To Faith and Fish.....and Science

Thought for the Day

There is no doubt that fly fishing has taught me a lot. Perhaps a better way to say it is: Fly fishing has put me in the sort of environs that attracts an extraordinary group of people who have taught me a great deal about life, love and the human condition.

"For a fisherman the only values are patience, tolerance and humility." These words emanate from a character in Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, a movie I recently saw. There is a good deal of truth in those words.

One of the first things I noticed when I took up fly fishing was the wide diversity of people who wound up together only because of their common interest in trout, fly lines and beauty. There was certainly no equity in finances, education, social position or religion and yet there was an acceptance based on the ethics of the individual and his behavior when he held a fly rod in his hand.

I couldn't begin to tell you how good it feels to be in a large mix of such different people and be an equal. It would be nice if we could figure out how to do it on a larger scale. Not in trout streams please. We do not all need to fish in order to get along.

©Herb Ratliff, September 28, 2012

It's Coming

Thought for the Day

The hawks are fidgety, 

the green heads and Canadian geese

look skyward.

The whitetail doe

and her yearling scamper 

out of the pasture into the woods

even before 

I come the the clearing.

Ragweed's yellow flowers burst

across the fields to roust you 

to reaction and prod your 

inner lust to travel.

It's coming.

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

Invisible

Thought for the Day

It isn’t really what I would call frightening, it’s more of a non negotiable condition. You can even argue gender if you feel that you have been put in the wrong body and there are plenty of people who are more than willing to support your effort to be something you clearly are not. But, what I am entertaining is this oversized, unmanageable condition of being something nobody wants to have anything to do with. It’s almost as if you are poison and the worry isn’t that you will hurt people it’s the worry that they will touch you or by osmosis engage this awful condition by being in contact with you. What is worse is that it isn’t something that glares out at others and warns them to stay away. This condition makes you invisible to most people and then most of the people to whom you are not invisible you are of absolutely no interest or you’re just despicable. They would rather go to church naked on Easter morning for the sunrise service that nod at you from across the room.

In other words it isn’t that people don’t like me. It isn’t that people are consciously hateful, horrible, stupid and disgusting. There is not that much passion in the people who do not react to me. The real problem is people don’t care about me at all. People would swear that I am not there. So what I get is a lot of “no reaction” from people, even the people I arrange to meet with.

If there is a party for the people with whom I spend the bulk of my social time, I do not get invited. The absence of an invitation is not the result of a spiteful act of meanness. It is not an act of forgetfulness. It is the result of not being seen or considered in any way at all. It is vapid, neutral, and unseeing, I don’t see you or hear you and I don’t care so I think I’ll just snore if you insist on trying to make something of this situation.

My life is like living with people who have narcolepsy. They are not mean; they don’t even see me to be mean to. There is no passion, no fear, no hatred, no love, no like, no admiration, and no notice, none, nada, ne rien, nothing.

I know I’m worth something but why doesn’t it feel that way?

Have you ever been there?

Herb Ratliff, September 26, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Ask The Right Question

Thought for the Day

I read an article yesterday about brain development in children and adolescents. I was delighted to discover that it does happen. I have wondered on occasion. When hormones enter the equation all common sense is lost for a time. But I was thinking more of youthful development. It reminded me of an experience I had while still very young that left an impression on me. It is useful at times to consider it when evaluating the behavior of my grandchildren.

I was a reasonably bright child. Not in the way, Mozart or Doogie Howard were bright but clever, funny and healthy. I enjoyed school and making friends. I enjoyed learning and participating in the games of the day. Under normal circumstances I would have been appropriately one of the kids. I did not stand out in any particular way other than being one of the better readers in classes. The class was divided into groups and I was in the best group of readers.

During that particular era "The Weekly Reader" was the publication used for class reading monitoring and evaluation. There were items about current events, novelties and a bit of useful "how to" information as I recall. Like most of the class I looked forward to the new issues. I liked to read and enjoyed each new issue. At the back of the publication there was a little quiz to measure our retention of the material. It was not tricky or misleading. It just ask straight forward questions about the content.

My family was very big on honesty. I was taught from the time I was a tot to tell the truth. I knew the George Washington cherry tree story and a host of others about truthfulness. I was always instructed to do my own work and take responsibility for my actions. This was not a negotiable characteristic. It was the spine of life itself.

I believe the incident I am about to recall for you happened when I was in the second grade. It could have been the third but frankly, I can't be sure. In any case the trouble began when I began to fail the Weekly Reader quiz. At first it just sort of flowed along with the rest of the class work and since nothing else was going on it was not mentioned. We each corrected our own quiz and then turned them in to the teacher. Then one day the teacher, who was fond of moving around the room while going over the questions, was standing in back of me during this exercise. When the test had been corrected she bent down by my desk and asked if I had trouble reading the words.

I told her that I could read the words just fine with a proud smile. She smiled too and went on with more questions. Then we finally got to the real question which was why was it so hard for me to get the right answers. I told her in the rhetoric of a second grader, "I don't know". As this exchange continued we got to crux of the matter. She explained to me that I was one of the best readers in the class, that this was not difficult material and that the test was very clear and quite fundmental.  I agreed. Then, she wanted to know, why was it so hard for me to answer the questions after I read the paper. I said it wasn't.
"But, I don't read it until I take the test."
There was a rather long silence.
"Why is that?" she said.
"It would be cheating. Anyone could get the right answers if they read it first."

