Marshall Ramsey

Had a guy in a Nissan SUV riding my bumper this morning on my commute. I started to get mad — but I learned a long time ago not to allow the person behind you dictate your driving.

So I made up a story for him instead.

His name is Alex Littlewinker. He didn’t do particularly well in school but did study shop. Unfortunately he lost three fingers and had to have a plate put in his head. This morning, he was in a hurry because he has a really bad case of itchy anal glands and can’t sit for long periods of time due to his eyes bleeding from the intense itching. He was on his way to UMMC where he was going to get a flashlight-sized suppository to cure the itching — needless to say, he was in a big, big hurry.

Thankfully Mr. Littlewinker managed to get around me on the interstate but was unfortunately foiled once again by all the other drivers who were choosing to only drive 15 miles over the speed limit.

I wish Mr. Littlewinker well. And I hope he finds relief for his eye-bleeding itching itching soon.

I watched American Sniper and walked out of the theater (which was full) like everyone else:

Quietly.

As I headed to the car, I tried to gather my thoughts and process what I had seen. For the past 14 years, our men and women in uniform have been asked to fight on some of the toughest battlefields on the planet — and many for multiple tours of duty. Thousands have given their lives. Even more have given parts of their bodies due to wounds. But as I was heading home, I thought of the tens of thousands of veterans who’ve come home with wounds we can’t see. If a highly trained and mentally tough U.S. Navy SEAL like Chris Kyle suffered from PTSD, imagine what they are going through?

American Sniper is on its way to being one of the highest grossing R-rated movies of all time. If a fraction of those who bought a ticket demand our veterans get the care they deserve, then I give the movie two enthusiastic thumbs up.

The late winter sun peaked over the trees, bathing the cold land with a warm, golden glow. The ancient Appalachian mountains loomed like sentinels, guarding a small family farm.

Below them, an old gray mule struggled to keep his footing on the rocky ground. Behind him, a farmer tried to control the bouncing plow. It was a job beyond his strength. But he kept going. He had to get the crop into the ground. He had to feed his family. His wife and three children’s survival depended on his persistence.

Of all the plots of land, he had to be given this one. He looked up at the mountains and felt pity rise in his throat. And then he focused back on his goal and kept going. Pity was poor fertilizer.

The plow hit another rock and this time, broke. The farmer cursed his luck. Luck — the farmer pretty much knew he had nothing but bad luck. His wife had been sick all week and his oldest daughter had been running the house as he worked out in the field. The farmer wondered if his name shouldn’t be Job.

There was that pity again. He looked at the plow and realized the damage was fairly minor. “Thanks for small blessings,” he mumbled skyward as he fixed the damage. In no time, the plow was fixed and he kept plowing.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, the field was plowed. He then hooked a small wagon to the mule and began to collect the bigger stones. The farmer felt pity rise up again in his throat, “Why do I have to remove these rocks? Why couldn’t I have been given better land” — but then he realized the rocks were a blessing. He needed them to build a wall to keep his pigs and chickens contained. He continued his work until the sun began to set behind the mountains. Their shadows wrapped the land in a cool blanket of grayness.

As he led the mule toward the barn, he looked toward his cabin and once again felt pity grip his soul. “Why do I have to work so hard?” he asked the sky. “Why is life so hard?” Not that he expected an answer. Moses had it easy. He had a burning bush to answer his questions. He put the mule in the barn, feeling like all his hard work was for nothing.

Then the door to cabin opened. Warmth radiated from the wood structure as a lone figure was silhouetted in its door frame.

It was his wife.

For the first time in a week, she was out of bed. He felt his heart race as he ran up the stone path. His kids ran out and hugged him, welcoming home.

Life wasn’t easy. It wasn’t supposed to be. But each challenge led blessings when you looked for them. He realized his life was like field he just plowed: Full of rocks that turned out to be blessings.

He pushed the hair back from his wife’s thin face and said the only thing he could, “thanks be to God.”

First there was the sound of gravel under the tires and then the car’s engine stopped. The little boy repositioned himself in the back seat after being thrust forward from the sudden stop. His grandfather, who had his arm around the blue front bench seat, turned his head and said, “We’re here.”

“Here” was a place the little boy didn’t want to be. No little boy wanted to be “here.” He sat up and looked out his window. A sign read, “Peaceful Endings Funeral Home.”

Protesting would do no good. The little boy knew his grandfather was a polite man. He loved to pay his last respects to the townspeople. But while his grandfather may have found some pleasure in this trip, it flat creeped the little boy out. A stiff was a stiff.

He walked into the room and smelled all the aftershave and cheap perfume. A short line snaked toward the rosewood coffin in the center of the room. It contained Mr. Woodruff, a bank vice-president. But apparently he wasn’t a particularly popular man. “Must be more like Mr. Potter than George Bailey,” the little boy thought. He loved “It’s A Wonderful Life,” for some strange reason. He hoped to be like George when he grew up.

