Marshall Ramsey

The severe storm’s strobe lightning turned night into day.  Loud thunder rocked the house, rattling the windows and china– but the boy continued to snore lightly.  On the cusp of being a teenager, the young man’s body was growing right before his weary father’s eyes.  It seemed like every night when the dad got home from work, the kid had grown another inch.  Time was rapidly accelerating.  The father sat in his son’s room, unsuccessfully trying to grab time and hold it in place.

It was like trying to stop a speeding train.

The father couldn’t sleep. The violent storm outside had woken him up. The storms of life had kept him awake.  He walked from the master bedroom to where his son’s room. He sat on the floor next to a sea of video game cartridges and old toys.  The kid was sleeping soundly through the storm. The boy was at peace.  The father wished it could be that way all the time. But being a preteen wasn’t easy.  It was something the father knew all to well.

It was 3:02 a.m.  The sunrise was still three hours away. And the storm was intensifying.

The one thing every newborn should have stapled to his or her leg is an instruction manual. This boy was the child the father had made all his mistakes on. And he had made some whoppers. But now, though, he knew couldn’t fail him.  There was little margin for error. The teenage years are too important. Too influential. Like drying concrete, this was the time when his self-image would set for life.  The father knew it all too well.  But the only guide he had was his own teenage years. And that was a flawed manual at best. He prayed a lot about this.

Another clap of thunder shook the house.  Lightning had hit a tree down the street, causing a small fire before the heavy rain doused it. The electricity flickered, but did not go out.

The father watched as his son’s chest rose and fell. He remembered the stories he used to make up for his son when he was little.  The ones that he told him while sitting in this very spot.  About the little boy and his dog traveling across the great mythical land of Tejas. How they fought dragons and took on bandits.  The father would weave moral stories into the tales, little life lessons that he hoped would take his son through life.  He wished he had written them down.  He hoped that his son had listened.

Lightning struck nearby again, causing the son to turn over and mumble something incoherently under his breath. The father thought that he was going to have to slip out of the room — but the boy soon fell back into a deep sleep.   The father relaxed and continued to think about his boy’s journey to manhood and his role as a father.

The rain pelting the window sounded like water hitting a car in a carwash.  The pines in the backyard danced a hypnotic dance as the lightning continued to illuminate the inky sky. But the thunder’s bark was more distant now. The storm was beginning to move on.

And then it occurred to him. As the father watched his beloved son, he realized that he didn’t need to give him advice. He just needed to give him his undivided attention. The boy needed his father’s time. The epiphany illuminated the father’s heart like the lightning had the night.

Standing up, the father’s knees cracked.  Another sign that time was moving too quickly. And as he began to walk gingerly out the door, he heard his son’s voice call out, “Dad, whatcha doin’ in here?”

“Just checkin’ on you,” the dad said quietly.

“Oh, OK.  And Dad…”

“What?”

“Happy Father’s Day.”

The father looked at his son’s sleepy face and said the only thing he could,”No, thank you. I wouldn’t be one without you.”

And with that, the storm was over.

The bypass had choked off the little Mississippi town of Hollyhock. Tourists traveling to the Florida beaches zoomed by it at a comfortable 65 mph, never giving the dying town a second thought.

Off the main road was the Hollyhock General Store. And on its front porch sat an old man whittling a stick. In his 80’s, he was a relic from another era.  He had fought in the Pacific and would forever be a Marine.  He had seen so much hatred in that war that when he laid down his rifle in 1946, he vowed to never think a violent word again.

But like during the insane charge across the runway during the Battle of Peleliu and the climb up Mt. Suribachi, there are times when you have to put fear aside and stand up for what is right.  And for the next 70 years, he had done just that.

The locals thought he was just the crazy old man who sat on the store’s porch and told funny stories.  Little did they know he was a true-to-life hero who had killed hundreds of men and then changed the lives of a thousand more.  He still fought the war when he slept.  For 70 years, he experienced nightly bonsai charges.  The screams were as fresh as they were all those years ago. He had came home with a chest full of medals and a head full of nightmares.

When he stepped off the train in 1946, he had helped build this little town. He had stood up to racists. He had started the local Lions Club. He had helped make the local school one of the best in the state.  Now like his generation, his town was fading into history.

He took another swig of his RC Cola and looked out at the empty buildings.  Most of the businesses had moved out to the bypass.  He couldn’t exactly blame them — you go where the money is. And then they built the big-box discount retail store out there.  That was like kinking a garden hose. Everything dried up at that point.

He took another sip of his RC, wiped the sweat from his leather-like brow and watched as a car with four young kids pulled up the gas pumps.  He didn’t know these kids — and he knew about everyone’s mama around these parts. They began pumping gas into their Camaro and throwing racial slurs at Mrs. Juanita Jones who was filling up her husband’s Ford truck.

“You boys watch yo’ dam’ mouths.”

His voice cut through the air like a mortar round.  The boys turned their heads and stared at the old man. “You say something ol’ man?” The leader, a kid who as about 6’3″ and 240 lbs. , said with a sneer.

“You heard me son.  Show the lady some respect.”

“She ain’t nothin’ but a ni….”

“Son, don’t you say that word in this town.”  The old man felt a familiar anger boil up to the surface.

The kids laughed.  “This fossil is going to make us be nice.”

The leader of the kids walked up to porch of the store and approached the man.  “I don’t like your attitude ol’ man.” The other kids followed behind him.

“Aw come on Brian , he’s a dinosaur.”

The leader of the boys ignored his friends and walked up to the ol’ man. He then kicked over his RC.

“Son, you really don’t want to mess with me.”

The boys burst into laughter.

The kid reached into a pocket and pulled out a gun. He then put it to the old man’s temple and said, “Now, what do you have to say to me?”

The old man smiled and said, “Son, pull the trigger. I’ve lived a long life and I’ve paid for my sins.  But you — well, you’ll pay for this day for eternity.”

“Wooooooo. I’m scared!”  The leader laughed and turned his attention from the old man for just a second.  It was his mistake.

Seventy years had slowed his reflexes, but not that much. He grabbed his walking stick and knocked the gun out of the kid’s hand. He then crushed the kid’s thick skull and sent him crumpled to the ground. The second kid rushed at the old man, and once again, the old man sent him to the dirt, bleeding and moaning in pain.  The next kid rushed at the old Marine and for a third time, paid for his mistake.  The fourth kid, obviously the smartest of the bunch, ran back out to the car and drove off.

The old man picked up his RC bottle and took the last remaining swig from it. He then walked over and picked up the gun.  “Idiots.  They thought they could do to me what the Empire of Japan’s best couldn’t.”

Mrs. Jones had called the police and Police Chief Frank Johnson arrived just in time to see the old man standing over the crumpled bodies of the thugs.

“We have a cleanup on aisle four,” the old man said without emotion.

The Chief looked at the moaning kids and shook his head, “They didn’t know who they were messing with, did they Granddad?”

Gunnery Sergeant Sam Johnson, USMC, had lived his life standing up for what was right.  And on that day in that dying Mississippi town, he had taught four kids the meaning of respect.