My life as a helicopter tire: A veteran's story

In observance of Veterans Day, Lenoir-Rhyne University honors the courage, service and sacrifice of all who have served in our nation's armed forces. Today, we are proud to share the story of U.S. Army veteran Captain Jenny Nixon, MFA ’27, whose personal essay offers a moving reflection on military service, resilience and the unexpected ways we find connection. 

Nixon had been working intermittently on a novel for years, but by spring 2025, she realized that writing in her spare time was no longer enough. “I needed creativity to be the cake, not the icing,” she said.

That fall, Nixon enrolled in the Master of Fine Arts in creative writing program at Lenoir-Rhyne University. Drawn by the program’s small classes, collaborative environment and emphasis on speculative fiction, she found a community of writers and professors who encouraged her to experiment, develop her craft and pursue the stories she wanted to tell.

For Nixon, writing is about more than putting words on a page. It's about being heard and making a difference in people's lives.

“I love knowing that my words have the potential to reach someone and impact them in some way,” she said. “Maybe my struggle with grief and loss reaches a person who has experienced those struggles and now feels a little less alone.”

In a creative nonfiction workshop in spring 2026, Nixon drew on her experiences as an Army helicopter pilot, including a deployment to Afghanistan, to write “My Life as a Helicopter Tire.” In recognition of Veterans Day, Lenoir-Rhyne is proud to present her essay substantially as she wrote it.

My Life as a Helicopter Tire

From my humble beginnings in the Goodyear Aviation factory, I knew I was destined for greatness. The envy of all my fellow tires, I was selected to adorn a UH-60A Black Hawk helicopter.  

I approached my appointment with the utmost reverence. My mission would be difficult, but it would place me among the greats — I would stand between life and death for countless crew members and passengers.  

I never imagined my life would really begin on the day I almost died.

That’s the day I met her. Lieutenant Nixon, or LT, or ma’am or Jenny. She was taking a flight exam, and for the final maneuver, she positioned the aircraft for a roll-on landing. That’s the most challenging landing for tires, since we often touch down at speeds over 100 miles per hour. I’d been dreading this maneuver the whole flight.

As we neared the runway, I could feel the rust in the wheel well gripping the axle like a vise. Rust had been creeping in for weeks, but the aircraft wasn’t due for an inspection, and no one had noticed it.  

Jenny was a strong pilot but still very junior, so when I felt the jolt of the tail wheel touching down, I prepared myself to bear the full weight of the aircraft.  

As soon as I touched the asphalt of the runway, I knew there was no saving us. The time had come, and now it was too late. My counterpart, the other front tire, wasn’t afflicted as I was, and his wheel turned normally, which made the situation even more dangerous. He spun on our shared axle as I dragged along the ground motionless, the rough surface digging deep into my hardened rubber core.

I distantly heard the crew chief shout to the pilots that I wasn’t spinning, but I couldn’t hear the ensuing discussion over the violent scraping sound of the asphalt. My exterior melted away, and the braided steel wires sparked against the ground. Smoke began to fill the cabin, causing the crew members to cough and sputter. I mustered all the strength I could, but the rough tarmac burned through me, leaving a gaping hole in my once impenetrable body.

I have vague memories of flashing lights and being towed into the hangar, but it wasn’t until a mechanic removed me from the wheel, chipping away the treacherous rust, that I learned the extent of the damage. The hole was irreparable. Without the solid layers of my design, I could no longer fulfill my mission. I was sure I’d reached the end of my life  

But fate had other plans.

In line with a longstanding pilot tradition, one of the mechanics suggested gifting me to Lieutenant Nixon, since she was the young pilot who had saved the crew with her actions. They all thought this would be a very funny joke, so instead of ending my days with dignity, the mechanics tied a rope around me and presented me to the Lieutenant at her going-away party.  

Jenny laughed along with the joke, but she took me back to her room. When the time came to move her belongings to a new duty station, she brought me along for the journey.

We lived quietly in Washington for nearly a year. I watched from the corner as Jenny welcomed her family for Thanksgiving, taking care to prepare vegan options for one brother and meat options for the other. I stood like a sentinel when she brought home dates, brought home friends, and brought home an increasing weight of responsibility. I understood the palpable feelings of dread and excitement as she prepared for her next mission, just as I had once prepared for mine.

I was the last item to leave the apartment when it was time to go into storage, so I was there when the man came to inspect the space, not pleased that she was breaking her lease early.

“So, are you moving out to get a bigger place?” the man asked gruffly, pointing out yet another bit of damage. His old notebook was filling quickly with things that Jenny would have to clean, or fix, or remove. At this rate, she would be up all night.

“No,” Jenny responded, and I could hear the exhaustion in her voice. She had been working so hard, so many late nights, and I knew more than most that, although her mission would be difficult and even dangerous, she would be doing something important. I tried to radiate strength as she went on to say, “I’m leaving for Afghanistan in the morning, so I have to move out. I hope to find a unit in this building when I come back. I really love it here!”

The man’s demeanor shifted immediately. He closed his notebook, thanked her for her service, and told her to forget about the infractions he’d noted before — those would be wiped clean. The movers came into our home and took me to the storage facility.

I’m not sure how long I spent in that dark cage, surrounded by the possessions of so many soldiers who, in addition to the monumental task of deploying to the other side of the world, had to move out of their homes, then, upon their return, undertake the grueling process of finding a new place to live.

When the movers finally brought me back to her, in a different apartment in the same building, Jenny was changed. Part of that change was her appearance and rank — she had lost considerable weight, and I heard the movers call her Captain Nixon. But, more than that, I could see it in the way she carried herself. The captain’s bars brought with them a burden of responsibility, but she moved with the confidence of someone who had risen to the occasion. She stood taller and quieter, as if a steady determination had replaced the curiosity she once held. I was glad she’d found strength in herself, but I hoped the curiosity wasn’t entirely gone.

Jenny was very alone in those first days back. There was no bustle of visiting friends and family, and though the rest of her belongings had been delivered when I had, she was slow to unpack, overwhelmed at the task before her. She had taken to rolling me around the apartment with her, patiently forgiving my limping gait. She spoke of the trials she’d faced in the months before, and how strange it was to return home to such utter silence.

It was nearly Christmas, and Jenny debated aloud the merits of decorating for the season, noting the trouble it would be to store any festive decor. She looked at me, the gray light streaming in from an overcast sky, and said, “I think you’d make an excellent tree stand.”

She came home the next day with loads of materials, including a small tree, and began the task of planting our Christmas tree. There was a paving stone for the base, potting soil to fill my body and surround the tree’s roots, sparkling blue lights — because a blue spruce should obviously have blue lights — and a star to top it off.

As she delicately added the last touches, she told me the manager of the Home Depot had given her these items for free. Someone had recognized the solitude in her joking description of our sparse furnishings and reached out in the only way they knew how. She smiled as she described the gesture, at once both small and monumental, and carefully brushed the dirt from my surface.

Jenny felt less alone. I’d finally fulfilled my mission.