My Great 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).

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 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.

My Grandma Musser put the Grand in grandma, she selflessly gave her time, shared her many talents and still managed to have fun with us. She was born in 1927 in Murtaugh Idaho to William and Annie Moise Goodman. She grew up on a farm, her father died as a result of a threshing accident; when she was nine. In her adult life she was a school and music teacher for many years; she directed the school’s musical programs in addition to a local children's choir. Before I met her she was injured in a car accident and so had trouble walking, even with this challenge she still tried to keep up with me and my sister.

Edgar Estep, age 82, was born on 1936, in Paintsville Kentucky, an older gentleman with a sturdy but gentle look to his face. He is the son of Elizabeth and Richard Estep and the youngest of his 4 siblings. Edgar explains, “Growing up in a holler of the hills of Kentucky. "My family was not of wealth and my father Richard moved to Ohio to gain his fortune” He like many other men at the time wanted to fight for the pride of his country.

By the time any of us grandchildren or great grandchildren could walk, Grandma Opal had us learning how to check the hotwire fence on the farm with a screwdriver, in the garden planting and pulling the weeds or playing with the pets. Opal, who was actually my great grandmother had been like a grandmother to various others. Whenever her phone would ring, we would answer “Grandma’s house”, because the town of Maysville is not a very large, everyone knew her by grandma. I spent uncountable summers in Maysville as a child with my maternal grandparents, Terry and Char, and my great Grandma Opal. Now that she is gone, I have several, meaningful pieces of her life that no one else has. I inherited my Grandma Opal’s very fragile recipe box and her favorite embroidery patterns.

During the summer before 10th grade, I began volunteering at a public retirement facility. I spent my time talking to a generation of people who have a lifetime of wisdom and experience to share. I particularly remember Evelyn, an old woman with smoky gray hair with whom I would spend time playing board games and chatting. I would take her in the garden occasionally and she would talk about her grandchildren and their mischievousness. One day, however, she caught influenza. It was mild at the time. Yet, the following week I returned and she was not there anymore. Due to the severity of the influenza, she died of breathing complications. As contemplation

My great-grandfathers name is Jack Milton Tracy. He was born July 18, 1935 in Michigan. I do not know very much more than that, because he never talked about his childhood. I do know that he had three older sisters and his mom died while giving birth to him. His dad was in the military, and moved around a lot with the four kids. From the time my great-grandpa was six to the time his dad died when he was eleven, his dad was physically abusive towards him. When his dad did die, he lived with his eldest sister, who was around twenty years old, in Gallup until he was eighteen years old and enlisted in the Air Force. At eighteen, he stood around six feet tall and a hundred sixty-five pounds. He had green eyes and his brown hair was short. In high school, he met my great-grandma. She always told me that he would make fun of her, but they ended up falling in love and getting married.

The person I have chosen to write about is my grandfather Juan “De Dios” Martinez. My grandfather has been a very influential part of my life. The fact that I am in this country, I owe to him and my grandmother and the struggles they endured coming here in the 60’s. His life has left an indelible impression on my life, and I feel an inescapable sense of gratitude and responsibility to him; to succeed and show him that his efforts for our family where not in vain.

During weekends with my grandmother I was taught a different way of thinking, my great grandmother is a very old fashioned woman because she was raised on a farm with eleven siblings. Her parents were married very young and as soon as they were married they began having children. My great great grandfather was the provider and my great great grandmother cooked, cleaned, and raised all twelve of her children. My great grandmother was the oldest and was expected to carry out the same chores as her mother, helping with housework and raising the other children, this caused her to believe a man was to provide and the house and children were women's work. My mother, however, believed differently she is a registered nurse at Cabell Huntington Hospital and both her mother and father worked full time during her childhood so she does not believe there is any difference in capability between genders. My aunt and uncle are very different than both my mother and grandmother, they are very country and believe the kids should spend time outside but just like my mother see no difference in gender capabilities. Between my great-grandmother, my mother, and my aunt and uncle I have been introduced to many different ways of thinking and this is what shaped my beliefs.

My great-grandmother, Mama Jo, is from England, and my great-grandfather, Granddaddy, met her while in combat during World War II. Once the war ended, Mama Jo came across the Atlantic to the states and married my Granddaddy. This is where my family story begins. Their son is my grandfather, and he is the oldest of five children, which could get crazy at times. Most of our family traditions revolve around this side of the family due to its magnitude. Even though my great-grandparents have passed away, we have kept their home in our family, so every holiday we get together there. We call it the “Home Place,” and this place holds a very special place in my heart. Every Christmas we line up tables from one end of the house to the other, and sixty-two of us sit and have breakfast. Every Halloween we all get together and have a “soup night” while answering to the trick-or-treaters knocking on the door. Every Thanksgiving we have lunch at the Home Place, and after we eat, we always go to the front yard and play baseball until the day turns into night. These are the memories that will last a lifetime, and this is where I come from. This is much more than a house. It is a home, and I hope that it can be kept in our family forever so my great-grandchildren will be able to have these experiences.

As a young man, I was raised by my Grandparents. It was from my Grandfather that I learned how to be a man. From him, I acquired the value of a great work ethic, the importance of truthfulness, and of living a life that not only you but, of one that your family could be proud. My Grandfather would always say something impressing that having a good name would carry me further than anything else in life. There is an essay in Ideas Across Time: Classic And Contemporary Readings For Composition, by Igor Webb, in which Socrates makes a statement that reminds me of the words that I would often hear from my Grandfather. Plato writes, in Socrate’s Defense (Apology), after being sentenced to death, Socrates tells the jury that “nothing can harm a

My grandma is retired from her secretarial job. Twice a month she visits with her older sister in the country to make certain that she is being taken care of proprly. It is during these frequent trips that I realize how much she is a part of my everyday life. My grandma lives downstairs from me. From the inside of our house, there is no stairs connecting the top and bottom floors. If I want to go downstairs, I have to use the outside stairs. I wear these flat slippers that make a tapping sound when I walk on the wooden stairs and whenever it is quiet, my grandma can hear me coming and going. When I reach the bottom of the stairs on my way out, she is always standing at her door waiting for me. As we walk to my car every morning, she

I hardly ever think about the lives my grand-parents and great-grand-parents led. Maybe this hig tech world has desensitized us to our emotions, or maybe we have lost touch with our spiritual selves. Whatever the case, it seems that in today's modern world, most people don't think or worry about people who lived in a different time than today. Why should my ancestors be of importance to me?

Pouring rain on the lush green foliage of Southwestern Mississippi marked my birthday; born April 3, 1938, on Poplar Hill Plantation in Jefferson County, Mississippi, the eighth of thirteen children. My parents, Willie Jackson and Sarah Whitney Jackson spent their entire lives in Jefferson County, born, baptized, married in 1926, died and their final resting place, the Poplar Hill Cemetery behind the church. Family stories of the experiences during the Civil War and reconstruction, seldom talked about, the guilt of beatings, the shame of miscegenation, the humiliation of these events became the secrets to keep. Consequently, families who suffered through those ugly times, did not speak of them and did not want the children to hear those