With the passing of time, I've learned to reach into the past and retrieve moments of great value while ignoring all things best forgotten.
It's a little like owning an old book not worth reading ... a book so filled with flaws it should never have been written in the first place. Such a book takes up valuable space on a crowded shelf, yet it can never be discarded, for within its pages, nestled between the foolish and the evil, are sweet breaths of innocence.
The year was 1968. I was living in Little Rock while my husband served a second tour of duty in Vietnam. My children missed their daddy. Letters containing misspelled words in large print went out regularly, along with crayola drawings and Kodak snapshots.
Our mailman gave the doorbell one short ring each time he dropped a letter bearing a military return address into our mailbox. My children, familiar with the signal, began yelling, "A letter from Daddy! We got a letter from Daddy!" as they abandoned baby dolls and raced for the front door. Before turning the knob, they paused for a brief argument over who carried in the last letter and whose turn it would be today. The letter cooled its heels out in the mailbox while this life-and-death matter was settled ... usually, with no punches thrown.
Property left behind by their father was even more important than letters.
Karen appointed herself keeper of her father's civilian clothes. She inspected the closet often. Pants ... shirts ... suits ... Her small hand reached to smooth imaginary wrinkles. Shoes were lined up according to moods and whims. Contents of that closet provided tangible proof to a four-year-old that her father would return. All she had to do was wait.
"Will Daddy be home for my birthday, Mama?"
"No, but he'll send a present and he'll be home for Christmas."
"Will Daddy be home when we have our tonsils out?"
"No, but he'll want to hear all about it when he comes home for Christmas."
"Can we save a piece of this pie for Daddy?"
"No, but we'll make two chocolate pies when he comes home for Christmas."
"How much longer 'til Christmas, Mama?"
Soldiers stationed in Vietnam were given time off for rest and recreation. My husband was scheduled for R&R in Hawaii in June. I was going to meet him there. Tony and Patti would be staying with their grandmother. Carmen, Karen and Honey Gail were going to my brother's house.
I was making lists ... adding this ... checking off that ... trying not to forget anything essential.
There were last-minute errands to run. Top priority was one-day cleaning service for my husband's suit. I loaded everyone into the station wagon, and the back seat choir was belting out "Little Rabbit Foo Foo" when I pulled to a stop, grabbed the suit and hurried in the cleaner's front door. Back behind the wheel in 30 seconds, I started the motor and prepared to re-enter a stream of traffic.
"Where's my daddy's sweater?" Karen asked.
"His suit is being cleaned," I pulled out on the street and headed for home.
"Where's my daddy's sweater?" Karen's voice quivered as she repeated the question.
"It's a suit, Karen, not a sweater. We'll come back and get it tomorrow."
"I don't want to leave my daddy's sweater here!" She began to cry.
Damn! I pulled off the road, prepared to reason with my daughter. I soon realized this was not going to be a reasonable matter. This was a matter of the heart. The "sweater" could not spend the night away from home. It belonged in the closet where it could be watched over properly.
Turning the car around, I drove back to the cleaners, retrieved the suit and shoved it, none too gently, into Karen's waiting arms.
"Daddy's sweater's not dirty," she smiled through her tears as she smeared her darling nose across one sleeve.
Later, I wiped that sleeve with a damp cloth.
The suit traveled well.
Cleanliness is way over-rated.
It's a little like owning an old book not worth reading ... a book so filled with flaws it should never have been written in the first place. Such a book takes up valuable space on a crowded shelf, yet it can never be discarded, for within its pages, nestled between the foolish and the evil, are sweet breaths of innocence.
The year was 1968. I was living in Little Rock while my husband served a second tour of duty in Vietnam. My children missed their daddy. Letters containing misspelled words in large print went out regularly, along with crayola drawings and Kodak snapshots.
Our mailman gave the doorbell one short ring each time he dropped a letter bearing a military return address into our mailbox. My children, familiar with the signal, began yelling, "A letter from Daddy! We got a letter from Daddy!" as they abandoned baby dolls and raced for the front door. Before turning the knob, they paused for a brief argument over who carried in the last letter and whose turn it would be today. The letter cooled its heels out in the mailbox while this life-and-death matter was settled ... usually, with no punches thrown.
Property left behind by their father was even more important than letters.
Karen appointed herself keeper of her father's civilian clothes. She inspected the closet often. Pants ... shirts ... suits ... Her small hand reached to smooth imaginary wrinkles. Shoes were lined up according to moods and whims. Contents of that closet provided tangible proof to a four-year-old that her father would return. All she had to do was wait.
"Will Daddy be home for my birthday, Mama?"
"No, but he'll send a present and he'll be home for Christmas."
"Will Daddy be home when we have our tonsils out?"
"No, but he'll want to hear all about it when he comes home for Christmas."
"Can we save a piece of this pie for Daddy?"
"No, but we'll make two chocolate pies when he comes home for Christmas."
"How much longer 'til Christmas, Mama?"
Soldiers stationed in Vietnam were given time off for rest and recreation. My husband was scheduled for R&R in Hawaii in June. I was going to meet him there. Tony and Patti would be staying with their grandmother. Carmen, Karen and Honey Gail were going to my brother's house.
I was making lists ... adding this ... checking off that ... trying not to forget anything essential.
There were last-minute errands to run. Top priority was one-day cleaning service for my husband's suit. I loaded everyone into the station wagon, and the back seat choir was belting out "Little Rabbit Foo Foo" when I pulled to a stop, grabbed the suit and hurried in the cleaner's front door. Back behind the wheel in 30 seconds, I started the motor and prepared to re-enter a stream of traffic.
"Where's my daddy's sweater?" Karen asked.
"His suit is being cleaned," I pulled out on the street and headed for home.
"Where's my daddy's sweater?" Karen's voice quivered as she repeated the question.
"It's a suit, Karen, not a sweater. We'll come back and get it tomorrow."
"I don't want to leave my daddy's sweater here!" She began to cry.
Damn! I pulled off the road, prepared to reason with my daughter. I soon realized this was not going to be a reasonable matter. This was a matter of the heart. The "sweater" could not spend the night away from home. It belonged in the closet where it could be watched over properly.
Turning the car around, I drove back to the cleaners, retrieved the suit and shoved it, none too gently, into Karen's waiting arms.
"Daddy's sweater's not dirty," she smiled through her tears as she smeared her darling nose across one sleeve.
Later, I wiped that sleeve with a damp cloth.
The suit traveled well.
Cleanliness is way over-rated.
2 comments:
Beautiful.... You are a truly gifted writer and I'm glad you are sharing your gift with the rest of us.
Lulu
(From ProHealth of days gone by)
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