Frank "Bopsy" Salazar - the first ever "Make a Wish" child remembered 32 years later...

The story of a 7-year-old boy named Bopsy has been told countless times before.

It's been forwarded in email chains, posted on Facebook, retold in sermons and undoubtedly shared over dinner tables. It appeared in an edition of "Chicken Soup For The Soul" and in a Phoenix Fire Department newsletter. But along the way, details have been lost and added, switched up and sometimes completely mangled. On occasion, Bopsy is renamed "Billy." But the decades-long game of telephone hasn't erased one, indisputable fact -- Bopsy's story is worth telling.

Now, 32 years after Bopsy lost his life to leukemia, The Huffington Post spoke to his mother, the fireman he idolized, and the man who made him the Make-A-Wish Foundation's first-ever "wish kid." This is the real story of Bopsy.

In 1978, 5-year-old Frank "Bopsy" Salazar was diagnosed with leukemia. Doctors advised his mother, Octaviana Trujillo, to check him in to St. Joseph's Hospital and Medical Center in Phoenix. At the time, Trujillo was 26, single, and couldn't afford to put Bopsy on her health insurance. She checked him in anyway.

Over the next two years, Bopsy was treated by Dr. Frank Barranco, a physician who the 5-year-old adored and who eventually introduced him to the people who would make his last days count.

Barranco told Trujillo in December 1980 that a woman named Linda Pauling wanted to speak with her. Pauling had lost her 7-year-old son, Chris, to leukemia that spring. But before Chris passed, the Arizona Department of Public Safety had fulfilled the little boy's dream of becoming a police officer. DPS officers Jim Eaves and Frank Shankwitz had met Chris with a patrol car and motorcycle and made him the only honorary Arizona Highway Patrol Officer in the department's history, Shankwitz told HuffPost.

The incredible effort inspired Pauling and Shankwitz to start the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

"[Pauling] told me that instead of letting the kids just feel sorry for themselves, they wanted to grant wishes, to do something every kid would benefit from, to fulfill their dream while they're still a part of this world," Trujillo said.

Shankwitz took over from there, and he went to visit Bopsy to find out more about the boy's dreams. After learning that he'd be granted a wish, the 7-year-old mulled it over.

"I want to ride in a hot air balloon," he told Shankwitz. Then he thought about it some more.

"No, I want to go to Disneyland." He paused again.

"No, I want to be a fireman."

But Shankwitz didn't make him pick. With the organization just breaking ground, he thought, "Why not?"

All of Bopsy's wishes would be granted. He got his balloon ride and his trip to Disneyland, which catalyzed a long-lasting relationship between Disney and Make-A-Wish.

But the part of the story that's made it into the email chains and Facebook posts has been Bopsy's visit with the Phoenix Fire Department. And that's largely because of "Fireman Bob."

Like so many people in Bopsy's life, Fireman Bob -- whose real name is Bob Walp -- did more than was asked of him to help the sick boy.

"We didn't want to just give him a tour," Walp told HuffPost. "We decided to give him a badge and a jacket. We let him use the hose. We took him in the truck."

It's a sweet story that could have just ended there, but doctors, the Make-A-Wish Foundation and the Phoenix Fire Department weren't through with Bopsy.

For the next few months, the 7-year-old defied odds. But in April 1981, just after Easter, he was again admitted to St. Joseph's and told he had days, maybe even just hours, to live. That's when someone from the hospital decided to give Shankwitz a call. Suddenly, Bopsy's wish wasn't quite over.

On a day when Bopsy was particularly weak, Shankwitz paid him a visit -- one that was eventually interrupted by a knock on the window. When Bopsy looked over, he saw Fireman Bob with a large, goofy grin on his face.

Fireman Bob climbed into the room. Then, one by one, four other firefighters climbed up to Bopsy's third-floor window to give him a wave.

Bopsy was elated. He looked up to his mother.

"You know, Mom," he said. "I'd really like to go down to see them. I want to be out there with my team."

When Bopsy was wheeled downstairs, he was met by the members of Fire Station 1 and their truck -- renamed "B1" for "Bopsy 1." The firefighters then took the ladder and raised it as high as it would go. One of them climbed to the top.

"It was like saying, 'Look, you're on your way to heaven," Trujillo told HuffPost.

Toward the end of the visit, Bopsy turned to Fireman Bob.

"Am I a real firefighter?" he asked.

"Well, yeah," Walp responded. "Of course you are."

