Whenever I look in my pantry, I smile when I see the 6-gallon emergency water jug (still filled). My father-in-law, Bobby Graham, brought it to our house when he came to help us after Hurricane Ivan slammed into our house in September 2004. Prior to the storm, we evacuated to my in-laws' home in Centerville, Georgia as the Air Force ordered us to evacuate at least 100 miles from the area. When we received the "all clear," Barry rode on ahead with supplies in my truck while I followed a few hours later in his car and Dad drove his conversion van, also full of emergency supplies. The traffic jam that allowed us to travel 5 miles in 4 hours overheated his van, but he kept a cool head. We arrived home to a house with no power or potable water right before dark and a curfew imposed by the sheriff. Over the coming days, Dad, Barry and young Bobby spent hours mucking the mud and dead fish out of our garage in the oppressive heat. Elizabeth and I worked inside. After spending 10 hours on one particularly hot day, Barry and young Bobby wanted to quit for the day. Dad said "Are we quitting already?" He told us to keep the water jug in case we ever needed it again. We haven't had a storm as bad as Ivan since, thank the Lord, but the jug remains in case we ever do need it again and as a reminder that Dad is always looking out for us.

Grandpa was always singing songs, words that just kind of rambled out of his mouth but always made a good, memorable tune. Our family owned a dog, Sally. She was a border collie mix and loved to run around all of his acres. I remember always being so scared she would run away, (partly because she would sometimes) but grandpa had control over things like that. One day, she was running around like crazy down to the lake in the backyard. My brother, grandpa and I were all there. The memory is a little hazy in the order of events, but inevitably, Sally caught a fish! Grandpa had a great time singing whatever came out for that one! The tune goes something like, “Sally, the fish-eating dog...!” That tune, raw and joyful, still echoes in our heads.

This is one of Dad's favorite poems.

"High Flight" 
by John Gillespie Magee Jr.:

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air . . .
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Once upon a time, I remember staying at my grandparents' house in the summertime. We frequented a lot because dad was in the Army and was stationed somewhere about every 2-3 years and this was a good place while being in “limbo”. This vivid memory of mine, I was around 4-5 years old. We were marching upstairs to “Rise and Shine” with buckets on our heads, aka pots from the kitchen on our head. He started leading the march with a bucket on, but I insisted he “get me one!” We paraded as a two-person army, turning an ordinary day into a lifelong memory. He always turned a normal day into a silly, memorable day for me as a kid, with things like that.

As Uncle Larry mentioned in his eulogy, Dad had enormous hands. He could easily palm a basketball (or two, see above). But he was also a great shooter as well. With their makeshift basketball rim, the Graham boys didn't want to hit the rim too often, or you would damage it. So they got pretty good at hitting shots that were nothing but net (without the net).  Oh, it's also worth mentioning that their rim was smaller in diameter than a regulation rim. So, it was actually harder for them to sink a shot. When Jeff and I were growing up, we never had a chance against Dad. He would win any game of HORSE or follow the leader that we played. But with all his talent, he only played one year of basketball in high school because he had to walk home from practice (over 6 miles) and he couldn't get his chores done if he did.

While Dad was the Base Commander of Robins AFB, he got an invitation to throw out the first pitch on Military Appreciation Night for the Atlanta Braves. We got to sit in Ted Turner's field-level box seats and chat with the players before the game. Kenny loved the attention and had a great time with the Braves players. He got a ball signed by virtually all the players. 

For his part, Dad threw a great first pitch, and looked great in his uniform. The Braves players weren't too happy with me since I was wearing a Cubs hat, but they still gave me autographs. It was a fun time for all of us.

Of course, Mom and Dad were at the wedding of Alicia and me. It was in Denville, New Jersey and we had a big reception with a band, dancing, a catered meal, and everything. Quite of bit different from what Dad was used to in the Midwestern US (a potluck meal in the Church basement). Despite the cultural differences, Dad enjoyed the reception and got a kick out of watching Alicia's dad, Richard. He was having so much fun! Richard a great dancer and was very active on the dance floor. He was also a very proud and attentive host and had an enormous smile on his face the whole time. Dad thought he looked like "The cock of the walk".

When Dad first entered Stage 5 of Parkinson's disease, he was in a rehab facility. COVID had hit at the same time, so it was hard for us to visit him. So, we visited him through the window. Violet and Lily did "heart hands" for him, and he loved it. He sure did love his Great Grandchildren or "the littles" as he called them.

Here we are in about 1973, when we lived in Tucson, Arizona. Jeff and I were Boy Scouts and loved running around the desert and mountains surrounding our house. Dad was TDY (temporary duty) to Vietnam for 179 days at a time (to keep the official troops count lower). When he was gone, Mom was a single parent. When he was home, he got about 2 months off and we did all sorts of fun stuff.

