Throughout history, the United States of America has celebrated heroes, including soldiers who have served our country. Soldiers that served in the Korean War were specially celebrated in the year 2000, due to the war’s fiftieth anniversary. This war began shortly after World War II, in 1950, as U.S. troops landed in Korea, south of the 38th Parallel, the circle of latitude that is 38 degrees north of the Earth’s equatorial plane. In a nutshell, the war continued the Cold War between the U.S. and the USSR. The Soviet Union wanted Korea as a communist state, while the U.S. wanted Korea a democracy. The result of this conflict was the split of Korea into two governments and two countries, North Korea, a communist nation, and South Korea, a democracy.

The Korean War impacted many small towns in the U.S., including the town of Darien, Connecticut. Darien’s First Selectman Harrel proclaimed June 25, 2000, as Colonel Joseph R. D’Arrigo Day, an honor to my Uncle Pippi’s service in Korea. His courage as an individual soldier was recognized as he had a memorable military career, entering the U.S. Army in 1942, eventually pinned with medals, badges, hearts, clusters, ribbons, and titles throughout World War II and the Korean War. On June 25, 2000, he was awarded the honorary title of “Colonel” by President Clinton at the Korean War Memorial 50th Anniversary Celebration in Washington, D.C.

This story may not seem unusual, as indisputably, there are many servicemen and women with remarkable military histories. Astonishingly remarkable to me, however, is the fact that my uncle’s story was a well-kept secret in Mom’s Italian family, at least to the girls of my generation. Mom’s brother was an unwavering figure throughout my childhood. In unspoken words, he meant a lot to me as I withdrew from the social world, distinctly lonely, due to my parents’ heartbreaking divorce and the loss of Daddy.

Today, I know that courageous Mom suffered post-traumatic stress, a result of her raw divorce in 1972. My sisters and I suffered as well, as children of divorce often do. Today, I know that Uncle Pippi suffered post-traumatic stress as a result of his war experiences. As I knew him, he was a quiet man and seldom spoke, especially to Mom, my sisters, and me.

In June, 2000, Mom tells me news about Uncle Pippi, who’s eighty-one years-old. She talks in a way as though there aren’t any secrets, that I know all about Uncle Pippi’s experiences, as though I’m just supposed to know certain things without being told.

“Jeanne, guess what! You’ll never guess what LaLa told me today! My brother, Pippi, is being flown from Hartford to Washington, D.C. by the Department of Defense. He was a military hero – did you know that? The U.S. government is picking Pippi up by helicopter! Can you imagine? My own brother! You know, he was a hero in the Korean War,” said Mom. She smiles, takes reading glasses out of a red pocketbook, and takes a seat at my kitchen table, to study the Grade A Market grocery store flier for the bargains of the week. She wets the tip of her thumb with her tongue, squints to read the flier, and flicks a page over.

I drop a dish towel on the counter, and a coffee cup in my hand almost falls to the floor. My kitchen is decorated in baby highchair décor, (my son born just six months ago), with an over-flowing laundry basket, a wire basket stiffly holding overdue bills, dishes precariously stacked in a mountain-shape in the dish drainer, remnants of a fried egg glued to a breakfast frying pan, dog toys and kids’ toys underfoot. Mom, a wavering figure, is here to help me regroup my home. The one thing she doesn’t waver in is helping me love my children.

“WHAT?! What are you talking about?” I thunder, pissed that I know nothing about this story, a coiled knot chokes me.

I believe she doesn’t have this story straight, doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and it’s just another quacky story from Mom. I figure that I’ll have to call Aunt LaLa, or my cousin Richard, to get the truthful story. As usual, it’s a fine line with Mom, who’s either giving it to me straight, or ramming her way, manipulating my thoughts, usually to get me to do something for her.

“My sisters and I were told not to talk to Pippi about the war,” said Mom, a line I’ve heard time and again, as they were warned not to bring up harrowing history in their family.

Yet, not to talk about this!

I knew that Uncle Pippi served in the military, however, how could this story be true of my uncle, who lived a quiet life in the little town of Darien, amid a bustling, gossipy family with six sisters? What’s this about a military hero?

Uncle Pippi was going to be recognized by President Clinton at the 50th Anniversary of the Korean War.

Uncle Pippi fills my head. I envision him working in the garden, a scene I know so well from my childhood. Many times, I saw him from Mom’s car, as I sat in the front passenger seat, on our way to Nanny’s house. This was pretty much a daily trip, as we lived only a few minutes away from where Uncle Pippi lived with his parents and his unmarried sister, Aunt LaLa.

