Quit hoping and start planning.

I didn’t have time….

I ran out of time….

There just wasn’t time for that….

I couldn’t find the time….

How many of you said this for one thing or another in 2017?  How many of you missed out on experiences because you thought one of these statements were gospel?  I did.

I can apply one, a few, and sometimes all of these statements applying to something I didn’t do in 2017.  I missed out on a lot of things because of it. 

Things with my wife.  Things with my kids.  Things just for myself. 

I missed out on books that I should’ve read, and people I should’ve spent more time with.  I fell short on projects I should’ve tackled and places I should’ve visited. 

Because of this, I suffered.  My family suffered.  This blog definitely suffered.

What about you? 

I had a lot of blessings in 2017.  I got to make a cross country bike trip with my family, including my 83 year old father.  We rode from Oakland CA up the Pacific Coast Highway into Oregon to Seattle and then back across Washington State, Idaho, Montana, South Dakota, Iowa, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky and home.  It was magnificent and will be the subject of a future blog. 

I also was conspicuously cognizant that one person who wasn’t on that ride was the driving force as to why the rest of us were, and that was my big brother Dan.  The day we got home, Dan went into the hospital never to return home.  Another topic of another blog as well.

It’s January 2018.  Now is the time to “get your budget straight”.  Set yourself some goals and start making plans to achieve those goals.  What do you want to do?  Where to you want to go?  What relationships do you want to strengthen and which ones have run their course? 

Don’t find yourself in December 2018 in the same predicament that I was.  I should’ve taken that ride.  I should’ve paid that visit.  I should’ve had that conversation.  I should’ve told that person I loved them one more time. 

You are your greatest cheerleader and you are also your greatest detractor.  Make a decision to see which “You” that you are going to listen to more.  “But that ‘detractor’ in me is also the voice of reason.  It knows what I can do and what I can’t do”…  Partially true, but often that detractor in your brain thinks in terms of “all or nothing”.  That’s where the planning comes in.  You know what your responsibilities are.  You know your work schedule and your financial obligations.  So, perhaps this isn’t the year to make a 4-Corners of the USA ride.  That month off work just isn’t feasible at this stage.  I get it.  For most people, it’s not.  But if not now, when?  What would it take to be able to make that ride?  Start writing down the answers and slowly you’ll start finding the path to get there. 

Set goals.  Make plans.  Work those plans.

Let me know how you did come December.

Ride Safe, and with Purpose.

SMB

Don't miss an opportunity to tell your story, but to tell it, you have to first live it. A guest Blog by Kevin Blankenship

"We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there." 
- Pascal Mercier

Only once since the inception of this blog have I published the writings of someone else, a "guest blog".  However, as I read the words of my friend Kevin Blankenship and his story of a 10-day cross country road trip with his dad, I knew immediately that I wanted to share his words.  I don't know any of the back story other than what was written in two different Facebook postings made before and then after the trip, but we all know similar stories.  Kevin has captured the essence of both adventure and family.  We speak the same language.  Many of us do, but rarely do we capture in just a few words what Kevin has.  The road has a healing quality and this story is evidence of it. Enjoy.  

Ride Safe, and with Purpose.

SMB

A Forward.......

Way Back Wednesday?

Right about 40 years ago today mom, dad, and I flew home from Honolulu, HI and settled into McKenzie, TN. I guess that was our first "road trip" and we took quite a few more over the years until I was old enough to drive and started staying home, working, and skipping the summer trips.

Tomorrow me and the dude below, 40 years later, are starting a 20+ state, 6,000+ mile, two to three week road trip out west. I doubt we've been in a car together for more than an hour since '92ish and we went to Colorado. He's been packed for three or four days. I haven't even started packing yet. There's an "itinerary" of sorts. He's got a lot of places he wants to see and there's a few on there that I haven't been to yet like Devil's Tower, (Which I really regretted skipping my last road trip out west.), Teddy Roosevelt National Park, and a couple of others. For the most part it's "whatever" and "nowhere to go but everywhere."

Most I have been to once or twice like the Badlands, Mt. Rushmore, Glacier, Yellowstone, The Tetons, Zion, Bryce, Grand Canyon, etc. But I haven't been with him. I plan to see some old friends, who I never know whether or not I'll see again, because when you've spent 20 years being a vagabond and rambling the country you make friends that you sometimes never see again. And I plan on stopping by to commune with the ghost of Hemingway in Ketchum, ID. It's been awhile since he and I have had a heart to heart.

I'm looking forward to this trip. I'm excited and it takes a lot to get me excited these days. I'm lucky and blessed to still have both of my parents and to have a relationship with them that means we can spend three weeks in a car together. I doubt there is anyone else I know that I could spend three weeks in a car with and not worry about one of us catching a flight home halfway through. I doubt either of us will ever be the same after this trip. You spend that much time around me, without a chance for escape, and I'm going to tell you some things you haven't heard before. It's just the way I work.

The photo albums full of his pictures from all over the world are a big part of why I have done things the way I have.

Like old Jack Kerouac said, “There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.”

I couldn't write a better life.

P.S. Apparently I was a fan of pulling hair early in life. ;)

I'm glad some things haven't changed. It's worked out for me like everything else has.

A postlude....

I could list a bunch of numbers about how many miles, states, National Parks, Pterodactyls seen, Ibuprofen taken, etc... but I’m going to try to keep this short. That’s not easy for me. I like details.

