The Day My Son And A Large Part of My Heart Died

 Of all my boys, four in all, Bubba had the roughest time as any. I told you about wearing crutches when he was not yet a teenager. He got into smoking weed and drinking in his teens. Hell, all the kids did it, not just mine. I will have to say that he was the last one to leave a party and he was the party. He had a nickname, Cornbread. I never asked him where he got it. I wish now that I had asked. I interviewed many of his high school friends to find out the good, the bad, and the funny side of my son. I wanted the real, raw, and mainly the honesty. I told them what I was doing and every one told me it was a good idea to finish his blog. When I would get discouraged or feeling down I would call one of his friends. We would talk about how they would sale pot right out of the window. My boys and their friends knew that my wife and I would go to bet and get up real early. I was told many of pounds of pot had been steamed on my kitchen to loosen it up for sale. I heard some things you would not believe but not once did I get mad. I made my children go to church until the age of 16 they could decide on their own. needless to say, when my youngest boy turned 16 it was my wife, my daughter and myself going to church. I am grateful my sons found God through his Son, Jesus the Christ and I am looking forward to the day we can all be together, again.
  Sorry, I did not mean to preach, I needed to say that. I wish there were a way the at a certain time every father, that is a good father to their children, could be privy to their inner thoughts. Then again, those thoughts may drive the parent mad. What if those thoughts would save your child's life but ended the life of your brother's child? Would that be too much for our mortal minds to deal with?
  I learned so very much about my child that I was ashamed, at first' but then I began to understand. I would ask myself if I were raised in the era that he was raised in, just how would I turn out? I was raised in the era that every one worked. Every one knew every one. When a neighbor needed help, he got it and nobody was asking for a dime. Your word meant something, as well as your name. It was a completely different time. If my son would have grown up in that era what kind of person would he be. I guess what I'm trying to say is that no one knows the answer or do I expect every one to be alike. From what I have found our about my son, I believe he would have given the shirt off his back. even if he did not have one, he would find you one. I'll be back, thanks for listening 

I Have Lost My Son and Do Not Know What To Do

  I have recently lost my son, the author of this blog, and only recently I have gotten to know him. I do not know how, if any, many people read this blog. It is obvious to me that he put a hell of a lot of work into this. I cannot understand his motivating factor for writing this blog without knowing if anyone would read it. Maybe it was his way to cope with the bad deal he got handed to him. Not long after he joined the Air Force he had a patient who had asked him to put him out out his misery. He was in terrible pain. Many times David would call me on the phone and struggled with a decision that I believe ended his life way to short. He told me of a patient that he has by the name of Col. DeBarge. I have not changed the names that he entered in his posts for fear of confusion. My memory is not what it once was.
  It took many months to read this blog and I am still not sure I have grasp the enormity of it. My son was a very bright child and I believed he would have done great things. He must have had a very hard time trying to decide the fate of the Col. I am not gonna pretend to believe that I would know what he was going through because his mind worked in a way that I find impossible.
  MY YOUNG SON
  David was born on May 5th, 1959 in Gadsden, Alabama. He had two older brothers, one 3, the other was 15 months. I worked at Siemens Corporation so the daily childcare went to my beautiful wife, Kathryn Thomas Riley. She must have enjoyed those infants because we had another boy in 1962. I think Kap, my pet name for my wife, was fairly lax with punishment but when the boys got out of control I handled it when I got off from work. Those boys were so afraid of their Daddy, just the mention of Mom telling Dad of any misbehaving is all it would take. That is how she kept the boys in line. They were terrified of me and when I got home the boys paid the price of misbehaving. Needless to say they were well behaved little young men. Seemed better than the Wrath of Dad 
  THE MIDDLE SCHOOL YEARS
   Now this is the time that their curiosity about the outside world really peaked. I failed to mention we had a new younger son that was born in 1962. I honestly do not know how my wife and I kept our wits about us from 1955 - 1962. That is 4 boys born in 7 years. I would not do it, again. That's for sure. We were, however, greatly awarded with a beautiful baby girl in 1966. It must have been the dogie style that got us that girl, I haven't a clue. It was  fantastic until time to get kids in school. I do not know how my wife did it. I would leave for work at 5am and let her work her magic. My kids were always in school, on time and prepared for the next days assignment. My wife was a amazing woman! Thanks to her determination and hard work my children would have spent the majority of their youth in an Alternative School. I guess you haven't a clue what an alternative school is. It is where the trouble makers are kept away from the other students to give those students a chance at learning uninterrupted. The kids were not allowed to disrupt any part of the classes. Those that showed some promise and made a real effort got to go back to the real school. Some made it, others were chained to their desks. They were gonna make a concerted effort to get the children to make it back to their school. The middle school years were the best times of my life. Coaching my sons baseball team and football team allowed me to spend many precious hours during the time when my sons were not afraid to give me a hug in public.
  My second child was born with a deteriorating hip condition. He was forced to wear a brace that held his left leg up and use crutches. It was not long before he abandoned one crutch so he could get around better. He even played little league baseball and was pretty dang good at it. That crutch did not slow him down, at all. As I said. he was the second child but we named him after me. He looked more like me than the first one so he got the name. He was called Bubba by the other kids when they were young but the name stuck. He was Bubba until the day he died. That, my friend, was the absolute worse day of my life. 
  

