Marshall Ramsey

I’m taking a minute to catch my breath.

There, I think I’ve caught it — although I need to get back running again. I got up at 3:45 a.m., ran three miles, drove to near Eagle Lake, spoke to the captains of Golding Barge Lines, drove back to Jackson and did my radio show. Now I sit, praying a cartoon idea will seep out of my head. Tomorrow morning, I speak in Tupelo.

I’m a busy man. And that means I’m blessed.

I remember my dad working long hours at his auto repair garage. He’d leave early and come home late. I’d see him at my school when he would drop off a teacher’s car. He’d make my sports games. But I always knew he’d be there when I needed him. Work wasn’t a bad word for him. In fact, it was close to holy. I still can close my eyes and see my dad sleeping in his orange chair after a long day at work. (Now he has a nice looking brown chair.)

Both my parents worked. My mom was a well-respected middle school art teacher. She’d get up before the crack of dawn and cook me breakfast every single morning. Clothes would mysteriously get washed. I’d show up at practices on time. Homework got done. Somehow everything got done. They raised three kids successfully.

That give me hope. Because I’m married to a well-respected art teacher and we have three kids to raise, too. As busy as Amy and I are, I know things will work out OK. I just hope my boys know I’ll be there when they need me.

Because at the end of the day, they (and their mom) are what really matters to me. Yes, I love my career. But it doesn’t define me. (I hope I define it, though). My family does.

As I run around, trying to make a living, I try to remember that that my jobs won’t hold my hand when I’m dying. But my family will.

“Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? – – Carpe – – hear it? – – Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary.” John Keating (Robin Williams) The Dead Poet’s Society

Last night I had a dream about my career. It woke me up with a start and I sat on the edge of my bed with my eyes wide open. I sat there staring at my sleeping wife and pondering my life. The digital clock’s red numbers ticked by slowly until sleep finally revisited me a half-hour later.

I woke up thinking about that dream. How to I prevent it from coming true? How can I change? Then I got Debbie’s note about her friend Larry’s passing from melanoma. His recurred. Mine hasn’t. My scar burned painfully. I feel like a ticking time bomb.

My high school yearbook quote reads “why put off until tomorrow what you can postpone indefinitely.” Those are childish words of a boy who had no value of time. Twenty-eight years and a burning scar on my back have taught me that value. But I still suffer from procrastination. That has to stop. Not tomorrow. Now.

Larry’s death is also reminder of a fact that is true for all of us: We are all living on borrowed time. It’s up to us to make the most of it.

So that’s what I plan on doing today. I’m going to take a hard look at what I’m doing. What am I doing right. What I need to do differently. It will be tough to face what I need to change. Change is never easy — it pushes you out of your comfort zone.

It’s time to adjust my mission. To refocus my efforts. To set out a plan for this week. This month. This lifetime.

It’s time to seize the day.

At about two miles into my Saturday morning long run, there’s an oak tree. It sits near the Reservoir on a grassy slope right off the Natchez Trace Parkway. It’s a magnificent tree and beautifully shaped. Yes, if you are familiar with my Facebook page, you’ve seen many photos of it. One person thought I had a relationship with the tree. I don’t, but I have to admit, I’m quite fond of it.

It’s the highlight of my run.

Forty-yards away, there’s another oak that’s equally magnificent — and you’ve never seen it. I can’t remember photographing it even once. You want to know why? It sits tucked safely among other trees. It just doesn’t stand out like my favorite oak.

That’s a powerful lesson. I think of all the people who have found success. They offer something unique to this world. They stand out. And for it, they are rewarded for taking the risk of stepping out alone.

Every Saturday I run past my favorite oak and am reminded to stand out and be different. To not seek the “safety” of the crowd. I even will occasionally stop, look at it and take its picture. Then I keep running, never giving the other oak a second glance.

