Big Brother Big Sister - James

Before my wife and I married, we decided that we would spend our married years working with children that had part-time or no-time parents. So, for the first 20 years of our marriage, as emergency foster care parents, we received an uncounted number of 2 to 10 year old children, one to three at a time, typically with 30 minutes notice of their arrival, at all hours of the night and day--mostly at night--and kept our charges for periods of time ranging from one day to two weeks.

However, in 1991, after a dear nephew died of cancer, and, after I heard just one more TV advertisement for Big Brother Big Sister, we cranked down the foster parent program and I enrolled in the BBBS program and completed the training and certification process.

Early in December of 1991, BBBS called me in for the selection and assignment process. Two women sat in a conference room and explained what would take place next. Before I arrived, they said, they had narrowed the matching process down to two boys. Now, I would sit alone in this conference room, watch the two videos they had selected and then pick one of the two boys for my Little Brother. BBBS would then set up a date and time for the matched Big and Little Brothers to meet.

I complemented the two ladies on BBBS' selection process but politely refused to participate. I explained that I had joined BBBS to do what I could for some child, not for some child to do something for me. I ask them if they would please tap into their experience at BBBS and create a match that they they believed would work best for all concerned. They agreed, left the room and, in five minutes, returned with an offer. They had selected a 12-year old boy and now they would arrange with his mother to meet me here at the earliest possible date.

On December 18, 1991, I met my 12-year old Little Brother James. What a joy! We began our acquaintance that day with a quick lunch at a sandwich shop, and, then, during the next 6 years, we did more  fun things than you can imagine. Besides having meals together, attending movies, playing games at his house or mine, hiking, swimming, talking, etc, we also participated in wonderful and exciting adventures, such as:

• camped out in New Mexico and attended cross country horse races;
• attended James' school functions;
• attended James' his cross country track meets held in cities and towns throughout the area;

• went SCUBA diving in Cozumel Mexico (When James was 14, I offered to pay for his SCUBA certification and take him SCUBA diving at near Cozumel in the Caribbean if he would earn sufficient money to pay for his part of the trip. James got his first job and, within, 3 months, bought a ticket to Cozumel. We enjoyed a great trip SCUBA diving for a week around Cozumel. James said we were, "two island kind o' guys.");
• James rode with me often when I piloted the skydiver jump plane;
• James rode with me often when I piloted the glider tow plane;
• James rode with me often in the soaring club's two seat glider in the Texas Panhandle and during a weekend of high and fast high-performance glider soaring in the wide open skies over Hobbs, New Mexico;

• James and I appeared in a BBBS TV commercial flying a glider in formation with the glider tow plane; and
• more...

James--who, at the time of this writing, is serving as a Postdoctoral Research Associate in the University of Oregon's Institute of Ecology and Evolution--is a very special guy, as will be James' and Robin's first child expected to arrive around Thanksgiving 2013.

Having James as a Little Brother--'officially' from 1991 through 1997 and unofficially forever--is one of those shining experiences that will always make me smile. For 22 years now, our telephone conversations have ended, "Love you bro." Neat kid!

Scott - nephew, pilot, Marine, father, friend

This blog posting is too small and my ability as a writer is too weak to properly tell this story. If you want more, just say the word.

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On August 11, 1973, my wife and I flew to Weatherford, Oklahoma where I first met my new wife's family. My favorite new acquaintance? Thirteen year old Scott Merchant. We hit it off. He was a good looking, not too tall, very smart, well spoken and infinitely inquisitive. I can honestly say that I loved and respected little Scott from day one. He wasn't better than other children that I was around, but, I just felt that he had great promise.

I asked Scott and his brother Tim if anyone wanted to go flying. Both did. The boys' mother, my new sister-in-law said, "Fine," so off we went.

(As I said at the beginning of this blog posting, this is a very, very short summary of my acquaintance with Scott Merchant.)

We flew. Two neatly dress boys taking their first ride in an airplane--a Cessna 172 that I rented from the local airport fixed base operator. Tim (on the left leaning against the wing strut) enjoyed the ride, but, one ride was enough for him. Scott (on the right in the shadow of the left wing), on the other hand, was 'hooked.' If you click to enlarge this photo, you can see the boys better and you can see me checking the fuel in the right wing tank.

Scott started collecting books on aviation and flying, saved his money and took flying lessons. He became a pilot before graduating from high school in 1978, earned his commercial pilot license and instructor's ratings before starting to college and worked his way through Southeastern Oklahoma State University teaching flying lessons and working as a charter pilot when time permitted. He also met and married Vicky who flew airplanes with a passion equal to Scott's. I accompanied Scott at each level of his life--advances in flying, advances in education, jobs, marriage and children. I loved Scott, his family, his life and everything he did.

