How to survive the 5%

Posted on October 31, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Fairly long post warning:

The alarm went off at 3:52 (don’t ask me why I set it at such a random time — I just did). I rolled over and with the precision of a Swiss Watch, I reset it for 4:52. I would sleep an hour more and run in the neighborhood.

The 4 a.m. Wake-Up Club could soldier on without me.

But one eye wouldn’t close. I had gotten seven hours of sleep. I had no other excuse for missing my bootcamp. I pondered the situation and at 3:55, I turned off the alarm and got ready.

Paul Lacoste had me get up before the workout and talk about something we had spoken about yesterday. One of my favorite motivational books is a book called Trident: The Forging and Reforging of a Navy SEAL Leader by Jason Redman. Redman became a SEAL before 9/11, went to college to become an officer, rejoined the teams in Afghanistan. With dated skills, he soon found himself making mistakes — and having bad attitude explosions. After a serious mistake while on a mission, he found himself being sent to U.S. Army Ranger school. While there, Redman’s attitude continued to haunt him as he made more mistakes and was hounded because he was a Navy SEAL. He finally had had enough and decided to quit.

That’s when things began to change for him.

When telling the commanding officer of his wishes (and how everything was everyone else’s fault), the officer replied that he needed to talk to one more person before he walked away from his career. That person was a friend of the officer — and also Redman’s mentor, Captain Peterson. (Small world). Peterson told Redman he could redeem himself but that it would require a change in his actions and attitudes.

Of course, Redman could not graduate with his current class, so he was forced to go through the training AGAIN. But first, he had to go to “Ranger jail” and pick up cigarette butts until the next class began. That’s when he had his epiphany. All the people he blamed for his problems weren’t his problem after all.

He was.

Of course, he excelled through the course up until one moment when he snapped and chewed out a teammate for his incompetence. The commanding officer, who had been watching him, said, “I’ve noticed something about you. You’re a great leader 95% of the time. But it’s the 5% that keeps you from being successful. That’s when you tear yourself down.” Redman thought about it. He thought about all of the times he had thrown pity parties. He thought about all the times he had shot himself in his own foot. He changed, graduated Ranger school with high marks and eventually regained the respect of this fellow SEALS.

Redman’s story goes on from there — he was later seriously injured in Iraq by a machine gun shot to the face. His attitude helped him recover and thrive. If you get a chance, read the book. The audio book is good as well.

What hit me, and why I shared this story with my team, was that I am very guilty of succeeding 95% of the time and then imploding the other 5%. It can be self-pity, laziness or just being an selfish a-hole. It also can be that little voice of self-doubt in the back of my head that says, “You’re not good enough.” I don’t know. But I stumble when I think about the outcome. When I worry what others think. And when I don’t focus on the process.

That’s when I fail.

Success will happen. But you have to be very careful when you define what that success truly is. It’s something that has to generate from within you and a higher source. You can’t wait for the praise of those around you. You have to have the confidence to know that you’ve done your very best during the process.

That’s when life happens. Not in the future when you think you’ll be successful.

Yes, this is a long post. But that was my message this morning. I went out on the field and tried to do my best at each exercise. And when I was done, I felt a very powerful high. It might of been endorphins. But I think it was just the satisfaction of not turning off the alarm and getting my butt out of bed.

Have a good day. Enjoy the moment and enjoy the process.

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The flight of the Avenger

Posted on October 27, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

The deck of the aircraft carrier pitches due to the rough South Pacific swells. You are a 19-year-old but have experienced enough hell to be 70. The hum of the starter gives way to the giant radial engine in front of you firing to life. Above you is a gunner who is crammed into a ball turrent like a sardine. You are too big to take his place. In the front seat is a 23-year-old “old man” who will fly you to your destination. It’s a place with a foreign name that you never heard as a child. The smell of exhaust wafts into where you are sitting. You look ahead at the gauge for the hydraulic pressure — it’s at 1400. Good, it’s working. Flaps and landing gear are important. Landing is important. If you survive the day, of course.

The engine roars.

