Marshall Ramsey

I’ve been given a gift. Not my ability to draw. Not my ability to sing (that would be more of a curse.).  No, I’ve been blessed with the ability to believe something will happen even when the facts point strongly against it.  It’s hard to explain, really. I have moments of doubt.  Lots of doubt. I’m not a homing pigeon who flies straight to a goal.  But somewhere in me, I have this gut feeling that I will achieve something.  And eventually I do.  My Dad once told me after he saw me speak, “You’re the first person I’ve met who knew what he was going to do at eight and actually did it.”  That was the finest compliment I could have received.

When I was eight, I believed I would be an editorial cartoonist.  And I had plenty of reasons why I wouldn’t.  I kept hearing it was a dying art-form. That I wasn’t good enough.  That papers weren’t hiring.  I worked as a janitor, an advertising artist, a creative director and then eventually an editorial cartoonist.  I’ve been a Pulitzer Finalist twice and seen my work hang on the walls of the Mississippi Museum of Art.  My work has been printed in The New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, Time Magazine and USA Today.  I knew I would make it and I did.

Lately, my dream has been challenged.  Once again, I’ve come across those who don’t believe in me or my talent.  It hasn’t been easy.

But let me tell you this: I have in my core the sense that greater things are ahead. That this is a transition for me to use my talents for greater things.  I don’t worry about those who don’t believe — because I do.  You may have similar challenges and blessings ahead of you.  I know you’ll meet them head on.  It’s a gut feeling.

Happy New Year. Thank you for reading and enjoying my work.  And may we have the best year ever.

The awaking sun rose over the eastern side of the lake.  Jack sat on his dock, watching the orange light dance across the water.  There wasn’t another creature around except a single duck flying low across the water.  It was a new day. And unbeknownst to the duck, it was a new year.

Jack held his favorite pen, a Montblanc, which was given to him by his grandfather at graduation.  Some men wore Rolexes to show their status: For Jack, his pen said it all. That pen had sired 15 best-selling novels.  If time mattered to Jack, he’d wear a Rolex.  Creating was what mattered to him. That’s why he owned an expensive pen and a cheap watch.

Fourteen of his bestselling novels had been written on the porch of his house overlooking this Mississippi lake.  The house was a gift from his first book.  The book had also allowed him to pay off debts and set up college funds for his kids. It was his favorite of all his novels and for good reason.

Jack placed the nib of the pen on the paper of his journal and felt that familiar, sacred scratching as he wrote.  His faith had been tested throughout the years, but he still believed in a higher power.  And to him, there was nothing more sacred than using his talent.  How many people had he known throughout the years who had squandered their gifts? Too many in his opinion — and in someways, Jack equated that sin to murder.

A flock of geese interrupted the calm as they honked their way South.  The Canadian Goose population had swelled in the 1990’s, causing their to be an undeclared way on them around there.  Goose poop on your shoes was a badge of honor at the local bar.  The bar where Jack met several of his books’ characters for the first time.  The bar where he had rung in the New Year.

Jack sipped his coffee, which was still steaming hot on the cold January morning.  Steam off his cup looked like the mist on top of the water.  Both rose a few feet off the surface and disappeared.  Their lives were as almost as fleeting as a human’s.  Except that a human seemed to think they were immortal.  At least when they were young.

Jack wasn’t young anymore.  Bones and tendons liked to rudely remind him of that every morning. But he jumped out of bed like each morning was the blessing it was.  He scratched a few more words down on paper. He liked writing on his dock at sunrise.  The view alone made him feel closer to God.  It reminded him that today was all he was given. And he was determined to make the most of it. To live in the moment. Carpe Diem.  Sitting here every morning was his moment of prayer.

He wrote his last few words and reread them.  A slight smile came over his face.

Monday’s Prayer: To have the strength, courage and dedication to make 2012 the best year yet.

Jack closed his journal, put his pen in his pocket and finished his coffee. The geese and the duck had given him a great idea for a new novel.  As the sun crested the trees on the distant shore, Jack knew it was time to get back up to porch and start using the talent he had been given. To say thank you for the gift of a New Year.

Paul Taylor was just another face walking down the busy New York City sidewalk.  It was Saturday, December 31, 2011 — New Year’s Eve — and he was leaving his midtown Manhattan office building.  There was no rest for the middle management — what was left of it, that is.  2011 had been a year of layoffs and cutbacks.  Paul Taylor was middle management, middle-class, middle-aged and in the middle of a mid-life crisis.

