Marshall Ramsey

I am pretty sure Uncle Bill told me my first dirty joke. I know he made me laugh. And I know he loves my aunt. Bill is my dad’s sister’s second husband. I never knew her first. Don’t need to. Bill has been perfect for her and therefore, perfect for me.

He is tough guy. I think this story illustrates his toughness as well as any. In his later years, he suffered many health setbacks. About 15 years ago or so, he had to use a cane to get around. One day he was emptying the coin machine at his carwash in the Knoxville area. Two men saw an easy mark and cornered him in the little closet in the car wash.

That was the worst mistake of their lives.

Soon both men were on the floor with drill holes in their chests and faces. Bill had grabbed a power drill and dropped them. Later on, we found out they were escaped prisoners from Florida. One was a murderer. Bill walked over their bodies and they went back to prison.

That was Bill. He doesn’t take grief off anyone.

Bill also shows me how to love someone. He adores my aunt. And as he became chair bound, she took care of him. They personified “for better or worse.” I don’t know how she did it sometimes. My aunt is as tough as Bill. And as loving.

As he became sicker, my sons didn’t know what to make of Bill. You would have a hard understanding him when he tried to talk. It frustrates him, too — his mind is as sharp as a tack. But I loved telling them Bill stories. They came to love their Uncle Bill. Because they knew my aunt loved him.

Bill died last night from lung cancer. It took him quickly — but its still hard for me to believe that anything could whip my uncle. But I’ll forever remember him for how he loved my aunt. His last gesture was to kiss my aunt on the cheek.

A tough man’s last tender moment. And then a love story ended.

I’ll miss you, Bill.

I was 40 when I was 10. I saw the glass half-empty. I figured either the Russians or Killer Bees would wipe us out by the time I was 21. Y2K was going do me in when an airplane fell out of the sky on top of me. The Mayans? Well they predicted the end of the world on my birthday. Really. Debbie Downer told me once to cheer up. I didn’t exactly believe in the power of positive thinking.

The Russians might yet get us and there is still time for Killer Bees to get their act together. Y2K came and went. The Mayans’ prophecy fizzled. So, am I still negative?

Nah, not really. Somewhere along the way I learned a little truth: It ain’t what happens, it is how you react to it. And honestly, I’ve learned that how you react to it is determined by how you SEE it. We’re all bombarded with the same stimuli. It’s just how our brains interpret it. I make a conscious effort NOT to be negative. For example:

This morning, I took my son to school for a Beta Club Meeting. My wife called and said she had forgotten some artwork. I was going to be even later to work. I had every right to be grumpy because I HATE driving in traffic. But instead, I chose to enjoy the extra time with my son and the chance to see my wife again. The traffic didn’t seem so bad. I heard some good tunes on the radio as a bonus.

I had to cut the grass yesterday. I could have complained about it — my allergies are in full bloom. Instead, I took satisfaction of how good my yard looked when I got done. It was nothing to sneeze at (even though I did.

Some people think the newspaper business is dying. Not me. I just see it radically changing. That change has given me new and exciting opportunities for me to use my talents.

I had a type of cancer that sometimes comes back. I could be afraid of that but instead, I choose to embrace every sunrise. Tomorrow will be my 14th anniversary of my diagnosis. Thanks be to God — I have a grateful heart. And am on top of the grass.

I’m not a pollyanna. In fact, I’m still that 40-year-old 10-year-old at heart. I’ve seen cruelty and felt pain. I struggle with moments of depression. But I don’t choose to stick my head in the sand. I meet negativity head on with humor and optimism. And I see the good in things even when they’re sometimes not apparent. Yeah, sometimes it is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But the rewards are priceless.

Yes, the glass is half full. And it is full of the most precious gift of all. Life.

I’m a lucky man.

Lightning flickered on the horizon. The Mississippi Delta’s cacophony of bugs ceased their song.

A storm was coming. And it was going to be a bad one.

The severe thunderstorm’s winds, it’s calling card, kicked leaves and limbs across the levee. Dirt peppered the rental car’s windshield as it drove slowly down the inky dark driveway. Mikey Ryan had turned off the Ford’s headlights at the road in an effort to be stealthy. Another bolt of lightning illuminated his path ahead of him — but it didn’t matter. He knew this driveway all too well. His heart boiled like the clouds above him. It was time to settle a score.

He closed his eyes for a brief second readjust them to the darkness. When he did, he saw himself as an eight-year-old boy. He could smell the alcohol. He could feel the anger. He felt his self-esteem die. That was the day he vowed never to touch a drop of the devil’s drink. From that day forward, he kept himself locked in his room. Books became his guardian. Knowledge became his escape route from this Godforsaken place.

Now, he was back. Like his childhood, paybacks were hell.

Mikey had dreamed of this day. It was what got him through Harvard. Then Yale graduate school. He had changed his name to Michael when he had gotten his MBA. Soon he made more money in one year than this whole damned county. Yes, he thought, this placed was damned. He faced the Devil. But soon, soon he would have his revenge. He wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was no longer scared.