Then, before you can say “Pearl Harbor,” you’re roaring off the deck. The pilot has timed takeoff to the rise of bow of the aircraft carrier so you have as much clearance over the water as you can have. You’ve lost three friends whose plane lost its engine at takeoff. You’ll lose many more that way.

You pray you stay out of the water. You’d like to make 20.

Speaking of that water, you’ll spend hours over it. You have two small windows on the side. One behind you. You have a job to do. You are to drop the bombs on the enemy. But the enemy will throw every fighter plane and antiaircraft shell at you. God, fate, luck, a couple of machine guns and your aircraft commander are your defenses. You pray as the shells begin to pepper the plane. Your gunner begins to fire his guns. Only thing that protects you from death is a thin layer of metal. You grab a small cross you carry in your pocket.

It’s time to drop the bombs. Your country has put so much responsibility in your hands.

I thought of the brave men who flew the Navy’s TBM Avenger during World War 2 yesterday as I bounced down the runway. I was strapped into the same seat I just wrote about. I looked at the switch to drop the bombs. I was thankful we were flying over land. I was thankful we weren’t taking off a carrier. I was glad I didn’t have to bomb Flora and that Flora wouldn’t shoot back.

And I respected the men who sat in that seat during the war.

They had a job to do. A hard job. A damn near impossible job. They flew in a plane designed by Grumman and built by GM. It was a truck. But it was a reliable truck. It brought many of them home.

I’m honored to have at least a small sense of what their service was like. Thank you John E Mosley. And thank you to every veteran who has served our country.

 

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Lesson from this morning’s workout

Posted on October 26, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Sometimes we get so caught up in our day-to-day struggles that we don’t notice the world is changing around us. We’re like the frog who boiled in the pot — we think we’re comfy in a nice, warm hot tub (until it is too late). Bad things only happen to the other guy. Right?

Change is scary, particularly if you like your world as it is. For me, the struggle is to have enough energy to do the things I need to change AND to cover my daily routine. I know you feel the same way, too.

I’ve always admired the stories about single parents who work, take care of their kids’ needs and manage to earn their college degree. They are rock stars in my book. I’ve always wondered how they did it. I have to believe that focus is their secret sauce.

The ability to focus on your efforts is a valuable skill. You can thrash around in the water or you can swim. Both are hard work. Both will wear you out. One will save you.

Somedays I feel like I’m thrashing. I know I could do better. I know I need to review my priorities.

One of the greatest hinderances in my career has been situational awareness. I have allowed my pride to paint a rosier picture than what is true. I also have failed to admit that my #1 obstacle is my behavior. Like an orange, you don’t know what’s in you until you get squeezed.

So what did I get out of my workout this morning?

Ten steps to handle change:

1. Admit your weaknesses.
2. Set a goal and plan to address them. Stick to it.
3. Show up.
4. Don’t go through the motions.
5. Don’t allow fatigue to be your boss.
6. Focus on the moment, not what’s up next or what just happened.
7. Push into exercise (or whatever you’re doing) and don’t hold anything back.
8. Take pride in your accomplishments.
9. Catch your breath.
10. Rinse and repeat.

Fatigue and I are having a chat right now. But that’s OK. I have a plan for the moment and am working on a new one for the future. And that leads to hope — which gives me energy.

Happy Thursday! Thank you for reading.

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The smartest person in the room

Posted on October 25, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Next Sunday, I’ll be addressing Phi Kappa Phi’s induction ceremony at Ole Miss. Phi Kappa Phi is the nation’s oldest, largest and most selective honor society. That means that I will be talking to a room of full of people who are both talented and driven. Let’s just say that I won’t the smartest person in the room.

So that’s my challenge. What do I say to a group of really bright and ambitious students?

I could give them a lecture on success.

Um, no. My advice about success would most likely ring hollow. I would bet the farm (if I had one) that they have the success thing pretty much figured out. For most of their academic career, they’ve been acing tests, crushing term papers and moving the needle when it comes to good grades. I’m not sure anything I could tell them would impress them.

“Do your best, kids!”

“Um, Mr. Ramsey, we have. That’s why we are being inducted into Phi Kappa Phi.”