Bopsy passed away the next morning, with his mother, grandmother and aunt by his side.

After Bopsy's death, Trujillo distracted herself with work and graduate school. She earned her PhD in 1991, became the first chairwoman for the Pascua Yaqui Tribe of Arizona in 1994, and was hired as a professor of American Indian education at Northern Arizona University in 2002.

But Bopsy's been with her all along. He's been with her in the dozens of letters from strangers she's received and in phone calls from family members and friends. He's with her every October when, as part of a Yacqui custom, she puts an altar in her yard to commemorate him. And he's with her every Nov. 2 when the Yacqui community in Guadalupe, Ariz., gathers at its cemetery to celebrate the lives of those they loved so much.

At this time of year, she often thinks of the moment a few weeks before Bopsy passed, when he realized how upset she was about his condition and tried to console her.

"I'm gonna be fine. I'm always going to be your guardian angel," he told her. "I'll be part of the galaxy and part of the heavens, and I'll take care of you."

And he has.

Trujillo doesn't get too caught up in the lost or fabricated details of Bopsy's story. Every version of it still holds a part of the 7-year-old boy who became a real fireman.

"My son is alive and well," Trujillo says, "in so many people's minds."

Smile.Amazon.Com - A portion of all sales will be given to the charity of the buyer's choice...

SEATTLE -- SEATTLE (AP) — Amazon has launched a new website for its online store that will donate a fraction of shoppers' purchase amounts to charity.

Amazon.com Inc. launched the site, smile.amazon.com, on Wednesday. The world's largest online retailer says people will find the same items and the same prices that they would on its regular site or mobile app, with some exceptions.

But the Seattle company will donate half a percent of the purchase amount to a charity of the shopper's choosing. Amazon says people can choose from nearly 1 million organizations around the U.S. for the donation.

There is no cap on the total donation amount. Subscription renewals are not currently eligible for donations.

Strangers step in to help family bring their "son" home...

What began as a photographic census of New York City is turning into a means for spreading kindness across the globe.

Proof of that is the latest story from photographer Brandon Stanton's Humans of New York (HONY) project. Thanks to Stanton, Facebook, and the generosity of strangers, a little boy in Ethiopia may be getting adopted.

On Tuesday, Stanton posted a photograph of a cameraman named Duane. According to a HONY Facebook post, Duane and his wife had been unable to conceive, and had recently decided to adopt a 7-year-old Ethiopian girl named Chaltu who'd been blinded in one eye.

When Stanton asked if he could share Duane's story on HONY, the cameraman shyly made one request.

"Would there be any possibility that you could help us raise the adoption fees to get her a brother?" Stanton says Duane asked. "We've already found him, but aren't financially ready yet."

Today's Good Newsz Quote of the Day...

12-year-old North Carolina girl Madison Kimrey restores faith in the future of politics...

North Carolina Gov. Pat McCrory (R) was made the fool in late July, when he had to publicly admit he hadn't read part of a controversial voter identification bill that he planned to sign into law.

"I'm sorry, I haven't seen that part of the bill," McCrory told reporters, referring to a section that prohibits 16- and 17-year-olds from preregistering to vote.

The governor signed the bill into law in August.

Months later, "Moral Monday" protests in North Carolina against the state's conservative agenda continue. When demonstrators gathered on Monday in Burlington, N.C., 12-year-old Madison Kimrey once again made McCrory the fool.

"We young people have a serious leadership problem here in North Carolina," Kimrey said, accusing state lawmakers of wanting to "dismiss and belittle" young people.

She denounced the law's prohibition of preregistration for young teens and reminded fellow demonstrators of McCrory's July befuddlement. When Kimrey asked the governor to meet with her, she said he called her "a prop for liberal groups."

"I am not a prop," Kimrey said. "I am part of the new generation of suffragettes and I will not stand silent while laws are passed to reduce the amount of voter turnout by young people in my home state."

Kimrey vowed to bring back preregistration for young voters by the time she turns 16.

"Young people -- our state needs you," she said. "Our nation needs you. Pay attention. Find the issues that are important to you and take action."

76 year old retired school teacher Estella Pyfrom took her retirement savings to start "Brilliant Bus" in order to bring technology to kids...

West Palm Beach, Florida (CNN) -- Working as a guidance counselor five years ago in Palm Beach County, Estella Pyfrom noticed that fewer students had access to a computer after school.

The sluggish economy forced many families to prioritize their money and use it for more pressing needs.