He had held this house together though sickness and drunkenness. Recently, an e-mail had been sent to his business e-mail account accusing him of being a bad son. That twit didn’t know half the story. No one at the First Baptist Church did. They could act all pious. Jesus knew the truth.

Their perfect household had been a facade. He soon learned Leave it to Beaver was only a TV show. Mikey knew that if it had been true to life, Ward or June would had been alcoholics and the Beaver would had been emotionally abused.

No dog greeted him on the front porch. He figured his childhood dog was long dead. The screen door banged against the doorframe with the wind. There were no lights on. In fact, the old farmhouse was as dark as his soul.

Mikey almost knocked on the door. He held his hand up to rap on the glass, but then lowered it to the knob. He turned it slowly and opened the door slowly.

He was greeted by the sound of a cocking shotgun.

“I never thought you’d have the courage to come slinkin’ back here,” a raspy voice emerged from the darkness. “You have some nerve showing back up here after leaving us, you #$%.” The profanity slithered across the room like the Garden of Eden’s serpent. “I’ve told everyone how you abandoned me. You are no child of mine.”

Mikey’s heart boiled with anger. He burned his eyes into the darkness, trying to set his eyes on the source of his pain. It was time for him to end this once and for all. He pulled a pistol from his jacket, aimed it at the voice and…

CRACK!!! BAM!!!

Lightning struck the sycamore tree in the front yard, illuminating the room. There, holding a shotgun, was a shrunken, dried-up, bitter human being. As Mikey felt his anger flow through his hands, the storm’s wind blew through the door, scattering papers and blowing the figure into a cloud of dust. The shotgun evaporated, too.

Mikey stood in an empty room.

He put the pistol away and walked outside into the pouring rain. Hail pelted him as he approached two small stones. There were dates on the newest one — 1947–2015. Next to it was another one that read 1948-1993.

He had missed the funeral. Now all he could do was talk to a stone.

“I forgive you,” he mumbled. Then he yelled again, “I FORGIVE YOU!!!” And as the last word passed his lips, the wind died, the rain stopped and a storm mysteriously faded into calm.

One of my half-marathon medals.

On Halloween 2010, I ran the Marine Corps Marathon. I raised $13,000 for cancer research, cramped and then came home to find that my dog had died. Some other things happened and my family’s life changed. I haven’t run another marathon since.

Today I signed up for the Mississippi Blues Marathon. I always have thought I had another marathon in me but didn’t think it would be the Blues. I’ve run the half three times (and loved it) but knew the whole would be a huge challenge. The course is hillier than you think.

So why did I plunk down the cash and commit to the training? I need a BIG challenge. And running 26.2 miles on Jackson’s potholed hilly roads is just the challenge I’m looking for. It’s a great race and the organizers do a great job with it. It’s not ranked one of the top races in America for nothing.Plus, it’s my hometown race — I want to support it.

So the training begins. I will continue with my Paul Lacoste training. But will also up my running mileage. (prepare for more tree pictures). Right now I weight 217 lbs. I will need to run this race at no more than 190 lbs. So it is time to radically change my diet and lose some pounds. Sorry Taco Bell — No mas. Candy, you are no longer dandy. And sugar — I’m no longer sweet on you.

Tonight I had a salad. Tomorrow morning, I will run. I will repeat that frequently. Training for something as tough as a marathon requires quite a bit of personal discipline. That’s what I need right now.

But I know I will succeed for one reason and one reason only: I have amazing friends who will be running with me. So It’s time to get moving.

The Clydesdale is back.

A while back, I watched a documentary about the worst aviation disaster ever. And it gave me something to think about: Why did some people survive while the passenger next to them perished? And how can I keep the same effect from happening in my own life and career?

In 1977, on a foggy runway in the Canary Islands, a KLM 747 and a Pan Am 747 collided. Tragically, 583 people died. It remains the deadliest aviation accident in history.

The KLM jet took off just enough to clip the top off the parked Pan Am jet. It tumbled down the runway, killing everyone on board. Amazingly, though, some of the passengers on the Pan Am 747 survived. How they survived is something that fascinates me.

In an instant, the Pan Am passengers found themselves sitting in a flaming cabin. But the survivors did something that the victims didn’t: They got up and moved. A survivor said she watched a friend just sit there, frozen with terror. As the survivor leapt out of the cabin, she looking around, seeing dozens of people just sit there, burning to death. They were paralyzed by fear.

I’ve seen that phenomena in careers, too. People see things changing for the worse, but they just sit there hoping things will magically get better. They are terrified of the changes around them. They do the same thing over and over and expect different results (the definition of insanity, of course). And I’ve also seen people take the initiative and change before they end up becoming a statistic. This has happened over and over since the Great Recession began. What makes some people get busy and change while others sit and lose everything?

Newspaper editorial cartooning positions have nearly evaporated in the past decade (yes, I am very lucky to still be drawing and I know it). But that doesn’t mean that I am going to sit still in fear. I’m going to experiment at The Clarion-Ledger with new ways for you to enjoy my work (thankfully I’m in an environment where that is encouraged). And I’m going to continue to do radio, speeches, books and other writing, too. I may fail. But it ain’t going to be from sitting still. Because I know one thing for sure:

Change isn’t scary. It’s the grit that makes pearls.

