Guess what time it is?!? It’s Back-to-School time! The chaotic race to get your kids from bed to bus (or car) and off to school has begun. It’s a mini-D-day every day that can cause gnashing of teeth and tears. It’s a struggle — and a marathon, not a sprint. We at the Ramsey house have been doing this for nearly two decades and have discovered a few tips that make it easier or at least less chaotic. (And like you, we are struggling to get back into the routine.) 1. Do as much as you can the night before. (We struggle at this one). Make your lunches, lay out clothes, get breakfast prep (bowls, cereal) ready — make things as easy as you can in the morning. Caffeine doesn’t kick in fast enough for you to be on your A game and get all that done before 7 a.m. Trust me. 2. Go back to the future. Our kitchen is the hub of “Operation Get the Heck to School” and we have a wall clock that helps us stay on target. If you have one, too, set it ahead five minutes. It’s a Jedi Mind Trick that creates a sense of urgency. 3. Loose the Snooze. Parents, get up five minutes earlier (AKA don’t hit the snooze). It’s easier to find five minutes at the front end of the morning than when you are late heading out the door. 4. Put the phone down. Make a “no phone” policy until everyone is ready (I am looking at myself here). We used to have a TV that was on in the morning, but don’t do that anymore (we watched 9/11 live because of that. Now we’d have to wait on a push alert on our phone). 5. Avoid Sleep Creep. Every day of school, your kids will sleep one minute later. I call it sleep creep and it is a very real thing. You have to stay on target in the morning. Make sure they are up and moving — as much as we want our kids to be responsible, they are our offspring. They want to hit the snooze, too. Bonus: If kids continue to struggle getting out of bed, I recommend an air horn. It’s cruel but effective.
(We struggle at this one). Make your lunches, lay out clothes, get breakfast prep (bowls, cereal) ready — make things as easy as you can in the morning. Caffeine doesn’t kick in fast enough for you to be on your A game and get all that done before 7 a.m. Trust me. 2. Go back to the future. Our kitchen is the hub of “Operation Get the Heck to School” and we have a wall clock that helps us stay on target. If you have one, too, set it ahead five minutes. It’s a Jedi Mind Trick that creates a sense of urgency. 3. Loose the Snooze. Parents, get up five minutes earlier (AKA don’t hit the snooze). It’s easier to find five minutes at the front end of the morning than when you are late heading out the door. 4. Put the phone down. Make a “no phone” policy until everyone is ready (I am looking at myself here). We used to have a TV that was on in the morning, but don’t do that anymore (we watched 9/11 live because of that. Now we’d have to wait on a push alert on our phone). 5. Avoid Sleep Creep. Every day of school, your kids will sleep one minute later. I call it sleep creep and it is a very real thing. You have to stay on target in the morning. Make sure they are up and moving — as much as we want our kids to be responsible, they are our offspring. They want to hit the snooze, too. Bonus: If kids continue to struggle getting out of bed, I recommend an air horn. It’s cruel but effective.
It could have been any beach anywhere. There was sand, a stiff breeze and tourists soaking up the summer sun’s rays. Gulls floated playfully on the stiff sea breeze as whitecaps teased the shore. Waves crashed angrily as a distant storm pushed the sea into the land. A similar storm had also tormented this very shoreline 75 years ago. Today, though, a circle would be completed. The death of a body finally reconciled with the death of a soul. A lone man walked purposefully along the beach near Vierville-sur-Mer, France. That beach’s name is one that is etched in history books:
Omaha Beach — A place that once was an open fissure that led straight to Hell.
The man walking toward the English Channel carried a small container. He kept it close to his heart, as it was precious to him. In it contained the answer to a secret that had been kept from him up until recently. In it was the remains of a broken man.
Famed combat photographer Robert Capa took this image (one of the few that survived) of the first wave of American soldiers hitting Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944. Most of the first wave was either killed or wounded.
That man, Private John Riley O’Rouke, had been on the first wave to storm Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944. As he and his friends closed into the range of the German guns, vomit and sweat quickly turned into blood. Bullets ripped through the Higgins’ boat’s ramp, killing men O’Rouke had trained with, eaten with, marched with, drank with and been friends with. They were his brothers. His drinking buddies. A mortar shell exploded directly in the middle of the landing craft next his, sending body parts flying through the air. That’s the moment when O’Rouke discovered the human body is no match for burning razor-sharp steel. Then his best friend Sam Reynolds took a bullet to the head. His brains exploded on O’Rouke’s face.
