Marshall Ramsey

It was a typical lazy Wednesday in Destin.

The hot, subtropical sun beat down on the dock, causing a bead of sweat to trickle down the old Marine’s nose. It was noon, and the Lizard once again sat in his wheelchair painting Choctawhatchee Bay. He watched as a pelican slid gracefully across the water, gliding until just the right moment before crashing headfirst into the water. “There had to be a better way to get lunch,” the Lizard thought. Why couldn’t they just order from the snack bar? The Lizard had lived on fried food for nearly two decades.

“I might not live to live to 100 if I keep this up,” he chuckled to himself.

Ominous clouds built from the southwest. It was hurricane season and storms blew up quickly this time of year. The water was as warm as bathwater and the Gulf was like a firework tent run by chain smokers.

But he didnt care. He had survived several storms — here and on Okinawa.

His leathery fingers flexed as he carefully packed his paints and took the canvas off the easel. Thunder roared as he rolled up the dock toward the Cranky Pelican’s snack bar. Joe, the owner, knew the Lizard ate fried shrimp and oysters everyday for lunch. And like every other day, Joe had it waiting with a cold beer.

The Lizard nodded and put down his money. Joe offered to run a tab, but the Lizard was a child of the Great Depression. He didn’t believe in debt.

Lightning struck one of the condo towers across the bay and rain began to pelt the Cranky Pelican’s roof. Lobster red tourists ran for cover as wind whipped the snow-white sand into a swirling tempest. Tables overturned and chairs scattered. The Lizard laughed. In his younger days he would have welcomed God to strike him down.

But not today. He had work to do.

The Lizard needed to complete his painting. The wounded warriors at the V.A. needed his help.

A strange sound came up from behind, catching him by surprise. It was too heavy for footsteps. He turned quickly to see a brown-headed man behind him. The Lizard looked down and saw two prosthetic legs.

“I hear you’re a good painter. Mind if I join you?”

The Lizard nodded.

“I also hear you’re a crappy conversationalist. No worry — I’ll do the talking.”

The Lizard smiled. He hadn’t spoken in nearly 70 years. Some people said he had forgotten how to talk. The last words he had said were “I’m so sorry” to the parents of his best friend — a friend who was dead because of him. Guilt and pain took his voice. The Lizard could still talk – he just didn’t want to.

“My name is Randy. Like you, I’m a Marine. I proudly served in Baghdad. And I think my legs are still back there still. Anyway, I want to paint with you.”

The Lizard looked closer at Randy’s arms. He could see scarring where shrapnel had torn his flesh. This boy had gone through his own brand of hell. The Lizard pointed to his canvas and nodded.

“Great! But first, let’s eat,” Randy grinned.

The Lizard watched as the young man wolfed down his oysters. Another bolt of lightning hit close by, rattling the liquor bottles at the bar.

By the time Randy’s plate was clean, the rain had subsided. The Lizard rolled out to the end of the dock. Gray clouds shrouded the bay. Randy pulled up a chair and put a canvas on his own easel. Both men silently looked out on the bay and waited as the clouds began to clear.

“I came home from the war a wreck. I lost my job, started drinking and then my wife left after I became violent. I looked for answers in the bottle of a bourbon bottle. Didn’t find them. Then I went to the V.A. and got counseling. They said I could get additional help because of an anonymous benefactor. One day as I was walking out counseling, I saw the most beautiful painting I had ever seen. It was in the lobby. So I went to the art store and bought some canvases. My first painting was a mess. But the second one was a little better. And then the third was even better. Soon, I felt peace while painting. I asked who painted the painting in the lobby, and someone told me about you. The men at the marina said I’d find you here. They said people called you the Lizard and you didn’t talk.

Well, since you don’t talk, you don’t have to say ‘You’re welcome.” But I will say this, “thank you.” You saved my life. And my marriage. And my soul.”

Both men stared at each other for a moment and tear trickled down the Lizard’s cheek. He reached out his hand and shook Randy’s scarred hand.

Then he looked him in the eye and spoke his first words in seven decades.

“You’re welcome, Randy. My name is Bob.”

At that moment, the warm Florida sun broke through the clouds, illuminating both men.

The storm was over. And the Lizard finally found peace.

Somewhere near Destin, Florida sits an old man who paints heaven after living through hell.

They call him the Lizard. Every day, he rolls his wheelchair down the dock and every day, he quietly paints as he soaks up the sun. The workers at the marina had a pool to guess his identity, but no one really knew for sure. All they knew was that he was old and didn’t speak. And that had been painting on that dock for as long as they had been alive.

