Thought for the Day: And You Thought You were Trying

Andy Miyares, SO Ambassador/Contestant

SPECIAL OLYMPICS

Sports Transcending Boundaries

"Let me win, 

but if I cannot win 

let me be brave in the attempt."

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: Answering Questions

"When a child asks you something answer him, for goodness, sake. But don't make a production of it. Children are children but they can spot an evasion faster than adults, and evasion simply muddles 'em."  - Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

Thought for the Day: Help

Remember what she says:

In the event of a decompression, an oxygen mask will automatically appear in front of you. To start the flow of oxygen, pull the mask towards you. Place it firmly over your nose and mouth, secure the elastic band behind your head, and breathe normally. Although the bag does not inflate, oxygen is flowing to the mask. If you are travelling with a child or someone who requires assistance, secure your mask on first, and then assist the other person.

It's always a good idea to make sure you have prepared yourself before you try to help others.

Herb Ratliff

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: Persistence

In life as in the dance, grace glides on blistered feet.

Alice Abrams

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

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

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

Communication

Thought For The Day

Communication in a nutshell:

I can explain it to you, but I cannot understand it for you.

Herb Ratliff, June 13, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Justine's

Thought For The Day

Justine Smith 

owner of Justine's, Memphis, TN

Travel sets the stage for a lot of unusual adventures and encounters. This is one of the more unusual ones.

I had been working with some people in Charlotte, North Carolina when I got a call from a group in Memphis who needed to see me as soon as possible. As soon as I wrapped up for the day in Charlotte I caught a flight to Memphis so that I could prepare for the morning meeting there. Going to Memphis from Charlotte meant going through Atlanta, changing planes and then going to Memphis. It took a lot out of me on days like that but it was part of the job.

As I sat in Hartsfield Airport Atlanta I began to realize that I had not eaten for hours unless you count peanuts and little cookies on the plane. It was then that I remembered a restaurant I had heard about which had been highly recommended by a friend who lived in Tennessee. The prospect of having a good meal in a new restaurant with a good pedigree seemed a nice diversion from a frenetic day. I went back to planning for the next days meeting while I waited for the flight to depart.

It was late when I arrived in Memphis. I got a rental car, found a hotel dropped off my luggage, washed my face and got directions to the restaurant. It was a short trip from the hotel to a place I'd never forget.

Justine's was a french restaurant housed in a plantation house built in 1843. It was light pink stucco with white marble steps. It had wrought iron gates and round iron vents across it's front. It dripped with old south charm and enjoyed a fine reputation for fabulous New Orleans Style French food. My stomach was growling loudly.

There were several old magnolia trees, myriad rhododendrons and in the back was a charming, over-sized gazebo where one could dine al fresco with a well planned reservation. The waiters wore white gloves and waistcoats and dripped with good manners and lots of southern charm. I could not have been happier and I hadn't even had my first cracker.

I was alone, a condition of traveling that was common and many times preferred after a day with business contacts. It was a chance to breath deeply and exhale slowly and deliberately until a modicum of relaxation entered my body. The main dining room was full as well as the gazebo and in my haste I had not called for a reservation. There was another room where I was taken just off the main part of the entry where there seemed to be ample seating with a few empty tables and one setting for two against the wall on the left side of the room where I was seated. Finally, I thought, I can eat.

The waiter gave me a menu and offered the specials of the day, took a drink order and wandered off to get the drink. I looked around at my surroundings and noted a life sized portrait of a woman in a creme chiffon floor length dress walking as if directly toward me out of the portrait. I paused to look at it briefly and thought how elegant it was and how very southern. I looked back down at my menu and began the difficult job of deciding what from this array of mouth watering offerings would be placed in front of me this evening.

Crab Justine seemed the obvious choice. If it bore the name of the owner, it must be the best. Having made the choice I lifted my head to consider my selection and as if I were in some surreal magical world the woman in the portrait was walking toward me. At first it startled me, then I was mesmerized as she fairly glided toward me and came to a stop at my table.

"Welcome to Justine's." she said.

To be continued....

©Herb Ratliff, June 11, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Paying Attention, Really

Thought For The Day

Sometimes what is really amazing is how little attention we pay to things that are truly amazing.

When I worked in the financial field of computer technology and development there were many things that were done by both hardware and software engineers which were literally changing the world. It was sometimes hard to comprehend how these ideas could be conceived, let alone produced and made available for use in the home and office.

