Marshall Ramsey

New Orleans was the last place James Gibson wanted to be. While he spoke fluent French, Laissez les bons temps rouler meant nothing to him. He was a man of discipline — A man who stuck to his plan. He didn’t believe in debauchery, voodoo, alcohol or any other of the various vices offered along Bourbon Street. Who had time for fun? That night, when his fellow Navy SEAL squad mates went partying, the beckoned, “Come on old man!” He responded by going to bed.

The alarm greeted him rudely right at sunrise.  He laced up his running shoes and left the old hotel.  The streets in the French Quarter were wet from the street sweepers who had attempted to erase the evidence from the night before. New Orleans was a city that engaged all five of your senses. James could smell the spilled drinks from the revelers the night before. He had reluctantly agreed to come over here for the weekend after drills near the Stennis Space Center.   As stretched, he saw the tourists heading toward Cafe du monde to get their sugary fried thingies fix. The powered sugar reminded him of the cocaine factory he had once blown up in Columbia.   Overweight men and women marched past Jackson Square to get their fried dough.

James had mixed feelings about New Orleans. It was the city of his birth — but he didn’t know his birth parents. They had put him up for adoption when he was born. His adoptive parents — his real parents in his mind — lived in Baton Rouge.  So that was his home. He had graduated with honors from LSU and entered the Navy after successfully completing Naval ROTC.  His focus, his drive, his pain pushed him harder than all the other officers. BUD training in San Diego pushed him even harder.

Discipline. Focus. Purpose.

He ran down Decatur Street toward the Convention Center. The relentless humidity reminded him of the jungles of Panama. He ran back up past the National World War II Museum and then looped back toward the French Quarter. James Gibson didn’t worry about criminals.  Criminals worried about James Gibson.

He had been here after Katrina, providing logistical support for the relief efforts that took too long to get here. He remembered seeing the bodies and the chaos. James would give New Orleans credit for one thing: It was resilient. It earned his respect for that reason and that reason alone.

He ran back down Bourbon and toward Jackson Square.  There he saw the artists lined up and saw the fortune tellers in front of the Cathedral.  He shook his head. God and Voodoo ten feet apart.  As he huffed past, he noticed one lady sitting out on her own. Her handwritten sign read, “Madam Duvall.”

“Come over here boy.”

“No offense man, but I don’t believe in fortune telling.”

But there was something intriguing about this woman.  She seemed familiar.

He sat his sweaty self down in her folding metal chair and she grabbed his palm.

“New Orleans causes you great pain. It digs up many questions in your heart.”

OK, this lady was pretty good.

“Many unknowns surround you.  Like your parents. You seek your parents.”

James pulled his hand back, but Madam Duvall grabbed it and continued on.

“You were given up at birth.  You seek your mother. And your mother seeks you.”

James was sweating even more, but it wasn’t from the heat.

“I can give you answers you seek,” Madam Duvall said. “I know who your mother is.”

James felt nauseous.  He started to stammer and get up but Madam Duvall held up a copy of a piece of paper.

“I, James Gibson, am your mother.”

James looked at the woman. She didn’t seem much older than he was.

“What?!? No. No, you’re not”

She held both his hand and told him the story behind his birth.

“I was 16. Your father and I were in the same high school. He was killed two years later in a gang shooting. I knew I couldn’t raise you like you deserved. My mother knew your adoptive parents. Like so many refugees after Katrina, you started a new life in Baton Rouge.”

She held out a copy of his birth certificate and a baby picture of him.

James felt a wave of emotion crash over him.  Tourists walking past would have noticed the hulking man holding the fortune teller and weeping.

New Orleans is a town that engages all your senses. And on that muggy morning in Jackson Square, a man of great discipline learned the true meaning of love, sacrifice and redemption.

It’s really the little things that make the biggest impressions.

Like a cricket for instance.

My family walked into the National World War II Museum in New Orleans on Sunday.  The first thing we noticed when we walked through the doors was a giant plane suspended from the ceiling.  The Douglas C-47 had the same paint scheme it would have worn on D-Day. It was an impressive display.

Then we saw a much smaller display — an older man (who was probably well into his 80’s) sitting behind a small table.  He beckoned us over and asked my sons, “You boys know what a cricket is, don’t you?”

My boys stood there quietly for a second, trying to figure out what the trick was to his question. As the standoff continued, I noticed an 82nd Airborne pin on his collar.

“You were in the 82nd Airborne?” I asked. I knew he had jumped out a plane similar to the one above us.

“I’m still in the 82nd Airborne,” he quickly replied with a grin. He then focused his attention back to my sons.

“So, you boys know what a cricket is?”

My middle son replied , “A bug?”

The volunteer smiled and said, “Yes. But it is much more. Imagine you’ve jumped into Normandy on D-Day. It’s night and a man comes toward you. You have to find out if he is friend or foe.  You can’t just ask him. So you take this out and do this.”

He pulled out a small brass device and clicked it once.

“You’re separated, hungry and nervous. You’re lost. You need to find your friends.  And if he is one of your friends, he will do this.”

He then clicked the clicker twice. The little device made a sound that sounded like a mechanical cricket.

“Now, what happens if he doesn’t reply?”

My son said, “You shoot him?”

The volunteer said matter-of-factly, “Yes, you kill him before he kills you.”

My sons all held the cricket and clicked it themselves.  As they did, they could see the man in front of them jumping out of that giant plane. They walked a mile in his paratrooper boots. They understood D-Day a little better.  He morphed from a senior citizen into a hero.

We toured the museum and were impressed by the big exhibits. We loved the B-17 Flying Fortress and the Sherman tank.  And the Tom Hanks 4-D movie was amazing. But it was the little things that gripped us: The last letter written by a Marine on the day he was killed. The Kbar knife with a bullet hole in the handle (that saved a Marine’s life). The telegram informing a mother that she had lost her precious son. The oral histories of how average Americans coped during the war. Two actual Medals of Honor. Hattiesburg Medal of Honor recipient Jack Lucas’ wallet. The display of soldiers that showed how few troops the U.S. had at the beginning of World War II compared to Japan and Germany.

Five hours later, we walked out and the hero had gone home. I know we’ll probably never see him again. But for a brief moment, a World War 2 paratrooper and his cricket allowed us to understand history a little better.

Because it really is the little things that make the biggest impressions.

Update: The National World War 2 Museum announced today (1/15/15) that Tom Blakey has joined so many of his fellow World War 2 veterans in the great beyond. God bless a great man who brought World War 2 to life.