Lying in bed with the flu, Santa knew there was only one way Christmas could be saved. He dialed his phone and heard a heroic voice answer, “Banjo’s Air Service, how may we help?”
The real Pip the dog models in front of the cover.
Saving Sam! A Banjo the Dog Story debuts September 14, 2024 at the Mississippi Book Festival (and will be part of the MS Book Festical’s literacy efforts, which are sponsored by ATMOS energy.).
About the book: Banjo, the little brown dog who could, is back — this time on a mission to find his missing friend Sam. With the help of his niece Pip (and a giant new friend too), Banjo battles evil squirrels and discovers the power of friendship, teamwork, and courage. Award-winning cartoonist Marshall Ramsey brings to life an action-packed and heartwarming tale that reminds Banjo — and kids of every age — that families come in all shapes and sizes.
I’ve enjoyed the Olympics this year. Once again, they celebrate the human spirit and provide the inspiration we desperately need right now. I know I could use some inspiration. I’m a 56-year-old exhausted man who has huge dreams and wants to live his life to the fullest. So while know I will never be an Olympian (although Turkey’s Gen-X shooter Yusuf Dikeç gives me hope), I can’t help be inspired. Here’s why:
Are you struggling with mental health challenges? Look no further than the G.O.A.T. herself, Simone Biles. Watching her gravity defying performances are stunning. Watching her overcome the twisties, which could have caused her to get really hurt or worse and caused her to pull out of the Olympics three years ago, is inspirational. She got the help she needed and has done the work.
Mental health is health.
Do you have a physical comeback? Well, check out Sunisa Lee, who in 2023 thought she’d never perform again because of an unspecified rare kidney disease. She fought her back to the medal stand. If they gave a medal for resilience, she’d get the gold.
Be 100% of what you can be.
Do you think one person doesn’t matter? Check out Stephen Nedoroscik, the pommel horse king, who won a couple of bronzes — and got the American team back on the medal stand after a 16-year-drought. Like Clark Kent, he whipped off his glasses and saved the day.
One person makes a difference.
Need a role model on how to be a champion? Check out Katie Ledecky . Not only has she got a wall full of medals, she has done it with quiet grace and hard work. She has taken her talent to another level. Even her competitors like her. She likes them, too — and then leaves them in her wake.
Let your work do your talking.
And I’ve just scratched the surface. Sport is a laboratory for humanity. You see the best of us. And you see the worst of us. You can learn a lot from what Jim McKay used to say, “The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.”
At my father’s funeral, I told the story of how he taught me to waterski and how it taught me how to reframe life’s challenges. If you ever hear me speak, I tell that story and call it “Grab the rope.”
Here it is in a nutshell:
When I was 8, dad wanted me to learn to waterski. So he put me on a boat and drove me five miles downriver from my grandparent’s cabin on Fort Loudon Lake near Knoxville, Tennessee. After several unsuccessful attempts at getting up, I finally did. When I did, dad turned the boat and slung me outside of the wake. He then turned in a tight circle so I was really flying. Then I hit a stick. I did several cartwheels and a ski whacked me in the head. Dad checked to make sure I was still alive and then made me grab the rope and try again. He wanted to make my story about getting back up, not falling down. Twenty-five years later, he made me get out and walk after my malignant melanoma surgery. He told me that he wanted to make sure my story was about “beating cancer,” not “having cancer.”
That is who my dad was. I’ve used that technique to reframe challenges over the years and try to find chances to learn and grow from life’s “bad moments.”
But there is one part of the story I’ve left out: It’s having the wisdom of knowing when to let go of the rope. If you’ve ever waterskied, you know what I’m talking about. It’s when you get pulled forward in front of your skis and find yourself just being drug face-first behind the boat. I drank so much of the Tennessee River that day that I grew gills. Eventually, I knew when it was time to let go. I think it saved me from drowning.
Letting go is a skill that I’m just now learning later in life. Look, I’ve had a VERY good career. But much of that career has been fueled by anxiety and fear — if you are in the media business, you’ll understand that. The stress has taken its toll over the years — it’s time to rethink how I do things. I’ve prayed for the wisdom to know when to grab the rope and when to let it go. This year has been a wonderfully creative year. I’m doing some of my best work. But I’m really working hard to enjoy all aspects of my life. That’s because your art is a reflection of you. And if you’re broke, your creativity will be, too.
If dad were here, he’d smile and say, “Now you understand.” I’d love to go waterskiing with him. And I’m sure he’d still be skiing if he were with us. He skied at 78, three years before he died. Dave Ramsey was truly an amazing man.