Consider how it would have sounded to Thomas Edison if you had suggested that you had created a language which if used properly would allow you to talk to a machine. Further, you would be able to tell the machine to follow a variety of different instructions if and only if you could create a machine which could read instructions which were essentially a series of electrical impulses which did nothing more than say open or close.

That would be amazing, right?  OK, it's a little difficult to compare yesterday's world with today's. But that is, in a nutshell what the early computers did. They read one's and zero's as yes and no, or open and close. What made it all work was the exceptional speed at which the processor was able to read these instructions. By the way, those speeds today are snail like.

I am fairly certain that people who don't even care about computers would be willing to agree that they are exceptional tools. So let me get to the point of this thought, paying attention to amazing things which came to me as I was thinking about all the flying I did when I was working in that field.

One day I was sitting on a plane bound for California from from Michigan. The early instruction sets had been offered by the flight attendants, preparations were being made for beverage service and I was settling in with a book when the captain in a smooth, confident voice began to give us a bit of a trip tic for our journey. He began by saying that we would be cruising at an altitude of     35,000 feet. (That's a little over six and a half miles above the ground, I thought.)

Hmm, I murmured, that's about how far it was from my childhood home to the High School I graduated from. He then said, "We'll be traveling at about 550 miles per hour." That's when I pulled out my calculator. After a bit of figuring, eye brow raising and reconfirmation I discovered that in understandable terms that meant that we were moving in a straight line at the rate of  807 feet or a little over two and a half football fields a second.

That, is amazing, wouldn't you agree?

©Herb Ratliff, June 1, 2012, All Rights Reserved

The Pelican Brief

Thought For The Day

It was just a few months into being a single parent. Scheduling ended up being one of the bigger problems. Everyone seemed to have something to do other than being on time. The lives of the kids get busier because they were busy to start with and now the going back and forth just added to the normal confusion. I was on my way to pick up my youngest from her alternate home, wondering what we would have for dinner, whether we would make it to the meeting on time and reminding myself to make sure she had all of her school books. It was an unusually pleasant evening for south Florida. The humidity was low, temperature very comfortable, a clear sky and just a zephyr of a breeze off the ocean. I pulled the car up to the house and Lindsay was waiting with her things on the porch. It still seemed odd to do this dance. Lindsay has a smile that can light up a room. When she saw me she was smiling and when I got out of the car she met me with a big hug and a handful of stuffed animals.
After we loaded the car, we exchanged our hellos and got to the business at hand, what are we doing for dinner? Most of the reliables were not hitting the target and I needed to get some gas so I pulled into a station to fill up. We went into the station together to settle up and Lindsay spotted some junk food racks and asked if she could have something that could not have been anything but colored sugar. I took a quick inventory of the available food stuffs and decided to attempt to make a meal out of what was there.
Loaded up with what could only be termed the most non-nutritious meal since Boy Scout camp, we headed out and Lindsay said, "Let's have a picnic.", I agreed and we headed for a local Park. It was pretty much deserted so we had a lot of choices for a spot. We parked and for some reason which now escapes me, decided to eat in the car. It was party time and the sugar just helped it along. We were laughing and talking and giggling when out of the blue it sounded like someone had launched a basket full of oranges into the air and they had all individually fallen on the top of the car. It absolutely shocked both of us into statue like states. We were frozen in place, looking at each other and then out the window. I immediately thought it was kids making mischief but unable to see anyone or anything, I got out of the car and there in perfect formation, just beyond the car were a half dozen pelicans. I turned and looked at the car, it had been thoroughly whitewashed and the mystery was solved. Lindsay let out a primal yuuuuuuuuuuck and we headed for the car wash.
Now, whenever Lindsay and I are together, if we should happen upon a pelican or two, a wide grin begins to form and sometimes uproarious laughter emerges without control. The food may have been without any nutritional value but the laughter and the memory still makes us smile.

Herb Ratliff, April 25, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Bulls-eye!

Thought For The Day

In the mid summer of my seventh year my parents were investigating the merits of a variety of churches. One Saturday afternoon they had invited some missionary's over for dinner. I don't recall whether it was two or four but there were enough that I was able to snare one long enough to take me down to the local market to buy something my mom needed for dinner. Because this was in many ways like a hunting trip, I decided to take along my bow and arrows for protection from bear, wolves and cougars. There was enough diversion that my mom and dad were unaware of my need to bear arms and even though the missionary questioned my motives, she was more interested in attracting my interest than offering another source of judgement.