You need to know

  Not too long ago, I was involved in a dangerous mission where I was critical injured. I was flown to a secret base for extensive medical treatment. What I learned after all this was that I was not able to die. This was a top secret study to understand why I do not die. All the big brass hung around to see if I could be a weapon. I want to say first that I would do anything as my capacity as a fighter pilot. I still made bombing raids but my bosses does not think I should fall into the enemies hands. I see why, therefore. My missions are highly scrutinized and if there is a small chance then I will be placed on desk duty. The Flight Surgeons want and need to spend as much time with me as possible. To figure out how I have these death-defying incidents where I will always survive. They do not understand why I come back in water. I suppose that for the next several weeks I will be studied to find what makes me so different. I cannot tell anyone what I am going through and let me tell you this is no fun. The Flight Surgeons will stop at nothing to figure why I have not been able to die. I just want to be back with my battle buddies and my squadron to go back like it was before. Something is very, very strange going on with me and I hope that I can help them. I am ready to get back into what I do best; soldiering. Please hand in there with me to fight these   Not too long ago, I was involved in a dangerous mission where I was critical injured. I was flown to a secret base for extensive medical treatment. What I learned after all this was that I was not able to die. This was a top secret study to understand why I do not die. All the big brass hung around to see if I could be a weapon. I want to say first that I would do anything as my capacity as a fighter pilot. I still made bombing raids but my bosses does not think I should fall into the enemies hands. I see why, therefore. My missions are highly scrutinized and if there is a small chance then I will be placed on desk duty. The Flight Surgeons want and need to spend as much time with me as possible. To figure out how I have these death-defying incidents where I will always survive. They do not understand why I come back in water. I suppose that for the next several weeks I will be studied to find what makes me so different. I cannot tell anyone what I am going through and let me tell you this is no fun. The Flight Surgeons will stop at nothing to figure why I have not been able to die. I just want to be back with my battle buddies and my squadron to go back like it was before. Something is very, very strange going on with me and I hope that I can help them. I am ready to get back into what I do best; soldiering. I called a couple friends of mine to accompany me to the Petro Truck Stop. I had them wait in the lounge with a predetermined code to let them know if things went south. I did not have to wait long. In came Pedro looking bad. I mean that he looked sick. He must have stayed coked up for a few days is my guess.

  I stood up to get his attention and before he walked three steps there was a loud shot. I recognized the sound of a high power semi-automatic pistol. Two quick shots followed and Pedro went down. I did not hang around to check on him because by the time I heard the double tap I was already out the doors. All hell broke loose inside with people running out of the Petro not knowing where they were going, just getting away from the shots. I eased to my car and slowly left the premises heading south on I-15 to the strip and the safety of my Hotel suite. What the hell just happened? 

