by Taya Kyle
Brandon’s hometown in Oklahoma is small, but it has a big heart; people rallied to his bedside at the hospital and then to his home, offering encouragement and support.
Even so, kind words go only so far. A shadow of his former self, Brandon found himself scraping along—and worse.
“Probably the lowest point came about a month after I’d been released from the hospital,” says Brandon. He knew at that point that his dream of going to college would have to be—at the very best—deferred. At the very worst, it was never going to happen.
“I was lying in bed. Depressed,” he remembers. People were telling him that he had to accept his new reality.
“I contemplated suicide,” he admits. “I’m not going to lie about that.”
That night, scanning the web for some sort of inspiration, he came across a quote from Steve Jobs.
Life can be much broader once you discover one simple fact: Everything around you that you call life was made up by people that were no smarter than you and you can change it, you can influence it, you can build your own things that other people can use. Once you learn that, you’ll never be the same again.
Steve Jobs was telling Brandon that he didn’t have to be an all-American academic to be worth something. All he had to do was be who he was at that very moment.
He began turning his life around. Physical therapy. Rehab. Hard work. Perseverance. Prayer.
Slowly, with the help of therapists and therapy, he regained motor skills, coordination, memory, the ability to think complex thoughts.
Many people would think it miraculous just to recover from such an injury. But Brandon wasn’t satisfied with just recovering. He wanted to get on with his life—and live out some of the dreams that he’d had before the deer appeared in front of him and caused him to crash.
Sports was out of the question, but was college?
No.
With a lot of rehab and a great deal of determination, Brandon entered Oklahoma for the fall semester of 2013 right on schedule, intent on making business a career. The first few weeks of classes were a revelation—but not in a good way. He found himself struggling simply to keep up. The former high school honor student faced academic challenges on a level he’d never experienced before. He’d never so much as gotten a B through high school; now he was failing classes.
Time to give up?
No.
Brandon doubled down with everything—rehab, studying, even prayer. He researched the various aspects of brain injuries and found strategies to either get back the capabilities he’d lost or substitute new approaches to learning and retaining information. By the end of the year, he had won an honor no one thought possible in the dark days after his accident: the President’s Award for Outstanding Freshman.
Knowing that, the rest of the story may seem preordained—Brandon crushes his classes, gets great grades, graduates, and goes on to a great job and career in a Fortune 500 company before setting out on his own . . .
Except, things didn’t work out that way.
Brandon’s soul-searching in the early months of his college career led him to new decisions about how he wanted to live his life. He felt himself moved toward a more religious bent and decided that he wanted to pursue his education at a Christian college, not to become a minister but to align himself more with matters of faith. Mentors at Oklahoma helped him find a place at Freed-Hardeman University, a private Christian college in Tennessee, to start his sophomore year.
He continued to thrive there, not only doing well academically but also reaching the point where he could compete in athletics his senior year, joining the track-and-field team.
Since graduating, he’s begun working with a group of business leaders on a project that they hope will transform the economy of Haiti. It’s based on a model that has echoes of his own approach to recovery. Rather than bringing food or medical supplies, they intend to help Haitians set up new businesses. These would help grow their economy, improving the country’s standard of living permanently.
Brandon, who first visited Haiti as a college student on an aid and missionary trip, notes that there’s a misperception that Haitians are lazy or otherwise unworthy. But just as others perceived him as diminished in value after his accident, that image of Haiti is mistaken.
“Haiti has some of the hardest-working people in the world,” says Brandon. “Give them the opportunity, and they can change their country.”
Brandon believes that developing water supplies for agriculture, business, and export is a promising area, one with benefits beyond entrepreneurship. By his estimate, some 250 people have expressed interest in getting involved. The water would come from wells drilled in different spots on the island. The overall budget to set up the project runs to $15 million and more, but the initial phase has a far more modest price tag of a few hundred thousand dollars. Brandon and the backers are hoping to make a “sustainable difference” in Haiti in three to five years.
Brandon’s pluck and energy certainly played a major role in his recovery. But he had help—his parents and family, his friends, other community members.
And he got a hand up financially from the Jimmy Rane Foundation, an organization in Alabama that takes a somewhat unconventional approach to scholarships. Hoping to ease the financial burden on his family as he headed into his second year, Brandon spotted information about the scholarship and applied. He turned out to be exactly what they were looking for. While most college aid is granted to families of very severe financial needs, the Jimmy Rane Foundation aims primarily to help students from middle-income families who aren’t really poor but nonetheless would strain to pay for college.
Now, this isn’t a story about Jimmy Rane himself, but a little background on him may be illuminating.
Start with this—if you live east of the Mississippi and have a house or even leaned against a fence post, there’s a very good chance you have benefited from one of his products. He’s the founder of Great Southern Wood Preserving, Incorporated, a company Jimmy built with his own hands into the world’s biggest supplier of treated lumber. For years he was its spokesman, known on TV and in advertising as “the Yella Fella”—a reference to the color of the treated wood.