As we walked I stalked all forms of game for the larder. Rabbits abounded and I think I saw a deer or an antelope on the edge of the woods. There was even a moment when in the shadows I'm quite sure the movement my eagle eyes detected was a black bear. My hunting persona was alert and prepared for any challenge and I was feeling very strong and manly.

As we walked together we talked and laughed. I would aim and draw back on my bow from time to time to stay alert in case of danger. Without any warning an open milk truck drove by and without a moment's hesitation I raised the bow, slotted the arrow, drew back and released the perfect shot into the unsuspecting milkman and hit him in the knee.

I do not know who was more surprised, the milkman, the missionary or me. What I do know is that I stopped breathing, the missionary stopped breathing and the milkman stopped the truck. He got out, arrow in hand, (the arrow was the kind that had the little pink suction cup on the end) and began to walk toward the missionary and me. We were transfixed. He slowly advanced until he was standing, towering over me, knelt down and offered the arrow with a simple, "I believe this is yours." . My heart was in my throat. In the deadly silence that followed I knew that I was headed for jail and maybe the hangman's noose. Then, he stood up and laughed the biggest belly laugh I have heard before or since. His parting words were, ""That was an amazing shot."

It was a while before word  of the event reached my parents. I used a bit more restraint with my bow and arrow for a while but I still think that was a bear I saw in the woods.

Herb Ratliff, April 23, 2012, All Rights Reserved

A Bag of Chips

Crows must have a rich sense of humor. The familiar sound of crows making editorial comments about the people and events in their lives remind me of a certain kind of person who feels prevailed upon to verbalize every thought that passes through their brain. You know one or two, I am sure, we all do. Crows can be forgiven. At least we don't make terribly severe judgments about them, their heritage or the level of intelligence they possess. Well, maybe the level of their intelligence is just  what we do wonder about. I do. I tend to give them rather high marks in that category. 

I have read a bit about crows and ravens. Most ornithologists give them pretty high marks. And while it is interesting to read about their behavior nothing matches seeing them at work.

Several years ago I was visiting a client in Texas. Frankly, I don't even remember what city it was but it was near some very good golf courses. One of the courses was quite well known among the golfers of the world and so I thought it should be a good location for a bit of business review. The man I needed to talk with was the chairman of the board and somewhat difficult to corner during the business day, but he loved to chase the little white ball and for a few bucks and a ride across some of the most beautiful landscape in Texas he was mine for at least four hours. 

Now you have to be a bit careful about mixing business and pleasure. Business on the golf course is tricky. Generally what you do is just play golf until you are finished and then over lunch or dinner get into the business. That is really not the point here though because this is about Crows.

We had finished playing the front nine holes and stopped for a bit of food and some drinks at the little halfway house. We each got a couple of hot dogs, some chips, something to drink and headed for the tenth tee. That's just the way we do it. 

The walk from the golf cart to the Tee was a bit farther than what one normally expects but not far enough to call it a problem. We had, at that point, begun eating the various food items and left them in the cart when we went to the tee. I had honors and so I hit my tee shot and my guest stood and admired the length and accuracy of my drive. (It's my story, I get to have a good drive.) He took a couple of practice swings and walked toward the tee and then he noticed that a crow was sitting in the cart eating his potato chips. For some reason he reacted rather belligerently, yelling obscenities at the crow. We were far enough away that the crow was completely nonplussed at he enraged man screaming at him and continued to eat the chips. To my complete surprise the man dropped his club and started toward the golf cart. The crow did not budge. Then the man ran, waving his arms and yelling. This caught the attention of the crow and he picked up the chips and flew a few feet from the cart. My client continued after the crow. The crow hopped on. 

Finally, my friend got close enough to the crow and the crow dropped the bag of chips, emptied the bag and flew into a low branch of a tree and cackled at the man.

I was in stitches. My friend was not. Never have I seen such ire over a bag of chips. And that crow, my guess is he still tells that story to his kids and laughs to this day.

©Herb Ratliff, January 30, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Baby, The Rain Must Fall

Even the bird songs drip.

The rain, ceaselessly saturates the ground, the air, my thoughts.

There is no sunshine, no wind, just wet.

Can you imagine forty days and nights?

What is gopher wood anyway?

And what is a cubit?

The sun is waiting,  like me

for a better day,

for a bluer sky,

fly away.

Herb Ratliff, January 27, 2012, All Rights Reserved