Silence.

That’s when I realize that some of the people in the room can probably bend forks with their minds.

I could talk to them about failure, instead.

Right.

Teaching brilliant people about screwing up doesn’t sound like a good idea (at least on paper.) “Hi Mom and Dad, I want your kiddos to take a new road — the road to failure!  And students, just take your hands off the wheel and step on the gas. Seize the nap!”

That would go over like a cowbell in the Grove.

But when I say failure, I don’t mean blowing off a test or plagiarizing a paper. No, I mean the kind of failure that sometimes happens when you push beyond your comfort zone. The kind of failure that ends up giving you a doctorate in success.  I learned that first hand my junior year in college.

My academic faceplant moment was Accounting 2. After a miserable semester, I limped into the final with an big fat F. Panic ensued. I had never failed anything before — heck a B was a bad grade to me.  But at 3 a.m. the night before the final, I had a caffeine-driven ephipany: You can’t spell “My Fault” without an F. I took responsibility, took the final, got a 92 and passed the class. The professor saw me later and said, “Why didn’t you do that all along?”  I told him I had to fail first to learn my lesson.  I’m proud of that D. To me, it stands for Determination.  It was a lesson I had to learn a couple years later when I was working as a custodian instead of a cartoonist. Walls crumble when faced with a determination and personal responsibility.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want the students to make a bad grade. But I do want them to break out of their academic safe places and try everything new that they can.  My classes in college gave me a solid education. My actitivies outside of the classroom gave me a career. My work at the student newspaper launched my cartoonist career.  My job as a custodian made me want my dream really bad. Maybe I could speak about that.

Or I could  just beg them to stay in Mississippi.  I’m not too proud to grovel, you know. And Lord knows we need them here.

I’ll plead with them to stay here after graduation to make this state better for all of us. I’ll ask them to stop the brain drain.  I’ll suggest they grow their leadership in native soil.  They are the best of the best. If they choose to stay in Mississippi (as in, if they find the kind of opportunities that fulfill their dreams), they will make our state a better place to live. I’m all for that.

So that’s what I’ll talk about. Because an idea like that will make me the smartest person in the room — for a moment.

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Yes, Joyce Carol Oates, we read

Posted on October 18, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Joyce Carol Oates is a much better writer than I am. She’s much smarter than I am, too. But dang, she sure wrote a stupid Tweet.

Carl Rollyson (who I am sure is thrilled to be part of this poop storm) tweeted a photo of a Faulkner banner in the Mississippi State University library. Ms. Oates, who was apparently feeling her oats, retweeted it with this gem of a insult: “So funny! If Mississippians read, Faulkner would be banned.”

OK.

I know she was commenting on the current flap over the Biloxi School Districts mind-numbing decision to yank the Harper Lee’s classic novel “To Kill A Mockingbird” from their curriculum because, wait for it, “it made people feel uncomfortable.”  I’m 100% in Ms. Oates’ corner if she’s stunned at the ridiculousness of that decision. The only way a brain can grow is to feel uncomfortable. I personally feel uncomfortable if kids aren’t exposed to great literature. And “To Kill A Mockingbird” is as good as it gets.

The problem is, Ms. Oates didn’t focus on just that decision. She picked up a several-mile-wide brush and painted every single person in Mississippi as an illiterate ignoramus.

So funny! Not.

It’s not the first time we’ve heard Mississippi jokes. Yes, we wear shoes. Yes, we have electricity. Yes, we have indoor plumbing (well, maybe not at deer camp). Ha ha ha ha ha.  And yes, we have problems. Big problems.  We’re last in many of the good lists and first in the some of the bad ones.  I’ll even boldly say that we sometimes deserve a joke or two.

But not this one.  She went for rotten, low-hanging fruit. And it stinks.

