Marshall Ramsey

Dad’s method of teaching waterskiing made water-boarding look humane. You’d hang onto the rope until you got up. And when you did, he’d do his darndest to knock you back down.

There was no crying in waterskiing. But you did drink a lot of lake water.

One of those lake-drinking times was in the middle of Fort Loudon Lake. Fort Loudon Lake is on the Tennessee River near Knoxville, Tennessee. My grandparents had a cabin on it and we’d go there for our family vacation at least once a year. We’d ski all day long, get more gas and keep skiing until the sun went down. It was a blast.

The Tennessee Valley Authority (who run the lake) fluctuated the lake levels everyday. It was almost like an artificial tide — I think to help reduce mosquitos. I don’t know for sure. But what I do know is that it flushed lots of driftwood into the lake. Let me tell you how I know.

We were out skiing one July afternoon and dad decided to teach me about centrifugal force. He threw the boat into a tight circle, causing me to either eat several feet of ski-rope slack or be slung like a planet trying to escape the sun’s orbit. I chose the “be slung” option and proceeded to be spun at the speed of sound.

It was really fun. Really. Well, until I hit one of those pieces of driftwood I just mentioned. If YouTube had existed, I’d have gotten at least 10 million views on my ABC Wide World of Sports opening tumble. I spun and crashed as my skis flew off — and yes, one of them conked me in the head. I hit the water like it was concrete. I saw a flash and then the world went gray.

My ski vest had to earn its keep. I was half-conscious bobbing in the water like a dead catfish.

Dad pulled the boat up next to me and cut the engine. He grabbed a paddle and started poking me.

“You alright?”

I groggily replied, “Go away.”

Seeing I was alive, he continued, “Grab the rope.”

“No. I’m swimming home.”

“It’s three miles. Grab the rope. We’re going to make your story about how you got back up, not how you fell down.”

Dad wasn’t Yoda. But he had a way of hitting you with wisdom (like the ski that hit my head) that got your attention. I grabbed the rope and kept skiing. There were no pity parties on Dave Ramsey’s watch.

Flash forward 20 years. I had just had melanoma surgery and was cut up and swimming in a toxic cloud of opioid painkillers. It was the morning after my surgery. Mom and dad were there helping Amy with things (although I don’t know how much they actually helped. I think they were just worried about their son.) Both were cancer survivors. They knew what I was going through.

Dad walked into my room, started poking me in the forehead and said, “Get up.”

I opened one eye and said groggily, “Go away.”

“C’mon, we’re going for a walk. We’re going to make your story about how you got back up, not about having cancer.”

And I did. We walked around the block as he help my arm. Then a little later in the day, we did it again. And again and again over the next few days. Like he once told my sister who complain that she felt was face down in the mud, “Then roll over.”

Dad’s solution to pain was action.

I sit here today mourning him and my mother after losing them both to nasty diseases in a short time. I have to admit, I’m tired and am a bit sad.

I wish dad would come into my office right now and poke me in the forehead, but he can’t. But if he could, this is what he’d say:

“Grab the rope, Marshall and get back up. We’re going to make that your story.”

Banjo on the day he was released from the emergency vet.

Back in the day when I had a daily radio show, my family decided they wanted to go on a vacation. Since I was chained to my microphone, they left me and our dog Banjo alone to fend for ourselves. And honestly, it wasn’t so bad. Banjo, a 14-year-old diabetic Border Terrier, enjoyed the guy time. I enjoyed the dog time. We’d play tug and I’d walk him around the block. He was always good company. He’d sit with you and supervise whatever you were doing.

I got off the air at 6 p.m. and usually arrived home around 6:30. One evening, I pulled into the garage and was met by silence. No barking. No scratching on the door. No “You just liberated Paris!” joyful greeting. I opened the door to find vomit all over the floor and Banjo lying in a heap in the corner.

Oh crud.

I quickly cleaned up the vomit, threw Banjo in his crate and headed over to the emergency vet. They took him from my arms and said, “We’ll see what we can do for him.” I waited in the waiting room and one of the vets came out to fill me in on his prognosis.

“He’s having a pancreatic attack. It’s pretty bad. We’ll do all we can for him so you go home and get some sleep. If we think he’d not going to make it, we’ll call you so you can say goodbye.”

That was the loneliest drive home I can remember.

When I got there, I brushed my teeth and settled in for a restless night’s sleep. The bed seemed empty without my farting, snoring Banjo. I drifted off into the land of nightmares.

At 3:30 a.m., the phone rang and my heart sank. I picked it up and the vet said, “You need to come over.” I threw on some clothes, fired up my car and bawled like a baby all the way to the emergency vet.

When I entered the back room, all the other animals were asleep in their cages. It was dark except for one light beaming down on a table in the middle of the room. On that table was a little brown dog. It was Banjo. He was wired up and panting like mad — fighting for his life one rapid breath at a time. I went over to him and started to stroke his side. I laid my head down next to his and began telling him what a great dog he was. Then I lifted his little triangle ear and told him, “If you beat this, I’ll write the check.”

Before I could get the last word out of my mouth, his little beady eye opened with a “BINK!”

That stupid dog walked out of there three days later and I wrote the biggest check I’ve written in my life. (I wrote on the memo line, For LAZARUS.)

Banjo showed me something that day: If you have the will, you can perform miracles. He wanted to live — and he did for a few more months. Yet even at his sickest, he loved life. And I learned that if you have the heart, you can do practically anything. His spirit lives on in us and in his book. He was a very, very good dog.

If you go into that emergency vet clinic, you might see the drawing of Banjo hanging on the wall. He’s the saint for all animals who want to live.

Long live the spirit of Banjo. He won the battle and eventually won the war against fear and pain.