It was the first time my personal ethics ran into the wall of misunderstanding, but it wouldn't be the last. We got the problem solved and I went on to do just fine on the quiz at the end of the Weekly Reader. But, the reason I tell this story is to remind you that all problems with children are not clear and sometimes we have to dig a little deeper to understand. Maybe what you thought was a big problem with your youngster was a very small one that got big because it didn't get explained.

Spending time with children is one of the most rewarding and challenging of occupations.

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

If I Had Time

This poem has come to mean more to me as I have learned that I am not immortal.

Herb

To His Coy Mistress

HAD we but world enough, and time,

This coyness Lady were no crime.

We would sit down and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Times winged chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long preserved virginity,

And your quaint honor turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust:

The grave's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvell

I think of early Fall in Colorado. Conclusion

Thought for the Day

The trip to Estes Park in the early fall is what started this whole thing. We needed to have a little fun before I loaded up with classes and my bride of two years went to work.

We traveled pretty well together telling stories and reading historical markers. We sang songs, made up stories and she'd read to me while I was driving, an activity I quite enjoyed. It was a very personal version of books on tape - in person. I was a kind of driving machine once I got started so I'd just go on auto pilot until we either got hungry or had to go to the bathroom.

Driving in New Mexico was an interesting activity in those days. The total population of the state was under a million people. So as you traveled there was a level of familiarity that most people would not expect. You could travel for hours without seeing any traffic. Then, when you saw a car or truck more often than not, the driver would acknowledge you with a wave. It took us a while to become accustomed to it ourselves. But, it was a charming feeling to wave back and then, look at each other and smile at the child like behavior. Everyone in the state was a neighbor.

Another part of driving in New Mexico is the diversity of scenery. This is the state that taught me to pay attention to my surroundings. In many ways we are slaves to our conditioning. If we live in an area that has lots of trees and water we expect to see lots of trees and water where ever we go. If we do not we think something is missing and therefore somehow lacking. That's a big mistake. Deserts may appear to be desolate and lifeless. They are not. Deserts are rife with variation, creation and adaptation. If you look you can find a richness and beauty that will stun you. Most people forget why they go on trips. Isn't it usually for a change of scenery?

From Cedar Crest, New Mexico to Estes Park, Colorado is 502 miles. We saw a lot of diversity in flora and fauna. When we got there we called Jim and Patty. They gave us directions to the cabins. Their cabins were rustic. If you had just come from New York or London that would not likely be the adjective you would choose to describe them, but it was ours and we loved them. Their resort was in a river valley and it was classically Rocky Mountain. Our cabin was a one room log cabin with an oil burning heater and a single bed, a bathroom and little else. What else could you ask for?

Once we settled in, had dinner and a visit with Jim and Patty. We realized how tired we were from the trip. It had gotten very cold, very fast. That's typical in the mountains in fall. After we said our good nights we were off to bed.

The little cabin was filled with quilts, pillows and comforters just like you want when you experience that first blast of cold air after the summer heat. The idea of loading up the bed with covers and crawling in to snuggle away the cold became the first order of business. While my wife tended to evening ablutions I checked the heater and turned it on low. When she finished I brushed my teeth and tended to necessaries in an already chilly cabin. I made a dash for the bed, rumpled under the covers and snuggled close. With all done that could be I slipped quietly off into the arms of Morpheus.

Apparently I had overcompensated for the cold because sometime during night I awoke a bit overheated. The cabin was small, well-sealed and we were covered with blankets. I have a natural heating system that tends to run rampant sometimes. My body heat is on the high side. In any case I slid out of bed to turn down the heat. I stood up and immediately passed out.

I guess the sound of me falling to the floor woke up Mary. She slid out of bed and went down on the floor to see what was wrong with me. I don't know how she woke me but she did. She realized that what had happened was the oxygen in the highest parts of the room had been burned off by the heater. That left whatever oxygen there was near the floor. One of us crawled over to the door and opened it to let in fresh air. That was the first time she saved my life.

So when the leaves begin to turn and the air offers it's first touches of coolness. When Autumn peeks 'round the corner and invites me to ready for the coming chill, I think of early fall in Colorado and how beautiful it is to be alive to see the changing colors of my life.

©Herb Ratliff, September 22, 2012, All Rights Reserved

I think of early Fall in Colorado. Part II

Thought for the Day

Background  continued:

Our first scheduled way point was Denver, Colorado.

We had met some girls in Michigan who were living in Denver and they had invited us to visit them when we came through. We made that our first overnight stop. I don't have the time nor inclination to talk about that particular event. Suffice it to say it didn't go particularly well but we were able to use some information we gathered from them about a place about forty five miles out of Denver called Estes Park. You may know it better as Rocky Mountain National Park. We actually drove there at night and threw sleeping bags on the ground not too far off the road because we were exhausted.

When we woke up the next morning we were on a ridge overlooking a glacial moraine and a herd of elk. I thought Gerry was going to need CPR. It was easily one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen and I know he was smitten beyond description. We had no food so we found the main part of the downtown area and went into a restaurant for breakfast. That was the first day of nine we ended up spending in the park.

I could tell you about those nine days but then I'd have to kill you. Let me put it this way. We had stopped during the last week of the "season" just before all of the summer college help was leaving to get back to school. It was biggest blowout of the summer and we were there to help.

