Marshall Ramsey

From the fourth floor of the Mississippi State Capitol to my drawing board, it’s four blocks. Today at noon, I carried on a continuous conversation with nine different people for the entire four blocks.

People ask me what makes Mississippi unique. I tell them its the relationships.

On any given weekday, you might only see two people in downtown Jackson. But chances are you’ll know at least one of them. It might be from school. From the soccer or baseball fields. Or church. You might have helped them at a fundraiser. You might be neighbors. Or you might know their sister, who was the roommate of your first girlfriend out of college.

I’ve never lived in a place where relationships are as important as they are here. We don’t have six degrees of separation here. We have two. And if you know someone’s mama, it’s one. Mississippi is truly a big small town. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes that’s bad. But one thing is for sure:

It’s who you know.

I tell people it’s the most important marketing information people need to know to do business here: If people don’t know you, they’ll ignore you. I’ve seen business people and politicians both fail miserably because they ignored this simple rule. (of course, sometimes they know you and think you’re a complete jerk — but I digress)

For nearly 20 years, I’ve enjoyed watching this state. I find the people colorful, unique and for the most part, good. I’ve enjoyed living here, too. And today, while walking down Capitol Street talking to friends, I was reminded why.

Last night my middle son asked, “Can I watch The Shawshank Redemption?”

“Um, sure,” I said.

Yeah, it’s rated R, but I have the movie memorized and knew when to tell him to close his eyes.

So we watched it. I’ve probably seen it well over a dozen times (enough times that I can finally spell “Andy Dufresne”). And I could see it that many more times. At one point, I wondered if Andy was doing Chris Epps’ books. But I digress.

My son is particularly good at chess, so I mentioned Andy’s strategy. How he never gave up hope. How he was playing chess while the warden was playing checkers. Yes, it was unfair Andy was in jail. And when he was attacked. That the young convict he was helping (and could have proved his innocence) was murdered. But Andy didn’t quit, whine or fall into the fetal position of self pity. He had a plan and saw the whole board. He looked for small victories and continued to have hope.

(Spoiler Alert in case you are one of the three people who haven’t seen it). The movie’s payoff is one of the best I’ve ever seen. Andy’s crawling through a 1/4 mile of sewage is such a powerful metaphor for what he experienced in his life. But at the end, when he rose with his arms in the air — well, that was indeed sweet victory.

He got the warden in checkmate and walked away a free man.

As the credits rolled, my son looked at me and said, “Get busy living or get busy dying.”

I patted him on the back and said, “And hope is a good thing, maybe the best of thing, and no good thing ever dies.”

My family watched the movie Whiplash this weekend. It was shot in 19 days with a $3 million budget (In Hollywood terms, that is almost a home movie.) It didn’t make a gazillion dollars at the box office. In fact, I didn’t even know it existed until the Oscars. But as I sat on my couch Friday night, I was shocked at how much it moved me. Partly because of its amazing acting and gripping story. But mostly because it reminded me of a very important life lesson about success.

Veteran character actor JK Simmons plays Fletcher, a hard-driving, abusive music teacher (Simmons won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for the role and deserved every ounce of it). Fletcher pushed Miles Teller’s character Andrew to become an incredible jazz drummer — but not without blood, pain and tears.

No doubt, Fletcher was a jerk. He was foul-mouthed and verbally abusive. And if my kid bumped up against a coach or teacher like him, we’d have words. But I also know sometimes it takes a jerk to make you great.

Fletcher tells Andrew the story about how saxophone legend Charlie Parker became great. One night, when Parker messed up on stage, Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head. Parker walked off in shame. And then he went home and practiced to make sure that never happened again. Fletcher then said, if Jones had said, “Good job,” the world would have been deprived of the greatness of Charlie Parker. Charlie Parker became a legend. And Andrew did that, too, by fighting for his dream.

While I don’t necessarily agree with Fletcher’s teaching methods, I do agree how Andrew reacted to him.

I’ve had bosses and coaches who wanted me to quit. I’ve had teachers who looked me in the eye and said I could do better. I’ve suffered public failures. I’ve been embarrassed and humiliated. I’ve had a few cymbals thrown at my head.

And I thank God for all of it.

Because when I’ve suffered my worst defeats, I’ve been motivated to overcome them. Maybe it was because of wounded pride. Maybe it was just self-preservation. Like Andrew, I got busy and wanted to prove the world wrong. That’s when personal growth happened.

My sons and I talked about Fletcher, Andrew and the lessons of the movie. I told them they’d encounter their own versions of Fletchers in life. When they do, I hope they stiffen their spine and fight for their dreams. Because life doesn’t give participation trophies. And greatness is achieved by those willing to fight for it.