Dad commissioned Jeff into the Army and me into the Air Force. Mom and Dad visited Purdue in Dec 1984 for my graduation and commissioning. By this time, they knew about Alicia. When they had visited me the year before to see me receive an award, Mom claims that I never told them that Alicia was “special.” I’m not sure how they didn’t know:  Alicia and I were always together, I specifically introduced her to them, and she went to dinner with us. But they were surprised when I told them several months later that we were engaged. However, by commissioning time, it was clear Alicia was going to be “someone special” for many years to come.

Early on, Alicia was intimidated by Dad. He was a Colonel, had a sort of stern facial expression, and he was a no-nonsense sort of guy. But as time moved on, she learned to love and respect him and become more comfortable with him. When she was planning our joint 50th and 25th anniversary trip to Hawaii, Dad would complain periodically about the trip. Then his complaints abruptly stopped and I asked him why. He confessed, “Barry, I used to be in charge. People would do whatever I told them. But not anymore. Alicia told me I needed to hush up and do what I was told, so that’s what I’m doing.”

When Jeff and I were very young, Dad would sometimes let us drive while sitting on his lap. When we were visiting family in Illinois, we would drive the tractor on the farm. We weren’t really going any place in particular, it was just a chance for us to learn to steer. When we weren’t on the farm, Dad would also let us drive the car or truck. This started about the time we were five or six years old and lasted until we were too big to sit on his lap. Of course, he prevented us from steering into something dangerous, and we were almost always on a deserted stretch of road. But these little driving lessons really helped us to develop our driving skills even if we couldn’t yet reach the pedals or gear shift. Most of all, we loved “driving,” even if it was just steering under Dad’s watchful eye. He also loved driving with his grandkids, as he did here with Brad

This is Dad back from one of his frequent deployments to Vietnam. When I was growing up, Dad was gone a lot. He was an Air Force pilot and flew the KC-135 Stratotanker. These planes did midair refueling of other aircraft and were a vital part of both our strategic deterrent against the Soviet Union and our war effort in Vietnam. Dad did some really heroic things in Vietnam. Jeff has some posts about them.

When we lived in Georgia and Puerto Rico, Dad was on alert for a week at a time. When the crews were on alert, they had to sleep in the Alert Facility—right next to the airplanes and airfield—but they couldn’t go to the base housing area. They weren’t restricted to just to the Alert Facility—they could go to parts of the base that were within a few minutes. They could meet their wives for lunch, but always had to carry a radio (a “brick” they called it), and be ready to go in seconds.

Late in the 60s and early 70s, Dad deployed to Vietnam several times. When we lived in Michigan, he deployed as a KC-135 pilot mostly to Thailand where they refueled both fighters and bombers. Then later in Arizona, he deployed as drone recovery officer to Da Nang, Vietnam. While in Da Nang, he was awakened one night by a boom and shake. He got up to find out what was going on, and discovered that a missile from the North Vietnamese had landed right next to the trailer he was sleeping in. Fortunately for him, and us, it was a dud, and did not explode. If it had, he almost certainly would have been killed.

When we moved to Florida, Dad bought a boat and we fished out on Biscayne Bay. People we knew from church had bigger boats that you could take out into the Atlantic Ocean. In the deep water we would fish for Mahi-Mahi (or “dolphin fish” as we called them), or grunt. Now grunt was a staple of Church Fish Fry dinners. Grunt were so easy to catch in those days! Instead of a rod and reel, you could use a hand spool that had thick fishing line on it with a hook at the end. The main thing you had to do was find their likely location. The first person would lower their line to the bottom with a baited hook. So after you caught the first grunt, you didn’t have to bait the hooks anymore. The other fishermen would just lower their lines into the area where the grunt were feeding, and they would strike the bare hook with light flashing off of it. Just lower your line to the bottom, and reel it back up. There would almost always be a fish on the end.

One very memorable fishing trip was on a friend’s boat out in the Atlantic. I got seasick and laid down on the padded engine housing at the back of the boat. However, once the men started fishing, I was in their way, so Dad sent me up into the flying bridge. The problem was he inadvertently made everything much worse. Since I was already seasick, the flying bridge was the worst place I could be since it rolled back and forth much more than the lower level. I kept getting worse and worse, until I finally called Dad to tell him that I couldn’t stand it any longer. I leaned over the railing and looked down at him as he came near, and  . . .  threw up all over him. He was not amused, but I felt remarkably better once I had an empty stomach.

Post Script:

I've been thinking a lot about the stories I heard this weekend from my Uncle Jeff about my Grandpa Bobby's heroism overseas. About how he rescued stranded pilots over enemy territory. These were all stories I had never heard before. I found them fascinating. 

