Marshall Ramsey

T’was the night before Thanksgiving and all through the ‘Sip,

Not a creature was stirring, not even the Pip.

The Ramsey house was cleaned with extra special care

With the knowledge my sister’s family soon would be here.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds

Except my middle son, who’s stuck on the couch instead.

Mama, tired from cleaning and cooking all day,

said with a tired voice, “I’m trying to sleep, please go away.”

So I went into the den and typed with a clatter

When my youngest son walked in and asked, “Dad, what’s the matter?”

I looked at the boy and managed a smile,

I thought of my blessings — a list nearly a mile.

I  said ,”Son, nothing’s wrong. It’s Thanksgiving you see.

Come over here and sit next to me.”

Because I know that while an early Christmas is here to stay,

Thanksgiving is an attitude, not just a day. 

It’s dark. It’s cold. It’s raw — and it’s before 6 a.m.  The rain has come down in buckets for hours.  The world seems to be choking you with its frigid, unforgiving arms.

I can promise you this:

The gloomy weather will weigh on you.

You will run into idiots on the interstate — and you pray they literally don’t run into you.

A coworker WILL annoy you — even if you work by yourself.

The news on the TV will be bad.

A man on the radio will tell you how someone is out to get you.

Someone on Facebook will have a crisis. Or worse, make you mad.

You will get an unexpected bill.

Something will break.

Do you allow these to drive your day? Or do you drive your day?

It’s your choice.  Some of those things I’ve listed are real problems. But if you focus on what is in your control and make them better, you will have a happier, more productive day.

Make today special. Make it your signature.

It’s 5:49 a.m. I’m making my list right now on how to just that. What will you do to make your day the best one ever?

I met Bullet on Saturday.

No, I wasn’t shot.  Bullet is dog and a very important part of the Banjo story.

My friends Robert and April own Bullet. Or probably closer to the truth, Bullet owns Robert and April. He’s a nearly 16-year-old Border Terrier.  And, bless his heart, he’s extremely old and feeble. Bullet’s also the reason we ended up with Banjo.

Robert and April rescued Banjo from a home in Nashville. He was living with a couple and their Great Dane. And when the wife went back to work, Banjo didn’t react well to being left home alone. He dug trenches in their wood floors.  Soon, he headed to Georgia to join Bullet and the rest of his family.

Banjo and Bullet, both alpha males, lived together for three years. Most of the time they lived in peace; but when they fought, they REALLY fought.  They also marked their territory constantly.  As April described them, they were “Frenemies.”

So in a heartbreaking decision, Robert and April (and their three children) decided to see if Banjo could be placed in a new home.  They LOVED Banjo (who wouldn’t). It was a terribly painful moment for them.

From their pain came our joy. Banjo lived with us for nearly 10 happy years.

Saturday, I delivered copies of my children’s book Banjo’s Dream to their family. As we were sitting in their den telling Banjo stories, Bullet hobbled into the room. With a gray face, he was wearing a black sweater (he has lost a lot of his fur due to Cushing’s Disease and is constantly cold).  Blind and oblivious to my presence, he spun around a few times and wobbled — he’s weak on his feet — before he finally laid down.  I had envisioned a rough and mean dog who had fought with Banjo. Instead, I met a sweet pup who was at the end of his days on this earth.  I felt gratitude as I patted him on the head.  Because of him, we were blessed with a great dog.

As I was leaving, Robert held a shivering Bullet. I smiled, said goodbye and felt grateful to a special little dog. I know soon Banjo and Bullet will be playing together. This time though, they will play in peace.

Thank you Bullet.

“You can’t fire me! I started this company…”

But they could. And the Board of Directors of Nashville’s Twang Publishing did.  They voted unanimously to fire their founder and CEO, Theodore Lawrence III. Defeated, Theodore carried his office possessions to the curb.  “We are looking to go into a new direction.” He could hear their cruel voices rattle in his head as he unlocked the door of his leased Mercedes. The smell of leather wafted up and tickled his nose. He drove toward his house in Franklin in shock. As he entered the gate of his home he noticed a strange car in the driveway.  This couldn’t be good.