Whiplash was a great reminder that heat and pressure turns coal into diamonds.

Everyday, I drive the same route to work. And everyday, I pass a little patch of land. It’s a garden, maybe a quarter acre in size. Right now, it lies empty with only old stalks on top of weeds. It’s brown and dead. But soon, I know the farmer will plow the land, plant seeds and begin to grow vegetables. It will erupt into a green explosion of life. I’ve seen it happen year after year. I’ll see him out there early each morning with a hoe in hand, weeding. He’ll spray to kill insects. And he’ll water when it’s dry. The farmer will practice patience and planning — and will be rewarded. In the late summer, he’ll harvest an amazing crop — just like he has for the past 17 seasons.

Down the road there’s another patch of land that lies fallow. It is full of twisted weeds and is full of brush. It has the potential to be as productive as the other garden. But it’s not. It just sits there, producing nothing.

We’re all given our own little plot of land called life. Some are granted richer soil. Some have a space that is full of rocks. I’ve seen people with rich soil produce nothing but weeds. And I’ve seen people with rocky soil grow amazing crops.

It’s about what we do with what we’re given.

I thought about that when I passed the garden the morning. What am I going to grow this season? How will I use this gift I’ve been given?

“God won’t give you anything you can’t handle.”

My friend was trying to comfort me after listening to the stream of bad news I had received over the past few weeks. He went to shake my hand.

“Ugh,” he said, “that looks pretty bad.” He looked at the purple-yellow swollen mess I call my drawing hand.

I smiled and said, “It’s alright. Good things come from the worst moments.”

Yeah, I know that sounds trite, but I honestly believe it. And I felt slightly comforted by his attempt to cheer me up. I filed it under, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Actually, I generally believe bad things are good because they force you to change. I’ve never changed when I’m comfortable.”

So God is giving me things I can handle. But I also think He is helping me change for the better. And that’s the good in the bad.

I shook his hand with my injured hand and felt the shock of pain. That pain will make me stronger. I will do rehab and make my hand stronger. I will appreciate my ability to draw more.

I will get better.

And I can handle that.

Looks like another gray Monday. It’s cold. The milk and bread index is an 8. The word “ice” has been thrown around by the weather types. Mississippians can’t drive when it rains. We’re toast if we get an ice storm.

Why? The Mayans chuckle when it freezes here. It’s the end of the world.

There is really nothing redeeming about an ice storm. You can’t make ice angels. Or an ice fort. An Ice Man is a pilot in Top Gun. If you throw an ice ball, you’ll most likely impale your friend in the heart. (That’s not good.) The power will most likely go out — because power lines get whiny when coated with tons of ice. And if they don’t fall on their own, a pine tree will help them out. Pines don’t like ice either. But look on the bright side, you’ll get plenty of firewood and a new sunroof in your house.

Bonus.

An ice storm happens when there is warm air aloft and freezing temperatures shoehorn themselves right under it at the surface. If it is cold, warm, cold, we get sleet. Cold, cold, cold, we get wonderful snow. You know, the fun stuff. The stuff that makes the world pretty, not looking like a glazed hell.

When I was a kid, we got five inches of ice. Five. It was the apocalypse. People were out of power for Katrina-like lengths of time. Trees came down. Aquariums froze (no kidding.) I remember my dad sliding our family’s giant green station wagon up Willard Drive on his way to work. That’s when I knew it sucked to be an adult.

Which I am now. So I await the impending ice apocalypse brought on by freezing drizzle — or worse — with clinched teeth.

But I still say this one truth: Ice is only good for drinks. And I have a feeling we’ll all need one by tomorrow.

A cold rain poured down on New Orleans. Simon O’Mally looked out his window at the city and caught caught a glimpse of his reflection. “How did I get this old?” he thought in disgust. Sex, drugs and rock and roll had somehow turned into Viagra, ibuprofen and easy listening. This was no way for an aging rockstar to live.

But was he really alive? It felt more like he had died years ago.

He breathed against the glass. A fog formed. “OK,” he thought, “At least I am alive.” He just wish he could have said the same for his career.

Tonight he’d stand on stage with his guitar and play his hits from 30-years ago to a crowd who would show up fashionably late and talk through all the new songs. They might cheer his biggest hit, a #2 smash from 1986 — the one that was playing in the damned elevator. Or they might leave early because of the weather. He looked at his phone and saw three messages from his manager. Simon replied by throwing the phone across the room. He was throwing an epic pity party in his small hotel room. No one else was invited.

