Marshall Ramsey

To my boys,

School is here. While the thermometer may disagree, summer is over. No more sleeping late. No more binge-watching Netflix. Time to cut Snapchatting back by at least 1/2. It’s time to get up, get ready and get the heck out of the house. Here are a few things I want you to remember today:

• You’ve gotten your school schedules. You’ve already done reconnaissance on your teachers. Great. I only request one thing: Go into their classes with an open mind. Remember, just because one of your friends didn’t like a teacher might have something to do with your friend, not your teacher.
• Sit as close to the front as you can. Ask questions. Seek help after class or make an appointment. If your teacher knows you, that will help your grades — and your learning experience.
• Do your homework. I know, you just heard that in your mother’s voice. But do as much preparation as you can before you get to class. The more you are exposed to material, the easier it is to learn it.
• Don’t make good grades your goal. Make learning your goal — good grades will follow.
• Don’t cram for tests. Trust me, you won’t remember anything a couple of days after the test.
• Don’t procrastinate. Do as Elvis said, “Take care of business in a flash.”
• Have fun. I’m 30 years out from high school and I still remember the good times. (Just don’t have too much fun. I’m still your parent, after all.)
• Know that your mother and I are very, very, very proud of you. We are here to support you. Now, if you screw up and get in trouble, you must pay the consequences. But we’ll always be behind you to help you succeed. We know your potential. You can exceed us in so many ways.

Just remember this.

Chase your dreams. Catch your dreams. Own your dreams.

You’ve got this.

Love, Dad.

These are remarks about my Dad’s passing that I shared on my 7/11/16 radio show:

A week ago, I was sitting in a hospital holding my father’s hand as he struggled to breathe. I had just rolled into Atlanta from Mississippi and was in shock from all the driving and the sensory overload caused by the hospital. Dad had been admitted earlier in the day and hadn’t opened his eyes, but he knew I was there. And he knew my oldest sister was there, too. She had just gotten back from her vacation. When he heard our voices he’d mumble or squeeze our hands. When my middle sister made it in from out of town, he turned his head slightly toward her voice.

He was glad we were with him.

Dementia had robbed him of much of his memory – the last couple years have been rough on him and our family. But dementia never truly defeated my dad. He still knew his kids. He still loved his wife. Although he struggled with details, the core of who he was still existed.

But we weren’t there because of dementia. His kidneys were shutting down. He had a UTI infection. And he was letting go.

The next day, my sisters and I continued to hold his hand after he had been transferred to hospice

He was transitioning.

The peacefulness of the hospice facility caused him to be more calm. I arrived early Tuesday morning to tell him what a good dad he was. What a difference he had meant to the community. And what an amazing life he had.

My dad died the way he lived – with a purpose. He passed away on his 59^th wedding anniversary and was surrounded by his three children. When he took his last breath, I thought of Victor Hugo’s quote: To love another person is to see the face of God.

It was definitely a God moment.

In typical Ramsey fashion, my sisters and I worked hard to execute all the plans my mother (to her credit) had set up. The funeral home was contacted. So was my parents’ minister. Everything was set. My sisters and I sat together that night and thought of all the good memories we had – and some of the bad ones. My dad never played favorites with us. Yes, he loved us in different ways. But we are very different people.

We are remarkably close. It’s my dad’s gift to us.

Saturday, my sisters and I stood in front of a fairly full church and told everyone what we had learned from our dad. My middle sister spoke first and was elegant and funny. My oldest sister then spoke and hit it out of the park. I batted cleanup and told what lessons I had learned from dad. When my sons were born, I realized I had no experience with kids. I fell back on his example on how to be a father.

From him teaching me to waterski (my father waterboarded before it was popular), I learned resilience. He’d pull the boat up to me after I had fallen and drank about half of the Tennessee River and say, “It’s not how you fall, it’s how you get back up.” After I had cancer surgery, he made me get out of bed and walk the neighborhood. As he walked with me he said, “It’s not how you fall, it’s how you get back up. Make THAT your story.”

