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:

"In memory of all those who lost their lives for the cause of freedom."
Freshmen Class 1967-68.

It was a beautiful stone monument and we were all very proud. It was placed in front of a newly planted dogwood tree - also purchased and presented by the class - which stood proudly over the monument as its great protector.

Within a few months, the monument was gone. The tree was later torn down for a student center expansion and nothing was ever explained to anyone. Our freshmen class project vanished – no questions were to be asked, and no answers would be given.

The war got worse and I realized our monument was on the wrong side of American thinking. We were made to feel a monument like that only added to the dissidence and hatred already festering across our nation.

I decided not to run again for class president and opted to switch colleges the next year so I could lead the band at Mississippi College as the Drum Major.

At that time in my life, I bought into the brain-washing by the media that we were just stupid kids who didn’t know any better, so I moved on with my life and fell in lockstep with everyone else regarding Vietnam.

The war had become an embarrassment to our country and the men and women who came home alive were not bestowed a reception. Soldiers were met at airports by a single family member or possibly a friend because it was not in keeping with the “national mentality” to honor a loved one with a homecoming celebration.

They were called murderers; cursed; spat upon, and were summarily given rank by the American people as low class citizens.

They were not to be seen in public in uniform, and certainly were not given a “thank you” for subjecting their lives to the cause of freedom. We stripped them of their dignity, but it was really our character that had been debased.

Being young and not really understanding the war, I decided not to question anyone’s authority and accepted the fate of the monument and went on with my life.

For 10 years, my precious mother (who didn’t accept it so lightly) literally hounded the "powers that be" to find that monument. Through the years, I have been back to the campus but never saw the monument and believed it had probably been destroyed.

It was this last visit one month ago that I made a concerted effort to look a bit more carefully as I drove through the campus, to see if in fact the monument had finally found a resting place back on the campus as had been promised my mother.

I looked all around the student center where it had initially been placed, but it was not there. In dismay I thought I would try one last area where other monuments had been placed at the main entrance. I had my sister wait in the car and I walked up to the main approach to the campus, making one last futile check.

I walked past a marker from the class of 1955, and then stopped almost dead in my tracks, squinting my eyes with eagerness as I read Freshmen Class 1967-68. There it was. I literally fell to the ground and just covered my body over that monument as I called to my sister to come quickly. She knew I had found it.

I embraced that stone slab and sobbed. Somebody must have decided it should be put back where it belonged. No, not just somebody . . . it was my Mother. She was the one that got that stone placed back on the campus.

In her exasperation of being told repeatedly they didn’t know where it was; probably locked in a storage room . . . she finally went to the President of the College and made her case.

Two days later she got a call and was told that the monument had been found and would soon be returned to its rightful place. My mother left Pineville before she was ever able to know for certain that the President had kept his word – until just a month ago.

I called her from its new home at the main entrance of Louisiana College and we both cried.

On this 4th of July, 2005, I’ve gone back to that deep place in my heart and have resolved that while our country is in any conflict, no soldier will ever come home to America and not be greeted with open arms.

My mother taught me a lot: Never give up and always be challenged to do great things. She did both.

Now it’s time for us to do something great: always say “Thank You” to our soldiers.

Debbie Daniel can be contacted at: dddtx@yahoo.com