Happy Birthday Mississippi

Posted on December 5, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday Mississippi. Happy birthday to you.

Two-hundred years old? You don’t look a day over 100. But wow, two centuries is a long time.  And you definitely haven’t had a dull life.

I’ve only been here for a little over a tenth of it. So yes, I am a newcomer.  Some even say a Yankee, although I grew up in the Atlanta area.  I’m a Mississippian by choice. My kids, however, are Mississippians by birth. They’re why I always want the best for you.  I want them to see opportunity within your borders.  It would break their mama’s heart if she had grandkids who lived far, far way.

You’ve seen moments of great pain and moments of incredible triumph. Humans being held as slaves is about as painful as it gets. A great civil war burned across you, leaving scars we still feel today. Poverty has gripped you, too. It took the Civil Rights movement to get us to live up to the promise of Thomas Jefferson’s words — all men are created equal. And natural disasters? Among the worst that have ever hit this land.  Floods, tornadoes and hurricanes have not only shaped your landscape, but your culture. The river that gives us your name rose in 1927. The level broke and brought pain — and an exodus.  When the Devil met Robert Johnson at the Crossroads, it wasn’t his first trip to your land.

But the grit of sand in your oyster created amazing pearls.  The incredible pain of slavery and the Jim Crow era gave us the beauty of the Blues. Your natural disasters shook us into doing the right thing at the right moment. As I have said before, when things get bad, we get good. We saw it after Katrina along the Mississippi Gulf Coast and inland. We see it every time there is a tornado. Before you can crawl out the wreckage and say “chainsaws and casseroles,” there will be a church van in your front yard full of people who will feed you and cut the trees off your house.

That’s who your people are.

From the hills of Northeast Mississippi, to the flatness of the Delta, to the Pinebelt on to the sea, you are a complex state full of complex people.  There is no true black or white in Mississippi — and I don’t mean race. I mean good and evil. There are many shades of gray.  You are a land that tests every fiber of our being. Like a forge, you make us stronger. And you challenge everything we stand for. Well, some of us.

My great great grandfather spent a little time here during the Civil War.  I have his memoirs and have read what he had to say about you.  He liked you so well that he stuck around and became a Methodist Circuit rider in Northeast Mississippi. A teacher by trade, he founded the late Wood Junior college in Mathiston, Mississippi. I think he was run out of the state eventually — a fate that I’m sure will happen to me, too. But he loved it here.  I think it appropriate his great great grandson ended up here, too. I, too, love it here.

Your history is rich, textured and runs as deep as the great river on your western border.  From cannonballs to cotton balls, you have a heck of a story to tell. For many years, others told your story. It wasn’t always flattering. Sometimes it was harsh and undeserving. Sometimes it WAS deserving.  I applaud that you now have two grand museums to tell your story to generations to come. As our musicians and authors prove, this is a land of great storytellers and stories. I’m glad you have the courage to tell them.

Congratulations on the museums and 200 years. We have overcome so much. And we have a way to go. It’s a not always an easy journey. But it’s one worth taking.

Thanks for allowing me to come along for the ride.  Your birthday card is in the mail.

 

 

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A few notes from my brief career as Grand Marshal Marshall

Posted on December 2, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

A few notes from my brief career as Grand Marshal Marshall.

1. I rode in a bright red, new Chevrolet Camaro SS Convertible. The 455 hp V-8 will propel the car from 0-60 in four seconds — and the only thing that kept me secure was clasping onto the car’s back with my butt cheeks. Thankfully we never got over a couple miles per hour. I did not fall off the car.

2. I made it goal to say “Merry Christmas” to nearly everyone (in groups) along the whole route. If it had been a drinking game (with eggnog, of course), I would have passed out by the first traffic light.

3. There were some really cute little kids along the route. A couple thought I was Santa (thanks to my hat). I said, “Well, I’m not that old, but I know you’re on the good list.” The parents would usually give me a knowing shake of the head and the proper look to go with it. Another young boys said, “There’s Mrs. Ramsey’s husband!” My celebrity knows no bounds.

