Marshall Ramsey

“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” – John Lennon

That quote almost makes me forgive Lennon for his other quote:

“Yoko, you are a great singer.”

But seriously, yesterday was a classic example of Lennon’s first quote for me. I did a radio show, drew a cartoon and a taped a television interview. When I was 25 years old, I never would have seen the radio and TV part of that last sentence. I figured I’d be coasting in my successful cartooning career by now. I couldn’t have been more wrong. And thank goodness for that.

I’m working like crazy making mistakes, screwing up and trying new things. And every once in a while, something pays off.

I’m having a blast. And thankful my plans didn’t workout perfectly. I would have cheated myself out of some really cool experiences.

But I can promise you this: I’ll never sing. Why? Let’s just say I could give Yoko a run for her money.

Yesterday I flew through the heavens in a plane I’ve always idolized. I will admit, I was nervous when I climbed into the cockpit. What if we crash? What if I have to bail out? What if I puke? What if… My fear melted once the wheels left the ground. I yelled, “YEE HAH!” as the P-51D Mustang leapt into the sky.

I didn’t die. I didn’t have to bail out. And I didn’t puke. Instead, I had a blast.

Fear is so toxic. If I had found an excuse to not climb into that cockpit, I would have cheated myself out of one of my life’s greatest experiences.

I’ve always said fear is the devil walking the earth. I’ve struggled with it in the form of doubt, depression and inaction. I’ve feared change and that kept me safely tucked in my comfort zone. And at times, it still does.

My challenge today — and tomorrow and the next day — is to take on that fear. To do things that make me a little uncomfortable. To stand up for what is right even if I worry about the consequences. I need to push against the walls of inaction. I need to cross my bridges of doubt and burn them. It’s time to embrace the new, lean into it and own it.

The pilot of the Mustang, Dan Fordice, told me about a 94-year-old World War II veteran who flew with him. His family was worried he might die in a plane crash. The veteran replied, “I’ve lived 94 years. At least I’ll die happy.” That was a man who knew how to live. I also met an 87-year-old man who still is a pilot.

Those men aren’t just alive. They’re living.

That’s the attitude I want. To get my fear out of the way and to truly live. That’s my mission on a sleepy Sunday morning.

My prayer as the engine cranked went something like this, “Dear God, please don’t let me puke in Dan’s really nice airplane.”

Dan is Dan Fordice. Yes, Fordice. As in Kirk and Pat’s son.

We were flying a few years ago and he was strapping me in. I asked him if he was still mad about the cartoons I drew about his dad. He answered, “You’re mine now.”

At that moment, I realized he had packed my parachute.

Oh sh*t.

Dan has Pat’s sense of humor.

Thankfully. I am still alive.

Today I flew in his amazingly gorgeous P-51D Mustang, Charlotte’s Chariot 2. The P-51D is one of the most famous aircraft ever built — and for good reason. It’s nearly perfect in every way. It was the premier fighter over Europe in World War 2 (And escorted B-29s on their way to Japan, too). I’ve never had as much fun flying as I did today. I’ll just describe the Mustang this way — it’s raw power and grace make you feel like you’ve strapped wings on and are a knight in the sky.

Dan’s a heck of a pilot. He has taken his plane to the Oshkosh Air Show (the nation’s premier air show) He flew over the Washington Mall as part of the Arsenal of Freedom flyover marking the 70th anniversary of VE day. He loves his Mustang. But he loves to honor the generation who flew it even more.

Dan and the Southern Heritage Aviation Museum have done an amazing job doing just that. I respect the hell out of him for that. He could just fly his Mustang around for kicks. Instead, he uses it to educate and inspire.

I didn’t puke today. We rolled and looped and pulled some G’s. When the Mustang’s wheels touched down, I had a big, fat stupid grin on my face. I thought of Cary Salter (whose just passed and whose plane Dan’s is modeled after). I thought about everyone who sacrificed so much. I thought about the knights in the sky.

And on this 70th anniversary of the guns falling silent, I appreciate Dan’s efforts and for him letting me pretend I was one of those knights, too.

December 2005

My skin burned as the needle slid into my arm. I was getting a Tetanus shot in the Camp Coast Care medical tent near the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Camp Coast Care was a joint effort by the Episcopal and Lutheran churches to serve the survivors in their recovery. Their mission, like the needs of the coast, changed daily. While I was down there, I repaired a roof, looked for a wedding band and cleaned lots.