I'm also remembering a social studies assignment I had in 8th grade, where I had to interview a veteran for Veteran's Day. I interviewed my grandfather. He told me a little about his time in Vietnam and his role as a task force commander for missions in Iran. He told me that God saved his life "once or twice" including the time a rocket struck near his trailer but did not explode. What he did not tell me were any tales of his own bravery and heroism. 

I think it says a lot that my grandpa refused to tell me any war stories that elevated himself, where he was the hero. Even though I'm sure he had plenty of those. Instead he gave all the glory to God for delivering him home safely.

My grandfather was a lot of things. A farmer, a pilot, a father, and a warrior. But the side of Bobby Graham I knew was different. He was a gentle and loving grandfather. And even though I never knew him in the same way as some of my older relatives, I still saw him as a giant.

Recently, I've been telling my own kids stories about Grandpa Bobby. Like the time my dad and I helped him split firewood.  He had rented a gas powered splitter, which I foolishly thought would make the job easy. After a few hours of hauling and stacking split logs we broke for lunch. I started to complain to my dad and asked if we were almost done. I could tell my dad was exhausted too, but he wouldn't dare complain in front of Grandpa. So we went back to work after lunch until the early evening. I was so tired and sore I thought about skipping dinner and going straight to bed. It was the hardest day's work of my life, and still is. And what's amazing is that to Grandpa, there was nothing abnormal about what we did that day. At 70 years old, to him that was still a normal day's work. 

Though we don't technically share a name, I've gone by Bobby my entire life. At family get-togethers we were called "Big Bobby" and "Little Bobby" to avoid confusion. But even now that I'm grown and have kids of my own, I still feel like Little Bobby compared to the giant man that was my grandfather. I miss him and look forward to seeing him again someday.

In 1968, a peak year amid the Tet Offensive and intensified bombing, Young Tiger operations hit record levels with 92 tankers deployed on average. Crews like Graham's on Yellow Anchor 71—likely operating in a color-coded "anchor" orbit (designated refueling areas over safe zones like the Gulf of Tonkin or Laos)—performed similar high-stakes saves. "Yellow Anchor" refers to one such orbit, where tankers circled in racetrack patterns to refuel fighters pre- and post-strike. Graham's mission mirrored documented saves, involving risks like diving maneuvers or crossing restricted zones to aid flamed-out aircraft.
The letters highlight Bobby Graham's personal valorous conduct as pilot of Yellow Anchor 71, where he and his crew exhibited extraordinary courage by venturing beyond authorized boundaries into hostile territory to refuel multiple distressed fighters facing imminent loss due to fuel exhaustion. Despite facing potential enemy fire and adverse conditions, Graham directed precise, high-risk maneuvers—including rapid descents and coordinated hookups—to deliver critical fuel, saving the aircraft and their pilots. This act of selflessness, performed under intense pressure, exemplified the crew's commitment to mission success and comrade safety, leading to recommendations for prestigious awards. Graham's leadership ensured no losses, reflecting the broader Young Tiger ethos of "Thanks, that's a save!" uttered over 500 times during the war. During this mission, his actions are credited with saving 2 F-4s and crews, and multiple ground units.

Central Baptist Church, Warner Robins, June 27, 2009 - Bobby and Shirley's vow renewal on their 50th wedding anniversary. I was honored that their sons and daughters-in-law, trusted me with the decorations for both the vow renewal and the reception which followed. Members of our Sunday School class, and Bobby and Shirley's children and grandchildren all helped. Judy Moore

This is a picture taken on September 17, 2016, right after Shirley and Bobby moved to Peachtree City, when our Central Baptist Sunday School Class from Warner Robins visited them to see their new home. It was lovely, and the lunch served was absolutely delicious.
Judy Moore

The ladies in our Sunday School Class at Central Baptist Church, Warner Robins, visited Shirley Graham to have our Bible Study in Peachtree City on April 4, 2017. We wanted her to be a part of it, even though she and Bobby had moved to Peachtree City. When I went to take a picture of the group of "ladies," I insisted that Bobby be in the picture. He really loves his bride, and it shows. Judy Moore

I remember he and Jimmy walked on the property that is now Central Baptist.  I sat in the truck.  Bobby had a bunch of daffodils which he took home to you.  How thoughtful.  Please know that I am thinking of you and your family with love in my heart.

Sorry for the loss of your father. Please accept our condolences and may he rest in peace.

OBITUARIO

Colonel Bobby Gene Graham (RET)

18 agosto, 1936 – 24 julio, 2025

Carmichael - Hemperley Funeral Home and Crematory

Muestre su apoyo

Comparta Un Recuerdo

Comparta
Un Obituario

Obtenga actualizaciones

Servicios