My reflection stares back at me as I focus my camera on PFC Donald C. Piper's name.

Note: It has become a ritual for visitors to leave letters and artifacts at the Wall, and the collection itself has become a memorial. The National Park Service, which maintains the memorial, collects and catalogs everything left there and stores them in a climate-controlled warehouse in Lanham, Maryland.

From my journal: August 19, 1988, Friday. I was excited by the national reunion of Vietnam veterans called Firebase Cleveland. It was a three-day celebration, including a "Welcome Home Parade" for all Vietnam Veterans. The traveling Vietnam War Memorial, a half-size replica of the one in Washington, would be open to the public during the reunion and I was anxious to see it.

I turned on the evening news hoping it would persuade Donald to go. We watched Mayor George Voinovich (now Governor of Ohio) give the opening speech, at the Cleveland Convention Center, to about 4,000 veterans and members of their families. Then a disturbance broke out when protestors distracting from the ceremony, waved placards, handed out leaflets, and chanted anti-war slogans. Some wounds from the past were rubbed raw by such disregard which sparked a deep well of emotions and hurt feelings among many veterans. There was shoving, pushing, and a few punches were thrown, but police quickly scattered the misguided protestors, and the vets returned to the ceremonies. Police had been carefully selected for the weekend. All were Vietnam vets. They were determined to keep troublemakers at bay, so the Vietnam veterans attending could have their day of recognition and appreciation.

Donald was shaken by the demonstrators, but an hour later we were both pushing through the crowds. "No one had better jump up in my face," he had said as we drove there. I hoped and prayed no one would.

We were fascinated by the many displays featuring T-shirts, hats, posters, patches, dog tags, movies, and pictures. We had never seen such a collection having to do with the Vietnam War. It left a lump in our throats when we witnessed the affection many vets displayed as they hugged one another. I bought T-shirts, and Donald bought a black hat with a "Big Red One," emblem, which was his division in the Army. When he put the hat on his head, it was like someone turned a spotlight on him. Fellow vets began to slap him on the shoulder saying, "Welcome home, brother, "and "What class were you in?" The vets' friendliness helped him relax and feel a part of the activities.

August 20,1988, Saturday. Donald was in a lot of pain this morning, but we left for the Cleveland Stadium to gather with other vets to assemble for the parade. He wore the Big Red One hat and an old Army shirt he wore in 'Nam, but refused to wear his dog tags, so I wore them. I also wore a T-shirt that said "History will remember the war . . . will America remember her men? "Families were invited to march along with their vets. Donald swallowed some pain pills, and we marched side-by-side behind the West Virginia banner. He later dropped back and marched with the First Division, his unit. I slung both my cameras around my neck, and snapped pictures as I walked along the winding parade route.

At the first sight of marching soldiers the crowd broke into applause. The vets answered back with high-fives in the air. I blinked tears back when I saw Donald raising his fist right along with the rest of them. By the end of the day, I had sun-grin from smiling so much.

People lined the streets, hung from office windows, yelling, "Welcome Home," and "Thank You." Tearful bystanders of all ages ran into the streets, embracing strangers, welcoming them home. Veteran units from many states marched along with South Vietnamese soldiers and with vets from Canada and Australia. Some carried flags, and one waved a placard proclaiming Jane Fonda was not dear to his heart. They did not march in military precision; it wasn't expected of them. Some marched in full dress uniforms, but most dressed in grab bag fashion, in camouflage outfits, jeans, T-shirts, boonie hats, or ragged outfits left over from their war. They rode in trucks, vans, fire trucks, convertibles, and eight veterans rode their Harley-Davidisons. Just behind us was a one-legged vet, carrying a flag in his lap, being pushed along in his wheelchair by another vet. A veteran, clad only in shorts and a T-shirt, pulled his two small children along in a wagon. A few rode in open jeeps, swilling beer, and having a smoke, while music from the sixties blared from their speakers. A bearded vet cooped up in a small bamboo cage was pulled along the parade route as a reminder of those still missing in Southeast Asia.

I overheard someone say that high on a hill overlooking the parade protestors unfurled their banners, but I never looked. I was told they left without another incident and were ignored and largely unnoticed. The parade ended at a nearby park overlooking Lake Erie, where more embracing, dancing, eating, and drinking took place. Before the day's celebration was over, many tears were shed, old friendships renewed, and I never hear a harsh word spoken.

There were food booths and entertainment for everyone. But one of the highlights of the day was hearing county-western singer, Charlie Daniels sing "In America," as a special tribute to all who served. He flew into Cleveland on his way to a singing engagement just to pay honor to them.

Donald and I spent the afternoon sitting on a picnic table in the warm sunshine, basking in everyone's happiness. He was surprised to be met by a handshake from someone from his division who went over on the boat with him. His buddy, wearing the same hat with the "Big Red One" emblem, had picked him out of the crowd because of his hat, never dreaming their lives had touched twenty-three years before.

We left long before the festivities were over, because Donald was tired and in pain. Like many vets, Donald had traveled 30,000 miles back from Vietnam, but emotionally never quite made it home. Finally, today his journey ended in Cleveland with the "Welcome Home Parade."

Dr. Knake is a true friend to Vietnam vets, and holds group sessions twice a week at his office to help them work through their pain. When Donald was going through PTSD just the sound of Doc's voice calmed me down. Donald said, "If it wasn't for Doc I wouldn't be alive today."

Dr. Knake takes a rubbing from the Wall of his cousin, Lloyd Knake. Doc made a special trip in October 1986 to the Wall with vet, Joe Tarnovsky and Joe's wife, Cecelia.

In the fall of 1965 the Logan Banner posted an address list of servicemen who were serving in Vietnam. They called the list "The Honor Roll," and they updated the list every few days. I was weary of watching protestors wave their signs of protest on television, so I send a Christmas card to each one on that list to let them know all of America hadn't forgotten them even though I didn't know anyone on the list. I included my husband's address with a note that said, "Logan County's hopes and prayers are with you." I received forty-eight letters from forty-one servicemen. Six of them wrote more than once. They wrote of shattered marriages, broken relationships, and of the fear they faced each day. I have located eight of those men, of which seven are still living. All of them were amazed when they read their letters . . . and none of them remembered writing to me.

To view a list of Logan County men serving in Vietnam in 1965, and read excerpts from their letters please click on the link below. Dolores Riggs Davis

LETTERS

Read the following stories: How Times Have Changed, A Message From Kristy, and Military Annoyance

TIMES HAVE CHANGED