Marshall Ramsey

Last night, I emceed a roast for the Mississippi Press Association (and tomorrow, I co-emcee their awards banquet). It was last-minute thing — I was on the panel to roast Governor William Winter, but had to fill-in as host for Sid Salter, who was not feeling well. I have to tell you, it was hard. And completely ad-libbed.

The evening went well. They raised money to help future journalists. I didn’t cuss.

On a personal note, I enjoyed spending time with the Governor and his wife. They are amazing people. They are in their early 90’s and are more alive than most people my age. As I plot how I want to live the rest of my days, Gov. Winter is a good example. Travel. Exercise. Work. He didn’t “retire.” He continues to inspire.

I also sat next to Andy Mullins and David Hampton. Andy has served three Ole Miss chancellors and is full of fun stories. David, I joke, was my other spouse for 15 years. He edited my work and helped shape me into the cartoonist I am today. Only he and my wife could tell me no.

The audience was full of good friends. Living in Mississippi for nearly two-decades has been enjoyable because of the people. (It sure ain’t the weather.)

When the final words were spoken (Go home!), I finally exhaled. Standing in front of nearly 1,000 people and ad-libbing will get your heart rate up.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’m up to my neck today in alligators, but I just wanted to chime in on a little observation. I’ve watched two people at the end of their lives. One had a million friends. One was selfish. The one with the friends was carried across the finish line by the friends. The selfish one died alone.

I get the concept of self preservation. But we’re put on this earth to love and serve others. Be grateful for your friends. And be a friend to them. It doesn’t have to be grand gestures — just show that you care.

Yazoo City’s Zig Ziglar had it right: “You can have everything in life you want, if you will just help enough other people get what they want.

I will read and try to live this for the rest of my life

I’m not really big on giving my sons advice. They probably wouldn’t listen to me if I did — and frankly, I make so many mistakes, they’d spend the rest of their lives unlearning the gems I left them. I did tell my oldest son to always make sure he put water in his oatmeal before he microwaves it. Trust me on that one.

But I do hope that my kids learn from my example. And just saying that scares the daylights out of me. Because once again, I make many, many mistakes. I do want them to know that parents teach until the day they die. And they sometimes teach in negative ways. They will learn from their mother and me daily. They need to learn to be good students of life. And to realize that every person has a story and that story is what drives who they are.

If they are good students, they can learn from everyone.

I hope my kids pick that up. And I hope they put water in their oatmeal. Finding the battery in the smoke alarm is hard to do when the room is full of thick, black smoke.

Had a guy in a Nissan SUV riding my bumper this morning on my commute. I started to get mad — but I learned a long time ago not to allow the person behind you dictate your driving.

So I made up a story for him instead.

His name is Alex Littlewinker. He didn’t do particularly well in school but did study shop. Unfortunately he lost three fingers and had to have a plate put in his head. This morning, he was in a hurry because he has a really bad case of itchy anal glands and can’t sit for long periods of time due to his eyes bleeding from the intense itching. He was on his way to UMMC where he was going to get a flashlight-sized suppository to cure the itching — needless to say, he was in a big, big hurry.

Thankfully Mr. Littlewinker managed to get around me on the interstate but was unfortunately foiled once again by all the other drivers who were choosing to only drive 15 miles over the speed limit.

I wish Mr. Littlewinker well. And I hope he finds relief for his eye-bleeding itching itching soon.

I watched American Sniper and walked out of the theater (which was full) like everyone else:

Quietly.

As I headed to the car, I tried to gather my thoughts and process what I had seen. For the past 14 years, our men and women in uniform have been asked to fight on some of the toughest battlefields on the planet — and many for multiple tours of duty. Thousands have given their lives. Even more have given parts of their bodies due to wounds. But as I was heading home, I thought of the tens of thousands of veterans who’ve come home with wounds we can’t see. If a highly trained and mentally tough U.S. Navy SEAL like Chris Kyle suffered from PTSD, imagine what they are going through?

American Sniper is on its way to being one of the highest grossing R-rated movies of all time. If a fraction of those who bought a ticket demand our veterans get the care they deserve, then I give the movie two enthusiastic thumbs up.

The late winter sun peaked over the trees, bathing the cold land with a warm, golden glow. The ancient Appalachian mountains loomed like sentinels, guarding a small family farm.

