Marshall Ramsey

I was sitting in the University of Tennessee’s Circle Park, reading a book on metaphors and pondering what I’d do with my life. College was almost over, real life loomed ahead of me and I had no clue what was next. The future should have been exciting. Instead, it scared the Hell out of me.

Spring meant that the azaleas and the dogwood trees competed for the eye’s attention. Nearby, an older man patiently dabbed his brush onto a canvas. He was meticulously recreating the scene — yet in a way, what he saw was more beautiful. The colors were more vivid. The scene was more sharp.

My book became less interesting as I continued to watch him paint. How could black and white words compete with such glory? I stood up, dusted myself off, walked over to him and sat down on the ground.

And then I just watched.

He was oblivious to his audience — or at least seemed to be. After about thirty minutes, he acknowledged me with “Spectacular, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t sure if he was talking about the scene or his painting. I answered, “Um, yes. I hope you don’t mind if I watch you paint.”

He smiled and said, “If I did, I would have said something by now.”

I smiled back. It wasn’t the first truth he’d tell that day.

“You paint?” he said. I didn’t at the time (although I do now).

“No sir.” My Southern training shined.

“Life’s like this painting, you know,” he continued.

“Do tell,” I sarcastically thought to myself. But I just muttered, “uh huh.”

“We’re given a palette and a blank canvas. Some people have more colors. Some people have more skill at applying the paint. But we all are given the opportunity to create a masterpiece. You can mix the paint together with caring and wisdom and create new colors. Or you can slop it together and make mud. It’s your choice.”

He paused and painted some more.

Then he continued, “But the truly great learn how to see things. And then they make it better. They work hard and continuously add brushstrokes. When the oils permeate the canvas, you’ve left your mark. Your painting is your legacy. It’s the art you leave behind.

I was 23 years old and I had no freaking clue what he was talking about. I wish I had had more wisdom. I wish had been clairvoyant enough to ask him questions. But I wasn’t. I watched him for a few minutes and then walked away.

His wisdom was lost on me — until today.

I walked past the bright flowers of the Governor’s mansion at lunch and thought of the painter. I thought about what’s on my canvas and what kind of painting I’d leave behind. And then I smiled.

Twenty four years ago, a painter left a brushstroke on my canvas. And it was pure genius.

Show up, take the beating, don’t quit and get stronger

I’d like to think that this morning’s workout was a good metaphor for my life. I gasped for breath at times and felt like I was going to puke. I still feel like I’m going to puke.

Right now, my life’s like that, too.

But I tell you this. Looking back, the periods when I had the most growth were the periods when I was challenged the most. You either rise up or fall down when things get bad. Right now, I intend to rise up. Just like I did this morning.

When I got to my last station with Coach Clark, I hurt. I couldn’t breathe and the humidity made me light headed. But I pushed through it. I did the work. And I didn’t quit.

Surviving that gives me confidence I can handle anything life throws at me. I’m stronger for showing up and doing the work this morning. I’ve got the rest of the day under control.

I just hope hope I’m not going to puke.

“The more things change, the more they are the same.” – Alphonse Karr

Last week, I sat in a banquet honoring a man who had the courage to stand up for what was right. And because of that courage, a man cowardly shot him in the back, killing him in front of his family. Medgar Evers died because of racism. That was 52 years ago. This week, Charleston, South Carolina, we saw another man cowardly shoot people because he was driven by hate. Nine beautiful churchgoers also died because of racism five decades later.

It was a horrible and loathsome act that makes me physically ill. And I’m saddened that we still have to face the hatred behind it.

Yes, we as a country have made progress. I live in a state that has changed so much since that dark time 52 years ago. But obviously we still have a long way to go. I pray that when my kids are my age, they will look at racism as archaic.

Yes, there is evil in the world. Religious and racial bigotry mustn’t be tolerated. And it’s up to the good people of the world to stand up, look it in the eye and call BS on it once and for all.

It’s 5:55 a.m. I’m not looking for life lessons — I’m trying to catch my breath. My heart rate has been highly elevated for nearly an hour and my muscles are burning. The thought of quitting dances seductively through my mind. I run up another set of stairs and then back down them. I’ve run the length of Madison Central’s football stadium three times now. Up and down the stairs. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Then we run around the back.

This is our last station. I can tell by the looks on my line mates that we’re all worn out. A muggy morning and too many burpees and other exercises have taken their toll. Quitting crosses my mind again. I shake it off and pour on the coal.

My bootcamp is five stations (one being in the weight room) made up over various drills. All are designed to keep your heart rate up, test you mentally and crush you physically. We do this one hour a day, four days a week. It’s tough training. I’m easily in the best shape of my life.

But one thing about the drills is this: You can just get by — you know put in the minimum. If the coach isn’t looking, you can slack off. You can half-ass your way through the exercise.

Or you can pour on the coal. The more you put into each drill, the more you get out of the experience.