And it wasn’t.  He caught his wife red-handed and bare-assed in the worst betrayal possible. Theodore soon lost not only his job but his wife and his accountant, too.  A violent storm rolled in from the west, covering his mountaintop home  — and his heart — in a dark shroud.

Something snapped that morning. And when it did, Theodore Lawrence lost his will to live. He got into his car and began to drive.  Soon he was heading down the Natchez Trace — a parkway from Nashville to Natchez once known as the Devil’s Highway.

Theodore Lawrence was heading to Natchez, Mississippi. There he’d leap from the massive Mississippi River bridge he had seen in a magazine. There he’d put an end to his miserable life. There he’d check out once and for all.

Soon he had passed into Alabama and then Mississippi. His car roared past Tupelo, the birthplace of Elvis. Then on past the tornado damage near Highway 82 and by the Ross Barnett Reservoir.  He cruised near Jackson, Ridgeland and a stop in Clinton for gas. Each passing mile was one mile closer to his escape from the pain he felt. He saw the cooling towers of the nuclear plant called Grand Gulf off in the distance.  Natchez was only a few miles ahead. It was the end of the Trace and end of the road.  One quick leap and his body would be swallowed by Old Man river. He’d never be heard from again.

A buck and doe scrambled across the Trace, knowing the black Mercedes was on a one-way kamikaze mission. Leaves blew across the roadway like a yellow and orange blizzard. They too had fallen to their deaths.

Theodore Lawrence thought about his failures. His job. His wife. His accountant. His pride — all gone in a flash. His foot pressed down on the gas pedal. Natchez couldn’t arrive soon enough.

Natchez is the 25th largest town in the state of Mississippi and sits high on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River.  Known for its antebellum homes and Southern charm, its breathtaking beauty could warm even the coldest of hearts.  Theodore parked his car along the small park on the edge of the bluff. Below sat Natchez Under the Hill.  And off in the distance was his final destination.  There, tying the two river banks together was the massive Highway 84 bridge.  All he had to do was cross it. Theodore paused and appreciated his last moments on this earth as a slow barge fought its way north against the river’s current.

He could relate to the barge. He was tired of pushing against life’s unrelenting current.

Then it happened. The setting sun broke through the slate gray clouds, illuminating the sky and surrounding landscape.  It set the Mississippi River on fire. The muddy water glowed like embers — there was something powerful about it all.

Theodore felt a strange peace wash over him. All sound faded out as he watched the sun sink slowly beneath the Louisiana horizon.  As night tucked in the world around him with a blanket of darkness, lights on the bridge came to life.

A warm, white light bathed the iron beams. How could he jump off something so beautiful?  Theodore’s pain released in a sudden burst of emotion. He felt safe in Natchez.  He felt at home.

A year later, you can visit Theodore if you’re ever in town. He owns a small antique shop near the Convention Center downtown and is the president of the local chamber of commerce.  Occasionally you can see him sitting in the park on the bluff watching the sun set.  If you ask him, he’ll tell you how the bridge off in the distance saved his life. And how he has never crossed it.

June 1918, Belleau Wood, near the Marne River in France.

German shells ripped across no-man’s land, matching the screams of dying men. Star shells lit the trenches with a eerie glow, showing the muck and the dead. The private hunkered close to the support timbers, pretending they provided him some security. He was an American in a foreign land on a foreign mission he didn’t quite understand. And explosion rocked the trench to his left, sending body parts soaring through the air.  A severed hand landed at his feet. The private looked down at the gold wedding ring and shivered. There but for the grace of God…  Another shell landed with a thud nearby. But this shell didn’t explode. It hissed like an angry snake. “GAS! GAS! GAS!” screamed a man down the trench. The private struggled to put on his mask but it was too late. He began to drown on land.  Blackness enveloped him and then he woke up in…

May 1945, the island of Okinawa in the Pacific Ocean.

