Marshall Ramsey

The river was cold, swift and deep. The current pushed the man’s kayak sharply to the right.  A rock appeared out of nowhere! He paddled hard left and the nose of his craft glided safely past the obstacle.  Another boulder jutted out of the water.  A hard thrust to the left and he shot past it as well.

The river was born high in the mountains as a trickle. A trickle grew to a stream and then to a torrent.  It then took a perilous journey, dropping down several cascades until it slowed and lazily headed to the sea.  His kayak slipped into a calm pool. Sunlight reflected off the surface, shining like a million diamonds scattered across the water. He still had several rapids to master.

The man looked ahead. Foam swirled around his paddle as he cut hard, sending his kayak sideways down a small waterfall.  He popped back up to the surface. The cold water was invigorating.  He was alive.

The river was his life.  The kayak was his talent, carrying him from the headwaters to the sea. Rocks were the obstacles he faced.  He could have floated passively down the stream, but he chose to battle it. To take it on — man vs. nature.  That’s the way he preferred it. He’d rather be fighting the rapids.

Life was to be lived.  The river was to be tamed.  He smiled, pointed his kayak straight at the rapids and headed on to the sea.

The truck sped down the old dirt road leaving a billowing cloud of dust in its wake.  The song “Cats in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin Carpenter played as the old white church came into view.  “... He had grown up just like me.” He and his dad were like the song, always busy. Always away.

Away. He had been away when his father died suddenly. Somehow that didn’t fit into his tight schedule. But unfortunately, life didn’t check with him first. It had its own schedule.

He parked his truck beside the old church cemetery and opened the door. The blast of heat felt like opening an oven. Mississippi in June was brutal. (This year even more so than normal.)  Gravel crunched under his feet as he headed toward the graves.  Sweat started to run down his back.

What grass that was still alive needed cutting. Flowers wilted in the heat. The older stones were in the front of the cemetery nearest to the white wood sanctuary.  1889. 1906. 1945. 1967.  He came to the newer section and then to the newest grave.  His eyes watered as he read the name on the stone.  Jack Lawrence Eckles 1954-2011.

It was his father’s name. His name. And now his young son’s name.

“Hi dad,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m late. ”  The grave did not answer, but the young man hadn’t expected it to. “Jack III is growing up fast. He started pulling up while I was in Detroit.  He said, ‘mama’ while I was in Seattle.”  A crow cawed off in the distance and the wind whispered through the pines.  Then more silence.

The young man, a man on the rise who had never felt lower, sat down, leaned against his father’s headstone and pulled out a black leather journal.  He turned to the first open page and put his pen to the paper. He began to jot down the words that would change his family tree forever.

A few notes on Father’s Day 2011.

I will teach my son to think for himself. To have faith. To laugh. Be good to others. And to always love his mama.

I now realize that time is my true treasure. I will spend it wisely.  I will turn of the computer. I will turn off the TV. When I am there, I will be there.

I will love and respect my son’s mother so that someday he’ll follow the example and love and respect his wife.

I will make sure my son learns not from my words but from my example.

The best present I can give my family is to be present.

He closed the book. As much he loved his job, he realized he had signed up for a more important career: Raising a baby into a man.

He brushed his pants off, stood up and spoke to his Dad’s grave. “I love you dad. You’ve always taught me well. Even now.  And I’ll forever learn from you.  Just as I hope Jack III learns from me. Thank you for the finest Father’s Day present ever: The importance of being present.”

The hot sun had blurred the surrounding Mississippi countryside, making it hazy and out of focus.  But for the first time in his life, the young man saw clearly.

Before he left to go raise his son, he looked at the words chiseled on his dad’s grave and smiled: It takes one act to make you a father, it takes a lifetime to make you a Dad.