“Wave hello to Uncle Pippi, Jeanne!” orders Mom, slowing the car down, and I wave and smile to him as we pass and turn into the driveway across the street from the garden.

“Don’t bother Uncle Pippi. He needs quiet!” warns Mom, over and over again, to my sisters and me, as we slam the car doors and race to Nanny’s yard. She means for us to leave him alone, keep ourselves busy in Nanny’s yard, and watch him work in the garden, a safe distance away, in the front yard.

And so, I’d watch Uncle Pippi sow the seeds in his garden. The dirt, dark brown, was striped by furrows from his seeder plow as he worked the garden. Often, he would be half-dressed, shirtless, his back to the summer sun. Fiercely determined to control his grandfather’s land, his face bent to the ground, two hands gripped the handles, pushing, turning the wheel that made the rows. He wouldn’t wave “hello” back in moments like this, refusing to let go of the gardening tool. I could see his gum-chewing mouth, the sweat glistening on his shoulders as God’s rays pushed him along. He had his work to do, burying his troubles, living out his days, the seeder pulling him along, and as the summer seasons flew by, the vegetables were picked by Uncle Pippi.

Not until after his death in 2004 do I search for answers. There aren’t many relatives to ask questions about him. Everyone seems more concerned about his wealthy estate. So, I turn to historical references, hope to find clues. The following were remarks made by President Clinton at the Washington D. C. celebration:

“In the early morning hours of June the 25, 1950, 90,000 North Korean troops broke across the border and invaded South Korea. The only American there that day was a 31-year-old Army Captain and Omaha Beach veteran named Joseph D’Arrigo. He was awakened by what he thought was thunder. But when the shell fragments hit his house, he ran half-dressed to his jeep and drove. Within a half mile of the local train station, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing – a full regiment of North Korean soldiers getting off the train. Now, he later recalled, over 5,000 soldiers came against one person, me. Captain D’Arrigo escaped that day…we are honored that he could be with us here today.”

My research continued with one of many books, including the “The Forgotten War,” by Clay Blair: “By late June, 1950, D’Arrigo had been at the 38th Parallel for almost six months. He rightly believed that he had become an expert on the ROK Army and the opposing NKPA. D’Arrigo’s perception of the situation was starkly clear. His war warnings had made no impression on KMAG or Seoul. Despite all his tactful prodding, his outfit – and the ROK Army – was still not properly alerted and disposed for battle. There was still no sense of alarm or urgency. Only one rifle company of D’Arrigo’s 12th Regiment was deployed at the parallel…When D’Arrigo went to bed that night he felt distinctly lonely; he was the only American Army officer at the 38th Parallel…”

Noted from “Center of Military History” a report by Roy Appleman: “…D’Arrigo saw a startling sight – half a mile away, at the railroad station which was in plain view, North Korean soldiers were unloading from a train of perhaps fifteen cars. Some of these soldiers were already advancing toward the center of town. D’Arrigo estimated there were from two to three battalions, perhaps a regiment, of enemy troops on the train. The North Koreans obviously had re-laid during the night previously pulled up track on their side of the Parallel and had now brought this force in behind the ROK’s north of Kaesong…Most of the ROK 12th Regiment troops were killed or captured. D’Arrigo, meanwhile sped south…”

“The Forgotten War” continues: “…Like a Paul Revere, he drove through the night to spread the alarm. Thirty minutes later he reached the headquarters of the ROK 1st Division…unable to raise the sleeping guards, D’Arrigo doggedly and noisily rammed the jeep against the heavy wooden gate until he got a response….seventy two hours after the invasion had begun, it was obvious to Joe D’Arrigo that the battle to stop the invasion was lost.”

Most of the ROK 12th Regiment troops were killed or captured. On June 28, American fighter planes, under order to attack any organized body of troops north of the Han River, mistakenly rocket the ROK 1st Division, which the 12th Regiment folds under. Many soldiers are killed and wounded. After the planes left, D’Arrigo’s commander, Colonel Paik tells his men of the ROK 1st Division, “You did not think the Americans would help us. Now you know better.”

As my research grew, I shared it with Mom, even though I wanted to tell her that she should know better, that her family’s well-kept secrets should be shared. I kept my mouth shut because my advice wouldn’t mean anything to her. Mom flew on her own track in life. I wish I had the wherewithal to question Uncle Pippi back then, but I was too young, too lost, too wrapped up in my own turmoil. None of that matters now. What’s meaningful to me is picking Pippi, as I put his story to paper, in wonder of my uncle.