I understand that I am very lucky to have both of my parents around still. I know I’m blessed to have the relationship that I do with my folks. A lot of my friends, Facebook or otherwise, aren’t as lucky. I know that I’m lucky to have lived in a way that allows me to just pick up and take off for 10 days on a cross country trip by car. I’m lucky to have friends all over the country, and world, that will give me a place to spend the night or longer. I get it, I’m lucky, and I’m blessed. I’m also lucky that most of the people that I have shared parts of my life with still talk to me and consider me a friend. People “go away” for various reasons and the vast majority of mine haven’t. I appreciate the ones that stayed, the ones that tell me they love me, smile when they see me, take their own time to spend time with me. It reminds me, that regardless of anything else, I must have done a few things right over the past 40 years.

My dad – We didn’t really get along all that well the first 20 years of my life. We fought and sometimes we fought hard. We’re too much alike. My mom always told me that and I understood it in some ways, no matter how much I denied it all. We’re both stubborn to a fault and we’re both given to a quiet nature that sometimes gets interrupted by loud bursts of passion. We're also both never wrong even when we disagree. When I left for Houston in 2000 something changed there and it has been changing ever since. I understood him more and I think he started to see more of himself in me than he had recognized previously. He wrote me a letter while I was there, the first and last, and it boiled down to, "I could always come home if I needed to or wanted to come home."

We’ve gotten along, for the most part, much better since then. And it gets better every year. We averaged 14 hours of driving for 9 straight days. We drove 42 hours, Thursday and Friday, and only stopped once for an hour. The rest of the time we caught a nap while the other drove. During that whole 18 state, 6,402 mile drive, we got snippy with each other one time outside of Salt Lake City.

We talked a lot, and as the trip went on, we talked less, but the silence was not uncomfortable. Somewhere in Montana he started saying out loud that he was missing my mom. You spend 41.5 years together, and are never apart for more than a day or two, and you get real used to seeing the other person every day. I let him think and he let me think.

I noticed him softening his stubbornness and always right with quieter discussion. I do the same. We drive the same. We think about how to get somewhere the same. He’s a big, soft, romantic, never meets a stranger, vagabond and so am I. I had no idea how much like him I really am, or at least I had never had it put in my face in living color so much before. We laughed a lot, we laughed at ourselves, and we laughed at each other.

The universe, God the comedian, the mountains, and a soft hearted woman or two have always been there exactly when I needed them to remind me to keep on doing what I’ve been doing. That it’s all worked out. That everything is alright, and it will be, until it ain’t.

So much for short.

One night, I don’t remember which, I was sitting outside of a cheap hotel in Livingston, WY. My belly was full of one of the best burgers I have ever eaten. Dad was inside, the air on full blast, snoring away. I was on the phone with one of the aforementioned reminders, and this happened.

“He just wants you to settle down.”

I thought about it for a moment and said, “I think he just wants me to settle down with someone who won’t expect me to settle down.”

She seemed a little struck by that and I was, too. It just popped into my brain and escaped out of my mouth. There was conversation behind the statement. Conversations with my dad about relationships, love, and getting to a point where you really don’t “need” anybody because you’ve made it just fine by yourself for a long damn time and always will. He wouldn’t trade his last 40 years for my last 20 and I wouldn’t trade mine for his. That being said, it’s really nice to be able to leave when you want, and go wherever you feel like going, and it’s just as nice to have someone soft to come home to when you’re back.

He got to go and I’ve got somewhere soft to visit in a few hours. Who knows how long his or mine will last. I don’t reckon it matters. The end of the story never matters as much as the beginning and middle.

Life is short, people. Its precious. It doesn’t have to be your dad or your mom. It doesn’t have to be your wife or husband. Just go somewhere, see something new, explore. Take someone you love with you. I’ve got a cemetery full of the "no longer here" inside of my head. You better believe that those ghosts of old friends, family, and one too many old lovers rattle the shit out of their chains some nights. I’ve also got a heart full of the same that are still here. I tell them about the ghosts and it keeps the ghosts quiet. They’re never all the way gone as long as you keep them alive.

What I’m saying is this – It’s your story. It’s up to you how you tell it. You’re in charge. Nothing can happen that has the power to take that away from you. You tell it well enough and even death is powerless because the ones you told will keep telling for you.

Y’all be good to each other. Be sweet and tender. Love somebody and allow yourself to be loved. The world is big and life is short. Enjoy all of it you can.

6,402 – 18 – 11 – 1 – 30

-Kevin Blankenship

Reflections on the 60th Anniversary of 56-G

Last night was the Farewell banquet for the 60^th Anniversary Reunion for USAF Pilot Training Class 56-G.  It was what you would expect to see at a veteran’s reunion.  A simple room with round tables adorned with flags and other patriotic décor.  The evening was emceed by my Dad’s old pal Ralph Clemens.  Ralph, besides being one of my favorite people in the world (the Chicago native shares my love of the Cubs), was Dad’s roommate and partner in crime all the way through pilot training.  Ralph stayed in the Air Force with flying time not only in SAC flying B-47s like my dad, but also B-52s and then a long stint in which he volunteered to step away from a relatively safe staff officers position to fly F-4 fighters in combat in Vietnam.  Ralph finally retired a full bird Colonel and lives near Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery. 

