Riding The Wave – Multiple Myeloma

Our last camping trip and photo together (the young boy was riding around our campsite on his minibike driving my Dad crazy, so he pulled him into "our game" instead of having him ruin our time together.)

“Any man can be a father, but it takes a special person to be a dad” – Proverb

I wasn’t planning on writing about my father this Father’s Day as I have written about him on and off through my blog. But dear Hugh, a fellow MM Warrior, wrote and asked me if I was planning to, like I did for my mother. He said he thought it would be really cool to know more about him. Well you don’t need to give me much of an invitation to write or talk about him. He was my hero. In many ways he still is. His death was my first Life’s tragedy. I could have had one not so steep a gradient on that score, that’s for sure. As the five year fog that began to lift after his death, I began to live my life in a way I hope honored him and all he taught me in life for those short years we were together. You know the book, “I Learned All I Needed to Know in Kindergarten?”, that was what it was like being Jim Hudson’s daughter. He taught me everything I needed to know to succeed in life by the time he left us, so abruptly.

(Remember to click on the photos to enlarge if you want.)

After some not so stellar, difficult, teenage years, coupled with the grief of losing him and the life I knew, I finally began to reach back to those lessons and managed to pull myself together. His parents, Otis & Ruth, were an integral part of saving me from myself. Years later of course, I came to realize just how blessed I was to have them in my life and a place to go when I felt like I just couldn’t find a reason to go on anymore. My mother and I weren’t very nice to each other and it was an extremely difficult time in our lives. Some families pull together in times of such crisis, or they blow apart. Nothing stays the same and she and I experienced the latter. It was really, really bad.

Dad was an amazing person to me. He was handsome, athletic, fit, smart, attentive as a father and a friend. I suspected he was well liked amongst his peers, and over the years I learned he was both respected and well liked. I learned from my friends, they were scared of him, but respected him and liked him. He did have a countenance about him. He had that look – you know the one, where every bad thing you thought you did was sitting right there – you were sure he knew! His standards were high but his tolerance and generosity were high as well. You just didn’t know it until the situation arose, but he was incredibly generous, thoughtful, kind and understanding, however… what you did was wrong, unacceptable, and here is why… He looked at these situations as learning opportunities and while some consequence would indeed occur, it was done with understanding and often agreement. He wanted me to be successful in life, he didn’t inspect before the fact, but if he learned or discovered a failing to follow his very simple rules, he didn’t accept excuses, but would entertain a discussion in an effort to understand what I was thinking or not thinking (generally the culprit!).

One of my earliest recollections was living in Maine and being at the pool. I was excited beyond words and got my first swimming lesson. I didn’t learn until years later that my Dad was a teenage lifeguard and had taught some of his younger Tennessee cousins how to swim. He always seemed to love doing stuff with us kids. I was excited we were going to get to go down the pool slide at the club. I ran up the ladder, waited in line and shot down the slide with wild abandon. Well, it was in the deep water of course and I suddenly found myself blubbering under the water. Before any real panic set in, though the realization of what I had done was not lost on me, I felt myself being pulled up by the scruff of my one piece bathing suit. There was Dad, with Lynn on his hip and holding me up with one arm. His eyes filled with concern and then a broad smile as he pulled me in close to his chest while I was coughing up water. He had that way about him. Not letting me see I just scared the living bejeebies out of him because he didn’t want me to be scared, though he knew that I was. He said, “Why Lori… honey… you need to make sure that I’m there to catch you next time.” I nodded vigorously. He was also one who believed you always had to conquer fears and the ‘ol adage, “get back on the horse and ride”, he walked me over to the pool’s edge and said, “Now get up there and let’s try this again, but this time, you make sure I’m waiting for you before you go.” Yes sir. Being a military brat, I was raised to answer him with Yes sir or Yes Dad. He would accept either.

Commanders in front, pilots then RSOs. My Dad is on the end of the far right of the pilots.

