Marshall Ramsey

It was the tallest building in the smallest of Southern cities. Every morning, the 45-year-old mid-level corporate executive would enter its rotating doors and head up to his commanding corner office.  Like the fine Swiss watch on his wrist, his routine was extremely precise.

8:45 a.m. — Pull up in the executive garage.

8:47 a.m. — Exit his black BMW with his Latte and head toward the sidewalk.

8:52 a.m. — Spin around the rotating doors.

8:55 a.m — Ride the elevator up 22 floors.

8:59 — Enter his office, look out at the city he helped control and fire up his computer.

It was a routine he had perfected.  Come rain or shine, he would hit his marks daily. By 9 a.m. he would in his chair ready to seize the day.

But not today.  A wrinkle in his routine threw his day into chaos.  And like a butterfly flapping his wings on one side of the world causing a hurricane in the Gulf, the chaos would change his life forever.

The homeless man appeared out of nowhere.  He guessed he could call him homeless, or he could have been shelter-challenged or whatever the proper term was these days.  The executive was so startled that he dropped his latte, leaving a Mickey Mouse-shaped spill on the sidewalk.

“Pardon me,” he said huffily to the man.

The homeless man just stood there, staring at the man silently and not moving.

“Um, I said pardon me.” The executive looked at his watch.

The homeless man looked at the executive and said with a raspy voice, “I’ve been watching you.”

The executive felt a chill run up his neck and that wrapped itself around his brain.

“Um, pardon me.”  The executive tried to cut left and then right. The haggard man continued to block him.

“You walk past me every day.  I’ve been watching you.”

“I think you’ve already said that.  I don’t know why you are watching me, but I’d appreciate it if you’d get the heck out of my way.”

The old man then said something odd.  “I’m proud of you.”

The executive looked at the old man. “Great. Now, I’m going to be late for work.  You don’t want me to be fired, do you? I’d hate to be fired. You wouldn’t be proud of me then, would you?” Sarcasm dripped off his lips like acid.

The old man said, “Do you know your father?”

The executive recoiled.  “THAT is none of your business.”

“You think he’s dead, don’t you?  He’s not. I know him.”

The executive stopped for a minute and looked again at the old man.  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee.”

The old man just backed away from the executive and into the shadows of the alley.

“WAIT! COME BACK!”  But by then, the old man was running.

Several more days passed as the executive continued to look for the old man.  He called all the local shelters and soup kitchens but tried to find out more about him.  No luck. “This is my city, ” he thought. I should be able to find one man.

The executive picked up his iPhone and called a familiar number.

“Butch, this is Steve. I have a favor I need you to do for me. Yeah, it’s an investigation. No, not of my wife.  I don’t think her spin instructor is nosing around any more. Meet me at Spurlock’s Donut Shop and we’ll talk.”

Two weeks later, a call came in from Butch.  The police have something for you, Steve. And you’re not going to believe this.

Steve’s BMW pulled up to the base of the Interstate bridge and joined three cop cars and an ambulance.  There was a cardboard house and a covered body.  He had found the old man, but a day too late.

“Natural causes, the best we can tell,” the sergeant said. “But come in here, I have some things to show you.”

Inside the cardboard hovel was hundreds of paper clippings — of HIM.  “Was he a stalker?”  The cop shook his head.

“This might explain it to you.”  It was a letter written on the back of a flyer for the downtown deli in his office building.

“Dear Steve,

Like I said before, I am very proud of you.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you as you grew up. I was always on the periphery, on the edge and in the shadows. But I was too unstable to be a good dad. Yes, Steve – like Darth Vader, I’m your father.

After the war, I couldn’t take the peace.  My nightmares crept into the day.  The day I hit your mother, I knew I had to go.  Drugs and drink followed.  These aren’t excuses — they are just sign of my human frailty. I took odd jobs and quietly found ways to support you.  Remember that anonymous scholarship to college and law school?  I was the janitor at your wedding. I delivered flowers to the nursery when your son was born. I’ve been there. You just never knew it.

Last month, I began coughing up blood. I knew my time was short.  I approached you the other day just to let you know how damn proud of you I am.  I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to tell you the truth.  I guess I’m best at being a coward.”

Tears flowed down the executive’s face as his hands shook.

“Tell your mother I am sorry.  I still love her and will love her for eternity.  I just ask one thing of you, Steve. Be a better Father than I was.  Be a man and step up to your fears.  And Happy Father’s Day.”

The executive openly sobbed under an interstate bridge in a small Southern city.  He then walked up to the body, lifted the sheet, kissed the old man on the forehead and said goodbye the only way he knew how.

“Happy Father’s Day, dad. Happy Father’s Day.”

The morning sky over the Delta looked like it was lined with Mother of Pearl.  No painter could create the beauty of a Mississippi Delta sunrise except for one. And He was the master. A thousand sermons couldn’t reinforce the man’s faith as well as the beautiful landscape he saw when he parked his truck. But then he felt dread.

He was there to do a job he didn’t want to do.

His elderly mother and father emerged from the family homeplace and greeted him with a steaming cup of coffee. The screen door creaked and slammed shut, leaving the old family dog whimpering at the doorway, wanting to join the family reunion.