The private’s eyes opened wide as the rain poured down in buckets. Japanese corpses littered the landscape, looking like maggot-eaten rag dolls.  He and his Maine buddy bailed the foxhole as fast as they could while looking out for infiltrators. Artillery and snipers harvested the living while rot harvested the dead. The private stood at the ready, scanning the dark moonscape ahead.  Explosions rocked the line to his left and right. In the past two weeks they had moved yards.  If this was a preview of the invasion of the Japanese mainland, there would be Hades to pay.  Suddenly a scream woke him out of his trance as his buddy yelled.  A Japanese soldier bayonetted his friend and then came after him. The two men rolled in the mud, slashing at each other with knives.  The private felt the Japanese’s knife tip pierce his chest. Blackness enveloped him and then he woke up in…

December 1950, Chosin Reservoir, Korea

Frostbite crippled the private; yet he continued to fire his machine gun. Like the cold Siberian air, 67,000 Chinese troops had poured in from the north and had the 30,000 U.N. troops surrounded.  The private had used the frozen dead as makeshift sandbags, trying to obtain some protection from the waves of enemy swarming his position.  Rat tat tat tat. Rat tat tat tat — his machine gun burped death in a vain effort for him to live.  Rat tat tat tat tat. He covered the flank — his unit was trying to make a strategic retreat back to the south. Rat tat tat tat. More enemy came at him. It was 35 degrees below zero and if he survived, his feet would not.  Rat tat tat tat tat.  His back was against the wall. But his courage under fire meant that others would live.  Rat tat tat tat tat… A Chinese hand grenade landed next to him. Before he could react, blackness enveloped him and he woke up in…

January 1968, Khe Sahn, Vietnam

The private ducked as shells rained down on his position.  He picked up the radio and tried to call in an airstrike. The radio was balky and reception was poor. But he kept at it. Finally, he reached the forward air controller.  Two Air Force A-1 Skyraiders clipped the treetops and roared over the ridge.  The private watched with grisly fascination as their load of napalm dropped. The cylinders of jellied gasoline tumbled to the earth with a deadly precision.  The private realized too late that the pilots had missed their targets. A wall of flame roared toward him, covering him in a searing pain.  Blackness enveloped him an then he woke up in…

January 1991, Kuwaiti border.

Sand blistered the private’s eyes as he peered across the dune. The Apache gunships had roared overhead, signaling the beginning of Operation Desert Storm.  The private lined up the Iraqi in his sights, killing him with one squeeze of his finger.  Soon another shot rang out, and another Iraqi dropped to the earth like a rag doll. The private followed along where the mines had been cleared, shooting at any available target. But one mine had not been cleared. The last thing the private heard was a click and then blackness enveloped him. He then woke up…

November 2013, the mountains of Afghanistan. 

The private gasped as his lungs tried to acclimate to the high altitude. He and his patrol rolled along a dusty mountain road.  Taliban fighters had been seen in the area and his unit had been sent to take them out.  A Marine Harrier jet roared overhead, dropping bombs on the hillside to their right. They didn’t have the high-ground and that made the private nervous. Suddenly a brilliant flash from an I.E.D. went off, destroying the Humvee up ahead. The private felt the concussion slam into his chest as his vehicle was flipped off the road.  The private felt shrapnel burn his arm and leg as blackness enveloped him.  Then he woke up in…

November 2013, a C-17 enroute to Germany.

“You’re going to be OK, son,” the doctor said to the private. The private sighed and peacefully rested his eyes. It was Veteran’s Day. And as the giant hospital plane soared away from the battlefield, the veteran was finally going home.

Cataracts cloud my eyes and scars cover my body. My joints hurt and I move slowly now. The years have stripped me of both youth and energy. As I lie here on the couch, I realize my life is now in the rearview mirror.  I’m old now and have gone by many names.  But wisdom has permeated my soul.

My dad was a traveler who I never knew.  My mother, bless her soul, was a small terrier mix.  From her, I got my white coat and my incredible will to live. I was born on a farm in a box under a trailer on a very cold Christmas night.  Mother cradled us gently as the stars burned brightly in the inky black sky.  It was one of the few peaceful times I would know.

Soon after we were born, a human put us in a box threw us in the back of a truck.  I don’t remember much from that day, but I know we were dropped off far from the trailer.  I recall fleeting images of the rusty red truck and my mother barking wildly as it rode away. She then did something totally unexpected: She leapt from the truck to be with us.

