Marshall Ramsey

I stood on the Western edge of the Reservoir this morning, watching the sun begin to illuminate the Eastern sky. Small, dark gray clouds floated over the Northern horizon like lint. The water actually looked blue and a slight breeze caused waves to lap against the shore. I had run 4.5 miles at that point and my heart beat rapidly. I stopped and the world went quiet. A car passed on the Natchez Trace and then peace once again returned. All I could hear were the waves and my heart.

While heading back to Central Time last weekend, I stopped by my best friend Randy’s house. Randy and I have known each other since high school (we actually played football against each other.) Thanks to girlfriends who knew each other (and later dumped us), we became friends. I don’t have a brother, but if I did, Randy would be him. We’ve gone through similar life events and even were each other’s best men.

We all need friends like Randy. My only regret is that we live 400 miles apart and don’t see each other nearly enough.

Randy has an amazing family. His two 16-year-old daughters are pretty and smart — thankfully he married well (he’d say the same thing about me). And yes, his wife Kelly is a good egg, too. I enjoyed hanging out with them and catching up on their new school year. Randy works about 18 hours a day and is I think working hard on his first heart attack — once again, we are going through similar life events. He, though, has to drive in Atlanta. Thank God I don’t have to do that.

I told him about all that is going on with my life and he just kind of shrugged his shoulders. “You know,” he said, “You look around in traffic and you realize everyone is going through something.” I think I had written something similar a few weeks ago but needed to hear that again. He continued, “I think we go through the bad stuff because it’s the only way we’ll change.”

Randy gave me something to chew on as I headed back to Central Time. I think about all the stuff happening and I know I can’t do a thing about it — other than try to help and commit to changing my life. Two hours with my friend and I got powerful life advice.

The hard times are what make us change for the good. As I crossed back into Central Time, I realized that’s why Randy is such a good friend after all these years.

SHORT STORY: The Hunter

A dark gray WC-130J Hercules roared from Biloxi’s Keesler Air Force Base into the cobalt blue sky. The Hurricane Hunters were on yet another mission — a hurricane had entered the Gulf of Mexico.

Sphincters were tightening all across the Gulf Coast.

It was late August and the waters in the Gulf of Mexico was like a baby pool: Warm and deadly. A storm in the Gulf was like a chain smoker in a fireworks tent.

A light breeze blew sand across Hwy. 90. Mississippi Department of Transportation had done a great job rebuilding the coastal road after Hurricane Katrina turned it into a disaster area. Cars zipped between traffic lights, oblivious to the destruction that had taken place here just a decade ago. That worried Steve Martone. It had been 10 years since the Gulf Coast had been walloped by the storm. A whole generation didn’t know what a beast Mother Nature could be when she lost her temper. He watched the WC-130J head over the horizon. Maybe they could seed the clouds with Xanax.

Steve drove his truck West toward the Beau Rivage, the massive casino that had taken a big lick during Katrina . A new baseball stadium had popped up like a mushroom across the street. Then he passed the Biloxi Lighthouse. Once run by the Coast Guard, it now was property of the city. Steve vowed if he ever built a house along the coast, it would look like the lighthouse. It had survived 12 major hurricanes. His house couldn’t even survive one. Or his parents.

The lighthouse was as close to a live oak as man could build. It took a licking and kept on ticking. Steve remembered the Gulf Coast of his youth, the trees and the homes along the water’s edge. That was a different time. A different place.

Like the remaining trees and barren lots, Steve had his own set of scars. He was 20 when the storm had hit. His parents refused to evacuate, swearing they were far enough from the shore. Katrina had other plans and chased the three of them into his parent’s home’s attic. They sat huddled in the dark as they heard the house start groaning. It was a sound that he would never forget — and It’d haunt him forever. The last thing he remembered was being thrown into the swirling water. His dad tried to hang onto him and his mom, but his parents were swept away. They found them a week later in a tree.

He declared war on hurricanes that day.