Times Square was already crowded. Streets were shut off, people were mulling about — he had to meet his wife there in about an hour.  Thank goodness for cell phones, he thought. How did people ever find each other before them? He checked his phone’s signal — four bars.  Whenever there was an event like this, getting a signal could be dicey. But he knew he could text her.  So all he had to do now was kill some time.

Shakespeare’s Used Books

He walked one block off Broadway and headed toward one of his favorite shops. Shakespeare’s Used Books was dark, musty and full of classic old first-editions of some of his favorite novels.  The owner was kind of strange — a portly old man who claimed to be a descendent of the Bard.  Stanley always welcomed Paul by name and they had developed a strong customer/owner relationship throughout the years.

“Happy New Year, Paul!” the familiar New York accent rang out as the door open. The smell of musty books assaulted Paul’s nose as he crossed the store’s threshold.

“I’m surprised you’re open,” Paul said, ” But I’m glad you are.  I’m looking to make some changes in my life.  Do you have an old journal I could write my New Year’s Resolutions in?”

Stanley Shakespeare smiled a toothy grin and hustled out from behind the counter. “As a matter of fact, I have the perfect book for you.” He disappeared into the back of the store.

Paul picked up a first edition of Willie Morris’ classic “North Toward Home,” and read about some exotic sounding place called Yazoo City. Stanley came bursting through the back curtain holding a black leather journal with an old ribbon tied around it.

“I’ve had this for a while.  A man from New Orleans brought it in — I got it for a steal. And since you’re such a good customer, I will give it to you. Happy New Year’s.”

Paul, energized about the potential for a new life, greedily took the book and thanked the shop keeper.  He looked at his watch — 45 minutes until he had to meet Ann.  Good. He had time to find a coffee shop and make some quick plans for 2012.

Ann and Paul had been married for 20 years.  Their marriage had once burned bright — but various crisis and two kids had taken the spark out of it.  Many days they just passed strangers on the sidewalk — their relationship had turned almost into one of two roommates living under the same roof.  Paul had remained faithful, inside he still loved Ann very much. He had assumed Ann had, too.  But he really didn’t know.  He was too busy trying to survive at work.

Big Apple Coffee Shop

The Big Apple Coffee Shop was named for tourists but served coffee only natives could appreciate. It was strong and bitter, not unlike the people of the city.  Paul found a booth in the back, ordered a cup and a piece of pie and asked the server for a pen.  He untied the ribbon, opened the book and thought he heard a scream.  Paul looked out at the street — anything was possible in New York City.  The pages were yellowed and a little brittle but surprisingly blank. He thought of Tom Riddle’s diary in Harry Potter and laughed.  He placed his pen to the paper and started write.

The words did not disappear.

Good. That was step one — to make sure the book wasn’t possessed.  He neatly wrote: RESOLUTIONS FOR 2012.  Then he began to lay his new life out on paper.

Number 1: To be rich and powerful.

Number 2: To be respected and feared.

Number 3: To have six-pack abs.

Paul stopped at three. Sure, they weren’t the best goals he had ever written. There were no action steps or deadlines.  But this was what he really wanted: To be someone other than who he was right now.

He ate his pie, drank three cups of coffee and read back over his simple Resolutions.  And then felt very sleepy.  Paul’s vision started to blur and he started to panic. He gripped the journal next to his chest as he fell out of the booth.  His world went black.

A New Life

He woke up in bed. The sheets were unusually soft — must be Egyptian cotton. He blinked and didn’t recognize the room he was. His hand rubbed his stomach — he had six-pack abs. He sat up suddenly and there next to him was a blonde lying face down without any clothes on. Panicked, he looked a his watch — a Rolex Submariner — and the date said, Dec. 31. It was New Year’s Eve!  Jumping out of bed, he put on his robe and ran to the window.  He was in an luxury apartment overlooking Central Park.

A servant walked in to the room, “Good morning Mr. Taylor.  Would you like your copy of The New York Times?”  Paul, too stunned by what was going on, took the paper and did not ask the English gentleman too many questions. He jerked open the paper and there was his face on the page.  “Billionaire Taylor under investigation by the S.E.C; Huge prison sentence possible.” Paul through the paper down. “What the hell was going on?!?” he screamed inside his head.

“Excuse me, ” Paul said to the servant who was bringing in some breakfast.”What happened to Ann and the kids?”  The servant, looking suddenly very uncomfortable, said, “You told me not to mention her name.”

Paul said calmly, “It’s OK. I must be hungover — I’m having a moment. ”

The servant sat down and slowly said, “She left you.  You started running around on her.  She still and the kids live in the city — you pay her a lot of money each month. She can afford it. But she hates you to the core.”

