Marshall Ramsey

The broken gray clouds created a soft blanket over the Mississippi Delta.  His work for the morning was half done — the field was nearly planted and now it was time to take a break. He put down his truck’s tailgate and patted it a couple of times.  An older yellow lab jumped up and dutifully sat down  in the bed of the truck.  “Good boy,” he said to his longtime friend as he handed him a treat out of his overall’s front pocket. He then pulled a black, leather-bound book out of  his satchel. He sat down next to his dog and began to read it aloud:

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1

As much as he loved Sundays, when he wanted to really get close to God, he worked on the farm.  Sun-up to sun-down you could find him on his family’s land in the South Delta trying to get closer to the Lord.  Now it was time for another season, another crop.  He just hoped that it didn’t have quite the drama of last year’s backwater flooding. That had been closer to Hell than Heaven, that’s for sure.

Farming was all he knew.  Well, that and literature.  When he wasn’t farming, he was reading.  His mind was as fertile as the Delta soil and he felt obligated to grow a good crop between his ears, too.  The other farmers down at the diner made fun of him for always having a book in his hand.  He just smiled and kept reading.

His dog scratched a flea, turned four times and laid back down.  The sun broke through the clouds, changing the dark brown of the soil to a warmer brown.  And soon the cold steel of the truck’s bed began to warm (much to the dog’s pleasure).  He knew the warmth would soon make the seeds began to grow. Then the battle against insects and weeds would begin.

A crop duster buzzed the truck, wagging its wings as it passed overhead. It was his son, an Air Force Captain just back from Afghanistan, where he had flown attack missions in his A-10 Warthog. Dropping insecticide was much more fun than dropping bombs.  But the kid had loved to fly since his grandfather had taken him up the first time.  It was good to have the family back home again.  It was good to have his son back safe in the loving arms of the farm.

He looked at his watch, put the Good Book back into the bag and looked out at the field.

“Well, pal, we have work to do.”

He scratched the head of his old dog,  jumped off the truck and hopped back on his giant tractor.  It was time to go see God again. It was time to put his faith in practice.  The dog drifted off to sleep until his master returned.

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” He looked out at his field and said,  “Amen.”

His B-17 bomber was shot full of gaping holes. Smoke billowed out of the three remaining working engines.  The fuselage was torn from exploding cannon shells. His windscreen was shot up and the constant cold wind blowing in burned his face with frost bite.  He looked down at the English Channel, knowing its cold waters would be an instant death.  In the back of the plane, his men were battered and bleeding.

And it was just Monday.

He feathered the number one engine, trying to reduce the drag of the props. A sergeant in the back threw what loose items he could find to lighten their load.  They had left their bombs in Germany.  The Germans sent Me 262 jet fighters after them in revenge.  The Germans also had won the day. Almost.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

He could see the white cliffs of Dover ahead.  The plane was steadily losing altitude, but he knew they’d make it to land.  The question was now, “Where would he land?”

The wheel shook as he fought the giant beast, trying to keep it airborne. The B-17 was much easier to fly than the B-24, the Americans other heavy bomber in Europe.  He had flown this particular plane 33 missions.  Today was the day his (and the plane’s) luck ran out. If there was any comfort, though, it was that the Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress could take a lick and still keep flying. He looked around the cockpit. The radio was busted, so he couldn’t call for help.  The Royal Air Force was going to be surprised to see them today. He just hope they didn’t shoot him down.  He lined up for the final approach.

Suddenly, a second engine started to sputter and then died.  The once sluggish bomber began to drop even faster.  He called back to the back, “HANG ON.”

The loud noise woke Col. Fred Salsen from his nap.

