Marshall Ramsey

The radar looked like someone had spilled catsup and mustard on it. Blobs of red and yellow covered the route from Memphis to Tupelo. A middle-aged traveling salesman slowly drove his rental car through the pouring rain. A flash of lightning and a loud thunderclap startled him out of his daydream. Rain hitting the windshield looked like he was driving through a carwash.

He hated trips like this. His hands gripped the steering wheel with enough force to bend steel. Another bolt of lightning hit a transformer, sending sparks showering down onto the ground.

OK. That was a sign from above to stop.

He began hoping for a fast-food restaurant or a convenience store. Somewhere to stop and pee and get a cup of coffee. Lightning flashed again, illuminating a dull and drab countryside. The heavy rain had caused the world to be 50 shades of gray. He laughed — no, the rain hadn’t caused the world to look like the famous bestselling sex book. It had just sucked all the color out of the universe. And it made it harder to see while driving.

The ponding water on the roadway caused his front wheels to hydroplane. He felt the car’s traction control kick-in and prevent a sure disaster. Fingers gripped the steering wheel even tighter. “#$%#,” he cussed to himself. This was not fun.

And then he saw him.

A lone figure walked along the side of the lonely Mississippi highway. “Poor fool,” he thought as he slowed the car to prevent accidentally hitting the soaked traveler. And then, against his better judgement, he stopped. Who picked up hitchhikers in this day in age? Sure, this guy could have been Ted Bundy’s apprentice, but years of Sunday School teaching at First Baptist Church in Swampbottom Flats had taught him the importance of being a good Samaritin. He rolled down his passenger window.

“Can I give you a lift?”

The stranger stood there silently in the pouring rain.

“I said, ‘can I give you a lift?'” the driver repeated, this time louder.

The stranger, not lifting his hat that was covering his eyes, nodded. The driver unlocked the passenger side door and the stranger climbed in.

“Where you headed?”

The stranger sat there for a moment and then said, “Tupelo.”

“Well, then, you’re in luck. That’s where I’m headed, too.”

The stranger was an older man, in his mid-to-upper-70’s and good looking. And although the driver couldn’t quite put his finger on it, the man looked familiar.

The driver, craving conversation, began asking the stranger questions. The stranger, craving silence, didn’t not answer them. After 20 miles that seemed like 100, he opened up. “I’m going to where I was born. I make this trip from Memphis once a year.”

The storm had picked up. The radio squawked about a tornado in Marshall County. The driver didn’t doubt it. Never had he driven through a storm like this. Lightning pounded the countryside like an artillery attack.

“What do you do in Memphis?”

“I perform in small clubs occasionally. I sing some but not much. I guess you could say I’m retired.”

The driver looked at the stranger. He was definitely old enough to be retired.

“What do you sing?”

“I love Gospel music. A little Country and Blues, too. Kind of hard to live in Memphis and not sing the Blues. I used to dabble in Rock, too. But that was a long-time ago.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“One.”

“Me, too. I have a son. Don’t speak to him much. I hate that.”

“Family is all you have. Friends come and go. But family — well, they’re with you ’til the end. And sometimes even after.”

The stranger seemed sad. The driver couldn’t help but notice the lines on his face crinkle when he said the last sentence. There was a lot of history on that face.

“They’re having an Elvis Festival up in Tupelo. You going?”

The stranger smiled a slight smile and didn’t say a word. And for the rest of the trip, he sat there in silence.

They stopped in front of Reed’s Store in downtown and the stranger got out of the car. The rain had ceased and a single sunbeam broke through the clouds. Ground fog shrouded much of downtown Tupelo.

And as the driver watched the stranger disappear into the mist, he never knew how famous the Tupelo traveler truly was.

Prologue:

Tupelo, MS — The 2012 Tupelo Elvis Festival Elvis sound-a-like contest was won today by a last minute entrant. The 76-year-old contestant, who only goes by the name, “Aaron,” belted out a rousing version of “Suspicious Minds.” The singer, who refused comment for this story, simply told the judges “Thank you, thank you very much.”