That fall, he changed his major at Mississippi State to meteorology. And when he graduated, he joined the U.S. Air Force. He eventually joined the reserves and became a WC-130J pilot. Captain Steve Martone vowed to hunt the very beast that killed his parents.

Others would get the chance to live like he had. He would help give them the gift of early warning.

He pulled his truck to the gate at Keesler — which was the home of the 53rd WRS (the official name of the Hurricane Hunters.) Off in the distance were their planes sitting there like beached whales. The Hercules was a cargo plane designed in the 1950s — but with serious modernizations. It proved in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan, it could take a beating. And Steve knew that first hand. During Hurricane Frank, the plane was shaking so violently that he couldn’t even read his instruments. But the Hercules always brought them home. Always.

Home. He was back home.

Keesler was near the slab where his parents’ home used to be. Steve liked to waggle his plane’s wings when he flew over it. He knew his parents would appreciate that. They were angels and were flying with him anyway.

He pulled up to the barracks, got out and went in to get dressed for his flight. He was scheduled for a late afternoon mission. He walked out to the hanger and paused. There was something about the roar of the Hercules’ turbo props that made him smile. They almost made a pulsing sing-song sound.

Two hours later, the hunt was on.

The sky blazed orange as he taxied the big beast to the end of the runway. He pushed the throttle forward and sped toward the storm. In a few hours, he’d punch directly into the new hurricane’s eye wall.

Ten years after Katrina, Captain Steve Newton was fighting another battle against Mother Nature. He was once again tracking a killer. And today, he was winning.

The knight sat on the ground, burned and battered. His armor and ego were dented.

The dragon had kicked his butt again.

A singed glove felt around for his sword. It, too, was broken.
He was having an absolutely crappy day. Self-pity washed over him as the nearby shrubbery continued to smolder. Deep laughter echoed through the valley. The Dragon was taunting him once again.

“You are pathetic little man. You’ll never beat me.”

The knight heard that in his sleep. When he was eating. When he was sitting on the toilet. The village, which had been burned several times by the dragon, thought he was a loser. And who was he to argue? He had turned even deeper within himself as he heard the dragon’s words again.

“You are a pathetic little man. You’ll never beat me.”

Not only did the dragon live in a cave on the mountain top, he lived in the knight’s head, too. “Maybe I am a loser,” he thought as he slowly picked himself up off the ground.

He gathered his broken sword and headed back down the mountain. The village was three miles away — he had plenty of time to prepare his pity party.

And did he throw a grand one. The knight entered Ye Olde Pub and Brothel and sat down at the giant oak bar. He requested an ale as the patrons whispered. “Look at his burns,” he could hear. “What a loser.”

“God I hate Monday’s,” he moaned as he drained his ale.

The next morning, he woke up in the alley behind the pub, hungover and lower than a flea’s belly. A trash collector had tried to steal his broken sword, causing the knight to leap up, prepared to fight. Of course, he stumbled. “Loser,” the trash collector chuckled.

The knight threw up and then stumbled out into the street. Women and children gazed at him as he cursed and muttered his way back home. “The hero is home!” they laughed as he tripped and fell face first.

When he entered his small apartment, the knight threw his sword down and shouted with disgust, “I AM A LOSER!”

“Only because you think you are,” a voice said calmly from the darkness.

The knight swung around with his half sword, prepared to do battle.

“Don’t think that will do you much good,” the voice said. Soon, the room illuminated because of a man dressed in white robes.

“You Gandalf the White, Dumbledore or Merlin?” the knight said sarcastically.

“I’m Wyatt the Wizard.”

The knight burst out laughing. “Who would name a wizard Wyatt?”

“I’m not the one getting my helmet handed to me by a dragon. I’m the one who should be laughing — but I’m not. I’m going to teach you how to slay your dragon.”

The knight looked at the old man and shrugged. What could it hurt? Well, it couldn’t hurt worse than getting your helmet handed to you by a dragon.

