Right before my sophomore football season, the sportswriters at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution said that I was a player “who had potential.” One of my coaches saw that and quipped, “Potential is a little French word that means you’re not worth a damn yet.”
Spoiler alert: While I was a decent player, I never really lived up to that potential.
Flash forward two years: I named “most talented” of my senior class due to my ability to draw. That said, I knew that being talented wasn’t enough. My coach’s words echoed in my head. I knew that talent meant nothing without work. I learned that the secret to any worthwhile success is falling in love with the process. I vowed to outwork people.
Coach Terry Cadenhead and yours truly.
I kept thinking about that little French word.
Thirty-seven years later, I’d like to think I have lived up to my potential — but I know I still have more than I can do. And as long as I am breathing, I know that will be possible because I absolutely love the process. And I am willing to do the work.
A few months ago, I noticed my coach was at Belhaven University. He played basketball there and was in town for a friend’s funeral. We reconnected and he has helped me put many things from my high school years in proper perspective. Running into him was a God moment. And I consider him a friend.
Tonight, he said, “I said that to you because I wanted you to realize to that you needed to do the work.” I got his message — maybe too late for my high school football career, but definitely in time for my professional career. Over time, I’ve learned that by loving the process, living in the moment, and doing the work, you can learn another little French word — “succès.”
Bottom line: A good coach will teach you how to play a sport. A great coach will teach you how live your life.
Across the highway, a bush hog cut through the dead brush and trees. A small pond, once the watering hole for the local wildlife, was bone dry. The last touches of green were fading from the nature’s palate — the drought had been going on since June. Pine trees, weakened by the lack of rain, were dying from the invasions of pine beetles. A dust cloud blew across the highway. Before you could say, “haboob,” the sky had turned yellow. The sun, now a big orange ball, hung over the horizon. Smoke from the brush fire near the interstate hung low over the county. Jim Logan felt the ache from his surgery tug at his attention. He pulled out his phone to look at the forecast. Nada. Zip. Zero chance for rain.
He had never seen a dry spell this bad.
Everything had been going so well up until three years ago. His career was on fire. Now the countryside was. He was happily married. No he was unhappily alone. His bank account had been as lush as the surrounding fields. Now it was as dry as the pond.
The dry spell came disguised as perfect sunny weather. First he just worked harder. Then he turned inward and tried every trick he had used in the past. Self medication, which had worked in the past, failed to work. His wife left him. His boss fired him. He had to have surgery after the car crash near the school. His ex-wife had wanted more than he could give without giving anything in return — and she took the kids and the dog.
Exhaustion set in.
Logan took a deep breath. He had nothing: No hope. No chance. Nothing to lose. And then he fell to his knees and began to mumble:
Dear Lord, I have been foolish. I thought I could carry all this on my own shoulders. I was wrong. So I turn it all over to you. I surrender.
Nothing.
He began to shake his fist up at the sky but for some reason d
Then he felt it. First he felt it in his toes. Then he felt the warmth flow throughout his body.
On that dry and dusty Mississippi morning, Jim Logan realized that he must push into his pain. That the answer to his healing was outside of his own body.
As he walked out toward the highway, he felt his tough year fade away like the smoke on the horizon. Then he felt a cold splash on his forehead. Then he felt another. And another. And another.
Pip’s ears jumped up; and she immediately ran into the cabinets.
Yes, I was offering a blind dog a chance to take a walk.
Pip made her way over to the front door (she is not totally blind, but her cataracts have made her mostly without sight. My guess is that she can see light and dark objects).
I put on her harness and hooked up her leash. I would be her seeing-eye person.
She zoomed out the door and up the hill. She then veered into the grass between our driveway and yard. I tugged on her leash to keep her from hitting a landscaping light as she turned toward the road. She walked left down the street and then stopped. She then walked right. And then went back left. Finally I said, “You want to go to the gate?” She started trotting down the road — until she veered off into the ditch.
Let’s just say I won’t allow her to drive the car.
Our neighbor was walking his King Charles spaniel and normally Pip would bark her head off at the pup. She kept walking past.
Maybe there is a silver lining to this.
We continued down the road as Pip left her Pee-mail for the trip back. I assume it is her version of bread crumbs. Or she was just trying to tell the other dogs she is still Queen of the land.
Then we saw it. The huge (and beautiful) Rottweiler who walks by our house every day with her human. Now Pip, who thinks she is the biggest, baddest dog on the planet, has tried to eat the poor, very well behaved Rottweiler before.
But not this time.
She walked within four feet of it and was oblivious to the other dog’s presence. Then she decided to turn around and followed along behind the Rottweiler About 25 yards down the street, she caught the scent of the other dog and started growling. But even then, it was like her search radar knew there was an object out there but couldn’t lock on.
We finally made it back home and I picked her up to carry her for the final 25 yards. I am glad she is a terrier and not a Rottweiler.