Jerry Bumpus and Ralph Clemens, 1956

Ralph Clemens and Jerry Bumpus, 2016

Ralph led the group in recognition of the organizers of the reunion, as well as some classic Clemens one-liners.  Bob Smith, Jim Devaney, and Joe Rogers made us all proud with how good pilots could march as they presented to colors for the Pledge of Allegiance.  I was beside myself with honor when my Dad and Ralph requested that I give the evening Invocation.  Angie and Katie were tasked with preparing the “Missing Man’s” table and Katie spoke to its significance.  She and I were the only speakers who hadn’t graduated with 56-G.  Don’t for one second think that was lost on me.    



Ralph explained that the night would be about Remembrance.  Remembrance of their deeds, and of those who were no longer with them.  He gave toasts to the United States of America, then to their fallen comrades, and finally to the Class of 56-G itself.  Then, we dined.  I had been requested to sit at one of the tables up front to be closer to the podium.  As that table started to fill with old friends who needed to be near each other, Angie and I happily repaired to what we termed, “The Kids Table”.  We laughed and visited and had a great time over dinner and drinks with the Lukasik boys, as well as Brad McLennan, another 56-G son and former Air Force Pilot himself.  We were the kids of the room and shared an interesting bond. 



The sounds of laughter and dinner were broken intermittently through the night by the clinking of a wine glass.  An old pilot would stand, and speak of one of their own who was no longer with us and a toast was raised to him.  Cheers, indeed.  The conversations would again commence, until the glass was clinked again.  This went on and on. Clink after clink.  Name after name.  Story after story.  Toast after toast. 



The night was about remembrance, indeed.


Bob Titzer (Bad-Ass Bob, as they have often referred to him) gave the keynote remarks.

"Bad-Ass" Bob, 1956

56-G first started having reunions back in 2000.  Bob Titzer initially came up with the idea.  Bob’s Air Force career was very similar to Dad’s.  Both found themselves in SAC, flying B-47s at Lincoln Air Force Base at Lincoln Nebraska.  Though they were in different wings, they still stayed close.  Bob left the service and became a successful engineer in Evansville, Indiana.  Well, Bob made a few phone calls and gathered a few more numbers and before you knew it, the group found themselves in San Antonio rekindling friendships. I was able to attend one in 2002 in Dayton, Ohio at the US Air Force Museum.  What a treat it was for me to be able to hear the stories of those great old planes straight from the mouths of the men who flew them. 


That was 14 years ago.  The reunions are getting fewer, and farther in between. 


Bob’s remarks last night included some stats.  There were nearly 400 young men that graduated as part of 56-G.  They had endured the same rigorous training, designed to weed out those who were not prepared for the job that the Air Force needed them to do.  They truly were exceptional.  Then he mentioned how many the class lost in service.  The numbers caused me to take a step back.  In either training accidents or in combat, 56-G lost nearly one in five of its graduates.  He then talked about how many have gone on since their active duty careers ended.



At the last reunion, nearly 50 members were in attendance.  This year….. 12.  Past reunions were chock full of activities.  Dances, nights of song and presentations.  Group excursions.  This year, aside from an impromptu trip out to an airplane museum, the schedule was much more relaxed.  The men of 56-G are aging, but they are far from elderly.  In past years, grand discussions of airplanes and flying, temporary duty stations, and war stories ruled the conversation.  This year, I noticed much more of the small, sidebar talks were about names.  People who are no longer here.  The reunion was not as much regaling past exploits as it was what Ralph described, about remembrance. 



What I still saw, in each of those 12 faces though…was the spark of a 22-year-old boy.  The recharged bond of shared experiences of adventure, excitement, duty, and yes, death.  They were wild and fierce.  They were the men the boys wanted to be and ones the girls wanted to be with. 

Though they have been separated by years and miles, they still were and continue to be comrades.  They are forever tied together.



Though we could still see it through our eyes, the gray hair is gone.  No one walked with stooped back.  Supplemental oxygen was replaced by high altitude mask.  They were warriors and young.  The fire to fly still burned within them.  These old men could still, and God knows would still heed the call.  Should an alert siren blow, they’d be the first to the flight line.  They would still put “warheads on foreheads” in southeast Asia.  They would still fly low and slow giving cover to the boys in the bush.  They would still cross the arctic circle and do the unthinkable, because its who they are. 



Their oath still stands. 



During a late night conversation, a couple of years ago, Dad really opened up to me about his experiences as a bomber pilot in the height of the Cold War.  His plane and crew had one job, to put a nuclear weapon on top of a city.  He did not set the policy.  He carried out the job.  I’ll go deeper into that talk another day, but he left me with a poem that was something along the lines of,

“Beware old men of what you ask young men to do, for they just well might do it”.

Jerry Bumpus-Warrior, 1956

Alas, the aging squadron of 56-G will no more be called to duty.  They were trained weapons, perfect machines.  Their day has passed and their front line usefulness obsoleted by youth and technology.  Yet, their mission was truly accomplished and as such, we are still free. 



What these men did is part of history.  Among the class of 56-G were the pilots who flew our POW’s home from Vietnam when they were released from the Hanoi Hilton.  A man who flew the SR-71 (who just happened to sit next to dad at dinner last night and promised to drop by to see me when he visits family in Waverly, Tennessee), men who flew hundreds of sorties over Vietnam and Cambodia.  Men like Bob Wikeen who when his F-86 had engine trouble over a populated area of New Jersey, elected not to bail out, but rather flew his broken bird over the ocean and to his death.  Men like Bernie Lukasik….