The road ran along a bluff that kissed the Mississippi River. I was on the highest point in the county; a rise so mighty that even old man river couldn’t conquer it during the great flood of 2011. My feet crunched the gravel and sank slightly into the sand. Bugs made the temperature seem hotter than it was and the humidity made the eight miles seem like at least twice that. The thick, lush Delta growth wrapped my senses in a thick, green wool blanket. And the orange eye of the sun peeked over the Mississippi, setting the river on fire.

I looked down at my running watch and felt sweat drip off my nose: 7.5 — only a half-mile left to go. The finish was near.

Thanks be to God.

I walked up to the house and sat on the porch. Mopping my brow, I watched the muddy water continue to slip its way to New Orleans. I was struck by the quietness of the river. A dog barked in the distance but the river flowed by without a sound. You could see the strong current — particularly when a barge was heading downstream or when a random piece of flotsam shot past. It didn’t scream, look at me. It just didn’t it’s work.

And that’s when it struck me.

The Mississippi River is like the great people I know: Strong. Deep. Powerful. Swift. Bold, yet quiet. It quietly moves a continent with confidence. A small babbling stream has to let the world know of its greatness with its sound. Not Old Man river.

It’s about action, not words. Something I knew I should strive for. More water flowed by. There was something mesmerizing about it all.

My nephew Bryce moves into his Ole Miss dorm this week — and my sister’s nest is now officially empty (except for a very spoiled cat.) He’s moving to Mississippi (from Atlanta) and will join his brother Blake in the Magnolia State. I’m Uncle-proud and extremely pleased he’ll be here. I swear he was born yesterday.

Time flies — We just hang on for the ride.

As he settles into his new life, I have a simple prayer for him: I pray he treats his time on campus as the adventure it is. I hope he seizes every opportunity college has to offer and refuses to let go. I hope he has the time of his life (within reason for the sake of my sister.)

Of course, today, I’m reflecting on my move-in day at The University of Tennessee. I think of the loads of stuff. The nervousness. Watching my parents drive away. The blank slate of opportunity ahead of me.

If I had to do it over again, I would’ve taken more advantage of the opportunities outside of the classroom. Because that’s where so much of my education took place. Hiking in the Smokies. Hearing President George H.W. Bush speak. Working on the Student Newspaper. Drawing cartoons. Playing harmonica in a bar. Meeting Alex Haley and Senator Baker. Sitting in my advisor’s office as she helped me chart my career. Meeting the cartoonist at the local newspaper (who is my mentor and friend). Being challenged by amazing faculty to do better. Getting to know the Dean of Students personally. Serving as a Resident Assistant. Serving on Student Government. Running on campus. Going to UT football and basketball games. Playing intramural football. Seeing plays and concerts. Going to guest lectures. Making friends. Friends who I still cherish today.

Twenty-eight years from now, Bryce will probably watch his nephew move into a dorm, too. I hope that when he does, he as no regrets.

Godspeed, Bryce. And have the time of your life (within reason for the sake of my sister.)

My running watch said 5:43 a.m. and my window to get into the shower was slamming shut.

Thus is life at the Ramsey house on a school morning. It’s orchestrated chaos. You have to hit your marks.

I was about a quarter of a mile from the house and the shortest route back was the hardest — it was straight up the biggest hill in my neighborhood. I have an affectionate nickname for that hill, but I won’t share it here. This is a family blog after all. Let’s just call it #$%$.

I looked at the time. I could go straight (the flatter route) and risk throwing the shower schedule into chaos. Or take #$%$.

Another glance at the watch.

#$%$ it was.

One of the most important things I’ve learned from running is that hills are 90% mental. And isn’t that true in life as well? I broke the hill into 10-yard mental segments. “If I can only make that mailbox.” “If I can make it to that driveway.” “If I can make it to the next house.” I looked at the ground in front of me, concentrating on each step I took, not the steep rise ahead of me. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

Exactly one minute later, I had crested the hill. My heart rate was screaming but I had done it. I sprinted down the other side and into the shower. I had finished my 3.16 mile run, peace was saved, avoided a shower by garden hose and all was right in the Ramsey world.

I had conquered the hill known as #$%$. And now, I’m ready to conquer any other hill life throws my way. One bite at a time.