Marshall Ramsey

The airline’s polished aluminum skin glimmered in the late-afternoon sunlight. The tall little boy stood on the hill, watching the man-made bird soar across the sky.  People were on that plane. People traveling to new, exotic places. People who were going back home.  He followed the contrails with his finger all the way to the horizon. That’s where he wanted to be. He wanted to be somewhere other than where he was right at that moment.

Growing up poor and without opportunities seemed to be fine with his classmates. Most would drop out of school early anyway, maybe even getting a job at the remaining factory in the county. But dropping out meant they were deprived of the eye-opening experience of the gift of education. Yes, it was a gift, he thought. He felt like that the day he read his first book — it opened his heart, eyes and mind like a package on Christmas.  It showed him what was possible for him. He smell greatness in that book’s musty pages. He traveled around the world in his mind.  Yes, it that was a gift.

The plane continued to lumber on with its journey. While it was traveling at nearly 600 mph, to the people on the ground, it was just crawling. It had a lot of sky to cover before it would be gone. Just like the little boy did.

His mother and father worked three jobs between the two of them. He was the oldest of three kids and most of the time, he was the one in charge of this younger brother and sister. The little boy had grown up way too fast. Although he was 12, he had the soul of a 40-year-old.  Life wasn’t easy for him. But he didn’t complain.  He knew that one day he would leave this all behind. He was just biding his time.

The rich soil beneath his feet grew mighty crops. And there was no greater crop than the talent he possessed. He was 12. He knew he’d be a writer.  And like the other legendary writers who came from his state of Mississippi, he had stories to tell.  The soil gave him the talent. And his state gave him stories. He was an observer. And had so much to observe.

A few months back, a fancy Mercedes broke down while traveling through the town on his way to Arkansas.  In it was a best-selling legal thriller author.  The writer had graciously visited with him while the car was in his Dad’s car garage.  Dreams are born in strange places sometimes.  Deltaville Auto Repair launched one of the mightiest writing careers of all time.

The plane was now 3/4 across the sky.  The little boy took out his notebook and began telling a story about a little boy, a dream and an airplane.  It would eventually turn into his first NY Times Best-selling novel. There would be 20 more to follow.

God gives you ideas in unexpected places in unexpected ways.  A flash of sunlight on the plane planted a seed in a little boy’s mind. He knew he’d someday make it as a writer.  He knew that he would someday be crossing the  horizon. Just like the passengers on that plane.

I met Stuart M. Irby a couple of times. Once before the accident and once after. I didn’t know him well but I am saddened about his suicide.  Suicide is one of those acts that is tougher on the survivors. Friends and family are wondering what could have been done differently.  I pray for them.  And I pray for the families of the two young, promising doctors who died in the fiery crash caused by Stuart and Karen Irby.  The Pogue and Dedousis families  deserve peace, too. And they will get my prayers.  The whole story is a tragedy of a Shakespearean level.  It’s a story about the consequences of your actions. And it’s a story without a happy ending.

“You’re the most stubborn kid on planet Earth.”

The little blonde-haired boy named Johnny glared at his mother. In between them was a steaming, hot bowl of spinach. Johnny was having nothing to do with it.  His mother was determined that he would.

The mother never won.

Stubbornness was a skill that got Johnny sent to timeout, put in detention, sent to the field to run laps and suspended time and time again in school.  But he had a backbone. He stood up for what he believed in.  How many bar fights had he gotten himself into in College?  He looked at his crooked nose in the mirror.

He believed in right over wrong. Honoring your word. That a handshake meant something.  And that you didn’t change the rules just because you could.  They were old-fashioned beliefs, particularly since the Great Recession had taken business and turned it on its head.  The phrase “It’s just business,” made him cringe.

He was an relic of Old America. The America that the Greatest Generation built.  The America that became a Super Power. He’d never make it to the executive suite. But that’s OK. He believed in his word. And hard work.  And when his head hit the pillow at night, he slept well.

He pushed the peanut shells around on the bar.

“What are you doin’ in here so early, John?” the bartender asked as he dried a glass.

“Laid off.  All my years of hard work meant nothing.”

“Bull.” The bartender said quietly. “You’ve raised your children to have morals. To have values.”

“Well, what good did it do me?”

The bartender set down the glass and looked the man in the eye. “Those values mean you aren’t a quitter.  The people who are taking shortcuts to make a quick buck, well — karma will catch up with them.  When times get rough, they’ll have nothing to fall back on.  You? You have a great family. You stand for something. You’ve saved and will get by.  And look at this community. You’ve made a huge difference in it.  Hold your head up high.  You deserve to.”