Last night was also Bernie's birthday.  You're damned right we sang for him.

These men saved the world.  This world still needs saving.  We all owe a them debt of gratitude. Those who are tasked with doing it today would do well to mimic these men, their spirit, their honor, and their accomplishments.

Men like Bill McDonald who did his time as an Army draftee during the Korean War, but still volunteered for the USAF and put in another 24 years in the cockpit.

Bill McDonald-1956

Bill McDonald, Final Flight-1979

Bill McDonald, Vietnam-1968

Jerry Bumpus and Bill McDonald-2016

Bill McDonald is a hero.  He kidded with me last night.  He said, “If we don’t hurry up, we can have our next reunion around a card table”. 

I’ll be there.  Hopefully it won’t be too many more years.  These boys still have stories to tell.

Ralph Clemens-1956

Ralph Clemens, Vietnam-1970

Ralph Clemens-2016

Terry Crain (left) and Jerry Bumpus (right)-1956

Terry Crain and Jerry Bumpus-2016

WE'VE DONE OUR HITCH IN HELL-from the 56-G Class Yearbook

I'm sitting here and thinking

Of the things I've left behind

And I have put down here on paper

What is running through my mind

We've marched a million miles or more

Look at our worn out feet

I know now that I should have joined

The lowly infantry

Our commandments were the Honor Code

The OTM our Bible

But a more unholy place than this

Would surely have no rival

And then there was the Tour-Path

That hated plot of ground

A fate worse than a weekend here

Is waiting to be found

The gigs were always plentiful

Some each day, as I recall

If demerit slips were dollars

I could buy the Taj Mahal

But there is one consolation

Gather closely while I tell

For when we die we'll go to heaven

For We've Done Our Hitch in Hell

The Girls were queens I must admit

There certainly were no bores

They came out every Friday night

And checked their brooms in at the door

We've flown in planes so ancient

That the Wrights would even scoff

The wings were held with braces

And patched all o'er with cloth

But when the final taps are blown

And we've laid aside lifes cares

We'll do our last parade

Upon those Shining Stairs

Our last Group Board will then be held

Outside St Peters Gates

Captain Trostle won't be there

For he has another fate

The Angels will all welcome us

And harps will start to play

We'll draw a million chit books

And spend them all one day

The Great Commanding Officer

Will smile on us and tell

Come, take the first seats, Gentlemen

For You've Done Your Hitch in Hell

God Bless the United States Air Force Pilot Training Class 56-G, both living and gone.

Ride Safe, and with Purpose.

Scott Bumpus

Proud son of Captain William Gerald Bumpus

United States Air Force

Pilot Training Class 56-G

My Invocation for 56-G

Our  Father,

Over 60 years ago, the men gathered here tonight, US Air Force Pilot Training Class 56-G and their classmates took an oath to defend our country and uphold our Constitution.  Their actions and deeds have made it possible for their children and grandchildren to live free, and safe.

Bless these men of 56-G who are gathered with us tonight.  Be with those who are unable to attend and share this fellowship, and let us never forget those brave young men who have gone on and paid the ultimate price for our nation.  Let their names and what they have done never be silent upon our lips.

 

Father, we also ask that you bless those men and women who wear the uniform and protect us still today, may they all be safe.

Father, continue to be with these warriors gathered here tonight, as they continue their mission on this Earth.  These men, who as John Magee so famously described,

“Have gone up the long, delirious burning blue… topped the wind swept heights with easy grace where never a lark or eagle flew- and while with silent lifting mind they’ve trod the high un trespassed sanctity of space, put out their hand and touched the face of God”…

Father, use this food to nourish us and guide us for your mission and your purpose.

In Jesus Name,

Amen

More about this remarkable night later. 

Ride Safe and with Purpose

The Brothers Lukasik..... A Story from 56-G.

Tonight, I had the pleasure of getting to meet Mark and David, the Lukasik brothers.  Their father, like mine, was a member of Pilot Training Class 56-G.  The Lukasik boys are partners in a restaurant in Fort Myers, Florida and rode their Harley’s all the way out here to the reunion in Colorado Springs. 

When we finished dinner, I took the opportunity to walk over to their table to visit a while, along with other children of 56-G vets.  Mark, like his father, was also an Air Force Veteran.  Over the flowing drinks, he held court with us, regaling us with stories of his hijinks as a cadet at the Air Force Academy (79TLCWB… yes.  This is an acronym for the AFA Class of 79, ‘The Last Class With Balls’), and the commandant who was a General named (aptly) Richard Head…. You can’t make this stuff up.  Mark’s brother David, put in over 20 years with the US Coast Guard.  I’m surrounded by patriots.

Their father wasn’t with us.  He was Captain Bernard F. Lukasik. 

“Bernie” Lukasik was a name I’d heard a hundred times when my dad would talk of the members of 56-G who’d paid the ultimate price.  On the 18^th of February, 1964, Captain Lukasik’s heroism earned him the Air Force Cross.

