Ratfink revisited

I was telling my mother the ratfink story yesterday, and she said I should write about it. I always do what my mother tells me. So, here goes. I hadn't thought about my "Ratfink" status for years until reading a comment left on the Woodfairie (correct spelling, I've learned from those in the know) posting the day before yesterday.

The comment came from Karen Nelson O'Donnell. Her grandmother, Betty Egbert, taught at the Woodfairie School. Karen is a 1964 SHS graduate and one of my friends from late youth to early adulthood. Let's see, that could be quite a span, couldn't it---from 16 to 58. Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed Karen in high school and later at the University of Idaho where it seemed like half the town of Sandpoint all lived in our brand-new dorm, Carter Hall.

Then, after college, our paths went separate ways, only to intertwine from time to time over the past ten years or so. Karen married Johnny O'Donnell, who used to play with my two older brothers when we were all little tykes who lived in town near the old junior high. Karen and Johnny have lived over on the Western side of Washington for a number of years. Seems that when they're home, I run into them most often shopping at Yoke's.

Karen's dry wit can rival the best of them, and, Karen, I do promise not to go into too much detail about when you "got the shaft" and solved part of the the problem through a mean game of pinochle at the Carter Hall---unless asked, of course. Then, I'd have to tell the whole story, which was one of my first pieces published in the University of Idaho's Argonaut newspaper.

Karen remembers me as "Ratfink" because her classmates had designated me as the perfect candidate to play the role during the 1963-64 version of the Drill Team Variety Show. Comic relief was needed to take up time in between scene changes. I don't know who thought of the idea or who created the costume, but I do remember Marsha McComas and Sally O'Donnell (Karen's sister-in-law) coming to me during my junior year and asking if I'd like to help them out.

Whenever there were scene change gaps, I was to come out in front of the curtain and do stupid things. Definitely an easy assignment for me and probably the rare time in my life that I could make a total fool out of myself and nobody would know. In fact, I had to keep my role in the variety show a secret. Nobody but the organizers would know because my costume included a paper mache rat head with long whiskers and a ski slope nose. It was huge, and it was ugly.

In fact, it was so frighteningly ugly that when my mother saw it for the first time, she wouldn't let me bring it into the house. So, it lived in the wood shed with all the cans, beer bottles and pop bottles I collected for extra change. The rest of my costume included a gunny sack top and black leotards.

And so, like a dutiful underclass lackey, I happily obliged and carried out the role to perfection. Stupid behavior and clumsiness have always been my fortes so I was truly in my element and anonymously so. Later, the truth of Ratfink's identity circulated among the ranks, and when I had to include a nickname for my senior portrait in the Monticola yearbook, my role as Ratfink was immortalized but thankfully long forgotten.

In fact, I learned last year that it was so long forgotten that Marsha McComas, who now lives in New Orleans, couldn't even remember who I was. I did mention the Ratfink role when I wrote to her, but it didn't seem to bring up any fond memories in her repertoire of the good times at Sandpoint High.

Oh well, Karen remembered, and now I have to chuckle as I think back on those crazy days of yesteryear. My mother was more than chuckling yesterday when I reminded her of the hypocritical disdain she had demonstrated toward that ugly, ratty head.

I say "hypocritical" because this is the same mother who created a cow costume for her three kiddies to wear in the Fourth of July Parade when we were much too young to protest. The part I remember best about the costume was the udder, which included fresh sausage links about the size of Woods smokies. I was pretty little at the time, and for some reason, I remember the cow taking a break and sitting on the curb in the middle of the parade.

I guess there are some things in our youth which are beyond repression because there will always be somebody who remembers. Thanks, Karen.

Your true-blue friend,
Ratfink