  As I was watching the news about the shooting trying to figure if I was on their hit list. My mind was racing. I could not maintain conscious flow of thoughts. Nothing close to this has ever happened before. I was afraid to use the phone for fear of my suite being bugged. If it was bugged they would have known I would be there, too. That makes me believe I was not a target. Pedro most definitely was the target. Why? Did he fuck someone out of their dope? Does not sound like Pedro. Did the Bolivians think that maybe he was the reason one of their high ranking cartel members was murdered a few days ago. I had to get out of Vegas, fast. I could not use the Leer for fear of being blown up in the middle of a flight. My mind is racing 90 miles an hour trying to see if it was possible I would be next. 

  I immediately went down to the Hotel safe and withdrew all my cash, jewelry, and passports. I had $560,000 dollars in cash. The rest of my money was tucked away in a dry dock for smaller fishing boats inside the well of a redone Chris Craft. It will be safe while I find a way to figure out what happened to Pedro.

  The phone rang in the rental car as I was driving East on I-70 just before the tunnel. It was a good 16 hours after Pedro got smoked. I picked up the phone with confidence because only one woman knew my number. The voice was indeed Latino with the man speaking softly he asked, "Did you hear about Pedro?" I played dumb and asked who the hell Pedro was. "You piloted a Leer that landed at McCarron just six days ago with Pedro, a few Rock Stars, along with several beautiful women. Now, let me ask again. Did you hear about Pedro?" I did not know what the fuck to say. Obviously, he knew when I landed and about my passengers. So, I took the bait. "Yes, I heard about Pedro. May I have the pleasure of getting your name?" He said in due time. all will be revealed. He then asked me if I was leaving Vegas I had better change my plans. Whew, at least he hasn't got a GPS tracker on my car. I thought it over about 5 seconds and turned my car around heading back to 'Sin City'. The only way I was to find out the truth is to hear this guy out. I have never fucked over any of my cartel friends so what or where do I fit into this. I damn sure don't know.

  It was less than a minute and a car plowed me over the side, into the water. I do not know who or where I will be, next. All I can say is , HOLD ON!!!.

I called a couple friends of mine to accompany me to the Petro Truck Stop. I had them wait in the lounge with a predetermined code to let them know if things went south. I did not have to wait long. In came Pedro looking bad. I mean that he looked sick. He must have stayed coked up for a few days is my guess.

  I stood up to get his attention and before he walked three steps there was a loud shot. I recognized the sound of a high power semi-automatic pistol. Two quick shots followed and Pedro went down. I did not hang around to check on him because by the time I heard the double tap I was already out the doors. All hell broke loose inside with people running out of the Petro not knowing where they were going, just getting away from the shots. I eased to my car and slowly left the premises heading south on I-15 to the strip and the safety of my Hotel suite. What the hell just happened? 

  As I was watching the news about the shooting trying to figure if I was on their hit list. My mind was racing. I could not maintain conscious flow of thoughts. Nothing close to this has ever happened before. I was afraid to use the phone for fear of my suite being bugged. If it was bugged they would have known I would be there, too. That makes me believe I was not a target. Pedro most definitely was the target. Why? Did he fuck someone out of their dope? Does not sound like Pedro. Did the Bolivians think that maybe he was the reason one of their high ranking cartel members was murdered a few days ago. I had to get out of Vegas, fast. I could not use the Leer for fear of being blown up in the middle of a flight. My mind is racing 90 miles an hour trying to see if it was possible I would be next. 

  I immediately went down to the Hotel safe and withdrew all my cash, jewelry, and passports. I had $560,000 dollars in cash. The rest of my money was tucked away in a dry dock for smaller fishing boats inside the well of a redone Chris Craft. It will be safe while I find a way to figure out what happened to Pedro.

