Marshall Ramsey

This is the crap I thought about while running this morning:

Love really isn’t like money. When you invest money, you expect a return. And when you give away money, you have less of it. When you invest your heart, you should expect nothing in return. And when you give it away, it does nothing but grow.

(As my right leg and back hurt) I really need to stretch more.

The biggest lie people tell is “I’m fine.”

This shirt really needs to be burned. It stinks.

People are so afraid right now.

That pothole was the size of a bus.

What am I going to draw about today?

Have I only gone a mile? Damn.

We live our lives one feeling to the next. There’s nothing logical about our brains.

This humidity is like a wet wool blanket.

People are all self-medicating one way or another. Some drink. Some shop. Some eat chocolate. We’re all trying to fill a God-shaped hole in one form or fashion.

I’m glad it is dark. I bet I look really stupid.

What can I do to be a better husband and father?

I really like this song.

Almost done with the run.

(As I gave at a couple of stars through the clouds). We really are insignificant in the scheme of things.

It’s dark. I hope the alligator isn’t on the bank again.

I’m grateful for another day.

I’m getting too old for this $%^#.

My 5th-grade Target teacher (what they called the gifted program back in the day) told us that experiments allow us to simulate conditions in the real world in a controlled environment. For some reason, that popped into my head this morning as I worked out. I think it’s because my one-hour bootcamp is my daily experiment for daily life. It allows me to test myself and my philosophies. It gives a morning “gut check” to see what I’m made of and how much will I possess. Some days, the results aren’t that great. But I can always come back the next day and try something different. I can get stronger both mentally AND physically.

Here are a five things I’ve learned from my morning experiment that help me get through the tough times:

1. Stay in the moment. When you going through a particularly rough exercise, you don’t look down the field at another station. You don’t think about the last one. You focus on what you are doing at that particular second and try to do the very best you can. When your mind wanders (What will I eat today? Why is my wife mad at me? Will I make deadline today? I about puked at that last station!) you lose focus and make mistakes. The past doesn’t matter. The future doesn’t matter. You focus on the now.

2. Break every exercise into small sections. That makes it easier to survive when it gets really tough. Think, “I can do this for another minute,” instead of “I can’t do this for another hour.” I’ve survived many of crappy days that way. The other day, I was about to pass out while pushing tackling dummies down the football field. I kept telling myself “I can make if five more yards.” I was right. If I had said, ” I can’t do this,” I’d have been right too.

3. Everyone around you is in pain too. Everyone around you is going through something. Focus on helping them and it will help you get through your pain, too.

4. Don’t allow mistakes to rattle you. I used to be the king of allowing screw-ups to yank my chain. Now, I breathe deeply, listen to the coach (if I am being called out) and try to do better. You just keep moving past the error — not reliving it.

5. How to work through fatigue. I used to be a bear when I got tired. Now I am tired most all the time — I don’t have the option of being a bear anymore. By the end of 12 weeks of grinding it at 5 a.m., your body and mind are very exhausted. But you learn you can push past both pain and fatigue. My back hurts today. There were a couple of times I thought, “I can sneak out and head home early.” But then I thought, “I made it this far, I can make it 20 more minutes.” And I did.

There are more, of course, but those are the ones that popped into my head this morning.

How has exercise helped you?

In my closet, I have a pair of white sneakers. They’re practically new but I’ll never wear them. I gave them to my dad last Father’s Day.

It was the last time I saw him conscious.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. My family and I walked into the memory care home and Dad wasn’t in his usual place by the fireplace. (He became cold-natured as his dementia took over). Dad was a greeter and always liked to say hello to anyone who came into the building. As the disease progressed, it stripped him down to his true essence — he loved people. And he loved his family. Normally he’d see us walk in and would smile from ear to ear. But not on that day. He was back in one of the far off rooms by himself.

I knew something was wrong.

He looked frailer than usual. His arm was bandaged from a fall (dementia makes you unstable as the disease progresses). When he woke up from his snooze, he had a disturbed look on his face.

“Hey Dave, (I called him Dave in case he didn’t remember I was his son — although he knew me that day) what’s going on?”

“I have to pay your tuition, don’t I?”

I hugged him and said, “No, I came to tell you I got a scholarship — you never have to pay my tuition again!”

He smiled and became visually relieved. But he was tired. I did not know it at the time, but his kidneys were beginning to fail (which caused his death). We presented him his gift and he perked up a little.

“Happy Father’s Day, Dad!”

We took off his old, worn out tennis shoes and put the new ones on his feet. They were a little big but were comfortable. He seemed pleased. My youngest son entertained him and we visited for a while.

As we left, he followed along behind us, shuffling in his new shoes as he pushed his walker. I still remember the sight of him standing at the doorway, waving and wearing his bright white shoes.

He died two weeks later. My sisters and I were holding his hand as he drew his last gasping breath.

My dad and I had a unique relationship. He played basketball and baseball. I didn’t. He worked on cars, I didn’t. I played football and drew pictures. We argued about politics occasionally and trust me, I know where I get my stubbornness (and temper) from. But I never doubted the man loved me. And I knew for a fact he was very, very proud of me. He taught me how to love my own sons. That’s what a father is supposed to do.

He also had to endure some things I did not know about until the very end of his life. He was incredibly loving to my mom even when that could be a challenge. I better understand the man now that he has died; however, I regret that it took me so long. I moved away in 1993 and didn’t see him but a few days a year after that. Now I pray I see him again someday so I can be nicer to him. And more understanding.

Until then, I have his shoes. Not sure I can fill them. But they’ll remind me of how much he loved his family — and how I should love my family.

I gave him shoes. He gave me his love and taught me how to love mine. In the end, that’s the ultimate Father’s Day gift of all.

Today I had the honor of being the commencement speaker at East Webster High School. It was a packed house in their newly rebuilt (and fortified) gymnasium. (A EF-3 tornado destroyed much of the school in 2011 — the gym is now also a storm shelter). The students marched in. I spoke first. The valedictorian and salutatorian gave their speeches (they both did great). Then all 59 students got a diploma. The principal announced they were officially graduates and hats flew into the air.

Students took pictures with each other and their parents and then would scatter into the wind like dandelion seeds.

A chapter of their lives has now closed.

My own graduation was 31 (ahem) years ago. I don’t remember much about it (I was sober, honest). But what I do remember is what I noticed today — It ended so fast. I remember walking away from the civic center, saying goodbye to people I had known most of my life and never seeing many of them again. We had worked so hard for so long and it was over before you could say, “diploma.”

It was almost anticlimactic.

I looked at the faces of the young men and women today and was very proud of them. I also felt the pride of the people in the stands who had helped them get to this day. I watched at the end as people hugged and posed for pictures. And as walked out of the gym to head home, I said “Godspeed” under my breath.

I hope they have a grand and joyous adventure.