Sabado “Sam” Rispoli the Korean War veteran, from the
generation who went to war, returned, went to work and didn’t talk, steps out
of the handicapped van, tears up immediately, and starts shaking.
“Oh Ross, I had no idea you were going to be here!” he says
in this thick Italian accent. His arms are quivering and he’s hugging me
tighter than he ever has in my life. As tears roll down both our faces I start
to realize how much this is going to mean to him, and me.
Rispoli, my grandfather, or “Poppy” to me, was born to
Italian immigrant parents 84 years ago, raised in New Jersey, and transplanted
himself to California. His hands tell the story of a lifetime of pounding nails
and building homes. His eyesight, and his ability to spot animals while deer
hunting, is slowly failing. He doesn’t look old in my eyes. His ample grey hair
curls outside the bottom of his ball cap. He still has veins in his biceps that
bulge when he picks things up. He is sharp as a tack, making eyes at waitresses,
and trying to get me, his grandson, dates with every girl he sees.
Poppy fought in the Korean War. He was a quad-50 gunner.
Anti-aircraft. He enlisted in the California National Guard and was shipped off
to Korea to fight. He met my grandmother at a USO event. She was a singer. He
came home. They got married, and had kids.
He and I have never had much to talk about. I grew up five
hours south of Sacramento (where he lives) and we only visited occasionally. He
would talk to my family (and by talk I mean scream into the TV at the 49’ers
when they were losing) but I’ve never been interested in sports. We didn’t have
a bad relationship, we just didn’t have that bond that grandson’s usually have
with their grandfathers.
That changed when I joined the Coast Guard in 2008, and I
graduated boot camp in the spring of 2009 my grandfather was there. He was the
first person to shake my hand. His hands were shaking then too. He kept saying
how proud he was of me. When I graduated Public Affairs School in 2012 he was
there. He is the only family member, besides my mom, who has seen me in my
dress uniform.
There’s a group in Northern California called North Coast
Honor Flights. They receive donations and fund flights from California to
Washington, D.C. for World War II, Korea, and Vietnam War veterans to visit the
National Mall on D-day. They pay for airfare, lodging, meals, everything. My
grandfather got selected for this, and my mom called me and told me Poppy would
be coming into the capitol the next weekend.
With some last minute emails, a few favors called in, and the
blessing of my Chief, I booked a ticket to surprise my grandfather at the hotel
in D.C. What he and my mom didn’t know was that I also signed up to be his
guardian for the weekend while we toured the mall…meaning I would be by his
side 24/7.
The bus full of salty veterans pulled up and piled out,
walkers and canes in hand, swapping stories and shuffling into the hotel lobby,
each with a hat denoting what war they had served in. It was a sea of history.
Some had served in World War II and Korea. One had served in all three. Shirts
with “Semper-Fi” and “Sea-bees can do” were all over. My grandfather was one of
the last ones out.
I have never seen anything like the look he gave me when he
found out I was going to be his guardian. “He’s here guys, my grandson is
here!” he said. The group of Veterans all turned around to see what was going
on. The woman in charge of the group started crying.
“He was talking about you the whole time,” the woman said. “My
grandson is in the Coast Guard, you should see him, and he takes pictures.”
We hugged longer than we had ever hugged before and I helped
him take his bags in and settle for the night.
The next morning at breakfast I walked down in my service
dress blue uniform. I sat down at the table with my grandfather and we ate. He
started talking about when he was my age and in the service, the friends he
made the experiences he had. The other vets at the table listened intently as
we swapped sea stories.
That day we toured the National Mall. Each memorial had a
special ceremony for the group and my grandfather explained every detail he
could remember about the war. He talked about the ponchos they wore to keep
from freezing, the kids who would ask for candy bars, the smell of burning
trash. It was emotionally taxing on him as he relived his time fighting. A few
times he asked me to stop so he could wipe his eyes. I could see he was
remembering a lot. I pushed Poppy
around in his wheelchair, him holding an American flag, me in my uniform,
building a connection that was long overdue.
The Korean War is referred to as the “Forgotten War” because
it’s between World War II and Vietnam. That night when we were brushing our
teeth in the hotel Poppy looked at me and said; “I can’t believe they did all
this for us, but all think about is my friends who didn’t come home, you
remember them now ok, Ross?”
Ok, Poppy.