No, I helped repair souls. I can’t think of a more Christian thing to do.

I pulled my shirt sleeve down and starting asking the medical staff about their experiences after the storm. I heard amazing tales of survival and recovery (No HIIPA laws were broken). A team of mental health experts were also there, helping Gulf Coast residents pick up the mental pieces. One statistic that has stuck with me for a decade was this:

Half the people who came in were still in shock.

Katrina was impacting the coast even months later. And I’m sure she continues to this day. I know even the small part of the storm I experienced changed how I saw the world.

Lately, people have told me their Katrina stories. The 10th anniversary has been cathartic in a way. People are opening up and cleansing old wounds. On August 30th, The Clarion-Ledger will have a 44-page special section on the storm and our recovery. I look forward to reading every single word. I will mourn our losses. I will celebrate our recovery.

We hitched up our britches as Governor Barbour said. But it changed us. We’re tougher. More focused on what is important. For me, I will never look at stuff the same way again. I remember having a moment in gas station on 49. I saw a trinket for sale that was just like a piece of debris I saw in the muck near Pass Christian. I looked at the snow globe and then closed my eyes. I saw the destruction.

I can’t imagine if that was from my home.

My thoughts and prayers go out to all who survived Katrina. I hope you have found peace and a way to rebuilt your life. Ten years later, I know that’s a work in progress.

I stood on the Western edge of the Reservoir this morning, watching the sun begin to illuminate the Eastern sky. Small, dark gray clouds floated over the Northern horizon like lint. The water actually looked blue and a slight breeze caused waves to lap against the shore. I had run 4.5 miles at that point and my heart beat rapidly. I stopped and the world went quiet. A car passed on the Natchez Trace and then peace once again returned. All I could hear were the waves and my heart.

While heading back to Central Time last weekend, I stopped by my best friend Randy’s house. Randy and I have known each other since high school (we actually played football against each other.) Thanks to girlfriends who knew each other (and later dumped us), we became friends. I don’t have a brother, but if I did, Randy would be him. We’ve gone through similar life events and even were each other’s best men.

We all need friends like Randy. My only regret is that we live 400 miles apart and don’t see each other nearly enough.

Randy has an amazing family. His two 16-year-old daughters are pretty and smart — thankfully he married well (he’d say the same thing about me). And yes, his wife Kelly is a good egg, too. I enjoyed hanging out with them and catching up on their new school year. Randy works about 18 hours a day and is I think working hard on his first heart attack — once again, we are going through similar life events. He, though, has to drive in Atlanta. Thank God I don’t have to do that.

I told him about all that is going on with my life and he just kind of shrugged his shoulders. “You know,” he said, “You look around in traffic and you realize everyone is going through something.” I think I had written something similar a few weeks ago but needed to hear that again. He continued, “I think we go through the bad stuff because it’s the only way we’ll change.”

Randy gave me something to chew on as I headed back to Central Time. I think about all the stuff happening and I know I can’t do a thing about it — other than try to help and commit to changing my life. Two hours with my friend and I got powerful life advice.

The hard times are what make us change for the good. As I crossed back into Central Time, I realized that’s why Randy is such a good friend after all these years.

SHORT STORY: The Hunter

A dark gray WC-130J Hercules roared from Biloxi’s Keesler Air Force Base into the cobalt blue sky. The Hurricane Hunters were on yet another mission — a hurricane had entered the Gulf of Mexico.

Sphincters were tightening all across the Gulf Coast.

It was late August and the waters in the Gulf of Mexico was like a baby pool: Warm and deadly. A storm in the Gulf was like a chain smoker in a fireworks tent.

A light breeze blew sand across Hwy. 90. Mississippi Department of Transportation had done a great job rebuilding the coastal road after Hurricane Katrina turned it into a disaster area. Cars zipped between traffic lights, oblivious to the destruction that had taken place here just a decade ago. That worried Steve Martone. It had been 10 years since the Gulf Coast had been walloped by the storm. A whole generation didn’t know what a beast Mother Nature could be when she lost her temper. He watched the WC-130J head over the horizon. Maybe they could seed the clouds with Xanax.

Steve drove his truck West toward the Beau Rivage, the massive casino that had taken a big lick during Katrina . A new baseball stadium had popped up like a mushroom across the street. Then he passed the Biloxi Lighthouse. Once run by the Coast Guard, it now was property of the city. Steve vowed if he ever built a house along the coast, it would look like the lighthouse. It had survived 12 major hurricanes. His house couldn’t even survive one. Or his parents.