O’Rouke prayed but God wasn’t there. No, this was strictly men facing Satan’s wrath.
As fire continued to rip through the boat, the Higgins’ boat’s coxswain panicked and let the gate down too far from the shore. Another round of machine gun fire erupting with another spray of bullets ripping through the men once again. But for some reason, O’Rouke wasn’t hit. He leapt over the side of the boat, shucking his gear so he wouldn’t drown. And he was one of the few who didn’t. Gasping and crying, he pulled himself past his drowned friends and onto the shore. There he hid behind an obstacle as fire rained down around him. Vomit trickled down his blood covered chin.
Seconds became hours. Hours became a lifetime. When the second wave came ashore, he composed himself just enough to push forward with them. Bullets whizzed past his head repeatedly but O’Rouke didn’t notice. As far as he cared, he was already dead. That evening, Private John Riley O’Rouke, covered in the blood of his friends, was one of the few from the first wave get off Omaha Beach alive and relatively unscathed. But while he wasn’t physically hurt, his soul died a grisly death.
J.R. O’Rouke had never known much about the man who had walked away from the family when he was just a little kid. According to his grandmother, he was the town drunk and had once tried to kill her while she slept. She said he was screaming something about Germans as he choked her before she managed to hit him with a candle stick and drive him off. He left and managed to go through a series of jobs that paid him just enough to pay for the alcohol that he used to drown his pain like his friends had drowned. J.R. had never known his grandfather had been on this beach on D-Day. The family, being good Church-going folks, didn’t talk about him. J.R. would see him wandering around town but he was too afraid to speak to him. He was a monster after all. Then in the summer of 1995, his grandfather disappeared once and for all. J.R. would never know the truth.
Or so he thought.
The first crack in the family’s Fort Knox-like story about his grandfather came with the release of the classic Spielberg war movie Saving Private Ryan. He remembered his grandmother crying when it was released. She told him not to go see it but of course, he went anyway. Walking out of the theater he thought, “how did those guys ever move on with their lives?”
He had no idea his grandfather was one of those guys.
Then while cleaning out his grandmother’s house, he found the next clue in a chest in her attic. In it were newspaper clippings from the war and a chest full of medals. Ernie Pyle, the Great War correspondent had mentioned his grandfather’s heroic action that day. How he had helped break the German defenses and taken out a pillbox with hand grenades. He picked up and held a Silver Star his grandfather had received for his heroism. But that couldn’t be true, could it? He had heard the stories and the whispers around town. His grandfather wasn’t a hero. He was a just a worthless drunk. Right? Right?!?
The waves crashed louder as the wind began to howl. Sand swirled around, stinging his face as he approached the water’s edge. J.R. took off his shoes and began to walk out into the water. He felt a riptide pull him toward the open sea. He clutched the container even tighter.
Like his grandfather 75 years ago, he had a mission to complete.
John Riley O’Rouke had died alone in a V.A. nursing home at the age of 95. Because J.R.’s name was the same as his grandfather’s, a kind nurse had broken protocol and located him. He wanted the old man, the one patient who had never had visitors, to have some dignity in death. J.R. remembered the phone call. “Are you related to John Riley O’Rouke? J.R. nearly dropped the phone. “He’s alive?” J.R. replied. He immediately called his dad and both men traveled to identify the body. John Riley O’Rouke was dead alright. But in reality, he had died on the morning of June 6, 1944. That’s when his soul drowned along with his friends in the English Channel. For the next 75 years, he walked through life totally broken. He could not put out the burning flames of survivor’s guilt. He could not shut down the images of the carnage. He was stuck reliving the sounds and smells of Hell itself.
Omaha Beach, July 2019
J.R. looked back at the shore. Why were all the beachgoers lying around like pasty beached Beluga Whales? Damn them. This beach is a shrine. How dare they have fun and live their lives? Yet, he knew that if men like his grandfather hadn’t sacrificed everything, these tourists wouldn’t have had the freedom to be working on their tans.
The waves grew in height as the winds nearly knocked him over. He prayed a prayer for his grandfather’s soul, seeking a God who had been absent in June of 1944. Then he unscrewed the little container and paused. His grandfather wasn’t a demon. He was just a man who was broken by demons and machine gun fire. J.R. finally understood. His grandfather was a proud man. And like most men of his generation, he swallowed his pain. That pain had metastasized and eaten at what was left of who he was. The Germans had killed him. It just took 75 years and several hundred gallons of cheap liquor to do it.