4. I thanked as many people as I could for allowing me the honor of being their Grand Marshal Marshall.

5. My son was marching in his last Christmas parade behind me. That made being selected even more memorable. I got to get out at the end and see him march past. He had a harder chore, holding a baritone the whole time.

6. The weather was perfect. Cool, not cold or hot.

7. Saw many friends along the route. The best though, was seeing the look on my 10-year-old’s face when I went by. I offered him a chance to ride with me, but we didn’t slow down and I think he thought I was kidding. I did stand up and take a bow when I got to the judges stand. Maggie Wade Dixon, Kim Allen and Jan Michaels did a great job judging the floats.

8. Someone asked me why Pip didn’t come. She would have barked the whole route. Loudly. And probably would have gone after a dog or two along the way. She can be a brat sometimes.

9. The low-fuel light came one (a V-8 Camaro gets thirsty when driving in first gear). I figured I’d have to push. We made it with no problems.

10. It was fun. People were smiling and having a great time. I had a great time. Sadly, though, it had to end. I asked Amy if I could continue being called Grand Marshal Marshall. She said no. After my Camaro went away, I turned back into a pumpkin and went home and raked my yard.

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If the State of Mississippi was a Football Team

Posted on November 28, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

In an auditorium, deep in a generic state building, a man with a bad haircut and a rumpled jacket walks onto the stage. The crowd falls into silence as he speaks.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentleman.  My name is Yazoo Jones and I’m the athletic director for the state of Mississippi.  As you may be aware, we’ve had several seasons of budget cuts and slow economic growth.  I’m here today to announce a potential coaching change and that we have hired a search firm to begin looking for a new coaching staff.  Here at the state of Mississippi, we value our fans and have a commitment to winning. I will now open the floor for questions.”

Reporters shoot their arms up in unison.

Jones points to a grayheaded reporter in the front, “Yes Rick.”

“Yazoo, what kind of buyout would the coaches receive if they are fired?”

Jones looks at his feet, shuffles them a bit and then says, “If we make a change, it’s called SLRP, Rick — Supplemental Legislative Retirement Program.  They get a sweetened retirement.  And of course, the 13th check.  Emily?”

Another reporter stands up and asks, “You mentioned slow economic growth? How slow is it?

Jone pauses and then continues. “We want to put the best product on the field. We have amazing talent.  In fact, I’d say among the most talented in the nation. But we’re losing players to other states. And we have a revenue problem.  The Legislative Budget Committee, projects the state will collect less general fund tax revenue than last year. This has happened three out of four years since 2016. And it doesn’t seem to get any better — the  projection for next season is only .37 percent more than what was collected five years ago.  Our program isn’t moving forward.  We are stuck at 5 and 5.”

The next reporter asks, “What about tax cuts?”

Jones shrugs. “Good question Hugh. They were promised to spur economic growth.  Doesn’t seem like that is happening yet. But you do have more money in your pocket.  You can use that to fix your car’s front end from the potholes in state roads or use it toward your kid’s rising tuition.”

The reporter follows up, “But there’s a lot of waste.”

Jones nods, “Yeah, it’s state government.  That happens. We’re hoping a potential new head coach can help make the program more efficient. But we’re cutting into the marrow now. The waste we find won’t be able to fund the needs we have. Tuition increases at colleges, teachers having to buy their own supplies, cuts in Medicaid, Health Department cuts, bad bridges and roads — that’s not waste. That’s hurts the program.”

Another reporter raises his hand, “Will the search committee look for someone within the program?”

Jones rubs his double chin and says, “Yes. Mississippi has leadership out there.  Our current coaches are talented, too. It’s just that something isn’t working.”

A voice from the audience chimes out, “You sound like a liberal.”

Jones chuckles a little bit and then gets a very serious look on his face. “This isn’t a conservative or liberal issue.  This is about winning.  Our program is stuck in neutral and we need to get it moving.  I don’t want to raise ticket prices. I want to make our product on the field so compelling that people are willing to come here and be a part of it.  We have the talent. We need to inspire that talent now.  We need to coach up our three-star recruits through education and keep our five-star recruits in the state.  We can’t burn the program to save it. But the people of Mississippi are fired up. They love their state.”

