A Marriage Is Like A Book

A marriage is like a book. Some end happily. Others end only a few pages in. Its contents are written by two people who change throughout the story. Sometimes they end up on the same page — other times, well, that’s when stuff gets divided and tears flow. People from the outside try to tell the story for the writers, but honestly, they are the only two people who can tell it. The setting sometimes changes over time. The plot is linear and ever-changing. It’s illustrated with joy, tears, laugher and occasional anger.

Amy and I are now 24 chapters into our book. There have been great moments and not-so-great moments. We’ve tested “for better or worse,” several times. I know there have been days when she has been sick of me. And there have been days when I’ve been smart enough to keep my mouth shut (and other days when my mouth has been my worst enemy.) We started as the two main characters. Now we are the supporting cast to three new characters. They are currently the stars of our story.

I’ll never review another person’s story critically — I know how hard it is to write. Yet I will tell everyone who’ll listen that I’ve been lucky. I picked a great co-author. She, thankfully, has agreed to continue writing the remaining chapters with me.

How will it end? I don’t know. But what I do know is that I hope the last chapter ends with these six words: “And they lived happily ever after.”

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Blurred Shades of Green

There were no bars on my phone and the Avett Brothers were blaring from my SUV’s speakers. The rural Mississippi countryside whisked by me, blurring the various shades of green. God prefers a two lane road. The Devil prefers a two-lane road with traffic. Today was heaven-sent. It was just me and the road with no tractors or log trucks in sight. My foot pressed down on the accelerator; my speedometer teased the speed limit sign that I had just passed.

I was on my secret shortcut to the Neshoba County Fair. The line leaving Leake County welcomed me to Neshoba with orange dirt. Neshoba is a county that has produced some of Mississippi’s most frightening history. It also is the home of some of the nicest people I know. In the past 20 years, I’ve discovered this one simple truth –nothing is ever simple in Mississippi. As I turned right down another country road; I heading toward the dust-covered parking lot. It would be the 20th year of political speeches I’ve covered. I knew the drill: I’d catch up on political gossip and see people I haven’t seen in 365 years.

Like the blurred countryside, time has passed quickly.

That same rapidly moving time didn’t allow me to spend my normal amount of time this year. But I caught up with Dan, my editor and friend from Conroe, Texas days. I visited with Kate, who’s a master lemon cake maker and the daughter of one of the finest men I know. Billy and Martha welcomed me into their cabin once again. I listened to the speeches, had a few pictures taken with fans and then headed back home.

The Avett Brothers were blaring once again as I left the Fair behind in a cloud of red dust. The song ‘The Once and Future Carpenter’ sonically wrapped itself around me.

I smiled as these lyrics played:

Forever I will move like the world that turns beneath me, And when I lose my direction I’ll look up to the sky.
And when the black dress drags upon the ground, I’ll be ready to surrender, and remember
We’re all in this together.
If I live the life I’m given, I won’t be scared to die.

Amen.

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Beneath one roof

My parents moved into their house in June of 1968. It was a four-bedroom ranch with a full basement — Dad liked that it had a steel beam that supported the second floor. He believed in strength over flash. And it’s safe to say that he made a good choice — nearly five decades later, it is still solid as a rock.

Dave and Virginia Ramsey lived their lives, raised three children in that house and buried numerous pets in the backyard. When talk came of moving, they’d build on (they did in 1976 and then again in the late 90’s). It was well over 3,500 sq. ft — big for that time.

Soon it will be put on the market and sold. As I walk through it for the last times, I look around and hear the whispers of ghosts and memories. There are marks on the doorframe that show my growth. Each room tells its own story. There’s the fireplace where I cracked my head open as a child (explains a lot, you know). Footprints in the concrete mark the size of my sisters’ and my feet in 1976. First dates. Christmases. Birthdays. Celebrations. Arguments.

There were many happy moments there. And many not-so-happy moments. Living in that house shaped who I am — for better and for worse. It was my home for a long, long time (I have now lived in my home here longer). My sisters and I have cleared out the things that accumulated over a lifetime. But that really wasn’t my parents’ legacy after all. (Sometimes I think my mom thought it was.) No, their legacy wasn’t stuff that can be sold for pennies on the dollar at an estate sale — it is their three children. That fact has helped me redefine how I view my own life and family.