The President of the United States of America, authorized by Title 10, Section 8742, United States Code, takes pride in presenting the Air Force Cross (Posthumously) to Captain Bernard Francis Lukasik (AFSN: 0-48211), United States Air Force, for extraordinary heroism in military operations against an opposing armed force while serving with the 1st Air Commando Squadron, 34th Tactical Group, Bien Hoa Air Base, Vietnam, as a Advisor-Pilot of a T-28D aircraft on 18 February 1964. On that date, Captain Lukasik provided airpower against advancing Viet Cong guerrillas who were intent on capturing a Vietnamese airman who had bailed out of his burning aircraft.

Despite the danger of hostile gun fire, Captain Lukasik continuously flew his aircraft at extremely low level and remained in the area until he was satisfied that the safety of the downed airman was assured. Through his extraordinary heroism, superb airmanship, and aggressiveness in the face of hostile forces, Captain Lukasik reflected the highest credit upon himself and the United States Air Force.

The next day, Bernie was shot down and killed while providing air cover against Viet Cong forces who were trying to capture a downed RVNAF airman.

Mark and I talked of his father, who was 28 years old when he was killed.  I asked Mark how old he was when it happened.  “I was 6”, he replied.  “I have great memories of dad”, he told me.  His brother David, however, was too young to have them.  “That’s why I bring him to these things”, Mark related, “So he’ll know.  So he can get a better sense of who dad was and where he came from”.

By this time in our conversation, David had left the table and gone to bed.  I told Mark about the trip that I’d taken Carter and Brandon on Spring before last, where we’d accompanied Dad on a guy’s trip to Washington, DC.  I told him of our trip to Arlington Cemetery and the short walk from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier to Section 35, site 1427 which holds the remains of Captain Bernard F. Lukasik.  I showed him the picture where my sons posed with their Grandfather and his old friend, who left us way too soon. 

Very few words were exchanged at that point.  I wanted Mark to know that though his father left this world before my time, he was part of my thoughts and memories.  His service and sacrifice matters still, not just to him and his brother, but also to his old friends and comrades…. And to his country.  It didn’t stop with his father.  Their mother is also buried in that same plot, passing a mere 5 years after their father.  An uncle, Colonel Joseph Lukasik, USAF is also buried just feet away.

“My entire family is at Arlington”, Mark remarked. 

The Pilot Training Class 56-G did its part.  Tonight, I’ll remember Captain Bernard Lukasik…. And cherish the new friendship I share with his sons…those little boys he left behind in the early days of the Vietnam War.

 

Ride Safe, and With Purpose.

The Gray Haired Young Men of 56-G

Thanks for welcoming me back to this blog, without judgement for abandoning it.  "Writers Block" is what you call it when you're either too lazy or too afraid to write because you think it's not interesting enough to read.  Anyway, I'm back.

Dad’s military days were well before my time.  It wasn’t really a major topic of conversation around the house as I remember it.  AS a boy, I knew he’d flown, but I didn’t know any details.  He didn’t discuss them.  Not some huge secret, but rather, just a period of life that seemed to have happened and then passed.  My earliest recollections were of the stein that sat on a shelf in the china cabinet.  Two brothers born in Nebraska, while the rest of us were born in the south.  There was also the picture of a young, thin, short haired man wearing an old timey looking headset that sat a dresser at Grandmother’s house.  What seemed the most poignant to my memory were the blue uniforms that hung in the upstairs closet, shoulders adorned with silver bars, chest with wings and a name tag reading BUMPUS.  They were relics of a thousand years ago, it seemed. 

As I grew older, I noticed more.  The books.  His knowledge of airplanes.  His attitudes about war in the nuclear age.  His patriotism.  Christmas cards from men who referred to him as, “Bill”. I thought I knew all of my parent’s friends.  We were a railroad family, and as such, there was almost a “mafia like” closeness to families of similar backgrounds, but I knew that there was another chapter in their life.  I was blessed with a mind more inquiring than your average child.  As I asked questions, I learned more.  I learned the names of places like Bainbridge, Georgia, Williams, Arizona, Wichita, Kansas, Lincoln, Nebraska.  Places like Goose Bay, Labrador, and Greenham Common.  

And Arkhangelsk.

Acronyms too numerous to recount.  I learned about Strategic Air Command.  I learned about the USAF Aviation Cadet Program.  I heard the story of a young man working at the Buick Dealership on Main Street in Jackson when an Air Force Officer came in to have seatbelts installed on his car.  That young man asked where he’d gotten seatbelts and he was told that they were from an airplane and that he was a pilot.  The young man mentioned how much he’d have loved to be a pilot and the love for planes he’d developed as a boy watching the trainers from McKellar Field fly over as they trained during World War II, but since he didn’t have a college education, the option of going into the Air Force as a pilot was futile.  The officer then told him that wasn’t the case.  With a high school diploma, he could enter the cadets.  That boy, clocked out for lunch, walked across the street to the Federal Building, and joined the Air Force.

Dad, graduated with the cadet program class 56-G and in January of 1956, he became a commissioned officer in the United States Air Force.  A pilot. He received an assignment in bombers, the latest technology from Boeing, designed for one thing, to put the destructive force of one bomb, stronger than a million conventional weapons on one single city in the Soviet Union.

He did his job and came home a veteran, with two baby boys and went right to work.  Case closed. 