“Thank you for doing this for us, ” his dad said.  The man hugged his mom and did the same to his dad.  He and his father used to just shake hands, but when his grandfather died, his dad became a much softer man. Silly barriers to affection quickly fade when mortality comes into play.

“No problem. I’m sorry it has to be done.”  He walked back out to the truck and got his chainsaw out and gassed it up.

In the back of his parent’s yard was a giant sycamore tree. It was mighty, grand and dominated the other trees around it.  The man gazed at it and it reminded him very much of the Moon Tree planted on Mississippi State’s campus. His parents, natives of Georgia, had planted the switch in the backyard to remind them of their former home. They also hoped that it would give their new baby boy’s room some shade on the hot Delta summer days.

And  grow it did.

They had grown up together, each adding rings as the years passed.  The sycamore gave him shade and a giant playground.  He remembered climbing to the top of the it when he was 13 and seeing all the way to the Mississippi River.  He remembered reading Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree while sitting beneath its branches. “Don’t worry, tree,” He promised. “This won’t happen to you.  You’ll be around forever.”

It was naivety of youth.

Lightning had put an end to the tree.  Four months earlier, a severe storm had blown through the Delta and a bolt struck the mighty sycamore.  The scar left the tree vulnerable to tiny bugs.  Soon the mighty tree began to die.  The nice gentleman at the Extension Service just shook his head when he looked at it.  “Nothing could be done,” he proclaimed. “It had to be removed.”

“I feel like I’m about to cut off one of my own limbs.”

He and his dad looked at the tree.  A slight breeze blew, rattling the brown, dead leaves.  “Life goes on, boy.  Someday you’ll face this kind of decision with us.”

“Um, dad, you saying I’ll have to cut you and mom up with a chainsaw?”  Both men laughed, adding a little levity to the moment.

But the man knew exactly what his dad meant.  Time gives so many gifts but then begins to cruelly take them away.

“Hey, dad — you mind if I do one more thing before we get to work?”  His dad eyed his son and knew exactly what was on his mind.

“Sure son, take your time.”

The man walked up to the tree and saw where he had carved his and Becky Gibson’s initials on it.  He saw where he had marked his height. And then he grabbed on to the lowest branch and began to climb.  Every branch propelled him higher. And every inch he climbed shaved more time off his age.

By the time the man had reached the top of the old tree, he was once again a 13-year-old boy, gazing out with wonder toward the Mississippi River. He thought of Luke 19.4 and smiled — “So he ran on ahead and climbed up into a sycamore tree in order to see Him, for He was about to pass through that way.”

Then the sun broke through the light overcast and a single beam of light illuminated the old tree one last time.

The nervous young man looked at his stainless steel diver’s watch repeatedly.

3:06.

3:07.

3:08.

“When is this baby going to come out?” he thought.  Of course, his wife was asking the same question, too.  Monitors beeped, nurses scurried and soon, a baby cried.

The new father looked at his watch.

3:09 p.m.

“Welcome to the world son. Welcome to the world.”

The father worked hard, but always made sure he was home in time to see his son before he went to sleep. On this particular night, his son pulled up on the ottoman and began to take a step.  The toddler stuck out one foot, wobbled and then repeated with his other foot. His first official steps.  As the mom cheered, the dad looked at his watch.

6:35 p.m.

Five years later, the father sat in the emergency room.  His  little boy held an icepack where the baseball had hit him in the face.  The father repeatedly looked at his watch.  When would they be seen?

7:58 p.m.

8:58 p.m.

He shrugged. Time goes so much slower when a loved one is in pain.   The dad looked at the watch again. “Thanks for being here, dad.” the little boy bravely said as he held the icepack to his face.

The boy was now 16 and driving. His curfew was 11 p.m. and the father sat in his recliner looking at his watch.  It was his ritual — to wait up until the boy got home.

10:58 p.m

10: 59 p.m.

The garage door opened and the boy walked through, throwing the keys on the coffee table.  “Night, dad.  Thanks for letting me borrow the car.”

The dad smiled at his son’s punctuality.

Five years later, the dad once again looked again at his watch.

11:59 a.m.

The music in the hall began and there on the stage, his son, his classes valedictorian,  stepped up to the stage to address his classmates.  “I want to thank everyone who made this moment possible, especially my parents.  The dad looked again at his watch and smiled.  The boy knew the value of a short speech.

Four years later, the father looked at his watch.

5:30 p.m.

He sat on the front row of the packed church as the organ began to play “Here comes the bride.” He looked at the beautiful woman walking down the aisle and then shot a glance to his now-grown son.  He looked at his watch again.  “Where has the time gone?” he whispered to his wife. “Where has the time gone?

Three years later, the father stood in the same hospital where he had so many years ago.  Once again, he looked at his watch repeatedly.

3:06.

3:07.

3:08.

And then at 3:09, his grandson came into the world.

Later that evening, both men were staring at the tiny baby in the nursery.  The dad smiled, unfastened his stainless steel diver’s watch from his wrist and handed it to his son.  “Here you go son, Happy Father’s Day. You need this now more than I do.”

The son stared at the old watch and realized he had been given the most valuable gift of all from his father.

“Thanks, dad. Thanks for the gift of time.”