Marshall Ramsey

@Marshall Ramsey 2019

You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixon. Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen. You even know Rudolph, the shiny-nosed reindeer who’s a legend in his own right (and who has a pretty good TV special). But this tale isn’t about reindeer. It’s how a little white biplane saved Christmas.

Snow, a possum and nine tiny reindeer don’t mix well. Nope, not at all. As Santa and his team headed to the hanger, Plato the Possum ran right in front of them!

When you drive from Nashville to Jackson, you have a couple of options. Nashville-B’ham-Jackson or Nashville-Memphis-Jackson. (Forget the Natchez Trace — only do that route if you have six months to live and want it to seem like six years) Most of the time, I go through Birmingham, particularly if I am going to Dave’s HQ in Franklin. Yesterday, I was starting near Opryland. Google Maps told me to go through Memphis, but I had come up that way and fought with trucks the whole time on 40 (thanks Fed-Ex). I love trucks, mind you, and know they keep the economy rolling. But when they get next to each other and you’re stuck behind them doing 50 in a 70 zone, it is maddening. So I decided to go through B’ham on the way home.

Little did I know I was about to go on Homer’s Odyssey (while driving a Honda Pilot).

First of all, 440 in Nashville is a classic example of building the drunk-driving laws into the road. If you have one drink, you’re going to die in a fireball after hitting a construction barrier. I was at the end of the rush hour and while the traffic was backed up (oh yeah, it was raining, too which apparently Nashvillians — who are all former Mississippians — can’t drive in the rain either). I only said a few cuss words until I got to I-65. I made it past Brentwood and Franklin with no problem and then my phone (and Garmin on my car) told me of major slowdown ahead. Both recommended I cut cross country to get back to 40. I would save 30 minutes.

I had already wasted at least 45.

So turned right and I toured Spring Hill, Tennessee — which is quite lovely I might add. I drove through the rural Williamson County countryside in the fog and the rain, picked up 840 eventually and made it to I-40. The trucks were so glad to see me that they slowed down to show it.

The new bypass around Memphis is the bee’s knees, btw, but it totally confused my outdated Garmin map (see attached photo). It dumped me out at Hernando and I continued South to Batesville (Since I’ve been teaching at Ole Miss, I have been making that drive weekly and can do it in my sleep — and have a couple of times). I made it to 82 and my Google Maps told me that I-55 was shut down. I was in denial but my estimated time of getting home. 5:29, climbed up to 6:21. Amy had ordered takeout that I had to pick up and I didn’t want to eat cold slop when I got home. Hell, I just wanted to GET home. The siren song of staying on the interstate called to me. I sang to the top of my lungs to drown its seductive cry out.

I turned off at West and took Highway 51 through West and Durant to bypass the closed interstate.

West is gorgeous. The homes and the old church near the water tower are really pretty. Durant seemed nice, too — although it was dark, foggy and rainy. I was praying I wouldn’t hydroplane and end up in a cotton field. My food really would have been cold if that had happened.

I got back on 55 at the Yazoo County Line and headed south again. My estimated time of arrival now was 5:45. I was home free.
And then a deer started to run out in front of me right as I got to Canton. As he stood on the side of the interstate pondering his death by my car, I screamed, “Not today, you son of doe!”

I am glad I travel alone.

I made it home with semi-warm food, a cramping back and a thankful heart. My odyssey was finally over. All I know is this, if Homer had had Google Maps, he could have avoided so many of the delays that made his journey so long. I know without it, I would have had a very cold dinner.

No matter where you go, you’ll find a little piece of Mississippi.

Last week, I had the honor of attending the 2019 Tennessee Governor’s Arts Awards to celebrate my mentor Charlie Daniel’s receiving a Distinguished Artist Award. Charlie, the editorial cartoonist in Knoxville, Tennessee for 60 years, was the first cartoonist to ever received the award. As we sat in the Governor’s Mansion’s auditorium, my heart swelled with pride as a man I deeply respect was given the respect he deeply deserves. To tell you how prestigious the award was, a couple of the other recipients of it are names you might recognize — Brenda Lee and Little Richard.

There was another winner you might not immediately recognize and her name is Sally Wells.

