Aim High: From Small-Town Graduation to Airman Abroad

 From a small-town graduation to Air Force Basic, Jim Richmond thought he knew where life was headed. In Aim High, he shares the early choices, the shocks and losses, and the curveballs that sent him to places he never expected — and how those moments shaped who he became. 

Air Force, Basic Training, Tech School, Small Town Life, Thurman Munson, Military Stories, Life Lessons

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 🎙 How Did We Get Here? — a podcast about the choices, cracks & crossroads that shape us. 

How Did We Get Here? — real stories about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

Transcript

Sometimes life feels like it’s already mapped out… until one moment changes everything.

For me, that moment came right after high school — when I traded a small town in upstate New York for a world I couldn’t even imagine.

This is Aim High.

High school graduation — a farming town in upstate New York. Forty-five kids in my class; most of us had known each other since kindergarten. Everybody knew where everybody was headed.

Me? I’d already signed up under the delayed enlistment program. The whole town knew I was Air Force bound.

I had a high school sweetheart — and at the time, I believed she was it. The love of my life. I couldn’t picture a future without her.

Maybe you’ve been there — looking down a road you thought was already paved, already certain. Then suddenly, everything changes.

Basic training was going to be hard — but saying goodbye to her was harder.

I remember the song that summer — Ring My Bell. I hated it, but it stuck. Even now, when I hear it, I’m right back at that airport.

Her and her mom walking me to the gate. And when it was time to board, I cried harder than I ever had in my life.

My first flight. My first step out of the backyard. Chicago O’Hare — four hours sitting with nothing but my thoughts — and then off to San Antonio later that night.

That’s when my world flipped.

The yelling. The haircut. The shots. The bus ride. That assembly line of injector guns punching God-knows-what into our arms.

Different towns. Different colors. Different lives. And within twenty-four hours, we were all the same.

Maybe that’s happened to you — stripped down, forced to start from scratch. If so, you know the fear. But you also know the bonds that come out of it.

Some of those bonds faded after six weeks. Others? I still carry them forty-five years later.

And then there was my TI. Back then, he scared the hell out of me. Later on, though, I realized that fear had a purpose. Fear became respect.

No matter how hard I tried to keep my head down, I couldn’t shut out what I left behind — her, home, the life I thought I was building.

Until mail call.

“Richmond — who the hell is Richmond?”

A letter tossed in my direction. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”

My first letter from home — and you don’t need much imagination to know who it was from.

Then came the headline that shook me to my core.

Thurman Munson — my childhood hero — gone in a plane crash.

I wanted to grieve. To cry. But not a tear fell. Inside, I was screaming. Outside? Nothing.

Because crying was weakness. And I was an Airman now.

Graduation day came — six weeks of hell behind us. Our first liberty? Straight to the clubs.

Disco lights. Loud music. A bunch of kids who’d just been turned into something different.

We didn’t know it yet, but we weren’t the same boys who’d walked in. We’d been broken down and rebuilt.

Then came Tech School. Security Police — what many called the pride of the Air Force.

We were held to higher standards. Boots polished. Uniforms sharp. Expected to look like we’d stepped right out of a catalog.

And I liked it. I liked standing out. It built pride. It built respect. That badge — it meant something.

But life throws curveballs.

Halfway through training, I was called to the Commander’s office. No warning. No idea why.

Then the words came: my little brother — only ten years old — had passed away.

Everything I’d bottled up since leaving home poured out.

If you’ve ever gotten that kind of call, you know. One second the world feels steady — and the next, the floor gives way.

To this day, I don’t remember much. Just being told. Then walking down the drive to the funeral parlor. That’s it. That’s all I remember.

When Tech ended, my orders came through — a base in North Carolina.

Finally, I thought. My girlfriend and I were thrilled. We could start a life, get married, settle down. Live the dream.

But those orders were redlined.

And just like that, the future I thought I had disappeared.

Instead of Carolina, I was shipping overseas — to a country I hadn’t even heard of. Didn’t even know it existed.

One sheet of paper changed everything.

If you’ve ever had your plans ripped up right in front of you… you know that feeling.

So there I was — eighteen years old, on a plane to a place I couldn’t even find on a map.

It was my first real taste of independence. No family. No safety net. Just me, halfway across the world.

The culture shock was real — and the distance, even more so.

And it hit me: the Air Force wasn’t just a job. It wasn’t just a uniform. It was a whole new world.

That assignment changed me in ways I couldn’t see at the time. It was the beginning of a story still unfolding.

They called it Aim High. And I did.

But here’s the truth — aiming high doesn’t always mean reaching the top. Sometimes it means being torn down, rebuilt, and sent somewhere you never expected to go.

So if you’re listening right now — maybe you’ve had your own redlined orders. Maybe life sent you somewhere you never planned on being.

If that’s you… I get it. I’ve been there. And you’re not as alone as you might feel.

That boy from a small farming town was gone.
 And in his place stood an Airman.

This is How Did We Get Here? — a podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

I’m Jim Richmond.
 And I’m still here for a reason.
 Maybe you are too.