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Memories that Matter
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Randy Rapp:
I only knew Donald Dwight Hoffman 1970-71, when he was my roommate in House C of Kelly Hall at University of Missouri-Rolla. But seeing no other memorial commentary for Don, and as talented and generous as he was, something of his good life should be stated. I was a freshman in Physics, so they lined up another freshman and me to room with Don, a graduate student in Physics and Fellowship awardee. I can picture him at his desk as I write this, intently smoking cigarettes and grinding away for a course in vector and tensor analysis. We were so fortunate to know him. He was not physically large, but Don was like a big brother to many of us, since he already had a degree and more life experience than the rest of us undergrads. He did not push his views on anyone, but he offered kindly advice with a wry sense of humor, when he thought we needed it. We could tell that our teenage behavior often amused him; maybe our behavior reminded him of himself six years earlier. With his white 1964 Chevy Impala convertible and Hurst transmission, he drove us many times--especially out to the Gasconade River to hang out on sand bars on warm weekend days. That winter, a few of us often spent evening time together in his Impala, simply talking and enjoying each other's company, enhanced with the adult beverages that Don generously bought to share. His stories of Army service were especially interesting to me, since I was heading off to West Point in months ahead. Don explained how the enlisted soldiers would play games on officers, often just for something to puncture the boredom on the 101st Airborne field artillery firebase, when they had no fire support mission. It was only recently that I saw documentation showing Don completed his master's studies, so it was good to know of the success we expected for him. His memory remains a happy reflection in my life. It was good to know him, and I was thankful to call him a friend.
Brittany Harp:
My first love - We were just kids, really—young, unformed, and trying to figure out who we were. He was caught up in basketball, hanging out with his friends, and staying close to his mom, who lived right next door. I, on the other hand, was chasing something deeper, something more. But instead of finding it within myself, I searched for it in him. That pressure—on both of us—slowly made me insecure, and I unfairly put a lot of blame on him for things I didn’t yet understand about myself. After we broke up, I didn’t know how to handle the pain of rejection. I lashed out. Even then, he still showed me a quiet kind of support, in his own way. A week before he was murdered, he called me late at night, crying. If you knew Matt, you know how rare that was. He always wore a half-smile and could turn any moment into a laugh. I can’t even recall a time he was truly angry. That night, his voice cracked as he told me he had done something awful. I thought maybe he’d been drinking. I tried to get him to open up, but all he said was, “They’re going to come for me.” He never told me what he meant. The next day, we went out to eat like nothing had happened. He smiled, laughed—acted like the call never happened. I still think about that day. Could I have done something? Could I have saved him? A week later, Matt was shot and killed on the front porch of the home we once shared. The truth came out later—he had fired a shot at John’s house, and John retaliated. But anyone who knew Matt knows he wasn’t that kind of person. He was pushed into it. John had stolen from him, and Matt’s own friends had started calling him soft. But I was there. I saw it all. Matt wasn’t a vengeful person. When people hurt him, he usually just cut them off. But this time was different. He was surrounded by people who fed into the worst parts of the situation. He got pulled into a mess that was never truly his. And no matter what anyone said, I don’t think he saw a way out. After his death, the pain didn’t stop. People seem to forget, but Matt’s mother later died by suicide, and his stepfather overdosed not long after. His uncle Ronney was never the same. And me? I was left terrified and broken, carrying the weight of a loss I never really got to process. Matt had such a bright soul—gone far too soon. I just wish I had one more day. Just one more moment for him to meet my son… and see the family that still carries a piece of him. Love you Matt!! Brittany Harp
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