Another reporter asks, “what’s the time frame?”

Jones walks back to the podium and says, “We have two years to decide if we want to keep our current coaches or get new ones. Boosters and fans need to pay attention to the news and see what direction the program is going.  Then in November, we will vote to make a change or not. One last question.”

A voice comes out of the very back, “What about the team flag?”

Jones looks weary and sighs, “Just don’t put a black bear on it.”

 

 

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A brief history of Thanksgiving

Posted on November 17, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Happly Thanksgiving! It’s the one day of the year when we do what we should everyday. Yes, I mean give thanks. But did you ever wonder where all our Turkey Day traditions come from? Me, too. Here are a few dates, facts and tidbits for you to read while you stuff your turkey and your face:

1621 — After finding The Mayflower (a the local restaurant) closed, local Pilgrims are relieved to find a really good local Indian restaurant open. The starving Pilgrims enjoy a hearty meal of wild game, turkey, corn, fish heads and cranberry sauce from a can. Stuffed, Pilgrims declare the day a day of thanks.

1621 (later that afternoon) — First reported case of tryptophan poisoning occurs.  Pilgrims found facedown asleep in their plates.

1784 — In a letter to his daughter, Ben “I don’t have sense to come in out of an electrical storm” Franklin proclaims that the Thanksgiving turkey was “as wiry and tough as an eagle.” Then he rambles on that the eagle on the seal looks like a turkey. A myth was born.

1846 — Donner Party heads out on trip to see Grandma on Thanksgiving. Meal didn’t consist of turkey.

1863 — President Abraham Lincoln, while looking online for a new stovepipe hat, proclaims, “We need the day before Black Friday off.” He later went on to proclaim a national day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwellers in the Heavens.”  The next year it was just shortened to “Thanksgiving” to better fit on calendars.

1890 — First documented case of an obnoxious relative spouting off about politics occurs.  Uncle Billy Bob Smith begins a 20-minute tryrade about President Benjamin Harrison and his ungodly liberal beard. That starts a timeless tradition that lives on even today: The relative who brings a big dish of awkward to the meal.  Later, investigators name alcohol an unindicted co-conspirator.

1897 — Jello-O brand gelatin invented. Dorothy (Dot) McMaster accidentally drops a salad into a cooling dish of gelatin. The Jello-O salad is born.

1920 — The National Football league is formed and Thanksgiving games begin. There are three games: One hosted by the Dallas Cowboys, one by the Dallas Cowboys and one with no fixed opponents — which I hope doesn’t mean fixed like a cat. In 2017, an NFL player takes a knee causing drunk uncle Billy Bob to unplug the TV and go on a rant.

1924 —  Inaugrual Macy’s Day parade kicks off in New York City.  In 1927, Felix the Cat debuted as the first giant balloon in the parade.  In 1932, the parade was broadcast.  Lipsynching singers appeared soon after that.  Santa, however, is real and don’t you ever try to convince me otherwise.

1942 – 1944 — World War 2 causes Macy’s Day parade to be canceled. Balloons were handed over to the government for scrap rubber. By 1945, the world was thankful World War 2 was over.

1956 — Interstate highway construction authorized by the Federal Aid and Highway Act of 1956. No longer will people have to travel over the river and through the woods to go to Grandma’s house.

1973 — A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving debuts. Snoopy gets trapped in a garage door. Kids eat popcorn and toast. Woodstock forced to eat another bird.

1974 — Grandma gets stuck washing dishes by herself. She stews quietly for years.

1980 — Mr. Whiskers the cat jumps on the table and eats the turkey. R.I.P. Mr. Whiskers.

1983 — Chrysler Corporation unveils the minivan. Trips to Grandma’s (who is still washing dishes by herself) house forever changed.

1989 — President George H.W. Bush is the first U.S. President to “pardon the turkey.”  Turkey later accuses President Bush of patting its behind.

2007 — Apple’s Steve Jobs introduces the IPhone. Families cease talking to each other at Thanksgiving and now just look at their phones.