He taught me how to snow ski when we lived in Maine. I remember him putting bindings on my teeny skis. My mother clucking that I was too young. I was over the top giddy. He would walk me up the little knoll in the backyard of our base housing and then set me down. Run back down the hill and I would ski down onto the patio and into his arms. We did this again and again. Eventually he took me to a ski resort in Maine where he taught me how to use the rope tow and then would ski down the bunny slope with me. I loved it. Of course years later, it was Tahoe. There is nothing like skiing in Tahoe. I remember  he would take us out of school, a lot, and we would head up there for a few days of skiing. My mother didn’t care for it, so after a while it was just the three of us and maybe with some friends. He came to me one afternoon and said, “Lori, it’s time you got on the chair lift.” , “No Dad, I can’t.” His favorite mantra, “No such word as I can’t.” Never mind it’s actually two words, or three if you don’t count the contraction. I groaned. I knew there was no way out when he said that to me. But he was such a good teacher. Somehow he just believed in you, that you could do it and you would suck it up and go for it. We went over to the chair lift and he “hatted” me on how to move through the line and climb up the ramp. We stood there while I watched for a bit to see how it was done. Then we got in line and he put his arm around me as we prepared to get on the chair. He put his arm around me when we got off the chair as well. Skiing down the intermediate slope was no problem for me by then and it was truly thrilling. “This time you do it on your own.”, “No Dad, I don’t think I can.”, “Yes, yes you can.” So we went again, on my own meant, without him putting his arm around me to get me on and off the chair. The timing was everything. I sat at the edge to slide off the chair and down the ramp and I couldn’t get off. I couldn’t move. He had already started and I eeked out, “DAD!” He saw I was glued to the chair and leaped up off the snow and grabbed the tip of one of my skis and flipped me hard off the chair into a snow bank! Hilarious! I really was quite airborne. He looked at me and without even the smallest hint of disappointment he brushed me off and said, “Are you OK?” I nodded and down the hill we went. I never had trouble getting off the chair after that.

He taught me to water ski. Treading water behind me again and again as I tried to get up behind the boat. He would hold me crouched in the water to get me steady and he would yell, “Hit it!” Again and again he would swim to my failed attempt, gathering my skis, get them back on my feet, and hold me in the water to try again. Skiing with him behind the boat was always one of my favorite things to do. He was a consummate skier. There were three Dads that we would all fight to get into the boat just to watch. Buddy Brown, Bob Powell, and my Dad. The boat would get too filled up and be too heavy to pull these guys and the boat captain would tell us we couldn’t all go. There were shouts, “Well he’s MY DAD, so I get to go!” Then the rest of us would fight for a spot pulling rank in age or you went last time.  All three were SR pilots and all three were incredibly athletic. All three worked hard and played hard and we just LOVED watching them ski and would always hold our breath in a wipe out to see them pop up out of the water. These guys never had a nice wipe out. They would skip across the top of the water spinning around and flipping head over heals along the surface! They were going so fast and doing crazy stuff for it to ever be graceful. It was like watching the commercials for athletic events, “The agony of defeat!” We loved it! Their prowess on skis was as exciting as their spectacular wipe outs!

He taught me to tell time, drilled me on my multiplication tables, went to all my teacher/parent conferences. He bought me a horse and I learned to ride. We camped and fished and hiked. He taught me the constellations, how to build a safe fire when camping. How to build a lean to and rock climb. He told me exciting stories of when he was a boy growing up. They all had their own titles and we would beg for “You and Uncle Ian in the Tree!” Or “Granddaddy dunking Aunt Margaret’s head in the well!”

In Kadena, Jarvis, Hudson, Brown, Unknown

He was gone a lot. While in the SR program he would go over to Okinawa twice a year for 3 months at a time. But I remember him gone in Maine as well, where he flew B-52s. I remember he was going to be gone for Christmas one year and not understanding. He sat me down and explained that they all took turns and it was his turn to do the job so that the other guys could be with their families. It was a shared responsibility, he said. I was satisfied with that. He was a group member and he was doing his part. But when he would go to Kadena in Japan, I would miss him, a lot. He required letters from us. You have to know my Dad in that. He didn’t expect us to know that was proper, he simply told us we would do it and he would be waiting for our letters. There were to be no excuses. Yes sir. In exchange however, we got letters as well, from him. Every two weeks we drove out to the “flight line” with our mother and waited for the Tanker to land to get our mail. We would give them our letters and pick up the ones he had sent over. It was like a ritual. I learned years and years later from a colleague of his… “You know your Dad loved you girls more than anything. We would all be hanging out in someone’s room drinking and the mail would arrive. He would put down his drink, hold up his letters and proudly excuse himself from the party – ‘I have letters from my girls’.” This colleague said, “most guys wouldn’t have shown that side of themselves to their peers, but not your Dad. He lived for you girls and was extremely proud of you. He would head off to his bedroom and shut the door to go read your letters – right in the middle of our party!”

Suiting up for an SR flight

Sometimes he would take me on a Saturday to watch him “suit up.” It was quite a process. Complete physical before suit up, then in long underwear he would traipse out and sit down with Budzinski, his RSO, and begin the suit up process in the Apollo space suit. I would always giggle when he came out in his long underwear and he would say, “you promised not to laugh!” It took about two hours. There is always a car that leads them out to take off. I would climb in the car’s backseat and watch him take off behind us. Then the driver would drop me off at the tower and I would run up the 144 stairs and plop down in a chair and they would have rigged some head phones for me to wear so I could talk to him on the radio.