He taught me that humor is a healing balm. I learned about giving back to the community. I learned about having a quiet faith. Dad was a pray in the closet kind of guy. He wasn’t flashy. But he tried to be good to others.

We need more like him in this world, not less.

Whenever we’d all go out to eat, Dad would announce “That was the best meal I’ve ever had.” My kids joke about that. Heck, I do to. But as we were sitting together the other night after his funeral, I realized I had had the best meal I had ever had. And it wasn’t the food. It was the company.

Dad loved his family first. That was the meaning of success to Dave Ramsey. He lived for family. And he died with them holding his hand.

He was the most successful man I’ve ever known.

We live in a world of turmoil. The past week has had violence and brutal killings. People are talking past each other, not too each other. Empathy is not a hashtag. Empathy is understanding. Dad taught me empathy.

I sat by his coffin Saturday afternoon as it was about to be lowered into the ground. I saw two motorcycle policemen salute dad as the flag was folded. I saw graves for people of every race, gender and nationality. But they all had one thing in common – they were underground. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

We’re all headed there. While it is fun to get on social media and scream about our differences, we all have the same fate in store for us.

I was blessed to have my dad for 81 years. He was funny, grumpy, wise, kind, loud and giving. He believed in his son and his crazy dreams. He wasn’t perfect – neither am I but he was perfect for me. As his coffin exited the church, the organist played Rocky Top and the crowd sang. Everyone left on an up note – dad, a UT graduate, would have wanted that. That’s who he was in life.

Thanks Dad. I celebrate your life. And I’ll see you again. But until then, I hope I’m half the man you were.

When my son and I got out of the car at 4:45 a.m., it felt like we were stuffed under a tongue. I knew today’s workout would be difficult. For once in my life, I was right.

I was sweating profusely during warm-ups.

Oh Hell.

Literally. It was nearly 80 degrees at 5 a.m. The humidity was like syrup. New flash: I don’t cool down efficiently. My inability to sweat enough made today struggle. So by the time I got to the pushing the bags across the field, I sucked. Big time.

I was gasping like a catfish on a dock.

I ran off the field today a little discouraged. After 8-weeks, I should have done better than THAT. I guess it would have been easy to beat myself up after today’s lackluster performance. But I didn’t. I changed my self-talk. I told myself that I made it through the workout. I pushed myself and I will get better. Tomorrow will be better and the day after that will be, too.

How many times do we self-sabotage ourselves by the narrative in our heads? If you’re like me, way too many times. I caught myself this weekend being very negative. I sat down that evening and vowed to change what I say to myself. The next day, as I was running up the Biloxi Bay bridge, I kept saying, “You’ve got this. Take it one step at a time.”

Times are tough. I see people claiming to be victims every single day. While I have sympathy for those who truly are, I don’t for the rest (and this includes many politicians.) I refuse to be a victim. I refuse to lie down when I have a bad day. I don’t need people telling me I need to because things are unfair. No kidding. Of course things are unfair. Not sure life ever has been.

So I’ll keep pushing. Failing and getting back up.

Yes, I’ll sweat. A lot. But I’ll keep going. This morning was a not-so-subtle reminder of why I need to.

I read in the Knoxville News-Sentinel today that legendary UT women’s basketball coach Pat Summitt is not doing well. According to the article, her family said that she could die today, tomorrow or within the year. She suffers from early-onset dementia and has quietly faded from public view. As anyone who has had a loved one with dementia knows, it is a tiring and painful journey.

When I went to the University of Tennessee and worked for the student newspaper Daily Beacon, I’d occasionally eat at the basketball arena’s cafeteria (which was near the paper’s office). Several times, I’d notice Coach Pat sitting by herself eating so one day, I gathered up the courage to say hello. She invited me to sit down and asked me all about myself and my studies. I found out (to my surprise) she liked some of my cartoons. Then she asked me if I wanted to do that for my career. I said yes and she proceeded to give me some great life advice.

