Marshall Ramsey

So much has changed in the past 13 years. Yet, so much is still the same.

This morning, my wife Amy and I rushed to get ready for work just like we did in 2001. But our kitchen looks different now (thanks to a remodel). The little face in the high chair is now a teenager who has two brothers. They are two boys who have never known the world pre-9/11.

Amy was ironing just like she was on 9/11. The TV was on back then (a old-style TV that is long gone.) Our flat screen was off this morning. (We check Twitter for the news instead.) Thirteen years ago, I noticed the smoke pouring out of the World Trade Center. I knew it wasn’t an accident. You don’t hit a big building on a clear day. The shock of the second plane hitting the second tower confirmed my fears. We sat stunned as we watched people choose jumping over burning to death — right before our eyes on live TV.

We prayed. And then I rushed off to work.

My commute was almost the same this morning. Different car but same route down I-55 into Jackson. Gas was $1.35 at the Pump ‘N’ Save in 2001. The Pump ‘N’ Save is a Volkswagen dealer. And gas is now $3.09 a gallon.

I walked into the same newsroom. It’s now emptier with less cubicles and people. But it still looks pretty much the same as it did in 2001. A TV was the Towers burning in real time. That TV (replaced with yet another flatscreen) was showing a replay this morning. Thirteen years ago, I was stunned from the horror and thinking what the heck I’d draw in the extra edition. Extra editions have gone the way of the dinosaur. Today we’d post directly to the web. Or send out to Twitter or Facebook. Back then, I hurriedly drew knowing the presses were waiting. I drew a cartoon of the Statue of Liberty mourning as the black smoke covered Manhattan. It was a creation of a tight deadline, adrenaline and prayer.

This morning, I heard a jet fly over. I remember the odd silence for the days after 9/11 when all planes were grounded. The airline industry took it on the chin. Flying in general has gotten more stressful. If that was the terrorist’s goal, they won.

But if their goal was to break us, they failed. As horrifying as that dark day was, something amazing happened. First responders reminded us of their bravery, Congress sang on the Capitol’s steps, we hailed the heroes on Flight 93 and we came together as a country like we haven’t since World War 2. Flags flew everywhere.

The last thirteen years have come at a great cost. We’ve lost thousands of brave men and women fighting the war on terror. Even more have been wounded. The economy took a hit as well. Our civil liberties have been damaged. “United We Stand” posters faded over time and the flags were put away. The world seemed to become a darker, more cold place. Bin Laden is thankfully dead. But the war on terror rages on.

So much has changed in the past 13 years. Yet, so much is still the same.

The news lately has been brutal. And nothing pains my heart quite like a hurting child. Walker Wilbanks’ death shook me as a father. Seeing the story about the five kids murdered, quite possibly by their own father, sickens me. Reading about the bullies who tricked an autistic boy into dumping a bucket of urine and spit on his head angers me. What if that was my son? We live in a broken world. How can a child suffer? I struggle to find words to make sense of it.

A person I greatly respect was in a terrible car accident. Then, to add more heartbreak to her injury, her grandson died tragically. She’s always quick to motivate others. Now she is in mental and physical. I struggle to find words to comfort her.

Tomorrow is the 13th anniversary of 9/11. I remember that day with painful clarity. I remember standing dumbfounded as the jets flew into the Trade Center towers. The flames. The suicides. The collapse. The bravery of first responders and the passengers on Flight 93. I struggle to find words to describe it to my kids.

But maybe words aren’t the solution. Maybe actions are. In a world that seems to have lost its freakin’ mind, maybe it’s time for us all to step up and be a force of good. We create a strong foundation of core values and build on that. It’s time for us to reach out and be what this world sorely lacks.

We live in a beautiful but harsh world. And at times, it seems like all is lost. But now is not time to be victims. Now is, as Coach Bill Courtney says, time to lead by serving. Words won’t cut it. It’s time for action.

When I was about three, my mom (who is an art teacher) recognized I could draw. She showered me with what every budding artist needs: Paper, pencils and praise. When I was a eight, I fell in love with the editorial cartoons on the newspaper — and the comics, too. I just knew that the Peanuts’ gang were my best friends. I met WSB TV’s Bill Daniels (who later was the first graphic artist for the Weather Channel) and his imagination and cartoons lit a fire in my heart. Mad Magazine’s Jack Davis, Al Jaffee, Mort Drucker and Don Martin taught me about satire and art. The 1970’s were a time of great political turmoil and a heyday for editorial cartoons. The dye was cast. I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up.

In 1985, my high school newspaper advisor tapped me to be Sprayberry High School’s student newspaper (The Stinger) cartoonist. My first cartoon, featuring the librarian in a Nazi helmet, didn’t get me the response I expected: Instead of rose petals tossed at my feet, I was sent straight to the principal’s office. But I explained how it was about how hard it was to get into the library. And it started a conversation that got that policy changed.

I was hooked.

In 1987, I began my career as a cartoonist for The Daily Beacon, the student newspaper for the University of Tennessee. I learned discipline, deadlines and how to deal with 13 different editors. For the next four years, my work graced the Beacon’s pages. I met Charlie Daniel, the long-time cartoonist at the Knoxville News-Sentinel. He allowed me to fill in for him and gave me a template for what I do. And he and his wife Patsy fed me, too.

My dream was set: I was going to be an editorial cartoonist.

I’ve had people doubt that dream. An advisor told me not to bother to try out for the Beacon because “they already had a cartoonist.” Other cartoonists claimed the profession was dying in the early 1990s (some may argue they were right). I’ve had people tell me that I was crazy because there were so few jobs. (There are more NBA basketball players than editorial cartoonists.) I’ve watched my industry struggle with change. I’ve seen dozens of amazing editorial cartoonists laid off. I worked as a janitor, advertising artist and a creative director before my dream came true.

