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Laundry has been my household job for so long that it’s gotten so that I no longer feel like I’m doing my wife a big favor when I do it. I really don’t mind, except for the sorting. With three growing daughters and a smallish wife, each garment requires some thought before it is stacked. Decisions, decisions, decisions. One recent Saturday, I was standing beside a brimming laundry basket with a clean pair of SpongeBob underpants in my hand. I’d narrowed its ownership down to the two older kids and was checking the label for the size, when the phone rang. It was my big brother, who is a colonel in the Army Reserves. “Rick? This is Steve. Guess what. I’m going Bosnia next month. I’ll be working on rebuilding their education system while keeping former Yugoslavians from killing each other.” Glad that he wasn’t going to the Mideast and impressed with his mission, I said, “Wow!” which is really all a little brother is required to say at such news. I’d said the same thing when he was commandant of a Kurdish refugee camp after the first Gulf War and when he went to give Haiti a make-over. Growing up, Steve and I had shared the same heroes—all men of action: Robin Hood, Tarzan, and James Bond. Partly because I know Steve’s early influences and partly because I always revert to about eight years old when I’m talking to him, I asked, “Will you get to carry a .45 like you did in Iraq?” “No, we’re using 9-millimeter Berettas now,” he said. “We’re not expecting trouble, but you never know...” After talking to my brother the hero, my interest in laundry was low. I needed the reinvigorating company of my five-year-old, Sally. I found her, and we strolled to the grocery store for milk. Walking along, I told Sally in general terms what Uncle Steve was planning to do, and she asked, “Why are there armies?” “We have an army to keep other armies from coming here and bothering us,” I said. Applying a quick patch to a weak explanation, I added, “Sometimes our army goes out to help other people.” “By shooting them?” she asked. “No,” I said. “Uncle Steve’s army tries to keep people from shooting each other.” Our route went past a rest home that, in good weather, always has a half-dozen disabled veterans smoking on the wide front porch. This time a man of Korean War vintage took a cigarette out of his mouth and hollered to me: “Were you in the Persian Gulf?” “Nope,” I said, modestly. I figured maybe he’d noticed my martial bearing and general air of quiet ferocity. “Vietnam?” he persisted. “Nope,” I said. “Before my time.” As Sally and I walked on, I realized that it was my costume that had attracted the notice of the old soldier. I wore a khaki shirt and a pair of my brother’s cast-off combat boots. Coincidences are extremely rare; I have that attire because something inside me wants to be striding across the globe, armed and heroic, saving Kurds from Saddam Hussein and nation-building in Haiti and Bosnia. I’d like to do the kind of Big Things my brother does. But at my advanced age, it’s too late to do anything about it, even assuming my wife would let me go be a part of history. My brother’s duty lies where the forces of darkness collide with American foreign policy. Mine lies along the path of parenthood’s endless march. Sometimes I’m leading my kids, sometimes I’m dragging them back into formation, and sometimes I’m running to catch up. I don’t kid myself; my theater of operations is very little. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy for me. Back home, I made a reckless decision: I put the SpongeBob panties onto Sally’s pile. Just a wild guess, but a whole basketful of laundry awaited deployment, and I couldn’t afford to be tripped up by one pair of size-6 underpants. |
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