2016 — Some stores open on Thanksgiving Day as Black Friday creeps into Thursday. Thankfulness replaced with raw consumerism.

2016 — Hillary vs. Trump means that millions of Americans sit silently at Thanksgiving dinner in fear, praying nothing is said about the election  — until Uncle Billy Bob yells, “Hold my beer.”

2017 — Grandma buys paper plates and orders Thanksgiving dinner from a restaurant. “To heck if I’m going to be stuck in the kitchen like the little Red Hen.”

2017 — Special Prosecutor Bob Mueller investigates a turkey’s tie to the Russian Government. President Donald Trump immediately pardons it.

2017 — I’m thankful for you and that you just read this column. Have a wonderful and safe Thanksgiving!

 

 

 

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Kindergarten 101 for Politics

Posted on November 15, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Since politics has devolved into kindergarten with big-boy pants, it’s a good time to revisit what we learned in preschool.  It was that time in our life when we suddenly were thrust into a classroom with different people. It’s where we learned how to get along with those different people.  Today, some of our leaders could use a refresher course in Kindergarten 101.  Here’s a handy, dandy guide of some of the things we learned back then.

Projection — Projection is when you are guilty of something but blame others around you. For example, little Johnny’s parents stuff him full of bean burritos the night before class. He comes to school and is gassy.  After a few unfortunate toots, he begins to accuse Sally, Jennifer, Mike and Jimmy of the crime.  Politicians LOVE projection. Just remember the old saying: He (or she) who smelt it, dealt it.

Whataboutism — This is super popular these days. Donny is caught with his hand in the cookie jar and says, “But what about Billy?!?”  A politician is caught with in a sticky ethical situation and his supporters all bring up a politician from another party who did something similar 20 years ago.  It’s logic that won’t work in a court of law (Sorry your honor, Frank murdered someone, too). But it sure works on cable channels and social media.

The Sandbox — Two kids, get in a squabble, sand is thrown and lots of crying.  But the two sand combatants don’t end up hating each other. They dust off the sand and get get back to playing.  Government used to be like that. It used to be similar to the sheepdog and coyote cartoons: They’d fight like heck all day long and then clock out as friends. Now if someone has a different letter behind their name, you have to hate their everliving slimy guts.  To quote one well-known orangish politician, that’s sad.

The Kickball Team — Rivalry is good. And if someone on the other team is caught cheating, you raise Hades over it. But if one of your players cheats, you don’t ignore it. Just because they are on your team, it’s still wrong. We’ve forgotten that.  It’s where we are today.  We bend into pretzel knots to defend someone on “our team,” when they do something despicable.  We use “whataboutism” to defend them. We claim to have the moral high ground but wallow in the ditch of excuses.

Taxes — If the big kid comes in an takes half your lunch money, you go hungry. You either deal with the bully or figure out a way to bring more lunch money.

The Martyr — This is the “I’ll take my ball and go home” kid.  The martyr says everyone is out to get him (or her). After awhile, the insane level of false victimhood gets annoying and the rest of the playground says, “Good, we’ll get another stupid ball.”  No one liked a whiny kid in kindergarten. I’m not sure why certain politicians think this is a good look for them today.

The Playground — The playground is a great metaphor for society. You can go out, meet people and play or you can just sit in the corner or hang with people just like you.  If you chose the first option, you will live a more fulfilled life.  And you won’t be scared witless of people you meet who are different than you.

The Meltdown — Ever notice how some kids would try to make you mad? And when you did explode, they’d steal part of your lunch?  Be wary of politicians (or anyone for that matter) who try to upset you. They’ll use you.  You don’t make good decisions when you’re mad. Don’t believe me? Watch the news.

Kindergarten was when we learned to play well with others. Today it’s a dying art. We’ve become polarized, distrustful and afraid.  It’s enough to make you want to go eat paste — or take your ball and go home.

 

 

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The house with a steel beam

Posted on November 14, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

 

After 49 1/2 years, my sisters and I are saying goodbye to our parent’s home. Last weekend, we went through the last things to make sure we hadn’t left any precious keepsakes behind. I’ll admit, it was tough. Much tougher than I thought it would be. The house was such a part of who my parents were. Watching it being emptied out is like watching their names being erased in the sand by the surf.