Below them, an old gray mule struggled to keep his footing on the rocky ground. Behind him, a farmer tried to control the bouncing plow. It was a job beyond his strength. But he kept going. He had to get the crop into the ground. He had to feed his family. His wife and three children’s survival depended on his persistence.

Of all the plots of land, he had to be given this one. He looked up at the mountains and felt pity rise in his throat. And then he focused back on his goal and kept going. Pity was poor fertilizer.

The plow hit another rock and this time, broke. The farmer cursed his luck. Luck — the farmer pretty much knew he had nothing but bad luck. His wife had been sick all week and his oldest daughter had been running the house as he worked out in the field. The farmer wondered if his name shouldn’t be Job.

There was that pity again. He looked at the plow and realized the damage was fairly minor. “Thanks for small blessings,” he mumbled skyward as he fixed the damage. In no time, the plow was fixed and he kept plowing.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, the field was plowed. He then hooked a small wagon to the mule and began to collect the bigger stones. The farmer felt pity rise up again in his throat, “Why do I have to remove these rocks? Why couldn’t I have been given better land” — but then he realized the rocks were a blessing. He needed them to build a wall to keep his pigs and chickens contained. He continued his work until the sun began to set behind the mountains. Their shadows wrapped the land in a cool blanket of grayness.

As he led the mule toward the barn, he looked toward his cabin and once again felt pity grip his soul. “Why do I have to work so hard?” he asked the sky. “Why is life so hard?” Not that he expected an answer. Moses had it easy. He had a burning bush to answer his questions. He put the mule in the barn, feeling like all his hard work was for nothing.

Then the door to cabin opened. Warmth radiated from the wood structure as a lone figure was silhouetted in its door frame.

It was his wife.

For the first time in a week, she was out of bed. He felt his heart race as he ran up the stone path. His kids ran out and hugged him, welcoming home.

Life wasn’t easy. It wasn’t supposed to be. But each challenge led blessings when you looked for them. He realized his life was like field he just plowed: Full of rocks that turned out to be blessings.

He pushed the hair back from his wife’s thin face and said the only thing he could, “thanks be to God.”

First there was the sound of gravel under the tires and then the car’s engine stopped. The little boy repositioned himself in the back seat after being thrust forward from the sudden stop. His grandfather, who had his arm around the blue front bench seat, turned his head and said, “We’re here.”

“Here” was a place the little boy didn’t want to be. No little boy wanted to be “here.” He sat up and looked out his window. A sign read, “Peaceful Endings Funeral Home.”

Protesting would do no good. The little boy knew his grandfather was a polite man. He loved to pay his last respects to the townspeople. But while his grandfather may have found some pleasure in this trip, it flat creeped the little boy out. A stiff was a stiff.

He walked into the room and smelled all the aftershave and cheap perfume. A short line snaked toward the rosewood coffin in the center of the room. It contained Mr. Woodruff, a bank vice-president. But apparently he wasn’t a particularly popular man. “Must be more like Mr. Potter than George Bailey,” the little boy thought. He loved “It’s A Wonderful Life,” for some strange reason. He hoped to be like George when he grew up.

His grandfather walked up to the coffin and peered in at Mr. Woodruff. The little boy peeked around his grandfather at the waxy, ashen face. The man had had something called “cancer,” and honestly looked very different from how the little boy had remembered him at the bank.

The little boy just stared.

Whatever was lying in that box wasn’t Mr. Woodruff. It kind of looked like him – the mortician was an artist. But the spirit was gone. The life. That spark that made him human. Now he was no different than a piece of gravel out in the parking lot. What was it that made up that spirit? And where did it go? His grandfather told him heaven. Heaven sounded like a wonderful place to the little boy. And he knew Mr. Woodruff’s spirit was glad to rid itself of its cancer ridden host. Almost like a butterfly must feel when it leaves the cocoon.

The headed back out to the car and the little boy stopped and hugged his grandfather. “I love you grandpa.” The old man smiled and said, “I know, buddy. Thank you for coming with me today.”

Three months later, the little boy looked into another coffin. This time it was his grandfather. The line was long from the respectful townspeople who had loved the man. They wanted to pass along their condolences to the family — and to the little boy. He stood there in his J.C. Penny suit with freshly combed hair and tears in his eyes.

“Where did my grandfather’s spirit go?” he thought. But he knew. And he knew that in less than a blink of heaven’s eye, he’d see his grandfather again.

And he looked forward to that day. Just as long as he never had to go to another funeral again — even his own.