The irony of the tweet for me is that I just got through interviewing Mississippi’s wonderful poet laureate Beth Ann Fennelly for an upcoming episode of my Mississippi Public Broadcasting TV show, Conversations. We had just spent the better part of 30 minutes talking about Mississippi’s literary tradition and why we both chose to live here.  We agreed that this a land of great stories and great storytellers.  And c’mon, the last time checked, William Faulkner was FROM Mississippi. So we know at least one person from Mississippi could read.  Eudora Welty, Richard Wright, Richard Ford, Greg Illes, John Grisham, Tennessee Williams — oh, you know, all our famous authors could read, too.  Heck, even I can read.  My kids can read. My dog, well, no, she can’t read.  And as Ms. Oates found out on her Twitter account, hundreds of Mississippians who responded to her tweet can read, too.  They read her tweet after all.

I doubt she’ll be having a booksigning at Lemuria or Square Books anytime soon. But if she did, she’d also find out we have two of the finest independent bookstores in the country here, too.  They’d have closed years ago if we couldn’t read. Maybe she should come to the Mississippi Book Festival next year. She might be surprised.

Social media is a funny beast. It can be your best friend and then in the time it takes to hit “send”, can maul you like a pack of rabid nutria.  There is no editor. No filter. No second chance when you screw up. Yes, you can delete your offending tweet, but someone will be there to take a screen shot.

Ms. Oates walked up to a Twitter hornet nest, took a cheap shot and now is facing the wrath of ticked off Mississippians. If her phone is lighting up, she earned it.

Many times, when I hear a Mississippi joke, I shrug my shoulders and think. “Yeah, we had that one coming.” Not this time. I’ve lived here long enough to know a cheap shot when I see it.  And this was a cheap shot.

Joyce Carol Oates is a brilliant writer. We’re better than her tweet. And so is she.

 

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When the world turns pink.

Posted on October 16, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

It doesn’t take pink fountains, ribbons, t-shirts or even a special month to make me aware of breast cancer. I have my own set of scars from the disease (even though I’ve never had it.) Forty years ago, I remember my mother crying and yelling as I hid in my closet. I guess that was when she was diagnosed. I didn’t ask her. We didn’t talk about it much. I was just a kid who was scared he was going to lose his mother.

When I see the pink water shooting out of the fountains of Thalia Mara Hall, I joke that either Mr. Bubble met an ugly demise or Jackson’s water has gone from bad to worse. But those jokes aren’t out of lack of sensitivity. No, they’re because my stomach drops when I think of those dark days. It’s a fear I’ll never forget. Old scars burn this time of year.

Yet I’m very grateful for the pink fountains — and the ribbons, races, marches and the t-shirts that we see today. I’m grateful for the support groups and the research money being thrown at this horrible disease. I’m thankful that women don’t have to fight this battle alone. It was a different world back in the 1970s. No one talked about it publicly back then. And I think it drove my mother a little bit crazy.

The good news is that her cancer didn’t spread — she was blessed with another 40 years. This year, according to the American Cancer Society, 40,610 women won’t get that opportunity. They won’t get to see their kids grow up. They won’t be allowed to chase their dreams. They won’t escape a horrible disease’s grasp. There will be 257,710 new cases of invasive breast cancer and 63,410 cases of carinoma in situ (in place). But on the bright side, there will be 3.1 million survivors like my mother. She was blessed and given the gift of another four decades to live. She heard those three words and lived.

A few years ago, I heard those three words, too. Mine wasn’t breast cancer, but I still understand the fear caused by your own body trying to kill you. (Melanoma, Class of 2001). I understand the anxiety that threatens to derail your spirit. I understand the confusion when hospital and doctor bills pile up. Here’s a little advice for you if you do hear those three words. Here’s a way to have H.O.P.E.:

H — is for humor. Learn to laugh at the thing that scares you the most, which in this case is cancer. Watch comedians. Make bad jokes about your scars (I do.) If you’re laughing, you’re not crying. It helps lower your anxiety.

O — Opportunity to serve. This is the chance for you to pay your blessing forward. Get out there and help others who are walking the same journey as you are. WJSU-FM general manager Gina Carter-Simmers, diagnosed with Stage 3, breast cancer, has done just that by putting together the Beauty of Cancer Photo Exihibit at the Mississippi Museum of Art. Twenty-eight breast cancer thrivers (they are more than just survivors) are featured in a powerful photo series that empowered them and anyone who sees the exhibit. By helping others, you end up helping yourself. Did I mention anything about lowered anxiety?