Isn’t that just like life? Zac Brown said it best — you get what you give. We all have the same opportunity out there at PLS. But if we choose to put our heart into it, we’ll truly excel.

My one-hour bootcamp sets the tone for the other 23 hours of my day. We’re all given the same amount of hours in a day. The truly special ones make the most of them.

It’s time to go pour on the coal. It’s time to make the most of my day.

With Father’s Day coming up, I thought I’d jot down 10 random things I love about being a dad.

10. Watching the kids sleep. Sure, it’s the least stressful moment of parenthood, but there’s something remarkably magical about watching their little chests rise and fall with each breath.
9. Chest-swell-with-pride time. Straight A’s, athletic achievements, etc. You know the drill. Those good times that recharge your patience after you have to snake the toilet because of toys down the drain or pull gum out of the dog’s fur.
8. The first time your kid greets you at the door when you come home from work. Nothing quite like it. You feel like you’ve liberated Paris during World War 2. “DADDY!!!!”
7. Stories at bedtime. One time, I awoke to my youngest son poking me in the forehead. I had fallen asleep while reading “Goodnight MOON!”
6. The first time your kid says, “I love you dad.”
5. Throwing ball with your kid. Actually, any time you spend with them. It can be boogie boarding, grass cutting, house painting or car washing. Riding horses or bike, hiking or doing homework. It’s about time. All about time.
4. A potty-trained child. No more diapers? It’s a raise.
3. When your kids make you laugh — intentionally or unintentionally. In our house, love = humor.
2. Childbirth. Realizing you had a part in creating a new and amazing new life (and all the terror that comes with it.)
1. The privilege of watching them grow up.

My mop glided quietly across the tile floor. I had a method of hitting two rows of squares at a time, thus making my work go by quickly. I still had a couple of classrooms to mop. It was 8:30 p.m. — three hours until quitting time.

Pope High School resembled a tomb. The kids were gone and all who remained in the building were the custodial staff. I was their newest member and fresh out of college. I quickly learned that mopping should be done close to the end of the day. You didn’t want people walking across your work.

I wrung out my mop and continued on.

Suddenly a man turned the corner and walked right down the middle of my floor.

“Um, sir,” I protested, “the floor is wet!”

The guy looked down his nose at me and said, “So? You’re just a janitor. You can re-mop it.”

I should have stuck the mop handle up his butt but instead I just stood there and stared. How dare he talk to me that way?

Jackass.

I heard his voice for days. “You’re just a janitor.” I wasn’t “just a janitor.” I was a recent honors graduate from college. I was an award-winning cartoonist. I was… I stopped and thought for a moment: I realized I’m not my job. But how I do my job is a reflection of who I am.

It was one of the most important lessons I ever learned.

Today, editorial cartoonists are going the way of the passenger pigeon. I’ve seen several of my peers lose their careers entirely. And when their jobs went away, they sank into depression. They were their jobs. Knowing that I’m not a job title gives me strength in uncertain times.

I’m not just an editorial cartoonist. Or a speaker. Or an author. Or a radio host. Or a…

I am who I am. The rest reflects that.

I could easily end up mopping floors again at Pope High School. If I do, I hope that guy walks down my floor again. First I’ll thank him. He led me to the most important career advice of my career. And then I’ll stick the mop handle where the sun don’t shine — just because.

My leap of faith began from paradise. I had a great job, amazing bosses, fantastic coworkers and I lived in San Diego, California — a city with the finest weather in the U.S. A southern voice on my answering machine had offered me a job — my dream job.

It was nearly November and I had just come back from the beach.

Without hesitation, I dialed the number and accepted the job. Soon, I would be the new editorial cartoonist in Jackson, Mississippi starting on December 16, 1996. My wife shot me a look like, “I hope you know what you are doing.” I shot her a look back that replied, “me,too.”

Most of what I knew about Mississippi emanated from books and, unfortunately, Hollywood. I had been through the state on my way out West — that was when I got my first rock ding in my windshield. I remember traveling down I-10 thinking, “this is where Camille hit.” Sure, I was from Atlanta — but that didn’t count. I needed to do my homework. And needed to start immediately.

I walked from our apartment down Washington Avenue to the local library. I asked for all the books they had on Mississippi and the librarian returned with a whopping two books. One was a book on the general history of Mississippi. The other was a biography of Medgar Evers.

I sat in our living room reading Evers’ story. A cool sea breeze rattled the blinds as a seagull went by. Heck, a 747 could have flown by and I wouldn’t have noticed. I started reading parts of it aloud to my wife. Courage. Love. A desire to make his home better for his children. I think I read the book in an afternoon. Then I reread it.

Last night, I presented the courage award at a scholarship banquet in Medgar’s honor. Myrlie was there. His brother Charles, too. And I got to meet some of his kids and several of his nieces and nephews. I leaned over to his nephew Carlos and said, “I’d imagine your family reunions are amazing.” People that knew and loved Medgar were standing at the podium, telling stories about their friend 52 years after he was assassinated. He came alive again in the Hilton hotel.