The last few days we were there we met a couple of girls who happened to be sisters. They were both the kind of girls you would want to take home to meet your mother. We had a ball. Their family owned a resort so we stayed there for minimal rates. When the girls weren't working we spent time with them horseback riding, trout fishing and nature hiking, two of the best guides on the planet. It was magical. We made lasting friendships with the girls and they ended up coming to BYU for Homecoming weekend.

Inviting girls to BYU for homecoming is an honor beyond explanation but I'll try. It helps to know the ratio of women to men at BYU at the time was 13:1. The women at BYU are the most beautiful women on campus I have ever encountered and I have been to a few campuses. In any case the girls came and we had a great time. Like I said we made friendships that lasted long past the college years. And that completes the background portion of this Chautauqua. The primary factors being Estes Park, the resort the sisters owned and early Fall in the Rockies.

On to the story of why I think of Colorado in the early Fall.

In the Fall of 1965 I was married to the most beautiful girl I had ever met. We began with an apartment in Saginaw with me working part time and taking classes at Saginaw Valley College. That lasted from October until February and then we moved to California to have a go at life on our own terms. We stayed with my Uncle Chuck and Aunt Lorna. (Now there is a story worth telling but not now.)

In a matter of about two weeks I was hired by Colgate Palmolive to represent them in their household cleaning market. I got a car, a paycheck and enough money to be able to afford an apartment and plank and brick bookcases. In it's own way it was a wonderful time. We both were able to test ourselves with real life decisions and pretend we knew what we were doing.

We spent about a year with Colgate and then at the recommendation of my regional manager went back to school to get a degree. Colgate offered me a job when I graduated. I won't go into the details of why we ended up going to the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque but that's where we went in the summer of 1967.

Just a little sidebar here. I will ever be grateful for whatever forces came to bear on our lives to put us in New Mexico. It is indeed enchanted.

Being young provides ample opportunities to ignore how beautiful it is where you are in favor of how beautiful it is somewhere else. So after I finished summer school and before fall semester we decided to go see Patty, the girl I knew from my trip to Estes Park, and her husband in Estes Park, a mere 500 miles away. They offered the right price for accommodations.

I'll finish this off tomorrow.

Herb Ratliff, September 20, 2012, All Rights Reserved

I think of early Fall in Colorado.

Thought for the Day

I have lived in Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, Texas and California. This time of year when the weather cools and the old sweaters and jackets come out of the closet I think of early Fall in Colorado.

There is a reason Colorado moves to the front when I think of Fall. It's because of a couple of things. (Before I get this story all twisted up let me pick a starting point so you can follow.)

Background:

In the Fall of 1964 I left Saginaw, Michigan with Gerry Thomas to go to Provo, Utah and register for classes at Brigham Young University. It would be the second time I made such a trip. It was Gerry's first. Our plan was to make this trip an adventure and we did not fail. However, I will not detail the trip at this time or I would be weeks getting to the point of this story. This is just a sketch for background.

Gerry had never been west of the Mississippi. Much of our talk was directed to the mountains and what it is to experience mountains for the first time. It is a wonderful  thing to see the Rockies but not something words can do. There is just too much in it.

Do you remember the first black and white tv's? Ours was a Dumont. I don't know what the screen size was other than small. The point here before I lose it, is: it would be like trying to describe a 90" HD Flat screen to an audience that had only seen the little Dumont. (I just realized that a lot of people who will see this blog will have never seen a black and white tv, let alone a little one.)

Where was I? Oh, seeing the Rockies for the first time. Let me put it to you the way it unfolds on the road. If you are traveling East to West you enter Colorado from Nebraska the way we were traveling. Nebraska is flat, pool table flat. So is Colorado when you cross the border. As you continue west the horizon begins to change.

First you imagine change and see mountains off in the distance. At first it's just clouds. You're excited and your anticipation tweaks your perception. But gradually, if you are patient, the mountains begin to show and if you are lucky they have been dusted with a little snow just to give you that post card picture you have dreamed of your whole life.

As the difference between clouds and mountains becomes clearer your excitement grows and your understanding of the vastness of the Rockies becomes clearer.

(This is going to take a little longer than I had planned, so if you are interested in why I think of early Fall in Colorado. Come on back tomorrow and I'll endeavor to complete the thought.)

Herb Ratliff, September 20, 2012, All Rights Reserved

P.S. I'm taking Charley to the vet in a couple of minutes. He has an appointment at ten.

Charley

Thought for the Day

I have had some very introspective hours beginning last night and lasting through this morning. Charley, my dog has been in excruciating pain.

There was no accident, no physical encounter that I am aware of or able to establish by examination. There was only an increasing discomfort that prompted him to make a sound that can only be called a whimper. It occurred when he walked, sat or stood. He only was able to achieve relief by lying down. Feeling helpless is a horrible condition to endure at times like that.

This morning I called the vet and took him to be examined. My regular vet was out so I saw a substitute. That is not what you want at a time like that but there was no alternative. I waited for the Doctor for about forty five minutes. While I was waiting the office staff were trying to comfort Charley. The kindest touches elicited yelps of pain. He was clearly in agony.