Soon, my sisters and I will no longer have a house that connects us. But we have a common bond that is so much stronger. We have lives forged by genetics and a shared experience under one roof.

I hope whomever buys the house has an equally amazing run as my parents did. It should serve them well.

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Oh the humidity: One man’s struggle with exercise in the summer

Complaining about humidity in Mississippi in July sounds a bit like this:

That water is too wet.

I can’t believe that sugar is sweet.

I’m shocked the sun came up in the east.

I’m stunned that pure-grain alcohol make me drunk.

It’s humid in Mississippi in the summertime. Always has been. Probably always will be.

But this morning was super special. By the end of my one-hour boot camp, I looked like Niagara Falls during the rainy season. We were outside on the football field. The humidity was steamy dog breath. And I was melting like the Wicked Witch at a water park.

We’re on our 12th week of the bootcamp. At one point I looked at one of my teammates and gasped, “How is this still kicking our butts?” I can tell you how. The air is super thick. My body, which spends way too much time sitting and in A/C likes the remind me that I spend way too much time sitting and in A/C. You just deal with it and move on.

So you’re thinking to yourself, “Marshall, why would you give up a comfy bed to turn into a human puddle?” My answer — not to be sexy during a workout, I can tell you that much. No, this the real reason: This morning, at 4:04 a.m., I read a story about an unfortunate soul who died three miles up Alum Cave Trail (one of my favorite trails in the Great Smokey Mountains). He was going up to spend the night at Mt. Leconte Lodge and never made it. He had a cardiac event. He was two years younger than me.

That hits home.

I have a 10-year-old. He (and his brothers) need dad around for a while. So get up early and push my heart, soul and body.

And I sweat. A lot. Also, I nearly puked — well at leastI did this morning.

But I’m so ready for Fall now. Bring on cooler weather before I melt away.

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What went through my mind during this morning’s run

This is the crap I thought about while running this morning:

Love really isn’t like money. When you invest money, you expect a return. And when you give away money, you have less of it. When you invest your heart, you should expect nothing in return. And when you give it away, it does nothing but grow.

(As my right leg and back hurt) I really need to stretch more.

The biggest lie people tell is “I’m fine.”

This shirt really needs to be burned. It stinks.

People are so afraid right now.

That pothole was the size of a bus.

What am I going to draw about today?

Have I only gone a mile? Damn.

We live our lives one feeling to the next. There’s nothing logical about our brains.

This humidity is like a wet wool blanket.

People are all self-medicating one way or another. Some drink. Some shop. Some eat chocolate. We’re all trying to fill a God-shaped hole in one form or fashion.

I’m glad it is dark. I bet I look really stupid.

What can I do to be a better husband and father?

I really like this song.

Almost done with the run.

(As I gave at a couple of stars through the clouds). We really are insignificant in the scheme of things.

It’s dark. I hope the alligator isn’t on the bank again.

I’m grateful for another day.

I’m getting too old for this $%^#.

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In a peaceful Soybean Field

The victims of the KC-130 crash just traveled through town on their way to the airbase and then to their final resting places. People lined the route, some had American flags. We don’t know all of their identities yet, but the pictures I’ve seen so far made me think of America– or at least the best of America. Each was accomplished and each looked like our country. You see that when there are multiple casualties. All the headshots represent every geographic region, color, gender and religious affiliation. They are as different as our country is vast. But what they have in common are their uniforms — and the pledge to defend our nation. They wake every morning knowing there are risks. They willingly take them. When they take their oath, they write a blank check to our country. Sometimes that check is cashed — whether it is in an accident or in combat.

The 15 Marines and one Navy sailor got on that plane Monday just like they got on planes nearly every day. They didn’t think they’d face tragedy. They just woke up and did their jobs. That’s what they did — and that’s what we do.

A peaceful soybean field in the Delta was where their lives ended. As they head home, I say Godspeed. Thank you for your service. And may peace be with your families.

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Five things exercise has taught me.

My 5th-grade Target teacher (what they called the gifted program back in the day) told us that experiments allow us to simulate conditions in the real world in a controlled environment. For some reason, that popped into my head this morning as I worked out. I think it’s because my one-hour bootcamp is my daily experiment for daily life. It allows me to test myself and my philosophies. It gives a morning “gut check” to see what I’m made of and how much will I possess. Some days, the results aren’t that great. But I can always come back the next day and try something different. I can get stronger both mentally AND physically.

