Marshall Ramsey

Hail pelted the armored SUV nicknamed “The TANK.”  The driver nervously steered into the teeth of the storm while the navigator quietly examined the radar on his laptop. In front of them, a giant mile-wide wedge tornado thrashed across the Mississippi countryside.

“It’s a MONSTER!” the driver yelled over the roar of the hail. “Look at that wedge! Check the map, Dr. Z. Are we headed the right way?!?”

The Dr. Z, the navigator, looked over his reading glasses and calmly said, “Yes Mike. But I don’t need a map. The tornado is headed toward Desoto Flats. It’s my hometown.”

Dr. Z, or Jimmy Zacharias, was the grandson of Greek immigrant Apostle Zacharias. Apostle moved to Desoto Flats, Mississippi after World War II and opened a hardware store.  His son, James, inherited Zacharias Hardware when Apostle died of a massive heart attack.  James’ son, James Jr. was to take over for him.  At least that was how it was supposed to be except that James Jr., or Jimmy as everyone called him, loved the weather.  He was fascinated by an old Indian legend said that the love and sacrifice of an Indian squaw for a European explorer protected Desoto Flats from tornadoes.  Jimmy studied weather from the time he was a young child.  A scholarship offer from the University of Oklahoma was to be his big break in to the weather business.

Except that his father would have nothing to do with it.

“Who will take over the business?!?  I need you! I forbid you to go,” his father screamed on that fateful August night.

“And you can’t stop me,” Jimmy yelled as he slammed the door in his father’s face.

Those were the last words he had said to his father in over 25 years.

Jimmy excelled at meteorology. He graduated with a 4.0, earned his masters and then his doctorate. He specialized in tornado formation and spent many hours chasing massive storms on the Great Plains. His big break came when Hollywood producers approached him about a new reality cable TV show called “Tornado Hunters.”  An acting coach helped him lose his southern accent, a network executive suggested he change his name to Dr. Z and Hollywood created a cable TV legend.

Dr. Z was a star. And like a star, he was lightyears away from Desoto Flats.

The Weather Network, a cable network based out of New York, hired Dr. Z to be their lead forecaster/storm reporter.  Dr. Z’s fame quickly rose even higher. If Dr. Z showed up in your neighborhood, you knew doom was not far behind.  Dr. Z used his charm, scientific knowledge and rugged good looks to woo America and chase tornadoes.

Now he could do nothing as he chased one right into his old hometown.

“OMIGOD.” he mumbled.  His heart sank.

The TANK navigated through the downed trees, debris and fallen power poles. Dr. Z looked for familiar landmarks.  None were to be found. The Pemberton Elementary school was gone. The Courthouse, built after Sherman had burned the old one, was leveled. Zacharias Hardware was gone. People walked in shock around the town square.  It looked like a scene from “Walking Dead.”

Mike pulled the TANK over and he, Dr. Z and the cameraman got out to render aid.  People first, tornadoes second was their motto.  Dr. Z watched as the tornado roared over the horizon. Judging by the apocalyptic damage, it had to have been an EF-4 or 5.

Dr. Z pulled out his cell phone. No bars. He threw it down and then dug through the TANK for his satellite phone. He called his assistant in New York. “Jan, this is Z. We’re in the middle of Mississippi. Tell the boss we need some aid send down here.  Tell him to pull some strings. Call the damned President. And tell the boss I’m also taking some time off.  I have some work to do.”

Jimmy looked around at what was left of Desoto Flats. God’s finger, as he called tornadoes, had destroyed over 100 years of history in seconds.

Mike put a compress on an older lady’s head. Dr. Z recognized her as Anne Smith, his old Sunday school teacher.

“Mrs. Smith,” Dr. Z called out.

Mrs. Smith weakly said, “Jimmy?”

“Where are my parents?”

Mrs. Smith shrugged. “You seen my kitty, Jimmy?”

She was in shock.

Dr. Z ran toward his parent’s house.  The Victorian home had been built strong and had a storm cellar. He knew there was a chance his parents had survived.  Bodies littered the streets.  He pulled out the satellite phone again, “Jan, tell them there are mass casualties, too. WE NEED HELP!”

Dr. Z had lost his calm, cool demeanor. Even his southern accent started coming back.

He ran to the corner on Main and Stonewall Street looking for his parents house.

“MOM!  DAD!  MOM! DAD!”

He was quiet for a second to hear any reply. The town was eerily quiet.  The smell of pine burned his nose.