When the Doctor arrived he saw Charley immediately. We were unable to put him on the examination table, he could not endure the pain of being lifted. The exam was carried out on the floor with all of us hovering over Charley, who was punctuating the otherwise silent room with bursts of whining and crying sounds as if he simply was unable to help himself.

The vet seemed perplexed. He offered anti inflammatories, pain medication and said to try those for a couple of days. He said to return for further exams on Friday. Then he gave Charley a dose of the anti inflammatory to show me the technique.

Now it's a waiting game. Charley isn't big on complaining. You'd think he'd be an expert after watching me. But, he's found a spot to rest. I'll give him some pain medication when he eats and hope he begins to feel better soon. If that doesn't happen we go back on Friday for some x-rays. Who would have thought I'd ever get so enchanted with this little mutt. I couldn't have ever dreamed I'd find such a lovable companion, especially one that loved me too.

Waiting in Defiance

Waiting in Defiance

While you wait upon the words to soothe your impatient ears

Your downy alabaster arms deny the adoration of my hands.

While you refuse the clarion laughter - naked and without fears

Your silence muffles heavy chains dragging through the sands.

Is it for quiet that you seek or begging that your ego takes a turn

Or is hubris straining 'gainst the leather harness of your loss?

Could the plaintive reach of would be lovers on the Grecian urn

Be dressing on the garden statues as hallowed, hanging moss?

Herb Ratliff, September 17, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Who Do You Trust?

Thought for the Day

Do you ever wonder at the divisiveness that is fueled by politics and religion? What is ironic is both promise us a better life if we adhere to their point of view which is essentially to give everything we have to them and let them make all of the important decisions that influence our lives. That seems an agreement to live as cattle and you know what is done with them. 

I am not a godless man by any stretch of the imagination nor am I opposed to organized leadership, laws and systems of government. What I am opposed to is lies, half truths, forecasts of doom and gloom and pandering by those would be leaders who seem to believe I have forgotten how to listen and evaluate information. I am tired of being spoken to as if I am a part of a mob yet I can feel the movement of the mob when politicians and evangelists speak. Believe it or not there are those around us whose actions are orchestrated not by their thoughtful exercise of free will but promises and platitudes from self serving power seekers. Herdsmen/women who figure my primary value is about the same as a side of beef.

What are you worth? Do you believe what you are hearing? What kind of research have you done? Are you confident enough of your choices that you would lay your child or grandchild or yourself on an alter and trust those you choose to lead with that life? Isn't that what you are doing?

Democracy and religion at their roots are “good news”. Why does it all sound so bad?

Herb Ratliff, September 7, 2012

Can You Bake A Cherry Pie?

Thought for the Day

I don't have a lot of stories I can relate which describe activities I did with my father. There just weren't that many. He worked a lot. There was not a lot of time available for us to have one on one activities.  There were some though and they were a bit like caviar: an acquired taste.

One such event happened on a rare occasion when my mother and sister left the house together for some activity I cannot name. All I can remember is that dad and I struggled with the "what to do" monkey until making a cherry pie emerged as the winning topic of the day. It was during this father - son work project I found my natural talent to instruct others. My dad was relatively unfamiliar with the kitchen. He knew the general process but the specifics were a bit daunting. That's where I came in.

I cannot accurately give you my age at the time of this endeavor. I can give you a range of somewhere between five and seven. Even then, I was very sure of myself - right or wrong. Cherry pies, actually any pies, were made from scratch which includes the crust. There may have been some kind of mix available for the crust but I seriously doubt we had any in our house. Mother was a purist when it came to baking.

My first job was to locate the Crisco, flour, salt and sugar for the crust. Butter was not an option. Then I had to show dad where the bowls were. There was a certain bowl mother used to make the crust. That was the only bowl that would do. This was the first indication to my father that I might be a bit anal, but it was just the beginning. Then I had to locate the pie plate, cherries and tools for the preparation of the ingredients.

We made the crust without much difficulty. While my motor skills and attention to detail had not fully developed my enthusiasm for what I did know was in full bloom. And so we prepared the crust, the cherries, turned on the oven and began rolling out the crust. My pop was not a detail guy in the kitchen. I was. The crust had to be done properly. The shape, turning it over, the absence of unwanted fissures, and texture had to pass the scrupulous examination of the the pastry chef. That was me. We had to roll and re-roll the crust a number of times. When it was placed in the pie tin it had to have the exact measure of excess to allow for sealing the top and bottom layers together.

When we had finally placed the bottom layer of crust in the bottom we added the ingredients and rolled out the top layer. This time it was done properly on the first roll-out. The pastry chef was pleased but not for long. The next action was to place the top crust on the pie and flute the edges.  Dad placed the upper crust on the pie and pressed the edges against the pie tin to remove the excess crust. Then, he took a fork to place a designed edge on the seam. I lost it. That wasn't right. Stop! Stop! This is wrong!

That caught my sire a little off guard. What's wrong, he asked me. What's wrong, I said. That is not how you fix the edges. That's what is wrong. I did not know the word "flute" so I tried my best to show him but I couldn't do it right. I was making a mess of the edges and that made me crazy. I was pushing my father, a man with little patience, to the edge of his understanding.