Paul sat stunned. He looked over at the twenty-something snoring gently in his bed and then felt his stomach again.  “What do I do for a living?”

The servant, thinking his boss had lost his mind, said, “Um, sir.”

“No, really. Tell me.  I woke with a slight case of amnesia.”

“You climbed rapidly in your company. You engineered a plan to lay off thousands and the board promoted you.  Within a couple of months, you became CEO. You’re a legend for your ascent in business. You wrote a book, which became a best seller. Your investments made Warren Buffett envious.  You became the most powerful man on Wall Street — and the most feared. The U.S. has never seen anyone like you at Mr. Taylor.  But some, like the Federal Government, say you cheated.  Ann wouldn’t disagree, sir, if you don’t mind me saying…”

Paul looked out at the Manhattan skyline. Everything he had written in his book had come true. And one year later, he didn’t remember one damn second of it.   He had gotten everything he had thought he had wanted and he was scared out of his mind.

“Bring me my journal”  Paul ordered quietly. The servant handed it to him — it was the same musty old book. But now the pages were filled with financial deals and notes about his empire. And there were phone numbers of hundreds of women, too.  It was a complete record of his new life.  “Boy, the S.E.C. would love to get this.”

He spend hours reading and rereading the journal. His new life was laid out there in all its painful detail. As the sun slipped beneath the Manhattan skyline and the last hours of 2012 faded away, he got an idea.

He threw on some clothes and ran out of his apartment building. He sped toward Times Square and headed straight back to Shakespeare’s Used Books.  He threw open the door, and screamed, “Stanley!”  The portly shopkeeper said, “I’ve been expecting you, Paul. Happy New Year!”

Paul threw the book toward the shopkeeper, “Take it, now!”  The book fell open and all the pages were blank.

Paul looked at his watch.  The crowd was gathering on Times Square and he pushed his way thought it like the athlete he was.  “Screw you, buddy,” a man screamed at him.  Three young college students swooned as he passed.  One lady said, “It’s Paul Taylor! I saw him on the Today Show! Paul, can I have your autograph?!”  Paul ignored her and kept running toward his last hope.

There, standing in the shadow of the ball, was a slightly overweight middle-aged woman who looked older than her actual age. Sadness had carved lines on her face; sadness brought on by the worst year of her life. She had come to Times Square looking for a new start. For a new hope.

“ANN!”

She turned around and with look of disgust, saw her ex-husband running toward her. “Get the Hell away from me.”

Paul didn’t slow down. The ball had begun to drop and he knew he had moments to do what he needed to do.  He nearly tackled Ann, grabbed her with his strong arms. Then, he planted the hardest kiss on her. 3…2…1…Happy New Year!

Paul felt his stomach. It was fat.  He pulled away from the non-struggling Ann and looked up at the ball. 2012.

“What was that about, “Ann said, still stunned by her husband’s passionate kiss.

After leaping a year, Paul was just glad to be back to his life. “Happy New Year, Ann. You know it’s a Leap Year.” Paul said.

And as the clock struck midnight and the ball dropped, Paul Taylor realize who and what he really wanted.

2011 brought us natural disasters.

2011 brought us economic challenges.

2011 brought us a buffet of bad news.

But it also brought us a chance to change. And once you realize that change is the grit that polishes stones into gems, you see 2011 in a whole new light.

2011 brought us opportunities.

2011 brought us growth.

2011 brought us strength in the face of bad news.

My first thought would be to say, “Let the door hit 2011 on butt on the way out.” But honestly, 2011 set us up for a great 2012.

So thanks 2011.

And Happy New Year. May it be your best yet.

It was New Year’s Eve at St. Mercy’s Memorial Hospital, but no one on the Intensive Care Unit floor felt like celebrating.  It had been a stressful night; three patients decided 2011 would be their last year on Earth.  ICU Nurse Jennifer Collins walked back to the her station and sat down, exhausted.  She sipped on a cup of coffee and looked at the monitor for room 12A.  The old man’s vitals were stable (thankfully).  Maybe she could ring in 2012 without any more drama.

The old man was veteran of World War 2.  His daughter said he had come home from the war, started a family, worked in the community and had become a civic leader. That he was a good man. A church-going man.  But time was doing what the Germans never could; the old man was losing his final battle.

She saw him in his sterile room, wired to every machine the hospital could throw at him and breathing shallowly.  In the chair next to him was an equally old woman just staring at him.  She had been up during visiting hours every night he had been on the floor.   Nurse Collins smiled. She hoped she would find true love like they had apparently found.