J.R. said, “Here’s to you Gramps,” and poured the ashes into the sea. He watched as the gray cloud floated down towards the water below.
When the ashes hit the surface, a strange thing happened: The sea calmed. The wind stilled. There was peace. And on that warm July day in Normandy, France, a tormented, broken soul finally healed and moved on.
In honor of the brave men who gave everything so we can have everything.
I went to a conference last week in Houston, Texas that helped me understand my job better to be able to serve the amazing journalists at Mississippi Today. It also gave me a chance to do some reflecting on my career and where I think it is going. I looked at the good, the bad and the ugly. While it was tempting to start pointing fingers away from me when I started looking at my problems, I just stopped in my tracks. Sure, pointing figures away from yourself is less painful and easier — it’s really time consuming. And fixing every problem in the world is exhausting and not a good use of your time. So I am doing something easier and more effective: I am turning my finger around and pointing at the true cause of my problems — me. It’s easier to find solutions that way, too — you have one person to change. I will begin by accepting responsibility for EVERYTHING — even if it doesn’t seem like it is my fault. It’s something we all need to do: OWN our life, our career, our relationships. I will be honest, I have absolutely sucked at this for a long, long time. I would look inward but for all the wrong reasons. I had a person close to me show me how destructive that is. It’s time to understand there is something bigger than myself and act accordingly. I need to hustle and work. I need to own it.
Now if you will excuse me, I need do just that. I have some growing to do today.
While I was cutting the grass, I was listening to a spirited debate about policy, jobs and where we are headed as a country. One person was saying we needed to go back to the way we were and another was saying we must adapt and move forward. I have some distinct opinions on this topic because it has been a huge part of my professional life for the past 15 years. So what are they? For the record, I’d love for things to back to the way they were in my life. I worked on a dynamic news team in a building full of smart and talented people. An all I had to do was draw one cartoon a day. But all that changed. The internet came along and my industry was radically affected by it. Readers had more choices, eyeballs went elsewhere and gaining revenue off of digital did not compensate for the loss of print readers. Debt and fixed costs (people and paper) put strains on the budget. Layoffs took place in mass.
I has been tough to watch. And you know what? My industry wasn’t the only one punched in the throat.
Sociologists and historians will look back this time the way they have at the industrial revolution. While it is easy for some politicians to blame others for our woes, automation is a much bigger culprit. Thanks to the internet, the world has shrunk to where we are now competing against everyone in it — not just the person across town. Change has been dropped in our laps and it (at times) isn’t pretty.
We live in an era of disruption. It would be easy for me to say right here, “WE HAVE TO CHANGE.” Well no sh*t Sherlock. Of course we have to change. But it is scary if you think of it as some giant paradigm shift in our lives. Instead think of it another way: What can we do to make ourselves completely indispensable as an employee? How can we become so valuable we are the last to be cut and if we are, the community knows us already? How can we shift from living in fear to living in a world where we attack problems and turn them into opportunities?
How do we rise up this challenge?
For me, it is avoiding the temptation of pining for the good ol’ days. I loved my old job — but it’s not coming back. I love my new job — and it’s time for me to make it shine! It’s foolish to drive while looking in the rearview mirror the whole time. I am going to be brainstorming this week to come up with a list of 10 little things I can do differently. I had a commenter once post on a post like this saying, “What if I don’t want to change?” My pithy answer would have been, “Good luck.” Honestly, though, I don’t blame him. So instead I say this, “what can I do to help motivate you and encourage you?”
We are all in this together.
And one final thought: While it is is tempting to be afraid, fear is exhausting. We need all the energy we can get. It’s time to reject it and all the merchants who peddle it. Heck, I need to energy to cut my grass.
Today is National Cancer Survivor’s Day. I am just now realizing this and I suppose I should have done something fancy to celebrate it, like eat cake or something. But I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t think about cancer once today — well, until now. I’m 18 years-out since my skin tried to kill me and know that my melanoma could come back at anytime. But I could get hit by a car, too, or even hit by meteor — so I don’t dwell on it anymore (Lord knows I did when it first happened). So what did I do? I lived a normal Sunday. I got home at midnight last night from a wedding in Oxford (after driving up from the coast.) Pip woke me up at nine and I went to church. I prayed a little but not about my cancer. But I was thankful — something that I generally am since I heard those dreadful three words (You have cancer). When I got home, I did about three hours of yard work. Then I went to the lake and kayaked a bit. At one point, I stopped and enjoyed the sun going down. I sat out on the water and watched the golden light reflect over the lake’s ripples. I listened to the sound of a blue heron’s cry and the water lapping against my kayak. I bobbed up and down on the small waves and just felt grateful for being allowed to see something so gorgeous.
