Marshall Ramsey

The oaks reached to the sky yet at the same time knelt down and touched the sea. Robert St. John and I pulled into Pass Christian that evening for a book signing. The humidity was like syrup. Lights twinkled and children laughed. Boats swayed. The bookstore sat right near the Mississippi Sound, serenaded by the water gently lapping at the shore. As Robert’s truck pulled through town, I marveled at the live oaks and the beautiful homes. They sat on a slight bluff, like the land was tormenting the sea.

A few weeks later, the sea would take its revenge.

The following December, I stood on that same bluff looking at the slab where the bookstore had been. There were no more lights, children laughing or even homes. The live oaks were struggling. The humidity was gone and so were the bugs and the birds. It was tomb quiet. The gray Mississippi Sound lay there with a guilty look on its face.

First of all, I am grateful to Robert for the opportunity for me to join him on that tour. It gave me one of my last chances to see the Gulf Coast like it used to be. But it also allowed me to hear those children laughing.

People ask me, “Why in the hell would people want to rebuild on the Gulf Coast?” It’s a good question. You have insurance costs, flood plain maps, red tape and the stress of the next big storm. Coming back doesn’t seem logical. But the laughter in Pass Christian reminded me of something. It’s the same reason people want to return to New Orleans, Waveband, Gulfport, Biloxi, Pascagoula, Slidell or any other town that got hit hard by the storm.

It’s home. And sometimes, home defies logic.

Dear residents of the Mississippi Gulf Coast,

This is an open letter to you to just say how much I respect you. Your resiliency has lifted me so many times when I was having personal tough times. Life knocked you on your butt and you responded by doing what you always do, you dusted yourself off and kept moving forward.

I know it was hard. I worked with Camp Coast Care in Waveband and Pass Christian after Katrina — and even in December, half the people who sought medical treatment were in shock. I would be, too. How do you recover from something like that? When your whole world is washed away. But ate that elephant one bite at a time. And when BP sent oil your way and the economy ground to a halt, you kept going.

Some people might ask “why?” We know why. The Coast is home.

My thoughts and prayers are with you as we remember a time that you’d like forget.

Signed, a guy who draws cartoons about you from time to time.

Dear Mr. President,

I read yesterday where you’re attending a Katrina remembrance in New Orleans. I’m glad you’ll be there for the folks in New Orleans. No doubt they have suffered and I know they’ll find comfort in your words and you just being there.

I am sorry to hear you don’t have time to stop by the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I know you know how good the people are there — you visited during the BP oil spill and had a sno-cone on the beach.

I really don’t know why you’re not coming. Politically it might not be a good move. I’m sure the conversation between you and Governor Phil Bryant would be one awkward pause after the other. Or you might be busy — being President is a full-time job I hear. I’m sure some folks are probably glad you’re just doing a flyover — I read the comments and sometimes they’re ugly. Oh yeah, it’s easy to point out its not the first time the Coast as been ignored. It’s easy to make a Landmass joke right about now.

But let me tell this: You should be proud of the people on the Gulf Coast. They got hammered hard. First by Katrina then by the economy after the BP oil spill. Dealing with insurance and flood plain maps hasn’t been a bucket of chuckles either. I don’t live on the Coast but have spent a good amount of time there and marvel at the resiliency of the people there. As this country struggles to get back on its feet after the Great Recession, I’d think you’d want to really put that kind of spirit on the center stage.

Hope you have a great trip to New Orleans. It’s fun town and the people there need your encouragement. And when you’re there, stop into Cafe Du Monde. You’ll thank me later.

Signed a guy who draws cartoons about you from time to time.

I needed to order a college transcript so I ordered an extra one just so take a trip down memory lane. I cracked open the sealed envelope (apparently they take security seriously — I mean who would want to change their grades? — oh, everyone) and looked at my five years at the University of Tennessee. This what I found:

1. My grades were generally good. Mostly A’s and B’s with a few C’s (in Statistics, French, and Calculus). There was one D and that was in Accounting II — and I pulled that bad boy up from a solid F by getting a 92% on my final. I’m most proud of that one. Really. I learned what I could really do if I applied myself.

2. I had a 3.2 average — which is OK. I wasn’t a Rhodes Scholar by any means.

3. I remembered every professor and remembered a few lessons I learned from each of them. Most didn’t involve the subject matter.

