Marshall Ramsey

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

Arthritic knees creaked as the old man climbed onto the wing. This had been so much easier 70 years ago, he thought, as he carefully slid into the open cockpit of the P-51D Mustang fighter plane. Air and familiar smells filled his scarred lungs.

With eyes closed, he saw a war from long ago.

To his right sat his old helmet. It fit snuggly on his balding head. He adjusted his glasses and scanned all the instruments.

Just like riding a bike.

Two brown eyes stared back at him from the instrument panel. It was the beautiful face of his beloved late wife. He remembered when he had tacked the picture there on that dark day in France. Her love got him through the hard times: During the war –– and for the next 60 years. He knew he’d see her soon.

He flipped a couple of switches and the powerful Rolls Royce Merlin engine roared to life. It pulsed like the heartbeat of a lion. The Mustang was one of the premier fighters of World War II and he was one of the knights who flew it. Soaring through the skies over Europe, he had drawn blood twice and had shared credit for a third kill. Today’s flight would be more peaceful. No German ME-109s or flak. Just pink and white cloud tops.

The engine roared louder as he pushed the throttles forward. His heartbeat climbed with the tachometer. He checked the ailerons and rudder.

Cleared for take off.

As the plane rolled down the runway, he felt his body press into the seat. Few mortals could understand this kind of power. Faster, faster, faster — the plane leapt off the ground. You didn’t push the throttle of a Mustang all the way forward on takeoff because of the engine’s massive torque and giant propeller. He had seen fellow pilots actually flip their plane doing that. But once he was in the air, he slipped the throttle forward, pulled back on the stick and shot into the sky like a rocket.

The world seemed unusually vibrant. He saw a flock of white egrets flying above the bright green earth. Houses looked like toys. Earthly concerns faded as did his aches and pains. He banked the Mustang and flew West into the sun.

That’s when he saw them. There were three other Mustangs flying in formation off to the South. For some reason, his radio wasn’t working, but when they saw him, they joined up on his wing. It was 1945 all over again.

Below was a group of cars. Nearby a crowd of people in black surrounded a tent. The formation of Mustangs roared overhead and then circled back around for another pass. The old man led the formation and then shot skyward solo as they performed the missing man formation.

The other Mustangs formed back on his wing and the pilots individually saluted him. When he noticed his fuel gauge nearing empty, he saluted back and peeled off from the formation.

It was time to head home.

Fog shrouded the runway. White wisps tickled the asphalt’s black linear shape, giving it a mystical look. Flaps down. Gear down. Throttle back. The ground welcomed him. The Mustang couldn’t have been running any better.

Screech. Screech.

Two puffs as rubber met asphalt. Fog embraced him, making visibility difficult. He pointed the Mustang’s nose toward the bright light ahead.

As Mustang fell silent, the old man threw open the cockpit. He could feel the cool moisture blanket him. He heard a familiar voice call out to him.

“You’re home!”

Through the mist, a familiar figure ran toward his plane. It was his wife — just as she looked in the photo. He looked in his plane’s mirror and saw the World War II version of himself.

He hopped pain-free off the wing and into the arms of the love of his life. He turned around and looked at his beloved Mustang.

It had taken him home one last time.

In memory of Cary Salter.

Pride. Passion. Purpose.

Petal School District’s superintendent Dr. Matt Dillion introduced the district’s new theme to his staff during their opening meeting Monday morning. Then I got up and spoke.

There’s something I about a new school year that I love. Maybe it’s new school supplies. I love new school supplies. Or it could be the freshly waxed floors. That’s the janitor in me. But I think it’s really just that you start with a clean slate for the year. You can feel the energy.

Pride. Passion. Purpose.

I thought about those three words as I started to speak.

Pride is the foundation of who you are. For a school, pride can emanate from academic achievements, sports victories or even just community support. Friday nights in the South are the epicenter of a small town. I remember wearing my Sprayberry High School letter jacket with huge pride.