As the Lizard quietly applied watercolor to canvas, a slight breeze rippled the clear water. Cumulonimbus clouds exploded on the horizon. Storms would be there by noon. But that didn’t seem to bother the Lizard. He just continued to paint.

A gull landed on a post nearby. The Lizard stopped what he was doing and pulled a crust of bread out of the tackle box. He tossed it to the waiting bird. It seized the crust and flew off. It was a routine the two practiced every morning. The Lizard wished he could be so free.

Instead, he continued to be a prisoner of a war that ended so many years ago.

In an attempt to be released, he had painted over 500 paintings since the end of World War 2. That war. The war that cost him his soul.

A sergeant in the Marine Corps, the Lizard had been in a fox hole on some Godforsaken South Pacific Island. A Japanese late-night sneak attack cost his best friend’s life. The Lizard was on watch and had fallen asleep. For reasons he didn’t understand, they spared him.

He wished he had died that night.

The next day he tried to commit suicide by charging a Japanese machine gun nest. Instead of the death, he received the Congressional Medal of Honor.

The last time the Lizard spoke was when he gave the medal to his best friend’s parent’s. His last words were, “I’m so sorry.” That was in 1946. The next day, he walked away from his parent’s home and disappeared into the night. He took his Marine Corps back pay and bought a small piece of land on the Gulf Coast. Then he picked up a brush and tried to make peace with God.

Everyday, he prayed, “Release me from this pain. Let me die on this dock.”

But God had other plans. One day, a rich yacht owner saw one of The Lizard’s paintings. While reluctant to sell at first, the Lizard wrote an obscene number on a piece of paper — and the crazy rich fool bought it. The old man held the check in his hand and felt the Holy Spirit plant a seed of an idea into his head.

Today, the V.A. Outpatient Clinic at Eglin Air Force base has a secret benefactor. Returning warriors from Iraq and Afghanistan receive extra care and help. And those suffering from PTSD have an angel watching out for them.

An angel named the Lizard — just an old man painting heaven after suffering through hell.

So I’m driving on I-20 in the middle of a gaggle of cars and out of nowhere, a rubber mallet comes bouncing down the interstate. I couldn’t swerve left (I would have kissed an 18-wheeler) so I swerved right off the road. It seemed like a good plan, yet the mallet took an odd bounce and went right into our van’s path. I slammed on the brakes (since I was off the road), hoping to avoid it. No dice. I was rewarded with a sickening thud as it struck the front of my van.

I have a history of crap hitting my car. I’ve lost two a/c condensers to rocks, had a rock take out a radiator and a bullet destroy an engine. I’ve also had numerous cracks on my windshield. We even had a piece of metal take out the trim on a van we were borrowing. Our roads are a minefield full of debris.

I went to the next exit to survey the damage. And I was pissed.

Nothing. I could see no dents, dings or damage. Then I looked closer — a slight dent, barely perceptible to the eye.

I pulled back on the interstate frustrated. Exhausted from an emotional weekend and a week of travel, I cursed my dumb luck.

Then I had a reset moment. I didn’t have dumb luck. I had awesome luck. My van had just been hit by a sledgehammer and was basically uninjured. My family was ok and we were still heading on our merry way.

So many times we see life’s glass half empty. We focus on what is wrong and don’t even notice what’s going right. And I can tell you from experience, that’s exhausting. But one thanks to one bouncing mallet in the middle of nowhere, I got a wake-up call.

I was sitting in the University of Tennessee’s Circle Park, reading a book on metaphors and pondering what I’d do with my life. College was almost over, real life loomed ahead of me and I had no clue what was next. The future should have been exciting. Instead, it scared the Hell out of me.

Spring meant that the azaleas and the dogwood trees competed for the eye’s attention. Nearby, an older man patiently dabbed his brush onto a canvas. He was meticulously recreating the scene — yet in a way, what he saw was more beautiful. The colors were more vivid. The scene was more sharp.

My book became less interesting as I continued to watch him paint. How could black and white words compete with such glory? I stood up, dusted myself off, walked over to him and sat down on the ground.

And then I just watched.

He was oblivious to his audience — or at least seemed to be. After about thirty minutes, he acknowledged me with “Spectacular, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t sure if he was talking about the scene or his painting. I answered, “Um, yes. I hope you don’t mind if I watch you paint.”

He smiled and said, “If I did, I would have said something by now.”

I smiled back. It wasn’t the first truth he’d tell that day.

“You paint?” he said. I didn’t at the time (although I do now).

“No sir.” My Southern training shined.

“Life’s like this painting, you know,” he continued.

“Do tell,” I sarcastically thought to myself. But I just muttered, “uh huh.”