When we were done, I walked around the house one last time. I went to each room to remember a positive memory. And I remembered some of the lessons I had learned, too.

I started in the basement. When Dad purchased the house in 1968, he bought it for two reasons: It had four bedrooms and a steel beam running the length of it. It was a solid structure. One that took a lot of punishment over the years. The funnel cloud that roared over it. Tree limbs coming through the roof. Drama from the people inside. I remember doing pull-ups on that beam to get ready for football season. It literally made me stronger. The house is such a powerful metaphor for my family: Not flashy, not perfect but strong.

I stood where my dad and I would work on cars together. When I was six, he and I restored a red 1953 Ford pickup. As he worked on the engine, he crushed his hand, let out a howl and a curse word. I asked him, “Isn’t it a sin to say that?” Dad smiled though his pain and said, “God and I have a deal. He’ll forgive me if I am good to other people.” While some may argue with his theology, I saw dad try to live up to that until his last breath.

I want to be like him when I grow up.

From there, I went upstairs to my bedroom. I could see an eight-year-old me sitting at my desk drawing cartoons while listening to the Braves games on WSB-AM. Dreams were born at that desk.

In the den sat two tubs of papers. I had missed them the previous times I had been through the house. There were clips of my cartoons, early drawings, letters of achievement, newspaper articles about my various successes and other scraps that tell my life story. My mother and I had some rough times but the fact she kept all that shows me that she was proud of me. That’s a comfort.

The dining room was where we ate together as a family. Our parents would make us sit down and tell them about the current events of the day. If we had an opinion, we had to back it up. My love for politics and political cartoons was born there.

I went to the backyard to say goodbye to my former pets. I thought of the love and joy they brought me. As I looked over the yard, it seemed so much smaller than when I was a kid. I took over mowing it in 3rd grade. One day, I couldn’t finish and had a meltdown. My dad came out, handed me a glass of water and told me, “If you had used that energy to keep cutting, you’d be done by now.” That was his way to teach me work ethic and to not be a whiner. I backslide occasionally. But when I do, I hear his voice telling me to keep cutting.

As I left, I could almost see my parents standing at the end of the driveway like they always did when I’d drive back to Mississippi. Then I looked at the house. That grand old house. It’s the place where I learned the values of strength under pressure, kindness, dreams, pride in your work, persistence and hard work. I said my final goodbye and said, “thank you.”
I hope it serves the next family equally as well.

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Ah the stories we tell

Posted on November 8, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

A cold wind blew an even colder mist into my face. It felt like I was being stabbed by millions of little needles as I walked across the football field.

I looked at my watch: 4:49 a.m.

Ugh.

Lactic acid, the by-product of anaerobic exercise, burned in my legs. They were trash — the last two days’ workouts had beaten me down physically and mentally. I kept telling myself, “I’m tired. I can’t do this @#$@ today.”

That was the story I was telling myself. And you know what, if I had stuck with it, I’d have been right.

I stopped at the 50-yard-line before rejoining the shivering group of my teammates. I started thinking new thoughts like, “I’m so fortunate to have this opportunity to workout. I’m grateful that I am 49-years-old and can still perform athletically like I did 30 years ago (close). Today is going to be a great workout. I’m going to push through the tough moments and enjoy the easy ones.”

It might have been the ibuprofen kicking in, but my muscle pain went away. And guess what, I had a great workout today. (Yes, I am sore! But it is a good sore — the kind that means you’ve accomplished something.) And yes, it was hard at times but I plowed through it with my head up.

I write this because I’m sitting here this morning thinking about all the other stories I am telling myself. About my family. About my job. About my health. About who I really am. How many lies am I telling myself? How much negativity is holding me back?

If you think things suck, guess what — you’ll find all the things that reinforce that story. If you think that things are tough but you’re learning and will succeed in the long run, you’ll find things to reinforce it. Same situation. Different outcomes.

