Marshall Ramsey

This year’s Barbie & Marshall Halloween Blood Drive was another success (over 350 donors).  As I signed off my radio show at Mississippi Blood Services at 6 p.m., I  rushed to make sure I made it home in time for Trick-or-Treating.  My oldest son (12) was going on a trailer with friends his age. My middle son (9) was going around with his friend.  And my wife was taking our five-year-old out.  It was something I didn’t want to miss.

When I pulled into the garage, I called her and walked halfway across the neighborhood to meet them.  My son, a boy who has overcome more in his short lifetime than most folks ever will, had attacked Halloween with his trademark focus and drive.  I met them a quarter of a mile away and when he saw me, he yelled, “DAD!”  He ran up to me and gave me a big hug.

He was dressed as a little brown puppy.

I said, “Who are you?”

“Banjo.”

I had just driven by the emergency hospital where our recently deceased Border Terrier Banjo had fought his last few battles.  My heart nearly melted.

My wife and I walked quickly behind him as he’d say, “Next house, please!” He’d march up to the door, knock and softly say, “Trick or treat!” I’m sure some people had a hard time understanding him.  If they only knew.

We looped back around the block and he started to run out of steam.  He finally said in a quiet voice, “Can I go home now?”  The little Banjo was dog tired.

As he walked up the steps to our front door, I saw his blue jeans poking out of the bottom of the costume. He had almost outgrown it.  And it was then that I had my scariest Halloween moment: I realized my little guy was growing up too quickly.  I stood there and tried to hang on to that scene for as long as I could.

And as quickly as it began, Halloween was over.

Summer finally released its death grip from around Mississippi’s throat.  A cool breeze blew across the north Mississippi countryside as the sun and moon exchanged pleasantries. It was a celestial shift change.  Pink hues painted the sky’s eastern black canvas. A lone figure ran beneath the pre-dawn sky and across the blackened field.

Morning had arrived.  The cold air burning in his lungs was his cup of coffee.  While most folks were crawling out of bed, Cole was running.  He always was running.  Cole never slowed down.

He remembered the look in his crazed high school coach’s face. Spit flew from the screaming man’s mouth has he shouted in Cole’s face. “YOU’LL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING!!!”  Like iron being forged into steel, the coach’s taunts had strengthened his backbone.  “BS,” he thought, “I’ll show you.”  Coach Mike Loafer was the first person Cole proved wrong.   And he would not be the last.

Cole Collins was a man of destiny.

Coming from a family of modest means, Cole entered the National Guard to get money to pay for college.  He was determined to be the first person in his family to earn a degree. In the desert of Iraq, his convoy had been blown up by an IED.  While most men would have run away, Cole ran into the flames of his destroyed vehicle.  He had rescued two fellow soldiers.  Cole wore the scars as proudly as the medal he received for that incredible act of bravery.

He looked down at the crinkled skin on his arm as he ran.  Like his skin, the memories of war burned.

Iraq and a later tour in Afghanistan had filled his head with a lifetime of horrible images.  Last night had been a particularly bad night.  Nightmares had kept him awake until it was time to run.  Now he was trying to put the images to bed.  The sight of burned friends.  Of headless enemies.  Time in combat sucked away his ability to suffer fools gladly.  He no longer had  time for BS and those who practiced it.  Kissing your mortality on the mouth would do that to a man.  But it had focused him. He was like light. Unfocused it could warm you. Focused it could cut steel. An owl hooted off in the distant trees, bringing his mind back to Mississippi.

He continued his run.  Ten miles down, one to go.  He had an hour until he had to get to work cutting trees.  Cole had come back from war and found the best job he could at the time. But it was a job. Cole honored work.  And then he had saved every penny he had made.  Because Cole Collins had bigger plans. He was the kind of man who not only dreamed when he was asleep. He also dreamed glorious dreams when he was awake.

His cell phone went off.  Cole fumbled around in his pocket and pulled to his ear.  “‘ello?”

“Mr. Collins?” the female voice had a Boston accent.

“Yes ma’am.” Cole was southern and trained to say yes sir and no sir.

“This is Rita Garbawoski at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. We mailed a letter to you also, but I wanted you to know that you’ve been accepted.  Congratulations. And welcome to MIT.