“We’re given a palette and a blank canvas. Some people have more colors. Some people have more skill at applying the paint. But we all are given the opportunity to create a masterpiece. You can mix the paint together with caring and wisdom and create new colors. Or you can slop it together and make mud. It’s your choice.”

He paused and painted some more.

Then he continued, “But the truly great learn how to see things. And then they make it better. They work hard and continuously add brushstrokes. When the oils permeate the canvas, you’ve left your mark. Your painting is your legacy. It’s the art you leave behind.

I was 23 years old and I had no freaking clue what he was talking about. I wish I had had more wisdom. I wish had been clairvoyant enough to ask him questions. But I wasn’t. I watched him for a few minutes and then walked away.

His wisdom was lost on me — until today.

I walked past the bright flowers of the Governor’s mansion at lunch and thought of the painter. I thought about what’s on my canvas and what kind of painting I’d leave behind. And then I smiled.

Twenty four years ago, a painter left a brushstroke on my canvas. And it was pure genius.

Show up, take the beating, don’t quit and get stronger

I’d like to think that this morning’s workout was a good metaphor for my life. I gasped for breath at times and felt like I was going to puke. I still feel like I’m going to puke.

Right now, my life’s like that, too.

But I tell you this. Looking back, the periods when I had the most growth were the periods when I was challenged the most. You either rise up or fall down when things get bad. Right now, I intend to rise up. Just like I did this morning.

When I got to my last station with Coach Clark, I hurt. I couldn’t breathe and the humidity made me light headed. But I pushed through it. I did the work. And I didn’t quit.

Surviving that gives me confidence I can handle anything life throws at me. I’m stronger for showing up and doing the work this morning. I’ve got the rest of the day under control.

I just hope hope I’m not going to puke.

“The more things change, the more they are the same.” – Alphonse Karr

Last week, I sat in a banquet honoring a man who had the courage to stand up for what was right. And because of that courage, a man cowardly shot him in the back, killing him in front of his family. Medgar Evers died because of racism. That was 52 years ago. This week, Charleston, South Carolina, we saw another man cowardly shoot people because he was driven by hate. Nine beautiful churchgoers also died because of racism five decades later.

It was a horrible and loathsome act that makes me physically ill. And I’m saddened that we still have to face the hatred behind it.

Yes, we as a country have made progress. I live in a state that has changed so much since that dark time 52 years ago. But obviously we still have a long way to go. I pray that when my kids are my age, they will look at racism as archaic.

Yes, there is evil in the world. Religious and racial bigotry mustn’t be tolerated. And it’s up to the good people of the world to stand up, look it in the eye and call BS on it once and for all.

It’s 5:55 a.m. I’m not looking for life lessons — I’m trying to catch my breath. My heart rate has been highly elevated for nearly an hour and my muscles are burning. The thought of quitting dances seductively through my mind. I run up another set of stairs and then back down them. I’ve run the length of Madison Central’s football stadium three times now. Up and down the stairs. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Then we run around the back.

This is our last station. I can tell by the looks on my line mates that we’re all worn out. A muggy morning and too many burpees and other exercises have taken their toll. Quitting crosses my mind again. I shake it off and pour on the coal.

My bootcamp is five stations (one being in the weight room) made up over various drills. All are designed to keep your heart rate up, test you mentally and crush you physically. We do this one hour a day, four days a week. It’s tough training. I’m easily in the best shape of my life.

But one thing about the drills is this: You can just get by — you know put in the minimum. If the coach isn’t looking, you can slack off. You can half-ass your way through the exercise.

Or you can pour on the coal. The more you put into each drill, the more you get out of the experience.

Isn’t that just like life? Zac Brown said it best — you get what you give. We all have the same opportunity out there at PLS. But if we choose to put our heart into it, we’ll truly excel.

My one-hour bootcamp sets the tone for the other 23 hours of my day. We’re all given the same amount of hours in a day. The truly special ones make the most of them.

It’s time to go pour on the coal. It’s time to make the most of my day.

With Father’s Day coming up, I thought I’d jot down 10 random things I love about being a dad.

10. Watching the kids sleep. Sure, it’s the least stressful moment of parenthood, but there’s something remarkably magical about watching their little chests rise and fall with each breath.
9. Chest-swell-with-pride time. Straight A’s, athletic achievements, etc. You know the drill. Those good times that recharge your patience after you have to snake the toilet because of toys down the drain or pull gum out of the dog’s fur.
8. The first time your kid greets you at the door when you come home from work. Nothing quite like it. You feel like you’ve liberated Paris during World War 2. “DADDY!!!!”
7. Stories at bedtime. One time, I awoke to my youngest son poking me in the forehead. I had fallen asleep while reading “Goodnight MOON!”
6. The first time your kid says, “I love you dad.”
5. Throwing ball with your kid. Actually, any time you spend with them. It can be boogie boarding, grass cutting, house painting or car washing. Riding horses or bike, hiking or doing homework. It’s about time. All about time.
4. A potty-trained child. No more diapers? It’s a raise.
3. When your kids make you laugh — intentionally or unintentionally. In our house, love = humor.
2. Childbirth. Realizing you had a part in creating a new and amazing new life (and all the terror that comes with it.)
1. The privilege of watching them grow up.

