In 1967,
the U.S. Air Force lost a horrific number of fighter pilots in Vietnam. On the
home front, their wives learned to balance the checkbook, take care of the
property inside and out, make dozens of solo executive decisions every week,
all the while maintaining a calm exterior to the rest of the world.
This "Slice of Life" piece is
for all the military moms who valiantly coped with ten thousand stresses during
war
Man of the House by Linda Sammaritan
Dad
placed his hands on my brother’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “You’re
the man of the house, now.”
And then
he shipped out for Vietnam.
I didn’t
mind that Dad had bestowed this singular honor upon Doug. Really I didn’t. As
the oldest, and a girl, the title of “man of the house” didn’t fit me. Besides,
Dad had made it clear, all four of us were expected to help Mom, even Tricia
who was only two.
Problem
was, ten-year-old Doug took Dad’s words literally.
Mom said
he was adorable, taking his job so seriously. He sat in Dad’s place at the
dinner table. He decided when the lawn should be mowed and insisted that Mom
take him to the filling station to top off the five-gallon gas can. Now. And
she would.
When a boy
dropped by the house to hang out with me, Doug didn’t allow me out of his
sight. If we watched television in the den, Doug watched with us. If we went
for a walk, he followed us down the block. After a couple of months, I was sick
of him.
Steve
was mad, too. Instead of the normal big brother banter, Doug ordered him around
like a general with the troops. “Rake the leaves along the driveway.” “Make
sure you’re home before six.” Sheesh.
Mom
stopped thinking it was cute when he tried his parenting skills on Tricia.
Grandma and I were clearing plates from the table after dinner while Mom
scooped ice cream at the kitchen counter.
Tricia,
who had been diagnosed as profoundly deaf, was trying to communicate something
to us. We couldn’t understand what she wanted. In frustration, she threw her
hands into the air – and clipped her glass of milk on the upswing.
Doug
slammed his fist on the table. “Tricia!”
Like she
could hear him.
She did
feel the vibration through the table, though, and she could see the ugly
expression on his face. Her own face registered shock as she realized his anger
was aimed at her.
“Bad
girl. Look at this mess.” Doug pointed to the puddle of milk and the soggy
paper napkins that hadn’t kept up with the flood. “Go to your room.”
He
started to lift Tricia from her chair when Mom intervened shaking the ice cream
scoop in his face. “Douglas James Geib, what do you think you’re doing?”
“She got
mad, and she spilled her milk.”
“Yes,
she did. But I asked what you were doing.”
“I’m---”
He stopped and looked from Mom to Tricia. With a puzzled expression, he settled
Tricia back in her chair and returned to his seat.
Mom set
the dripping scoop on one of the remaining dirty plates. Her voice gentled.
“You’re trying to be the daddy, Doug. And you’re not. And that’s okay.”
“But
Dad’s not here.”
“No,
he’s not. But you don’t have to do his job.”
Doug
frowned and opened his mouth to object.
Mom
spoke first. “I appreciate all the man’s work you do. You help out whenever I
ask. You and Steve and Linda. I can’t think what I’d do without all three of
you helping around here.
“But
only your dad can be Tricia’s daddy. Nobody else. And you’re Steve’s big
brother, not his father. You’re Linda’s little brother, not her appointed
guardian.” She walked around the table to where he sat. Placing a hand on Doug’s
head, she ruffled his hair. “I have no complaints on your brother skills. Keep
being a good brother. You don’t have to be a father.”
Doug
looked down at his plate. His lip quivered. “May I be excused?”
“Certainly.”
She squeezed his shoulder, and he almost ran from the room.
Mom
looked at me and Steve. “You’re excused, too. We’ll save the ice cream for
later.”
We
shuffled out of the dining room, not sure what to say or do. I wondered what
Tricia was thinking. Whatever she had wanted to tell us never got communicated.
Grandma
mopped up the rest of the milk with some kitchen towels. She hadn’t said a
word. As I walked out, Mom asked, “Did I do the right thing?”
Grandma
murmured a response that faded as I headed upstairs. “He’s a good boy, but he
can’t take on the burden…”
While her sons were small, Linda Sammaritan
enjoyed writing magazine articles. Now a retired teacher, Linda has begun a new
adventure writing in a digital world. She is currently working on a middle
grade novel based on growing up with a deaf sibling.
Social media links for Linda Sammaritan
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