I wish I had had a tape recorder!

She was a TOUGH basketball coach. But I tell you, she was also one of the kindest people I met at the university. I was a fan before that conversation. I’ve been a massive one since.

She was one of the most important people on campus yet she took a few minutes to lift up a random student. That random student is now lifting her up in his prayers this morning. God bless Pat Summitt — and all who love her.

While I was in Atlanta, I decided to find a track. I needed to do a little “speed” work and thought it’d be fun to run at my old high school. So I drove over to Sprayberry High only to find that the track was closed for resurfacing.

Bummer.

So I went to my other high school, Pope High School. When I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a ton of construction going on. You couldn’t get back to where the track was, so I parked the car and walked over to where the football team was doing some conditioning. I approached one of the coaches and said, “Excuse me, I used to work here as a janitor but now I live in Mississippi and wondered if the track is open?”

He looked at me warily and answered, “No. It’s being resurfaced (apparently several of the high schools in the area are getting new tracks.)” Then he asked, “Where in Mississippi?”

I answered “Jackson.”

His eyes brightened, “Really? I grew up in Jackson. I coached at Jackson Prep and Madison Ridgeland High School. You know Rob Futrol, the pastor at Broadmoor Baptist Church?”

I said, “Yeah, ran into him at the C-L’s Best of Preps banquet. He gave the prayer and I emceed.”

He said, “My dad used to the be the pastor there.” He then asked,” Do you know Joe Mack Dove? Our wives are very good friends.”

I answered, “Yes. I worked with Joe at The Clarion-Ledger.”

He smiled. I think we both realized that if we kept on that we’d be kin.

You see, that’s Mississippi for you. No matter where you go, you’ll run into someone you know. Just like three weeks ago when we were in Manhattan at Carmine’s Restaurant, the OB who delivered my three sons was three tables over.

Anyway, it was good to meet Coach Jerry Mahon. To quote Joe, “You met one of the best coaches in America. Nothing to do with Ws or Ls, but who you would trust your child with to learn about values and character.”

And I had to drive all the way to Atlanta to do so.

Seconds tick on the giant red clock in the studio:

9:59:58
9:59:59
10:00:00

An “On Air” sign illuminates as the host’s voice begins to fill the room.

“Good morning and happy Father’s Day. This is Sunday conversations and I’m your host, Nick Talkalot. Today we have a very special Father’s Day guest, the Father of our country himself, President George Washington. President Washington, welcome.”

George Washington fidgets, still uncomfortable being in a room full of electricity, lights and microphones.

“Uh, hello?”

Nick Talkalot positions the mic closer to Washington’s mouth.

“Um, I’m glad to be here … Er, I think. I mean yesterday I was dead and here I am sitting here with you.”

“So, President Washington, What are your impressions of the 21st Century?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, one minute I’m, um, dead. The next minute I’m having a really bizarre nightmare. But seriously, the U.S. Is nearly 240 years old and you can’t come up with better people to run for president? Forget throwing tea into Boston Harbor. I can think of a few candidates who should be tossed. If I’m the father of this country, the kid needs a good spanking.”

Nick Talkalot chuckles, drinks a sip of coffee out of a mug with his picture on it and continues, “So, what do you think of your legacy. I mean, you’re on one of these.”

Talkalot, forgetting radio isn’t exactly a visual medium, holds up a dollar bill.

Washington: “Well, I must not be too popular. It takes nearly 3,000 of those to go see a musical about Alexander Hamilton. I told him to watch out for Burr. And they named a town after me where all the politicians are? I’m not sure that’s a compliment. My monument looks like I’m compensating for something. Well, like that Trump guy said, I have big hands.”

Talkalot chuckles. “So what’s your favorite thing about 2016 so far?”