1. The Visitor: A Memorial Day Story
2. A Day at the Beach: A Memorial Day Story
3. A memorable Memorial Day
4. The Final D-Day: An old soldier goes home.
5. Miracle at Panther Burn International Airport: A plane heals a family.
6. One Morning at Pearl Harbor
7. Up in the Delta Sky

The sun peeked its red eye over the hazy horizon.  It was 6:22 a.m and Fort Loudon Lake was like glass.  The fishing boat glided gently toward the dock; its engine making the only sound for miles around. A tall, blonde man eased the throttle of the Mercury outboard motor back, reversing the engine’s thrust. The boat slid slowly past the wooden planks of the dock.  He reached over and grabbed a rope and looped it over the metal clasp on the dock.

He quickly tied the front and the back of the boat up and put out the put out the boat’s bumpers.  He pocketed the key and took one more sip of coffee out of his travel cup.  Another sunrise. Another morning alone on the Tennessee River.

It’s the way he preferred it.  Alone. He wasn’t much for people anymore. Most of his friends were quiet like he was anyway.

He walked up the hill toward his cabin. He looked out at the sun rising over the Smoky Mountains.  Today was the day. Today was the day when he went and visited a friend.

He walked in the cabin and was greeted by his Yellow Labrador, Norman. Norman was named for General Norman Schwarzkopf the famed general from the first war with Iraq.  He liked dogs. They listened and didn’t say anything back. Life was too short for unnecessary chatter.

He had been married to the love of his life.  But she couldn’t be married to a man who had stopped talking.  And then there were his nightmares. The deep, terrifying nocturnal screams.  They were still friends — whatever that meant.  She had gotten the house and the kids. He had gotten the cabin and Norman.  Not a fair deal, but who said that life was fair.

He thought about her as he dried off from the shower. He could still smell her perfume.  “I miss her, Norman.” Norman wagged his tail in agreement.

He carefully picked out his shirt and ironed it. Old habits die hard.  He went in to the kitchen to fry an egg and bacon.  Norman appreciated this part of the morning routine. “Here you go boy.” The bacon was gone before it hit the kitchen floor.  “I’m going to visit a friend today. You hold down the fort. Your aunt Stacy will be over to let  you out.”

A box sat on the kitchen counter. It was small and covered with black velvet. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.  He then grabbed his Jeep’s keys, fired up the engine and drove it up the steep gravel driveway.  It was another gorgeous East Tennessee morning.  But he had a long drive ahead of him.  Time was precious.

I-75 to I-40 to I-81 to I-66. The trip to Washington, D.C. was about eight hours in length. But he did it in seven.  When he saw the Washington Monument, he knew he journey was about over.  His friend didn’t know he was coming.  But he knew he wouldn’t complain.  He crossed the Potomac and got off at the exit for the Pentagon, his old office.  He half-saluted and got off at the exit to where his friend was.

A three-year-old yellow Jeep turned left into the main gate of Arlington National Cemetery.

It was headed to the place he had seen so many times on the map. Like a homing pigeon on a mission, he guided his Jeep right to where he needed to go.

He took the box out of his pocket and walked up to one of the many numerous gravestones.

Sgt. Frank Johns. U.S. Army.

He started to speak, a rarity, but was interrupted by a MD-88 taking off from Washington Reagan Airport.  He then recollected his thoughts and said,

“Hey Sarge. Happy Memorial Day. I needed to talk and I knew you’d listen. The last few years have been tough — although I know I have nothing to complain about compared to what you went through.  I still have nightmares of the I.E.D. and the gun battle afterwards.  I still see you manning the machine gun on our Humvee.  I still see how you sacrificed yourself so I could live.  Just to let you know, I went to OCS after that day and rose to the rank of Major.  I moved on. But my soul is still in Iraq. It’s still with you.  Oh, this is really yours, Frank.  Just wanted to know how much I appreciate your sacrifice.”

He then opened the small box and pulled out his Silver Star medal. He placed it at the foot of the grave, saluted and turned on his heel.  “I was in the neighborhood.  Just wanted to say hello.”

And with that, the silent man headed back home.  Some people celebrate Memorial Day at the beach. Others behind the grill. Major Thomas Garrett celebrated the only way he knew how.  He visited an old friend and said thanks.