  The phone rang in the rental car as I was driving East on I-70 just before the tunnel. It was a good 16 hours after Pedro got smoked. I picked up the phone with confidence because only one woman knew my number. The voice was indeed Latino with the man speaking softly he asked, "Did you hear about Pedro?" I played dumb and asked who the hell Pedro was. "You piloted a Leer that landed at McCarron just six days ago with Pedro, a few Rock Stars, along with several beautiful women. Now, let me ask again. Did you hear about Pedro?" I did not know what the fuck to say. Obviously, he knew when I landed and about my passengers. So, I took the bait. "Yes, I heard about Pedro. May I have the pleasure of getting your name?" He said in due time. all will be revealed. He then asked me if I was leaving Vegas I had better change my plans. Whew, at least he hasn't got a GPS tracker on my car. I thought it over about 5 seconds and turned my car around heading back to 'Sin City'. The only way I was to find out the truth is to hear this guy out. I have never fucked over any of my cartel friends so what or where do I fit into this. I damn sure don't know.
  I try to get my bearings just as soon as my mind slows down. Yep, here it comes the hot desert sun. Why is every time I travel I always end up in someplace HOT? Now, I've got to figure  where I am and find clothes appropriate to this time.

Joker. This dude, or whatever it was, did not make me laugh. At all.
  I had been in Vegas about a week when Tyler disappeared with someone else. I had not seen any of my buds that flew in here with me. It is not that unusual. They have obligations and things to do that does not involve me. I have a flight crew of five which all lived in Vegas. When I need them all I have to do is call. They do not complain with six figure salaries I pay. It works out fine for all involved.
  Joker visited me last night. It is always at night. You never know if it is day or night living in the Hotel on the Strip. I was sleeping off a wild party when I heard what sounded like a passive bolt of lightening. It brought me straight up. The air feels charged with some type of energy. Then I see the light. A brilliant white light. It is the same way every time. This is the third time Joker has made an appearance. I see a shape of a man without any features of someone I recognize. It is still scary as hell. Joker just stands there for what seems like a few minutes but in reality it is hours. I cannot figure out what he wants, if he is real, or if this all is a psychological issue. I have not spoken with anyone about Joker. The truth is I am afraid I would be hospitalized and I do not have time for that.
  Pedro called me and wants to meet today. I wonder what he has got up his sleeve? What ever it will be I have no doubt the money will be good. After unloading those 35 birds I am taking a break from smuggling. Personal smuggling, anyway. Pedro will be a different story. 
  The shower has water coming at me from all directions. It feels awesome. I call room service while I get ready. I've got an hour before I'm to meet Pedro. He wants to meet me at the Petro Truck Stop in North Vegas. It is out by the racetrack with nothing around but warehouses. I have no idea why he wants to meet there.Something does not seem right. He even sounded funny on the phone. I think I'll call some friends of mine to go with me. A person in my business can never be too careful.  

