Marshall Ramsey

A light breeze greeted the hunter on the opening day of Deer Season. It was right before dawn and the Sun had painted the Eastern sky with streaks of purple, pink, orange and yellow.  The caffeine from his morning coffee and the adrenaline of the hunt were keeping him awake. Which was a good thing. Falling out of a deer stand would surely lose him his man card. Or worse.

He gripped his rifle, his instrument of death, and viewed the woods around him. Off to the Northwest was a clearing. It had been planted with rye grass and was a natural magnet for the deer that lived in the 1,000 acres he hunted. He sat high above the ground, serenaded by sound of his own breath and the breeze that whispered through the pines. It was a symphony of near silence only interrupted by his own heartbeat.

A snapping sound off to his right woke him out of his trance.  It was soon followed by the rustling of leaves — rustling too loud to be just a squirrel or even a coyote.  He slowly picked up his rifle and looked through the scope.  The human eye is particularly good at detecting motion and he noticed something large moving toward the clearing.  He followed it with his scope until it moved into the field.

It was a buck. A large buck. No, a huge buck. He quickly counted the points on its antlers as it stopped to eat its last breakfast.  A 12-pointer.  The hunter’s heart began to beat rapidly has he aimed his rifle right at the buck’s heart.

He started to pull the trigger and then stopped.

He slowly put the gun down and felt over his own heart. There he felt the rough ridges of a scar. A massive scar from his cancer surgery.  Cancer that was missed by three other doctors before a fourth found it.

The deer heard the hunter and looked directly at him. Both the man and the animal gazed at each other for a minute before the buck ran off into the woods.

“Today wasn’t your day to die.” the hunter said, “Just like it wasn’t my time either.  You won’t be so lucky next time. ”  He stopped for a moment, rubbed his scar and whispered under his breath, “next time.”

The hunter had given the buck another precious chance to live — Just like the one he had received not so long ago. He set the gun down and watched the dawn wrap its arms around the woods around him.

I went to Washington D.C. last October and was afraid to drink the water.  Apparently something causes people up there to lose touch with reality.  The reality of the average American who’s trying to weather this economic storm.

I understand that jobs are very important to the folks up in D.C. — well, their jobs that is.  2012 is the focus and both sides of the political aisle are going to do whatever it takes to hold onto (or grasp more) power.  There’s gridlock and a complete lack of trust.

Saturday I sat in the backyard of a west Houston home.  Houston, Texas is not a bastion of liberalism, so I knew that I was talking to a pretty wide cross-section of folks. There was an airline mechanic and pilot. A rancher. A man who was retired and lived in the country.  One of the nations brightest melanoma researcher.  A retired English teacher from New Orleans.  All without much in common politically — other than they were all completely fed up with Republicans and Democrats. And they were all worried about the direction this country is headed.

They were smart people who are completely frustrated.  It’s interesting to hear the talking heads on cable TV news and politicians going on about how they are righteous.  That kind of surety in this economy makes me thing that the Mayans just might be right — 2012 will be the end of their political world after all.

It was late in the evening and the dog would have licked himself, but thanks to the vet and Bob Barker, that would have required a trip to the town dump to do so. “Spay and neuter my fuzzy butt,” he thought. But what was gone was gone, so he did the next best thing: He went to sleep on the human’s bed.

Next thing he knew he was awakened by a crash of thunder.

It was 4 a.m.

“SON OF MY MOM!” he barked as he fell off the bed and onto the floor.  He hated storms. No hated wasn’t the proper word. He LOATHED storms..  He paced around the room, shivering, before he went and checked on the human kids. They were his pack and he was the pack leader. There was so much to worry about when you were a dog.  Humans had no idea.

The lightning looked like a thousand paparazzi were out in the yard taking pictures. The continuous flashes lit the night sky. “How could the humans sleep through the end of the World ?” he thought as his heart rate began to race faster and faster.

A bolt of lightning hit an old oak nearby. The instantaneous crash of thunder shook the house and rattled the China.  He barked in panic!  ARRRGGGGGHHH!!!!.  (He could feel a little bit of pee come out!)  Then the rain started to fall.  Gentle at first but then more and more  a torrent that made a sinister hissing noise as it hit the roof. The gutters overflowed from the copious amount of rainfall.  Another close bolt of lighting caused the dog’s  panic to hit 11 out of 10.  He began to pant.  Fear had hooked its leash to his collar and was taking him for a walk.

The Weather Radio went off.  “GREAT,” the dog thought. “I’m going to DIE!”  It was Severe Thunderstorm Warning.  Apparently the radio picked up the obvious frequency.