The firm is a true American success story, all the more so because it started as a tiny factory that wasn’t even being used when Jimmy took it over following the death of his wife’s parents in 1970. At the time, wood was undoubtedly the furthest thing from his mind—a promising student, all signs pointed to a bright future for Jimmy as a lawyer. But he saw an opportunity where others didn’t. Working 4:00 a.m. shifts before hitting the books for his bar exam, he built the company stick by stick, bundle by bundle. Not that he neglected his legal career—he did so well that he eventually became a judge and served for four years.
By 1986, the company was so large that he gave up his law career to devote his attention to it full-time. It was around then that he became known as the Yella Fella.
Trying to increase awareness of the company and its products, his marketing people suggested they create the Yella Fella character, a cowboy more interested in wood than ’rassling steers.
Who would that be?
You, boss.
Jimmy was a natural. As Yella Fella, he became so famous that the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum gave him the Western Heritage Wrangler award.
Quite an honor for someone from Alabama, not exactly cowboy country. (In fact, only one other Alabamian has ever received that award: actor Johnny Mack Brown, who headlined in more than sixty Westerns during the forties and fifties and has his own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.)
Today, Great Western has five manufacturing plants along with fifteen treating and distribution facilities. Their wood is used from South America and the Caribbean to Canada, and in at least half of the U.S., from the East Coast to Texas.
You might think that a megacorporation like that would have its headquarters in a megatropolis like Atlanta or Dallas or New York. B
ut you don’t know Jimmy.
The company headquarters remains in Abbeville, a relatively small town in Arkansas. The company is a mainstay of the local economy, and it’s one reason Abbeville has retained its small-town feel, the sort of place where you can buy fresh shelled peas a short stroll from the drugstore and bank, with maybe a side trip to the barber along the way.
While their firm has an international reach, Jimmy Rane and the employees pride themselves on retaining a tight-knit atmosphere, one where it’s not uncommon for the boss to know not only the workers very well but in many cases their kids. One of his favorites was the child of an associate, who from a young age was always talking about how she was going to be a doctor when she grew up.
“She never wavered,” says Jimmy. “All through high school, she always said, ‘I’m going to be a doctor.’”
This was more than a few years back, before the company, and Jimmy Rane personally, had been blessed with the kind of financial success they enjoy today.
The girl graduated and was admitted to Auburn College.
The girl’s father owned a local tire store, and while the family was certainly not rich, under ordinary circumstances they would be considered comfortable. College finances, though never easy, would have been doable. Unfortunately, the girl’s father died from a heart attack, and the college burden suddenly became too much for the family.
“I should have been more sensitive and aware,” says Jimmy humbly. “I didn’t realize this would create a financial hardship.”
By the time he found out, it was too late to help.
I find it comforting to know that when you miss one God-given opportunity, there’s often a second chance. Jimmy got it right the next time.
“It was such a shock to me that this had happened,” said Jimmy. “I felt guilty that I hadn’t done anything—if I had ever met a child who deserved to go to college and live out her dream, it was her.”
Devastated, Jimmy Rane decided to do something to help others in similar straits. He wanted to help “kids in the middle”—children who weren’t really poor, or really rich.
“Every foundation in America tries to help really poor kids,” he explains. But for children in middle-income families, scholarships and grants are hard to come by. “We have to do something about this.”
Talking with some of his associates at the company and with some of their customers, Jimmy came up with the idea of a foundation funded by an annual golf tournament to raise money for scholarships specifically aimed at middle-income students. The company already had a small-scale annual golf tourney; they’d marry that with the foundation idea and see what happened.
They started small—one scholarship was awarded in 2002, the first year of the awards. By the spring of 2018, 383 scholarships had been awarded, totaling more than $3.8 million. Students all across America have benefited. The scholarships are not just one-offs—they generally last eight full semesters, the usual length of a college undergrad career.
The typical recipient will come from a middle-class family and often has at least one school-age brother or sister. Very probably both of his or her parents will be working; the student may have a part-time job as well.
“They’re in the middle,” says Jimmy. “A single mother making $30,000, a family with three or four kids making $50,000. College is just out of reach for them.”
The size of the award will vary depending on what other resources and scholarships are available, but as a general rule, the range runs from $500 to $5,000.
Where does the money come from?
The foundation holds a banquet at the Renaissance Montgomery Hotel & Spa and a golf tournament at the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail at Capitol Hill championship courses, roughly a two-hour drive from Abbeville. A variety of sports celebrities attend and highlight the two-day event; paying guests get to mingle as well as play a little golf. The dinner program includes a silent auction and guest speakers.
