September 13, 1969, was the worst day I ever went through in my life.
I was living at my childhood home in Ohio with my parents at the time. I had recently married my high school sweetheart, Doug Kempf, in January of 1969. In our hearts we were still newlyweds, but Uncle Sam had other plans for Doug, a trained Army combat medic. In May, he was sent to Vietnam.
Doug and I shared a beautiful life from January to May. During the months before he left for Vietnam, we lived in a mobile home on base at Ft. Bragg, Fayetteville, North Carolina. We were military-poor but we didn't care. We were together and we were happy. We loved and laughed and planned our future for when he returned.
We would buy an old Victorian with lots of bedrooms, oak woodwork, a huge kitchen for entertaining, and a large front porch with a wooden swing. There we would cuddle and talk, read a book, or just swing and watch nature’s thunderstorms together.
We wanted three children. Two boys and a girl would be perfect. Our sons would be tall and handsome with their daddy's bowed legs, legs that loved to dance, and they would have his sense of humor and infectious laugh.
They would grow up to be good men, looked up to for their strength of character. Like Doug, they would be smart, kind and gentle husbands, loving and playful with their children, as well as proud and fiercely patriotic.
Doug decided our little girl would be, (in his words), "Pretty like her mommy, with big blue eyes and just a hint of tomboy to defend herself from her big brothers." In my heart, I knew she would always be ‘daddy's little girl’.
Saying goodbye at the Columbus Airport in May, was soul-crushing. I promised myself I wouldn't cry, but it was a foolish promise I wasn't able to keep. One thing I can truthfully say is, it never once occurred to me that Doug wouldn't return home safe.
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