Marshall Ramsey

The young television reporter wiped dust from his face and sighed. “The war! The Godforsaken war! My hair! My messed-up hair!” he thought as explosions rocked the battleground in front of him.  The $25,000 he earned wasn’t worth this.  He had seen more battles than Brett Favre had retirement parties.  He gazed at  the fighting with disbelief.

He motioned to his cameraman to film the mobile home exploding far in the distance.  “That one was in Alabama!” the cameraman shouted over the roar of incoming fighter jets. Reporter and cameraman hunkered down in their  foxhole just outside of the Quitman, Miss. (the current front-line of the battle). The Great AlaMiss War had taken such a bloody toll.  But why? Why had they gotten to this hellish place.  Another mobile home exploded. “Manufactured housing is really having a bad day,” he thought.  It was like a tornado outbreak on a steamy Southern Spring Sunday. The reporter pulled his glove off and flipped through his notebook.

January 19, 2011: It all started over illegal immigration.

The Mississippi Legislature was fresh into its new session and since there were no other pressing issues (like the economy, education and poverty) the topic of illegal immigration had quickly jumped to the front of the legislative agenda.

“We must have an Arizona-Style immigration Bill!” proclaimed Lt. Gov. (and Gubernatorial candidate) Phil Bryant.  It had been like flicking a lit match into a fireworks tent.  First came the debate in the Mississippi State Senate.  Then came Bryant’s next statement, “We must protect our borders!” Senator Joey Fillingane immediately jumped to his feet and echoed, “We must protect our borders!”

All Hell broke lose.

The new Governor of Alabama, coming back from his “Apologize across Bama tour”  took offense at the statement.  “What do you mean ‘PROTECT OUR BORDERS?'” he screamed.  Then came the shot heard around the world — The Alabama Legislature declared war on Mississippi.  Meridian was destroyed after a  Pearl Harbor-style sneak attack. The Queen City was crowned. The U.S.S. Alabama, taken out of mothballs in the middle of the night, shelled Biloxi, Gulfport and Bay St. Louis.  Cam Newton fought for Alabama after his dad couldn’t get a deal to fight for Mississippi. Tupelo fell like Michigan at the Gator Bowl. Governor Barbour, trapped at a fundraiser for Sarah Palin’s dog in Iowa , could not get back to Jackson in time to lead a counterattack.  So Lt. Governor-now-General Phil Bryant took charge of the Mississippi National Guard.   Guard troops counter attacked Tuscaloosa, attacking the Alabama campus and picking up ribs at Dreamland.  General Bryant, dressed like Patton in front of a giant Mississippi flag, yelled, “NO GUTS, NO GLORY. Pass the BBQ sauce!”

Louisiana, hungry for recently banned fake bath salts, massed millions of Nutria on the Southern border.  Troops from Camp Shelby blockaded I-55 and I-59 South. Mississippi was quickly facing a two-front war.  General Bryant pushed toy tanks on the giant war map in the middle of the State Capitol.  “We will not tolerate illegal Alabamans and Nutria sneaking into Mississippi and stealing our jobs.”  He prepared the nuclear codes.

The young reporter saw the flash out of the corner of his eye.  “What the…” The shock wave flipped him over the card table and knocked the breath out of him.  And it messed up his hair even worse. Demopolis was gone now.  He saw the missiles pass overhead from the strike and counterstrike.  Mushroom clouds rose over Hot Coffee, Mendenhall, Hoover and Anniston.  Chickens were fried in Scott County. Next, the Toyota and Mercedes plants were obliterated.  Then the capitals of Jackson and Montgomery went kaboom.

In his bunker, General Bryant and the Senate popped a cork on a bottle of alcohol-free Champagne.  “No more illegal Alabamans will be stealing Mississippi jobs!”  they cheered.  The borders were secure.  The Great AlaMiss War was no more.

My sister’s family gave me a Polo shirt a couple of Christmas’ ago.  I love it — it’s so much nicer than what I’d go out and buy for myself.  It’s a white and blue striped button-down. And it’s very comfortable.  It’s a good looking shirt — one of my favorites.

I just noticed a brown, faded spot on the sleeve.  And I got chills.

It’s a stain. A stain from my youngest son’s blood.   He bled all over me the last time I wore this shirt. I was holding him, trying to comfort him as he woke up badly from surgery.  As he thrashed around, he pulled the IV out of his hand and covered me with copious amounts of blood.

A quick thinking nurse fixed his hand and soaked my shirt with Hydrogen Peroxide (It’s what OxyClean is in case you didn’t know).  Nearly all of the blood washed out of my shirt.  Except for this one spot.  This one spot of his blood.

As I looked down at it, I thought about him. I thought about all the struggles he has gone through in his life. I thought about what a perfect little guy he is and how much I love him.  His blood is my blood.   And just looking down at the faded brown spot triggered powerful emotions that I’m unable to explain.