The event mixes past glory, present achievement, and future potential, all elbow to elbow. Current superstars like Cam Newton as well as past legends like Too Tall Jones typically headline the banquet and team up with guests during the tourney. Excluding the costs of the tournament itself, all the money raised is used for scholarships; the work is handled by volunteers from the company, from Jimmy on down.
(Speaking of Too Tall Jones: he called me out for awkwardly expressing a preference for Fort Worth over Dallas during my fund-raising talk. Hey, a girl’s got to go with her heart. But I digress . . . )
“The inspirational part of this is that these kids became part of the foundation,” says Jimmy. Students who benefit from the scholarship are invited to attend and meet with the donors. It makes the donations more meaningful, and it also helps the students express their gratitude. More than a few end up helping the foundation after they finish college; a good number have been successful in their professions and now are important contributors.
“A lot of times you contribute to things, and you don’t know if it’s making a difference or not,” notes Jimmy. Here, “you get to see firsthand where your money is going.
“The one thing that impresses me about these kids is that the vast majority want to go back to their hometown and make a difference. That kind of matches up with my philosophy.”
The foundation is now supporting just under forty students. The need, however, remains immense—Jimmy estimates they get some twenty thousand applications a year.
One of my favorite things about Jimmy is the fact that he recognized he had missed an opportunity to help someone—but didn’t give up. Regret is useless unless you examine it and use that information as motivation and a guide for what to do differently, as Jimmy did. There are other chances in life, especially when it comes to doing good.
“I love sharing my story with people,” says Brandon, who was featured in a special video and program at a recent banquet and is still close to the foundation. “When I do, I learn more and more about the incredible things they’ve gone through and what they now do for others. I love bringing those stories out, especially from people who are shy at first and afraid to share. Once they do share, they see how much good they can do.”
Brandon’s enthusiasm, which extends beyond sharing, has led him to tell his story to various groups. He’s honing his speaking skills for many reasons—including a political career. When we talked to him, he was predicting he might run for president in 2032. To prepare himself for that, he plans on living in different parts of the country, among people from different ethnicities and backgrounds, so he can get a better idea of who he would be working for while in office.
It’s an ambitious plan, but given how far he’s come since his accident, I wouldn’t bet against him.
The Easy Way Kills You
Micah Fink
September 11, 2001: Micah Fink is working on a telephone pole installing high-speed communication wires in Queens, New York, when the first terrorist-commandeered plane takes out the World Trade Center across the river. His perch gives him a horrifying view of the skyline.
As soon as they gather their wits, he and his coworkers cross over to Manhattan, joining the army of first responders and volunteers looking for survivors.
He finds none.
Hours later, he and his companions scavenge the remains of bagels from a demolished cart and head to the nearby East River.
“What are you going to do?” asks someone.
“I’m going to kill whoever did this,” answers Micah.
At the time, Micah Fink was no one special, just a kid from New York State’s Catskill region, where his parents had a farm.
“I climbed telephone poles and played in a ska band,” he says, describing his life to that point.
But the 9/11 attacks touched him so deeply that he enlisted in the Navy and became a SEAL; he would serve for some ten years, including reserve duty. His service record grew to include a Bronze Star, one of the highest decorations a servicemember can receive. It was
rewarding, high-risk work, but its profoundest effects on him were hard to analyze. Home following a particularly trying set of missions, Micah found it difficult to adjust to life outside the war zone.
“I was feeling isolated and alone,” he recalls, admitting that transitioning from war to civilian life was harder for him in many ways than combat. “One day you’re at the tip of the spear; the next day, you’re at home with a head of lettuce and a box of cheddar buddies.”
Still, he carried on, until one day he came down with a bad cold. He decided to go to a local VA hospital to see if there was anything he could do for it.
Four hours later, a young intern fresh out of school diagnosed him with PTSD and bipolar disorder and gave him a prescription for pills that were supposed to return him to an ill-defined nirvana similar to his pre-combat state.
“Mind you, I went there for a cold,” he says now, in a voice filled with both wonder and disgust.
He argued with the woman, asking how she could possibly make such a diagnosis when they had barely talked.
“I left that day and never returned,” says Micah. “I didn’t take the pills; I didn’t take the counseling. Two weeks later, I bought a plane ticket to the Amazon.”
He ended up traveling through the South American jungle with a guide and subsistence supplies. It was definitely not nirvana. His guide spoke no English; they communicated with gestures and grunts. The pair ate rats, roots, whatever they could find. Micah felt incredibly alone.
“Days and days would go by and we wouldn’t talk,” he says. “I remember staring at my GPS for hours on end—and it didn’t even work.”
By the time he came home, though, Micah had transitioned to some deeper understanding of who he was and how he had to live his life.
He went to work as a government contractor, back in the war zone. When he returned home after that, he realized what veterans were going through as they transitioned to civilian life. Some had it extremely hard, and not necessarily because of what they’d been through—or at least not solely because of that.