I’ve always felt a bit weird saying I am a cancer survivor because my treatment was pretty simple — cut half a grapefruit out of my back, a few lymph nodes out and 80 other moles and I’m good as new. But melanoma is particularly deadly and I’ve been treated like I’ve had cooties by some folks (like life insurance salesmen). I have lost friends to the disease and feel so fortunate my doctor caught it early enough for me to have a bonus 6,620 days.
I’ve watched my sons be born and grow up. And I’ve seen a few sunrises and sunsets along the way.
Like tonight.
I am grateful. But that’s something I should be every day. It shouldn’t have taken a few malignant melanocyte cells to make me appreciate’s life’s gift. But it did. So I’ll rub my scar tonight and say a word of thanks and look forward to tomorrow.
Finished up the week’s workout and lost a couple of pounds since last week. The best part of the workout was that we stretched (a lot) at the end of it. Not that there was anything wrong with the other exercises, they were challenging after all, it’s just that part of my knee problem (probably 99% of it) is caused by tight muscles. I am not a limber 20-year-old anymore. So I need to stretch my fat butt out. And like most people, I have no patience. So most of the time, I will skip a good stretch. Not today and my knee feels pretty good.
While I am not overwhelmed with my weight loss, I am starting to notice my body changing shape — which is very good news. I am still out of shape and still tired — but I am getting better. Little victories are what you have to grab ahold of. It took me five months to get out of shape. It’s not coming back in two weeks. It’s coming back, though, and that’s what matters. I need to stay the course.
Tomorrow will be a challenge because I will be in a car most of the day. I plan on getting up early and knocking out at least three miles of running and catching the sunrise.
Calories burned: 995 (Bootcamp workout and 1/2 of a mile run on track)
Average heart rate: 136 bpm.
Total Time: 1:07:12
My knee is iffy right now. Saturday, I ran 7 1/2 miles and it started aching later on the day (when the ibuprofen wore off). I skipped yesterday (I was sore from mowing an acre with a push mower on Monday anyway) to let it heal up a little bit. Today, I did the workout and then ran the bleachers with it. The knee held OK. Eventually, though, I think I’m going to have to get an MRI to make sure there isn’t a slight meniscus tear. It’s sore now but not bad.
Aches and pains are part being an athlete at 51. I have to stretch more. I have to put up with a few ouchies along the way. I have to expect the unexpected.
I remember my cousin once telling me that getting old isn’t for sissies. Isn’t that the damn truth. But I will always keep up some kind of workout regimen. Right now, I’m focusing on my next marathon.
Why do I keep pushing like this? I’ve spent a fair amount of time in nursing homes in the past few years and I can tell you this, I want to be the person who is up and active, not the person who is drooling into their oatmeal bowl. Exercise is the key and solution to so many potential health issues as you get older.
At 51, I know I’m on the back nine and I’m going to make sure I play one hell of a round to close out my game.
Calories burned: 1101 (Bootcamp workout and 3/4 of a mile run on track)
Average heart rate: 129 bpm. (a little lower for reasons you find out in a minute)
Total Time: 1:15:21
The Madison Central Football Field’s playing surface is artificial turf. It’s much different than the artificial turf of my day (AstroTurf — which was plastic carpet on concrete.) This playing surface is more cushioned and is made up of plastic fake grass and rubber black dots that look like rat turds. Today, I managed to inhale a piece of the fake grass and it went deep into my lungs. My lungs apparently don’t care for pieces of fake grass to be buried deep in them, so I started having coughing spasms. Bad coughing spasms — like “the time I had pneumonia” coughing spasms. It was a the end of my workout when it happened, so I weighed in (while gagging) and then went under the stadium to have a huge coughing fit. (I knew a friend of mine who is a doctor was on the field — if this turned into an issue, I didn’t want to be driving home when it happened) My coughing kept getting worse and worse and worse. Finally, it let go and I was able to spit it out.
Mission Accomplished. I was relieved — although I am sure everyone on the field thought I was puking. So once it came out, I came back out on the track and ran another three laps.
Today was leg day and I was nervous about my knee. (I hurt it during leg day in the fall doing squats.) My knee did fine — although I chose not to run the “gauntlet” which is running up and down the stadium. That would have been a bit much. Overall, though, I am pleased to have made it through the week with confidence in my healed knee.
