Marshall Ramsey

About midnight last night, Pip the dog had to go out. Not sure why — she had been out at 11. Maybe she heard something? Who knows. All I know is that I let her out and waited for her to do her business.

She did her business alright. I heard her raising hell one bark at a time.

I ran in and got my phone (my source of a flashlight) and found her attacking a juvenile opossum. It was tucked into a corner of our fence, hissing and standing on a soccer ball. Of course, my first thought was “Aw, it wants to play a pick-up game of soccer with Pip,” and then I thought, “Chris McDaniel is haunting me.” Then I thought a little more logically, “I had better get between this dog and this hissing opossum or one of them will get bitten badly.”

Of course, I put my pink, fleshy legs in danger. That’s what kind of guy I am.

I yelled a few choice profanities (seemed appropriate for the occasion) and got Pip to back off. She is a terrier. She is bred to kill varmints. She was doing her job and doing it well.

Finally I got her herded into the house. I, of course, sent out the picture of our hissing, soccer-playing marsupial out to the internet. Pip was back in her native environment (our bed) and I faded off to sleep.

But if there any youth soccer leagues who want to be the “Fighting ‘Possums,” I got your mascot. Give me a call: 1-800-Opossum.

There are two hidden taxes in Mississippi: Cracked windshields and Yazoo Clay. Cracked windshields is a discussion for another day. But Yazoo Clay? It’s like building your house on chicken manure.

If you’re not familiar with Yazoo Clay, it is a VERY expansive soil. If it rains, the clay expands. If it’s dry, contracts. The Yazoo River’s name is said to mean, “River of Death.” That means Yazoo Clay means “Clay of Death.” Death to your life’s savings. Death to your foundation.

To fix your foundation, you have to dig a hole and pour money in it. Then you cover it up. And that’s no guarantee the damage is truly fixed. You could have to dig another hole and pour another truckload of money.

You can tell which homeowners have had the work done. They cry a lot. And they walk with a limp.

I bring it up because it is a pretty good metaphor for life. Life can be Yazoo Clay. And it can wreck your personal house if you don’t take care of your personal foundation. Your personal foundation is what you stand for — your beliefs. Many times you live with the cracks, the shifting, the dropping and rise of the floor. Doors won’t close and windows break. But you ignore it. Because the price of fixing it is too great. But then something happens to make you take action — the damage causes major problems. A pipe breaks. Or you have to sell the house. Life’s like that, too. A major life event happen and you decide it’s time to fix your personal foundation.

Like your home’s foundation, fixing your personal foundation is painful. But you do it anyway. You do your research, you choose the method to fix it and you get busy. Because you can’t rebuild until you suck it up and do the work.

Success requires a good foundation. I know. I’ve lived with a lot of cracks for a long time. But now, I’m working on fixing it. I hope someday my life is as level as my house.

P.S. I can’t say anything good about windshield cracks. But if I had three wishes, I’d make dump trucks cover their loads.

The giant Kay’s Ice Cream sign meant we were almost there. It was a giant ice cream cone– and was the unofficial gateway to Maryville, Tennessee, the town where both sets of my grandparents lived. My sisters and I had been in crammed in the car for two and a half hours as we drove in from Georgia. Excitement, anticipation and hunger built as we drove into town. We went past the high school and then came to a split in the road. Right and it was to the Marshall house on Wilson Avenue. Straight and it was on to the Ramsey house on Sevierville Rd. Awaiting us were hugs, casseroles and elderly relatives who ate like locusts with thyroid problems. I could see the snow-capped Smokey Mountains in the distance. I still can when I close my eyes.

It was Thanksgiving. And I’m so thankful for those memories.

I can hear the gravel of my grandparents’ driveway. I can see the white picket fence at my other grandparents’ home. I can taste the pies and pickles. I can remember plucking packs of gum from my Uncle Frank’s coat pocket. Seeing him was always a treat. I loved seeing my dad’s brother and sister when they were in town. I’d cheer when my dad’s cousin Charlie and his wife Barbara would pull in from Florida. I’d take a nap on the floor in front of the TV broadcasting the Macy’s parade. I remember the smell of my grandfather’s aftershave. He’d be waiting for us in his chair by the front door. I can’t drive by their old home on Wilson Avenue now without seeing him there waiting. Or at least wishing he was.