This is where the Rocky montage should be — you know, where Wyatt the Wizard trains the knight. But really, the training existed in one simple piece of advice.

“To beat your inner dragon, you must help other people.”

The knight looked Wyatt the Wizard like he was a complete idiot. “Whatever, Wizard boy.”

Wyatt the Wizard said, “I’ve told you all you need to know.” Then he glowed brilliantly one more time and disappeared.

The knight was a slow learner. He took on the dragon three more times and got his helmet handed to him three more times. Then one afternoon, while lying in the alley, the Wizard’s advice made sense to him. He went home, took off his armor and put on regular street clothes. From there, he began to help his neighbors. He cleaned up the yard of a local widow. He served at a soup kitchen. He volunteered at the cathedral. The knight slowly but surely made friends with the villagers. Soon he wasn’t considered a joke. The knight truly became a leader who was loved because of his service to others.

It was another Monday and the knight was setting up for the village bake sale. The sky suddenly turned orange as flames shot over the homes. “COME OUT KNIGHT. I’M HERE FOR YOU.”

The knight heard the voice of his nemesis taunted him in his head.

But others heard it, too. Soon the knight was joined by hundreds of villagers bearing swords and pitchforks. They walked behind the knight as he faced his dragon again.

“YOU BROUGHT AN AUDIENCE TO WATCH YOU DIE?”

The knight slowly raised his repaired sword, “No dragon, this is your day to die.”

The villagers surrounded the dragon, causing him to spin around. Fire shot toward some of the villagers, but when that happened, several others rushed and climbed onto his back. That allowed the knight to run beneath the distracted creature.

He stabbed the sword right in the dragon’s heart.

The dragon fell dead. And the taunting voice in the knight’s head was silenced forever.

The villagers stood stunned at the sight of the dead beast. A glowing white light appeared over head as Wyatt the Wizard floated in the sky.

“Anything is possible with friends. Even conquering a dragon.”

The knight closed his eyes as the villagers picked him up on their shoulders. The wizard with the weird name was right after all. And the knight lived happily ever after.

A few weeks back, I ate at a nice restaurant. My server was kind, but not terribly attentive. I’d say on a one to 10 scale, she was probably a six (and I cut servers a lot of slack — it’s a tough job!). She then found out what I did and lit up like a lightbulb. “I want to be a writer!” she joyfully said as she then proceeded to tell me her life story.

You could tell that being a server wasn’t her dream job.

I’m not being hard on her. She may have been having a bad day. To me, our encounter was more of a personal reminder. I’ve struggled with my attitude for the past five years. I know that it has cost me opportunities. You can’t look off into the future and not kick butt in the present. It’s like taking a long trip with the parking brake on.

Mac McAnally said it best about his song “It’s My Job.” “Work hard at a job that sucks and you will will soon have a job that sucks less.”

Sage advice.

I’m fortunate — I love my jobs. But I know that for me to truly be my best, I need to give 100% at them every single day. I hope my server friend becomes a writer. I hope she finds her passion and chases it with all her heart. But a good place for her to start would be to pour her heart into what she’s doing. That will take here where ever she wants to go (and give her good material to write about).

I thank her for giving me a gentle wake-up call I needed to hear. I tipped her well for that alone.

Central Time

The traveler from afar stood by his car,
wearing black in a field of stone.
He put a scoop of dirt in a jar
with tape on a lid labeled, “home.”

The ink on the tape smeared on his hand.
He was far from Central Time.

Hope abated and he became jaded,
as fear killed his childhood roots.
Favorite memories slowly faded
all he chased his dreams without a chute.

Frustration made him scream into the grave.
He was far from Central Time.

Is it really home if you feel alone
and all you believed in is a mirage?
Angry voices on the phone,
spreading fear that’s hard to dislodge.

Love was buried under a pile of lies.
He was far from Central Time

But he had a choice,
And still had a voice.
He could break the chain,
with love to wash away the pain.

Unconditional love heals your heart.
When you go home to Central Time.

