My Grandfather

My grandfather, Cosmo Damiano Depinto was born on May 15, 1939 in the small town of Molfetta, Italy. He is the son of Nicoletta Depinto, his mother, who was one of three siblings. Her two sisters were named Lina and Giovanna. His mother had a full time job as a seamstress. His grandmother was responsible for making fishing nets. His grandfather, Orazio, had a similar profession in the fishing industry and and worked as a local fisherman. But unfortunately he passed away when a mine blew up while he was fishing in his boat after World War I (1914-1918).

My grandmother was born in Guatemala into a struggling family of seven. In Guatemala, kids are often forced to leave school and start working to help provide for their family´s food and shelter. Similarly, my grandmother was not able to complete her education. Instead, she had to take care of her siblings, providing for their basic needs. As she grew up, she had three kids, including my father, and needed to find a way to give them a better life.

With Nicholas working in a factory and Florence as a schoolteacher they were able to scrape by and provide a modest life for their children. Growing up my grandfather described a general disdain felt towards his family by other members of the town. This attitude stemmed from the general dislike of Italian-Americans in the country during this time. Even after Nicholas returned from his time in World War 2, people still would treat him as second class. Luckily Italian-American families in the area developed a tight-knit community, mostly centered around going to church. These were the people my grandfather credited with helping pull his family up and comfort them during the hard times. For instance when my grandfather’s brother died in a car accident the community joined in the mourning and helped with the funeral. Or when my grandfather’s

There have been countless influential people in my life that I’ve come across. One who was a meticulous inspiration continues to be my grandfather. My grandmother had remarried to the one I call “grandpa” when I was at the age of five, and they both took to each other’s grandchildren as their own. With my mother and me only living a mile down the road from their farmhouse out in the country, I’d spent heaps amount of time there as a child. Indeed, I had been without a father but my grandfather stepped up to the plate and had taken me under his wing and willingly played the personification of a father figure.

In 1952 my grandfather, Albert S. Thanhauser, waited in line with the incoming class of Air Force soldiers in upstate New York as they prepared to enter the Korean War. Each quaking private presented their papers to the stone-faced officer at the front of the line, to receive their military assignment. As my grandfather approached with his documentation, something peculiar happened. “Hmm… Thanhauser,” muttered the gruff officer, “M.O.T.?” he asked quietly. A Brooklyn Jew, Al’s eyes lit up as he nodded and his papers were placed with the rest in the pile. M.O.T: Member of the Tribe, was an instantly recognizable code of camaraderie amongst Jews. Two weeks after this encounter, the night before being shipped off to Korea, Al received a memo: He was being pulled from the pack headed for Hell and instead was shipped to Japan to set up a flight school at an American base. The two years he spent on the airbase were some of the best of his life. Was this story was likely intended to instill me with a connection to Judaism? Was it just another of my Grandpa’s crazy stories? I had always focused on the result of this story - how it dramatically affected my grandfather’s life. But as I have grown older, the story has begun to resonate with me as beautiful demonstration of an act of kindness and virtue that I learn and grow from.

My grandfather, Lieutenant Colonel Wayne Raab, served in the US Air Force for 27 years. He married the love of his life, Marie Raab, on November 12, 1961. They had one child together, my mom. After my grandpa retired from the Air Force he worked at a paper making company in Sumter, South Carolina. Instead of having flowers in the middle of the dining room table there would be a beer bottle full of Sriracha Hot Chili Sauce. He would put that sauce on everything, he called it his “magic juice”. My grandparents had a fig tree in their backyard that my grandpa would give a splash of his “magic juice” to everyday because he said it gives the figs a little extra flavor when they are ripe. He brewed his own beer out of a shed in his backyard. And in 2010 he was diagnosed with Parkinson 's Disease.

My hero, a person who expresses kindness, intelligence, charisma, strength, selflessness, and helps my mother. My hero is my grandfather, Vern Newlin. Vern Newlin or Pawpaw to me, is a classic hard worker, whose appearance will make you feel . His eyes are sparkling emeralds in comparison to the way he dresses. His dress is a rancher who spends his time outside, always. Compared to his height, his short brunette hair is like an inchworm to his height. He always wants to either tell or hear jokes, which I really like because his humor allows me to know that he has a sense of humor. Features that he is known for are his intelligence.