Suddenly an alarm went off. The old man started thrashing around and pulling at his tubes stuck in his arm. Nurse Collins bolted from her chair and was in his room in less than five seconds.  She calmed the old man and started to reattach a couple of his IVs.  As she silenced the alarm, the old man started to speak.  “The Resolution.” he croaked.  “The Resolution!”  His wife held his left hand and stroked his forehead.

“What’s he talking about, ma’am?”

The old man’s wife looked at the nurse and said, “I honestly don’t know.”

The old man said, “The coffee can in the garage. The Resolution!”

And on that New Year’s Eve, a mystery began to unravel.

A quick phone call to their daughter retrieved the coffee can from their house a few blocks away.  With nurse and the daughter looking on, the wife pulled a piece of paper out of the can and began to unroll it.

Jan. 1, 1945. Bastogne, Belgium

Today I resolve to be a better man. To give up my wicked ways. If God allows me to survive this frozen Hell and the German artillery, I will turn over a new leaf.  I will start a new life.

Sgt. Red Getty

The older lady was puzzled. She started to explain, “It’s his handwriting, but his name is not Red. Or Getty.  He’s Sam Michael and he was Corporal.  I know he was injured severely when a shell went off right next to his foxhole in the Battle of Bastogne. He spend nearly a year with his face bandaged.  I didn’t meet him until 1947. He didn’t talk much about his time in the war and never about before it.  All I know is that he was an orphan.”

In the bottom of the can was a key.  The old man looked at the three women and said, “chest in the garage.” The daughter headed home before he could gasp the last word.

When she returned, three women looked at the old chest. The daughter’s hand shook as she unlocked it. Inside were a couple of medals and a few old yellowed newspaper clippings, a photo and other assorted papers.

Nurse Collins picked up the newspaper clipping and read the first one aloud:

July 1, 1940 Nantucket, Massachusetts.  Heir to the Franklin Oil Fortune, Fredrick Franklin III was arrested for the suspected murder of socialite Francine Kelley.

The man’s wife, looked at the picture. “It’s him. I can’t believe my eyes, but it’s him.”

The daughter picked up the second clipping.

December 9, 1941: Nantucket, Massachusetts. Suspected murderer and heir to the Franklin Oil Fortune, Fredrick Franklin III, is missing.  Police found his Chrysler submerged in local bog, but no body was found.

There, once again, was the old man’s picture, grinning and wearing a tuxedo.

The daughter then pulled a letter out of the chest and read  it aloud:

“Dearest Son, I can’t tell you how much you have sullied the family name. Your drinking, womanizing, gambling and lying have gone on long enough.  You will disappear and join the Army under the name that I have secured for you. If you survive this godforsaken war, you will no longer be part of this family. You are disowned.

Your father.

The old lady sat down, weak from the shock.  Nurse Collins looked in the chest and pulled out a photograph. There was a group portrait of the 101st Airborne.  There, in the corner of it, were two men.  One was the old man. The second was another man — a Corporal with the old man’s name.

The daughter pulled out another newspaper clipping from The Boston Globe:

January 28, 1945: Boston-area man,  Sergeant Red Getty, dies January 2 in the Battle of the Bulge.  Local resident severely injured.

Beneath the papers, at the bottom of the chest, was a black diary.  The daughter pulled the book out and read the first page aloud. What she read caused all their jaws to drop.

“If you are reading this, you now know my secret.  In 1945, my foxhole was hit by a German 88 shell.  My buddy, Corporal Sam Michael was killed instantly. I was severely injured.  Before I passed out, I placed my dog tags on what remained of Sam’s corpse.  His head was gone, so there was no real proof of who he was.  He was an orphan and had no family. So at that very moment, I decided to kill off the wicked Fredrick Franklin once and for all. I was evacuated back to England and it was the end of the war before I got out of the hospital. By that time, no one remembered what Sam Michael looked like.  I vowed to start over and live a Christian life. A life of redemption. I pray that I succeeded.  I’m very proud of my daughter and my wife. And I hope that God has forgiven me for Francine’s death.  It was an accident. An accident caused by an arrogant, cocky little boy in a man’s body. I pray I kept my most important New Year’s Resolution of all.

The three women stared at the old man lying in the bed.  He looked at them and a tear flowed down his wrinkled cheek.  And before they could say another word, the alarms went off a second time. 2011 had claimed its final life.

Fredrick Franklin III  had given up his wicked ways and led an amazing life.  And as the clock struck midnight, he kept his most important New Year’s Resolution of all —  and he was finally forgiven.