I know I’ll see him again. I’ll see all of them again. Someday.

Forty years later, we’ll make another trip to grandma’s house. But it won’t be to Maryville. That chapter is closed. I hope my boys have the same fond memories of Thanksgiving I have. And I hope they’re hanging on to them as tightly as I am hanging on to mine.

It’s easy to misplace Thanksgiving between Christmas and Halloween. Some say it is forgotten. I guess that’s easy to believe in this screwed up, narcissistic world we live in. But it will never truly be gone. Nope. Because you can’t lose something that’s buried so deeply in your heart.

Take a slightly dried-out six-foot Scotch pine, add sun-hot, big-bulbed red lights with aluminum reflectors, hang tinsel (that usually ended up being pulled out of the cat’s butt) and wait for the impending house fire. That was our Christmas tree growing up. God be with anyone who tried to poach a present. The needles would impale you like 1,000 rabid porcupines.

I get festive just thinking about it.

And why wouldn’t I? I used to lie on our living room couch, bathed in the tree’s light’s red glow as I’d spend hours dreaming about my Christmas morning. All the packages had been inventoried. The annual present census decreed by Caesar Augustus was complete. I knew who was getting what and where. There was no room in the inn — there were too many gifts.

There was something magical about Christmas back then. And I’m not really sure what.

Maybe life was simpler back then. Maybe. All I know is that Christmas of my youth died when I was in college. My university exams would wrap up around December 22, leaving me very little time to move back home and shop. I felt the joy slip from my grasp as I’d rush around, picking up last minute presents like “Georgia on my mind” ashtrays. And I haven’t slowed down since. Somewhere along the way, stress replaced wonder. Christmas became more about presents than presence.

I’ve been told Christmas is for the children. Lord knows I’ve done everything this side of bankruptcy to make it fun for mine.

That’s worth repeating. Christmas is for the children.

Hmm. That’s good advice for all of us to remember: Make it for the child in all our hearts.

So this year, I’m going to ask Santa for a childlike heart. I will lie on the couch and stare at the lights. I will shake the presents and do my inventory. But I will skip the dried-out Scotch pine. My puncture wounds from 40 years ago are just now starting to heal.

Photo by Tate Nations

Was talking to a couple of friends last night. The companies they work for have cut back many times in the past few years and several of their coworkers have been laid off. Now, numbers are soft and it looks like their jobs are at risk yet again. They’re tired — and I really don’t blame them. I can only imagine how they feel. But what amazed me was how they were reacting to the storm on the horizon. One is locked in fear. The other is building an ark.

My friend who is locked in fear is depressed. He loves what he is doing and is hanging onto it for dear life. I understand that feeling. I love what I do and don’t want to give it up, either. But he’s really almost in the fetal position. Fear has gripped him. He doesn’t know what he’ll do next. He complains. He worries. He’s mad at his company. I’m sure he’s a real treat once he gets home, too. I worry about him if he does get laid off.

My other friend is busting his butt trying new things. He’s making new contacts and experimenting everyday. Even as we were talking, he was doing some consulting work. “I’m going to throw as much against the wall and see what sticks,” he said with a smile. I asked him what he thought about his company. “They have to do what they have to do and I have to do what I have to do — and that’s protect my family the best I can. I’m grateful for the job I have and will make the most of it for as long as I can.” Obviously, I’m not that worried about him if he gets cut. He’s leaning into the storm. He’s building an awesome ark.

Who my friends are and who they work for doesn’t really matter because they could be any of us. We live in a crazy and turbulent world with all kinds of unexpected surprises. My conversations with them happened to be a good reminder for me. You are your own brand. So keep your chin up. Do your best work. Make each day count.

