Marshall Ramsey

The small commuter plane bounced through the sky like a cork on a stormy sea. The passenger in seat 4A gripped his barf bag, looking out the window for any sign of land.  Lightning skipped from cloud to cloud, painting the thunderheads with a frightening glow.  He preferred bigger planes.  They made it easier for the authorities to find the crash site.

It had been a long year up North. Cold winters and cold people had left his heart with a nasty case of frost bite.  But now he was coming home. To the place he loved. He felt his heart melting. If Flight 3212 from Atlanta would now only make it to the ground safely.

His stomach and the landing gear dropped toward the ground.  The plane had broken free of the storm and the full moon dramatically illuminated the ground below. Lights twinkled like stars in the Southern sky and he saw the ink-like reservoir pass beneath them.  The plane banked and make its final approach.  It was now headed South.

South.  A place where people dropped their g’s.  South. Where kids were still taught to say “Yes, Sir” and “No, Ma’am.” South. The place where he was raised. South. The place where his Mama was. Home.

The elderly black lady next to him closed her eyes as the plane’s wheels touched down.  Her name was Dorothy and lived in the small Delta town of Belzoni.  He had struck up a conversation with her when they had taken off — something he NEVER did when he was up North.  She had nine kids and 23 grandkids.  They had pitched in and bought her a trip to Europe for her birthday.  That’s where her deceased husband had fought bravely in World War 2.  He loved the South just for that reason: The stories.  Southerners loved to tell their stories.  He had missed that. Talk to someone on the sidewalk where he lived and he or she would think you were about to attack.

The door opened and he felt the blanket of hot, humid air cover his soul.  The damp air reminded him of his childhood. Of playing in the puddles after so many June thunderstorms. Of skipping stones in the nearby lake. He smiled, grabbed his carry-on bag and headed toward baggage claim.

The blonde woman at the rental car counter was studying a college textbook.  “How may I help you sir?”  He hung on every word of her Southern drawl, each one-syllable word was deliciously drawn out to at least two.

“I’d like a car.  I’m going home.”

Home.  He told his co-workers at the bond firm that home was where Mama lived. They laughed at him for saying, “Mama,” but he didn’t care.  If he had had a compass, it would not have pointed North. It would always point true South. It would point home.

He headed east on the interstate. Driving was weird. He had been riding trains and in cabs for so long he had almost forgotten how. Three does and a buck munched on grass in the highways’s median. A truck passed him with a Mississippi State sticker.  Pines reached up to the sky, defining the horizon.  A pink glow kissed them on their heads.  A Southern sunrise was welcoming him back.

He got off on “his” exit, turned right and drove South on the narrow state highway.  An armadillo ran across the road, nearly ending up as opossum on the half shell.  He laughed to himself — he had not thought of that corny joke in years. Thirty miles of hardwoods, pines, fence posts, trailers and homes until he saw the dirt drive.  He put on his signal (like there was anyone driving at this time of morning) and heard the familiar crunch of gravel beneath his tires.

The lake looked like a mirror.  Glass-like and reflecting the glorious pink storm clouds, it stood like a sentinel.  A guard between him and his final destination.  Vapors of mist danced across the ground from the earlier rain. He stopped his car, got out and felt the squish of the red clay beneath is Ferragamo loafers. He took them off and threw them and his socks into the backseat. He felt the mud between his toes. Just like he had when he was a kid.

He walked over to the lake and picked up a flat stone.  It was time to tithe to the gods of the lake.  The first rock skipped five times. The 20th rock skipped 10.  He watched as the rings grew and grew and grew each time the stone touched the glassy surface.  Each one changed the lake and then the lake when still again. Just like the event he was here for would change his life.

He pulled the car up to the driveway and saw the cars already there.  He walked to the small house’s front door and took once last breath of his childhood. He held it for as long as he could and then he exhaled.

The door opened and there was his father.  The two men hugged for the first time in their lives.

“Your Mama would have wanted to hug your neck.  I did it for her,” the old man said. “I’m glad you made it home for her funeral.  It was all so sudden.”

“I know Dad. I miss her already. I miss her laugh. Her comforting me when I was hurt. I miss her smile.”  The two men walked quietly into the kitchen. There the funeral food was already starting to pile up.  He looked on the counter and saw fried chicken and wine.

And then he lost it.

On that muggy Mississippi morning, he broke down in tears.  His compass had brought him South to where his Mama was. It had brought him home one last time.

I remember that day in November 2010 like it was yesterday.  I was still sore from running The Marine Corps Marathon (where I had raised $13,000 for cancer research) and from being made part-time.  I was hurting in more than one way. And then I broke my toe.

At that moment, I stopped running. And I stopped exercising period.  I began working 16-hour days trying to find ways to pay for my son’s surgery, to feed my family and to keep my house.  My gym membership was one of the first “luxuries” to be cut out of the struggling family budget.

Blessings ensued. I began traveling the state speaking. In March, I was fortunate enough to be hired by SuperTalk Mississippi to host their 3 to 6 afternoon radio show.  One of the good things about being cut to part-time was that I was given flexibility by The Clarion-Ledger. Thankfully I could manage my work flow.  But that soon that changed and I started going to work at 6 a.m.