But he had a choice,
And still had a voice.
He could break the chain,
with love to wash away the pain.

Healing isn’t hard to find, one hour behind.
When you go home to Central Time.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

Arthritic knees creaked as the old man climbed onto the wing. This had been so much easier 70 years ago, he thought, as he carefully slid into the open cockpit of the P-51D Mustang fighter plane. Air and familiar smells filled his scarred lungs.

With eyes closed, he saw a war from long ago.

To his right sat his old helmet. It fit snuggly on his balding head. He adjusted his glasses and scanned all the instruments.

Just like riding a bike.

Two brown eyes stared back at him from the instrument panel. It was the beautiful face of his beloved late wife. He remembered when he had tacked the picture there on that dark day in France. Her love got him through the hard times: During the war –– and for the next 60 years. He knew he’d see her soon.

He flipped a couple of switches and the powerful Rolls Royce Merlin engine roared to life. It pulsed like the heartbeat of a lion. The Mustang was one of the premier fighters of World War II and he was one of the knights who flew it. Soaring through the skies over Europe, he had drawn blood twice and had shared credit for a third kill. Today’s flight would be more peaceful. No German ME-109s or flak. Just pink and white cloud tops.

The engine roared louder as he pushed the throttles forward. His heartbeat climbed with the tachometer. He checked the ailerons and rudder.

Cleared for take off.

As the plane rolled down the runway, he felt his body press into the seat. Few mortals could understand this kind of power. Faster, faster, faster — the plane leapt off the ground. You didn’t push the throttle of a Mustang all the way forward on takeoff because of the engine’s massive torque and giant propeller. He had seen fellow pilots actually flip their plane doing that. But once he was in the air, he slipped the throttle forward, pulled back on the stick and shot into the sky like a rocket.

The world seemed unusually vibrant. He saw a flock of white egrets flying above the bright green earth. Houses looked like toys. Earthly concerns faded as did his aches and pains. He banked the Mustang and flew West into the sun.

That’s when he saw them. There were three other Mustangs flying in formation off to the South. For some reason, his radio wasn’t working, but when they saw him, they joined up on his wing. It was 1945 all over again.

Below was a group of cars. Nearby a crowd of people in black surrounded a tent. The formation of Mustangs roared overhead and then circled back around for another pass. The old man led the formation and then shot skyward solo as they performed the missing man formation.

The other Mustangs formed back on his wing and the pilots individually saluted him. When he noticed his fuel gauge nearing empty, he saluted back and peeled off from the formation.

It was time to head home.

Fog shrouded the runway. White wisps tickled the asphalt’s black linear shape, giving it a mystical look. Flaps down. Gear down. Throttle back. The ground welcomed him. The Mustang couldn’t have been running any better.

Screech. Screech.

Two puffs as rubber met asphalt. Fog embraced him, making visibility difficult. He pointed the Mustang’s nose toward the bright light ahead.

As Mustang fell silent, the old man threw open the cockpit. He could feel the cool moisture blanket him. He heard a familiar voice call out to him.

“You’re home!”

Through the mist, a familiar figure ran toward his plane. It was his wife — just as she looked in the photo. He looked in his plane’s mirror and saw the World War II version of himself.

He hopped pain-free off the wing and into the arms of the love of his life. He turned around and looked at his beloved Mustang.

It had taken him home one last time.

In memory of Cary Salter.

Pride. Passion. Purpose.

Petal School District’s superintendent Dr. Matt Dillion introduced the district’s new theme to his staff during their opening meeting Monday morning. Then I got up and spoke.

There’s something I about a new school year that I love. Maybe it’s new school supplies. I love new school supplies. Or it could be the freshly waxed floors. That’s the janitor in me. But I think it’s really just that you start with a clean slate for the year. You can feel the energy.

Pride. Passion. Purpose.

I thought about those three words as I started to speak.

Pride is the foundation of who you are. For a school, pride can emanate from academic achievements, sports victories or even just community support. Friday nights in the South are the epicenter of a small town. I remember wearing my Sprayberry High School letter jacket with huge pride.

