Stranger: “Was there ever a time when your parents got badass angry?”
No, not my mother, but I do remember my Dad getting badass angry once. It was in September 1969.
That entire month was a sad and trying time for my family. It began on the 13th, when Army personnel came to the house to notify me my husband, Doug, an Army combat medic, had been killed in action in Vietnam on September 5, eight days before.
In the days that followed, there was a lot to do. Funeral arrangements had to be made; a cemetery plot and headstone decided on; an 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 —-six more days away. That would mean fourteen days after he was KIA, my husband would finally be coming home. A typical army phrase, “Hurry up and wait” came to mind.
It was a long and emotional wait for my family and I was too heartsick and wrung out to be much help to anyone with anything. All of them had been so patient and I was grateful.
The days passed and we had just returned from Doug’s funeral. I was resting on the couch in Mama and Daddy’s living room when there was a knock at the front door. I remember Mama saying, “Oh Joe, no more visitors. She’s been through enough today. Thank whoever it is and tell them she’s lying down. I’ll phone them later.”
For weeks, our house had been like Grand Central Station with a continuous stream of friends, neighbors, and relatives bringing food, love and hugs. Still, I listened to find out who was at the door. It was a couple of Jehovah Witnesses.
Normally, Daddy would politely ask them to leave and they did. Today for some reason that wasn’t working. He told them sternly, “We just buried my son-in-law an hour ago. He was a combat medic and killed in Vietnam. I’ve kindly asked you to leave. Now I’m telling you to leave.”
“We don’t believe in sending our sons to war. Those who die without faithfully serving God will receive the "resurrection of the unrighteous.” That was when the top of Daddy’s head exploded and I heard the front door slam.
Mama told me weeks later, Daddy grabbed each of the men by their belts and shirt collars and tossed them off the front porch into the grass. It wasn’t a long drop, but they got the message he intended. Without saying another word, they left.
Thank you, Daddy. I miss you ...
[In loving memory of Douglas (“Doc”) Scott Kempf: SP4; RA; HHC, 4th BN, 12th INF, 199th LIB.]
Published Poet/Writer/Author of 5 books.
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I've had JW's at my door!. I remember especially a kind lady, Sandy who I befriended and she'd come every week. Sometimes her elderly mom came with her. I enjoyed our visits but one Saturday I was waiting for my niece and her daughter. I told Sandy that we couldn't visit that Saturday and I told her to come back another day. I haven't seen her since! But other JW's have knocked on my door but I either don't answer the door or I somehow got rid of them! ( I just sent you a message on Chat. I hope you got it! I was trying to find a private way to message you but I got chat instead!)