As I said earlier, a casual observer would think the time Pop spent in uniform was but a small piece of who he was.  As time went on, he either decided to talk more, or perhaps my ears became more in tuned to what he said.  Stories emerged, and the impact on the life of a 22 year old boy with a hydrogen bomb strapped to his ass became more evident.  The horror or war is real, whether the war was hot or Cold.

Several years back, Pop rekindled old relationships with the other boys of Pilot Training Class 56-G.  They were more than just a couple of addresses and a phone number or two that were stuffed in a filing cabinet.  They started to talk and decided a reunion was in order.  Those ancient friendships again erupted and became new again.  Dad and his core of friends were back together again. 

Albie, Porter, Ralph, Terry, Bob, Bill, and many many others…

They found time to talk (and sometimes lie) about old escapades, duty stations, missions, girls, and adventure.  Like Pop, some of them had spent their normal enlistment time and had moved on to the private work force, and family businesses.  Others had stayed in the service, racking up long and distinguished war records in Vietnam.  Others never came home. 

I write from a terminal at Bush Airport in Houston, sitting next to my wife as we await or connecting flight to Colorado Springs.  There, I have the honor of meeting up with many of the gray headed young warriors of 56-G as they attend their final reunion on this, the 60^th year of saving the world from annihilation.  I eagerly anticipate hearing the old stories again, the laughter and the inevitable tears that will accompany it.  This will be Angie’s first opportunity to be with many of them, and to put names and faces with the stories.  Our plane leaves shortly, and Pop will pick us up from the airport when we arrive.

If you’ll indulge, I hope to share some of these moments with you as the week goes on.  Follow along here and at #USAF56G

Until Then.....Ride Safe and With Purpose.

Remembering Brian Johnson

In Brian Johnson, the world lost a dear person on September 23, 2014. You can learn more about Brian, his mission, and his impact on the world at CF Riders

I was fortunate and honored to be asked by his wife Christie to deliver one of his eulogies.  Below is the text of that message. 

     I’ve been asked by Christie to come and talk to you people about Brian Johnson first and foremost and also about the disease, cystic fibrosis.  Let me give you a little bit of background as I tell you “my Brian story”.  My name is Scott Bumpus and I’m a Harley-Davidson dealer in Jackson Tennessee.  I am also a husband, and a father of three beautiful children.  My youngest child is Brandon, and he and my wife Angie are here in Birmingham with me today.  Brandon is 14 years old and, like Brian, he also has cystic fibrosis.  CF is not something they acquired, but rather, they were born with it.  A child has cf from the moment of conception, a chance meeting of two rogue mutant genes, one carried by the father, and one by the mother.  We knew there was a problem in Brandon the moment he was born.  Others, like Brian, are not diagnosed until later on.  I’ll talk more of cf later.   

     As I said, I am a Harley-Davidson dealer.  I make my living in a fun business.  I’m in the dream business.  The act of riding a motorcycle, especially a Harley-Davidson invokes feelings and images of freedom, of escape.  That’s why we ride them.  We are living life.  What I am not, is a doctor, or a scientist.  I’m just a dad.  When Brian was diagnosed, his parents, Ms. Mary and Mr. Paul, and by the way (my most deep condolences to you, from one CF parent to another).  Mary and Paul were faced with the prospect that their son probably would not live to graduate from High school.  At the time Brandon came along, we were faced with similar life expectancies in the early 20’s.  These are things that motivate parents, not to find cures, but to activism.  Doing the little things that we can do to fight the fight and lessen the suffering.  So now, besides being a parent/caregiver, I became a fighter in the struggle to raise money and I would do so through my business, and the motorcycling community.  And I’d like to add, this activism augmenting science has taken those mortality rates and shoved them higher and higher, to the point where now, we even have light at the end of the tunnel, as Brandon is currently taking a trial drug that could for all intents and purposes be the closest thing to a cure for CF that we’ll ever see.  Activism works.

     Anyway, several years ago, another cf parent in west Tennessee sent me a link to a website called CF Riders.  She told me that I might find this interesting in that it was run by a guy in his 30’s that not only was he into Harleys, but he also had CF.  That was interesting.  I lightly perused the sight, and before long, we had made contact via Facebook.  It was in the very early months of 2011 that I first talked to Brian on the phone.  He introduced himself and told me that he’d heard about a Tennessee Harley dealer that had a CF connection and that he’d like to set an appointment with me to discuss what he was calling his Nationwide Ride for Life.  Now, keep in mind, I had scanned over his website, but hadn’t delved too deeply into it.  I’d seen the link for the ride, but had assumed it was like the dozen or so cf poker runs that I’d done over the years.  We agreed to a meeting date and before you knew it, my wife and I sat in my office across the table from Brian and Christie Johnson, and a completely disinterested Hayden… I should say, disinterested in our conversations, but totally enamored with everything else around us.  We talked and talked for what must have been hours that day.  We talked about CF, we talked about the miracle that Hayden was in their lives.  We talked about CF riders.  Brian told me of his drive home from Atlanta one night.  He told me of his conversation with God, the challenge he received from God, that put up or shut up moment.  He told me of coming home, setting Christie down in the floor and telling her that God had given him a direction. He explained to her that God had told him the time had come for him to learn to ride a motorcycle, that God had told him he was to buy a motorcycle, and his mission would be to use that motorcycle as a conduit, to ride, to spread the message, to bring awareness to the disease and to help people who were fighting the fight.  Now, keep in mind, I’m listening to this.  Keep in mind, I sell Harley-Davidson motorcycles for a living.  I’m quite good at talking wives into nodding that head in the affirmative direction and finally agreeing to allow their husbands to buy that Harley, or at least to not kick him to the curb.  I thought to myself, this guy is either telling me the truth, or this is the finest job I’ve ever seen on selling the wife….  Well, it didn’t take knowing Brian Johnson long to know he was telling it as it was.  Now, I can try all I want to deliver that testimonial the way Brian could, and I’ll always come up short.  If you’ve never heard him tell it, I suggest you go check out that video on the CF Riders website.   