But what does pride do? Pride makes you stand up taller. Pride gets you out of bed when you want to sleep in. Pride in your family. Pride in your name. Without it, your castle is built on sand.

Passion is life’s secret sauce. Take two people who are equal in every way but passion. The one with it will succeed. The one without it won’t. I’m seen it on the field, in the classroom and in business. It’s what drives you when you’re too tired to go on. It’s what makes work play. Passionate teachers who help kids achieve more than they are capable. Coaches who help players play over their head. Passion is the x-factor. It’s hard to teach. It’s just something that has to come from your heart.

Purpose is focus. Unfocused light gently bathes the world. Focused light is a powerful laser that cuts through challenges. It’s setting your goals in every aspect of your life. For schools, administrators can provide that kind of leadership. Teachers give their students their goals. Students need to learn self discipline. Purpose is why we are here on this Earth. It allows us to focus our efforts toward that. We all should have purpose in our lives. It allows us to overcome challenges. It’s the destination of our lives’ road map. Germantown High School (in Madison County) has a theme, “One for the Record Books.) This is their fifth year. They have pride. They have passion. And to set and achieve high goals is their purpose.

Pride. Passion. Purpose.

I applaud Dr. Dillion and Petal Schools for starting off the year with such ambition. I also cheer on Germantown as they work on getting even better. And as I finished speaking in Petal, I really thought how the three PPPs could affect my family for the better.

I think they’d almost be as amazing as new school supplies.

Captain Warr looked up at the bottle on the shelf and then out a the Mississippi Sound. Both contained liquids that were brown. And both were killers.

Liquor had nearly killed Captain Warr. The Mississippi Sound had murdered his wife. The retired naval officer kept both close to him — just in case they decided to attack again, he’d be ready. He kept one bottle of bourbon as a reminder of just how low he could sink. He looked over at the framed and signed headshot of the Weather Channel meteorologist who had convinced him to evacuate with the last hurricane had blasted ashore.

He owed that man his life. And his soul.

It was a warm Saturday morning — just like that fateful day a decade before. Hurricane Katrina, that bitch of a hell storm, roared ashore that morning. It forever changing his beloved Gulf Coast and his life. Today, the water slept like a sleeping tiger. He knew that tiger could wake up and maul him in a heartbeat.

He grabbed a single yellow rose out of a vase and headed out his front door.

A warm breeze tickled his neck as he felt the humidity lick his skin. He crossed Beach Boulevard and began walking West down the beach toward Waveland.

“Waveland,” the Captain shook his head. The irony of that name.

“Mornin’ Captain!” He heard a singsong voice call out.

Hilda Frances Whitewaller walked her terrier Faulkner toward him.

“Morning, Hilda Frances.”

The Captain was the most eligible bachelor in Bay St. Louis. He got at least one casserole a week. But he wasn’t interested in remarrying. He only had one woman in his life anyway and she was a psychotic cat named Katrina.

“What kind of moron names his cat after a storm that killed his wife?” Captain Warr remembered the vet saying that when he he took the orphaned kitten in for her first checkup. It really was a good question. Really. Who WOULD curse a cat like that?

Well, an old drunk.

Sobriety had changed Captain Warr. Sure, the Devil tempted him still. But his voice grew fainter with the years. Now, the Captain’s mood matched the Sound, not the bottle.

Today it was calm. Still. He felt serenity.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

Ten years ago, a force bigger than him had ripped the love of his life out of his arms. Watching your wife disappear and then finding her body was enough to break any mortal. He had failed as a husband. As a man.

But time had allowed Captain Warr to find peace.

He walked to the edge of the water and took off his sandals. The brown water swirled around his toes. Ten years ago at this very moment, Katrina had roared to shore.

“I love you, honey.”

Captain Warr dropped the yellow rose into the water. He stood as it floated away. And like so many years ago, he watched something beautiful be swept out to sea.

It happened even before Hurricane Katrina’s winds stopped blowing: We checked on our neighbors. Got gas (when we could find it) and bought stuff at the store. We then took the stuff to our church or synagogue. And we didn’t just drop it off. We cut our way down Highway 49 to help our neighbors on the Gulf Coast.