"They needed food. They needed to pay their mortgage or their rent," said Pyfrom, a former teacher. "Some of them lost their cars. So I knew it was a serious problem."

Without a computer at home, or reliable transportation to get to a computer, Pyfrom feared that many of these students would get left behind.

So she bought a bus, filled it with computers and brought technology to the kids.

Her mobile computer lab, Estella's Brilliant Bus, has provided free, computer-based tutoring for thousands of students since 2011.

"If people don't have some knowledge of technology, they're going to be limited," said Pyfrom, who retired in 2009 and used money from her savings to buy the bus. "It's absolutely essential that they get involved technologically."

Pyfrom is determined to help poor children get the same educational opportunities as other children. According to the Institute of the Study of Labor, students who lack access to a home computer are less likely to graduate high school.

"The digital divide is absolutely real," said Pyfrom, 76. "And it didn't just become a reality. It's been there for years, and it's getting bigger and more important."

Pyfrom's custom-designed bus is outfitted with 17 computer stations that are connected to high-speed Internet via satellite.

Emblazoned on its side are the words "Have Knowledge, Will Travel" and "We bring learning to you." The bus travels to schools, shelters and community centers throughout the county.

"We serve children starting with age 3 all the way through senior citizens, based on what the needs are," Pyfrom said. "We are bringing the learning and the technology to the neighborhoods. They all can benefit from that."

Pyfrom and her army of volunteers hold regular classes and tutoring sessions about four days a week. They offer lessons in computer and Internet basics as well as reading, math or science classes that supplement what children are learning in school.

Sometimes, the bus simply serves as an open computer lab.

The rules on the bus are few and simple. Among them, gum and Facebook are not allowed. Pyfrom takes a no-nonsense approach to her mobile classroom.

"Excuses don't get the job done," she said. "You do whatever it takes to make things happen. That's the only thing that works."

The computers are loaded with educational software, providing interactive exercises that reinforce state-mandated curricula. Children receive their own account login and password, allowing them to continue their work from anywhere they can access the Internet. Users can only advance to the next level in a subject once they reach 90% proficiency in the current one, and the software allows Pyfrom to track their progress.

For older students, the bus brings GED and college preparatory assistance, anti-bullying and peer mediation classes, and student leadership training.

Pyfrom and her team provide about 8,000 hours of instruction to at least 500 children a year. She hopes the extra time will help bring students up to their grade level in reading, vocabulary, math, science and life skills.

Freddy and Brianna Rodriguez are two students benefiting from Pyfrom's bus. Adopted from foster care, the siblings struggled with their grades when they entered junior high school.

"If I didn't have the bus to come to, it'd be hard to get to a computer," said Brianna, 13. "My grades have gotten better. The one-on-one time, it helped me."

In working with the students, Pyfrom found that many parents didn't know how to use a computer. Now her bus helps them, too.

"They're learning right along with the kids," Pyfrom said. "They don't feel threatened, because what I say to them is, 'If your 4-year-old can use a computer and click a mouse, so can you.' "

On the bus, adults can receive online banking tutorials, resume assistance and help searching for jobs and affordable housing.

Pyfrom's efforts to help low-income families haven't stopped with her bus. She also partnered with a community nonprofit to help provide meals to 3,000 residents each month. Through that work, she's identified other ways her bus can help struggling neighbors build up technological proficiency necessary in the marketplace.

"We want to do what we can do in (each) neighborhood to make things better for all," Pyfrom said. "We run into people who really want to better their lifestyles and are without help. We can help them make a big difference in their neighborhoods."

To keep up the momentum of her efforts, Pyfrom has continued to pour her savings into maintaining and modifying her bus, so far spending about $1 million, she says.

An easy retirement is not something she aspires to.

"I'm not tired yet. And I don't think I'm going to get tired," she said. "I'm constantly charged up. I look at the faces of the children and I get energized."

Pyfrom is determined to see her services expand throughout the state, even the country. She estimates she has enough savings to keep her bus running for another two years, but she hopes to find financial support before she runs out of money.

"I don't think about what I'm not able to do or not going to be able to do," she said. "I plan for the things that I think I'm going to do, need to do and want to do. And I think most of them are going to happen.

"We've got to keep rolling. We're going to keep taking the service to the neighborhoods, and we are going to keep making a difference."

No more football...no problem, football field is transformed into a farm.

Six years ago, Michael Sorrell made a decision that threatened his reputation and maybe his job.