4. I switched majors and I can see where I floundered initially after doing so. The value of my advisor, Dr. Sarah Gardial (who is now Dean of the Business School at Iowa), is obvious. My grades shot up after she helped me craft my schedule for my future.

But what doesn’t show on my transcript is how hard I worked outside of the classroom and what I did extracurricularly.

1. I served as a Resident Assistant and as a Student Government Senator for my dorm, Greve Hall.
2. I worked nearly full time for Student Publications as a paste-up artist.
3. I played harmonica in a band.
4. I drew hundreds of editorial cartoons for student newspaper, The Daily Beacon.

And out of all of that, guess what made the biggest difference?

College was a wonderful experience for me — I gained a great education in the classroom. But I found a career at The Daily Beacon.

That’s where my passion was. And that doesn’t show on my transcript at all.

Brown and white, the mixed-breed dog moved down the beach with a slight limp. But for an animal in the double digits of years, she had an agility about her — an almost gracefulness. The vet had tried to put her down during those bad days. There was no way that hip could be healed and he didn’t have the resources to save her. But an angel had rescued her. An angel from South Carolina. That angel named her for the hellish force that brought them together.

She was a dog named Katrina.

Unlike the storm, the four-legged Katrina was grateful for her human companion. The angel, Jenny McMillan, had volunteered with her church immediately after the hurricane. She gave up six months of her life to help total strangers. When asked why, she simply said, “This strip of land is where my faith came to life.”

So many had followed in Jenny McMillan’s footsteps. People from all across the country to help. Not for profit. Not for fame. Just because it was the right thing to do.

It was the worst of times. Yet, it was the best of times.

Three weeks after the storm, Jenny found the puppy near a washed-out homesite. The little dog was still standing near her dead mother and brothers and sisters. Hurricane Katrina was an indiscriminate killer of man and beast. But somehow this special dog had beat the odds. Jenny coaxed the puppy out with a piece of beef jerky. While standing in the shadow of the Friendship Oak, a lifelong bond was formed.

Now they were back. Jenny and Katrina had come back down for the 10th anniversary to see for themselves what progress had taken place. Both walked down the beach next to the now docile Mississippi Sound. Katrina barked at a sea gull and chased it down the beach. Jenny noted something different about the Gulf Coast now — there was the sound of bugs and birds. It was yet another sign that life was back. The storm was a force that assaulted all five senses. You could taste the storm. The smell would burn your nose. You could feel heat that would smother you. The sight of the destruction still burned in her mind. But the thing that stuck with Jenny immediately after the storm was the silence.

Death has a haunting silence to it.

But now, things were teeming. The very people who they had helped were welcoming them back for a 10th anniversary reunion. Jenny walked up to the crowd and recognized so many familiar faces. There were hugs and handshakes. Toasts were made and thanks was given. The group of volunteers and the Mississippians they helped broke bread by the sea. The very sea that had nearly destroyed them. The very sea that had brought them together.

As they watched the sun set off toward New Orleans, Katrina jumped up on a priest and barked. “You have grown since the last time I saw you,” he laughed.

After ten years of recovery, they all had.

“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” – John Lennon

That quote almost makes me forgive Lennon for his other quote:

“Yoko, you are a great singer.”

But seriously, yesterday was a classic example of Lennon’s first quote for me. I did a radio show, drew a cartoon and a taped a television interview. When I was 25 years old, I never would have seen the radio and TV part of that last sentence. I figured I’d be coasting in my successful cartooning career by now. I couldn’t have been more wrong. And thank goodness for that.

I’m working like crazy making mistakes, screwing up and trying new things. And every once in a while, something pays off.

I’m having a blast. And thankful my plans didn’t workout perfectly. I would have cheated myself out of some really cool experiences.

But I can promise you this: I’ll never sing. Why? Let’s just say I could give Yoko a run for her money.

Yesterday I flew through the heavens in a plane I’ve always idolized. I will admit, I was nervous when I climbed into the cockpit. What if we crash? What if I have to bail out? What if I puke? What if… My fear melted once the wheels left the ground. I yelled, “YEE HAH!” as the P-51D Mustang leapt into the sky.

I didn’t die. I didn’t have to bail out. And I didn’t puke. Instead, I had a blast.

Fear is so toxic. If I had found an excuse to not climb into that cockpit, I would have cheated myself out of one of my life’s greatest experiences.

