Marshall Ramsey

The tide came in.

Gulls played along the blue-green surf. Foam tickled the feet of the little girl playing along the water’s edge. She dug with purpose, building a sugar-white sand fort.

“This castle will be where I meet my prince charming,” she announced to the curious gull. He cocked his head knowingly as a slight breeze blew in off the Gulf of Mexico.

A voice startled her. “Can I play with you?”

The brown-haired girl looked at the skinny, freckled red-headed boy and laughed. “I don’t play with boys. Boys are stinky.”

The little boy sniffed his armpit. “I don’t stink.” He walked away with a frown, looking for his own patch of beach to build his dreams.

Ten years later.

The little girl had grown up into a teenager. She and her two friends walked down the beach, looking for boys to impress with their new bikinis. There, at the water’s edge, were two boys playing football. One was a god — blonde, muscular and just beautiful. The other, well, the other was skinny and pale. “Hi beautiful!” the pale boy awkwardly said, “Do I know you from somewhere?” He did. But neither of them remembered that moment ten years before. The brown-haired girl laughed and began flirting with his friend.

Neither of them noticed that the tide was rising.

Ten years later.

The Pensacola Bar was smokey, loud and crammed full of Naval Aviators and women who wanted to meet them. At the end of the bar was a stunning brown-haired woman who was sitting alone. “Five bucks I get her number,” the red-headed lieutenant dared.

“You’re on,” his buddy laughed. “there’s no way a scrawny, pale ghost of a man will ever get her to talk to you. And you don’t have five bucks. I stole your wallet five minutes ago.”

“OK, then can I borrow five bucks so I can win five bucks?”

Both men laughed as the red-headed lieutenant walked over to the beautiful girl and started talking to her.

Maybe it was the white uniform. Maybe it was the gold wings. But the two of them danced on the beach underneath a full Gulf of Mexico moon.

The rising tide tickled their toes.

Ten years later.

“Push! Push! Push!” The red-headed commander looked as he held his daughter in his arms. She was beautiful — brown eyes and hair just like her mother. And that moment, the tough Navy man broke down and cried. He was in love for only the second time in his life.

It was high tide.

Ten years later.

Storm clouds painted the horizon a sickly green.

He held her hand has she heard the dreaded three words. “We can do your treatment here,” doctor said clinically. “I’m afraid you’ll have to have a double mastectomy. And unfortunately, radiation and chemotherapy. Your lymph nodes are involved.”

She soon lost her beautiful brown hair. As they walked on the beach — the only place on the planet that could ease her pain — storm-driven waves crashed on the beach. The surge pounded at their feet and threatened to sweep them away. Sand stung their faces.

“You won’t love me anymore. I’m not beautiful!” She began to weep uncontrollably.

He pulled her close and held her tightly. Then put his hand on her chest and said all he could say, “What I love is in there. You are perfect the just the way you are.”

The winds calmed and the waves dissipated.

They were in the eye of the storm.

Ten years later.

Weak from another round of chemotherapy, she shuffled through the sand. “I can’t believe it came back.”

“It’s OK mom,” her daughter held her up on one side while the Admiral held her on the other. “We will always hold you up.”

“I know dear.”

They eased her into the surf. She felt the warm Gulf water baptize her and washing away her fear. Looking up at the two people she loved the most, she felt her pain leave her.

The tide was going out.

Ten years later.

The retired admiral and his daughter carried the urn to water’s edge. They sprinkled the ashes carefully on the warm Gulf water. “I will come back and see you often. And when I see you again, I hope you’ll let me play with you,” he said.

It was low Tide.

As he and his daughter walked out of the surf toward their condo, the admiral had to smile. There, on the same beach where he had met his wife so many years ago, his red-headed grandson was playing with a brown-headed little girl.

The tide came in again.

Rhythmically, I can’t walk and chew gum. Musically, I’m lazy but can play piano by ear. I’m also a decent harmonica player — but no Fingers Taylor. But music is very important to me. I appreciate and, at times, idolize talented musicians.

I have two in my family. My oldest son is an excellent Baritone horn player. He has won awards and played regionally. I know music helps him mathematically (an area where he is very gifted.) My middle son also plays in the band. He’s a French Horn player and who’s also first-chair. I’ve watched band improve both his guitar playing and his discipline in the classroom.

Music matter. Music education makes a difference. But it needs your help.

The Mississippi Symphony Orchestra (a great organization) has a fun fundraiser. If you go their website and vote for me ($5 a vote) you can help guarantee a bright future for our budding musicians — young men and women like my kids.

Mississippi has the most talented children per capita in the U.S. Your vote will help develop that talented. And make me look goofy in front of a crowd! Thank you!

CLICK HERE —> www.msorchestra.com/vote/ballot.php

The smell, the sound of my feet sinking in the muck and the sight of destruction burned into my brain. A cold rain fell that December morning. Ninety yards away was the sleeping Mississippi Sound. In between was complete and total destruction. Even that many days away from landfall, Katrina haunted the land with the scars she left behind. Six people had died in the distance I could throw one of the bricks that lay in front of my feet. The destruction was random and yet complete. Sheetrock was reduced to doughy pellets. Pieces of fine China survived. Cars were turned into beer cans.

