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: 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: Work Tracks

Choose the advice you follow carefully.

There are no calluses on the hands of self appointed experts.

©Herb Ratliff

Thought for the Day

It was Sisyphus who brought us rock and roll.
And Narcissus found the pool in which beauty doth extol.
But neither could deliver
Cupids missile from his quiver
So love, was sadly eaten by a troll.

©Herb Ratliff - All Rights Reserved

But Echo loved Art Deco

Thought for the Day

Have you ever marveled at the disappointment

you feel when people don't do what you didn't

ask them to do, but expected?

Herb Ratliff

Delta is Ready When You are

In my work I used to travel a lot by air. This time of year the traveling was problematic. There were inevitably those who were completely out of control with the idea of getting their stuff and their offspring from point a to point b without losing anything or anyone. There were always many business travelers who were trying to finish their work and get home to help with the last minute details. The senior members of the airline staff were usually on leave and so many of the employees who rested on lower rungs of the ladder were called to duty. And, as you would expect, there were travelers with the joy and spirit of Christmas and those who could find a way to have a bad day at Disneyland. Part of the way I kept my heavy travel schedule manageable was by finding a way to enjoy what I was doing when I did it.

I remember a late flight one year close to Christmas when I had been the happy recipient of plate full of beautifully decorated Christmas cookies at the last minute. I had no way of putting them in any of my luggage so they were in my hands when I boarded. The lines were long and slow so there was a lot of standing and waiting while boarding. At one point I found myself standing in front of the flight attendant that stands in front of the cockpit and greets the oncoming passengers. I offered her a cookie and she accepted it so quickly I could see she was very hungry, so I offered the whole plate to her and said she could share them with the other staff. She beamed and accepted without hesitation.

When the plane was fully boarded, we taxied off to our runway, took off and reached altitude. The pilot announced the seat belt sign had been turned off and we could walk about the cabin. After he had finished the flight attendant I had given the cookies to came to me and asked me to follow her. She took me to first class, went and got my carry on and brought it to me and said. "Merry Christmas, Sir. You have no idea how nice it is to have a passenger who is giving instead of demanding. Have a nice flight and if there is anything I can do to make your flight more comfortable please just ask."

There is a lot of power in cookies

Herb Ratliff, December 22, 2011, 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

We Had Some Chickens

Thought For The Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I Did The Summer of 1959

Thought For The Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While You Were Out: Part II

Thought For The Day

From yesterday: While You Were Out


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

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

Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While You Were Out

Thought For The Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feeling Good

Thought For The Day

Zoe and Charley

I'm not sure you ever really understand how much giving is about satisfying your own need for acceptance and appreciation until you have a dog. Where I have written dog you may substitute, cat or horse. Children also may be used there, but only if you have figured out how to have a predictable relationship with them. I'm about to lose control of this and I've only just started.

Charley is my part this and part that "rescue" dog. He enjoys being brushed. For him, that is like a day at the spa, I suppose. I have never been to a spa. Anyway, he sheds, big time. I am constantly aware of his unwanted contribution to my untidy house. It just goes with the territory. It occurred to me once while I was bathing him  and using a brush to make sure the shampoo got down to the skin, that if I had done that before the bath I might avoid dealing with all of that wet dog hair. And so, I began brushing him regularly. At first he was not interested. Gradually he became more and more appreciative of the activity and now when I offer to "brush" him, he is at the ready the moment I offer.

For my part, I began the process because it helped reduce the amount of ambient fur in the house. OK, not much but it gave me illusion of being helpful. Then, I noticed how much he had gotten into the process. His whole demeanor would change when I offered to brush him. He would run for the door and wait for the fun to begin. 

As I brushed him I could almost hear him making grateful groans and saying "a little to the left" as we proceeded. After I decided that enough of this had happened he would start running in circles and jumping about. That is his method of saying thank you or I'm very happy. But what really surprised me was how good I felt. And all I had done was brush him. 

I've learned a lot from Charley. He has been responsible for teaching me a number of things. And, a reminder that being attentive and thoughtful to those around you is a very good thing, even if you get some pleasure from it too.

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

Thanks Dad

Thought For The Day

I was more inclined to complain about the limitations of my father than to praise him. He knew that he was not the object of adulation, but went right on working anyway.