She once was a queen of the seas — a mighty U.S. battleship. Twenty-five hundred men roamed her decks, keeping her churning through the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. Her anti-aircraft guns blazed, protecting the rest of the fleet from the raining death known as Kamikazes. Her 16-inch guns struck fear into the enemy’s hearts.
She was a symbol of America’s industrial might. Might that would win a world war.
But her guns had fallen silent after the war. Battleships were supplanted by aircraft carriers as high seas royalty.
The U.S.S. Alabama was a once floating city. Now she was sitting the mud. While her heart no longer beat, her heart was still there. School children across Alabama had donated pennies to get her here. He was secretly glad they had. This was the place where he came to remember. And school children came to learn.
He had been school boy when he lied about his age when he had enlisted. He went from being a 17-year-old farm boy from Kansas to a seasoned, and salty, world-traveler. The war had done that for his generation; it had forged them into post-war leaders. But their time, like the ship’s had long past. It was a museum. And he was a nearly 100-year-old relic.
“Dang Grandpa, what are they feeding you in the nursing home? Bricks?” His grandson, who was in his 50’s and had fought in the Gulf War, puffed as he pushed the old man up the ramp. “I’m buying you a powered wheelchair. I’m too old for this stuff.”
The two men had both fought on battleships. The two men also shared the same name. One had fought on the U.S.S. Alabama, the mighty A. The other had fought on the U.S.S. Missouri. Both believed their battleship was better. “They messed up the Missouri when they added cruise missiles,” the old man taunted.
“The Alabama is stubby,” The grandson retorted. “She’s not long and sleek like the Missouri.”
“Watch your mouth. You’re not too old for me to wash it out.”
The grandfather looked at the Number One turret — his duty station during the war. He could close his eyes and see the snow and ice on it as they plowed through the North Atlantic. He could smell the sweat as they sailed the South Seas. He could hear the guns fire.
“I’m just glad they didn’t scrap her. The Indiana and South Dakota are now just rusty razor blades in a landfill. The Massachusetts is still afloat. So is the U.S.S. North Carolina and all of the Iowas. There is nothing quite like a battleship.”
A school group laughed and played around as they toured the ship. While some might be upset about the lack of reverence, both men knew better. They were just grateful that their service had allowed these kids to have the right to play on a warship.
At the end of the day, the grandson rolled his grandfather down the ramp and to the bow of the ship.
“We are going to the U.S.S. Missouri next, right?”
The older man didn’t answer. He just looked up at the bow and waved. His grandson didn’t see what he was seeing. The deck was teeming with the spirits of all the sailors he had sailed with.
Johnny. Bill. Sam. Francino. Austin. Bob. David. Frank. Chester.
Soon he would be joining them. He would be coming home, too. Until then, he’d travel to Mobile to visit his old friends — and pay respects to the big boat that turned him into a man.
Fires burned in the fields across the highway. The fall harvest was over and life in their farming community was restarting once again. Smoke wafted across the road and blanketed two small houses that sat side by side. Two men walked out to their mailboxes together as a small Air Tractor crop duster buzzed overhead.
“Mornin’ Bill.”
Bill Franklin was 58-years old who worked for the county and was a veteran of the first Gulf War. There he had won a Silver Star for gallantry in battle. On the first night of the war, he saved his squad from a Republican Guard ambush. He was quiet and walked like the former soldier he was. An African-American, his family once worked the fields surrounding his home. He and his wife had divorced after his PTSD had caused him to start drinking. Now sober for 20 years, he was grateful for the blessings God had given him.
“Morning, Jim.”
Jim Johnson was 55 years old, farmed and was a county supervisor. His family had owned land in the county for years. He dabbled in state politics and was widowed. Like his good friend Bill, Jim had definite opinions about the directions the world was going.
When online.
Both men put their bills in the box and went inside. There they got on Twitter and posted under fake names. And unbeknownst to the other, they did battle with each other. One was a godless liberal and the other was a MAGA tyrant. Hatred flowed from their fingertips as they sparred like the country depended on it.
And then they’d walk back outside and talk sports and family.
“How’re your grandchildren, Bill?”
Bill Franklin’s kids had all graduated from college and now were working in Atlanta and Huntsville as a lawyer and rocket engineer.
“They’re doing great, Jim. Thank you for asking. How is Shannon?”
“Shannon is doing really well. I’m so proud of her and her family. Her new accounting job is really paying her well. Want to have dinner tonight? I’m cooking steaks. You bring the beer?”
“Sure. But why don’t I bring iced tea. And tell Shannon I’m super proud of her the next time you FaceTime her.” Jim smiled. Bill knew Jim’s sobriety was core to who he was.
Shannon was Jim’s only daughter. She had survived the car crash that had killed her mother. They were at a crossroad off Highway 1 when a drunk driver ran a stop sign. He had raised Shannon by himself — but she also considered Bill Franklin her uncle. Jim struggled with grief, though. That had driven him online — and nearly insane.
Both men walked back inside, sat down at their computers and started insulting the other’s online persona. The fires of hatred ignited once again. Their keyboards burned red hot as the fields across the street.