Washington rubs his chin. “Well, dentures have come a long, long way. And Game of Thrones is damn good television — that is what you call that box with movie paintings on it, isn’t it? Accidentally found a channel with disrobed women on it. Took me about 15 minutes to figure out how to change the channel. Oh, your muzzleloaders sure can fire a lot of bullets these days. But I’d say that air conditioning is my favorites. People really smelled bad back in the summer of 1776. Wool gets kind of itchy, too. I could have used a portable heater back at Valley Forge.”

Talkalot looks down at his pad of paper. “So, would you consider running for president again?”

Washington: “Well, the Constitution limits me. But if we can dig Martha up, she might be up for the job. She’d be better than what we have now.”

Talkalot looks amazed, “Really?”

Washington grins a woody grin and says, “I can not tell a lie.”

Talkalot looks at the big red clock and says, “More with the Father of Our Country after this break. This is Sunday Conversations on DC Public Radio.”

Dave Ramsey changed my life.

No, I’m not talking about the amazing financial guy (who also happens to be my first cousin.)

I’m taking about my dad.

David Lawrence Ramsey was born March 15, 1935. He has a brother and sister, three kids and a wife. He served our country, owned a business and worked hard his whole life. He believed in an 8-year-old when he said, “I want to become an editorial cartoonist.” He also believed in a 22-year-old college graduate who ended up as a high school janitor. I know he is proud of a 48-year-old father of three.

I know. He told me yesterday.

This will probably be the last Father’s Day dad knows he has a son. Dementia is robbing him of so many of our shared memories. A man who waterskied at 78 is now barely able to walk with a walker. Time and a horrible disease are stealing him from my sisters and me. I can’t tell you how much it hurts to watch him being robbed like that.

As we sat in the lobby together, I told him of all the times he changed my life. When I was six, we were working on his 1953 Ford Pickup that he was restoring. At one point the wrench slipped and he crushed his fingers. He swore loudly, one of the first times I had heard him do that. I looked at him and said, “Isn’t that wrong?” He said, “Yes. But I try to make up for it by being good to people.”

Dad’s theology always made sense to me. He truly WAS good to people. I saw him help so many when he could have made a fortune off of them instead. I would have bought used car from him.

We talked about all the times we waterskied at my grandparent’s cabin in Tennessee. I teased him about trying to kill me when he’d try to make me fall. He grinned. Some memories are stickier than others!

Dad and I are very different people. He played basketball and baseball. I played football. He loved working on cars. I like drawing pictures of them. But I am very much his son.

As his light flickers out, his memory lives on in my sisters and me. All three of us can say without a doubt that he loved us more than he even loved himself.

Father’s Day is for most dads. Dad’s Day is how I celebrate my father.

Thank you Dave Ramsey. You changed my life.

Amy asked me what I wanted for Father’s Day. I pondered for a moment and pondered some more (I’m a proficient ponderer.)

I answered, “Nothing.”

Now I will admit, she hates that. She’s the kind of spouse who prefers decisiveness — something I am occasionally lacking. So I continued, “We just got back from a trip to New York City, which cost us a small fortune (and was well worth it).”

She has thrown out a few things she might get. I need glasses, which really aren’t a present per se — and eventually, we need to get another car. She ain’t buying me a car for Father’s Day. No red ribbons will be in my driveway.

But honestly, two weeks out, I really can’t think of anything I need. Why? Because I have three of the greatest sons I could ask for. All three of them are different from the other. And all three of them are brilliant in their own ways.

People ask me, “Do your kids draw?”

They don’t. But they are funny and creative. And the greatest gift they have given me is that they are excelling in their own passions. I love watching them soar in ways I never could.

They have grit, fight and are competitive. They take after their mother, of course. Lord knows they look like her!

I feel weird taking gifts on Father’s Day, because my three sons are the greatest gift ever given to me. They have changed me for the better. They taught me the power of unconditional love.

They made me a dad.

And that’s a present I get 365 days a year.