Marshall Ramsey

Before my bootcamp friends and I started working out this morning, Paul Lacoste told a funny story about his young son asking a lady in the next bathroom stall, “What’s your name?” He then led from that into the question, “What’s your name?”

I thought about that question the whole time I worked out this morning (well, I thought about dying a couple of times, too).

What do people think when they see or hear your name?

I have a unique experience with that question. For over 30 years, I have been signing my name to my artwork. If you see “Marshall Ramsey” you have an idea what it stands for. You’ve probably seen my cartoons, read my books, heard me speak or read my writing. I hope you think “funny, positive, hopeful, inspiring, fitness.” But I know some of you think, “Jackass.” (You can’t make everyone happy.) It’s basic self-branding 101, something everyone should be interested in in this age of social media. Your name has to mean something — good, hopefully — to people.

I cringe when I see people try to craft a self-brand that is opposite who they really are because I know it won’t end well. In fact, it usually explodes in some spectacular Death Star catching a missile in the exhaust port-like fashion. Ask Tiger Woods or Lance Armstrong what happens when you base your brand on a lie. Bill Cosby’s brand as a loving TV father is definitely under threat with each new allegation. No, don’t try to be something you aren’t. For me, what you see is what you get. I’m cynical but hopeful. Grumpy but happy. Energetic but tired. I am funny but serious. And I try to be a decent dad and husband. That’s what I am. That’s where I’m coming from. Because it’s easier that way. Lying takes energy I just don’t have. I’ve tried it. I suck at it.

What’s your name?

Marshall and Ramsey are the surnames of two complex but good families. And I’m going to spend the month of December looking at who I am, what I truly stand for and how I

We wake up, sleepwalk through our day and then brush our teeth and go to bed. We then repeat this process over and over and like a top, the hands on the clock begin to spin faster and faster. It’s like talking on the phone while you drive. When you hang up, you look around and realize you’ve gone 20 miles without knowing it. Huge chunks of our lives just pass without being cognizant of it. It usually takes something life-shaking to wake us from our stupor. And when we do, it hurts. Awareness is like ripping a bandage off too fast.

Today is December 1. Yes, eleven months have already passed in 2014. And if you’re like me, you’re slightly stunned by that. It seems like yesterday was New Year’s Day. Christmas is just three weeks away. 2015 is roaring up on its heels. Time is traveling faster than Santa’s sleigh. Yet we continue to sleepwalk.

Today I’m having writer David McRaney on my radio show. David is a Southern Miss grad and a author of the book “You’re Not So Smart.” His book (and blog which is the source of the material from the book) has changed my mindset on how I see my life. The bottom line is this: It takes a lot of energy to run our brains. We’re bombarded with waaaaay more stimuli than our brains can handle. So our brains create stories for us filter that stimuli. And that story usually seeks to protect our fragile self-esteem through the Dunning–Kruger effect (basically thinking we’re better than we really are.) It creates how we see our worlds and taints it at the same time. That’s why one person can be convinced he or she is right while another person has the same set of facts and sees it another. It’s also how marketers can manipulate our decisions. David’s book has made me realize I’m like a water bug skirting across life’s surface. It makes me want to question more of what I am seeing. It makes me want to live deeper and quit sleepwalking.

Today is December 1. We have 31 more days left in this year. As I deal with some personal challenges, I am going to take this holiday season to reevaluate my life and what I believe. I am going to wake up and start living in the moment.

Christmas is the season of giving. If I can give my family more of myself, that would be the greatest gift I could possibly give them this year.

Scrooge looked down in the grave, saw the fires below and asked the ominous specter, “Whose final resting place is this?” The third ghost pointed his bony finger at the tombstone which read, “Ebenezer Scrooge.” Scrooge started to protest and then said, “What are you talking about? There’re nothing wrong with me! It’s everyone else that’s screwed up. That Bob Cratchit is a freeloader. And that girl I dated? Please. She was nothing more than a gold digger. And Bob Marley? What a complete waste of oxygen. Thanks for dragging me out in the cold.”

The third ghost glared at Scrooge and shook his head. He then pushed the old man into the grave and dusted off his hands.

“#$%# narcissists,” the ghost grumbled,” They never learn their lesson.”

What am I thankful for?

Thankfulness.

It heals like cool aloe gel on a bad burn. It soothes and takes away life’s painful sting. It’s the power that allows you to regroup when facing ruin. It gives you traction when your life’s wheels are spinning. And it allows you to catch your breath when someone kicks you in the gut.

Thankfulness.

It’s Vitamin C for life’s cold. It’s calling the cops to shut down your pity party. Thankfulness changes your paradigm from “poor me” to “why not me?” It’s the secret power of survivors. It turns the worst moments into your best. It’s like the Enterprise’s shields when the Klingons attack.

Thankfulness.

This Thursday, we’ll sit down and gather for the feast. We’ll take a few hours away from our troubles and focus on what’s good about life. Our batteries will recharge from the fellowship, food and family. We’ll stop thinking of ourselves and be grateful for what we have and for what we once had. We’ll eat turkey, dressing and casseroles made with mystery ingredients. And for dessert, we’ll have stuff ourselves with football and pumpkin pie.

Thankfulness.

It’s what I’m thankful for

I don’t remember how old I was but it was around the time I had my six-year-old molars yanked. My dad and I were in the basement restoring his 1953 Ford Pickup. He was up under the hood, working on the engine when his hand slipped, crushing his fingers. What I heard next was a curse word — which was unusual for my dad.

I looked at him and said, “Isn’t it wrong to say that?”

My dad wiped his brow, held his throbbing fingers and said something that has stuck with me for the next 40 years. “I know. But I try to be good to people to make up for it.”