     

     Well, he’d done it.  He’d learned to ride and thanks to the good folks here at Heart of Dixie, he found the bike and started riding.  CF Riders was born.  He then started telling me about what this nationwide ride was all about.  It was not a poker run.  No, this was Brian Johnson channeling Forrest Gump.  This was Brian, fighting the good fight, and riding his Harley to all four corners of our nation.  He told me every detail that he had planned.  He would start in Birmingham, and head for Jackson TN, he then had a path that would drag him through Louisiana, Texas, the southwest, up through California and the west coast, across the Rockies, the northern plains, through the Midwest, the rustbelt, into new England, down the eastern corridor, Appalachia, back into our southland and culminating in a great homecoming in Valdosta.  Along the way were events, press conferences, public speaking dates, guest sermons…… 14,000 miles and he would do it in 10 weeks.  I repeat, 14,000 miles in 10 weeks.

     Now, there are two things that I felt I was good at.  One was road tripping on a motorcycle.  I have hundreds of thousands of miles of riding experience under my belt.  I’m here to tell you that the trip that Brian had planned was going to be grueling at best, and at worst, dangerous to the unseasoned rider, perhaps even deadly.  This was not going to be like a ride from Birmingham to Panama City, or even to Nashville.  This was a ride across the American west.  Deserts, mountains, frigid cold and scorching heat.  Weather that pops up out of nowhere, altitude and seemingly never-ending stretches of highway.  I’m also good at being a dad and caring for a kid with CF, and knowing what the regimen was, and what could be considered risky behavior.  I put my “dad hat” on and began to question Brian, “Are you sure this is a good idea?  This is a titanic order for a veteran rider who doesn’t have to think about breathing treatments, chest therapy, respiratory distress, and malabsorption.  Are you sure this is what you want to do?”  Brian’s answer?  He’d never been more sure in his life, in fact, it wasn’t even a choice, it was his calling.  Well, if Brian was in, I was too.   

     

     On April 15 of 2011, Brian launched out of Birmingham on the Nationwide ride for life, spreading the news that CF was real and big, but those who suffered from it were bigger, and God even bigger than that.  Brandon and I also hopped on our bike and spent 4 precious days on the road with Brian.  It was a life changing event for all of us. Four of the best days of my life, memories of riding with my son, and with my friend, and his family and our merry band, doing God’s work.

     Now, Brian did not achieve what he’d set out to do.  He made it deep into the northwest before his health caught up to him and he had to be hustled back to Birmingham and checked into UAB.  He was worried that he’d failed, but the truth was far from that.  He’d made it far enough.  He’d proven himself faithful, and he’d proven that CFRiders was real, a force to be reckoned with.  Though it didn’t have the outcome he’d originally sought, his trip was perfect. CF Riders was not on the same mission of the CF Foundation.  The foundation has but one goal, find a cure.  Period.  Brian’s vision for CFRiders was not about cures, but about care.  Helping those in need.  You’ve heard it out of Brian’s mouth.  CFRiders was to be there for the mother who was having to choose between buying food, or buying medicine.  CF Riders was there for the family little Dalton Wallace.  When Dalton finally succumbed to the disease at the obscene age of 11, CFRiders and Brian Johnson was there, to not only stand at the podium to give comfort to a grieving family, but to also hand over a sizable amount of the money it was going to take to bury him. (See Doing Something For Dalton )

     CF Riders would be a source of scholarship money for people with CF to learn a trade, or go to school, or receive assistance in job placement in a world that might not be too kind to someone with a chronic illness.  CF Riders was about others. 

     

     I witnessed something else happening on that ride, in just those few days Brandon and I were with him.  Part of CF, is what is known as pancreatic insufficiency.  You see, CF creates a thick, sticky slime that clogs the respiratory organs, the reproductive system, and the digestive tract.  When the pancreas is clogged, the necessary enzymes for digestion can’t make it to the stomach.  In order to absorb food, CF’rs must take supplemental enzymes when they eat, at least they are supposed to, every time.  We were out to eat in Memphis on our first night of the trip.  We’d met up with Briana Caldwell, a young lady with CF in her 20’s and were all enjoying each others company, talking about CFRiders and  Brian’s vision, and the days of traveling to come.  