When cars drive past the bright blue farmhouse off of Highway 61 in the Mississippi Delta (the house with the bright yellow crop duster parked nearby), their drivers might notice a giant propeller mounted on the front porch. If they slow down enough, they might also notice an older man sitting on the porch in a worn rocking chair, resting his real leg on a wooden box and fiddling with his prosthetic leg as he watches another crop duster do an aerial ballet across the road. They might wonder what the story was behind this odd scene and that curiosity might cause them to stop. And if they did, they would be greeted warmly by the man, who’d invite them on to his porch for a glass of sweet tea. If they accepted his offer, they’d find out he was a pilot and hear his story of life, death and rebirth. How he had crashed his crop duster, died in the wreckage, saw his dead wife, and miraculously came back to life. As they listened to the cicadas sing, they’d hear the pilot’s war stories: How he’d flown an A-1 Skyraider in Vietnam, had once been considered a hero in an unpopular war and returning from the jungle after being shot down. They’d hear how had come home broken from the war because of PTSD caused by being shot down, lost the love of his life because of his own ego and then her cancer, nearly lost his son to their mutual stubborn pride, and then saved his granddaughter from being lost in the Delta when she was just a toddler. By the time the listener got through the glass of tea, they’d find out that this incredible man had seen what is in the next life as he was calmed by his wife’s spirit while first responders cut him out of the plane’s twisted wreckage.
That wreck had cost him his leg. But it had given him a glimpse into the next world. And that glimpse put this one into perspective.
The pilot did not suffer fools gladly. He understood that every second counts. He did not worship men. He knew the only way out of pain was to face it head on. He knew fences made good neighbors but brick walls did not. And he did not give a sh*t what people thought of him.
He had earned that freedom. His demons had caused him to fly like a madman through the Delta skies chasing Angie’s ghost. Yet, he never found her until his plane lay crumpled and smoking half buried in the rich Delta soil. God, with Angie as His guide, gave the pilot a choice to live or die that day.
The pilot, out of his love for his granddaughter Angie, chose to live. Love brought him back to life. He had finally found his wife Angie, but chose to stay and help raise her namesake.
The traveler would listen to the pilot’s incredible stories and walk away with the understanding that the Devil manifests himself in the form of fear. And that to truly fight it, you can’t turn inward. You must love others. And you did that through service. That this incredible man’s spirit soared higher than any plane could fly.
The propeller was from the pilot’s wrecked Airtractor. Scratched and battered it was all that remained from the day the pilot was truly born.
But the cars and their drivers just passed the blue farm house without stopping. They would never meet the pilot and hear about his incredible journey.
As the wheelchair stopped in the sand, the old soldier looked out at the calm surf. It was just him, his great grandson, and his memories. He had seen this surf before — but the last time, it was much angrier. A lone gull broke the silence as tears filled his eyes. The sweet salt air was replaced with the smell of vomit, seawater, blood and cordite. Explosions and screams filled his head. Fear froze his limbs. Death was ahead of him — and behind him. Blood and entrails splattered his face and bullets wizzed over his head. There was no cover. It was move forward or die on this Godforsaken beach. The looming rise ahead of him twinkled as machine guns raked every inch of the sand he and his brothers were trying to grab. More screams filled his head. Courage, born out of a deep survival instinct (mixed with training), kicked in. A fighter plane roared down the beach, spraying the hillside with bullets, giving them a brief moment to pull them out the riptide of death. He and his men laid explosives to clear a path through the mines. BOOM! This time the explosion was a gift. He picked himself off the sand and started to stumble forward down the path it had cleared. The man to his right’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brains but he couldn’t think about it the carnage. There would be years to work that out. Now the bunker on the top the hill was his objective. Ducking more bullets, he charged with his rifle prepared to kill. Three grenades from his belt went into the machine gun nest, extinguishing the threat. He pulled his knife and lunged it into the heart of the sole surviving German. He heard the dying man’s life slip out of his lungs with a bloody gurgle. A primal scream woke him from his flashback.
“Grandpa Buck, you OK?”
The old man blinked and was brought back to 2024. Confined to his wheelchair for nearly a decade, he stood proudly on Omaha Beach. This time, he knew he couldn’t cheat death. Time was doing what the Germans could never do. Looking around him, he saw the ghosts of the men who had died on June 6, 1944 running toward him on the beach. Soon, he’d be one of them. He’d concur death’s bluff soon enough. Today, though, he’d enjoy the Freedom that his moment in Hell had given the world.
This plane was lost over Texas when it collided with a B-17 during an airshow.
Growing up in the flight path of Lockheed Martin — Georgia, I was always looking skyward. When the TV show Black Sheep Squadron (starring Robert Conrad) debuted in the 1970’s, I was hooked on Corsairs and drawing airplanes. When I moderated a WW2 aviation panel for the Mississippi Book Festival, I painted two paintings for the authors James M. Scott and Kevin Maurer. That launched a new phase of my “drawing planes” career — painting planes. Here is a collection of my work so far.
