A Daddy Memory without Daddy

It was the beginning of 1967. I was one of four children living with our mother in Fort Worth, without our dad. You see, daddy was in Vietnam at the time, a war that we knew little about and was very far away. Daddy sent us packages from Vietnam, with little gifties and messages to each of us. It was always so wonderful to receive those personalized packages containing fabrics, toys and treats from another world.

I shared a room with my two sisters, me on the top bunk, my little sister on the bottom, and my older sis on a separate bed all by herself. My baby brother had his own room, as did my mom.

For some reason, that evening I could not sleep. It could have been that I had had an active day and was hungry, or it could have been the television in the next room, that seemed to be trying to get my attention. Slowly, quietly, I climbed down the steps to the top bunk and crept into the kitchen, from which one could see the TV in the living room. I could see what was on, and it was a little girls dream show, the Miss America pageant.

My mother was sitting on a chair, exhausted looking, with a kitchen towel in her lap. I can’t imagine the strain of living with four children six and under, on my father’s military pay, in a city where she did not grow up, but where her in-laws lived. Dad had moved the family there before he left to have, supposedly, someone to watch over mom and the family, but I recall my mother telling me in later years that it was not the best move for her personally. She would have rather been in the same city with her parents and siblings.

“I …, I’m hungry,” I said, to call attention to myself, just as an announcer made a pitch for some soap flakes, and interrupting the procession of lovely ladies down the runway. Mom looked startled to see me at first, and then her face softened with pity for her child who basically just wanted some attention, and alone time with her.  

She stood up from the easy chair and came to hug me. I had wanted to say, “I miss Daddy,” his playfulness, his loud voice, and his nightly kisses before bed, but I substituted those words with the more easily awarded request for food.

“What would you like to eat,” she asked, never hesitating to grant my request for food. “I don’t know, how about Cheerios,” I stated, looking forward to my favorite cereal that floated like little tan-colored life savers on a creamy sea of milk.

She served the cereal and I unexpectedly devoured it, and I remember not finishing the final few floaties in the bowl. I don’t remember who won the beauty contest, or even if I finished watching the show. But I remember my last question to mother before she ushered me back to bed.

“Mommy, when is daddy going to be home?” I inquired.

“I don’t know, sweetie, but we will pray that it is soon,” she answered, with a wistful smile on her face. She kissed me and I clambered up to my bunk, and visions of floating Cheerios lulled me to sleep.

The above entry was written at the Lake Travis Library Memoir Writing Group that I attended. The prompt was to write our earliest memory, and this one came to mind.