That’s my dad. Flawed yet at the end of the day, perfect. A perfect dad for me, that is. And I am sure my two sisters would agree.

His name is Dave Ramsey. No, not that Dave Ramsey, but he is that Dave’s uncle and the person he’s named after. And please allow me to tell you about him. We have a bad habit of only saying nice things about people when they die. My dad is 79 and is very much alive. I hope he knows I feel this way about him already. But this is what you need to know.

He’s ornery, funny, handsome, grumpy, smart, distant yet loving. When he’s on his A game, his wit is second to none. He’s a master salesman who could sell ice to an eskimo. He loves the Special Dinner at any Mexican restaurant (and will proclaim it to be the best meal he’s ever had), UT football, cheap beer, his cats, cars and his children. He and his neighbor owned a car garage for years — a place where I saw his generosity first time. He has been physically strong his whole life and waterskied at 78. He beat cancer 16 years ago; it hardly slowed him down. In his career, he sold cars, electronics, chemicals, fasteners and then in 1974, he switched gears and bought a gas station. I admire him for having he courage to change careers like that. Forty years later, I’m doing the same thing.

I can tell you his faults — because I have most of them. He yells when he’s frustrated and is stubborn. So am I. Sometimes he doesn’t finish a project. Nor do I. And like me, he worked his ass off at his job. He’d work long, long hours — but I always loved seeing his car when he’d come home. He’d always fall asleep in his chair. He still does.

Dad served his country with distinction. He was a corporal in the U.S. Army in the 101st Airborne Division. He also played college basketball and baseball. I sucked at both. I always wondered if that bothered him — that I was different from him. Yet he was proud of me as an athlete and loved watching me play football. Today, he is proud of me now for many other reasons. Once, after I spoke at the Millsaps Arts and Lecture Series, he told me, “You’re the only person I’ve known who knew what he wanted to do when he was eight years old and did it.”

It was one of my finest career moments.

A few years ago, I asked him about success. I always wondered if he was totally happy with the career path he took. He told me, “I see you three kids and know I’m the most successful man around.”

He had his priorities straight.

When his dad died, I saw him change. He hugged me for the first time at his funeral. Losing your dad will do that.

You learn from your parents until they are gone. He’s my textbook, good and bad, on being a father to my own boys (who call him Papa Dave). I’m lucky I still have both of my parents teaching me. And I know they both love me. They believed in my crazy dream. He and my mom have left me my inheritance early.

My cousin Dave Ramsey is wildly successful. But I will assert that my dad Dave Ramsey is, too. He has successfully given me a lifetime of memories.

And I just hope I’m as good of a dad as he has been to me.

Pretty regularly, I buy an unsweetened iced tea at the Whataburger on High Street in Jackson. And very regularly, I’m greeted with an infectious smile and hello by a worker named Fannie. I don’t know much about Fannie other than the fact that I’d hire her in a minute if I owned a business. In this age of mad fast-food workers (except Chick-fil-a’s ‘My pleasure’ crew), it’s pretty darn refreshing.

This morning was different, though. You could almost see the black cloud hanging over her head. I don’t what was going on, but SHE was not happy about it. I felt like I was in some kind of bizarro universe.

I took a second, paid my money (she automatically knows what I want and still tries to up-sell me!) and said all I could say:

“Every morning I come in here, you make my day. I appreciate you, your smile and the great service you provide.”

Her face lit into a smile.

I wasn’t much of a gesture on my part. But if I gave Fannie a few seconds of happiness, my debt to her is partially repaid.

Was walking across the street yesterday in Jackson, Mississippi and my right foot fell into a pothole. Trying to avoid twisting my ankle, I stepped quickly to the right — and fell toward another bigger pothole. I stumbled and fell head-first into it.

My body dropped uncontrollably. As my arms flailed, the light of day began to fade. Blackness covered me like an inky quilt.

Then mysteriously, I could see again. A weird green light illuminated a strange world.

I noticed relics from the past: A 1963 Pontiac. A 1953 Corvette. A skeleton of a horse and a buggy.There was even a Civil War cannon. I saw Jimmy Hoffa playing cards with Amelia Earhart who was wearing one of Elvis’ jackets. As I fell, whole cities of gold appeared perched on cliffs of Yazoo Clay. Their broken foundations made them look as distorted as a Dali painting. Broken water pipes squirted water into the air, creating massive fountains that squirted streams of water joyously across the green sky. A giant, dormant volcano loomed in the distance. It was a giant underworld filled with millions of small, black holes.

Each hole was a tunnel to a different time. I could go into the 1941 tunnel and warn the President about Pearl Harbor. Or I could head into the 1967 tunnel and see myself being born. As I fell, I took inventory of each time on each tunnel. Then I saw the one I was looking for — and I flapped my arms to push my way toward it. The guard scrambled as I was sucked into it. Time and light bent like a kaleidoscope. I felt my whole existence being sucked back in time.

I emerged from the tunnel and was standing right in the middle of Pascagoula Street, just seconds from when I stepped into the pothole. I looked down, avoided twisting my ankle and walked on to my car.

The moral? Watch out for potholes in Jackson, Mississippi. They’ll either twist your ankle, suck in your car or take you to a wormhole back in time.

Reacting to some bad news, my oldest son, who is wise beyond his years, said “I don’t know why life does this.”

I paused for a minute, not really being able to give him a good answer because honestly, I don’t know either. I just said, “It’s just life. You have to seize the blessings that much harder to survive stuff like this.”

It’s a trite answer but the best I could come up with in a pinch. Life sends storms. If the storm hits you, you hang on. If it hits someone else, you don’t make it about yourself. You help them.

This Thanksgiving, I have so much to be thankful for. And I’m going to seize every blessing I have.