No Fucking Cornflakes

  It was 2:20 am when I looked at the clock. My body was paralyzed. The only thing that I could move were my eyes. Lying on my left side my back was pointed toward the bedroom door. The noise that woke me from a hard sleep was loud. I know it was close. What seemed like minutes, when I looked back at the clock it read 3:05. Had fear gripped my mind causing me to lose time?
  The night was clear with a half moon. While I was in my trance, if that's what it was, my vision became cat-liked. I could see the stings on the blinds.My hearing had been sharp since I woke up.I began to feel I just did a big shot of cocaine. All of my senses were alert. My legs were fine. I had heard nothing the whole time. I slowly turned over bringing my Glock from under my pillow. There was not anyone around, now. What was the source of the loud noise? This is not the first time this has happened. This shit has been going on since my brother died. Hell, it may be originating from my own brain. I have never found the source. Maybe it is my bro trying to tell me something. I need to make some drastic changes. I have already started something new. I forgot to buy some cornflakes leaving me without something I did every morning, afternoon, whenever I got up, that is. This is when I changed my life. A drastic one.
  I joined the US Air Force. I started out as a load master on a KC-135. I worked my way up to that, anyway. I went to college and received a BS in Aeronautics. I had to have at least a BS to enter flight school. After being accepted and finishing Officers Training School I was shipped off to Randolf AFB in San Antone. Introductory was 25 hours of flying a prop plane and learning in the classroom. Undergraduate was a little more exciting. One year of flying 10-12 hours a day flying a T-38 Talon which happened to be supersonic. As was the case in most everything I became real good at skills needed to be a successful fighter pilot. I was finally shipped to my permanent party base, Eglin AFB, Ft. Walton Beach, Fl. Eglin was an armament development and test center. It also had a new fleet of F-15 Eagle's in their SAC. I learned to fly with another set of eyes. The F-15 was a two seater. A weapons officer rode behind me and we quickly became the hunters. Flying missions out over the Gulf, training. That is all we did. Scramble, get airborne in 20 minutes. Train, Train. I never new how all this training would make me a very, very, wealthy man. I enjoyed serving my country and had planned on staying until I retired. Plans changed. What a change it was!

I was a fearless young man. An adrenaline junkie. I guess that is why I chose to be a fighter pilot. Whether it was rappelling from 140 ft. cliffs, diving my dirt bike like a man possessed. As long as I got scared doing something that was what I wanted to do.
  My brother was a couple years older and wired the same. When we were still in high school there was nothing we would not do. We tried to out do each other. Man, he was my hero. We were known to fight anywhere, anytime. There were not very many people that would fuck with us. In those days foosball was popular. We would go to a game room, put our quarter on the table and play for hours. As long as we won the next pair would try to unseat us. There would be a dozen quarters on the table from people trying to make a name for themselves by beating us. I played back and Earl played front. I swear, he had the fastest pull shot I had ever seen. That was not his only shot, either. He could handle the ball with such ease. The toe shot was his second best shot. He did most of the scoring because I would pass him the ball. I would smoke a long shot every now and then but my forte was a blocker. We would travel to tournaments and win a couple hundred bucks then come back home to school the locals. We were awesome! The only problem we had was his drinking. He drank beer all day, every day. Then one day he was on his KZ 1000 when a truck pulled out in front of him. He had no where to go. Ended up in a coma for 11 days. When he woke up and got well enough to go home he brought something with him; seizures. He had to take Dilantin to control his seizures. He would not stop drinking. The doctor told him that drinking alcohol would induce seizures. Didn't listen. In 1989 he had a seizure while diving and hit a duely loaded down with horse feed head on. Killed him instantly. This was, by far, the toughest thing I had ever tried. It took a long time for me to get over his death. I still think of him, daily. Oh well, I promise this is it for the sad shit. We are about to get into the crazy shit.
   I wake up somewhere in the Hudson River.Every time this happen,I have no clue where I will be swimming to the top to get that fresh air I need so badley. I am naked and will have to call on my ex-wife to get me someplace where I cannot be seem. I have figured out that when these water problems happen it means that I have died and are re-born. Not as a child but as myself with all knowing what will happen.I have to figure out what the hell is going on with me.