“MOM! DAD!  MOM! DAD!”

He heard scratching coming from where the storm cellar was. It was covered with six-feet of debris.

Dr. Z started throwing boards out of the way.  He then stepped on a nail which went through his foot  but the pain didn’t stop him.

“MOM! DAD!”

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled open the steel door. There, in the darkness of the cellar, were his parents. All three broke down in tears. The Prodigal Son had come home.

As they walked back to the TANK, Dr. Z called out to his crew. “Hey! I want you to meet my folks!”

“You have parents?” Mike said with honest shock. “You were actually born and raised somewhere? ” Dr. Z had kept his past very private.

Now, though, he hugged the two people he had missed so much. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

And then a miracle happened. As the town crawled out of the rubble, church vans full of people with chainsaws and casseroles arrived to help Desoto Flats, Mississippi. Nature had done its best to knock the town down. But it was lifted back up by the compassion of strangers. Dr. Z smiled. Why had he run from this? Why had been gone so long?

Dr. Z held his parents and smiled. The storms he had chased for years finally led Jimmy Zacharias back home.

The Southeast faced a grim tornado forecast. And we were in its crosshairs.

How grim? Storm chaser Reed Timmer arrived with all three of his Dominator chase vehicles, tornado filmmaker Sean Casey cruised near Tupelo, Jim Cantore mentioned Mississippi repeatedly and Jackson’s Weather Channel Tor Con number was a nine out of 10. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse cruising down I-55.

Unfortunately, the forecast was right. April 28, 2014 turned out to be a bad day. A very bad day. A day that carved its name into the record books with a deadly combination of brutal wind, rain and blood.

Louisville, Tupelo, Brandon, Richland, Pearl, Gluckstadt, Canton, Lake Caroline, and Vicksburg all suffered devastating damage. Every time a thunderstorm would form, it would drop a long-track, wedge tornado. We watched helplessly as radar-indicated hook echoes stalked our towns. Television meteorologists barely got time to take a breath (when they weren’t having to run for cover themselves). We ducked and covered. We prayed. It was a day when Mother Nature showed us who’s boss.

As dawn broke on Wednesday, the true scope of the damage raised its ugly head: The blown-out Winston County Medical Center. Bob Boyte Honda’s collapsed roof. Damage to homes and businesses in North Tupelo. The crumpled mobile home park in Pearl. Roofs in Lake Caroline peeled off. Cars tossed like toys. Trees snapped. Steel bent. Homes destroyed. And tragically, precious lives lost.

We go through life dumb and happy until a storm like this punches us in the mouth. Days like Tuesday remind us that our lives can change in a heartbeat.

Mississippi took a beating. A very bad one. But before the sky could clear, we did what we always do. We began helping each other recover.

We did it after Hurricane Katrina. We did it during the Mississippi River flood. We did it after the Smithville and Yazoo City tornados.

I’ve joked that before you can crawl out of the rubble, there will be a church van full of people with chainsaws and casseroles. There’s a lot of truth to it. It’s why we’re constantly the most generous state. It’s one area where we have empathy. We know disaster and how to recover from it.

Today, the pictures in the newspapers, online and on television look grim. Lives and wreckage are scattered randomly on the ground. But the healing has already begun. We’re donating food and clothing. We’re giving blood. We’re helping with the clean-up. Checks are being written. Friends and family are being lifted up. We’ll get through this disaster. We always do. Because while we’re powerless in the face of nature, we’re very powerful when it comes to compassion.

People around the country sometimes challenge me to say something good about Mississippi. My answer? Compassion in the face of disaster.

Because in Mississippi, when things get bad, we get good.

Rough weather predicted for this afternoon and evening. Stay safe — and remember this is what Saturday looked like!

As I write this, severe thunderstorms are off to my west. Arkansas and Oklahoma are picking up the pieces from last night’s killer storm. Meteorologists are predicting a 90% chance of doom — and the pucker factor at a 7 out of 10. There is a moderate chance of chaos and my stomach is in knots.

The forecast models are similar to the day the Yazoo City Tornado cut across the state and the storms that caused the 1979 flood.

Yes, it’s another severe weather day in Mississippi.

Or as we call it Spring.

I admit, I get a little freaked about tornadoes. Part of it was because of the wicked tornado in the Wizard of Oz. That scared me more than a 1,000 flying monkeys. And part of my neurosis is because of a very real tornado that took down my basketball goal as it flew over my parent’s house.  The early 70’s were a violent time for tornadoes in North Georgia.  They left a mark.