I’ve always said fear is the devil walking the earth. I’ve struggled with it in the form of doubt, depression and inaction. I’ve feared change and that kept me safely tucked in my comfort zone. And at times, it still does.

My challenge today — and tomorrow and the next day — is to take on that fear. To do things that make me a little uncomfortable. To stand up for what is right even if I worry about the consequences. I need to push against the walls of inaction. I need to cross my bridges of doubt and burn them. It’s time to embrace the new, lean into it and own it.

The pilot of the Mustang, Dan Fordice, told me about a 94-year-old World War II veteran who flew with him. His family was worried he might die in a plane crash. The veteran replied, “I’ve lived 94 years. At least I’ll die happy.” That was a man who knew how to live. I also met an 87-year-old man who still is a pilot.

Those men aren’t just alive. They’re living.

That’s the attitude I want. To get my fear out of the way and to truly live. That’s my mission on a sleepy Sunday morning.

My prayer as the engine cranked went something like this, “Dear God, please don’t let me puke in Dan’s really nice airplane.”

Dan is Dan Fordice. Yes, Fordice. As in Kirk and Pat’s son.

We were flying a few years ago and he was strapping me in. I asked him if he was still mad about the cartoons I drew about his dad. He answered, “You’re mine now.”

At that moment, I realized he had packed my parachute.

Oh sh*t.

Dan has Pat’s sense of humor.

Thankfully. I am still alive.

Today I flew in his amazingly gorgeous P-51D Mustang, Charlotte’s Chariot 2. The P-51D is one of the most famous aircraft ever built — and for good reason. It’s nearly perfect in every way. It was the premier fighter over Europe in World War 2 (And escorted B-29s on their way to Japan, too). I’ve never had as much fun flying as I did today. I’ll just describe the Mustang this way — it’s raw power and grace make you feel like you’ve strapped wings on and are a knight in the sky.

Dan’s a heck of a pilot. He has taken his plane to the Oshkosh Air Show (the nation’s premier air show) He flew over the Washington Mall as part of the Arsenal of Freedom flyover marking the 70th anniversary of VE day. He loves his Mustang. But he loves to honor the generation who flew it even more.

Dan and the Southern Heritage Aviation Museum have done an amazing job doing just that. I respect the hell out of him for that. He could just fly his Mustang around for kicks. Instead, he uses it to educate and inspire.

I didn’t puke today. We rolled and looped and pulled some G’s. When the Mustang’s wheels touched down, I had a big, fat stupid grin on my face. I thought of Cary Salter (whose just passed and whose plane Dan’s is modeled after). I thought about everyone who sacrificed so much. I thought about the knights in the sky.

And on this 70th anniversary of the guns falling silent, I appreciate Dan’s efforts and for him letting me pretend I was one of those knights, too.

December 2005

My skin burned as the needle slid into my arm. I was getting a Tetanus shot in the Camp Coast Care medical tent near the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Camp Coast Care was a joint effort by the Episcopal and Lutheran churches to serve the survivors in their recovery. Their mission, like the needs of the coast, changed daily. While I was down there, I repaired a roof, looked for a wedding band and cleaned lots.

No, I helped repair souls. I can’t think of a more Christian thing to do.

I pulled my shirt sleeve down and starting asking the medical staff about their experiences after the storm. I heard amazing tales of survival and recovery (No HIIPA laws were broken). A team of mental health experts were also there, helping Gulf Coast residents pick up the mental pieces. One statistic that has stuck with me for a decade was this:

Half the people who came in were still in shock.

Katrina was impacting the coast even months later. And I’m sure she continues to this day. I know even the small part of the storm I experienced changed how I saw the world.

Lately, people have told me their Katrina stories. The 10th anniversary has been cathartic in a way. People are opening up and cleansing old wounds. On August 30th, The Clarion-Ledger will have a 44-page special section on the storm and our recovery. I look forward to reading every single word. I will mourn our losses. I will celebrate our recovery.

We hitched up our britches as Governor Barbour said. But it changed us. We’re tougher. More focused on what is important. For me, I will never look at stuff the same way again. I remember having a moment in gas station on 49. I saw a trinket for sale that was just like a piece of debris I saw in the muck near Pass Christian. I looked at the snow globe and then closed my eyes. I saw the destruction.

I can’t imagine if that was from my home.

My thoughts and prayers go out to all who survived Katrina. I hope you have found peace and a way to rebuilt your life. Ten years later, I know that’s a work in progress.