Note: I wrote this piece in May, 1973, at fourteen-years-old, for an eighth grade English class assignment at Middlesex Junior High School, Darien.  The piece describes my first ride on a motorcycle. My sister, Donna, sixteen-years old at the time, dated a twenty-two year-old guy she met at Kelsey T.V., a mom-and-pop shop in Noroton Heights, where she worked in the office after school, answering phones and filing paperwork.

Our group of friends met at Weed Beach most Friday nights.  Donna’s boyfriend was a flirt and gave all of the girls motorcycle rides in the beach’s parking lot.  I ignored his flirtations and just wanted the ride.

My teacher’s comments follow at the end.  I’m determining how I can use this piece today, with the voice of a young girl,  to show how I found joy in the little things in life, especially the ones that don’t cost anything.  I especially like the innocence of youth in a moment of time.

LOVIN’ THE RIDE

One of the things that I LOVE is riding on a motorcycle.

We go to the beach, where, if you walk along the shore, your bare feet sink down into the wet, soft, tan sand.  Of course, the gentle waves are lapping alongside your feet, pushing tiny shells toward you.  Sometimes, if you step on the shells, they break.  Then you can hear a crinkly, crunchy noise that goes along with the waves breaking against the mountain of rocks.  The ocean is a smell of salt, not the kind you use on steak, but much more fresh-and-clean smelling.

Above you, the sky is the color of coal, with shiny sparkling diamonds sprinkled here and there.  In the distance a small object is coming toward you.  Lights blinking, you notice that it is a plane.  It makes a swooping turn, and it is out of your sight.

Your feet have brought you to a pavement that is uneven and rough on your tender toes.  But, you still hobble over to a blue park bench and plop down.  You dig your ratty old sneakers and a sandy beach towel out of a bag.  The towel wipes your feet, but it puts more sand on them.  Disgustedly, you shove your sneakers on.

The motorcycle is humming, and the driver is waiting, a loose grip on the handles.  You plunk a helmet on, and a soft, cushiony sound is heard.  A tiny smile appears on your face as you tighten the strap because there is a tingly excitement inside.  Feet on the back pedals, you cling to the driver as if you were one.  You’re off!

The feel of the wind!  Just imagine a trillion air conditioners on super, super high, with you standing right in front of them.  That is how you feel with wind on all four sides of you.

The tires race along in the parking lot.  But you don’t have to worry about cars.  The dozen or so cars take up a small corner of the cement block.

The monster that you are sitting on buzzes along.  Once in a while, the driver brooms the engine up.  Your eyes blur as you try to see the people standing around on a green patch.  The driver leans to the right, swerving amongst cars and people.  Slowly you climb up a hill.  People shout as if they were cheering you on.

But, finally, all good things must end.  You watch the tires slowly turning and then rest at a stop.  A sigh of sadness comes over you as you realize you must get off.  But friends crowd around you asking whether you liked it or not.  Were you scared?

You glance at the driver, who is still sitting on his bike.  He smiles at you and then you know that he and you are the only ones who know the feeling.

You can’t tell your friends how it feels; they have to experience it.  You see another person on your seat, looking excited and even nervous.  But you turn to your friends, telling them about the ride.  That person in your seat will soon find out.  He’ll experience the best ride in the world.

My teacher’s comments:  This is a great job.  For the most part you’ve used good action verbs, as well as other good sensory words.  Concentrate on strong, action verbs, instead of forms of dull to be and to have.  Use the active voice rather than the passive.  Make your subjects do, not merely be or have.  Your skill in expressing yourself is a great asset.  Always do all you can to make the most of it.

“Let’s go to the cemetery,” says Mark.  He likes to visit his ancestors every long once in awhile.

I set off with Mark and our young son, Joseph, to St. John’s Catholic Cemetery, on the border of Stamford, with a Darien address.  We visit Mark’s grandparents’ graves, and then I tell him that I want to look for Daddy’s grave.  The three of us walk around an area near a huge, old, oak tree.  I follow my sister, Maria’s, general directions, and search, under a sunny, blue sky.

In the past few years, my sisters have been to Daddy’s grave.  Barb planted daffodils here.  I can’t really explain the reason why I haven’t visited.  I find his grave close to the oak tree, which is a stone’s throw from a building that held Harisonic Labs years ago.  Mom worked on an assembly line there when I was a kid.  I can’t help but feel the stressful pressure of low-income living on Mom’s low-income salary, as I stand in the indigent section of the cemetery, where Daddy’s buried.