Noise stirred from the master bedroom as one of the humans got out of bed.  Feet hit the ground with a thump and footsteps came toward him.

“Hey boy,” the half-awake human said, as he knelt down and started petting the frightened dog. “I don’t like storms, either.”  The dog had been fine with storms until Hurricane Katrina blew through in 2005.  After that Hell storm, no mas.  The big, sleepy man gently comforted the little brown dog.  “Let’s take you to your Crate of Solitude.”

The Crate of Solitude was a dog kennel with towels over it.  The dog felt safe in there and could not see the lightning (which was the worst part for him.)  The human picked him up and continued to stroke his head. “It will be OK. I promise.”  Another bolt of lightning and crash of thunder mocked his assurances.

The dog was put in the crate with a treat and a blanket.  He turned around three times, searching for the proper place to lie down.  It took a fourth, but he finally found it.

The dog sat in his Crate of Solitude, pondering the meaning of storms and worrying about his pack.  After much pondering and worrying, sleep finally came and stroked him behind the ears.

It had been a two-hour flight but it seemed much longer. Apparently airline seats were designed by grumpy sadists, the weary traveler thought. Or at least small ones. He was 6’2″ and wished he was about three-feet tall. Crumpled into a question-mark shape and feeling the pain in his back, he leaned his head against the hard plastic side of the plane and tried to sleep.  It evaded him like an escaped prisoner hiding from the law.

He stirred around trying to get comfort without hitting the man sitting next to him. He had a better chance of locking lips with Angelina Jolie. Next to him was a large man who was even larger than him. His big row mate was in his own world and devouring a magazine word for word.  For an hour and a half they sat there trying not to bump into or speak to each other.

The jet pierced the white clouds at 27,000 ft. and then the whine of the engines changed pitch.  The familiar sinking in the traveler’s stomach meant that the plane was beginning its descent.  The flight attendant took his peanut bag and the two men looked at each other.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“You live here?”

“Yup.”

The small-talk flowed like water.  And then something unexpected happened: The small-talk turned into meaningful-talk.

It was an amazing conversation about politics, the problems with America, the frustrations of the economy and the hope that this great nation could turn around.

“You know the secret of it all is, don’t you? Particularly with your children.”

“What,” the traveler asked to his now-talkative row mate.

“Love your wife and spend time with your children. Read to them. Throw ball with them. Listen to them. Be a family. Take the time to be in their lives.  It’s all about time and time invested. ”

The traveler sat there stunned. It was wisdom he desperately needed to hear.  For nearly two hours he had sat there in silence only to then get 15 minutes of sage advice.

The plane landed and taxied to the gate. The doors opened and the crowded jet emptied out. The row mate got off the plane first and headed up the jetway.  The traveler fumbled with his bag in the overhead bin and ran after him to thank him one more time and to get his name. But by the time the traveler got to the terminal, his row mate was gone.

Messengers show up in the strangest places and in the strangest ways. And usually, they disappear the same way.

Right after takeoff from Houston’s Hobby International Airport, the airliner banked hard and turned toward home.  My nose was pressed against the window, looking straight down at the ground. I watched as the plane chased its shadow across the city of Houston and the MD Anderson Cancer Center complex.  I thought about Kelly. She was down there somewhere. Her smile. Her one swollen leg. Her tumors. I thought about Kelly. How she had put her life on hold and moved to Texas to seek a miracle — a cure for Stage IV melanoma.

Last Saturday, I had the honor of emceeing the fourth annual AIM at Melanoma 2011 Houston Walk. It’s the baby of Judy Sager — an amazing woman who’s fighting the horrible disease that took the life of her husband Jurgen Sager.  Each melanoma survivor got a special t-shirt. And when I wasn’t talking, I was seeking out the special shirts and the survivors who were wearing them. I was amazed at their stories of bravery. Of pain. Of fear. And of hope.

Kelly’s story really moved me.  Maybe it was her sense of humor (just like mine) or maybe was it her inspiring determination to make a miracle happen (she managed to walk half of the 5K course).  Or maybe it is because she’s my age and is a parent, too.  I felt my scar as I talked to her.  There but for the Grace of God go I.

Later that afternoon, I met the Chairman of the Melanoma Department, Dr. Patrick Whu.   We discussed the research MD Anderson has been conducting.  How they are on the verge of making miracles.  Saturday’s race gave them over $80,000 to help do just that.

I said goodbye to Kelly late Saturday morning and hoped it wouldn’t be for the last time. I prayed that Dr. Whu and his team will find that miracle for Kelly and the thousands of other melanoma warriors need. I want them to live long and full lives.

I thought of Kelly one more time today as my plane pierced a cloud as the shadow and the City of Houston disappeared from sight.