I don’t care Sam I Am, I don’t like tornadoes with a goat or in a boat.

So living in the heart of Dixie Alley (the southern version of Tornado Alley) doesn’t make for stress-free living. I was scared crazy after the first few tornadoes hit after I moved here. I used to freak when a tornado was 50 miles away.  My weather radio would go off if a cow farted in Port Gibson. I’d have to scrape myself off the ceiling.

But I’ve mellowed a little bit. Maybe it is fatalism setting in. Maybe. Now if it is one neighborhood over and heading another direction, I go back to sleep.

Today, though, I’m paying attention. I’m watching the radar and am keeping an eye to the sky. I want to take a moment to thank all the meteorologists for their hard work during this outbreak. I know we give the TV weather folks crap when they cut into our favorite programs because a tornado is tearing up a bean field — but believe me, if your house is near that bean field, you are grateful. And the folks at the National Weather Service do a great job. And I also wanted to thank all the first responders who will dig us out of the rubble.  Thanks to the emergency management teams who are coordinating any potential response necessary.  I hope you are bored today.

Tornadoes show man’s weakness in the face of nature. But our response shows our true power is our compassion for fellow man.

SEALS in Afghanistan. Souce: US Navy

“Do you know Jesus?”

“Talked to him every day in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

“You have an active prayer life?”

“I prayed for my wife to be happy once. She left me the next day. So I’m afraid to ask God for anything else.”

The clean-cut young man looked curiously at the 40-year-old bearded man in the doorway.  A three-legged, one-eyed dog hopped past them and tried to hike his leg. He fell over.

“That’s Cy. As in Cyclops. Was going to call him Lucky, but that joke has been taken.”

The clean-cut young man said, “Um, would you like to hear more about how to have a relationship with God?”

“No thank you. If I didn’t have a relationship with God, I wouldn’t still be here.”

Cy hopped back into the house, barked twice, spun once and fell over.  He prepared for a nap.

“Have a good day and God bless you my bike-riding friend.”  Sean O’Reilly gently closed the door in the missionary’s face. The missionary gave up and left.

“How ’bout that, Cy. He wanted to save my soul.  Don’t think he’s up for that job, though. Even the Pope would struggle fixing mine.”

Cy barked at his master. Truth was, he had already saved O’Reilly’s soul.  A good dog will do that.

O’Reilly sat down on the tattered green couch and felt his prosthetic. He had been riding in the lead Humvee when his SEAL team was hit by an IED. “Dam’ Taliban. Dam’ Iranians. I sure miss my leg.” Cy panted in agreement.  He missed his leg, too.   Cy had been hit by a car and abandoned on the side of the road. O’Reilly found him and did first aid on the small terrier.  He saved the little dog’s life. Now the little dog was trying to return the favor.

Coming home from war  and adjusting to civilian life had been more of a struggle than war itself. For 20 years, he had been a Navy SEAL. BUD/S training made him tough.  Combat made him tougher.  Marriage made him the toughest.  His high-school sweetheart Vicki had been the love of his life.  But he hadn’t really been there for their whole marriage. And when he was there, well, it was too much for her to handle.  Cy hopped over to the couch and begged to be picked up.

Cy had filled a big hole in O’Reilly’s heart.  A good dog will do that, too.

O’Reilly felt a storm coming on — the dark times when the post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) were the worst. He had stuck his pistol in his mouth a couple of times. But SEALS don’t quit.  And who would feed Cy?  So he gave up the booze, put his pistol away and sought help at the VA.  If paper work and red tape only cured PTSD, he would be happier than an astronaut in a Tang factory.  O’Reilly couldn’t be too mad at the folks at the VA. They had a hard job with lots of customers.

O’Reilly felt like he was fighting this one alone. People just did not care.

Because most Americans had no idea how many veterans were suffering.  And most Americans were oblivious there was even a war in Afghanistan. O’Reilly had the same nightmare every night — a small boy shooting at him with an AK-47 assault rifle. O’Reilly picked up his M-4 and began to squeeze the trigger. But before he could shoot, the little boy vaporized into a red mist from the cannon from an orbiting gunship above.

War was Hell and O’Reilly was on an extended tour of duty.  He wore his scars on the inside and out . And as tough as he was — and he was tough — this had been the hardest battle he had ever fought.

So he decided to surrender.