But it did.

I’ve been blessed to be living that dream for nearly two decades.

Change has threatened it, though. I no longer do what I used to do every day. But that’s OK. Because what seemed like catastrophic change has done nothing but make me better at what I do. Like rocks in a swift stream, it polished me. And it opened up new doors for me. I discovered I could do things I never knew I could do before: I can write. Talk on the radio. Illustrate books. Speak before huge crowds. Take pictures of oak trees.

People ask me, “what do I do if MY dream dies?” I smile and say, “Wake up and dream another dream.” I know that sounds simplistic. But I’ve learned to embrace the change that has washed over me. And I can tell you this much, my life is much stronger for it. I’m always looking at what I’ll do next.

Thank you for reading my cartoons, books, posts. Thank you for listening to my radio show and speeches. And thank you for keeping an eight-year-old’s dream alive.

Pip has been part of our lives for two years now. Given a nearly impossible task of filling a Banjo-shaped hole in our hearts, she has done an excellent job. No, Pip isn’t Banjo — while she’s the same breed, she is her own dog. In fact, there is only one Border Terrier anything like her in this world, and that would be her mother Twinkie.

Pip rules Pip’s world and we’re just along for the ride.

She barks too loud. Hates the dog next door. She steals socks and passes gas. Her Alpha-dog tendencies cause her to mother my boys and sit on our heads. She thinks her name is “Treat,” because that’s the only word that will get her to come inside. She’s bullheaded, ornery, bossy and strong-willed.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

She was born at almost the precise moment Banjo died. I think his soul tried to enter her body. She would have nothing to do with it. She walked into our house at seven weeks and attacked my sons’ shoes and legs. Not much has changed in two years.

Pip is Amy’s dog. If Amy is asleep, Pip is cuddled next to her. Good dog. You figured out who to suck up to. I am a source of entertainment and food. Like I said before, it’s Pip’s world after all.

I want to thank Jim Harvey for introducing this strange little pixie into our lives. Jim owns the Blue Rock kennels where Pip came from. He graciously allowed her to enter our hearts.

She came from a very famous litter. Her brother “The Dude,” is a champion. And Pip is a queen.

People always ask me, “How can you take pictures and run?”

A picture takes about 30 seconds for me to frame and take. I lift my iPhone and hit the button. If I take, say, six pictures, that’s not much time out of a two-hour run.

I also get asked, “Why do you take pictures while you run?”

Well, I am very lucky to run in some beautiful places. My normal Saturday route has trees, water and sunrises. Good stuff. Because sometimes that good stuff is hard to see while I’m running. I’m usually focused on little stuff like not dying.

Which I felt like doing today.

It was brutal. The humidity and ill-fitting shoes made it more challenging than normal. I felt like death’s step-brother had slapped me with a wet towel..

But I was running along Mobile Bay. The light from the rising sun bathed the oaks and docks with a spectacular warm glow. The water almost looked blue. Almost. My pictures from this morning are postcards from paradise — just without the sweat, burning lungs, sore toes and exhaustion.

I hope you enjoy the photos half as much as I do taking them.  You can see them on Instagram at marshallramsey.

Went to bed late. Got up early. Pounded out 4.3 miles. And even with a lack of sleep, my mind was racing as I ran. What a weird couple of weeks it has been. There’s so much pain in the world. Worry wrapped around me like the humidity.

My heart beat rapidly as I slogged up a hill. My lungs and legs burned. My mind did, too.

I started thinking about my problems. Yes, I have problems. Don’t share them here — because you have your own and frankly, mine probably aren’t that interesting. I know, I know — people like to hear other people’s dirty laundry. And people like to complain. I know I do. I whined myself through some pretty good times over the past 46 years. But now I’d rather put my energy into solving my challenges instead of whining.

I kept running. A shooting star blazed across the sky. A celestial being burned to death. “Sucks for it,” I thought.

Whining. I thought about how we’ve become a nation of victims. You hear it on talk radio, cable TV, in newspaper columns, on social media, in cartoons and around the water-cooler. I know your mind automatically goes to someone else when I say that, but I mean all of us. Me, included! And both sides of the political aisle cater to victimhood. “It’s not fair!” has almost replaced “In God We Trust” on our currency. Then thought of my grandparent’s generation. They had the Great Depression and World War II. I know they probably felt sorry for themselves at times, too. But they couldn’t for long. They’d starve or worse. You see, the Germans and the Japanese didn’t want a group hug.

Sweat trickled down my forehead and into my eye. Running in August in Mississippi is always like running through warm syrup.

I thought back over the past few years. I’ve had a lot of blessings. And I’ve had a lot of bad stuff happen. And I’m embarrassed to admit I hosted a few pity parties along the way. I honestly thought I was a victim. But if I step back and honestly take personal responsibility for my life, I realize I played a big part in what happened. I should have learned from it instead of complaining. I should have taken positive action and maybe it wouldn’t have happened in the first place. But I didn’t. Now, I am embracing change. I will succeed.

But like my running, that takes discipline, a plan and effort. And that’s harder than complaining.

This weekend I am reading Coach Bill Courtney’s (from the documentary Undefeated) book Against the Grain. It has already fed me with plenty of food for thought. Nourishing food. Food for the soul. Soul food that I need to be a better father, employee, entrepreneur, husband and friend.

I got to mile 4.3, walked in the door and lovingly greeted my family. I leaned into my life and started my day. It was time to make today special.

And so far, it has been awesome.