“Here he is!”  I barely get the words out as I come across his grave.

The three of us stare at the bronze plaque that is overgrown with grass and small, daffodil flower shoots that march around the edges.  The plaque reads:

Joseph T. Bankowski

PFC U. S. Army

Korean

1927- 1979

I look up at Mark, teary-eyed, with a burning in my throat.

“I never knew he served in Korea!” I push the blue, sad, heavy load of words up hard and talk as loud as I can muster.

“I always thought it was Uncle Pippi giving you signs, Jean, but it was your father all of the time,” said Mark, referring to my passion of learning all I can about Uncle Pippi, the Korean War, and what I consider tell-tale signs that keep forcing me in that direction.

We clear the grass around the plaque and Joseph surprisingly finds a small, American flag on the ground nearby and pushes its’ post into the dirt near the daffodil shoots.  He cleans the plaque, works meticulously, swipes dirt away with his hands.

“He’s a good worker, just like me, and, perhaps, just like Daddy,” I think, and imagine Daddy, with his sky-blue eyes and great, side-tracked potential to succeed in life, dead at fifty-two years-old.  I think about how I turn fifty-two in two weeks and how much living I still have to do.

Joseph tells me that he wants to come back here on Easter, next week, to bring flowers.  Somehow, the thought of Dear, Sweet, Jesus’ resurrection from the dead comforts me in this moment.  Somehow, naming my son after my father was the right decision.

When we get home, Joseph lines up different-colored army men toys on the kitchen counter.

“Which one do you think your Dad will like, Mom?” he asks.

My head is dizzy over the day and this conversation, as though Daddy’s a part of our everyday life, as though we just shared a lasagna dinner with him, or enjoyed a visit doing daddy-like and grandpa-like things.

I tell Joseph that I think he’d like the blue guy.

“That’s the one I’ll bring on Easter, Mom,” he said, as he put the army man into a little box.

And, then, my heart fell into Joseph’s grandpa-like, warm, sky-blue eyes.

A study in embroidery.

My head’s in a whirl. I don’t know where to put anything in my head. How do I analyze this so I can figure out how I feel about it, how to deal with it?

We know Daddy’s dead because a Darien policeman came to the door and told Mom so.

She’s furious because Daddy’s brother called and asked her to pay for his burial. She’s crazed out-of-her-mind with anger and tells him to go to hell.

After that, we don’t know when, where, how, Daddy’s buried.

A manila envelope comes in the mail, addressed to my sisters and me. It’s Daddy’s burial flag. The beautiful red, white, and blue of the great U.S.A. It’s five by nine-and-a-half feet in size. The size impresses me.

No one’s interested in the flag, but me. I tenderly keep it with my things. I peel the return address label off the envelope and save it. There’s no name on it, just a Hartford address. Daddy had cousins there; none that I ever met, or if I did, don’t remember.

I’m too young to understand that he’s buried in a Connecticut state veteran’s cemetery. I do know that this is the flag that covered his coffin.

Mom goes out on Saturday nights with her friends, Josephine and Carol, divorcees, and Aunt Mae, who is widowed. All are in their 50s. They go to The Brass Grill, on the West Side, across from Pellicci’s Italian Restaurant in Stamford, and to The Post Tavern, a bar in Darien, on the Boston Post Road. A woman, Grace, known to wear artistic hats with a flourish, owns this joint.

Mom flies on her own track. My sisters and I, left on our own, hear knocks from aunts, uncles, and cousins.

“One of those girls will end up pregnant before she’s out of high school!”

“Gotta’ watch those girls for Marie. They’re hangin’ out at Weed Beach on Friday nights. Who knows what they’re up to? I hear that kids get drunk. God only knows what else goes on there. The town should do something about that.”

“Why is Donna dating that older guy? What the hell is Marie thinking? Somebody has to sit Donna down and talk to her!”

“Why is Jeanne wearing that tight, pink sweater? What does she want – guys to check her out? Who’s that boy in the blue Volkswagen taking her out on dates? He’s not from Darien.”

“Did you see that dress she wore to the party? Looks like something out of the Goodwill box!”

“How long has Barbara been dating that boy? Isn’t she a little young to be dating?”

Marie’s right when she says, “I have a life of hard knocks!”

“What trouble is the baby, Maria, in now? Those kids that she’s friends with are no good, that’s for sure. She’s gonna’ get in trouble. Madone!”

“It’ll be a miracle if those four girls graduate high school!”