In the end, he did the best he could with the fluting. The pie was a highlight at dinner. Everyone was amazed that we had accomplished such a feat and dad was very complimentary about my part in the preparation of the cherry pie. What is a bit sad is that is the only thing I can remember he and I doing together. But as I look back at the pie baking memory it reminds me of a few things that I could not have any other way. And when you are looking for something to hang on to as life changes from one scene to another, it's nice to have a solid memory of the people who are important to you, even if your life and the people in it are imperfect.

©Herb Ratliff, September 5, 2012, All Rights Reserved

It was the Best Of Times....

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.” Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

When I read that I thought he was writing about the eighth grade because he could not have been any more on target. It was a period of opposites. Every time I thought things were going well something would happen to knock the wheels of the wagon like when I made the basketball team.

I loved basketball. I was tall for my age and could handle a basketball pretty well. I was enthusiastic about playing and was as interested in defense as offense. I was all over opponents. I guarded them against shots, dribbling and passing. I tried to steal the ball and was successful quite often. I was a decent shot maker and team mate.

I had played a lot of street ball with neighbors. I played at the YMCA, church and wherever there was a ball and a hoop. I went to see the Harlem Globetrotters with a friend and we spent endless hours afterward setting up plays and passing schemes to foil the most determined adversaries. I made dozens of last minute shots at the buzzer to save the day and win the game. Life was good. Basketball was king.

When I got permission from my parents to try out for the school team I was overwhelmed with optimism. I knew I could make the team if I had the chance.

When tryouts began I threw myself into the activities completely. I knew there were some very good players who were shoo-ins for the team. The trick would be to do well enough to catch the eye of the coach when I was performing well. So every time I entered the court I put on my best game face and focused on the task at hand. I thought things were going pretty well. But in the eighth grade there are hormones, age tics, attitudes, foolishness and all manner of diversions to tip the scale of justice.

One night after practice one of the coaches told me how well I was doing and offered a couple of suggestions to improve my performance. I was on cloud nine. I could see me taking the final shot for the state championship after that conversation. I headed to the shower with feet barely touching the ground.

After the shower I dressed and collected my belongings to go home. A few of us were horsing around blowing off steam as we headed to the doors. One of the members of the crowd saw a loose edge of a bank of lockers along the wall. He went over to the lockers and pulled at it. It gave a little and that delighted him and the rest of us.

Then he shouted, “Let’s pull it out of the wall.”

That was enough. We descended on the lockers, grabbed the handles and pulled in unison. They pulled out of the wall. At the instant it happened we all seemed surprised, that’s the eighth grade showing. We immediately tried to push it back in the wall. Some started running. Then, of course we all started running. Full of fright and fear and adrenaline we rushed toward the double plate glass doors in a fomenting mass of youthful energy. Our lead runner, the star of the team missed the crash bar to open the door and hit the plate glass instead. The glass broke and then the door opened and the demolition derby discovered the injured team mate.

He was cut up pretty bad. The glass had shattered. His face, hands and arms were bloody. We all knew we were in deep doo-doo. Our team mate went to the nearby hospital and the rest of us went home.

The cuts were not too severe and so our injured warrior recovered and went on to play on the team.  The entire group was interviewed by coaches and principals and it was finally decided that some players would have to pay the price for the fiasco. This would be one of those early lessons in convenient justice.

The boy who started the whole thing was the point guard. He got a slap on the wrist and went on to play on the team. Not so surprisingly the de facto team members all remained on the team. A few would be picked to act as sacrificial lambs and be removed from the team. I was one of them. Funny, that still bothers me. But as a friend told me once when I was complaining about the injustice of something, he said, “You’d be better off praying for mercy than justice.”

He was right of course. It’s an imperfect world. If it were perfect some of us wouldn’t be here.

Herb Ratliff, September 4, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Nothing but the Truth

I've been trying to remember the earliest event in my life that I can recall in some detail. Most memories of early childhood are more akin to a panel or two from a Sunday Cartoon page. Not because they are funny or a vehicle for satire but because there simply isn’t enough trapped information to give it a beginning, a middle and an end. The other difficult part of such memories is memory.

I have been writing stories about my life for about nine months now. They have not been based on any chronological order just what I remember. In one such story about my father, my sister, Jo Ann told me the information in my story was incorrect. That has to be true because her story didn’t have the same details as mine but as far as I am concerned it’s her story that is wrong. And I know that is true because I have the memories to substantiate it.

So what, exactly, is a memory of a childhood event if not a combination of history, belief and idealization mixed with a little fantasy? The truth is what is in your head. It isn’t as if you are knowingly reorganizing or manufacturing data to misrepresent an historical fact. The story my sister took exception to was as clear to her as my recollection was to me. The big difference in that particular incident was two other sisters who agreed with her memory of the story. I’ve always felt like an outsider, who wouldn’t as the only male among five sisters?

I read an article once that described what happens in memories. What I recall is this: When an incident occurs we almost immediately lose a large percentage of the details of the event. A large percentage of those lost details are gone forever. The parts that are most important remain in our more immediate memory and are retrievable but not necessarily accurate. Then there is the matter of the connecting material.

What happens is the brain realizes the story has to flow. If part of the story is missing the flow is interrupted. The brain doesn’t like interruptions or premature ends to its stories so it fills in the missing information with plausible or preferred flow material. That changes the story but might even make it a better one. We may like that story better than the real one so that becomes the story. See?

You are a human being with a brain that does what it wants sometimes. That does not make you a prevaricator or inaccurate purveyor of historical events. It makes you an extemporaneous historical information creator who smoothes out the potholes of failing memory. It just works better if you can avoid people who were at the same places you were when the events happened.

