Thought for the Day: I Remember

The look you get from a child should remind you when you tell him, 

"Wait until tomorrow."

Thought for the Day: Father's Day

Dad's Life Work on his 70th Birthday

I was thinking about Father's Day.

For everyone there is a relationship with someone that completes the circle. It's pretty much the same with fathers. Not everyone has a father to grow up with and that's OK because someone comes in to fill that void. As a matter of fact, it may not be someone. It may be some several.

My father was imperfect. Imagine that! But, he was what he could be. When I look back at the life he led, it was, in most part all done for the benefit of the family. That is not true for every day he took breath but from my perspective, it's true most of the time. The parts you can pick out and refer to as exceptions to that are just that, exceptions.

There are men who came in to fill the vacancies left by my dad. Dad worked  two full time jobs. If you have two eight hour jobs and sleep for eight, you have just used up a full day. Add into that travel to and from work, eating, personal hygiene and so on, it cuts into the sleep part. Playing catch in the back yard, while it might be fun, doesn't factor into that very well. So, what's the point?

The point is: each of us does what we consider to be the best use of our skills and time. There are some who may not and usually do not agree with our choices. We could even agree with them but not have the confidence, skill or courage to do it another way. But there are many who do not have the confidence, skill or courage to do it at all.

It's taken all of my life for me to gain a small understanding of what kind of courage it takes to be who you are, to try to be better, to keep trying after failing, to admit my own mistakes and to forego criticism of others who are doing the best they can.

So on Fathers Day what I want to say is: "Thank you, Dad. You are an amazing man."

Herbert B. Ratliff, Jr.

Thought for the Day: Love

Love is not given to careful evaluations of practical matters.

It revs up its engine and races til it splatters or solidifies.

©Herb Ratliff

Thought for the Day:Illusions

The illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths.

Alexandr Pushkin - poet, novelist, playwright (1799 - 1837)

Thought for the Day: Knowledge

If you don't know, ask, then two people will believe the same thing.

©Herb Ratliff

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

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