This morning, I gripped the soda bottle and couldn’t open the lid. Frustrated, I slammed the bottle down, causing a loud bang. @#$!! I felt like Samson with a buzz cut or Superman wearing Kryponite earrings — my strength is gone from my right hand.

I feel weak.

The hand doctor said this would take a while. I was hoping he was pulling my leg — you know, a ruse to keep me as a patient for a while so he could buy a new villa in France. Nope. He knows what he is talking about. Nearly two months since I mangled my hand, it isn’t better. In fact, I’ve hit a plateau.

My hand’s still swollen. It’s still weak. And I am still impatient.

But I continue to rehabbing it. I’m trying to loosen the overly tight tendons. I’m trying to rebuild my muscles. I’m trying not to be frustrated. I’m trying.

And it’s trying.

It hurts to hold a pen. My lines are erratic and my lettering isn’t that good. There are times it feels sprained. And there are times when a random pain will shoot through it. I pretend that means it is healing.

But I keep after it. It’s just my hand. It could have been worse.

I’ve figured this much out though: It will take the pain of rehab for me to be healed. I generally try to avoid pain. But I know this is one case where I have to chose it.

That choice is an easy one to make.

Sometimes we have to chose pain to heal. I think about that when I workout. Or I do something I don’t want to. Taking the easy route doesn’t always produce easiest outcome. Or the best.

So that’s the update on my mangled hand. I look at it and think, “it’s teaching me a lesson.” Which I think is, “Don’t be such a dang klutz.”

This weekend, I saw my dad take three things, combine them and make a very funny joke. While dementia is stealing his memory for him, he still has his sense of humor. He’s still there. He still remembers me. He is still proud of my boys. He spends his days standing by the fire and greeting people when they walk in the memory-care home. And he beams when I walk through the door.

When he says he loves me, I know he means it. Through all the mourning and pain, that’s a balm that heals.

I know that his light will eventually flicker out. And I dread that day. I’ve had a taste of it already. Last November, he didn’t know he had a son. That hurt. I’ve had some other remarkably painful moments for other reasons — some that just don’t make sense. So many of you have gone through this. You understand. Dementia is the devil walking the earth.

I’m road-weary. And I’m sad. I’m frustrated and disappointed. But honestly, this has made me realize how special my wife and sons are to me. They are positive souls that have kept me sane. I realize that while I can’t change people or events, I can make sure I never go down certain paths. I can be a great father and husband. And and a good brother to my sisters. I hope my parents realize what special daughters they have. I know I do.

My dad lost his two first-cousins to dementia and I know this is a nightmare for him. I get that. Because it’s now my nightmare that I can’t seem to wake up from either. Losing him this way sucks. There is not better way to put it.

All I can do is love and do what I can. I’ll be grateful. And I’ll dread the day when I hear my last joke from my dad.

Twenty-one days.

Three weeks.

Three-quarters of a month.

That’s how long it takes to change a habit.

I am taking a personal challenge of making a list of 21 things I want to change and changing them. For 21 days. If I succeed, I have started a new and better life. If I fail — well, I have a plan B. But plan B shall remain dusty. Anyone can have willpower for three-quarters of a month.

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days.

A dream wakes you up two minutes before your alarm goes off. It keeps you hanging on longer than you should. It pushes you when you’re tired. And it pushes you through pain. A dream gives you a hand when you fall. A dream will haunt you. Taunt you. And at times, offer you a shoulder to cry on.

It’s your coach.

Your tormentor.

Your opposition and your best friend.

When people doubt you, a dream allows you prove them wrong. It’s the tiger in your tank. Your mojo. Your motivation to keep on fighting. A dream gives you 20/20 vision. The makes the future so bright that you have to wear shades. That’s your dream. That’s the fire that burns in your gut.

Only depression, repression and aggression can slow it down. But a true dream can never be stopped. No, as long as you live, your dream will, too. Some well-meaning folks will try to talk you out of it. “Oh, that’s too hard.” Practicality and dreams aren’t old fraternity brothers. Instead, dreams run around with risk — they’re old drinking buddies. Sometimes, they’re the one your parents don’t want you to date. But in time, they will see that a dream is your soulmate.

It will play hard-to-get. It will flirt and then run off with someone else. But you have to be aggressive. You have to show it you’re the one. That your heart is true. Once you win a dream, it will forever live in your heart.

So never settle for anything less.

Because your life depends on it.

Stalactites hanging from your nose. You’re wheezing and gasping for air. Yes, it is time for the yellow scourge. The pollen plague. The allergy attack.

Your eyes are red from weed — ragweed.

You eat Claritin, Allegra, Sudafed (if you bootleg it in from Texarkana in your Trans Am) and Benadryl like Tic Tacs. You take local honey enemas, stick a car wash hose up your nose and you still can’t get relief. If you saw the Lorax walking down the street, you’d slap him. There’ll be no tree hugging for you. You want to cut all the green monsters down. The Giving Tree is giving you hell.