My mop glided quietly across the tile floor. I had a method of hitting two rows of squares at a time, thus making my work go by quickly. I still had a couple of classrooms to mop. It was 8:30 p.m. — three hours until quitting time.

Pope High School resembled a tomb. The kids were gone and all who remained in the building were the custodial staff. I was their newest member and fresh out of college. I quickly learned that mopping should be done close to the end of the day. You didn’t want people walking across your work.

I wrung out my mop and continued on.

Suddenly a man turned the corner and walked right down the middle of my floor.

“Um, sir,” I protested, “the floor is wet!”

The guy looked down his nose at me and said, “So? You’re just a janitor. You can re-mop it.”

I should have stuck the mop handle up his butt but instead I just stood there and stared. How dare he talk to me that way?

Jackass.

I heard his voice for days. “You’re just a janitor.” I wasn’t “just a janitor.” I was a recent honors graduate from college. I was an award-winning cartoonist. I was… I stopped and thought for a moment: I realized I’m not my job. But how I do my job is a reflection of who I am.

It was one of the most important lessons I ever learned.

Today, editorial cartoonists are going the way of the passenger pigeon. I’ve seen several of my peers lose their careers entirely. And when their jobs went away, they sank into depression. They were their jobs. Knowing that I’m not a job title gives me strength in uncertain times.

I’m not just an editorial cartoonist. Or a speaker. Or an author. Or a radio host. Or a…

I am who I am. The rest reflects that.

I could easily end up mopping floors again at Pope High School. If I do, I hope that guy walks down my floor again. First I’ll thank him. He led me to the most important career advice of my career. And then I’ll stick the mop handle where the sun don’t shine — just because.

My leap of faith began from paradise. I had a great job, amazing bosses, fantastic coworkers and I lived in San Diego, California — a city with the finest weather in the U.S. A southern voice on my answering machine had offered me a job — my dream job.

It was nearly November and I had just come back from the beach.

Without hesitation, I dialed the number and accepted the job. Soon, I would be the new editorial cartoonist in Jackson, Mississippi starting on December 16, 1996. My wife shot me a look like, “I hope you know what you are doing.” I shot her a look back that replied, “me,too.”

Most of what I knew about Mississippi emanated from books and, unfortunately, Hollywood. I had been through the state on my way out West — that was when I got my first rock ding in my windshield. I remember traveling down I-10 thinking, “this is where Camille hit.” Sure, I was from Atlanta — but that didn’t count. I needed to do my homework. And needed to start immediately.

I walked from our apartment down Washington Avenue to the local library. I asked for all the books they had on Mississippi and the librarian returned with a whopping two books. One was a book on the general history of Mississippi. The other was a biography of Medgar Evers.

I sat in our living room reading Evers’ story. A cool sea breeze rattled the blinds as a seagull went by. Heck, a 747 could have flown by and I wouldn’t have noticed. I started reading parts of it aloud to my wife. Courage. Love. A desire to make his home better for his children. I think I read the book in an afternoon. Then I reread it.

Last night, I presented the courage award at a scholarship banquet in Medgar’s honor. Myrlie was there. His brother Charles, too. And I got to meet some of his kids and several of his nieces and nephews. I leaned over to his nephew Carlos and said, “I’d imagine your family reunions are amazing.” People that knew and loved Medgar were standing at the podium, telling stories about their friend 52 years after he was assassinated. He came alive again in the Hilton hotel.

When the banquet was over, I briefly spoke to actor Dan Ackroyd. He went on about his love of Mississippi and how more people needed to know about it. I agreed whole-heartedly. I heard the same excitement in his voice that I’ve had for the past 20 years.

I leapt from paradise when I came here. But I found a different kind of paradise when I landed. It’s more flawed. It’s a land of challenge and courage.  One that shapes you into a better person.

Soon, I’m visiting Washington, D.C. I’m taking my sons through the Arlington Cemetery. I want to show them where heroes guard freedom for eternity. And somewhere in that garden of stones, we’ll find Medgar Evers’ grave.

I thought about that biography last night and how it made my evening so special. A leap of faith requires courage. And I learned it from a man who died a long time ago.