year old spilling, could do to a new, cream colored, Berber carpet.

So, if it gets in your head and you start focusing on it, it will happen; just not necessarily in exactly the same way you think it.

©Herb Ratliff, July 3, 2012, All Rights Reserved

While You Were Out

Thought For The Day

When you think things, they usually happen, but not always in the way you thought they would happen.

When I lived in South Florida I had a townhouse in a small golf course community. It was ideal for me. There was a swimming pool, tennis courts and golf at the ready. There was no maintenance for me to do day to day, security was provided and there was even a hospital close by for medical services.I traveled a lot. It was not uncommon for me to be away a couple of weeks at a time.

So when I returned from a lengthy business trip to find an old friend sitting in my kitchen amid fans, rolled up carpeting, open doors and windows, it was more comforting than shocking. I immediately knew there had been a problem and more importantly that it had been addressed.

He greeted me with.... "You had a leaky water heater. It's been replaced. We'll have the rest of this stuff dried in a few hours. Got another place you can stay a couple of days?"

That isn't what you are looking for after a long trip.

During the next few days it was insurance adjusters and color selection for paint, carpet and the rest. My friend owned the company doing the work so it was fast, high quality and thorough. The carpet ended up being a Berber. It was cream colored, but since I lived alone I figured I could make do with it. A moment of lost perspective led me down the primrose path of forgetfulness. I am far too punctilious for cream colored carpet.

When living alone one quickly overlooks bad decisions. There is no one there to remind you of those errors in judgement. They lie dormant until you are subpoenaed to the court of practicality.
So here we begin that case.

I have some friends who are writers. They do it for a living and they do it rather well. It is a second marriage couple and so children did not come up as an issue until the biological clock of the incubator began to creep dangerously close to edge of dormancy. Then a darling baby girl was born and became the highlight of their lives.

Artistic types make for interesting parents. They just see the world differently than earth people. So, there are certain conceits they are less likely to embrace. There is rather, an excessively laissez-faire approach to parental control. When their daughter became ambulatory she was immediately given free reign to advance her dispositions in a very democratic arena. This was a rather alien concept to me as a somewhat hands on dad.

On a fourth of July weekend somewhere around their child's third year I invited them over for a cookout. As fate would have it the event we speak of was just after the Berber carpet was installed.  In planning the event I gave no consideration to child care. Since it was a cookout, hot dogs and hamburgers seemed the logical choice along with cold slaw, potato salad and baked beans, finished off with chocolate cake and ice cream.

This is going to take a little longer than I thought. Stop by tomorrow for the rest of the story.

©Herb Ratliff, July 2, 2012, All Rights Reserved