Marshall Ramsey

In my closet, I have a pair of white sneakers. They’re practically new but I’ll never wear them. I gave them to my dad last Father’s Day.

It was the last time I saw him conscious.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. My family and I walked into the memory care home and Dad wasn’t in his usual place by the fireplace. (He became cold-natured as his dementia took over). Dad was a greeter and always liked to say hello to anyone who came into the building. As the disease progressed, it stripped him down to his true essence — he loved people. And he loved his family. Normally he’d see us walk in and would smile from ear to ear. But not on that day. He was back in one of the far off rooms by himself.

I knew something was wrong.

He looked frailer than usual. His arm was bandaged from a fall (dementia makes you unstable as the disease progresses). When he woke up from his snooze, he had a disturbed look on his face.

“Hey Dave, (I called him Dave in case he didn’t remember I was his son — although he knew me that day) what’s going on?”

“I have to pay your tuition, don’t I?”

I hugged him and said, “No, I came to tell you I got a scholarship — you never have to pay my tuition again!”

He smiled and became visually relieved. But he was tired. I did not know it at the time, but his kidneys were beginning to fail (which caused his death). We presented him his gift and he perked up a little.

“Happy Father’s Day, Dad!”

We took off his old, worn out tennis shoes and put the new ones on his feet. They were a little big but were comfortable. He seemed pleased. My youngest son entertained him and we visited for a while.

As we left, he followed along behind us, shuffling in his new shoes as he pushed his walker. I still remember the sight of him standing at the doorway, waving and wearing his bright white shoes.

He died two weeks later. My sisters and I were holding his hand as he drew his last gasping breath.

My dad and I had a unique relationship. He played basketball and baseball. I didn’t. He worked on cars, I didn’t. I played football and drew pictures. We argued about politics occasionally and trust me, I know where I get my stubbornness (and temper) from. But I never doubted the man loved me. And I knew for a fact he was very, very proud of me. He taught me how to love my own sons. That’s what a father is supposed to do.

He also had to endure some things I did not know about until the very end of his life. He was incredibly loving to my mom even when that could be a challenge. I better understand the man now that he has died; however, I regret that it took me so long. I moved away in 1993 and didn’t see him but a few days a year after that. Now I pray I see him again someday so I can be nicer to him. And more understanding.

Until then, I have his shoes. Not sure I can fill them. But they’ll remind me of how much he loved his family — and how I should love my family.

I gave him shoes. He gave me his love and taught me how to love mine. In the end, that’s the ultimate Father’s Day gift of all.

Today I had the honor of being the commencement speaker at East Webster High School. It was a packed house in their newly rebuilt (and fortified) gymnasium. (A EF-3 tornado destroyed much of the school in 2011 — the gym is now also a storm shelter). The students marched in. I spoke first. The valedictorian and salutatorian gave their speeches (they both did great). Then all 59 students got a diploma. The principal announced they were officially graduates and hats flew into the air.

Students took pictures with each other and their parents and then would scatter into the wind like dandelion seeds.

A chapter of their lives has now closed.

My own graduation was 31 (ahem) years ago. I don’t remember much about it (I was sober, honest). But what I do remember is what I noticed today — It ended so fast. I remember walking away from the civic center, saying goodbye to people I had known most of my life and never seeing many of them again. We had worked so hard for so long and it was over before you could say, “diploma.”

It was almost anticlimactic.

I looked at the faces of the young men and women today and was very proud of them. I also felt the pride of the people in the stands who had helped them get to this day. I watched at the end as people hugged and posed for pictures. And as walked out of the gym to head home, I said “Godspeed” under my breath.

I hope they have a grand and joyous adventure.

Sunday afternoon, I will be giving the commencement address at East Webster High School’s graduation ceremony.

The students worked hard for 12 years and now are stuck hearing me. I know — what a letdown for them.

But for me, it’s a huge honor. And it’s one that I take seriously. I haven’t really thought about what I’ll say yet (I don’t write speeches, per se), but here are a few things I’ll touch on. This is what I’ve learned since I graduated a million years ago.

• Be resilient. Resiliency is something East Webster knows something about. A tornado zoomed up the Natchez Trace in 2011 and did quite a bit of damage to the school. But even a powerful twister couldn’t keep it down. Like my dad said when he was teaching me water skiing, “make the story about how you got back up, not how you fell down.” They have a good story. They got back up.

• Walls aren’t there to keep you out. Just so see how much you want something (note, I’m not talking about security fences, I mean obstacles.)

• Talent is dandy, but hard work is better. And attitude is the secret sauce. Like Banjo the dog, you have to have heart.

• You are a sum of your five closest friends.

• Never stop learning. The world is changing rapidly and you can’t afford to turn off your brain.

• Failure can be as good of a teacher as the best professor. But you have to learn to embrace it and learn from it. It’s not personal. It’s personal growth.

• Your worst moments can turn into your best. Cancer allowed me to help other people, made me appreciate life more and meet new friends. Being a janitor allowed me to meet my wife. Job hiccups have pushed my professional growth. The most dangerous place is the comfort zone.

Now, the trick is to figure out how to get all these things into a quick speech that won’t put the audience to sleep.

Wish me luck.

Dr. Julian and yours truly.

Spring semester. 1991. The University of Tennessee- Knoxville. Humanities Bldg. Second floor. Speech class. Dr. Faye Julian is passing out the first graded exam of the semester. I wait as she works her way around the room. I could see the red numbers on everyone’s exams. Then she came up and placed my paper on the desk.

95.

I felt joy and a little bit cocky.

Then she stopped, looked me in the eye and said four words that still echo in my brain.

“You can do better.”

What?!? I got a freaking A. She must have been nuts.

But she didn’t back down. She said, “You have talent. I want you to make the most of it. So — you can do better.”

And you know what? I did.

I think about Dr. Julian every time I give a speech. I use many of the skills I learned in her class. She became a friend and an advisor to my early career. She believed in my talent and that hard work is the only way to make that talent truly shine.

Her memory is fading now. I saw her a couple of years ago and she perked up when she saw me. That meant the world to me. A few years ago, I told her that she was my favorite professor. She smiled and said I was her second favorite student.

Offended, I protested, “Who’s #1?”

She smiled and said, “Peyton Manning.”

OK, I can live with that.

But think about what she told me. What can you do better in YOUR life? I’m thinking about that this morning.

We all need more Dr. Julian’s in our lives. We need people who will push us to do better.