P — Physical well-being. You have to take care of your own body and mind. If your body can’t fight, all the drugs and doctors in the world won’t help. You need strength. Believe me, you’ll need strength and, of course, a way to reduce anxiety.

E — Educate yourself. You NEED to be able to talk to your doctor intelligently. Otherwise, your visits to your doctor will sound like Charlie Brown’s parents, “Wah Wah Wah Wah Cancer Wah Wah.” Your doctors are good people but they are busy. You need to be part of the team. Learning about your situation and being engaged makes you a better patient. And it will also reduce anxiety. Knowledge truly is power.

Tonight, as I walk past Mr. Bubble’s fountain, I’ll think of my mother, my friends and everyone who has had to battle this damn disease. And then I’ll say a prayer for a cure. The pain is too real. It’s time for it to stop so the scars can heal.

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How Now Pretty Cow: The tale of a Pretty Cow Judge

Posted on October 16, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

 

She was smartly dressed as she stared at me with her big brown eyes. I blushed a little, trying to stay out of her way. The kid who was with her was cute, too. I smiled at them as they passed. I could feel a few drops of nervous perspiration on my forehead.

She was pretty. Very pretty.

Who was I to judge? Well, actually, I was a judge. She was a cow and was part of the Pretty Cow Contest at the Mississippi State Fair. I put down my scores on the sheet as the next contestant moooved my way.

The Mississippi State Extension Service puts on the annual Pretty Cow contest to promote the dairy industry — so all the cows’ costumes have a milk theme. I looked at the kid and grinned. She smiled back nervously as she kept her pretty cow calm.

“Good Cow.”

The bovine beauty parade continued.

The next cow wore a sign with the slogan, “Make Milk Great Again.” The young man leading her looked like Donald Trump might have 65 years ago. Orange hair. Red tie. Suit. Once again, I wrote down my scores (I think that cow got fourth — although the Russians said it really won). Another cow came up to me without a costume (a naked cow!). She was being led by the cutest little kid in a Holstein cow outfit. Or maybe it was a dog costume. I don’t know. All I know is he was so sweet my teeth nearly rotted. He got an Honorable Mention. Then there was a cow with a baseball hat. One in fairy wings. One as a soda fountain.

There was nothing cheesy about these cows.

People often ask me, “what experience do you have judging bovine beauty?” I usually make a bad joke or deflect — but truthfully, not much (I’m a child of the suburbs who once milked Rosebud the cow on a field trip). Most of my cow judging acumen is from years of on-the-job-training. But as trivial as the job may seem, it’s one I take seriously. Being a Pretty Cow Contest judge is at the top of my resume above being a two-time Pulitzer Finalist. It’s a major perk for a minor celebrity.

Up next: Two astronauts with boxes on their heads led out a cow with a space shuttle on her back. She shot me a look. It didn’t take a cow whisperer to know she was annoyed. The weather was hot and her patience meter had obviously run out. She bucked a little but the kids tugged on her lead and quickly got her under control. The other judges and I wrote our scores down as she toured the ring.
Then all heifer broke loose.

The space shuttle cow had had enough. She bucked out of her costume and kicked backwards. The kids remained calm and wisely released her lead (as opposed to being drug to Gluckstadt). She sped around the ring, JUMPED the gate and ran out of the arena into the pens area. “Holy Cow!” I thought as I scrambled to get out of the way. Thankfully no one got hurt. It was the first issue I’ve seen in over a decade and a half of cow judging. I am not convinced a cow can jump over the moon.

I quipped, “Houston, we have a problem.”
(I milked it for all it was worth.)

A few minutes later, space shuttle cow had calmed down (no mad-cow jokes here, cattle folks take that sort of thing seriously.) The kids and their mom led her back into the ring so she could receive her well-deserved first-place prize. Later, the mom said that she was normally a calm cow but that she was starting to go in heat. I nodded politely. It was more than I needed to know.