I went from tired to exhausted.

I’d work at the paper until noon, cramming work I used to do in nine hours into six and then rush to the radio station at noon. I’d grab fast food on the way so I could make to the station in time to do show prep for the day’s show. I be on the air from 3 until 6 and then I’d crawl back home. (And I was still traveling the state on the weekends and for show remotes during the week).  I was writing checks my body could not cash.

My weight had ballooned up 20 pounds to 220 pounds.

Howard Ballou  came in and challenged me to lose weight.  I showed him by gaining 23 more pounds.  How? The main culprit was soft drinks.  I love Coca Cola as much as I love oxygen — and needed it about as much.  I was drinking several Cokes a day to give me the energy to make it through the day.  Radio is a very energy-intensive activity — talking into a mic for up to 23 minutes at a time requires you to be thinking all the time.  And by the time I got on the air, I had been running and gunning for nine hours.  Since your brain uses the most of energy of any part of your body, I would drink several more Cokes to keep myself sharp. (Diet drinks make me feel terrible and try to avoid them). I was wiped out by the time I got home. And that’s when I had to be dad and work my third job — my illustration business. So I’d eat sugary foods to give me another “sugar rush” to get me to midnight.

One bad choice piled up on another.  And I felt like crap.

Patrick House is the winner of the reality TV show “The Biggest Loser.” He lost an amazing 202 pounds in a very short time — and changed his life. I met Patrick while doing a remote at The Neshoba County Fair last summer and was inspired by him instantly.  Last week, he came back on my radio show and challenged me to lose 50 pounds by April 28.  I’ll have a weigh-in at SuperTalk Mississippi’s Fitness Expo which will be on that day — and we’ll run the Marathon Makeover’s Half Marathon at the Renaissance (It has been cancelled — we’ll have to find another race to run) together two days later.

I have a big hill to climb.  But a recent trip to the doctor for my physical showed me that I have to climb it. Now. So starting next week, I’ll be going in at 5 a.m. to work out with a group. I’ll announce the details as soon as I work them out, but let’s just say I’ll be getting thinner with some of the people I draw.  I’ve already quit Cokes (that was hard but necessary first step).  And although I weighed 245 on Patrick’s scale, I weighed-in at 236 this morning. I guess you could say I’m on my “weigh!”

My goals are to weigh 195 pounds again, to change my eating habits and to start running again.   I have 121 days to make it happen. Because being fat weighs me down. Literally.

2012 is going to be a year of incredible changes. A year of amazing blessings. And I need to make sure I have the energy to make it all happen.

*I’ve signed on to train with Team Mississippi and Paul LaCoste starting Tuesday.

It was a slow Tuesday morning at the new car lot. The salesmen sat around drinking coffee and waiting for the next customer to pounce on. The sky was gray, there was mist and the showroom was empty. Very empty. Since the Great Recession had begun, selling cars had been tough.  To quote one salesman, “The car business isn’t for wussies.”

“I need one more car to get my goal for the month, ” the athletic salesman boasted.  “I’ll bet you $100 that I get a sale before anyone else!”  Several voices cried out in unison, “You’re on.”  You could cut the cockiness in the room with a knife.

A forty-something lady walked through the door. The salesmen were on her like fleas on a dog.

Over in the corner sat a brand new salesman. His name was Scotty and   had recently graduated from college. The other salesmen teased him and called him “kid.” They laughed at his trusting nature and positive outlook.  “You’re too honest, kid!”  He constantly fell victim to their pranks and practical jokes.

Scotty noticed an elderly man walk through the double glass doors. He was white-headed, a little overweight and wearing a pair of muddy overalls. The sun had damaged his skin, leaving a field of wrinkles on his face. His boots were worn and he walked with a slight limp.  A quick scan of the room showed that the rest of the salesmen thought he was a waste of their time — especially since he was looking at the most expensive sports car in the middle of the showroom.

The athletic salesman said, “Someone show him to the used lot to get him an old beat-up truck.”  The other salesmen chuckled.

Scotty got up out of his chair and walked over to the man.  “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to buy this car.”

Ralph smiled and said, “Then I can help you.”

At that moment, the old man pulled out a checkbook and wrote a check.  “Is this enough?”

The man, the richest man in the tri-county area, wrote a check for the price of the car.  The rest of the salesmen’s jaws dropped.

“My wife and I need something sporty to ride to church in.  The check’s good. If it bounces, you can have a 1,000 of my acres.” Both Scotty and his customer laughed.

After the paperwork was filled out and the car had driven off the lot, Scotty walked past the athletic salesman and said, “I’ll take a check for that $100 — no wait, better make it cash. I can’t tell by looking at you if you can afford it. Maybe someday you’ll learn that you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

The stunned salesman gave Scotty his money.  The rest of the salesmen in the showroom just looked at the kid in silence.

Scotty sat down, looked at the $100 bill and laughed to himself. On that gray Tuesday morning, he had sold his uncle a car.  And his cocky coworkers were none the wiser.