“Marie’s got a lot on her hands with her four girls! Poor, poor, poor Marie!”

Furiously, I roar inside. I can’t speak. I am suffering. No one really knows my sisters and me.

I don’t have the power to control myself as a teen. Mom controls my inner self. I feel that I’m doing wrong most of the time.

“Son of a bitch! You’re just like your father!” screams Mom over something or other I did that she doesn’t like.

I silently, woundedly, wonder, “How can I be just like my father, when I never see Daddy, and haven’t seen him in years?” I think Mom is stupid for saying this, but dare not say so.

Years later, in college, saved by Art, I fly away.

“Art gives wings and carries you far, far away! Anyone who is sick of filth and petty, mercenary interests, who is revolted, wounded, and indignant, can find peace and satisfaction only in the beautiful.” – Masha, Misail Polozniev’s wife in “My Life” by Anton Chekhov, 1896, (Ward Six And Other Stories).

“Who do you think you are? Do you have to know everything?” Aunt Dee Dee laughs into the phone as I call my mother’s eighty year-old, younger sister with questions about Uncle Pippi. She laughs, but I can tell she is quite serious and closes the book on this conversation. It’s tough to find out secrets.

“Marie, Jeanne looks just like you!” says Aunt Mae, as she lights a Pall Mall cigarette, takes a seat on a dark wood club chair in our livingroom, nervously taps her foot, places a plastic ashtray on the t.v., and playfully tugs at Maria’s sleeve as she walks past, to say “hello.” Her thin frame is one bundle of energy. I stare at the cigarette carton on the coffee table that exclaims, “Pall Mall’s natural mildness is so good to your taste!”

“Marie, Jeanne is the spittin’ image of you!” says Jean, a long-time friend of Mom’s. She has the nerve to push my long, brown hair out of my face.

“She’s too quiet. She has to come out of her shell!” she says, as though I’m not standing right there.

I feel like a clamshell, tightly closed up from the audacity of their tasteless judgments about me.

“Marie, Jeanne, looks just like you, when you were in high school!” says Aunt Matheline, wistfully wishes of long-ago days.

“Marie, Jeanne looks just like you and you looked just like your mother! Three generations of beautiful, Italian girls!” says Uncle Joe, as though he tells us something new. I cringe as he looks me over from head-to-toe, lingers on my big, brown eyes and eye-catching breasts, as he reminisces over Mom’s stunning bathing beauty looks, then gives Mom a lecherous grin. She flirts back with a smile.

Why can’t Mom see the pain I’m in? Why can’t she think of me?

I shrink, eyes cast downward to my toes, shoulders curve miserably. Down, down, down, into Dear, Sweet, Jesus’ earth I want to go. I hate hearing that I look just like Mom, something I’ve heard over and over again, throughout my childhood, and, now, as a teenager. I’m not like Mom at all, I think, confusing looks with being. I hate any attention thrown my way, and furiously hold my anger at the gall people have to comment about my looks.

Never any in-between, there’s either too much attention, or too little attention. I hate not being told things, too. Other words blow in like a vicious summer thunderstorm, with raindrops that soak through clothes in an instant, cling to skin. I need a towel to roughly, quickly, smoothly, dry off the sticky, yucky rain evaporating on my soft, warm body. Words thrown at me as though I’m not there, or words overheard, or conversations stopped mid-stream as I enter a room, or as I’m shooed out a door.

Aunt LaLa is 93 years-old. She tells me that my daughter is adorable, my son so handsome, as they are with me on this rare visit. Her words fall on me, yet I don’t feel like a fifty-something mother. I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl next to her; her smile wraps around me, her chatty voice still so comforting after all these years. The pink-painted bedroom, so familiar, yet, so strange. The faded, white-painted furniture and silk flowers in a vase, greet me like old friends.

As a child, I wondered, “Why on earth are there fake flowers in the house, when the yard offers so many pickings?”

Back then, the yard was filled with living, powerful zinnias, roaring dandelions, swaying black-eyed susans, buttery buttercups, trumpeting honeysuckles, peeping blue violets, the uplifting, blue flowers of the tall, chicory stalks, long, wild grass, soft yellow forsythia, dainty, doll-cups of lily-of-the-valley, purple hydrangeas, laughing-blue dayflowers, brilliant marigolds, and the deep, dark, secretive green of the pine trees that rule on the top of a stone wall.

“Jeanne, you’re an old lady!” jokes Aunt LaLa. She smiles at my children, smiles at me, chuckles a soft chuckle.

I laugh and hug her and tell her she is wonderful.