The other judges and I handed out the ribbons. (I can feel the looks of the kids and the cows burning through me. Did I make a good decision?) As much as I hate the fact that anyone had to lose, I was proud of them for having the courage to walk out into the ring and compete. It’s their big moment and mine, too.

We live in a homogeneous word where everything looks the same on our screens. Maybe that’s why I like the Pretty Cow Contest so much. It’s kids, their parents and their cows. It’s sawdust and cow patties. It’s winning and losing. It’s real life.

It’s udderly Mississippi.

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Friday the 13th: My “lucky” day

Posted on October 13, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Today’s Friday the 13th. I had a black cat run out in front of me — and when he saw me, he ran back the other direction in fear. I’ve never been a “lucky” guy. But then again, I also believe that you mostly make your own luck. Maybe I’m just lazy. I don’t know.

I did win some aluminum coat hangers at an Alcoa retiree picnic while playing bingo once. I guess I was lucky then. I didn’t win the Pulitzer the two times I was a Finalist — although I was going up against really great competition. That goes back to me making my own luck. Slot machines are money vacuums for me. I have never won the lottery (you haven’t either). I’d be happy to get two numbers. I guess the fact that three doctors missed my melanoma means I am lucky to still be here, although I contribute that to a God moment.

I have a purpose now.

Sometimes I feel unlucky. I grew up in the 1970’s being a Tennessee and Braves fan. But both eventually won championships. I grew up and figured I have no control over sporting events.

I’m lucky to still get to draw cartoons. But I that involves making my own luck, too. I know I’m lucky you’re there to read them. Thank you.

So today, I won’t push my luck (except for having two speeches back to back 66 miles apart). I won’t walk under any ladders and I’ll hold onto my lucky rabbit’s foot (the rabbit was VERY unlucky.)

So happy Friday 13th! May you the luck be with you.

P.S. I am very lucky Amy agreed to marry me. And I’m very very lucky we have three great boys. But I give Amy the credit on both counts.

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The Siren Song

Posted on October 10, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

My phone dings, beckoning me with its electronic siren song. I, being properly trained like one of Pavlov’s mutts, immediately pick it up. There’s knowledge to be had after all. And my phone is ready to share.

I quickly open Twitter.  The world is at my thumb.

First tweet: The head of the Senate Foreign Relations committee said that President was treating his office like “a reality show.”  And that his reckless threats could cause World War III.

World War III? Well that’s bad. I remember being terrified that the Soviets would nuke us.  The show “The Day After,” in the 1980’s gave me nightmares. The President’s comments about North Korea are bringing them back.  Next tweet: He vows to relatiate against the head of the Senate Foreign Relations committee. Maybe Bob Corker will get nuked.

I continue to scroll. California is on fire again.  Firestorms that move faster than cars are wiping out whole neighborhoods and are continuing to grow.  I remember a firestorm when I lived in San Diego. It was scary as hell — no it was hell.

OK, phone, you’re not cheering me up.

Next tweet: Puerto Rico is still struggling to get back on the grid.  Note to self, donate to local charity that is helping people on the island —  I still remember what it was like on the Mississippi Gulf Coast after Katrina.  At least Nate didn’t flatten the coast.

Dang. The news is a bit overwhelming today. Maybe entertainment news from Hollywood will cheer me up.  Nothing like a little fluff to lighten the day.

Harvey Weinstein is trending. I flip through a few tweets. Oh.  Yuck. I know — you’re innocent until proven guilty — but the accusations are really disgusting. And now the dominos are starting to fall with more people are coming out against him. He’s lost his job as the head of his own company.  Being creepy and abusing power seems to a non-partisan trait. Allegedly, of course. But still — absolutely horrible. Time to move on.

A new Star Wars trailer! Luke Skywalker was my hero growing up. What? He’s old and grumpy!?! NO!!!!!  I feel your pain Luke.

Maybe I see some sporting news to cheer me up.  It’s a politics-free zone, right?