My mother was amazing like that.  She chose us over the humans who betrayed her litter.

She pulled us out of the box and drug into the nearby woods.  After that, my childhood was a blur of trashcans and handouts.  When I was one, mom was hit by a car and left to die in the middle of the highway.  The world lost a loving soul when she passed.  As we walked away, my brother, sister and I were left to fend for ourselves in a very cruel world.

If you will excuse me, I need to pause for a moment.

One morning, the three of us were approached by a human with a noose on a pole. My brother couldn’t escape the noose and was drug off to a truck. My sister and I watched as it drove off.  We never saw our brother again — I hope he is in a better place.   My sister and I soon separated after that day. I haven’t seen her again either.  I pray she found peace as well. She was a kind soul like our mother.

The following fall, a farmer trapped me in a cage near his hen house. I had developed a keen taste for eggs and for some reason, he wasn’t willing to share them with me.  He was a big burly man with a prominent scar across his right cheek.  He claimed that man was on the top of the pecking order and used Genesis as an excuse to beat me often and horribly. I was kept chained out in the backyard and subjected to the horrible storms of spring.  One night, a horrible thunderstorm rocked the farm. Lightning lit the land like a strobe light.  A loud noise, almost like a pulsing jet engine came out of the darkness.  The monster raked across the farm — The farmer’s house disappeared in a cloud of shrapnel. When morning came, the landscape was littered with dead horses, cows, chickens and two humans.

I guess karma caught up with the farmer’s meanness.

I knew I had to leave to survive. So I pulled on the chain to pull the stake out of the moist soil.  I put that farm behind me as I drug the chain down the road behind me. One afternoon, I was poking through a bag of trash when I heard a loud explosion.  Pain seared through my body as bird shot tore into my side and left leg.  The chain jingled as I ran as fast I could from the second explosion.  I curled up in a dark hole, licking the blood from my matted white fur. Pain choked me and as I faded, I saw my mother’s beautiful face. I felt a peace like I’ve never felt before.

I awoke as the human lifted me up.  He was gray-headed and wrinkled, but  had a warm kindness to his face. I was afraid, but too weak to run. I just whimpered as he carefully laid me on the towel in the cab of his truck and whispered to me that I would be OK.  I think he was an angel, although he really didn’t look like my mother.  I faded again and was blanketed in velvety blackness.

My eyes opened to see steel bars. I can’t really describe the smell — it seemed like disinfectant and bleach.  There were other animals in cages: A tabby cat. A three-legged terrier who said his name was “Lucky.”  There was a one-eyed German Shepard named Hans.  I looked at my battered body and saw I was bandaged.  The man who had saved me walked through the room and peered down into my cage.

“Hello my little friend, you’ve had quite an exciting adventure.”

I initially cowered in the back of the cage, but the soothing sound of his voice comforted me. Maybe this human was different. Maybe I wasn’t about to get savagely beaten. I walked to the bars and licked his outstretched hand.  Salt. So this is what an angel tasted like.

I gathered strength and learned to walk again. Hans told me we were in what was called a “veterinarian clinic,” but I just knew it was different than any other place I had been before.  The food was good and the care was loving.  I felt a warmth that I had only felt from my mother.  Maybe there were good humans out there — yet, I still had my doubts.

And then I met her.

She was blonde, about six years old and full of joy. She bounded into the office and yelled, “GRANDPA.” The gray-headed man stopped and picked up the little girl.  He called her Anna Grace as she swung her around.  The world seemed brighter with her in the room.

“Here’s the one I was telling you about, Anna Grace.”

I wagged my tail as she came up to me.  She dropped to her knees and jumped up on her.

“I’ll call him “Snowball!”

As her mother and father put me into their car, I allowed that sink to in. My name is now Snowball.

I’m old now. I think of all the hardships in my life. I also think of my beloved mother. In my heart, I feel her’s beating. I know someday I’ll see her and my siblings again.  I’m scarred by man’s cruelty and yet have survived because of his kindness.  But right now, I’m going to doze in Anna Grace’s lap.

I’m a dog. And I’ve led an amazing life.