When things got bad, we got good.

Sure, that’s terrible grammar. But it’s probably the truest statement I’ve encountered in my nearly 20 years of living in Mississippi. When the proverbial poop hits the fan, we rise to the occasion ¬– and get busy helping those in need.

This book is born from that spirit. It’s a collection of essays, short stories and cartoons I’ve created over the past few years. If there’s a golden thread that runs through its pages, it’s overcoming adversity with humor and grit.

If a tornado hit your house, before you could crawl out of the rubble, a church van would pull up full of people with chainsaws and casseroles.

That’s who we are. That’s what we’re about.

Enjoy.

Jim Collins reached down and placed a handful of dirt into a jar. He tightly screwed on the lid and wrote the word “home” on a piece of tape.

The brutally hot August sun painted the fields brown. A lone irrigator struggled to keep up with the heat. Like the soil beneath his feet, his old hometown was drying up. First the textile plant went to Mexico. Then the grocery store closed. Now a corporation had bought the hospital and was closing it down.

Like the plants around him, the town was shriveling up and dying.

Jim stepped up in his truck and put a yellowed cassette into the player. Bruce Springsteen’s raspy voice began singing about the death of his hometown. “Funny,” thought Jim, “how did a New Jersey Yankee predict this?”

He passed by his grandparent’s house. It was now burned out and abandoned. He went by his old family home. It, too, was a ruin. He looked down at the job offer.

The truck slowed and Jim’s vision blurred from salt.

A lone man headed north toward Memphis. And a small Delta town faded into the evening.

Everyone is running from something. Some are just better runners than others.

The Dolphin Breeze Resort’s pink stucco betrayed its age and the fact the resort was past its prime. Nestled squarely in the middle of the Redneck Rivera, the Dolphin Breeze catered to working-class families desperately seeking Jimmy Buffett’s version of paradise. The sand was white. The water was aqua green. And the beer was cold.

It was mid-July and a warm breeze blew in from the Gulf. Joe Crabshack (his stage name — even his alcoholic mother wouldn’t have named him that), carried his amp and trusty Martin guitar out to the pool. It was a solid gig, one that he had had for nearly 25 years. Joe would set up and play Buffett songs as the guests slowly headed off to paradise. The women got younger and the pay smaller. But Joe hung in there. It beat working.

He tuned his Martin and strummed a few chords. A sunburned lady slathered sunscreen on her rather large belly. A bald man’s head reflected the noonday sun. Joe was a master observer. He could tell the guest’s lives just by watching them. The conventioneer trying to pick up the daughter of another conventioneer — he noted the white line on his ring finger. Everyone was running from something, Joe thought. Some are just better runners than others.

He began to play Crosby, Stills and Nash’s Southern Cross. “She’s all that I have left, and music is her name.” Joe smiled to himself. How true that was.

Bob the Bartender (not to be confused with Bob the Builder) poured another beer and looked out at Joe.

“We’ve worked with Joe for over 20 years and I don’t know a damn thing about him.”

Jenny, a new waitress, looked up at the little hut where Joe sang all day. “I was about to ask you about him.”

Carolyn, who had managed the poolside grill since the resort had opened said, “It’s easier to give a cat a pill than to get Joe to talk. He’ll ask you a thousand questions but you ask him one and he just shuts down. But still, there’s something familiar about him.”

Six o’clock rolled around and Joe carefully put his Martin its case. It was a daily ritual for him. He’s pack up and practically evaporate. No one knew where he lived. No one knew anything about Joe.

But Jenny was determined to find out. She sat in her Mustang in the shadow of the resort’s parking garage. She watched Joe pack up his Honda CR-V and turn right onto Beach Highway. She carefully stayed two cars behind him. Seven years as an investigative journalist had taught her to disappear into a crowd.

She was going to find out Joe Crabshack’s secret.

Joe turned right onto Jellyfish Court and drove to the large metal gates. Jenny looked at the huge beach homes. You can’t afford a place like this as a beach singer. Could he be who she thought he was?