Sally is one of the 2019 Folklife Heritage Award recipients. To quote the program, she’s “revered elder in Tennessee’s Choctaw community and is a master of several endangered Tennessee art forms.” She’s a bead worker, dressmaker, traditional cook and speaker of the Choctaw language. Sally was also raised here in Mississippi on the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indian Reservation. She spent her childhood in the Bogue Chitto community.

She’s, as they say, from around here.

At the end of the evening, I ran into Sally as we headed to the elevator. I introduced myself, congratulated her and used these magic words — “I’m from Mississippi.”

I instantly had a new friend. She beamed and we started talking about her time on the reservation and how she had invited the chief but he could not come due to a conflict. So I said, “Well, I am going to brag on you on the radio. You deserve it.”

So here you go.

I’m proud of Sally and enjoyed getting to briefly talk to her. Her talent is impressive. And even though she now lives in Tennessee, I’m proud to claim her as one of our own.

Last Saturday, we lost a friend many of us have never met. Mike Sands, the Fox 40 anchor and cancer warrior, succumbed to the disease. He had fought a brave and public battle against a monster that left his body in incredible pain.

He is free of that pain now.

He was 34.

Mike was diagnosed with cancer in 2012. That’s when he found a lump in his calf that turned out to be a rare and aggressive form of soft tissue cancer, called myxoid liposarcoma. After it briefly went into remission, it came back with a vengeance in 2016, as it began attacking various parts of his body.

That’s when Mike Sands went to battle.

He came on the show in 2017. Other than him losing his hair, you couldn’t tell he had the disease at all — Mike looked like he could crush me with his thumb. I kept thinking, “There is no way cancer will beat this man. He’s too strong mentally and physically.” His positivity and heart filled this studio. His smile was infectious. His attitude was inspiring — I was ready to take on the world after spending an hour with him. To quote his Fox co-host and close friend Melissa Faith Payne, “When you watch him in this battle, you can’t help but fall in line and figure out what you can do to help.”

That was the effect Mike had on everyone he met.

TV personalities are like family. We invite them into our homes and feel like we know them. Most of the time, that’s not necessarily true. They deliver the news while hiding their personal lives behind perfect hair, perfect teeth and perfect smiles. Mike, however was very open about his battle. He was brutally real. We all pulled for him as we heard about his treatments. We prayed for him as he flew back home for more and more surgeries. We felt his pain, his hope and his will. We knew that if anyone could beat this cancer, it would be Mike Sands.

We became members of #TeamSands and prayed for a miracle.

Mike never got that miracle.

On April 12, he got the news he didn’t want to hear. According to the doctors it was time to stop fighting and start looking at quality of life.

“No chemo is working,” he told the Clarion Ledger in an interview. Hearing six months, he said, emotionally, “I’m not ready to go in six months.” He kept fighting.

He made it seven months.

Twelve days ago, we got this message from him: This vile, menacing, plays-by-its-own-rules disease has literally taken my legs out from under me. Roughly a week after back surgery last month, I began experiencing weakness in both legs. Within days, I couldn’t even use a walker to get around. My legs are incapable now of bearing any weight. I’m largely bedridden, and I need a wheelchair to get anywhere.

We could feel our collective hearts sink.

He finished by saying, ” I should be in Jackson cutting it up with Melissa as the city’s favorite anchor tandem five nights a week. I should be showering my daughter with the love only a father can give. Instead, I lie here dealing with this harsh and cruel fate, incapable of doing either.”

Less than two weeks later, he passed away with those who loved him by his side.

Not only was Mike a friend and inspiration to many, he was also the father of his young daughter Briar. I hope someday she understands how brave and strong her father was. I hope those who love her can lift her up as she grows up without her dad.

I’m for a loss of words right now. Mike lived every cancer patient’s worst nightmare. But he lived it with strength and grace. The key word being this: Lived.

So if you want to truly honor him, live like Mike. That’s Mike Sands’ legacy. He lived every moment he was alive.

Bless him and all who loved him.

An ad for the Marine Corps Marathon just popped up in my feed and I had to smile. I consider that race, which I ran to raise money for the Melanoma Research Foundation in 2010, as the starting point of a new life for me.

Let me explain.

The race itself was amazing. I ran the race (slowly), raised $13,000 dollars to help fight melanoma and stumbled across the finish line with the worst leg cramps I had ever had. I ran the last six miles of the race like that and never thought about quitting. Little did I know that it would be a metaphor for the days to come.

