MAY 1973 TUPELO, MISSISSIPPI
I looked through my closet for the third time, knowing I would find nothing there for the important event ahead. Formal wear was not readily available in our small town, and I had exhausted all the local options. I walked over to the dresser and picked up the invitation. The engraved text and heavy cream paper, along with the words “President of the United States” and “White House,” emphasized the importance of the evening to come. Decision made, I walked straight to the phone in the hallway and pulled the long, curled cord tight as I sat on the sofa.
As soon as Janice answered, I said, “Are you up for a road trip to Memphis?”
“You know I am.”
The next day, we were headed up Highway 78 toward Memphis, Tennessee, the closest metropolitan city in our area. We chatted as only sisters can do, the sound of the latest hits from the radio playing as background music.
“Oh, I love this song,” I said as I turned the knob on the radio to increase the volume. Janice and I sang along with Tony Orlando and Dawn as they belted out their hit, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree.” In the previous month, the song had reached number one on the Billboard charts in the U.S. and stayed there for four consecutive weeks. As we sang, I thought of the lyrics and of how applicable they were to our experience with Smitty’s homecoming.
The song was from the point of view of someone who had “done his time” and was returning home, uncertain if too much time had passed for him to be welcomed back. He writes to his love and asks her to tie a yellow ribbon around the oak tree if he would be welcomed back. If he didn’t see a ribbon, he would remain on the bus, knowing that their time together was over. To his surprise, there was not just one ribbon, but one hundred yellow ribbons tied around the old oak tree.
The original idea of the yellow ribbon was most likely from the nineteenth-century tradition of wives tying yellow ribbons in their hair as a symbol of their devotion to their husbands in the United States Cavalry. According to the coauthor of the song, L. Russell Brown, he and Irwin Levine wrote the lyrics based on the old folk tale of a Civil War POW who wrote to his girl that he was returning home from a POW camp in Georgia.
Yes, it was a fitting song for Smitty and me, and I would have gladly tied a hundred ribbons around a tree if that would have assured him of my devotion. Sadly, that was not the case with many of the wives of the POWs. A dozen or more POWs were divorced while in captivity. Many others received the news that their wives had moved on when they returned home. In fact, the stories of such difficult relationships were widely published.
On March 6, 1973, the New York Times printed a piece titled “P.O.W. Wives Who Chose New Life Face Dilemma.”* Some of the wives interviewed remained anonymous, yet told stories of new loves, new interests, or even new independent personalities. For many, too much time had passed. One such case cited was that of Commander Ray Vohden and his wife, Bonnye, who were from Memphis. After six years as a POW, Vohden wrote home, urging his wife to “make a new life.” A year later, Bonnye filed for divorce. However, before divorce proceedings were final, peace talks were resumed, a cease-fire was called, and word came that her husband would be one of the first prisoners released. As soon as Ray, badly wounded and on crutches, arrived at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, he called his wife, deeply upset, and she agreed to drop the divorce proceedings. She publicly stated that they would work things out day by day.
However, shortly afterward, Commander Vohden announced at a press conference that he was taking a trip—alone—to try to enjoy life, acknowledging that things were not the way he left them. The publicity surrounding their divorce gave voice to many opinions, and their situation was discussed widely in Memphis, as well as throughout the country. I was saddened for the men who had endured so much to come home to further grief, and I wished that everyone could experience the kind of joyful reunion Smitty and I had.
We arrived midmorning at the dress shop in Memphis and were greeted by a lovely older German lady. It did not take long to find the perfect dress. It was a floor-length, sleeveless, navy blue dress with a beautiful, large white collar. Both Janice and I agreed this was the dress; however, there was one problem. The dress fit like a glove, with the exception of the low cut of the V-neck in front, which was far too revealing for my conservative taste. Janice suggested we take a piece of the white lining and attach it in the V of the neckline to make it more modest. Our outspoken German saleslady agreed—until we told her our timeline. The event was fast approaching, and I needed the dress within a few days.
“Oh, no. I can’t do dat,” she said in her heavily accented English.
“Oh, please, ma’am. My husband has just returned from North Vietnam. He was a POW for eight years, and we have been invited to the White House for dinner.”
“Vas you a good girl while he vas gone?” she asked suspiciously.
“Oh, yes! I surely was!” I replied sincerely.
Janice spoke up to confirm, “She was a very good girl.”
“Okay, if you vas a good girl, I fix your dress; if you vasn’t a good girl, I vhip your fanny.”
Two days later, my beautiful navy dress, fitted yet flowing, with the white collar and new V-neck insert, arrived in Tupelo on the Greyhound bus.