I grew up with five sisters, a stay at home mom and an absentee father. Not really absent, but he was gone most of the time. Gone because he worked an eight hour shift, unless he could get overtime, at Saginaw Steering Gear, a division of GM. He also was the proprietor of a small shoe repair shop, Economy Shoe Rebuilders where he spent another eight hours or more. He was not given to sports or other activities with friends, save an occasional get together with some musical pals with whom he could exercise his musical talent. And, his talent was considerable. Whatever else occupied his time, spending it with his family was not where he shined.

He and my mother had a tenuous relationship at best. This is not the place for that discussion, but suffice it to say, they needed each other, and that seemed to be the driving force in their relationship. What that need was is between them and that's where it belongs.

Dad began each week day by going into the Shoe Shop. He stayed there until about 3:00PM, then came home to a hamburger and canned peaches. There was no variety here, that was the daily fare. After eating he would either drive or have mom drive him to the Steering Gear where he worked until midnight. Quite often mom would go over and have "lunch" with him at work, then go and pick him up after work was completed.

On Saturdays he worked full time in the Shoe Shop unless overtime work was available which he would very often take. Sunday was a church day and dad would participate most of the time but not always. Church was not his preferred venue.

Sunday dinner was the weekly reward for going to church. We normally had quite a nice dinner and we all ate together. Sometimes we would go on picnics. When that happened it usually involved cousins and lots of good food that was punctuated with musical renderings by talented aunts, uncles and cousins along with my parents and sisters.

Dad was never offered the Pulitzer Prize or a position on the president's cabinet. He never ran for office. He wasn't a great hunter or fisherman. He didn't graduate from high school or college. What he did along with mother was provide a home, food and an education for six children. He taught us that not all that you do is reflected in what you personally have, but has a way of showing up like a vein of gold through hard rock and scrabble in the people you touch.

I do not believe I ever said so much as thank you to him for all the years he gave to make my life better than his. I even had the audacity to think he should have done more.

I was sitting in the funeral home alone one afternoon before his interment and a friend from high school came by to visit. It was a surprise to see him. He told me some stories about dad and visits he had with him. It was good to hear a friend talk about the man I barely knew in a warm and friendly way.

Happy Fathers Day, Dad. I wish I had gotten to know you better. And, thank you dad, thank you ever so much for all you did for me.

©Herb Ratliff, June 15, 2012, All Rights Reserved

The First Opener on the North Branch

Thought For The Day

Thirty one years later: August 2008

 back row l to r Paul Stenglein, Dave Stenglein, Jim Trembley, Jim Allerdyce, Me

Front: Jeff Stenglein, Bill Stenglein

During the winter of 1977 Jim Trembley and I had bought a piece of property on the North Branch of the Au Sable. A large section, about sixty acres had been split up into parcels, we had gone to Grayling, MI and got five of them, acres, with a little over two hundred feet of frontage on the river. We couldn't see it very well, it was wooded and pretty steep but it was ours and we were anxiously awaiting a chance to see it in the Spring. So on the Friday before the opener, it was the first official Arbor Day,  we headed north to our new spot to investigate.

The drive north is about two hours. We were pretty worked up about seeing it. We talked of building a place that overlooked the river, teaching our kids how to fly fish, lunkers just waiting for our mighty fishing skills and all the years we would get to fish together. When we finally arrived we were out of the car like a couple of kids going into Disneyland. The land looked absolutely pristine. I felt like the lord of the manner, OK, co lord. It was beautiful. The land sat near the foundations of the halfway house where the road crossed the river. It was a rest stop between Grayling and Mio. The fireplace stood high even though the hotel was long gone.

We wandered down by the river. It was difficult to walk because the ground was knotted up with grass and bog, a minor inconvenience. The stretch of water was straight, flat and deep, a perfect place to watch the surface dimple when the trout were feeding. We were mesmerized. It was getting late and dark and we had to find a place to spend the night. So we headed back toward the car. We were going in a different direction than our trip in and so we ended up passing near a cabin. A man was standing in the doorway. We waved and Jim said, "Let's go introduce ourselves." That shocked me because Jim was not the most social person I knew, especially when we were fishing. But, I said sure and we walked over to the house and met Bill Stenglein, the owner of the cabin.

