My dad was an even-tempered man. The only time I ever remember him getting angry —let alone badass angry, was in September 1969.
That entire month was trying, a sad time for all of us. It began on the 13th, when Army personnel came to the house to notify me that my husband, Doug, an Army combat medic, had been killed in action in Vietnam eight days before.
In the days that followed, there was a lot to do. Funeral arrangements, a cemetery plot and headstone decided on, obituary written, and the Army and local newspaper wanted me to choose a day to be presented with several medals posthumously.
We were also notified his body would arrive at the Columbus Airport on September 19, another six days away. It was a difficult wait, a hard time for my entire family. I was too heartsick and emotionally drained to be much help with anything. They were all so patient, and I was grateful as the days passed.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to "CJ's World on Substack" to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.