Marshall Ramsey

The airline’s polished aluminum skin glimmered in the late-afternoon sunlight. The tall little boy stood on the hill, watching the man-made bird soar across the sky.  People were on that plane. People traveling to new, exotic places. People who were going back home.  He followed the contrails with his finger all the way to the horizon. That’s where he wanted to be. He wanted to be somewhere other than where he was right at that moment.

Growing up poor and without opportunities seemed to be fine with his classmates. Most would drop out of school early anyway, maybe even getting a job at the remaining factory in the county. But dropping out meant they were deprived of the eye-opening experience of the gift of education. Yes, it was a gift, he thought. He felt like that the day he read his first book — it opened his heart, eyes and mind like a package on Christmas.  It showed him what was possible for him. He smell greatness in that book’s musty pages. He traveled around the world in his mind.  Yes, it that was a gift.

The plane continued to lumber on with its journey. While it was traveling at nearly 600 mph, to the people on the ground, it was just crawling. It had a lot of sky to cover before it would be gone. Just like the little boy did.

His mother and father worked three jobs between the two of them. He was the oldest of three kids and most of the time, he was the one in charge of this younger brother and sister. The little boy had grown up way too fast. Although he was 12, he had the soul of a 40-year-old.  Life wasn’t easy for him. But he didn’t complain.  He knew that one day he would leave this all behind. He was just biding his time.

The rich soil beneath his feet grew mighty crops. And there was no greater crop than the talent he possessed. He was 12. He knew he’d be a writer.  And like the other legendary writers who came from his state of Mississippi, he had stories to tell.  The soil gave him the talent. And his state gave him stories. He was an observer. And had so much to observe.

A few months back, a fancy Mercedes broke down while traveling through the town on his way to Arkansas.  In it was a best-selling legal thriller author.  The writer had graciously visited with him while the car was in his Dad’s car garage.  Dreams are born in strange places sometimes.  Deltaville Auto Repair launched one of the mightiest writing careers of all time.

The plane was now 3/4 across the sky.  The little boy took out his notebook and began telling a story about a little boy, a dream and an airplane.  It would eventually turn into his first NY Times Best-selling novel. There would be 20 more to follow.

God gives you ideas in unexpected places in unexpected ways.  A flash of sunlight on the plane planted a seed in a little boy’s mind. He knew he’d someday make it as a writer.  He knew that he would someday be crossing the  horizon. Just like the passengers on that plane.

I met Stuart M. Irby a couple of times. Once before the accident and once after. I didn’t know him well but I am saddened about his suicide.  Suicide is one of those acts that is tougher on the survivors. Friends and family are wondering what could have been done differently.  I pray for them.  And I pray for the families of the two young, promising doctors who died in the fiery crash caused by Stuart and Karen Irby.  The Pogue and Dedousis families  deserve peace, too. And they will get my prayers.  The whole story is a tragedy of a Shakespearean level.  It’s a story about the consequences of your actions. And it’s a story without a happy ending.

“You’re the most stubborn kid on planet Earth.”

The little blonde-haired boy named Johnny glared at his mother. In between them was a steaming, hot bowl of spinach. Johnny was having nothing to do with it.  His mother was determined that he would.

The mother never won.

Stubbornness was a skill that got Johnny sent to timeout, put in detention, sent to the field to run laps and suspended time and time again in school.  But he had a backbone. He stood up for what he believed in.  How many bar fights had he gotten himself into in College?  He looked at his crooked nose in the mirror.

He believed in right over wrong. Honoring your word. That a handshake meant something.  And that you didn’t change the rules just because you could.  They were old-fashioned beliefs, particularly since the Great Recession had taken business and turned it on its head.  The phrase “It’s just business,” made him cringe.

He was an relic of Old America. The America that the Greatest Generation built.  The America that became a Super Power. He’d never make it to the executive suite. But that’s OK. He believed in his word. And hard work.  And when his head hit the pillow at night, he slept well.

He pushed the peanut shells around on the bar.

“What are you doin’ in here so early, John?” the bartender asked as he dried a glass.

“Laid off.  All my years of hard work meant nothing.”

“Bull.” The bartender said quietly. “You’ve raised your children to have morals. To have values.”

“Well, what good did it do me?”

The bartender set down the glass and looked the man in the eye. “Those values mean you aren’t a quitter.  The people who are taking shortcuts to make a quick buck, well — karma will catch up with them.  When times get rough, they’ll have nothing to fall back on.  You? You have a great family. You stand for something. You’ve saved and will get by.  And look at this community. You’ve made a huge difference in it.  Hold your head up high.  You deserve to.”

And somewhere in John’s body, he felt his spine stiffen. He felt the stubbornness he was so famous for kick in.  “Pity party’s over. Time to get busy.”

The bartender looked at him and smiled, “Darn. And I brought the drinks.  Oh, and remember what Churchill once said, “If you’re going through Hell, don’t stop.”

John picked up his paperwork and jacket.  “You know, you’re better than a psychiatrist.”

The bartender laughed, “I know. And I serve free peanuts.”