Other Columns by Debbie Daniel
Debbie Daniel Bio

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There's a place so deep in my heart that sometimes it's too painful to go there on my own, but a moment of nostalgia, either by looking at old pictures, or listening to old tunes will whisk me away before I have the strength to resist such a journey.

Memories can hurt -- that's why we put them away; some never to be recalled in a lifetime. Some so deep that we won't let anything catch us off guard. We'll walk away quickly before we'll allow those thoughts in.

One such memory takes me to a time that's been held hostage by many, but the images seared on the memory walls of my subconscious mind pop-up like an advertisement on the internet.

Just about a month ago to the day, I spent a weekend in lovely Louisiana where I lived as a child. The two day weekend was one of many nostalgic moments where I needed to face those memories, and it was okay.

My daddy died when I was 14 and my world would have crumbled had it not been for my mother who kept us children immersed in love, involved in our church, and determined that we would have a normal life.

Though a family in those days was considered "broken" if there was no man of the house, ours defied that kind of thinking. Mother made sure of it. She challenged us to do great things and we strived to make her proud.

When I was a high school senior, our country was in the deep throes of the Vietnam War. I lost a dear friend who had sought my friendship and perhaps wanted more of a special bond before he left for Camp Pendleton the summer of 1967. He was soon sent to Vietnam and I never saw him again.

It was not a good feeling when his remains were sent back home to Pineville, Louisiana and my picture had been found covered in mud along with several other of his personal effects. That was a time when young people grew up fast - I was no exception.

I started college in the fall and ran a successful campaign for Freshmen Class President with a personal mission to have some kind of tribute, not only for my friend, R.V. Edwards, but for all our soldiers who were coming home daily in body bags.

And for those that didn't have a body bag, they later longed for one.

The freshmen class worked themselves to the bone that year earning money from rummage sales, talent shows, building the best float in the homecoming parade just to win the monetary prize that would collectively give us the money needed to purchase a monument remembering those who had gone to war and did not come home. The war had turned ugly and we were careful with the wording of the inscription. We presented it to the college. It tearfully read:

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