My “self-talk” needs a tune-up. That moment standing in the middle of the football field was a bit of an epiphany for me. We are the stories we tell ourselves.

So tell yourself a good (and realistic) one.

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More than a name on a stone: The Guy Brown Story

Posted on November 7, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Avenger pilot and friend of Guy Brown, Jr. Dean Boyer walks away from a TBM Avenger like he flew in World War 2. Boyer had just flown for the first time in an Avenger in 70 years.

“He’s not at the top of the ladder, but he’s climbing.” Quote at the bottom of Guy Brown, Jr.’s yearbook photo

Names are carved on a cold stone. Each name has a story behind it. But when the people who know those stories die, the stories are lost. History fades.  Time marches on. And the names become only a barren list like from a phone book.

On the World War 2 Memorial in Vicksburg there is a name of a forgotten hero. His name is Guy  McElroy Brown, Jr. Brown died a week and a half before the U.S. dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. His parents, who were broken hearted, died five years later 10 days apart. And with their passing, Brown’s story faded away. He became another name on a list.

That is until Clinton Body Shop owner John Mosley decided to buy a World War 2 U.S. Navy bomber called a TBM Avenger.  When Mosley decided to paint the plane like a Mississippi pilot’s plane, he discovered Guy Brown’s name.  And thanks to exhaustive online research done by Anne Claire Fordice, Brown incredible but short life revealed itself like invisible ink rubbed with an onion.

Guy Brown, Jr., born on June 15, 1917, was the only child of Guy M. Brown, Sr. and Clara Boyd Brown. He grew up off Claremont Street in Vicksburg, Mississippi.  He was both gifted athletically and academically and was president of his Junior Class at Carr Central High School.  He possessed Hollywood good looks. When Pearl Harbor was attacked on December 7, 1941, Guy did what every red-blooded American did — he enlisted in the Military. Soon he was training in Pensacola, Florida to become a Naval Aviator.  He’d be the pilot and crew chief the Navy’s latest bomber, the TBM Avenger, named to avenge Pearl Harbor.

All the while, his mother kept a diary of his service on a tongue-and-grove wall in their basement.  He repeatedly flew his plane and its crew into the hellfire of the Japanese antiaircraft fire. Two Distringuished Flying Crosses prove he had the right stuff.  His parents were rightfully proud.

While serving on the aircraft carrier USS Shangri La, Brown proved himself to not only to be an expert pilot but also a light-hearted prankster. According to his wingman and friend Dean Boyers, when in port, Brown would be the first to pickup the dates and the last to board the ship. When he’d come aboard, he’d flip up his sleeping shipmates bunks and then use his athleticism to escape, laughing all the way.

On July 28, 1945, Guy Brown made his final flight. His torpedo group was tasked to remove anti-aircraft artillery in a harbor in Japan. He scored a direct hit on his target but at an altitude between 5,000 and 8,000 feet, a Japanese anti-aircraft shell hit its mark. Guy’s wingman saw the Brown’s plane and her crew of three plummet into the sea in two pieces.  Charles Edward Smith Jr. and William Harry Winn were also on board.  There were no survivors.

John Mosley visited Guy Brown’s old home and met the owners, who were out in the yard.  When he told them Brown’s story, they said, “well that makes sense. We have a diary from the war on our wall.”  Fellow aviation enthusiast Dan Fordice arranged to have that part of the wall cut out and replaced. The wall diary that his mother so lovingly and then tragically kept now sits in the Southern Heritage Aviation Foundation museum At the Vicksburg-Tallulah airport.  It’s worthy of seeing.

Guy Brown’s story lives on thanks to John Mosley’s decision to buy a classic warbird. It also lives on because of the hard work of Ann Claire and Dan Fordice. As long as the Mosley’s TBM Avenger takes flight, Guy Brown, Jr. won’t be just another name on a stone.

 

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Thank you!