Brandon pulled his little bottle of enzymes from his pocket and took his 4 or 5 pills, prior to eating.  Brian watched him, and said something to me to the tune of, “Uh oh, I’d better go and take mine”, or something like that.  Brandon and I had our bike loaded down, not only with our clothes and riding gear, but also an air compressor for breathing treatments, a medicine bag packed with pills, antibiotics, anti inflamitories, steroids, antihistamines, antacids, and vitamins, tools for loosening the crap that builds up in the lungs, and all other implements of destruction.  We’d do his treatments early in the morning before we left, and late at night before bed.  On the last evening before Brandon and I departed the group, the two of us and Brian sat in my hotel room, offering toasts to each other, and frankly dreading the next day when we had to part company.  Brian talked with Brandon as he blew into his flutter.  Brian told us that having Brandon on the trip made him far more cognizant of keeping up his own treatment regimen.  He said that talking the talk was not enough, he also had to walk the walk.  If he was going to talk of CF and its effects on the body, he’d well better be sure he was leading by example.  He knew people would be looking to him.  He was a leader and if he was to inspire others, he had to do it by example.  He couldn’t let Brandon and other youngsters with CF see him not doing the right thing.  He thanked Brandon that night. 

     That’s the thing about Brian Johnson.  Nothing was ever about him.  It was always about others, and most importantly, about Him.  Brian never sought credit.  The welfare of others was always first and foremost in his heart.

      Like all of you, I’ve quietly monitored Brian and Christie’s journey as lung transplant became an option, and eventually, the only option.  That sticky mess that causes inflammation of the lungs is the choice weapon of CF.  Once lung tissue is damaged, it can never be repaired.  Brian’s lung functions continued to dip, finally down to where his system was functioning at less than 20% of that of a normal adult.  If you’re trying to imagine what that would be like, just stop.  You can’t, nor can I.  Unless you’ve been the victim of a near drowning, you can’t know.  As we all know, Brian was hospitalized for the final time on July the 4^th.  He fought and fought and fought to get himself to the level of health to where transplant could be a viable option. 

     This past Monday morning, I dropped Brandon at school and left west Tennessee for Birmingham.  I walked into Brian’s room, all quiet but the soft sounds of his vent, the occasional beep of a monitor, and sports center playing on the TV.  His eyes were closed.  I embraced Christie and asked her if he could hear me.  She said yes, and I turned to my friend and said, “Hey buddy”.  Brian opened his eyes, still crystal, beautiful blue, and sharp.  He said he was glad to see me, and then said, “Don’t let Brandon end up like this.  Don’t let it get this far”.  Here is this warrior.  I’ll say it again, Warrior. The strongest man I’ve ever met, tougher than nails, grappling in a death match with the monster, and pinned to his back…..  And what does he do?  Does he complain?  Is there any sign of woe is me?  No.  Not even. His thoughts are with Brandon, and all of the others he has been fighting for.  

     That afternoon with Brian was precious.  That night, Brian decided that he’d done all he could do.  He was ready for what was next.  I returned to see him Tuesday morning.  We again talked.  We reminisced about the ride.  We talked of those days being among the best of our lives.  I told Brian how he’d changed me.  Brian stared death down.  Brian was not afraid to die, he had no need to be afraid.  Brian’s only fear was that he had to leave behind the two most important people in the world, and that someone might think he had given up. 

     Given up?  Are you kidding me?  Given up?  No, sir.  Brian Johnson never gave up on anything.  As I’d said, he didn’t give up on his trip when it finally came to a halt up in the northwest.  He’d traveled as far on that bike as his body would allow.  And Brian did not give up on this life.  He did not give up on you or me.  He did not give up on his loving wife, nor his beautiful child.  He just traveled as far as his body would allow.  You see, the real Brian Johnson did not have cystic fibrosis.  His body did.   

     A beautiful rose living in a broken vase.

      It lived in his cellular structure, in his DNA, not in his soul.  CF didn’t beat him.  It did not beat him back in 2010, when he and God pulled a fast one on the monster, shifted gears, changed direction, and he headed down the CF Riders path, with me and a lot of us here in tow.  And it damn sure didn’t beat him this past Tuesday afternoon.  Once again, Brian called the shots.  Brian was in charge, and Brian proved that he was bigger than the disease.  In May of 2011, Brian climbed off the bike, conceded that his body was broken and took his fight to another arena.  He did the same thing on Tuesday September 23^rd of 2014.  He again, conceded his broken body and took his fight to another arena. 

     You see, Brian knew something that CF didn’t know.  And though his body is no more, Brian Johnson is alive.  Alive and well.  There are no vents, no needles and tubes.  No pills and treatments.  The air is clean and his breathing is easy.  The wind is at his back, the skies are fair, and the roads are smooth.  Happiness abounds. 

     When it came time for me to leave, I kissed my friend on the forehead and told him goodbye.  He thanked me for everything I had done.  Once again, are you kidding me?  No sir, thank you.  As a left, I looked at him and he said, we’ll ride again.

     Indeed we will, my brother.

     Remember this:
1.  Listen and obey His voice when He tells you to do something. 
2. Walk the walk, for you never know who’s watching.   
3. Put others before yourself. 

And

4. Don’t wait till it’s too late.   

Do these things and you’ll have taken a small step towards being more like Brian Johnson and God knows, we need all the Brian Johnson like people in this world that we can get.  

     Christie, you were his rock.  You loved him deeply and he never spoke of anything with more passion than he did when talking about you and Hayden.  And Hayden, you sweet little miracle child.  We all love you more than you may ever know.  It is the job of all of us here to stand in the gap for these two, and stand in that gap we shall.

 

     Always remember Brian K Johnson, and always Dream Big, Ride Free, and Breathe Easy

Ride Safe and with Purpose