When I went to 6th grade camp, I heard an airplane overhead. I had acquired that “ear” for such things. As I looked up waiting to see the aircraft overhead my mouth fell open as I recognized a T-38 flying low, hard, and fast, over the trees and then whipping off and straight up, circling around to do it again with a little waggling of the wings (a wave). I was officially BUZZED! All my civilian friends were coming up to me all day long, “WAS THAT YOUR DAD!” I didn’t know if it was. Usually I knew if he was going to buzz me. He would tell me to stand outside our house or something. I got home and said, “Dad, was that you…”, “SHHHHHHHH!” he said with wide eyes and then a broad smile! So cool! I remember sitting in the pilot’s seat of a T-38 once with him peeking in from the ladder while I had my hands on the controls. I thought, “Man, my Dad is so smart to be able to fly one of these!” The dials and gizmos were overwhelming.

Hudson-Budzinski Crew Shot

Over these past 40 years of him being gone I still run into people who are enamored with the SR-71, knew my father, flew after him in the program and knew of his accident. I had worked on the General Jerome F. O’Malley dedication in the General’s hometown of Carbondale, PA. Another long story, but an amazing man and family. He flew with my Dad at Beale and tragically died with his wife in the mid ’80s. Anyway, in ’08, I was seated at the “Lockheed Table” for the preceding dinner. An honor to be sure. While standing and introducing ourselves to one another I used my maiden name as it connects me to the program. When I said it, one of the three SR pilots said, “Wait… your… Jim Hudson’s daughter?”, “Yes. I am.” He turned to the other two and said, “This is JIM HUDSON’s DAUGHTER!” Their eyes grew wide and I was enveloped in their arms for big warm hugs. Ok, so what’s this, I thought? I smiled and said, “You guys flew after my father, yes?” Seeing my confusion they said, “Yes. But when anyone is assigned to Beale they have to learn about your Dad’s accident under Lessons Learned. And in the process of learning about what happened to your Dad, we learned of the man. We are truly honored to meet you.” – Sniff. I never knew that.

And not to keep you in mystery on the accident, he was not piloting the T-38 that day. A Colonel was, getting in his flight time. A common activity in the services. They were doing touch and goes on the runway and there were some mechanical difficulties. My father did not survive the ejection, but the Col and the airplane did.

I continue to have moments like this after all these years, and still learn new and fun things about him – which is precious to me. Something he did for someone, or their admiration of him, and I just think, how wonderful it is for me. The impact he made. He wasn’t famous. He didn’t invent anything. He was a man, of ordinary background, from a strong family, with integrity, living his life, doing his part, in his corner of the world. Being a good citizen. For me, he was “my Dad.”  I felt like the luckiest girl in the world when I was growing up. And I have come to continue to feel like the luckiest girl in the world. I’m Jim Hudson’s oldest daughter. His colleagues and friends are always happy to re-unite, keep in touch, meet up with me. They are proud of me, and in their pride I know I have succeeded in my life with the basic principals my father taught me. His legacy lives through me. I’m not famous. I haven’t invented anything. I’m of ordinary background, from a strong family, with integrity, living my life, doing my part, in my corner of the world. Being a good citizen. I’m rich in all the ways that matter.

Thanks Dad! I love you dearly!

Happy Father’s Day!

My parents. I found this photo I had never seen after my mother passed away. Probably Tahoe since no coats. mid 60s.

I was 7 when we arrived at Beale and just shy of my 13th birthday when he died. For me, the SR program and my Dad are intertwined as I did not have the opportunity to know him outside that context, except through the stories of others.

I know there are some of you that are big fans of the Blackbird, but for those not all that aviation savvy, it was and still is considered, the fastest plane in the world. It was designed by Kelly Johnson in the 1950s. Eventually in the early 60s aircrafts were sent to Beale AFB to assemble the first Air Force operational squadron, which I believe was 25, two man crews.  It flew Mach 3+, the plus was classified, at around 80,000 ft. It is still considered THE SEXIEST plane ever built. About 100 guys flew it before it was retired. Many of the UFO sitings back then are thought to be in fact sitings of the SR. According to my Uncle, my father shared with him one and only one story. He said he had accidentally come into visual contact with a commercial airliner and the pilot came over the radio, “MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU?”

Russian MIGS were only given a full tank of fuel when they were scrambling to chase the SR. What a game! (Read MIG Pilot)

Paul Crickmore has written about the ’71 program and is considered somewhat of an authority.

Here is the link to a GREAT STORY about Buddy Brown and flaming out at Mach 3+ that appeared in The Flight Journal.

Great Video & Q&A

Gen Pat Halloran presentation on U2 & SR (a colleague of my father’s)

Tags: Beale AFB, Blackbird, Father, Father's Day, Lt Col James W. Hudson, SR-71