My grandfather was involved in many wars during the 1900s. His experiences started in the First Indochina War in 1946 and ended with the Vietnam War in 1975. His first war experience was during the First Indochina War, in which he fought for the French army against the Viet Minh force, an anti-French alliance. He was captured in 1953, but eventually and released in 1954 when the war ended with the International Geneva Conference. He then proceeded to move to Saigon in 1955 and worked as a journalist for a newspaper company during the Vietnam War.

As I sat in my desk, my thoughts wandered as I listened to my teacher, Mrs. Flunkerflock, talk about the importance of our founding fathers. I thought, not about what my teacher was saying but the class itself. I thought how I actually hated history, but I was good at it, I was good at any subject really. I always tried to do my absolute best. To obtain any information that I possible could so that my parents could be proud of me, especially my dad. I always feared that my dad would never be proud of me like the way that his father was proud of him. I am filled with pressure since I’m technically not his son. I have always thought that he regretted me because I’m not his. That he should have made my mother abort me or give me up for adoption.

The things my grandfather carried through life and from Holland. Opa as we called him carried a lot on his back and on his side. He carried with him the burden of coming to America from Holland, but he also carried with him his passion for art and with that his supplies and carving tools. Starting as a waiter on a ship and traveling across the Atlantic in 1950s. He carried with him the burden of leaving home and crossing this ocean that to him was so large. My grandfather was weighted by being 16 year old making this bold step to leave his family in the world and how he was going to make it in the land of opportunity. He came to America and met my grandmother and was very happy for many years. When he had my dad the weight built because he

Grandpa is almost ninety-five and now resides in a nursing home. The leg he fractured forty years ago is too weak to carry his weight. His eyes are going bad. But to me he's still the big, strong man who used to take his grandchild in his arms and rock to

When i was 34 years old , i was a Spanish mother of 2 daughter and a son .my husband was part of the Spanish army he had died during war . i had two babies just before he died, I gave birth to them .I loved my first husband as much as I loved my daughters.oh and my daughters were two little angles the where twins but not identical . There was one with long blond hair just as my mother and I named her Isabella , then comes my goofy daughter her name was marina and she was named After my husbands mother Marina , i actually hated my husbands mother . but I love both of my daughters . after my first husband died, my daughters were only 2years old I didnt want them to live a life without there padreh .so i started working for Arekhandro I was suddenly

My research garment will be taken from a picture of my Grandmother, Jean Griffin. My grandmother (J.B.Griffin, personal communication, October, 15, 2015) described all the details about this photograph. She said she is pictured at 23 years old walking her 10-month old daughter, Mary Joyce. Jean is my maternal grandmother, and has three boys and four girls. Jean dressed up everywhere she went. Whether she was going to the store or church, she always had makeup, heels, and a nice outfit. My mother (J.G Jackson, personal communication, October 17, 2015) states this picture represents Jean’s daily life. She didn’t have a driver’s license, so she walked everywhere. This picture was taken in San Diego, California, in April, of 1959. My grandparents and their children moved to San Diego so my Grandfather John could do his internship and residency at the Naval Hospital. If observing the photograph carefully enough Jean has s a small baby bump. Jean was 5 months pregnant with her second child James. She is wearing a Maternity jacket and a skirt. The jacket has a bow neck collar with a large bow. The sleeves have ruching with buttons at the hem of the sleeve. The jacket is straight with no defined waist. The structure of the jacket was made for a pregnant woman so it would allow someone to continue to wear it throughout her pregnancy. The skirt hits mid calf and is also a loose straight skirt. Both garments in the ensemble are not form fitting. The ensemble at first looks as if it

Without my uncle Donald, I would not be where I am today, I owe him everything, and all I must give him is love, but there isn't enough love in the world to show him how much he is loved by me. I will try to tell you about him as best I can, through my tears.

When we were together we were invincible, us against the world. I’d look up to him, not only because he was 6’4, but because he was my grandpa. I have clear memories of him picking me up from school, playing old school reggae music during our adventurous car rides. We’d always sing along to our favorites, sometimes turn the music up so loud the people in the cars next to us could hear it. When I would visit his apartment, the familiar smell of drywall and pennies would fill the air. It was my hideaway, my home away from home. My grandpa collected pennies in water jugs. He would say that one day they’d be worth more than just pennies. I loved it there, not only because he had a freezer filled with many flavors of ice cream to which he would often say to me “you can have all you can eat” but because it was our time to bond. For five years it was my mom, my dad, and my grandpa helping me to grow. Those are my favorite people, my role models. Being around my grandpa brought me such comfort and joy.