I want to be like my second friend. I don’t want to ever be locked in fear. Because happiness isn’t a destination. It’s a journey.

Careers are born in funny places. Mine just happened to breathe its first breath in a concrete room tucked into a steep hill overlooking the Tennessee River. Like a seed buried deep underground, my editorial cartoons sprang to life there. It was Room 5 of the Communications Building at the University of Tennessee. It’s where UT’s daily student newspaper, The Daily Beacon, calls home.

In the fall of of 1986 and Rusty Gray, my Greve Hall resident assistant at the time, suggested I try out for the Beacon. (Rusty is now Russell W. Gray, managing shareholder in the Chattanooga office and is on Baker Donelson’s Board of Directors.) With his encouragement, I walked through the doors for the first time with a cartoon in my hand. My work started to appear in the spring of 1987.

My life was changed forever.

I tell my sons that you get your education from many places in college other than a classroom. Working for a daily student newspaper shaped me like a potter shapes a chunk of clay. It was a daily opportunity for me to learn the skills I still use today. And as my son and I walked back through that door last Friday, I thought about how my experiences 27 years ago are still relevant in my life.

1. I learned to create under pressure. For three years, I drew five cartoons a week and never missed a paper. (I was the Cal Ripken of college editorial cartoonists.) I also never missed a deadline. People ask me how I can be creative on command. It’s like running. Run in 7th-grade P.E. and you nearly barf a lung. Train for a marathon and you perform miracles. The Daily Beacon was my first marathon.

2. I learned to work with all kinds of editors. I had 13 editors in my time as a Beacon cartoonist. Thirteen. After that experience, I learned a very real-world lesson of working with very different personalities. One of my editors, John Jackson Miller, is now a Star Wars author. Another, Nathan Rowell, is an attorney. All 13 were very different. All 13 made me better at my craft.

3. I was surrounded by positive influences. The non-student staff at The Daily Beacon had one thing in common, they wanted me to succeed. Eric, who is still a friend, was a talented artist who saw potential in my work. Debbie, taught me how to truly find appreciate life. Jane, who was the head of Student Publication, fought for my editorial independence. Karen and Lynn in advertising offered friendship and advice. Betty was like another mom. When I sat and talked with Eric, Lynn and Karen on Friday, I felt like I was visiting family.

4. I got my first platform. My work was seen by thousands of UT students everyday. That led to awards and other opportunities.

5. I was able to experiment. My work evolved from 1987 to 1991 because I was able to try to techniques and styles. I could never have developed it in a one-semester class. It took hundreds of drawings for me to become what I am today.

6. I learned failure isn’t failure. In 1988, I had a comic strip called “Big Orange Crew.” It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t good. My editor Andy Logan didn’t particularly care for it so he made me a deal, “Quit the strip and you can draw editorial cartoons daily.” That was an offer I couldn’t refuse. The worst moments lead to the best!

7. I had experiences I never would have had otherwise. I was able be in the room with the President of the United States. I met Alex Haley and Howard Baker. It opened doors for me I never would have ever seen.

8. I met my mentor and friend Charlie Daniel. No, Charlie doesn’t play fiddle. He’s the long-time Knoxville editorial cartoonist who continues to give me valuable career and life advice to this day.

9. I made amazing friends. James Raxter and Kendall Kaylor were in my wedding. I still keep up with so many talented people I worked with.

10. I became a storyteller and developed my brand. I see the students today at The Daily Beacon and I know they will be facing an industry that changes nearly daily. But they’re developing skills that will take them forward no matter the platform. The invaluable opportunity of doing what you love daily is one of the greatest teachers out there. I still use what I learned every single day.

Newspapers are facing financial pressures. And sadly, The Daily Beacon isn’t immune to those pressures. But I hope the laboratory tucked into the hill continues to exist. I hope University of Tennessee students continue to have the opportunity to experiment, fail, learn and succeed. And after meeting Rachel, the new director, I know it will.

Room 5 is a magical place. And it was good to revisit the room where my career was born.