“God, it’s me again. Yes, you remember — the one who wanted his wife to be happy?  Yeah, you kind of owe me on that one. Look, I kind of have this nightmare-thing going on. I really need it taken care of.  And thanks for Cy. I know angels come in four-legs now.  Or as in this case, three.”

O’Reilly looked at the picture of his old man. His dad had been in Vietnam — and never said a word about that war. But O’Reilly had heard him crying late at night.  His father never had the resources he had. His father’s life had been cut short because of it.

O’Reilly was the one who had found his body in the closet.  That was a hell of a thing to do to a 16-year-old.  He never could forgive his dad. Now he completely understood.

“I’m a warrior. But please allow me to have a little peace.”

And with that, O’Reilly and Cy drifted off to sleep. The little boy visited him again, but this time did not have a gun. Instead, he held a bouquet of flowers.

This story is inspired by the heroism and sacrifice of so many Americans since 9/11.  

National Center for PTSD — Veterans Administration

woundedwear.org Provides free clothing and modifications to wounded warriors and raise national awareness of their sacrifice.

redcirclefoundation.org — helps families of fallen special operators.

I have a confession. I’ve been having an affair.

Her name is Debbie and I’ve had a crush on her since childhood. But an innocent crush turned into something wrong —  a torrid affair.

I’m a cheater and I’m ashamed.

I have no excuse other than the fact I was weak. I guess it was because I craved how she made me feel. Her sweetness made me feel warm. I can still taste her on on my lips. It was wrong. I know it.

I was weak. I lacked self control.  I thought I could just see her occasionally.  But no. I’d find myself sneaking around to be with her. I knew being with her was bad for my heart. But I couldn’t stop.

But it’s over now. I’m walking away.  I will cheat no more.

Little Debbie, I loved you and your snack cakes. Star Crunches. Zebra Cakes. Swiss Rolls. Oatmeal Creme Pies. I loved them all.  But I can’t cheat on my diet with you anymore.

Goodbye Debbie.  I wish you well.

I don’t normally drink before 8 a.m. —  but it has been that kind of morning.

Getting the family out of the door for school was like the fall of Saigon. There was gnashing of teeth, screams, copious tears and the rushing to get the heck out of dodge. And that was just from my wife.  We fought to get everyone fed, lunches made, clothes put on, teeth kind of brushed and showers taken. And in the right order.

I pray my youngest son’s underwear isn’t on outside of his pants.

I, being the hero of this story and a man who generally tries to avoid pissing off his lovely wife, chipped in and tried to do what I could to help get them out the door.  Three minutes past the moment they were supposed to leave, the garage door finally closed.  Peace blanketed the house. Pip looked at me as if to say, “Um, what was that?!?”

I shrugged my shoulders and let her out one last time. I poured a tall glass of tea and joined her outside on the patio.

It was the calm after the storm.

The Robin-egg’s blue sky reflected in the puddles from last night’s thunderstorm.  Pip ran out to do her morning squirrel patrol.  We recently reloaded the bird feeders with seed, so the fuzzy-tailed rats have come back in force. Pip’s hunting skills are still a little raw, although she generally follows the same routine Banjo used to follow.  I pulled up a chair on my patio and watched the Dog vs. Squirrel show’s opening act.

First of all, the squirrel has a distinct advantage.  He can climb trees. Pip’s advantage, a hypersonic bark, really doesn’t help her much.  The squirrel would go from oak to oak, leaving Pip constantly barking up the wrong tree.  She’ll figure it out eventually.   But not today.

As she ran in circles, I thought of Banjo’s squirrel hunts.  He used to be quite fearsome — but old age caught up with him and the squirrels started mocking him. It was really sad to watch. Apparently squirrels are much like many Americans — they refuse to respect their elders.

There was this one squirrel, I’ll call him “A-hole” for short, who used to mock Banjo.  And A-hole really would tick Banjo off.  You could see ‘Jo’s little Border Terrier face contort with disgust every time the squirrel would make him look like a fool.  When I would let Banjo out, he would charge A-hole. And A-hole would leave poor Banjo befuddled.  Until one fateful June morning.

I let Banjo out the the door. He ran up the hill.  But instead of running around barking at the squirrels, he promptly asked back in. (Banjo barked at the door. Pip scratches.)

I wondered, “What’s the heck is going on?” So I opened the door, looked down and there was A-hole. And A-hole was dead as a doorknob with two bite marks on his broken neck.  Banjo had a big grin on his face.  Every dog does have his day.

I learned a couple of  important lessons that day:

1. Never underestimate your elders.

2. And every A-hole will get what’s coming to him.