Simon felt the wrinkles on his face. Was this all there was that left? He imagined himself diving out the window and onto the street below. That might get him on the charts again. Death did Elvis’ career wonders.

No. He wouldn’t quit. An old freighter pushed against the Mississippi River’s mighty current. It struggled and sent up a frothing wake. But it was heading toward it’s destination. It didn’t stop because things were “too hard.” Simon thought of a day from his youth. He and his father were sailing near Sydney, Australia when a sudden storm came up. “I’m scared Dad! I want off!” His father, who was fighting to keep the ship afloat screamed back, “Then jump overboard. But I’m not quitting. We have a beautiful destination ahead of us. We just have to ride out the storm!”

His father died three years later of a heart attack. But they didn’t die that day. They kept fighting all the way back to their destination. Simon thought of all the beautiful destinations he had seen since then: MTV, Award shows, beautiful fans, exotic cities. If he had quit that day, he would have missed them all.

I just have to ride out the storm!

New Orleans is a city of lost souls. But one of those souls also became Simon’s muse. He walked over to the desk and started writing lyrics. Images of a storm flowed from his hand. Images of a boat and a small boy. Currents swirled around the green water. Froth churned in the storm. Sea-spray stung his eyes. And by the end of the lyrical journey, hope and grit arrived safely at its destination. It was a song he needed to write. It was a son he needed to hear. He picked up his guitar and the melody flowed from his fingers. Never had a song been this easy to write. Never had he felt magic.

“Thanks, Dad.”

That night in the House of Blues, Simon O’Mally played to a 3/4 house. They showed up late and talked during his newer songs. But when he played, “Riding out the Storm” at the end of the last encore, you could hear a pen drop. “This is for my dad,” he said as he began to play. Camera phones rose like the tide, capturing the raw moment when an aging rock star delivered three and half minutes of magic to the world. When his guitar’s last string silenced, the hall erupted into cheers. Simon wiped the sweat off his forehead and the houselights came on.

“Helluva song, Simon!” his manager nearly tackled him. “I was even inspired by it. Where did that come from?”

Simon tapped his heart and pointed to the sky.

Postscript.

“Riding out the Storm” became a YouTube sensation. It was the most retweeted video of 2015 and was shared over and over on Facebook. Like the 1,000th match hitting wet wood, a fire was started with that song. And Simon O’Mally had his first number one song ever. It was played at the Super Bowl the next year and became the theme song for anyone facing a struggle. When Simon came back to New Orleans the next year (to a packed house), he met a man and his daughter. “I was going to kill myself, but I heard your song. You helped me ride out the storm. Now she has a dad and I have hope. Thank you.”

Simon O’Mally hugged the man and the little girl. And at that moment, he realized, he also had ridden out the storm.

I learned several things in college: My Social Security number, how to draw editorial cartoons and the joy of a Saturday afternoon football game. But its funny, the most important lessons were the quiet ones that were taught in odd moments in unexpected places. And many of those lessons were ones that I didn’t appreciate until years later. Like today.

My oldest son was working on an English paper recently and my mind went back to the 500-word, five paragraph essays I had to write in my early UT english classes. I didn’t consider myself a good writer back then (and probably wasn’t), but I got good grades. I figured out the drill and learned how to tell a decent enough story in a properly structured way.

My sophomore year, my English class was over “The Hill” in one of the engineering buildings. I don’t remember much about the class or even the teaching assistant’s name, to be honest, but I do know my friend Julia Gibson Hammer​ was in the class with me. (Julia, I include you in this tale because you might remember the prof’s name).

I settled in for several weeks of more 500-word essays.

Until one day the professor (short, fairly heavyset, thinning hair) began a different lecture. He began talking about how we need to live our life in the moment. How we should just engage and live deeply. That we should not be like Gerridaes (water striders or water bugs) and skim across the surface of our lives.

I sat in that Engineering classroom, listening to an English teaching assistant tell me one of the most important lessons of my life. And it went completely over my head.

Until today. This evening, I’m saddened by the sudden death of someone who I liked and respected. I continue to mourn a loved one who is in the early stages of dementia. Thursday, I watched my son get wheeled into surgery. And I earlier that morning, I nearly tore my fingers off my drawing hand.

I am feeling very, very mortal. And tired.

And then I thought of the Gerridae. I thought of how much life I’ve wasted just skimming. Maybe it is time to go deeper in the water. Maybe it is time to appreciate the remarkable gift of life a little bit more.

I raise a toast to that unnamed teaching assistant. You, my friend, were wise before my ability to realize it. And I raise a toast to the Gerridae. While you skim, I’ll start to live.