1970 TUPELO, MISSISSIPPI
In 1970, the press was overrun with stories of antiwar protests, led by the famous actress Jane Fonda. To put it as politely as I can, I was not fond of Fonda. The protests were hard to watch and harder to understand. But despite the loud, raging voices on many college campuses, there was another side to the story—a quieter side that wanted to support U.S. troops in Vietnam without being involved in the controversial riots and protests. And it all began with two college students, Carol Bates Brown and Kay Hunter. The two friends met through their involvement in the Los Angeles–based student group, VIVA—Voices in Vital America. Bob Dornan, a television personality in the 1960s, introduced Brown and Hunter to three wives of missing pilots, who allowed the students to brainstorm with them about ways to muster support for U.S. soldiers without becoming enmeshed in the controversies of the war itself.
At the time, Bob Dornan wore a bracelet he had purchased in Vietnam that he said reminded him of the suffering of the war. Brown and Hunter wanted to create similar bracelets to remember the U.S. POWs. Naively, they initially thought of traveling to Vietnam for the bracelets—an idea quickly nixed by their parents. They pursued other avenues for making the bracelets and eventually found an engraver in Santa Monica who agreed to make ten sample bracelets. This number was eventually raised to 1,200 when the husband of Carol Coppin, the adult adviser of the student group, bought enough brass and copper for the initial run.
They decided to put the name, rank, and date of loss on the bracelets, and they soon had the interest of the families of the POWs, as well as free advertising from Bob Dornan through his television talk show. The price was set to match the cost of a student movie ticket—$2.50 for a nickel-plated bracelet or three dollars for a copper bracelet. By tradition, people would wear these bracelets with the name of POWs engraved on them until the POW returned and then give it to the POWs upon their homecoming.
On November 11, 1970—Veterans Day—they launched their program with a press conference from the Universal Sheraton Hotel. Public response grew quickly. In the next few years, VIVA distributed millions of bracelets, as well as other promotional items such as bumper stickers and buttons.
The bracelets were available to anyone through mail order or community civic groups. I had my own stash for friends who wanted to purchase them. It was such a lovely experience to see people sporting metal bracelets with my dear Smitty’s name engraved on them. It was a balm to know that, though the protesters were loud and boisterous, there was a giant population who rallied around us and our men with a quiet strength and daily display of support.
One day, I led my children through the double mahogany doors of Reed’s department store on Main Street in downtown Tupelo. Reed’s was (and still is) a staple of Tupelo and had been for decades. Founded in 1905, Reed’s provides clothing and gift items for adults and children alike. They also carry the required uniforms for Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, of which I was a leader.
As we entered the store and headed toward the grand staircase that led to the children’s department, a shiny object on the wrist of a fellow patron caught my eye. I paused just a moment and walked over to the owner of the bracelet. I did not know her, and she did not know me. She did not know that the name on the bracelet she wore was that of my beloved husband. I felt the sting of hidden tears as I approached her. Determined to never get emotional in front of the children, I simply said, “Thank you for supporting our boys.” She never knew my name, and I never knew hers. But I remember her many decades later.
This same story played out in different locations all over Tupelo. Friends and strangers alike supported me and my children, as well as my POW husband, through the persistent choice to place the metal bracelets on their wrists each day. Our grandchildren, now around the age of Carol Bates Brown and Kay Hunter when they conceived the idea, are often spotted wearing remnants of that trend. Almost fifty years later, we still receive letters that begin with “You don’t know me, but I wore your bracelet.” What a blessing that people remembered the POWs then and still do today.
For Smitty’s eighty-ninth birthday, our daughter Carolyn presented him with an exact replica of the bracelet made of sterling silver. When I see it, I am reminded of the refining fire a silversmith uses to produce the finest, purest silver. In the same way, we endured a refining fire of sorts, and it has produced in me, Smitty, and our family a refined character and a pure love. And for that I am very grateful.