“Sorry Grandpa.  I know you don’t like loud noises.”  The Colonel’s great grandson was playing “Call of Duty.”  The Colonel loathed the video game, “Once you’ve tasted the real thing, you don’t want to play it as a game.”   He pressed the button on his recliner which tipped up and into the waiting arms of his walker.  His back still hurt from the crash.  The crash that had won him the Distinguished Flying Cross.  “Best piece of flying in the war, ” General Eisenhower had called it. He had been at that R.A.F. base that day.  He personally commended the Colonel in the hospital.

He had voted for Ike twice. The man was a great leader of men, the Colonel told everyone.  The Colonel wasn’t so bad himself.  The confidence he had gained during the war had turned a small-town Mississippi boy into an international businessman.  He had amassed a small fortune over the years.

And then one day in 1970, he gave it all away.

He called it his second crash.  “Too much luxury makes you weak.” He then reinvented himself and founded a new business.  A second fortune quickly came. He spend much of that helping wounded veterans recover from their mental and physical wounds.

“Dad, it’s almost time.”

The four generations of Salsen men drove down to the local airport.  “What’s this all about, the Colonel asked?”

“You’ll see Dad,” his son helped his 90-year-old father into the private jet.

After a long flight over the Atlantic, the Gulfstream V landed at the little airport near the Dover Cliffs.  The door of the jet opened and the old man saw a band at the foot of the stairs playing Glenn Miller tunes.  “What’s this all about?”

It only took a moment to find out.  A roar drowned out the band as a B-17 Flying Fortress buzzed the field.  It banked, dropped its flapped and landing gear and made a perfect landing right in front of them.  The plane rolled slowly to a stop — IT WAS MARKED JUST LIKE HIS OLD PLANE.”

The old man dropped to his knees when he saw it. And on the side were the names of all of his crew who had died on that mission.

“Happy Birthday, Dad.  It’s headed to the Smithsonian as a donation in your crews’ memory.”

Nearly 70 years shaved off the old man instantly as he walked up to the plane. He rubbed his hand against its nose and openly wept.  And then, the surviving members of his crew got out of waiting cars.  During the mini-reunion, the band struck up the Star Spangled Banner.  Time melted on that tiny airfield in England. And as the age-battered men remembered that fateful day in 1945, a hero made a perfect final approach and landed one last time.

At mile 20, his legs cramped up. He had a little over six miles to go in the marathon and the pain began to cripple him.  But he kept going.  His desire to cross the finish line overpowered his discomfort.  He refused to quit.

With two kids and two jobs, she took her online class to work on her degree.  She sat late at night working on her homework. Exhausted, she plowed on.  She refused to quit.

The private ran and  fell face down in the mud. He then tossed a grenade toward where the hostile fire was coming from.  The grenade’s explosion silenced the enemy’s guns, allowing his squad to escape.  He refused to quit.

Laid off and frustrated, the former executive worked late at night at the local school as a janitor.  As he mopped, he thought how his wife and kids depended on him.  He swallowed his pride and got to work. He refused to quit.

Driving the backroads of America, he struggled to stay awake.  He had a load to deliver on time.  He was determined to get the job done. He refused to quit.

She sat in her squad car in a bad part of town.  With a family at home and people to protect, she put her life on the line daily.  To serve and protect — she refused to quit.

He was the first of his family to go to college. He sat in the library late at night, working on his term paper while his friends partied. If he got an A on this paper, he would get a scholarship.  He refused to quit.

The football player sat on the sideline. The coach screamed at him because of a blown play.  The player went back in and sacked the quarterback, saving the game.  He refused to quit.

She got up at 4:30 a.m. to do her morning workouts.  She dreamed of an Olympic medal as she plowed through the pool’s water.  One day she would wear the Gold Medal. She refused to quit.

The chemotherapy made her throw up.  She felt her bald head and felt the burn of her mastectomy’s scar.  In her hand was a photo of her beautiful three children. She’d beat breast cancer. She refused to quit.

Anyone who has succeeded. Anyone who has crossed the finished line. Anyone who has been victorious has one thing in common: They refused to quit.

Make this week something special. And when things get tough, refuse to quit.