Marshall Ramsey

I love fall.

I will say it again, this time in all-caps: I LOVE FALL!

There is less back-sweating, humidity-suffering, sunburning, heat-indexing and hurricaning. And while the sun isn’t currently lined up astronomically for it to be technically fall, something magical happens today that says Autumn is right over the horizon (in Atlanta):

College Football starts today.

I can almost feel the cool, crisp autumn morning breezes now.

Thanks be to the Football Gods.

Even the trees are getting into the act. They are mixing oranges, yellows and reds on their palettes to paint the landscape.

The world will soon be awash in color.

I know a lot of you love Spring. I’ll admit it has its moments. The “flowers and rebirth of life” thingy is cool. But the whole “Snot stalactites because of copious pollen” thingy ruins Spring for me. And tornadoes. I’m not a big fan of tornadoes. Spinning clouds of pollen that sound like a freight train scares even more snot out of me. Auntie Em! Auntie Em!

Maybe the yellow brick road was just covered with pollen? I digress.

Don’t get me wrong. I love summer — for the first nine months of it. But after a while, it is the guest who has overstayed the party. My power bills are screaming for relief. And then there’s that back sweating thing. I won’t miss days that feel like you are living under a tongue.

I LOVE FALL!

Yes, I like winter a little bit, too. Especially those dark mornings and evenings, snow-freakouts and the resulting hoarding bread and milk. I love bread and milk. But I’ll still take fall.

Did I mention I LOVE FALL?

And since I am now entering the fall of my life. (My hair, if it remains attached to my Klingon-textured head, will change colors like the leaves soon enough), I had better love it. It’s the time of my life where I can now be like the industrious squirrel and start collecting nuts for the winter.

Nah. Think I’ll be the squirrel that sits in the recliner and watches college football.

I’d be nuts not to.

So thanks be to Fall. And all the beauty it brings to my life.

I saw Elvis in Tupelo today — or at least his statue. A few miles away, I saw dozens of tornado-damaged homes. Decades-old trees were like scattered Lincoln Logs. Piled nearby, dreams filled dumpsters in driveways.

Yet with a mix of grit and nails, the community is coming back.

Across the state, I stood on a Mississippi River sandbar as two barges passed quietly in the night. Above my head, the Milky Way dressed up the inky sky with a trillion pearls. I met with Congressional staffers and discussed politics while a bonfire flickered. Blood-sucking mosquitoes had to make them miss Washington, D.C. On the rural highways between my destinations, I saw signs. Lots of signs. Noxapater. Egypt (in two different places). Farrell. Tupelo. Tutwiller. Yazoo City. Clarksdale, Eagle Lake. Near Eagle Lake, the dusky dawn sky’s canvas was painted red by the brush of a rising sun. That same sun gilded the river water with gold leaf. Nearby, white cotton boils played hide and seek beneath thick green leaves. Fields of corn stalks withered in the August sun. Off Highway 49, a bright red truck sat in the middle of a green soy bean field. Bugs sang as a yellow crop-duster danced in the Delta sky.

In the hundreds of miles I traveled this week, I encountered extreme poverty and equally extreme wealth.

I met barge captains who wrestle a changing Old Man river daily. And I met medical insurance professionals wrestle equally changing health care laws. I spoke to hundreds of people and heard their stories of hope and courage. I met a mother who lost a child eight years ago. “I’ll see him again,” she said with confidence. Her faith even buoyed me. On my radio show, I interviewed a woman who challenged her childhood memories and gained empathy as her reward.

Today, a community struggles with the loss of an exceptional young man. Like the tornado scars in Tupelo, time, faith and friends will heal those wounds. But right now, it seems senseless. Raw. Harsh. Too painful. The community has already begun to rally. Just like we always do. When things get bad, we get good.

That’s what I’ve seen in my last five days in Mississippi.

I’m taking a minute to catch my breath.

There, I think I’ve caught it — although I need to get back running again. I got up at 3:45 a.m., ran three miles, drove to near Eagle Lake, spoke to the captains of Golding Barge Lines, drove back to Jackson and did my radio show. Now I sit, praying a cartoon idea will seep out of my head. Tomorrow morning, I speak in Tupelo.

I’m a busy man. And that means I’m blessed.

I remember my dad working long hours at his auto repair garage. He’d leave early and come home late. I’d see him at my school when he would drop off a teacher’s car. He’d make my sports games. But I always knew he’d be there when I needed him. Work wasn’t a bad word for him. In fact, it was close to holy. I still can close my eyes and see my dad sleeping in his orange chair after a long day at work. (Now he has a nice looking brown chair.)

Both my parents worked. My mom was a well-respected middle school art teacher. She’d get up before the crack of dawn and cook me breakfast every single morning. Clothes would mysteriously get washed. I’d show up at practices on time. Homework got done. Somehow everything got done. They raised three kids successfully.

That give me hope. Because I’m married to a well-respected art teacher and we have three kids to raise, too. As busy as Amy and I are, I know things will work out OK. I just hope my boys know I’ll be there when they need me.

Because at the end of the day, they (and their mom) are what really matters to me. Yes, I love my career. But it doesn’t define me. (I hope I define it, though). My family does.

As I run around, trying to make a living, I try to remember that that my jobs won’t hold my hand when I’m dying. But my family will.

“Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? – – Carpe – – hear it? – – Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary.” John Keating (Robin Williams) The Dead Poet’s Society

Last night I had a dream about my career. It woke me up with a start and I sat on the edge of my bed with my eyes wide open. I sat there staring at my sleeping wife and pondering my life. The digital clock’s red numbers ticked by slowly until sleep finally revisited me a half-hour later.

I woke up thinking about that dream. How to I prevent it from coming true? How can I change? Then I got Debbie’s note about her friend Larry’s passing from melanoma. His recurred. Mine hasn’t. My scar burned painfully. I feel like a ticking time bomb.

My high school yearbook quote reads “why put off until tomorrow what you can postpone indefinitely.” Those are childish words of a boy who had no value of time. Twenty-eight years and a burning scar on my back have taught me that value. But I still suffer from procrastination. That has to stop. Not tomorrow. Now.

Larry’s death is also reminder of a fact that is true for all of us: We are all living on borrowed time. It’s up to us to make the most of it.

So that’s what I plan on doing today. I’m going to take a hard look at what I’m doing. What am I doing right. What I need to do differently. It will be tough to face what I need to change. Change is never easy — it pushes you out of your comfort zone.

It’s time to adjust my mission. To refocus my efforts. To set out a plan for this week. This month. This lifetime.

It’s time to seize the day.

At about two miles into my Saturday morning long run, there’s an oak tree. It sits near the Reservoir on a grassy slope right off the Natchez Trace Parkway. It’s a magnificent tree and beautifully shaped. Yes, if you are familiar with my Facebook page, you’ve seen many photos of it. One person thought I had a relationship with the tree. I don’t, but I have to admit, I’m quite fond of it.

It’s the highlight of my run.

Forty-yards away, there’s another oak that’s equally magnificent — and you’ve never seen it. I can’t remember photographing it even once. You want to know why? It sits tucked safely among other trees. It just doesn’t stand out like my favorite oak.

That’s a powerful lesson. I think of all the people who have found success. They offer something unique to this world. They stand out. And for it, they are rewarded for taking the risk of stepping out alone.

Every Saturday I run past my favorite oak and am reminded to stand out and be different. To not seek the “safety” of the crowd. I even will occasionally stop, look at it and take its picture. Then I keep running, never giving the other oak a second glance.