In no way is it my intention to appear critical of my sister(s), I’m only interested in enlightening my readers with relevant information about these stories I tell. I applaud their interest in the accuracy of my meanderings. I just beg their indulgence and yours when there appears to be a discrepancy in the facts. I would never deceive you dear reader, never.

Herb Ratliff, August 29, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Part III - This is Your Captain Speaking - Camelot, Richard Burton and...

Part III

 Conclusion of: This is Your Captain Speaking

For unexpected behavior nothing rivals people. I have always been an avid observer of animals. I have also read a number of books about animal behavior. Desmond Morris wrote a fascinating book called The Human Zoo. In the book he describes characteristics of chimps in a social grouping. It presents a very convincing case for their behavior mirroring our own or more likely the other way round.

I could scarcely believe what had just happened between the Australian woman and her friends.  I could find no reason why she would start an altercation among her friends without provocation. However, there was a chapter in Morris’s book that did just that. Whatever the reason, it had no bearing on my plans for the evening. I certainly couldn’t do anything about it and as it turned out I had just enough time to grab a bite to eat and get ready for the theater.

There is a great little restaurant downstairs from the lobby of the hotel called Vienna Coffee House. It’s a great place for any meal but I found myself there for breakfast and dinner on a pretty regular schedule. The wait staff was very well schooled in the service ethic. They made you feel at home and were quick without hurrying.  There was a predictable clientele that frequented the rooms and we all showed up about the same time for our evening meal. It was one of those natural harmonies that formed without being planned.

When I arrived on most occasions there was a man with snow white hair and a navy blue uniform of some kind that implied sailing. I later learned that his wife lived in Hong Kong and he resided here as the Executive Director of the Pacific-Union Club. At the time of the event I am recalling I did not know his name or his calling. That would come later. Another man, quite elderly would also be present and seated along with his Scottish terrier. I had met him and his companion. He lived at the hotel in a penthouse apartment, the only apartment. His name was I. Magnin. Yep, that’s the one.

If the schedule was in its natural flow the next arrival would be a woman with long dark hair and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. She was then and has remained a complete mystery even though we nodded to each other many times over the course of my stays at the hotel. She only attended for dinner.

Finally, always in quick step with perfect posture, impeccable dress and a courteous yet clipped pattern of speech Mr. David Thorn, General Manager of the hotel would arrive. He would sit at the very end of the coffee counter and order claret in a bulbous stemmed glass. That would be followed with his order for a New York Strip Steak, medium rare and baked potato. The salad required no comment from him. That must have been memorized.

Not this particular evening but once while in that harmonic pattern I had been waiting without the usual quick and courteous service from the wait staff. When Mr. Thorn made his entrance and sat down, but before he ordered, I interrupted the silence with, “Now that Mr. Thorn has arrived perhaps we can begin.” The comment was followed by a remarkably loud silence that seemed to extend beyond reason. Everyone was looking straight at me with a look of utter despair except Mr. Thorn. His eyes were trained upon mine but he was completely unruffled. Then, he broke easily into an unrestrained belly laugh. “My apologies for being tardy,” he said and the entire room joined in a chorus of laughter. From that moment on we all had a connection that was quite unique.

But, I digress, back to the night of the story at hand. I had a quick and simple meal, returned to my room and dressed for the theater. It would be the Orpheum tonight, a beautiful venue for one of my favorite plays, Camelot. I asked the doorman to order a cab and went to the theater.

The theater was clearly sold out. The magic of a gifted concierge is not to be trifled with. I looked at my tickets for the first time. I had not been in the theater before so I ask for assistance. My seat was in the orchestra section, fourth row and dead center, beautiful. This was Burton's last performance in Camelot. And, for my money, he was the only actor who could do justice to the role. It was time for things to change for the better. I was a bit early so people were still finding their seats but my location caused no impedance to anyone. I simply sat back and enjoyed a little people watching. I had the best seat in town.

It took only a short while to fill the seats. It was nearly time for the curtains to open when I noticed the empty seat on my right. That’s odd, I thought. That must be the only empty seat in the house, one seat?  Oh well, doesn’t matter. The lights began to dim when I heard a disturbance. From back by the doorways to the auditorium a latecomer was making a fuss about something. They were coming down toward the Orchestra section. I turned to see what was happening and there at the intersection of the aisle and the fourth row, just as the lights went down and the curtain was drawing open stood the woman from Australia. I was reduced to a state of complete emptiness and utter consternation.

There is a feeling that goes with realizing you are inextricably conjoined to your fate and it is not a good one. I didn’t want to leave, I wanted her to evaporate and leave me alone. Then I started thinking of disguises. Logic disappears in the face of abject terror. Short of putting my overcoat on my head I could come up with nothing. Ignore her. Yes, I would ignore her.