Here are a five things I’ve learned from my morning experiment that help me get through the tough times:

1. Stay in the moment. When you going through a particularly rough exercise, you don’t look down the field at another station. You don’t think about the last one. You focus on what you are doing at that particular second and try to do the very best you can. When your mind wanders (What will I eat today? Why is my wife mad at me? Will I make deadline today? I about puked at that last station!) you lose focus and make mistakes. The past doesn’t matter. The future doesn’t matter. You focus on the now.

2. Break every exercise into small sections. That makes it easier to survive when it gets really tough. Think, “I can do this for another minute,” instead of “I can’t do this for another hour.” I’ve survived many of crappy days that way. The other day, I was about to pass out while pushing tackling dummies down the football field. I kept telling myself “I can make if five more yards.” I was right. If I had said, ” I can’t do this,” I’d have been right too.

3. Everyone around you is in pain too. Everyone around you is going through something. Focus on helping them and it will help you get through your pain, too.

4. Don’t allow mistakes to rattle you. I used to be the king of allowing screw-ups to yank my chain. Now, I breathe deeply, listen to the coach (if I am being called out) and try to do better. You just keep moving past the error — not reliving it.

5. How to work through fatigue. I used to be a bear when I got tired. Now I am tired most all the time — I don’t have the option of being a bear anymore. By the end of 12 weeks of grinding it at 5 a.m., your body and mind are very exhausted. But you learn you can push past both pain and fatigue. My back hurts today. There were a couple of times I thought, “I can sneak out and head home early.” But then I thought, “I made it this far, I can make it 20 more minutes.” And I did.

There are more, of course, but those are the ones that popped into my head this morning.

How has exercise helped you?

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Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,

First of all, I know there is no Internet where you are, so you won’t be reading this. Some may say being in a place where there is no Internet truly is heaven, but I digress. No, I am writing this because you’re on my mind right now. And the Internet always wants to know what’s on your mind.

I miss you. No big surprise there. About this time last year, we said goodbye to you. You were surrounded by your kids, were at peace and passed on your 59th wedding anniversary.

You went out your way.

We made sure mother was taken care of until she died. You’d have wanted that. The past year has allowed me to have a much deeper understanding of the man you were. What did I find out? Even though we wear the same shoe size, I have big shoes to fill.

Your biggest strength? I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who loved his family more. When dementia stripped so much from you, you’d still light up when you saw us walk into the room. All that terrible disease did was expose who you really were.

You also had a wicked sense of humor and a gift of quietly helping others. You also protected us from things that we didn’t understand until recently.

A good dad will do that.

On this one-year anniversary of your death, I’m thinking of you. And I want the whole world to know you were a great Dad. And that your kids miss you very much.

My best memory? Ten years ago today as we celebrated your 50th annivesary in Destin. You were playing like a little kid with my boys in the surf. They loved their Papa Dave.

And so do I.

Proud to be your son,

Marshall

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An update on Tropical Cyclone DumpAFlood

Potential Tropical Cyclone DumpAFlood is pushing its way toward the Louisiana Coast. Now I admit, there is a little bit of me that still has Katrina flashbacks, but DumpAFlood ain’t Katrina. But don’t let your guard down totally. It will be moist (a word I only use for brownies and Mississippi humidity). In fact, there is a good chance our neighbors to the South will see dangerous, flooding rain. That’s what the weather folks are saying.

Now, I know some of you are as skeptical about meteorologists as you are the Moon Landing and Elvis’ death. But all the computer models (as opposed to super models) have Louisiana in DumpAFlood’s cross hairs. You’re probably thinking, well cartoon boy, that means it ain’t hitting us. Ah, o contraire. The right side of a tropical system is the moist side (see, I used it again). That means it will be like being under a tongue in Mississippi. And the Gulf of Mexico is about to get dumped down on our heads.

Flooding is serious #$%. So stay weather aware. (I lived through a stalled tropical system dumping 25 inches on Conroe, Texas. That wasn’t a bucket of chuckles.)

Me? I’m stocking up on Little Debbie’s and toilet paper. Oh wait, this isn’t a snowstorm. Crap. I guess I’ll just get my rain boots ready and prepare for the storm.

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The New White Sneakers: A Father’s Day Story

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.

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