The next day, Joe parked his SUV and unloaded his case. And once again he started with Southern Cross.

“And we never failed to fail, it was the easiest thing to do.”

Jenny wanted to tell Bob about what she had seen. But she wasn’t quite ready to blow her cover. She still had a mystery to solve. Who was Joe Crabshack? She carried a burger and fries to a man covered with tattoos and listened to her mystery man sing. This guy was too good for this place. What was he doing here?

She noticed his left arm. The skin was crinkled with the consistency of a pork skin. Burn scars. Joe Crabshack had been burned. But how?

During his break, Jenny walked past Joe and said, “Joe, I can’t help but notice your arm.” She could see him tense up.

“It’s nothing,” he said curtly. His tone said it was something.

“Bob,” Jenny said when she returned to the bar, “How did Joe get burned?” Bob looked over at the singer and shrugged.

“Dunno. He won’t talk about it. Must cause a lot of pain on the inside.”

A middle-aged dad walked over to the hut and requested Joe play a song. The song was “Tropical Breeze,” a song by an up-and-coming singer named Bob Seattle. Joe stopped in the middle of the song he was playing and loudly yelled, “NO, THAT SONG IS CRAP! I’ll NEVER PLAY THAT SONG!!!”

Everyone around the pool looked at Joe and wondered what they just seen.

Jenny knew exactly what had happened.

She pulled out her phone and Googled Bob Seattle. Bob Seattle had just signed a huge record deal with Atlantic Records. He was selling out arenas and was working on his second album. But writer’s block had gripped him. Then there was the car crash. Two bodies were burned beyond recognition. One was his wife. The other was Bob Seattle.

Or was it?

She looked at the young man with the bushy hair and cheesy mustache. Then she went to YouTube and listened to Tropical Breeze. Joe Crabshack was who she was looking for.

Jenny walked up to Joe at the end of the day and approached him. “Joe,” Jenny said, “Or is it Bob?”

Joe turned around quickly and said, “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

Jenny went back on her heels and then decided to press forward. “It seems I’m not the only one who has a secret.”

“Look, I don’t know you and I don’t care. But my name is Joe Crabshack, OK?”

“No, you are Bob Seattle and I am going to prove it.”

“And you’re a nosy reporter form Today’s Music Magazine. I’m not the only one who knows how to use Google.”

Both stood a few inches from each other and stared at each other. People who walking by would have thought they were having a lover’s quarrel.

“No, Bob, I am more than that. I’m your daughter. You know, the one who was raised by your sister after my Mom died and you ran away.”

Joe’s knees buckled.

“Uh….um.”

“Don’t worry, Bob, I have plenty to say. Why did you run? Why have you hidden in this flea-bitten resort for so many years?”

“I was scared.” Bob Seattle looked at his feet. The truth, in the form of his daughter, had finally caught up with him.

“Who was that in the car?”

“I was in the car — in the backseat. I caught your mom cheating on me and hid in the backseat. I was punching her boyfriend when the car ran off the road. He was burned beyond recognition. People assumed it was me.” I stumbled home, burned, and scraped together all the cash I had at the house. I left you my royalties and then disappeared into the night. Your aunt knew I was alive. She’s about the only one. She would send me money to live on.

“I’ve looked for you my whole life.”

“And now you’ve found me. Now what?”

“I hate you.”

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

Both stared at each other. Then Jenny began to cry. She fell into the arms of a man she had only dreamed of meeting. A ghost. A minor legend.

“Can you sing? I always dreamed that someday you would sing.”

Jenny could sing. Her voice was quite splendid. But she never wanted to be compared to her father. In fact, no one at her boarding school knew she had a famous father.

“Yes.”

“Then I have an idea.”

Joe Crabshack walked back out to the pool and picked up the mic. “I have one more song to play today. It’s a request — from that man over there. It’s called Tropical Breeze.” The stunned middle-aged man who had previously had his head bitten off just nodded.