Six months into being a custodian, my mood was particularly foul. My life wasn’t “fair” and I didn’t see any hope for my future. I didn’t “see” the path ahead of me. As far as I knew, I would be cleaning classrooms for the rest of my life. My attitude was as nasty as the toilets on the 400 hall.

I had lost my vision. And my dream was in peril.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was the Friday before I heard the sermon on the Parable of the Talents. I had an epiphany and realized I was burying my talent. The next Monday I walked into the school with a smile on my face and began drawing everything I could draw.

I love to tell that story when I speak. It was a prime example of how a “worst” moment turned into a best. Things began to happen quickly. My co-worker Maggie set me up with her daughter. And I ended up having the four best moments because of it — seeing her blue eyes look at me as she walked down the aisle and seeing my three boys (with those same blue eyes being born.) I had to go work at Pope High School. And I now look back on that year as one of the best of my life. I still keep up with many of the teachers from that year. It was a special place full of special people.

Yesterday, I felt like I had lost my vision once again. Granted, I am not a custodian now — but I had that same moment of doubt. My dad is not well. My mom doesn’t feel well either. My career is stronger than ever, but I just felt like I had hit some kind of wall and lost control. Fatigue was whispering lies in my ear. Worry crept into my head. I just wanted to give up.

This morning, at 3:54, my alarm went off. The covers were warm. I was exhausted. The bed was inviting. Even Pip didn’t stir. I opened one blurry eye and looked at the clock. 3:55. I so wanted to roll back over.

But I didn’t. My feet swung around and hit the cold, wood floor. I went and did my morning workout. I was lifted up by my friends. My coaches inspired me. I pushed forward into my day. The worry that had crippled me yesterday faded. Fatigue backed away from my ear. Its lies stopped. Hope began to return.

In 1992, I used my talent to change my life. As I worked out this morning, I realized that it was time to dust off my old strategy. You will see that here. More drawings. More writing. More fun.

My family will see it, too. I will love more and worry less. I will be a better dad and husband.

Yes, the future worries me. But that doesn’t have to be my future. I have the power to make a better one for my family.

And the time is now.

“I realized my cancer was bigger than me and that I couldn’t control the outcome. So I put it in the Lord’s hands. And at that moment, I felt a peace like I’d never felt before. And I’ve felt that peace ever since.”

You can sense that peace when you’re around Jim Wiley, a Vietnam veteran and cancer survivor. He personifies calm.

Jim discovered that peace when he was about to undergo surgery for Stage IV cancer. It was in the 1980’s – normally a diagnosis like Jim’s was a “go home and get your affairs in order” moment. But not for Jim – life had bigger plans for him.

He has shared that peace to so many other Vietnam veterans. And with the help of Jill Connor Brown and the Sweet Potato Queens, he helped get the welcome-home parade they so richly deserved.

Jim’s quiet faith helped him help others.

A little known fact: I am a doubting Thomas. Seriously. I’ve had doubts about my career, doubts about my health and more doubts about a whole list of things. I am a Jedi-Master of worry. And most of it is stuff I have absolutely no control over.

Doubt is nothing more than fear’s straitjacket.

Yesterday, I took a brief pause and looked at my last two weeks. I have been able to do some amazing things. I’ve emceed a Tedx Talk. I’ve spent hours on the floor at Mistletoe meeting new people and sharing the gift of Banjo’s spirit. I’ve shared a great football game with good friends. I’ve met with students from all across Mississippi. I’ve have had amazing people say amazing things about me. I have watched my sons excel at sports and school. I’ve seen my wife succeed at her job. I have been wrapped in blessings. I’ve truly lived a wonderful life.

And yet I worry.

No more. I am turning my worry over like Jim Wiley did. I am letting go of my fears and anxieties. I’m going to enjoy every moment.

This morning, we listened to Christmas music as we were getting ready for work and school. And for the first time in a long time, I felt joy. I felt peace. I felt worry dissolve away.

Jim Wiley shared his peace with me. And for that, I am thankful.