It was a modern tale of friendship — one part reality and one part driven by an algorithm.
I love the Crossroads story. Robert Johnson meets the Devil. Trades his soul for mad guitar skills. The rest is legend and we have modern music. I even had the honor of watching Steven Johnson, Robert Johnson’s grandson perform an exorcism on stage for his grandfather.
He’s not a bad performer in his own right.
But when I drove through the Crossroads the other night (the intersection of Highways 61 and 49 in Clarksdale) I thought about how my own life and career have been at a crossroads.
Editorial cartooning, the skill that brought me to the dance, is fading away as a profession. I have been in a process of reinvention for several years ago. And while standing at my own crossroads, I have also met the Devil.
And his name is Fear.
Fear, though, didn’t offer some amazing art talent for my soul. No, Fear tried to steal my talent from me by making me do nothing. Am I good enough? Will I be able to feed my family? Will I fail?
The answers: Yes, Yes, and YES!
And that’s OK. Because Fear lies to you. It places that seed of doubt in you that keeps you from even making the effort in the first place. What Fear hates the most from you is you doing the work.
I drove through the intersection (I had a green light) and headed down Hwy. 49E back home. My headlights pierced the darkness and my dreams illuminated the path before me. The very skills that make me a good editorial cartoonist make me a great storyteller. That’s my path. Two friends texted me yesterday and helped me see that path even clearer.
They seemed more heaven-sent than anything else.
• My cartoons aren’t going anywhere. The profession of being an editorial cartoonist for a newspaper is what left. I am grateful I can still draw for Mississippi Today.
Pip is bumping into things these days. Cataracts are starting to dim her world — her age and diseases are now taking a toll. Her decline has been fairly rapid; she is 11 but presents more like she is 14 or older. Diabetes and Cushings are brutal on a small dog. But she is a small dog who has a big heart. Her tail still wags when I come home. She viciously barks to defend her territory. And her ability to love is still as powerful as it was when she was a puppy.
Actually, I think her heart is stronger now.
Last night I felt sad seeing her lying in her little bed. She has been so tired lately; my heart breaks seeing her like this. Time, like those tiny grains of sand in an hourglass, is slipping away.
But instead of being sad, I decided just to embrace the moment. I got down on the floor, started rubbing her face, and scratching under her chin.
It brought both of us a moment of joy.
There is a lesson about impermanence somewhere in there. In an almost Zen-like way, it was a powerful reminder to not mourn what will be but to instead to live in the moment that is.
I hope Pip lives for a longtime yet to come. Like I’ve always heard, the only problem with dogs is that they don’t live long enough; I selfishly want more time with her. However, no matter how much time she has on her clock, my heart will be with her. And she will keep living until the very end.
Never underestimate the power of a little brown dog.
I remember my friend asking me that question when I told him I had accepted the cartooning job at The Clarion-Ledger. At the time, I lived in San Diego — you won’t find a finer place to live weather-wise. I think my friend was incredulous that I was leaving such a paradise. Truthfully, Amy and I loved our adopted hometown. Picnics on Shelter Island, walks along Mission Bay, hikes to Point Loma, sitting on the beach in La Jolla Shores. I sat for a moment, trying to come up with a reason to explain to my friend why we were moving back to our native South.
“I’ve always wanted a cartooning job and we’ll be within a car ride to Atlanta. We will have kids someday. We want to be closer to our families.”
It was a solid answer and a true one. But nearly 27 years later, I can tell my friend another reason.
“It’s the people. Last week, I got to sit on a front porch with David Rae Morris as I listened to him talk about legacy, having a famous father (Willie Morris), blazing his own path, and making sure his daughter blazes her own. I watched Wyatt Waters create a beautiful watercolor painting in the time it would take me to draw a cartoon. And then I got to hang out with him and his wonderful wife, Kristi. I had a conversation with David Sheffield, a writer I really admire (a playwright and former SNL writer, if you liked an Eddie Murphy skit, you can thank David.) I listened to Joe Crespino talk about his father, an NFL legend, and then Atticus Finch, who many of us wanted to be our father. Richard Ragan entertained us with stories about his journey from the Mississippi Delta to North Korea to Yemen. I listened to Curtis Wilkie tell stories about Willie Morris And Maude Schuyler Clay reminded me of the power of images to tell a story.
That’s just last week.
Mississippi is far from a perfect place. We have so many problems that need to be solved and at times, our leadership seems to lack the will do so. We are 50th in so many good lists and #1 in too many bad ones. But let me just say this: If you don’t have a reason to love something, you won’t make the effort to try to make it better.
So let me go back to the “Why Mississippi?”
Mississippi has allowed me to cross paths with so many talented people.
Yes, that’s it. I’ve been able to meet, interview, befriend, and get to know so many talented people.
There is nothing more scary than a 12-foot alligator — so I wanted the introduction of Mr. ML to be scary. The next page, however, will show his true nature.