When the banquet was over, I briefly spoke to actor Dan Ackroyd. He went on about his love of Mississippi and how more people needed to know about it. I agreed whole-heartedly. I heard the same excitement in his voice that I’ve had for the past 20 years.

I leapt from paradise when I came here. But I found a different kind of paradise when I landed. It’s more flawed. It’s a land of challenge and courage.  One that shapes you into a better person.

Soon, I’m visiting Washington, D.C. I’m taking my sons through the Arlington Cemetery. I want to show them where heroes guard freedom for eternity. And somewhere in that garden of stones, we’ll find Medgar Evers’ grave.

I thought about that biography last night and how it made my evening so special. A leap of faith requires courage. And I learned it from a man who died a long time ago.

Met Dan Ackroyd last night. He’s been around Jackson quite a bit lately — so meeting him is getting easier by the day. I spoke to him for a couple of minutes as the Medgar Evers Scholarship Banquet ended. Let me tell you this about him.

1. He’s very kind and polite. There was no “I’m a star” going on there. He was gracious to everyone who approached him — including me.
2. He absolutely loves Mississippi. He told me, “I want to make sure more people know about this place.” I think he sees the same thing in this place that has kept me enamored for the past 20 years.
3. His family donated money to the scholarship fund. The five recipients received an extra $1,000 towards their education thanks to him. That’s a pretty meaningful way to change lives for the good.

You see famous people on TV and the movies and you imagine what they are like in real life. And you hear horror stories about how people are jackasses when they are approached. I’m thankful one of my favorite actors turned out to be a good guy.

As his world crumbled around him, Gary Brandon couldn’t help but notice the taste of gun oil. He sat alone in his one-room apartment twitching the .38’s trigger. One pull. That’s all it would take to end his pain. One pull. Just one pull. He felt the muscles in his finger tighten on the steel. One pull.

But something stopped him.

Gary exhaled and thought about everything that had led him here. His wife had left him. She had cheated on him but the courts gave her the kids anyway. That had left him broke. Then he lost his job. Insult always follows injury.

How had he fallen so fast? Just a year ago, he was the top television meteorologist in town. Now he was broke and licking a gun barrel.

“Go ahead and pull the trigger. I always knew you were weak.”

Gary’s head swiveled around. Nothing. No one. Where had the voice come from?

“C’mon, you puss. Pull it. Put you out of my misery.”

Gary had heard the voice before. He searched his memory and uttered, “Naw. Couldn’t be.”

But it was. A ghostly specter came limping out of the darkness.

“Yep. I’m your guarding angel. #$%#$ imagine that.”

” But I thought you were in Hell.” Gary spat. He immediately recognized the wrinkled face. It was his high school offensive coordinator.

“What? No hug?”

“You’re dead. You died of a heart attack years ago.”

Gary’s old coach, sighed, “And for some reason, I’m now standing here. So you going to do it? You going to quit?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You tried to make me quit before.”

“And you did.”

Gary put the gun down and screamed, “BULL@#$!!. I stuck with your abuse.”

“But you stopped giving your full effort. You felt sorry for yourself. Just like you’re doing now.”

“I’M IN PAIN!!!!” Gary screamed.

The old coach spit and looked at his former star quarterback. “So you’re going to give that pain to your kids?”

Gary’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

“It wasn’t personal with you kid. I was getting back at your dad. Yeah. There it is. I’ll admit it, now.”

“You jerk.” Gary said.

The coach smiled, “Yeah. But it was fun watching him suffer when I benched you. So, you going to quit again? Or you going to fight this?”

“Why are you here? If I was going to get a guardian angel, why not someone who gives a damn about me?”

“Because the Boss knew you’d respond to me. And I’ll be honest, I’ve watched you grow up. You’ve kicked butt several times when faced with challenges. I am a little reluctant to say this, but I even have a little bit of respect for you. Didn’t see that coming.

But if you pull that trigger, you’ll be the quitter I always thought you were.”

Gary looked at the gun and then at his old coach.

“Kid, you still have fight in you. You’re still in the game. Breathe. In and out. Take a step and then another one. You have the rest of eternity to be where I am.”

Gary emptied the bullets out the gun and threw it across the room.

He then looked at the old coach and something amazing happened. His gray complexion began to glow. And as the room lit with a blazing white light, he changed into a ten-foot angel.

“You are a blessed man, Gary Brandon. Never forget that. I’ll always be your coach.”

Then the room went dark and Gary was alone.

As the University of Tennessee’s football team walks out of their locker room and onto the field, there is a sign above the door that each team member touches.

It reads, “I will give my all for Tennessee today.”

I love that. In fact, I like it so well, I am going to modify it ever-so slightly and hang it on our door out to the garage.

Our sign will read, “I will give my all for this family today.”

Because that’s what it is all about. We either succeed as a family or we fail as one. Everything I do is for Amy and my boys. And remembering that larger purpose is healthy.