She did not display even the tiniest amount of grace as she stumbled into the center of the fourth row. The overture was playing and the stage was set for the opening scene. She nudged me. I ignored her. She pushed me and began to apologize loudly. With as much distance as I could muster I assured her that her apology was unnecessary. I remained fixed on the stage. She remained fixed on me and her apology. I finally turned to her and looked directly into her eyes. I told her that I accepted her apology, thanked her and reminded her of the play that had begun. I explained that I wanted to focus on the stage and urged her to do the same. She continued to talk to me. I turned the temperature of my right shoulder down to its lowest setting and refused to allow her to see that I was disturbed. She began to cry. She didn’t just whimper and sniffle, she cried out loud with large gasps, snorts and moans. I remained in a state of frozen stoicism. I tried desperately to ignore the woman and engage with the play. It wasn’t working. The assault on my mind, my spirit and my body continued until intermission.

When the lights came up I turned away from the woman and headed in the opposite direction I expected her to travel. When I got to the lobby I discovered that she had either stayed in her seat or gone the other way. She was no where to be seen. I went outside and smoked four cigarettes all at once. OK, that’s not quite true but you get my meaning. As the nicotine began to calm my body and mind I was able to relax a bit and gather myself. That was not good because then I started worrying about the second half of the program. Should I just bag the whole thing and go back to the hotel? Why should I be the one punished? No, I would go back but if she so much as looked at me I would report her to security. So, it was settled. The lobby lights flashed signaling us to return to our seats. I took a deep breath and began walking toward my seat.

My heart was beating slightly faster than normal as I contemplated my fate. When I got to my row the Australian woman was no where in sight. There was still a little time before opening curtain so I settled into my seat. There was an unnatural interest in me by the patrons surrounding my seat. At first I nodded and smiled. Then, realizing they were not acknowledging me because of my wit and charm, but because they too were worried about the remainder of the play, I pulled within myself and pretended to be very interested in my program. The lights dimmed, the curtain opened and the music began. It was time to lose myself in the play and so I did.

She didn’t return to her seat. And while I did suffer some angst waiting for her to show up, I gradually forgot about her. And that’s what simple folks do, so they say.

By the time the play ended and Richard Burton made his multiple curtain calls I had all but forgotten about the strange woman from Australia. I walked back to the Hotel. I needed it. It had been a very long day. I was very, very tired. When I placed my head on the down pillow all my troubles went away and I fell asleep like a new born baby. I had no idea this ridiculous vaudeville act was anything but over.

What’s left of the story can be told in just a few words. There was one more encounter with the woman from Australia and it happened in the Lobby Bar at the Mark Hopkins. It was essentially a replay of the first encounter. I was sitting at the bar after work a couple of days later. She came over when she saw me to apologize for the previous encounters. She began with apologies, they turned into tears, her friends came to rescue her, she fought with them and they took her away. And that was it! I never saw her again.

There was however one more piece that tied it all together. The last day I was there, after I checked out, I stopped by the concierge, Dan Sotelo’s desk to thank him for the ticket for Camelot.  He wasn’t busy and I wasn’t in a hurry so I asked him if he had a minute to hear about the crazy tale of the Australian woman. He said he did.

When I finished telling him he actually blushed. It seems the woman had been to see him before me and ordered two tickets for the play. When I came and picked up my ticket he gave me one of those seats. That, of course, explained why we were sitting together. He thought we were together surreptitiously. The reason he thought we were together is because we had adjoining rooms with a common door.

I had no idea. I had never seen her on the floor. As a matter of fact I had never seen her other than the times I mentioned in my recollection. And I have never seen her since.

What is kind of strange is that for as much as I remember the events of that day I wouldn’t recognize her if she stood next to me at the registration desk at the Mark Hopkins. But, I’d be willing to bet Dan Sotelo would, he’s still the concierge there.

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

Part II - This is Your Captain Speaking - The Woman from Australia

Thought for the Day

Part II Continuation of: This is Your Captain Speaking

Flying on a commercial airliner provides you with a very measurable feeling of having no input on outcome.  All you are empowered to do is ride. You are going where the airplane is going. You will do whatever the airplane does. When your view begins with your level of competence as a pilot, you are happy the situation you are in is the way it is.  But, for some of us powerlessness is a most unattractive condition. Even the word powerlessness is unsettling. And any mention of your lack of training as a pilot is irrelevant.

The flight was so rough there was never any service of any kind. Bathroom trips were at your peril. We were flying directly into the jet stream. It was a very long trip. By the time we arrived I was exhausted. I went to the rental agency and got a car, then drove into town and went to my hotel.

There could not have been a better place to be than The Mark Hopkins. I had arranged earlier for accommodations to be provided for me whenever I was in the city. I had a special arrangement with them. They knew how to take care of a guest. Because of the frequency of my visits I had an excellent rate. The accommodations were spectacular at any price but for the rate I paid, they were ridiculous. There was a large room with a view of both the Golden Gate and Bay bridges. There was enough fruit to rival a small produce market. Nuts and snacks of all varieties abounded and there was a full bar, completely stocked with every premium liquor one could wish for. I put my things away and took a long shower hoping to wash off the incredibly negative day I had experienced to that point. After a towel off with luxurious Egyptian cotton towels I dressed and went downstairs to the lobby bar and sat with Max, the bartender to tell him about my morning.

I had not settled into my seat before Dan Sotelo, the concierge, was at my side inquiring if there was anything I needed. I asked about the theater options and he said that Camelot was at the Orpheum and Richard Burton had the lead as Arthur. Yes, I told him. If you can get me a seat I would be most grateful. He just looked at me and said, you may count on it sir. I didn’t even discuss seat location. I knew that was completely unnecessary. So the evening held the promise of a delightful diversion and I could decompress until then.