The lighthouse was as close to a live oak as man could build. It took a licking and kept on ticking. Steve remembered the Gulf Coast of his youth, the trees and the homes along the water’s edge. That was a different time. A different place.

Like the remaining trees and barren lots, Steve had his own set of scars. He was 20 when the storm had hit. His parents refused to evacuate, swearing they were far enough from the shore. Katrina had other plans and chased the three of them into his parent’s home’s attic. They sat huddled in the dark as they heard the house start groaning. It was a sound that he would never forget — and It’d haunt him forever. The last thing he remembered was being thrown into the swirling water. His dad tried to hang onto him and his mom, but his parents were swept away. They found them a week later in a tree.

He declared war on hurricanes that day.

That fall, he changed his major at Mississippi State to meteorology. And when he graduated, he joined the U.S. Air Force. He eventually joined the reserves and became a WC-130J pilot. Captain Steve Martone vowed to hunt the very beast that killed his parents.

Others would get the chance to live like he had. He would help give them the gift of early warning.

He pulled his truck to the gate at Keesler — which was the home of the 53rd WRS (the official name of the Hurricane Hunters.) Off in the distance were their planes sitting there like beached whales. The Hercules was a cargo plane designed in the 1950s — but with serious modernizations. It proved in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan, it could take a beating. And Steve knew that first hand. During Hurricane Frank, the plane was shaking so violently that he couldn’t even read his instruments. But the Hercules always brought them home. Always.

Home. He was back home.

Keesler was near the slab where his parents’ home used to be. Steve liked to waggle his plane’s wings when he flew over it. He knew his parents would appreciate that. They were angels and were flying with him anyway.

He pulled up to the barracks, got out and went in to get dressed for his flight. He was scheduled for a late afternoon mission. He walked out to the hanger and paused. There was something about the roar of the Hercules’ turbo props that made him smile. They almost made a pulsing sing-song sound.

Two hours later, the hunt was on.

The sky blazed orange as he taxied the big beast to the end of the runway. He pushed the throttle forward and sped toward the storm. In a few hours, he’d punch directly into the new hurricane’s eye wall.

Ten years after Katrina, Captain Steve Newton was fighting another battle against Mother Nature. He was once again tracking a killer. And today, he was winning.

The knight sat on the ground, burned and battered. His armor and ego were dented.

The dragon had kicked his butt again.

A singed glove felt around for his sword. It, too, was broken.
He was having an absolutely crappy day. Self-pity washed over him as the nearby shrubbery continued to smolder. Deep laughter echoed through the valley. The Dragon was taunting him once again.

“You are pathetic little man. You’ll never beat me.”

The knight heard that in his sleep. When he was eating. When he was sitting on the toilet. The village, which had been burned several times by the dragon, thought he was a loser. And who was he to argue? He had turned even deeper within himself as he heard the dragon’s words again.

“You are a pathetic little man. You’ll never beat me.”

Not only did the dragon live in a cave on the mountain top, he lived in the knight’s head, too. “Maybe I am a loser,” he thought as he slowly picked himself up off the ground.

He gathered his broken sword and headed back down the mountain. The village was three miles away — he had plenty of time to prepare his pity party.

And did he throw a grand one. The knight entered Ye Olde Pub and Brothel and sat down at the giant oak bar. He requested an ale as the patrons whispered. “Look at his burns,” he could hear. “What a loser.”

“God I hate Monday’s,” he moaned as he drained his ale.

The next morning, he woke up in the alley behind the pub, hungover and lower than a flea’s belly. A trash collector had tried to steal his broken sword, causing the knight to leap up, prepared to fight. Of course, he stumbled. “Loser,” the trash collector chuckled.

The knight threw up and then stumbled out into the street. Women and children gazed at him as he cursed and muttered his way back home. “The hero is home!” they laughed as he tripped and fell face first.

When he entered his small apartment, the knight threw his sword down and shouted with disgust, “I AM A LOSER!”

“Only because you think you are,” a voice said calmly from the darkness.

The knight swung around with his half sword, prepared to do battle.

“Don’t think that will do you much good,” the voice said. Soon, the room illuminated because of a man dressed in white robes.

“You Gandalf the White, Dumbledore or Merlin?” the knight said sarcastically.

“I’m Wyatt the Wizard.”

The knight burst out laughing. “Who would name a wizard Wyatt?”