And at that moment, Cole Collins stopped running. He said, “Thank you,” and hung up the phone.

Cole Collins, a poor child born in rural Mississippi, graduated from MIT and went on to become the owner of a software company. He later sold it and invested the money into his old home state.  His leadership, vision and dedication changed the lives of several young men and women from his hometown.  All because he was once told he couldn’t do something.

He rose to the dare. He proved his critics wrong.

In his home’s study in Oxford, Mississippi, Cole sat down behind a desk and wrote a note to the man who had shaped his life:

“Dear Coach,

Thank you for not believing me. No, I’m not being sarcastic.  I honestly appreciate your doubt, your disbelief and your lack of faith in me. Because it made me want to prove you wrong. It strengthened who I am.  Like a piece coal under pressure, I came out a diamond.  You lit a fire in me that could not be extinguished.  Thank you for being wrong. I’m glad I didn’t believe in your disbelief.”

Cole folded the paper and put it in the envelope.

He knew that those who lacked faith in your abilities could be your most powerful motivators.

And with that Cole Collins smiled and began to dream once again.

Chris Kristo put on his lucky jersey, lucky socks and lucky underwear. He paused and looked at “game-day checklist.” Check. Check. Check. Then he went out to the garage and grabbed a six pack of lucky beers. He also plucked a lucky Slim Jim out of the kitchen and popped some lucky popcorn.  A lucky rabbit’s foot (not lucky for the rabbit) hung from his belt loop.  He scanned the backyard: No black cats.

He was set.

The big game was on today.  And Chris was going to do everything he could to make sure his team won.

Chris Kristo was a superstitious man.  He was leaving nothing to chance. And he felt really lucky today.

He plopped in his lucky recliner grabbed the remote. Some singer warbled through the National Anthem and the players lined up for kickoff.  His wife and children had left the house (Chris had a habit of using R-rated language around his G-rated children). Even the dog went into the next room.

Game on.

Psst thump. The first beer was opened as the kicked ball sailed through the air.

From Chris Kristo’s command recliner, he knew was in charge of his team’s destiny.  “RUN RUN RUN, CUT LEFT!”

And the young running back ran ran ran and then cut left.

Chris Kristo looked at his lucky beer.

“THROW THROW, YOU HAVE A RECEIVER #$%# WIDE OPEN!”

The quarterback suddenly looked across field and threw to the wide-open receiver that Chris was looking at.

Chris looked at his lucky beer again.

“RUN-OPTION AND THROW INTO THE ENDZONE.”

His team’s quarterback did just that.  TOUCHDOWN!  Chris did his little superstitious victory dance.

Chris suddenly realized he had control of the game.

He popped another beer and took a long swig.  His team kicked off.  “GET HIM GET HIM GET HIM!”

All 11 players converged on the poor kid who caught the ball and crushed him.

Chris finished his lucky beer and got another one. This was going to be fun. Never had a fan felt more empowered.

“IT’S GOING TO BE A DOUBLE REVERSE!”

Like he was controlled from afar, the defensive end read it perfectly and hit the back for a ten-yard loss.  Chris yelled at the end, “BLOCK THAT PUNT.”

The end did just that and scooped up the ball and ran for a touchdown.

Chris did another superstitious victory dance.  And then got another beer.

By halftime, Chris was pretty close to smashed.  Empty bottles littered the ground.  The popcorn was spilled in the chair and Chris was still calling plays.

“THWHOA ACROST ZE MIDDLE!”

The quarterback made a terrible throw right between two defenders, one of which intercepted the ball and ran it back for a touchdown.

Chris said words that would make a Jersey dockworker blush.

By the third quarter, the other team had pulled ahead.  Chris, drunk and angry, continued to make bad football decisions. Decisions that were costing his team the big game.

“MAYBE I NEED TO TURN THE CHANNEL.”

Because, of course, one fan can control the outcome of a game played by 22 kids.

Chris grabbed the remote and changed it to the Weather Channel. He watched the forecaster and screamed  “RAIN, ##$#, RAIN!”

A clap of thunder announced a downpour.

Chris looked at his remote control and turned it to CNBC.  “DOUBLE MY PORTFOLIO!”

