Marshall Ramsey

Don Rickles lived a long and fruitful life.

Let me repeat that last sentence with emphasis: Don Rickles LIVED a long and fruitful life.

The caustic comedian had another side to him when the cameras were off. He was a loyal husband, father and friend. And he was relevant until the day he died. His appearances on talk shows were funny. His stories about Frank Sinatra were hilarious. But he didn’t live in the past. He was truly planted in the present.

I have a big birthday this year. I’ve watched my own parents age and struggle at the end of their lives. Looking for role models to emulate for the rest of my life is important (Whether it be one day or 40 more years). So here you go. (Let’s call it the Don Rickles plan.)

1. Find humor in life.
2. Be a good father, husband and friend.
3. Live life in the moment (but tell funny stories about the past).
4. Be relevant until the very end.

Works for me, you hockey puck.

Not the possum in the story. And yes, I know it is opossum, but I didn’t feel like buying a vowel.

Last night, the last 100 yards before my subdivision entrance was like driving through a petting zoo. First there were four does standing on the side of the road munching on grass. I used the Jedi Mind Trick on them (You don’t want to die today. I don’t want to die to day) to keep them from running out in front of me. It worked.

Then there was Mr. Possum. When I first saw him I thought, “He’s mighty big for a dead possum.” Then I realized he was alive and the middle of the road, munching on something dead. “Oh the irony,” I thought. Add to it the freakiness of actually seeing a live possum. I can count on one hand the number of alive possums I’ve seen in the middle of the road in my life.

I slowed down. (I was feeling charitable — I’ve nearly been squished a couple of times this year, so I wanted to pay my blessing forward.) Mr. Possum reacted to my car and started to run right under my wheel. I now know why so many of his kind don’t make it to the other side of the road.

I stopped. He stopped. And then he turned around and ran back into the woods to safety.

I felt a little relieved when I finally got home. I didn’t really feel like taking a life — even if it was a not-very bright possum.

This morning, I went on a run up the same road. It was dark and I once again saw something in the middle of the road. And yes, it was Mr. Possum once again. But this time, Mr. Possum was dead as a sack of rocks. It seems that I had just delayed the inevitable. I saluted my friend and moved on, careful not to meet a car and suffer his fate. And then I came to this conclusion:

The road to my house is paved with good intentions and dead possums.

When I was a kid, I had food allergies out the…um, ear. I couldn’t eat chocolate, drink orange juice, drink whole milk — being a kid sucked. Then one day, I grew out of them. Hallelujah, pass the Hersheys.

Then at the age of 18, I started to suffer from seasonal allergies. Back then, the best medicines you had to take were basically related to anesthesia drugs. The trees would copulate and I’d walk around in a yellow-crusted fog for three months. And then fall asleep standing up.

For a brief two-year-stint, I moved to San Diego, California. Whatever it is that makes my nose turn into Mt. St. Helens, apparently doesn’t grow out there. I was sneeze-free and it was grand.

Then I moved back here. The yellow-encrusted fog returned.

Highly paid researchers soon came out with what are known as second-generation antihistamines. I could take a Claritin and I’d feel human again — and still have enough energy to function. Unfortunately though, my snot-shields started to weaken. This year Claritin failed me totally. I’m now trying three different options. Hopefully one of them will make pollen season nothing to sneeze at.

P.S. As an added bonus, my food allergies are starting to reappear. But there’s no way I’ll give up chocolate. Oh Hell no. Well, maybe I will mostly. I’m cutting back on sugar, too. Being an adult is hard. I’ve given up about everything but air for Lent. I’d like to give up sneezing. I’ll report back in a few days if I do.

Andy Andrews is one of the funniest people I’ve met (well, I’ve met him via an interview and some e-mail conversations). He’s also one the most observant people I’ve come across as well. Andy is an author, speaker and stand-up comedian. He’s also a dad, husband and friend to many. But Andy has been touched by tragedy (losing his parents waaay too early in life) and was homeless, too. In fact, for a while, he lived under a pier in the Gulf Shores/Orange Beach area. Like Anakin Skywalker, he has every reason to hate sand.

Thankfully, though, Andy didn’t become Darth Vader.

Andy instead became a noticer (a term that he uses in a couple of his books.) He has a knack at seeing the the little things that most of us miss.

Of course, his new book just happens to be called The Little Things: Why You Really SHOULD Sweat the Small Stuff (Thomas Nelson Press). It’s a good, solid book and quick read. And it’s one that will leave you with moments when you go, “Oh yeah.”

One of the stories in the book is about a trip he and his wife made to visit friends for a dinner engagement. At the end of his street (he now lives six miles from the pier he used to live under), he had a choice of turning West or East (straight would have been a seafood dinner in the Gulf). He and his wife Polly longed to turn West because the sun was starting to put on a spectacular show. But they had to turn east. Polly began taking pictures as they drove — each one more spectacular as the other. At one point, she said, “I bet you saw lots of beautiful sunsets when you lived under the pier.” Andy got quiet. A very painful nerve had been hit. After a few minutes and a few more questions from her, he told her, “I don’t remember the sun ever being this beautiful.” They eventually pulled over and looked at the spectacular photos. One was intriguing — it was of their car mirror. But in the mirror, there was a perfect shot of the setting sun. Polly hadn’t seen that when she took the picture. And at that moment, Andy realized the sunsets had been beautiful when he was homeless. But back then, night meant fear. He completely missed the beauty of the moment.

I didn’t do Andy’s story justice (he’s a much better storyteller). But I got his message loud and clear. We go through life blind to our blessings. I have told the story of my year as a custodian so many times here — but I’ll be honest, I never saw the beauty of that experience until AFTER I had left.

It’s the little things folks. You have to learn to see them, find them and cherish them. Otherwise we’re like water bugs and are skimming along the surface of our lives. And I think of how many beautiful things I’ve missed because I was afraid, too.

Thanks Andy. Once again, you taught me to see life in a better way.

My son recently spent a little time down at the Mississippi Capitol. He and his older brother are politically aware (wonder how that happened) and I enjoy their views on the world. One morning, while we were driving to the Capitol, he was telling me a devotional he attended one morning before the Session gaveled in. The speaker, giving a message every politician should hear, said that we should do things out of love, not fear and greed. My son and I talked about that for a few moments and I told him about some examples of people I know who do both. Then we went through the Chick-fil-a drive-thru to get his breakfast. There is one particular lady who always is kind and friendly when you pull up to get your food. That day wasn’t an exception and as we pulled away, I smiled and told her to stay out of trouble. She laughed and we did, too. It was a bright spot of the day.

My son then said, “She always does things out of love.” I smiled and nodded. And was glad he had the wisdom to recognize it.