In October of 1978, Scott played hooky from SWOSU and spent the weekend with John Crook (left) and me (not shown) in Harlingen, Texas where we camped on the Gulf of Mexico beach and drank in the Confederate Air Force annual air show. (Yeah, we got stuck in the sand!)

After graduating from SWOSU in the fall of 1982, Scott went to the Marines where he flew T-34C Mentors (turboprop), T-2 Texans (jet) and the A-4 Skyhawk (jet). After earning his wings, Scott called me and asked if he should choose the Marine fighter pilot career path or cargo pilot career path. The cargo pilot career path would, Scott thought, better prepare him to move to the airlines after his service in the Marines. I said, possibly so, but, you can always fly big, fat, cargo and passenger airplanes with lots of windows, but, this may be your only chance to fly fighters. My suggestion, Scott, take the fighter pilot path.

Scott looked at the Marine AV-8 Harrier 'jump jet' and the FA-18 Hornet and decided the FA-18 Hornet was the plane for him. Off he went to Miramar where he became a Marine FA-18 pilot. During the next four years, he saw the world from the air and from the deck of Navy aircraft carriers. He ended his Marine service flying FA-18s out of Beaufort, South Carolina.

In 1986, Scott stepped out of the Marine FA-18 Hornet and into the cockpit of a FedEx Boeing 727 cargo plane. He spent the next five years flying for FedEx, crossing the nation almost daily flying mostly in the dark, as FedEx planes mostly do. He called me every week from a hotel is some US city where he spent the day reading books before returning to Memphis that night. Scott worked, read books, loved his little girl, flew as he liked to do and developed his small lawn and garden service just outside of Memphis. Life was very, good.

In February of 1991, we got a call from Memphis. Scott had driven himself to a Memphis hospital so that a doctor could treat his lower back pain. One doctor, three doctors, seven doctors looked at Scott, and, three days later told him that cancer was rampant in his body and he had 75 days to live. FedEx flew Scott on a small jet to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston and, within just a few days, doctors there said there was nothing they could do.

Scott spent about two months in a room on MD Anderson's tenth floor and I stayed in the room most of those days and nights. Each day, commercial and military pilots from around the country dropped by Houston for a visit. After a short visit with Scott, I would lead the visitor, blinded by his or her tears, back to the hospital elevator. Two or three of Scott's former college, and now airline pilot friends, happened to drop by during Scott's 31st birthday party.

In early April, treatment switched to pain relief only. Scott spent a few minutes each day with his mom, wife and two-year old daughter, once having the opportunity to hear the heartbeat of his new baby still in the oven.

In mid-April 1991, Scott died. Had one of the biggest funerals ever held in Weatherford, Oklahoma. He's buried in the nearby town of Corn, Oklahoma close to his beloved grandfather. Scott learned much, worked hard, did good and had fun--a fine mentor for his nieces and nephews.

This blog posting just touches the surface of one of the great experiences of my life. I got to spend 18 years with a walking, talking, living, breathing class act.

The boy speaks three languages and doesn't even know it!

During the summer of 1972, I was doing some consulting work that involved visiting every IBM mainframe computer center in El Salvador. I stayed the week in a large mansion with a wealthy family and I seemed to have the entire first floor of their mansion to myself. Each morning after showering, shaving and dressing, I pulled a dark green velvet ribbon in my room and, within seconds, a nice uniformed lady came into my room and said, "Buenas dias."

I smiled, said, "Buenas dias," and, in my broken Spanish, told her that I wished to have my breakfast in my room. She smiled, said, "Bien," bowed ever so slightly and turned and left. For seven mornings, I waited as long as I dared but breakfast never appeared in my room as I thought I had requested. My Spanish may need some work.

So, each day after a suitable wait, I walked out of the bedroom, through the foyer, library and day room and into the dining room where a 22-person table was set for just one person. I sat down to the gold place settings and examined the mounds of fruit and breads sitting there.

Within moments, a nice uniformed gentleman came into the room from my right, walked behind me and to my left side, bent over slightly and showed me a large silver tray filled with warm food--eggs scrambled, fried  various ways and poached; mounds of bacon, ham and sausage, potatoes, grits, and gravy; and some things I did not recognize. As he stood with spatula ready, I pointed at various items, and, he gently and carefully placed quite a number of items on my plate. When my plate was full, or, when I began to feel embarrassed, I smiled and motioned for him to stop. He said, "Bien," rose and retreated from the room. As I began to attach the mounds of food in front of me, I decided that this is how I wanted things to work when I get back to the states.