ESPN’s Jemele Hill has been suspended for some anti-Jerry Jones tweets.  Twitter is hazardous to your professional health.   Maybe I need to go to Facebook to see what’s on my friends’ minds. I could use some nice pictures of kids and cat videos.  Instead I find a series of political rants about football.  Yes son, when I was a kid, we just argued about the game, not the pregame. My hair immediately hurts.I quickly turn off Facebook. My anxiety level rises like the surge flowing through a casino parking garage.

My phone dings again. It’s calling to me again like, “You want more?” I hold it in my hand looking at it.

No, I don’t.

We can’t control the news we read day in and day out. But we can control how we react to it.  I wish I could make politicians be rational. I wish I could stop fires and hurricanes. I wish I could make the world sane. But wishing doesn’t change things.  Taking action in the world where you live does.  I can focus my effort in helping my community be a better place.

My phone dinged yet again.  I put it in the drawer.

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And they lived happily ever after

Posted on October 9, 2017 by Marshall Ramsey

Once upon a time in mass of land between New Orleans and Mobile, there was a beautiful kingdom. And in that kingdom were majestic oaks, beautiful homes, tall hotels and floating casinos. Brown water tickled the white sand. Barrier islands stood guard off in the distance, protecting the brown sound fromthe sea beyond. It was a casual land, filled with joy, song, food and family — a paradise in its own Southern way.

The beautiful kingdom had been ravaged by storms over the years. Each time the wind, rain and waves roared in from the sea, the people would rebuild.  Several generations had grown up by the sea. The evil wind Camille had struck the kingdom, but once again, it had rebuilt. Gentle breezes and waves lapped at the shoreline as tall lighthouse stood guard.

All was good.

One hot August day, dark clouds built to the south. The soothsayer Cantore had warned the people they should leave and that their kingdom would never be same. Some heeded his warning. But others, who had survived the evil wind Camille, chose to stay.  It was a decision they’d soon regret.

The evil wind Katrina nearly spanned the width of the Gulf. It’s vast arms spun around a tightly wound eye.  Soon it was a five on the evilness scale and headed directly for the beautiful kingdom on the mass of land.  Katrina didn’t just rake the kingdom with its wind, though. Instead it picked up the sea and dumped in on top of the buildings and people.  Soon the surge covered and destroyed everything within sight of the sea.  Homes were reduced to kindling. Floating casinos were dumped onto where the homes had been. When the sea withdrew, death blanked the coastline for ninety miles.

All that remained standing were a few oaks, tall hotels and one solitary lighthouse. The beautiful kingdom fell quiet as a tomb.

After the citizens buried their dead and removed the debris, they sat down and decided how they would rebuild.  “Taller!” They cried. “Back from the sea!” They demanded. Volunteers volunteered. Codes were strengthened. Businesses slowly returned. Casinos were built upon the land. The scarred land slowly healed.  Casinos reopened and the houses of waffle popped up like mushrooms all along the coast, signaling the kingdom’s rebirth.

Twelves years later, the sky to the south darkened again. The evil wind Nate roared quickly from Mexico toward the beautiful kingdom, hoping to catch it off guard. Although not as powerful as Katrina, Nate knew what Katrina had done to cause the most damage. “I’ll send the waves crashing across the shore,” he cackled as he planned his assault upon the people.  Once again, the soothsayer Cantore, joined by his partner Seidel, warned the citizens to leave.  Orderly evacuations began. As the sky darkened, Nate spun up and prepared to crush the kingdom with his waves.

But something was different this time. The buildings were high above the surge. The ones that were lower were stronger. Nate spat wave after wave at the coastline. Nothing budged. He blew his hurricane-force winds at the homes and the trees. Damage was minimal.  As Nate lost his will and exited stage right into Alabama, he looked back in frustration. The citizens were all ready repairing the damage.  Linemen were restoring electricity. MDOT was cleaning up the debris along the highway of 90.  Casinos, gas stations and grocery stores reopened.  The resilient people of the land in mass once again how strong they really were.

Nate had planned on destroying the beautiful kingdom. But because of the lessons learned from the evil wind Katrina, Nate had failed.

And thanks to planning, they all lived happily ever after.

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