Living your dreams

Jan. 17, 2008

Dear Leslie,

When you were a cub reporter at the Daily Pilot, you knew who the best reporters on the staff were. You watched them work, listened to them, tried to understand what made them different. You paid attention, worked hard and wound up at the Los Angeles Times. It can happen.

When I first went to work for the Southeast Missourian long ago, the best reporter on the staff was John Ramey. He was only five years older than me, but I felt like a boy in his presence. He smoked cigarettes and had a laconic way that said he understood how things work. Both the foibles and the greatness in the people he covered were known territory to him. He knew people weren't people without both.

Back in the days of hot lead, putting out a daily newspaper was more of a collaborative project. People in the newsroom often worked side by side with the composing room, and the press began humming early every afternoon only a few steps away. I could tell that the people who worked in other parts of the newspaper admired John Ramey.

They liked the little smile that curled at the corner of his mouth. They liked that he disliked pretension, was not cowed by authority.

The Cardinals, the Packers, Bob Dylan, fishing, smoked meats and golf were some of his predilections. We played a lot of golf together. John's typical shot looked like a wounded bird, but he never tried to change it. He knew where the ball would go and was satisfied. I think that's how he felt about his life. Satisfied. He had a beautiful wife, family and friends who loved him, and he loved them back. If you thought something else might be more important, that would be OK with John. He would just smile that little smile.

When I returned to the newspaper later on, John was working on the copy desk, a job that strained to inspire him. John was part bloodhound in a pen.

In the newsroom, where tantrums and ruckuses erupt hourly, he was the agent of calm who knew the calamity of the moment, whether troubling the publisher or a reader, would pass. He'd have a cup of coffee, a cigarette and then be ready to talk about it.

Earlier this week a former photographer told me John had once cursed him in the newsroom. I reminded the photographer that John wasn't alone. "Yeah," he said, "but when Ramey did it he winked afterward."

The last time I saw John was at the local debut of his son John's new singing duo. John the younger has been a Nashville songwriter for years but has decided to give performing a shot. John the elder was weak from medical treatment, but pride shone in his eyes.

John died last week after years of grappling with heart problems and finally cancer. John's two sons-in-law delivered most of the eulogy, the emotion in their voices a testimony to their love for him. Bob Dylan sang "Blowin' in the Wind," and Tracy Byrd sang "Before I Die," a song young John wrote. It begins: "Before I die I wanna hit the Mississippi/In a boat I've yet to buy and take it out in the Gulf/Where the water meets the sky/To where nothing on God's green Earth looks dry."

John loved bass fishing. After retiring he fished hard and won tournaments. He played hard with his six grandchildren, too. A lake, a golf course and a lawn chair beside a meat smoker became his natural habitats.

The chorus of "Before I Die" goes: "While I can still breathe/While this old heart still has another beat/It's time I put some living to these dreams."

John did just that.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a reporter for the Southeast Missourian.