Actually, I was alone for only moments, because, the nice gentleman who brought the food had reentered the dining room and stood at white-gloved attention to my far right beside the door to the kitchen. I never looked him in the eye but he never disappeared from my field of view. (I wondered if he and his wife ate the food that I left on the tray. I hope so. Maybe, I'll leave more on the tray tomorrow. Maybe.

Each day was the same ritual--request breakfast in my room, wonder why it never came, walk by the circular staircase and over the echoing wooden floors to the dining room, watch my plate filled to overflowing and eat to my heart's content. Only one day did this feast of breakfast not go my way.

Halfway through my meal, I laid my utensils on the plate, pulled my handkerchief from my back pocket, turned left away from my plate and blew my nose. When I turned back to my plate, Mr. Stand At Attention Gentlemen was disappearing through the kitchen door with my half full plate of heavenly food. I raised my hand to say no, but it was too late. He was gone and so was my food.

I nibbled at the cantaloupe and papaya and, then, after a deep sigh, rose and returned with heels clicking on the wooden floors to my suite where I brushed my teeth and made a mental note, "Don't ever leave crossed silverware on your plate and turn momentarily away."

One evening, five of us were sitting on the back ground floor veranda surrounded by acres of lush green lawns, streaming colorful flowers and tinkling, lighted waterfalls scattered around the yard in too many places to count. As we sipped black, molasses-thick coffee from tiny white cups, the El Salvadorean home owner and his French wife told us, all in perfect English, stories about El Salvador's recent civil war when partisans tossed hand grenades from Cessna and Piper aircraft flying low over San Salvador.

Suddenly, a door at the far end of the veranda opened and a uniformed lady entered leading a four year old boy wearing a white shirt and blue shorts. Seeing his parents, my hosts, the little boy ran happily across the veranda, by the house guests and into his dad's arms. He and his dad spoke excitedly in English about what he did today and then and he turned equally as excitedly to his mom and told her everything as well, but, he communicated with her in French. The uniformed nanny caught up with the boy and, standing by the now excited family, smilingly listened as the boy and his parents shared the day's events. When the boy needed confirmation of some story he was telling, he would seek from the nanny in Spanish, her confirmation or addition. She responded in Spanish and he translated her words into French and English for his parents.

I sat in my chair enjoying the family's enjoyment until the parents shooed the nanny and boy back into the house so that the visit on the veranda could continue. After things quieted and down and demitassed sipping resumed, my host explained to me that the boy spoke only English to his father, only French to his mother and only Spanish to his nanny. I acknowledged and marvelled at the amazing abilities of their handsome, mannered and talented young boy but I saw no reason to share with the boy's parents that, back in Amarillo, Texas, little four-year old boys do this all the time.

High school, senior year, first day

September 5, 1961

On the first day of our senior year, sixty seniors gathered at the east end of the balcony in the high school auditorium. We talked and laughed while waiting for the senior class sponsors to arrive. As we discussed events, Keith Rollins turned to me and said, "I'm going to nominate you for class President."

We talked and waited and finally Mr (Dwight) Rogers and Miss Boyd arrived. They made some remarks that made no history and said let's elect class officers. Keith nominated me, others nominated others and the nominees exited into the hallway to await the results of the voting. Within seconds, Mr Rogers came into the hallway and said, "Mr. Pres, you can take over now." I conducted the rest of the meeting and we elected Don Barker, Sue Lee, Lean Brice, Cecelia Mills and Dianne Wilson class officers and then adjourned the meeting, went to our respective classes and began our senior year.

This is a photo of me as a senior sharing some very important observations with some very beautiful women. (Note to boys: if you've got to go to school, try to spend as much time as you can surrounded but beautiful women.)

Three hours later, about noon, Don and I hopped in my mom's car and drove home for lunch where the table was set just as it would be set every school day for the next 9 months. We passed food around, and jabbered on mostly about what happened at the first day of school--my senior year and Don's junior year.

When I felt the time was right, I said, "Well, guess who's president of the senior class."

My mom said, "Keith?"

"Nope."

Don said, "Ricky?"

"Nope."

My dad said, "A.W?"

"Nope, guess again."

"Charles?"

"Nope."

"Chuck."

"No-o-o-o!"

Now I was beginning to feel bad. Insulted. Disappointed. I said, "Guess me!"

My mom said, "You!?" in a way that included a question mark and an exclamation mark. "I mean, you're the president of the senior class?"

All eating stopped for a moment. Don said, "Are you the president?"

"Well, yes," I said. "Why are you so surprised."

Among comments of "Congratulations!" and "That's great." "Good for you." we continued eating but all talk revolved around senior class issues.

I've always remembered that momentary twinge of disappointment that I felt when my family guessed every name they knew but mine. Watch my dust--they're in for many more surprises.