This weekend is Memorial Day. I will go hang out with the family, cookout and will probably even splurge and have a beer or two. But I will also run and try not to eat too much crap. This isn’t a diet. This is a lifestyle change. Like Garfield said about Diets, it’s Die with a T. So I will live a little bit. Just not too much.
I gained a pound from yesterday (probably from all the black dots on me) but I’m not too worried — your weight will fluctuate as you replace fat with muscle. Overall, I feel much better where I am today than where I was on Tuesday. I’m running much better. I write this because when you are going through a tough moment exercising, do like Churchill said about Hell: You keep going.
It will get better — especially once you cough the damn piece of green grass out of your lungs.
Calories burned: 999 (Bootcamp workout and 1/2 run on track)
Average heart rate: 140 bpm.
Total Time: 1:04:06
Last night, my son (who is doing the bootcamp with me) and I cut an acre of land with a push mower. By the time I went to bed, I had burned over 2,000 active calories and 4,100 calories total in one day. When I woke up this morning at 3:45, I was REALLY sore. The workout was tough and at times left me gasping. But I did it. When we finished, my son and I ran two more laps on the track. The coach yelled out, “Didn’t you get enough?”
Um, yes I did. But I pushed through two more laps (a half of a mile) for two reasons.
I want to get in better shape. And doing a little bit extra will get me there quicker.
I am running a marathon in November. I have to be able to push forward when I am exhausted. Mile 20 to mile 26.2 is a mind-game as your glycogen (what your brain feeds on) is used up and your body is screaming, “STOP!”
Eventually, I will stretch the two laps into four and then into eight.
I am overweight, out of shape, tired and sore. But each day, I get lighter, get fitter and get more tired and sore. But I am doing it. I’m beat up but won’t beat myself up. I’m on my way to being fit again. The main reason why I am doing this is to train my brain to keep fighting when I get exhausted. What happens if my cancer comes back? I must fight when I am exhausted. What happens if I lost my job? I must fight when I am exhausted. We all have to learn to keep fighting when we are down. Today was a solid lesson.
Calories burned: 1,031 (Bootcamp workout and 1/2 run on track)
Average heart rate: 140 bpm.
Total Time: 1:09:50
Ow.
When muscles go anaerobic, they produce a waste product called lactic acid. Lactic acid is what causes your muscles to hurt. My muscles aren’t in particularly good shape, so I go anaerobic quicker than I used to. That means my muscles hurt more than they used to.
The bottom line? It hurts to sit down. It hurts to stand up. Walking from the car to the office today wasn’t exactly a bucket of chuckles either. Putting on my socks was a challenge. Typing doesn’t hurt. But give it time — we’re only half way through the week.
And you know what? I’m thrilled about it.
First of all, it means I am on my way to getting fit again. Second of all, I cherish pain.
You’re looking at me like, “um, ok…”
Let me explain. I don’t use a hot spoon to carve tattoos on my chest. Nor do I stick my finger in the garbage disposal on purpose. I only like good pain. I crave discomfort. I seek the kind of pain that helps me grow. Because there is an overwhelming part of me that craves security — my comfort zone. And by getting out there and hurting, I am pushing past it.
In the past, I tried to avoid it. That’s why so many people self medicate. They may have a voice inside of themselves that makes them hurt. To try to extinguish it, they might drink, do drugs, eat lots of sugar, binge, hoard — you get it. I have found the best way to shut the voice down is to shut it up. And the best way I’ve found to do that is to look it into the eye and come right at it.
That’s why I do a bootcamp as a form of exercise. That’s why I run marathons. That’s why I push myself. It’s mental training as much as it is physical training. It shuts up the voice in my head that tells me I can’t. Yes, I get slimmer. Yes, I get healthier. But I also heal mentally. This type of good pain is a wrecking ball for depression, anxiety and self doubt. I can tell you first hand — if you can push through mile 20 of a marathon, you can get out of bed in the morning when you are mentally exhausted.
Today’s workout was humid and I really felt out of shape. At one point we were running 150 yard sprints and at about the 5th one, I started getting light headed. But I told myself I could push through it. And I did. I am one of the most out of shape of all the people in my line (my son is in the line and he is making me look old and slow — which I am). I have set my sights on getting back to line one (the line with the best athletes in it). I will get back there — one step at a time. And on the good news front, my knee held up today — although I am still favoring it.