His grandfather walked up to the coffin and peered in at Mr. Woodruff. The little boy peeked around his grandfather at the waxy, ashen face. The man had had something called “cancer,” and honestly looked very different from how the little boy had remembered him at the bank.

The little boy just stared.

Whatever was lying in that box wasn’t Mr. Woodruff. It kind of looked like him – the mortician was an artist. But the spirit was gone. The life. That spark that made him human. Now he was no different than a piece of gravel out in the parking lot. What was it that made up that spirit? And where did it go? His grandfather told him heaven. Heaven sounded like a wonderful place to the little boy. And he knew Mr. Woodruff’s spirit was glad to rid itself of its cancer ridden host. Almost like a butterfly must feel when it leaves the cocoon.

The headed back out to the car and the little boy stopped and hugged his grandfather. “I love you grandpa.” The old man smiled and said, “I know, buddy. Thank you for coming with me today.”

Three months later, the little boy looked into another coffin. This time it was his grandfather. The line was long from the respectful townspeople who had loved the man. They wanted to pass along their condolences to the family — and to the little boy. He stood there in his J.C. Penny suit with freshly combed hair and tears in his eyes.

“Where did my grandfather’s spirit go?” he thought. But he knew. And he knew that in less than a blink of heaven’s eye, he’d see his grandfather again.

And he looked forward to that day. Just as long as he never had to go to another funeral again — even his own.

A little bigger than a cigar box, the wooden box sports a design lovingly burned onto it by a long-gone relative. Inside are souvenirs from a life well-lived. There is a well-worn pocket knife, a father’s gift on a sixth birthday. There is a badge from service in the U.S. Army and a ring from college. There are wrist watches and tie tacks. A photo or two. Each item precious. Each item a treasure in its own right. But without the memories attached to them, the treasures become trinkets. Their stories slowly fade as time passes. It’s up to us to keep the treasures in our lives alive.  If not in the wooden box, in our hearts.

Listened to the governor’s State of the State speech last night until I had to break away for pork chops (seems appropriate).  Was thinking about what I’d say if I had that podium.  I’d be like him and express my love for this state. After 18-years of living here, I have a very deep affection for Mississippi. So, If I did speak, I probably wouldn’t chide those who say negative things about it because frankly, we do have problems.  I’d address them head on and challenge the people of Mississippi to rise to the occasion and find solutions.  Sure it wouldn’t be through “gub’ment” (although efficient government plays a role). No, I’d try to inspire everyone to improve their lives and then reach out to someone else.  Aw, I know. That’s pollyanna-ish.  But I’ve seen the people of Mississippi do some pretty amazing things when backed into a corner.  Remember Katrina? Sure, not everyone won a good behavior medal. But I saw some pretty darn awesome things happen on the Coast.  We got it in us.  Sure, I know feel-good legislation is awesome during an election year. Let’s feed drones deer meat and MREs.  But as a parent of three boys, I want to leave this state in a better place than where I found it. Yes we have problems. They are just starting lines for making peoples’ lives better. And if I had the misfortune of being a governor, I’d figure out how to inspire people to do just that.

5:30 a.m.

Good morning. I’m writing this after having a two-day father/son bonding experience called “a stomach virus.” My poor boy got it worse than I did, but I didn’t want to eat for two days. This after coming back from Atlanta after another emotional weekend with my parents. Let’s just say this getting old stuff ain’t for wimps.

I feel like a New England Patriots football — deflated.

The house is dark and the family isn’t stirring yet. It’s the calm before the storm. Soon we’ll be rushing around, trying to get five people out of the house in less than an hour. I just pray my boys get to school without their underwear on the outside of their pants.

So the peace, while fleeting, is enjoyable. And it allows me to ponder all the crazy stuff going on in my life.

Let me say, my crazy stuff isn’t any worse than your crazy stuff. I read Facebook. Everyday, people lose jobs, loved ones and at times their minds. So in no way is this a “poor me.” What I am experiencing is called “Life.” We all go through it. Just some handle it better than others.

I’ve been writing down all the things that are bad. I have two columns next to each thing: What I can do about it and what I can’t change. This may come as a shock to you, but are a lot of things I can’t change. But what I can do is learn from what’s happening. Treat it as angels in ugly clothing. I can use it to change me. I can change how I treat my kids. I can change how do my job. I can change how I love my wife. I can change how I live my life.

I can dwell on the bad. Or I can realize that the bad can change me for the better.

It’s 5:45 a.m. The sun will be up soon. I have another chance to get this life right. I’ll make the most of it.

And I will eat breakfast. Man, I’ve really missed food.