“I’m not the one getting my helmet handed to me by a dragon. I’m the one who should be laughing — but I’m not. I’m going to teach you how to slay your dragon.”

The knight looked at the old man and shrugged. What could it hurt? Well, it couldn’t hurt worse than getting your helmet handed to you by a dragon.

This is where the Rocky montage should be — you know, where Wyatt the Wizard trains the knight. But really, the training existed in one simple piece of advice.

“To beat your inner dragon, you must help other people.”

The knight looked Wyatt the Wizard like he was a complete idiot. “Whatever, Wizard boy.”

Wyatt the Wizard said, “I’ve told you all you need to know.” Then he glowed brilliantly one more time and disappeared.

The knight was a slow learner. He took on the dragon three more times and got his helmet handed to him three more times. Then one afternoon, while lying in the alley, the Wizard’s advice made sense to him. He went home, took off his armor and put on regular street clothes. From there, he began to help his neighbors. He cleaned up the yard of a local widow. He served at a soup kitchen. He volunteered at the cathedral. The knight slowly but surely made friends with the villagers. Soon he wasn’t considered a joke. The knight truly became a leader who was loved because of his service to others.

It was another Monday and the knight was setting up for the village bake sale. The sky suddenly turned orange as flames shot over the homes. “COME OUT KNIGHT. I’M HERE FOR YOU.”

The knight heard the voice of his nemesis taunted him in his head.

But others heard it, too. Soon the knight was joined by hundreds of villagers bearing swords and pitchforks. They walked behind the knight as he faced his dragon again.

“YOU BROUGHT AN AUDIENCE TO WATCH YOU DIE?”

The knight slowly raised his repaired sword, “No dragon, this is your day to die.”

The villagers surrounded the dragon, causing him to spin around. Fire shot toward some of the villagers, but when that happened, several others rushed and climbed onto his back. That allowed the knight to run beneath the distracted creature.

He stabbed the sword right in the dragon’s heart.

The dragon fell dead. And the taunting voice in the knight’s head was silenced forever.

The villagers stood stunned at the sight of the dead beast. A glowing white light appeared over head as Wyatt the Wizard floated in the sky.

“Anything is possible with friends. Even conquering a dragon.”

The knight closed his eyes as the villagers picked him up on their shoulders. The wizard with the weird name was right after all. And the knight lived happily ever after.

A few weeks back, I ate at a nice restaurant. My server was kind, but not terribly attentive. I’d say on a one to 10 scale, she was probably a six (and I cut servers a lot of slack — it’s a tough job!). She then found out what I did and lit up like a lightbulb. “I want to be a writer!” she joyfully said as she then proceeded to tell me her life story.

You could tell that being a server wasn’t her dream job.

I’m not being hard on her. She may have been having a bad day. To me, our encounter was more of a personal reminder. I’ve struggled with my attitude for the past five years. I know that it has cost me opportunities. You can’t look off into the future and not kick butt in the present. It’s like taking a long trip with the parking brake on.

Mac McAnally said it best about his song “It’s My Job.” “Work hard at a job that sucks and you will will soon have a job that sucks less.”

Sage advice.

I’m fortunate — I love my jobs. But I know that for me to truly be my best, I need to give 100% at them every single day. I hope my server friend becomes a writer. I hope she finds her passion and chases it with all her heart. But a good place for her to start would be to pour her heart into what she’s doing. That will take here where ever she wants to go (and give her good material to write about).

I thank her for giving me a gentle wake-up call I needed to hear. I tipped her well for that alone.

Central Time

The traveler from afar stood by his car,
wearing black in a field of stone.
He put a scoop of dirt in a jar
with tape on a lid labeled, “home.”

The ink on the tape smeared on his hand.
He was far from Central Time.

Hope abated and he became jaded,
as fear killed his childhood roots.
Favorite memories slowly faded
all he chased his dreams without a chute.

Frustration made him scream into the grave.
He was far from Central Time.

Is it really home if you feel alone
and all you believed in is a mirage?
Angry voices on the phone,
spreading fear that’s hard to dislodge.

Love was buried under a pile of lies.
He was far from Central Time

But he had a choice,
And still had a voice.
He could break the chain,
with love to wash away the pain.

Unconditional love heals your heart.
When you go home to Central Time.

But he had a choice,
And still had a voice.
He could break the chain,
with love to wash away the pain.

Healing isn’t hard to find, one hour behind.
When you go home to Central Time.