Posted on November 2, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Seven years ago tomorrow, I had a big career-change moment. It put me in fight-or flight-mode — and I’ve been in it ever since. While it hasn’t been easy at times, I will say that it has been the best thing that has happened to me. I won’t say that it has been all victories and I have shot my fair share of foot bullets, but I am still doing what I love to do. I have a great relationship with my coworkers at The Clarion-Ledger. I’ve enjoyed learning how to do radio and television and am fortunate to work with my friends over at MPB. I’ve produced successful books and have cherished speaking to so many of you. This page gets lots of readers, too. My motivation went from “my dream” to taking care of my family.

That was important.

But I can do better. Any limitation on my success has been because of one person — me. I have made numerous mistakes and have struggled at times, mentally and physically. I’ve had to work on my attitude. And my effort. I still need to.

You are either winning or learning. I’ve done both.

I’ve learned that great things come out of some of your worst moments. Angels come dressed in strange clothing. And sometimes you have to be kicked in the butt to get your out of your comfort zone.

I also know that my success depends on you reading, watching and listening.

So the point of all this? Thank you.

P.S. It goes without saying I would not have been able to hustle like I have without my family. Amy has been a rock, held the family together and worked her butt off while I’ve been out hustling. The boys, too, are awesome. I live for them.

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The Monsters

Posted on October 31, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Storm clouds painted downtown Jackson’s usually tan brick buildings a gloomy shade of gray.  As I walked to the office, I noticed familiar faces standing outside of an office building. It was the unemployment office and the faces belonged to some pretty traditional Halloween characters. It was the first of November; they were out of work. There was Frankenstein. Dracula. The Mummy. A witch.  I even saw a clown with a red balloon. I asked him if he was Pennywise. He said, “No, I’m his half-brother, Nickleback.”

I wondered if he was kidding. I also wondered why I wasn’t frightened.  Maybe it’s because I’m adult. Or maybe the world is now scarier than fictional Halloween characters.  Even Vincent Price (a real Halloween character) seems like Mr. Rogers these days.

The sky opened up as rain began to pour down.  I, not carrying an umbrella, ducked into the doorway to join them.  The witch nodded and said, “I feel your pain. I melt like sugar when it rains.”

I laughed and decided to break the silence by putting on my interview hat.

“So what scares you?”

Frankenstein stepped up first.  “Obviously fire. I sure don’t like fire.  But also, I’m a bit worried about the state of the country.”

I wasn’t expecting him to say THAT. I asked, “How so?”

“I thought you watched the news,” Frankenstein said, “We’re so divided.  And now, it seems the Russians have been playing us against each other.”

I smirked, “You mean that’s not fake news?”

Frankenstein looked annoyed. Frankenstein always looks annoyed. ” That came from Facebook itself. Over 126 million Americans were exposed to stories from Russian Troll Farms during the last election.”

Russian Troll Farms sounds scary. “Is that were they grow trolls?” I asked.

Dracula spoke up, “No, that’s where they truly write fake news. Then they use our social media platforms to bombard us with it. We start fighting in the comment sections and next thing you know, we’re telling our high school friends to go to…”

The sun broke through the clouds and evaporated Dracula.

The witch, who was carefully avoiding a drip of water from a leak next to her, spoke next, “We’re mad at the NFL. We’re mad at the media. We’re mad at the outrage of the day. You know that. You read the comment section.”

“So what should scare us?” I asked.

A bat flew up and Dracula reappeared.  POOF.  “That was close,” he panted, “and to answer your question, we should be afraid of fear.”

“Isn’t that a bit ironic coming from a fictional horror character?” I asked incredulously. “You suck blood after all.”

The vampire looked me in the eye (I was guarding my neck) and said, “Look, we have people who are afraid they won’t have a meal. They are afraid that they won’t be able to afford their kids’ hospital bills. They are afraid that their kids won’t have a better life than they did.  They are fearful that their kids aren’t getting a decent education. College tuition? Yikes. That’s scary. Plus, don’t get me started on opioid drugs. And we ignore all that for what shiney object pops up in our social media feed.”

“Strong words,” I said.  The rain stopped and the sun began to shine. (Dracula ducked into the shade.) I realized I needed to get back to work so I wished them well and hoped they found work scaring people again.  Maybe they could get a real job scaring people by starting their own fake news troll farm.

 

 

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