But what does pride do? Pride makes you stand up taller. Pride gets you out of bed when you want to sleep in. Pride in your family. Pride in your name. Without it, your castle is built on sand.

Passion is life’s secret sauce. Take two people who are equal in every way but passion. The one with it will succeed. The one without it won’t. I’m seen it on the field, in the classroom and in business. It’s what drives you when you’re too tired to go on. It’s what makes work play. Passionate teachers who help kids achieve more than they are capable. Coaches who help players play over their head. Passion is the x-factor. It’s hard to teach. It’s just something that has to come from your heart.

Purpose is focus. Unfocused light gently bathes the world. Focused light is a powerful laser that cuts through challenges. It’s setting your goals in every aspect of your life. For schools, administrators can provide that kind of leadership. Teachers give their students their goals. Students need to learn self discipline. Purpose is why we are here on this Earth. It allows us to focus our efforts toward that. We all should have purpose in our lives. It allows us to overcome challenges. It’s the destination of our lives’ road map. Germantown High School (in Madison County) has a theme, “One for the Record Books.) This is their fifth year. They have pride. They have passion. And to set and achieve high goals is their purpose.

Pride. Passion. Purpose.

I applaud Dr. Dillion and Petal Schools for starting off the year with such ambition. I also cheer on Germantown as they work on getting even better. And as I finished speaking in Petal, I really thought how the three PPPs could affect my family for the better.

I think they’d almost be as amazing as new school supplies.

Captain Warr looked up at the bottle on the shelf and then out a the Mississippi Sound. Both contained liquids that were brown. And both were killers.

Liquor had nearly killed Captain Warr. The Mississippi Sound had murdered his wife. The retired naval officer kept both close to him — just in case they decided to attack again, he’d be ready. He kept one bottle of bourbon as a reminder of just how low he could sink. He looked over at the framed and signed headshot of the Weather Channel meteorologist who had convinced him to evacuate with the last hurricane had blasted ashore.

He owed that man his life. And his soul.

It was a warm Saturday morning — just like that fateful day a decade before. Hurricane Katrina, that bitch of a hell storm, roared ashore that morning. It forever changing his beloved Gulf Coast and his life. Today, the water slept like a sleeping tiger. He knew that tiger could wake up and maul him in a heartbeat.

He grabbed a single yellow rose out of a vase and headed out his front door.

A warm breeze tickled his neck as he felt the humidity lick his skin. He crossed Beach Boulevard and began walking West down the beach toward Waveland.

“Waveland,” the Captain shook his head. The irony of that name.

“Mornin’ Captain!” He heard a singsong voice call out.

Hilda Frances Whitewaller walked her terrier Faulkner toward him.

“Morning, Hilda Frances.”

The Captain was the most eligible bachelor in Bay St. Louis. He got at least one casserole a week. But he wasn’t interested in remarrying. He only had one woman in his life anyway and she was a psychotic cat named Katrina.

“What kind of moron names his cat after a storm that killed his wife?” Captain Warr remembered the vet saying that when he he took the orphaned kitten in for her first checkup. It really was a good question. Really. Who WOULD curse a cat like that?

Well, an old drunk.

Sobriety had changed Captain Warr. Sure, the Devil tempted him still. But his voice grew fainter with the years. Now, the Captain’s mood matched the Sound, not the bottle.

Today it was calm. Still. He felt serenity.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

Ten years ago, a force bigger than him had ripped the love of his life out of his arms. Watching your wife disappear and then finding her body was enough to break any mortal. He had failed as a husband. As a man.

But time had allowed Captain Warr to find peace.

He walked to the edge of the water and took off his sandals. The brown water swirled around his toes. Ten years ago at this very moment, Katrina had roared to shore.

“I love you, honey.”

Captain Warr dropped the yellow rose into the water. He stood as it floated away. And like so many years ago, he watched something beautiful be swept out to sea.