Joe then continued, “Except, I want my new friend Jenny to sing along with me.”

The people around the pool stared at the waitress. Who was she again?

Joe picked up his guitar and played the familiar song. His fingers danced up and down the neck of the guitar. A quarter of a century of running evaporated before everyone’s eyes. And as he began the lyrics, a beautiful waitress began to harmonize with him.

Bob Seattle came back to life that day. He stopped running and started living. And while he would remain Joe Crabshack, he gained a daughter.

It was just another day the Dolphin Breeze Resort.

It was our last of at least 40 ‘Super Circuit’ stations this morning. (Each station lasted 45 seconds with a 15 second break to get to the next station.) My oldest son was my workout partner.

We shuffled toward the home stands, tossing a big, blue medicine ball back and forth to each other. The wind blew and I could hear the ball smack him as I threw it at him. I can close my eyes and see the determined look on his face. It was 45 seconds I’ll never forget.

You only make memories when you’re truly in the moment.

For 12 weeks, I’ve watched him grow and improve. And it has been more than just physically. On the way home, I asked him if he had achieved his goal.

“Yes, I got in Line 2,” he replied. He started in five. Line 2 is the line that I am in.

“I also learned a goal can’t be achieved without some pain. But you break it into small pieces and focus on each part to get through that pain.”

I was starting to get impressed. I’m 32 years older than him and sometimes I struggle with that one.

“I also learned that when the coach corrects you, you don’t get defensive. You listen, say “yes sir,” and try to do what they are saying.”

I know a lot of grown-ups who fail at that one — me included at times.

His mama sure raised him well.

So after 12 weeks of watching my son workout, I have a lifetime of memories to carry with me. I hope he has a few, too — and that they are good.

I would have given anything to workout with my dad.

This post could refer to about anywhere. I’ve lived in Georgia, Texas, California, Tennessee and Mississippi. All have had great things about them that I’ve loved. And all have severely ticked me off at one time or the other.

Let me ask you a few questions:

Do you ever have days when you get frustrated and say, “This place will never change!!!”? Do you throw up your arms and think, “That’s it, I’m outta here!”? Do you lose hope when you look around and see people you think are idiots? Do you think the political leadership in inept?

Of course you do. Well, unless you think you live in Shangri-La (I know some do). But most likely you’re like the majority of us and you get frustrated. (I read your Facebook posts, I know you do).

Trust me, I do.

But instead of saying, “This place will never change,” I’ve started asking, “How will this place change me?” If for the good, I can become part of the solution. If for the bad, I can continue to complain.

P.S. This also works pretty well for impossible people, too.

This is the last week of the 12-week Paul Lacoste Bootcamp. I work out on the Madison Central football field from 5 until 6 each morning — it’s an intense workout. And I’m easily in the best shape of my life. But today, I faced one of my biggest challenges yet.

As you might of noticed, it’s very hot — even at 5 a.m. My body does not handle heat well (a curse) and my athletic ability has suffered. I’m not going to lie, today’s was difficult. And somewhere along the way, the little voice in my head uttered the two nastiest four-letter words in my vocabulary:

Just Quit.

It happened as we were running up and down the bleachers at the end of the workout. We had already been taken to the woodshed and were tired. I had stumbled and bumbled and felt dizzy. And then I heard it.

“Just quit.”

“NO!” I yelled back to myself. “I WILL NOT JUST QUIT!”

My body raised its hand, “Um, if we walk right now, you can catch your breath.”

“NO. I have come this far.”

I started thinking about how hot it was and how my body wasn’t handling the heat well.

Then I thought, “But I am doing this. And by doing this, I’m getting better and stronger.”

“Just quit.”

I heard it again. I stiffened my resolve and answered, “Hell no.”

Paul Lacoste talks about the Next Level. I’m sure it means many things to my friends who are out there with me. For me, not quitting when things get tough is the next level. It’s learning to master and dominate the little voice in your head. The voice of doubt.

I’ll be back out there tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll hear that voice again. And once again, I’ll tell it to shut the heck up.