  I became an independent cocaine supplier soon after being discharged from the US Air Force. With my military training in an F-15 Eagle, my services were ideal for the Cuban that had cut off J.D.'s balls so we became partners.I did the flying while Pedro handled the local Bolivians. The D.E.A was spending their time with Pablo and we were flying in and out of Bolivia in a 29 million dollar Falcon 7x. A beautiful jet and a lot of fun to fly. The money was incredible. I could not spend it fast enough. I had attorneys handling everything for me. Hell, I did not know all the properties I owned. Didn't care. All I did was fly like an eagle, round the sea, fly like an eagle letting Pedro show the way.
  We stayed busy until the rainy season. Pedro let me keep the jet to go back to my musician buddies. The ones that loved the coke and the ludes, anyway. You know what time it was; Party Time! I picked up Stephen Tyler in Boston, stopped in New York to get Sammy Hagar and some friends of the female variety. It was very important that I maintain the perception that I was operating a legitimate transportation choice for the wealthy. That meant no drugs at least 12 hours before getting in the cockpit. While flying to Vegas a beautiful brunette took care of my cockpit.
  Landing at McCarran is when all my fun began. First, we had to help Tyler out of the jet and pour him into the limo. I would have to make a final search of the cabin to make sure there were no more 714's passed out. We made it to our suites on a Monday and by the time Friday came I had sold 34 Birds, or kilos, as us old schoolers called them. Pedro would let me have on front everything for $10,000/kilo and I would sell 35 at $25,000/key. You do the math. It was a fucking lot.
  I spent the days playing golf, betting ridiculous amounts for shit like closest to the hole, longest drive. I made sure I passed around the Rorers, not taking any myself giving me a better shot at hanging onto my money. This went on for several years and all I was doing was flying a beautiful jet making millions. Until I met a guy named Joker. What he did was not in the least funny.

Where ever the best concert was playing that is where we were playing. We would stand out by the bus the band used after concerts. A couple of ludes to the security guy and we were in like flynn. Most bands would have a huge party post concert, depending on what city they, and we, just happened to be in. Atlanta was always the Bomb! Coke and 714's would get us anywhere. Soon, we were snorting coke with the band members like we grew up, together. Most of your Southern rock bands knew who I was and what all I had. The coke and Ludes were not coming from my delivery friend but were coming via a smuggler in Georgia named JD. He had Cuban friends in Miami that front him all the coke he wanted. They would even deliver, too. In between concerts JD and I spent our time restocking for the tours of many southern bands.
  It was that way until I found JD in his barn hanging from a beam with his nuts cut off. He crossed the wrong Cuban. I knew what I had to do, get the hell out. Disappear. If I wanted to live I knew that was my only choice. That is when I decided to join the

  United States Air Force.
 I wanted to make more money than JD had ever dreamed. Thus, the Air Force.After I paid my debit to Uncle Sam my plan was to fly as much coca in the us as anyone. Military, here I come!

Ludes and the car derby alond with the concerts

My buddy with the pharmaceutical coke supply had a roommate so we had to let him in on it. The first time we used the white powder it was decided to snort it. After that initial test run we did not have it any other way. Lines were made on the kitchen table and before we could do two of them hours had passed. Talk, talk, talk, talk. We had a rule that when someone raised their hand it was time to cut your speech short. Talk, Talk, raise hand, talk, talk, raise hand. that was how it went. I even talked my buddy into giving me a bag to take with my brother and I to see Frank Zappa at the Fabulous Fox theater in Atlanta, Georgia. It did not take long before we were doing Ludes and Placydils just to get some sleep. It is a thousand wonders how we survived the attack of the Pharmacaine. Amazing times.
  Pharmaceutical drugs were everywhere. We indulged in excess. If you wanted to know who had the Ludes all you had to do is look at cars that were owned by your buddies. If there were a few extra dents that was probably where you would find them. Or, they would give themselves away. One phone call and you knew. The caller thought he was just fine. As soon as he started talking we knew he was not fine,he waas fucked up.
  As I said before we grew up in the greatest era for Rock and Roll. Therefore, every weekend we were on a "Road Trip" to a concert. I saw RUSH in Dothan, Al. in 1978 and after the concert we stopped at a Zippy Mart to get some drinks for the ride back to Ft. Walton Beach, where I was stationed in the Air Force. That we will cover later. I noticed a huge bus pull up outside and a couple of band members came into the store. I looked around and I was the only one that knew who these guys were. I ran out to my car to get my ticket stub and ran in the store approaching Geddy Lee asking for his John Henry. He laughed, took my ticket and signed John Henry. I looked at it and informed him I knew who he was and he gave me his real name on my ticket.