His tenure as president of Paul Quinn College started in 2007 and, shortly thereafter, he opted to cut football in an effort to save money.

The response on campus was not pleasant.

"Predictably, we had folks who were, I guess, the reaction was loud," Sorrell says.

This was in football-nuts Dallas, only seven miles from the heart of the city. Sorrell was not anti-sports, either. He played basketball and loved football. He just felt the sport was "something economically we could not justify."

Sorrell made an offer to the angry defenders of the sport: Raise $2 million to save football, and he would match it.

"To date," Sorrell says, "no one has raised a dollar."

View gallery

.

Crops grow on Paul Quinn College's old football field.

College football is dealing with an emerging financial crisis. It's plaguing programs as large as the University of Tennessee, which was a reported $200 million in debt over the summer, and as small as Grambling, which is begging alums for donations after poor facilities led to a player mutiny earlier this month. Escalating coaches' salaries and declining attendance have led to real concern that the entire college football complex will become insolvent, leaving only a few schools with thriving programs.

"We are standing on the precipice of an economic day of reckoning in higher education," Sorrell says. "I think there will be more schools to do this. I think we're just early."

Football was eating $600,000 of Sorrell's budget, and Paul Quinn is a tiny school of only 250 students. How could he continue to educate when so much funding was going to something that wasn't building an academic reputation?

He simply couldn't. So the field sat vacant.

Sorrell moved on to a much bigger issue: his school is located in a food desert with neither a restaurant nor a grocery store nearby, and many of the students at the oldest historically black college west of the Mississippi are poor. Eighty percent of the students at Paul Quinn are Pell Grant-eligible. (There's a "clothes closet" on campus where students can get business casualwear for free, and money had to be raised so students could afford eyeglasses to read.)

A year after the end of football, Sorrell was meeting with a real estate investor named Trammell Crow. They bandied about the idea of devoting a tract of land to producing food for the community. But where?

 Sorrell joked that they should just build a farm on the football field.

The jest quickly turned into a reality, and the school's future was changed for the better.

Some of the produce grown in full view of the scoreboard would go to local food banks and the surrounding community. Some of it, eventually, could be sold.

View gallery

.

The goalposts are still up at Paul Quinn College's old football field.

Crow helped fund the farm, and slowly crops began to yield produce: kale, sweet potatoes, herbs, cilantro. In 2009, two years removed from the end of Paul Quinn College's football life, a rather famous client struck a deal with the school for its food.

Cowboys Stadium.

Legends Hospitality is now Paul Quinn College's largest buyer for the "WE over Me Farm," and the school has run a surplus of six or seven figures in four of the past five years. The money budgeted for football now goes to academic scholarships. This is a school that had one month's worth of cash when Sorrell took over in 2007.

A potential disaster has turned into one of the most inspired decisions made at the college level. It's not like Paul Quinn is SMU – the NAIA school is smaller than a lot of Dallas high schools – but it shows life after football isn't necessarily bleak.

"We turned our football field into an organic farm," Sorrell says. "It's made us a national leader on this issue. There are no regrets. We didn't have the resources necessary to change and really build a football program in the way we wanted to do it. This is what was right for us."

Students who work on the farm are paid $10 an hour for overseeing the project, which will produce 17,500 lbs. of food for Cowboys fans this season.

"I'm in love with what we're doing with the field," says Shon Griggs, Jr., a legal-studies major who played football at his Atlanta high school. "It's exciting and I've learned so much. I've personally gotten more out of the farm than the football field."

Griggs spends 12 hours a week on the farm, and he considers it "a workout" that has benefits beyond sports. 

"When I played football, I was able to strengthen my body," he says. "Here, we're impacting community, changing lives, teaching kids, and learning about nature."

View gallery

.

Crops grow on Paul Quinn College's old football field.

Griggs says the only downside is the coyotes that come around at night and try to break into the chicken coop.

The goalposts are still up at Paul Quinn College, and so are the scoreboard and the ticket booth, but nobody misses the sport much anymore. The treasure everyone guards most is that farm. Asked what would happen if those two acres were razed again, Griggs doesn't hesitate.

"We would have a problem," he says. "There would be a revolt. This is big."

It is big. Those who work on the farm not only have experience and some take-home pay, but a built-in connection to one of the most famous buildings in America. The director of food and beverage at Legends Hospitality at Cowboys Stadium is George Wasai, who went to Paul Quinn College. He played football there.

We all know about fields of dreams and if you build it, they will come.

Sometimes tearing it down works just as well.