He invited us into the cabin to have a beer. We said yes. We ended up having a pizza, meeting his sons and some family friends, spending the night and becoming life long friends. Telling you about Bill Stenglein and his family will have to happen another day. They deserve a lot of space. Enjoy the weekend friends, I will miss being there with you.

 And to you Bill, what can I say? I've never met a better fly fisherman or a better man. Thank you, my friend.

Herb Ratliff, April 27, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Old Friends and Old Habits

Thought For The Day

Jim Trembley

The last Saturday in April is the traditional opening of Trout Season in Michigan, a day that I looked forward to above all others for many years at least for my own benefit. The long, cold, grey winter could not diminish or dilute the longing to enter the river, fly rod in hand to test my skills against the wary trout. It was one of those spiritual moments when I became a part of the water, the environment and the promise of life's goodness. Here began the soft music of the fly line whistling through the air, the soft gurgle of the river, the ambient sounds of birds and insects all arranged in such precision that I felt weightless and intractably immersed in pure harmony.

Sometimes I got immersed in the river. Wading in a stream is an interesting way to spend a day. It is not without problems and surprises.

When I graduated from University of New Mexico and moved to Flint, MI I met a man who would become my closest ally in the world of fly fishing. Jim Trembley had grown up in Flint and in his pursuit of his goal of Eagle Scout had been exposed to nature in the best possible way, through the leadership of men who cared deeply for a good design for living, respect of people and the environment and a love of nature. Jim and I became frequent partners on the ride to the Au Sable  River. We would often take off on Tuesday evenings and drive north to the South Branch and fish the Mason Tract late into the night. We would fish all day Wednesday and return that evening. We rode together, had lively conversations and then fished alone and met at an agreed upon time to discuss our results. Sometimes the results were less about fish and more about how many different kinds of larvae live in the river that you can see quite clearly while sitting on a log by the bank or the richness of bird and animal life in the area.

Jim also ties flies and provides me with an endless supply them. Truth be told, every fish of size and memory that I have ever caught has been deceived by Jim, but he's a lawyer. What can I say?

Saturday I will not be fishing with Jim but I will be thinking about him and all the openers we spent together, I am in Atlanta, GA now and he still lives in Flint. Hopefully we will get together this summer for a fly fishing appreciation day if he isn't too old and tired for it.

Herb Ratliff, April 26, 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

Searching For Raisins

Thought For The Day

I was two, maybe three, but whatever the age, it was pure focus that led to this little tale
We had arrived the night before at my grandparents house in Pocahontas, Arkansas. The house was simple in design with two or three bedrooms, a dining room and a kitchen. The year was 1944 or 45 so plumbing for interior conveniences had not yet reached this particular house. I was in the care of my mother who was discussing something with my grandmother. Grandpa was at work in his smithy, a card he played quite effectively when company came.

I wanted some "razers", raisins to those of you who do not speak early childhood English. As politely, then as forcefully as I could the request was made only to fall on deaf ears. This, of course, resulted in an unaccompanied adventure into the kitchen in search of treasure. It was not far and the conversation was engaging enough that I was able to quietly slip away.

I was appropriately sized for a two year old, short basically and therefore everything I could see or reach was pretty much at ground level. This was useful for frequently used staples which were building blocks for baking primarily. So I began where I could and pulled out a container which turned out to be sugar. Since I pulled from the top it became unstable and softly fell forward and my little hands accidentally removed the top which resulted in a rather nice sized pile of sugar on the kitchen floor. Undaunted, I sought another container, even larger which I unfortunately handled in much the same way with the same result. Now I had two merged piles of white stuff and containers which were in the way of my quest and so I managed to crawl into them as I searched for the elusive "razers".

Before mother and grandma found me I had combined a month's supply of baking supplies into a pile in the middle of the kitchen floor and found not a single raisin. When you are young desires are not complicated but the desire is intense, good stuff to remember.

Herb Ratliff, April 20, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Differences

Thought For The Day

When friends and family gather 

it's rather like a late Spring field 

filling with wild flowers, 

many and various colors, 

tall and short,

full and sparse 

but 

splendid in their variations.

The perfect bouquet.

Herb Ratliff, April 19, 2012, All Rights Reserved