Uncle John

John Thomas Allsup died a few days ago.

Born in East St. Louis, IL in 1944, my Uncle John and his wife of forever, my Aunt Lynn, raised four boys; my cousins Matt, Mike, Jeff and J.D. And shit wasn't easy under that raucous roof. 

No problem.

John was smart and talented and almost comically laid back. His pulse forever sat somewhere between sleeping Lance Armstrong and nonexistent.

John was the guy that scored in the 99th percentile on every standardized test ever dropped in front of him. After graduating from Assumption High School in 1962, he enrolled at Parks College (then the flyboy-math wizard wing of Saint Louis University) to study aeronautical engineering. And Parks was the setting for a great Allsup Family tale: John earned an A in calculus despite not having had the textbook. My dad had finally talked John into a night at Fairmount Park racetrack and, naturally, John lost whatever little money he had. Apparently, any thoughts of buying the book were thrown into the window[s] at the track.

College wasn't for him anyway. He dropped out.

"I wanna fly jets," he announced to the family. And despite having had to dodge a series of murder plots hatched by my grandfather, fly jets was exactly what he did.

He soared. 

Sitting in the cockpit of an F-8 Crusader, John saw roughly the entire planet as a jet fighter pilot in the United States Navy. Later, he paid the bills flying for Northwest and Eastern Airlines.

The man truly had a gift for somehow making the most esoteric problems seem [almost] elemental. "No, no, Chris. Never mind that. Think about it like this ..."

Sometimes I think about the fact the guy who flew 1000 M.P.H. with his hair on fire considered me a gambler and I smile.

He was quite a guy. 

Rest in peace, Uncle John.

P.S. A couple odds and ends ...

*John spent a stretch stationed at Miramar, CA. They didn't call it "Top Gun" back then, but it was Top Gun all the same.

*Imagine some task fundamental to your job. Anything—but it must be a must.

Now, imagine your life—not to mention the lives of countless others—on the line every goddamn time that task was required. Such a delicate maneuver, in fact, the federal government keeps a running count.

For fighter pilots, that task is a night-carrier landing. John logged 99.