Being a parent is like that.  It’s a power that I never comprehended until I became one.

I could wash this spot out — I used to be a janitor after all. But I won’t.  I’ll keep it as another badge reminding me of a father’s love of his son.

I’m headed to Madison Central High School to talk about what I do.  I hope I can figure it out before I get there.   I can’t wait, though — I’ll be looking at the kids and be thinking, “Look at the bright young faces of the future” and they’ll be looking at me thinking “Who’s the farty old man up in front of the class.”

Update:

I spoke to Laura Miller’s English class for about an hour.  I opened up with how my first printed cartoon got me sent to the principal’s office and how it has been downhill ever since.  But I stressed to them that they should never give up on their dreams.  How that well-meaning disbelievers would discourage them and that if they had the talent and the desire they should never give in.  Of course, I was telling them that because I needed to hear it again.  But I didn’t let them know it.  All and all it was a great visit to Madison Central.

As much as I love talking to kids in a classroom,  I could never be a teacher.  I’m more like an uncle not a parent. I swoop in, tell a few fart jokes and leave before I have to change any diapers.

There once was a farmer who was blessed with extremely fertile land. And on this land, all the farmer had to do was scatter a few seeds and a bountiful crop would grow.  He was rewarded with a huge harvest year after year with very little effort. And each crop was bigger than the last.

One year, the land was cursed with a terrible drought.  The very plants that had provided so many riches began to wither and die. While the land produced a good yield, it wasn’t as large as it had been in years past.  And weeds that were once choked out by the strong, healthy crops began to take over.

Fertile soil can grow giant weeds as well as fruits and vegetables. And the weeds began to grow and grow.  The farmer tried chemicals to control the weeds, which worked fairly well. But the other plants still continued to wilt and die.

One day dark, angry clouds appeared on the horizon. Before the farmer could protect his crop, there was a violent hailstorm.  And in the blink of an eye, everything was gone. The damage was devastating. The damage was complete. The farmer looked out at his fields and cursed the sky. The crop was destroyed.

He fell to his knees and broke down; he was totally defeated.

As he sobbed, the clouds parted, allowing a sole sunbeam to burn its way to the ground. The farmer felt the warm sun on his face as he looked back out at the destruction before him.  He saw things differently than he had in his whole life.  Instead of seeing ruined crops, he saw the fertile soil beneath it.  There could be an amazing crop once again — but the farmer knew he had to change how he managed his land.

The first step was to remove the ruined crops.  The farmer burned the dead plants and plowed them into the soil.  The past could be a powerful fertilizer for the future.  The farmer toiled for days, dealing with the emotions of what was and the unfairness of the storm.  At times he was angry.  But anger was like plowing salt back into his field.  It would do nothing more than prevent new plants from growing again.

The farmer then sat down and drew a picture of his fields.  He looked at the different types of soil and thought about what would grow better where.  He broke the field into five parts to grow different types of crops.

He then decided what crops would go in four of the areas.  One of the areas he allowed to remain fallow.  And each year he’d rotate the fallow area to another of the other four areas.  He needed to allow the soil to recharge. To build back its nutrients.

Speaking of nutrients, the farmer thought about the types of fertilizers he plowed into the his land.  He was sure to make sure it was good for the crop, not just good for short-term results.  He made a plan of when to feed his plants and stuck to it.

The farmer had faith, too. He had faith that when he planted his seeds, they’d grow into the crops he hoped for. But he met his faith halfway with hard work and planning.  Faith alone would not bring his harvest to market.

Weeds still grew on the land. But since the land was organized and the farmer spend many hours exercising and hoeing them out, they no longer threatened the crop.  He no longer needed the chemicals that had helped him keep them in check.  The weeds slowly withered and died.

Months past and the bounty was greater than the farmer could have ever imagined. His planning meant he had the acreage and the time to try new crops. And they yielded even greater gains than before the storm.  And since the farmer was so grateful that he gave 10% of his new bounty to those less fortune than him.  That bounty wasn’t just part of the crop, it was teaching others how to plan their fields to produce their own bounty.

Droughts and hailstorms came again.  But the farmer had saved enough that he was able to recover from the setbacks.  His plan gave him the structure to snap back.  The crop was quickly growing once again.

Late one summer evening, the farmer sat on his tractor and watched the sun set over his land.  He smiled and looked at the very sky he had once cursed. “Thank you for the storm,” he whispered as he basked in the glory of his largest crop ever.

Our minds are our fields.  Some have more fertile soil than others but we can grow great crops with our brains.  But depression and anger are the weeds that choke out our dreams.  Planning and hard work will keep your fields hoed.  Proper nutrition and exercise will keep the plants fertilized. We’re all blessed with some degree of potential.  And with effort and planning, we can be blessed with a bountiful crop, too.