I started a conversation with Max. He and I were the only people in the bar except a woman at the far end of the bar who was using the house phone to make business calls. She was pretty quiet so it was almost as if she wasn’t there. Max was a diversion all by himself. He was a retired San Francisco cop who had seen and done about everything you could think of and a number of things you wouldn’t want to.

There were some union – management debates going on that had to do with the wait staff, bar staff and hotel support staff. Max was getting me up to speed on the points of friction when the woman at the far end of the bar came to our end and offered to buy me a drink. Her reason, she explained was to apologize for the disturbance she had caused by her telephone conversations. I thanked her and declined. I told her she had not been a disturbance at all.

I turned back to Max and she interrupted again by explaining that she was from Australia and had been all over the US and Europe to introduce a non alcoholic wine that her company produced. She went on to say she had been on the road for a week and with the time difference had found it difficult to sleep since she had to work with her company in Australia when she should have been sleeping.

She told Max to open a bottle of her wine and pour me a glass. She told us how they had developed a special process of  protecting and retaining the esters in the wine so that the flavor and aromas were unchanged from that which had alcohol in it. She asked how I liked it. I said it was OK. She wanted more feedback. I told her I wasn’t ready to sample and analyze her wine but would perhaps try it tomorrow and let Max know how I liked it. About that time a small group, about four people came in who were her friends. After a cocktail party greeting of air kisses, nods and touchless hugs they asked her to join them in one of the rooms of the hotel.

At that point she seemed to become a little agitated. Then she started to cry in a way that was far too severe to have anything to do with what had just happened. Her friends’ efforts to calm her seemed to create the opposite effect. Her crying was by then but a foundation for the histrionics of someone completely out of control. I looked at Max; he started wiping glasses and tried to blend in with the ferns. I slid off my seat and without delay removed myself from the bar.

To be continued….

©Herb Ratliff, August 24, 2012, All Rights Reserved

This is Your Captain Speaking

Thought for the Day

In my blog entry for February 23, 2012 I described an early morning flight to Chicago O'Hare that resulted in my commuter flight losing an engine over Lake Michigan and sliding onto a foam filled runway. That was only the beginning of that day and a surreal adventure in human behavior.

I can tell you now that my confidence in airline transportation was on the wane. I was frightened. The words of advice from the air traffic controller at the 1980 New Years Eve party echoed in my head. "Don't fly into O'Hare and don't fly on commuters." I had just done both and was paying the consequences.

My head was jacked up with adrenaline and the "fight or flight" in me was pushing for "flight" as in running as fast as could out of the airport. I considered renting a car and driving back to Flint. That would be the end of my new career. What was needed here was a large bucket of Bloody Marys. I had a couple of hours before my flight to San Francisco. I went to one of the many bars at the airport and ordered a Bloody Mary. I checked my tickets and noticed that the flight equipment was a DC-10. Wasn't that what crashed in May of 1979 that was the worst air disaster in history with over 270 people dead? 

"I'll have another." 

Frankly, I don't remember how many Bloody Marys’ I had while I waited. The urge to rent a car and run back home went away eventually. I reached a more mellow state of mind and when it was time to board I was ready to go. I'd had all the adventure I wanted for one day. I found my seat, stowed my carry on and took out a crossword puzzle to distract me for a while. The pre-flight instructions for what to do during emergencies seemed anticlimactic and I immersed myself in the world of scrambled word meanings. That felt like something I could control.

When we reached altitude and the captain began his welcome speech with a caveat regarding the removal of seat belts. My heart quickened only a bit. He went on to say the weather was a little unstable and we might experience some minor turbulence until we cleared the storm cell. I remembered a friend who was a management consultant. He traveled a great deal and told me that no one had ever died from turbulence. Exhale! Where the hell is the drink cart? 

The turbulence made its entrance. Even for an inexperienced traveler like I was it didn't seem too bad. It was uncomfortable but I attributed that to my lack of sophistication. The next event was akin to an extended elevator drop feeling. You know, the kind that leaves your stomach somewhere above your head. My hands tightened on the armrest. And this was only the beginning. When the overhead doors flew open and cargo began spilling out, I knew we were in for a ride and no matter how many Bloody Marys’ I had drunk it wasn't going to be enough. Then, the oxygen masks dropped and I began revisiting every spiritual connection I ever had. 

To be continued.....

©Herb Ratliff, August 23, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Try This

Thought for the Day

Welcome the morning

grasp it by the hand

as a long lost friend.

Embrace it

 and

 it’s promise

 of

 hope and renewal.

Drink in the day,

Sip and savor 

each 

moment.

Do not gulp away

innuendo, hint or happiness.

Gaze at it’s color

through the sunlight,

against the rose garden and

in front of the window.

Let not a drop escape.

Embrace the evening.

Surround yourself

with loved ones.

Listen

and

tell

and

hold

and share

the night.

Herb Ratliff, August 22, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Message From a Red Shouldered Hawk

He did not come gently,

He was angry.

There was no whine in his cry

He was emphatic.

This is your day,

Your choice,

Your way

Use it

Now.

Spread your wings as wide as you wish and soar and soar and soar away.

Or sit upon your throne

Holding your scepter

Waiting for

Legions

To

Wait

Upon

Your

Command.

Herb Ratliff, August 21, 2012, All Rights Reserved