On the way home, my priest and I stopped at a gas station south of Wiggins. As I went to pay for my drink, I looked at a trinket for sale at the counter. I had seen a similar trinket half buried in the mud just hours earlier. My mind flashed back to the destruction I had just seen.

It was at that moment a simple truth presented itself: At the end of the day, people you love are who really matter. Not stuff. Not toys. Not things.

I’ve seen that trinket in my nightmares a few times since. I think that’s the good Lord reminding me what’s really important in life.

I’ve seen the word “fat shaming” thrown around a lot lately. One promise I can make you is that I won’t ever fat shame. The plank in my eye is too big. (come to think of it, so is my butt). I am currently 40 pounds heavier than I was when I got married. And three years ago, I was 50 pounds heavier than I am now. I had more rolls than a bakery.

I get the struggle.

And I know the odds are stacked against us. We live in a world of inactivity, food deserts and sugar in nearly everything we eat.

What I try to do is live as healthy as any middle-aged father of three young boys can. I post pictures of my runs and tell stories how I succeed and fail. I try not to eat junk — but at times fall to temptation. I have seen the future and I’m desperately trying to avoid heart disease, diabetes and another bout of cancer. I know a healthy lifestyle leads to a better life. My family needs me. And I need to be my best for them.

I want everyone to take charge of their health because I know the benefits are much greater than the effort it takes to achieve them. We all have to take charge of our lives because no one else will do it for us.

But making fun of someone’s struggle won’t help. I’d rather reach a hand to help instead.

Life had kicked Kyle Dryer hard and now he was trying to prop himself up with a bottle.

“Here’s to being a complete screw-up!” he drunkenly toasted the sky. The empty bar did not toast him back. Kyle Dryer was losing and was acting like it.

“My job is a joke. My wife is cold. My kids are screwed up. Thanks God for nothing.”

Ed the bartender wiped out the glass and stacked it on the bar. He had heard this speech so many times before. It seemed that every pity party keynote speech blamed the God.

Kyle yelled, “Give me another, bartender. And make it snappy.”

The bartender wondered some days if this was worth it. This was his second job — a job that helped put his special needs child through school. He felt his jaw tighten as he poured another drink. He felt like an enabler for fools.

“Here you go, Ace,” he slid the glass toward Kyle. “Enjoy.”

Kyle threw a fistful of dollars at the man. “No, you enjoy.”

“A-hole,” the bartender mumbled under his breath. No one enjoyed a pity party except the person throwing it.

But Kyle Dryer wasn’t an a-hole. He was a good man who had lost focus. He took another swig and looked up, “Why?”

A voice said, “to make you better, that’s why.”

Kyle swung around, looking for the voice. He couldn’t see the source.

“Oh, I’m here. Walk on over to my booth. We need to talk.”

Strange — the bartender didn’t act like he had heard anything. Kyle picked up his drink and walked over the corner of the bar. It was dark and particularly smokey. But it didn’t smell like cigarette smoke. In fact, it had no smell at all.

Kyle sat his drink down and tried to make out a face on the man. Nothing. A hand reached out into the slight beam of light and touched his bourbon. Kyle noticed it turned from gold to clear.

“Now, we can talk. I needed your undivided attention.”

Kyle interrupted by asking, “What’s your name?”

“I go by many names, son. Names aren’t important. Just call me a friend.”

Kyle shifted uncomfortably in the booth. The hardwood bench pinched his back. He had a feeling his pity party had just ended.

“Remember when you played basketball in high school and you almost got cut from the team?”

Kyle said, “How do you know that?!?”

The voice continued, “Did you quit? Did you blame God or anyone else for your problems?”

“Um, no.” Kyle stuttered,” I worked my butt off. I went to the gym early before school and shot free throws until I got blisters. I eventually made All-State and got a college scholarship.”

“How’s this any different?”

“This isn’t’ a game, that’s how it is different.” Kyle’s voice had a touch of indignation.

“Exactly. It’s more important. And yet, you are in here harassing my favorite bartender instead of doing what you need to do to make things better.”

“But this is overwhelming. I don’t know why so many bad things are happening at once. You’re so smart — tell me why.”

“Because like when you played basketball, I know you have greatness in your heart — that’s why. You must rise to the challenge. Diamonds are just coal without heat and pressure.”

Kyle looked into the darkness and saw his father’s face. And then his coach’s. And then his mentor’s. He then saw his wife, his child and his boss’.

“Yes, Kyle. We all are there to make you better. You can change the world. You just have to believe. And then do. Now go, son. Get busy. People need you. The hard times are what polish you. They make you great.”

Kyle picked up his bourbon and took a swig.

It was water.

“Welcome back, this is the Marshall Ramsey show.” It started as an average day on my afternoon radio show. It soon became one that I’ll never forget — for the bad and the good.