And somewhere in John’s body, he felt his spine stiffen. He felt the stubbornness he was so famous for kick in.  “Pity party’s over. Time to get busy.”

The bartender looked at him and smiled, “Darn. And I brought the drinks.  Oh, and remember what Churchill once said, “If you’re going through Hell, don’t stop.”

John picked up his paperwork and jacket.  “You know, you’re better than a psychiatrist.”

The bartender laughed, “I know. And I serve free peanuts.”

He squinted as he looked off to the Southwest.  The severe thunderstorm was on radar and was moving his way. That he knew. He  just couldn’t see what he was looking for — a  damned line of pines and oaks obscured his view. He knew it was out there, though. He felt it coming. A tornado was heading his way.  He put his truck in drive and moved to where he could see the horizon.

Your floor is as flat as the Mississippi Delta.  Tornadoes (which you can see for miles in the Delta) have raked across this prime agricultural land for centuries. But now, there were people in their way.  So his job was to spot the tornadoes before they got to the towns. To warn the people. To see if the confirmed hook echoes on the National Weather Service radar were indeed a tornado on the ground. It was thrilling work.  And it could be incredibly tragic.

He remembered driving into Smithville, MS moments after the EF-5 wiped the city off the map.  He tracked the Yazoo City tornado as it tore up trailers and homes and left a scar across the state of Mississippi.  He saw the bodies in the trees. He could still see them when he closed his eyes. He could still smell the broken pines and the natural gas.

For man to think he could tame nature was ludicrous. There was no place that had more scars to prove it than Mississippi.  Drive along the Mississippi Gulf Coast and you could see what a hurricane could do.  See the south Delta during backwater flooding.  And of course, there was the occasional tornado.

The sky was as green as a poopie diaper.  He laughed — only someone with kids would understand that joke. Lightning was flickering on the horizon like a strobe light — experience had taught him that usually meant “tornado”. He looked on his tablet at the radar. Yup, that was the severe cell.  He parked his truck on the side of the road and got his radio and his camera out.  “I have a funnel on the ground about to cross Highway 61,” he called into his radio.  “Looks like a wedge tornado, possibly as large as an EF-3.”  A wedge tornado was one that was incredible wide at the base. It didn’t dance around like the rope tornadoes he frequently saw in the Delta.  “This one will be bad,” he thought to himself.  He filmed a few minutes of it as it headed to the northeast.  “Better move,” he thought. “Don’t want to end up in OZ.”

His obsession with tornadoes had begun when he was a small child living in Philadelphia, Mississippi.  A tornado had torn through the town, killing several people he knew.  In fact, his own house had been leveled.  I remembered his family huddled, crying in the ditch nearby.  He’d never forget the rumbling whine of the tornado. Or the crashing sound as his world disappeared into the wind.  For years he had thought it to be a cruel joke his high school’s nickname was the Tornadoes. After he had graduated, he had gone to Mississippi State to pursue his meteorology degree.  Weather had shaped him like heat and pressure makes diamonds. A tornado blown through his life and he’d spend the rest of his life chasing it.

He had been sleeping in his house in Madison, Mississippi when the sirens went off one Saturday morning. The Fairfield tornado (as it was called) slammed through his subdivision with all its EF-4 power.  One lady died in that storm. He lost his roof.  His family was safe in the safe room (a must). But he stood there on the front porch and watched as the houses around him started to break apart.  He almost didn’t make it to shelter in time. But he refused to be frightened. Like a victim’s family at Parchman on execution day, he was going to stare the killer in the face.

“Tell Indianola to get ready. This one will be on the ground by the time it gets there.”  The structure of the storm had strengthened. He could see farm equipment getting tossed around like Tonka Toys during a toddler’s fit.

Some people went to church to be closer to God. He chased tornadoes.  There was something almost Old Testament about them.  They were God’s power on Earth.  The tornado took a bead on a  small, white church. Suddenly white board soared high into the funnel.  “Ouch.”

“We had a small community, I think Tribbett, that was hit. Better send ambulances,” he reported to the Sheriff.  He close his eyes and thought of hanging on to his mother than fateful day in Philadelphia. He heard the whine. The rumbling. The freight train. He felt her as she lifted off the ground.  He opened his eyes again and watched the tornado lumber toward Indianola.

He said a quick prayer for his friends in Indianola.  And right as he said Amen and opened his eyes, the tornado decayed into a rope tornado. And then it disappeared into the sky.

“Thanks.” he looked at the sky.  He got back into his truck and headed toward Indianola for lunch. Another chase had come to a close. It was yet another day chasing his demons. It was another day of pursuing the Finger of God.