I arrived the firstborn of three children. Mom was pregnant with me soon after coming to the States with my father. Born in a neighboring coastal town called Point Pleasant on December 29, 1960, I had golden curls and crystal blue-green eyes exactly like my father’s. In fact, it is said among family that, aside from being a girl, I was the spitting image of my dad.
Dad calls me his little princess, and I shine whenever he gives me attention. It means everything to me when I hear him say how beautiful and smart I am.
When Dad comes home at night in his fatigues and Army boots, I run to greet him at the door. Sometimes, after he settles into his armchair, I unlace his tall, black boots and then bring him a frosty stein of beer.
“Ahhh. Now, that’s my princess,” he praises. “That’s a good girl.”
I am special, and he loves me because I take care of him. I am proud of myself for making him happy.
Thirteen months younger, my sister, Terry, was hairless for the first three years of her life. Freckle-faced, she is bigger boned than I am—a fact our parents repeatedly announce, to Terry’s dismay. Even though I am older, we appear to be the same size.
My mother likes to dress us girls in similar clothes, only in different colors. (We hate this.) I always get blue; Terry always gets pink. We learn to dislike these colors.
Terry’s eyes are the purest green-yellow, reminding me of cats’ eyes with their glow-in-the-dark quality. They are a cross between my mother’s and father’s: not blue-green, not hazel-brown, but spooky green.
I forever wish for her color of eyes.
My brother, Wayne Jr., is just shy of four years younger than me. He is the first boy and the baby of the family. Named after my father, Wayne is, in my grandmother’s opinion, like a missing link in our family chain. How she hoped for another male to be in charge!
Wayne has dark brown hair, and his hazel-brown eyes sparkle with mischief. His chubby cheeks stay with him into his teens, and Terry and I tease him mercilessly for resembling a chipmunk, giving him plenty of excuses to torture us in return.
To Grandma’s chagrin, however, my brother doesn’t much look like my father. He looks more like my mother than anyone else in the family does. But Grandma will overlook his dark features because, after all, he is a boy!
In 1965, Dad signs up for Vietnam. Then in 1966, he re-ups! In the Army’s Aviation Brigade, Dad becomes a helicopter door gunner stationed at Camp Holloway in Pleiku with the 119th Assault Helicopter Company, aka the Gators, or the Flying Dragons.
At the time, I don’t understand just how much danger he is in. A door gunner’s average life expectancy is only seven days. Every day, we wait for the mailman to arrive. It’s a relief to see a letter from Dad and not from Army headquarters. It means he is still alive.
Dad’s letters tell us how much he misses us and can’t wait to come home. He says Vietnam is hell and that he cries when he sees our pictures. He sends photos of the young Vietnamese children picking through garbage piles for food and of him hanging out the side of a helicopter, his band of ammunition draped over his shoulder as he aims his machine gun at the camera.
These are tearful times. Mom, Grandma, and Aunt Ella are never without a handkerchief, dabbing their eyes, avoiding our stares. They speak German to each other so as not to scare us with news of the war. They know our young eyes and ears record everything, seeking some hint of news. In the three years Dad is in Vietnam, I understand only that he is a good guy fighting the bad guys and he is in danger.
Being the oldest, I am allowed to stay up late and help pack boxes with blankets, peanut butter, and canned food that will survive the rains and humid weather of southeast Asia. The women bicker over what is best to place in the care packages, while I stand, somberly watching. I know they’re arguing because they are scared too. Even with all their commotion, the package is wrapped carefully so as not to break on the long journey to Dad. As the final seal is placed on the box, Grandma turns away and hides her tears while Aunt Ella says an audible prayer.
In 1967, the day arrives when Dad comes home from the war.
It is the last part of winter, and several feet of snow still blanket our town. Looking out an upstairs window, I see the sun’s harsh glare off the snow-packed front yard.
Then I hear the doorbell.
“He’s here!”
I run down the stairs, crashing into Mom’s leg. She holds me back at her side as she opens the door. Decorated in metal stars, colored bars, and oak leaf clusters, Dad stands there in full uniform, legs apart and hands behind his back. Almost in slow motion, he smiles and looks at us.
The next thing I know, Mom and I are squeezing him hard. Dad pauses, takes a minute, and then embraces us back. After holding Mom again for a long time, he picks me up and spins me in the air.
“How is my little princess?” he asks. “Have you been a good girl for your mother?”
I realize I must’ve said, “Yes,” because suddenly he is crying and hugging me tight, while my brother and sister cling like little monkeys on his legs.
Dabbing handkerchiefs at their eyes and noses, Grandma and Aunt Ella have appeared to welcome him too, and Dad sets me down to greet them.
Home again, but still in the service, my father is stationed in different parts of the US, and we’re along for the ride, first to Fort Hood, Texas, then to Barstow, California. Dad is working his way through the sergeant stages of the military and is very proud. I am proud of him too.
Mom tries hard to be the perfect military wife, ever ready to move with a change of orders, always having Dad’s dinner on the table when he comes home at night. Sometimes she works odd jobs around the base to earn extra money for Christmas, but her English still sounds like German, and this makes her very uncomfortable in public.
A couple years later, when Dad finishes his enlistment with the Army, we head back to Toms River.
It isn’t long before Dad starts to go stir-crazy as a civilian. His moods become wild, and he is gone a lot.
I don’t remember Dad being like this before, but Grandma says it’s because of Vietnam. According to Mom, though, it’s because he’s a liar and a cheat. I think it’s because he is angry at Mom.
Mom and Dad yell a lot.
Dad is angry at us a lot now too.
Being settled down is not Dad’s thing, and New Jersey doesn’t have the best jobs to suit his qualifications—so he says. Of course, Dad deserves better than this; he is a vet! He has walked through hell and back!
Believing different states will offer opportunities better than any “this place” has to offer, Dad goes out to find them. He constantly tells us he wants nothing but the best for his children, and, though there seems to be something much meaner about him now, we always believe him.
Aunt Ella dies in May 1968 before Dad gets back from his job search. A series of small strokes paralyze her, and she needs twenty-four-hour professional care. She has trouble remembering who we are.
The day they take her to the nursing home on a stretcher, I cry. Before they carry her out the front door for the last time, she lifts her arm in what appears to be an effort to hold one of our hands.
The ambulance drivers are moving too fast, and I can’t reach her in time.
We visit her only a few times in the nursing home before she dies in her sleep. She has horrific bedsores and doesn’t know anyone in the end, I’m told, but I can’t believe it, and I miss her terribly.