Four years ago today, violent tornadoes tore across the Southeastern U.S.. Now we’re used to tornadoes. But these were different. They were the Great Plains wedge-type long-track EF-4 and EF-5 monster beasts. While I was on the air, storms began to pop like kernels of corn in the microwave. People were dying in real time. And all I could was watch and try to give what warning I could.

As I walked out of the studio at 6 p.m., an EF-4 monster tore through Tuscaloosa, Alabama. It looked like the Devil himself was making a house call. The destruction across Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia and Tennessee looked like a bomb had gone off. The tornadoes left behind broken pines and broken lives.

Of course, that’s when “chainsaws and casseroles” kicked in. You know, that moment when you are pulling yourself out of the rubble and a church van pulls up with volunteers holding chainsaws and casseroles. Because when things get bad, we get good. To see the response in Smithville, for example, still warms my cynical heart. Four years ago today, so many lives changed in an instant. Four years ago, so many responded for the good.

Because that’s what we do. Oh, we have plenty of practice. But it’s comforting to know that when you have to pick of the pieces, you’ll have help.

That’s who we are. That’s what makes up special.

And we were reminded of that four years ago today.

I keep a car 200,000 miles. Sure, there have been random repairs, but for the most part, they run problem free. The secret? Maintenance. You have to maintain your vehicle. You can’t skimp on regular servicing. Because saving a buck today will cost you a small fortune tomorrow.

Of course, we’re quick to maintain our cars but then let our bodies go to seed. We eat crap, sit on our duff and wonder why when we hit 100,000 miles, we start falling apart. We end up eating a bowl full of pills and feeling miserable. And then we act surprised when it happens.

Watching my parents struggle with their health was my epiphany. I have their genes so now, at my age, I know it is time to act. The years are starting to move really, really quickly now and I know if I want to be healthy at 75, I need to invest in my health now. And of course as an added bonus, I’ll feel better today.

I exercise six days a week. I try to eat well and reduce stress. I do the little things that add up over the years.

As we watch our medical system change (daily), we all need to focus on preventive medicine. If an apple a day keeps the doctor (and the bill) away, I’ll buy a bushel. Gone are the days are being to run to the doctor for every sniffle. It’s just too darn expensive.

As I type this, my car is getting its oil changed. It’s at 115,000 miles and running well. My body also has about that many miles on it, too. My goal is to keep both for many years to come.

“Go turn on the water,” my dad instructed. Seven-year-old me ran up the hill, turned the knob and he hosed off the car (I am not sure why he didn’t buy a sprayer, but I digress). We did that same routine so many Saturdays in a row.

Dad was the Master Car Washer. I was his apprentice.

By the time I was 13, I had my own car-cleaning business. A clean car meant a happy Marshall. Then as an adult, I kept the same routine up — every Saturday, I’d scrub both of our cars.

Life got busy and my routine was disrupted. By the time our first child was born, Amy didn’t want me out there washing the cars on Saturday. She wanted me to help with the baby. The life got busy. And busier. And then insane. And the cars got dirtier. Every once in a while, I’d even cheat and run through the car wash. The car was clean. But I felt dirty.

Today my youngest and I washed the cars. I watched as he sprayed me, the car, the house and anything else that did and didn’t move. I called up dad to tell him. I hung up and smiled.

Like Darth Vader once said, “Once I was the apprentice, now I am the master.

Today’s a very busy day and I thought about praying for a miracle to get through it. But then I realized I got one already. In fact, I got several. I traveled through the air at over 400 mph to a funeral and back yesterday. I arrived safely. I woke up today and was able to hug my boys this morning. Miracles happen every single day. Sometimes they aren’t what we’re looking for necessarily. But they’re there. And they are no less amazing. 

Nearly 10 years ago, Katrina crushed the Mississippi Gulf Coast. And it wasn’t just the wind that smashed us. The storm sent in a massive storm surge, drowning the coast for nearly a mile inland. The wall of water was 30 feet in places. It was our own tsunami and it was deadly. When the water came in, it looked harmless enough. Wave after wave washed onto the shore. But unlike normal, the waves never went out. Water piled up. Soon, life changed forever.

Life’s like that sometimes, too. Bad thing after bad thing happens and your seawalls, like family, savings, etc., start to break apart. Soon you are left to tread water.

At that point, it is tempting to become a martyr. Being a martyr is more addictive than cocaine or sugar. You get the emotional rush of people saying, “poor you.” I’ve seen it in politics (recently). I’ve seen in the workplace. People who lose an election or lose their jobs fall into the trap of thinking, “Poor little me.” And then they become a victim.

But being a victim gives the person who screwed you over the power. Do you really want that? And at the end of the day, are you better off? No. You aren’t one step closer to solving your problem. So you lost the election. Learn from it and win the next one. So you lost your job. Get busy and find another one. So life handed you crappy hand of cards. Play them the best you can.

How do I know all this? I’ve been a martyr before. And it did me no good. None. Not until I refocused myself did I begin to succeed. People like to see you succeed. They know your story. They know things are tough. What they want to see is you overcome your woes.

They want to see how much fight you have in you. They want to see how well you swim when the life’s water comes in.