And on that day, a man with lucky jersey, lucky socks and lucky underwear got really lucky.

How many many times have we seen New York City destroyed on the big screen?  The Day After Tomorrow, Independence Day, 2012, The Avengers, Batman. We’ve seen it over and over again.

But last night was eerie.

It wasn’t Hollywood. It was the real thing. We sat watching a great city flooding in real time — it was like the Weather Channel series “It Can Happen Tomorrow (the first episode was about New York being hit by a hurricane).  And it wasn’t just televised coverage that produced the most powerful images. The still photos were equally frightening. We saw Battery Tunnel flooding. The lower East Side underwater. Ground Zero construction sites being submerged by cascades of salt water.  Coney Island submerged. The subway tunnels being flooded. Cars bobbing in Brooklyn. Catastrophic fires in Queens. Atlantic City turned into Atlantis City.  And then power stations exploding and leaving iconic skyscrapers in the dark.

The dark.  Darkness placed an inky veil over the catastrophic damage from North Carolina to Maine.  The first rays of dawn will reveal Sandy’s damage.  And if it is anything like the first glimpses after Katrina, it will be stunning. Prepare to be shocked.

In seven days we have a national election.  Our fragile economy just took a brutal hit.  Millions of Americans have been affected. Travel has ground to a halt. Whole cities have lost power. Individuals have lost everything.

Today is going to be a rough day as the Northeast assesses the damage. And with the memories of Katrina fresh in my mind, I can genuinely say, prayers go out to all who are affected.

Because when you watch a disaster movie, you can just walk out of the theater when it is over. In real life, you have to pick up the pieces and move on.

The weatherman leaned into the wind. The foamy surf crashed around him as another gust whipped sand and salt spray into the poor guy’s face. Whatever he was being paid, it wasn’t enough.  Apparently there was some unwritten rule that to properly cover a natural disaster, you had to stand out in the middle of it.  It was good TV, just not good sense.  Jack flipped the station over to Sportscenter and laughed at the oxymoron. Good TV.

The East Coast of the United States was under siege. Political junkies always talked about the “October Surprise.”  One week before the Presidential election, Hurricane Sandy was definitely a nasty surprise.  The eastern half of the United States was feeling its wrath.  It had been hyped as “Frankenstorm” and was living up to the hysteria.   Sixty-million Americans were now in harm’s way. This was predicted to be a 100-billion dollar storm.   Already the replica ship HMS Bounty had been sunk (the ship used in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies).  The Jersey Shore was about to be washed over. New York City faced a calamity not seen since 2001. Cities as far west as Chicago were facing gale-force winds. Jack pulled on his pants and buttoned his uniform. Storm or no storm, he had work to do.  He spied his umbrella.  With winds blowing near hurricane force, he left it where is was.  Nothing was more useless than an umbrella during a hurricane.

Heavy rain lashed his barracks as he left.  Everyone else was hunkered down. But not Jack.  It was a little before dawn; normally there would have been a slight pink hue off toward the Cheasapeake Bay.  Not today. It was dark.  The wind cutting through the trees sounded like a jet engine at take off.

Jack wore the second-rarest badge in the Army (the rarest being the Army Astronaut Badge.) He was a sentinel. He was a guard of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, located on Robert E. Lee’s former plantation Arlington, had been guarded continuously since April 6, 1948.  Today would be no different.  Hurricane Sandy be damned.

Army’s 3^rd Infantry Regiment took over guarding the tomb after World War 2.  A soldier, like Jack,  stood guard 24 hours a day, seven days a week, including holidays. And hurricanes.

Jack would stand out in the storm.  Plans were for him to move into “Memorial Display Room” when the weather got too rough.  There he’d have a line of sight view of the tomb protecting it.  But he’d be there. The tomb would remain guarded.

Jack smiled. Like a postal worker, either rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail, nor anything else shall keep this sentinel from his task.

The unknowns before him called for it — No demanded it. Standing out in a hurricane was nothing compared to their sacrifice. They had given a blank check to the United States of America and she had cashed it. As the rain whipped his face, Jack was just glad he wasn’t a TV reporter standing out in the storm surge.

And as the storm struck Washington D.C.,  the tomb was once again guarded.