When we got home, our dog had died at the vet and I was called into our editor’s office and made part-time. That started another marathon that has lasted nine years.
Someday I will write about the whole experience, name names and give credit to those who changed my life. But not today. All I know as I sat in that office, I knew that as badly as what had just happened hurt, it would also be the best thing that ever happened to me.

And it has been.

Has it been easy? No. I still struggle from time to time. But I know that any struggle can be overcome with hustle. And I have tried to keep working really hard. Have I made mistakes? Hell yes. My attitude has not always been as good as it should be and I haven’t focused on what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s really easy to fall into a pity party when you are tired and frustrated. Self doubt still occasionally creeps into my head late at night.
But I have learned this about myself — if you don’t believe in me, I will prove you wrong. I might have temporary setbacks but I will not fail. My parents’ illness and death, which you probably have read about, kicked my ass hard. It set off my fight-or-flight mode (which I’ve had for a long time) and pushed me into a dark place. I just now feel like I am starting to crawl out of that hole. If you’ve experienced complicated grief, you know what I am talking about.

Four nine years, I have had angels who have protected this fool. In the next few weeks, I am going to write each of them and thank them for how they saved me from myself. It has been hard on my wife and family, too — but even though I have not been easy to live with, they stuck with me.

When dad taught me to grab the ski-rope so I could change my story to “how I got back up” not “how I fell down” after a nasty fall, he taught me a skill that got me through cancer, my profession imploding and the challenges left behind by both. He taught me to use my creativity to change my story. Nine years into the marathon, I’m about to change my story again.

I will finish the race strong.

To those who believe in me, thank you. To those who don’t, you are fuel. God and my family are good. I know I am a blessed man.

Now if you will excuse me, I have some work to do.

P.S. The reason I still am going is that I have been blessed to live in a community who reached out and believed in me and my work. In 2007, I chose not to move to Tulsa because I sensed something bad was on the horizon and I knew that I would be OK in Mississippi. I was right and I thank YOU for reading my work and supporting me.

A few years ago, our neighborhood switched to decorative mailboxes. Originally, we had plain black mailboxes, which were durable but not super attractive. The new ones? They were purty. Real purty. They were/are also super fragile. I’m on my second one (one of my neighbor’s friends accidentally bumped it with her car and it shattered like glass.) Our mail carrier shoves in mail (which is her job), but that has broken the clasp that holds the door shut. Most days, I use a rubber band. On rainy days, our mail gets soaked because it holds water like a reservoir.

My uncle gave my dad a mailbox as a wedding present. It was a plain box with his name (David L. Ramsey) on the top. That mailbox followed my parents around the country and was their mailbox until he moved out of the house for the nursing home (my mother unceremoniously replaced it). It served our family nearly 60 years.

I love our current mailbox — it is a good looking mailbox after all. And having them all match in the neighborhood is a good thing. But dad’s solid, less flashy version performed better over the long run.

There’s a life lesson there somewhere I think.

I stumbled upon the online resumé of a person who died a couple of years ago. On paper, this person looked amazing. I knew her well enough to know that some of the things were exaggerations but for the most part, most of her written achievements were accurate. She had had a good career with lots of professional acclaim. She put on a good front and many people thought highly of her. I also know she was cruel to her husband and kids and died miserable and alone. As I read over the words on a screen, I thought how they told a certain truth but didn’t cover the whole truth. She had worked so hard to craft a story in her life yet the only way she will be remembered will be through the stories and memories of those she hurt.

Life is funny like that.

I looked at my own resume and it’s pretty good. I’ve had a lot of achievements and blessings along the way in my career. But then I thought about what story my wife and kids would tell about me if I were to die today. I think I’d be OK. But I am sure it could be better. I realized that is my true permanent record: Creating good stories for my family to tell is where I need to put my efforts. That involves, time, caring, love and effort.

My work is cut out for me.

We are two generations from disappearing totally from this earth. For example, my kids never really knew my grandparents. When I die, their memory will fade from my family. But how they lived their lives has permeated my parents and then me. They live on through my stories and who I am on a daily basis.

How we engage and change the lives of the people we know and live for the better. That’s a true legacy — not something that’s put down on paper.