“They volunteer.”
“’We don’t charge the families anything to do this,” said Richard Ruiz, who served as the post’s quartermaster until his death in 2013. “Some VFWs charge and some families just can’t afford it. But we do it because we feel they shouldn’t have to pay for a funeral that pays respect to their service.’
By Jannette
Jauregui
More than two years have passed since I last sat down to enjoy an interview with a veteran.
My most recent book, Of War and Life: A Decade of Stories, debuted in early November 2013. With it came an exhibit by the same name at the California Oil Museum. More than 12 years of writing compiled in more than 600 pages, and nearly 70 years of memories hung in one room for the public to see.
On Veteran’s Day that same year, I stepped off of the stage at the Reagan Library that I had been invited to speak upon to applause and a warm reception from the audience. After that, I all but walked away, distancing myself from the writing – from the public speaking – just to simply take a break. To enjoy motherhood for the first time. To refocus. The column may have been silenced, but the lessons I learned from it became a louder presence with each day that passed. Those lessons brought me back to the stories. Back to writing.
Tony Vasquez
It was the spring of 2001 and my first veteran interview was scheduled with Tony Vasquez, a World War II veteran from Santa Paula.
I was the first person outside of the veterans group he’d meet with in the San Fernando Valley that he talked to about his combat experiences. Of his time as a prisoner of war in Germany. Of the abuse and neglect. And mostly of the guilt he felt for more than 60 years from the loss of his first runner Gregory Vera – a loss he felt responsible for.
I was in awe of Tony. It was the beginning of nearly a decade worth of one of the best friendships I’ll ever have.
Every time I’d talk to Tony about his time in the service, Gregory’s name would come up. When I went to France in 2007 and visited the Normandy American Cemetery, I made it a point to find Gregory’s tombstone. To take a picture of the cross that marked his burial. I thought that perhaps a copy of that photo would bring some closure to Tony. He was happy to receive the photo - he thanked me - but I never really knew what happened to the photo afte
A little less than two years later I walked into Tony’s home to say goodbye for the last time. He was dying, and his loss crushed me. But there, near the entryway of his home, where everyone could see it, hung the photo of Gregory’s cross. It became apparent that the photo meant more to Tony than I could have ever imagined.
Yes, there were others that knew about the impact Gregory’s loss had on Tony long before I did – other veterans that understood the horrors of war. But to a kid who watched Tony umpire Little League games, or saw him serve his community at the local Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day ceremonies, there was no way of knowing what he lived through. Without that first interview, Tony would have just been another man I passed by in the grocery store.
I learned about the silence of true heroism.
Roy Jennings
I have vivid memories of seeing a tall man wearing a brimmed hat and a trench coat, walking with a long, slow stride around our neighborhood at night. I was, quite frankly, afraid of him.
“That’s my high school history teacher,” my dad used to tell me. But I was still scared.
That man was Roy Jennings – a retired history teacher and survivor of the Battle of the Bulge. He was also the subject of my Memorial Day 2002 veteran profile.
I remember walking into Roy’s house for our first interview feeling like I had walked onto the set of “Leave it to Beaver” or “Father Knows Best.” The furniture and décor was of that era, and I loved every bit of it.
\Toward the end of the interview Roy started talking about the lasting effects of the frostbite he suffered from while on the front lines during the brutal Belgian winter of 1944 and 1945. And though I didn’t dare ask, he explained to me why he walked at night. The frostbite left his feet permanently damaged, making it necessary to wear special insulated shoes or boots. That insulation made walking during the day hot and uncomfortable, but at night, with the cool air, each step was more bearable.
The image I had from my childhood of a mysterious man walking through the neighborhood at night was no more. There was an explanation. And it couldn’t have been more eye opening.
I learned about sacrifice.
Mercer-Prieto VFW Post 2043
In 2008 I wrote a story focusing on the services provided by Santa Paula’s Mercer-Prieto VFW Post 2043. My respect for the members of the VFW - for the way this specific chapter functions - had grown increasingly stronger in the few years I spent getting to know them. I noticed that they received very little recognition for their work, and that media coverage outside of Santa Paula was nearly non-existent. There was a gap, and I wanted to do my part to fill that gap.
So I wrote a couple of stories shedding light on the VFW’s community service projects that include local school presentations and programs; annual Veteran’s Day and Memorial services; the upkeep of plaques and memorials at Veteran’s Park and other facilities; and fundraising efforts, such as their annual spaghetti dinner, with money earned going toward all of the abovementioned programs, and more.
But the one service that they provide that struck me as the most poignant was the military burials, offered to families from throughout Ventura County, all at no charge.
In one of the stories, I wrote the following:
“For those who are still able, even with limps and other physical ailments , they volunteer out of a sense of brotherhood, of duties, though no longer members of the military, that are left to fulfill.”
“They show up in full VFW uniform, and, depending on how many are able to attend, are assigned duties as part of the seven-man rifle squad for the 21-Gun Salute. Or for casket detail in which they fold the American flag and present it to the family. Or as members of the Honor Guard. Or as the bugler assigned to play ‘Taps.’”“’It isn’t about the money,” said post commander, Jerry Olivas. “I don’t think it ever should be.’”
I learned about camaraderie.
Carl Barringer
I was 22 in 2004, and about as naive as they come. I was three years into writing about local World War II veterans. Three veterans were on my radar that spring. Lyle Gunderson, Albino Pineda, and Carl Barringer.
Like so many others, the name Carl Barringer meant something in Santa Paula. Even though I didn’t know him personally, I knew of him. It was the same for his wife, Cathy. Both tireless advocates for the town they came to call home many decades before, there were few events they didn’t attend, and even fewer organizations that were left untouched by the couple’s dedication to service and volunteer work.
I knocked on the door of their home. It was the first time I had been there. I was nervous. A bit intimidated. Cathy welcomed me into the house and led me to their dining room where Carl was waiting in his wheelchair. A stroke left him with limited mobility, but his mind and his spirit were in tact.
To this day I have yet to taste a better glass of homemade iced tea. And the cookies I was offered were an unexpected treat. I sat and listened to Carl as Cathy worked a bit, providing comforting background noise in the kitchen. More moving to me than his stories from the front lines of Belgium, Holland, and Germany was the sincerest regret he expressed in having lost so many of his comrades. No veteran that I had interviewed up to that point had ever cried so openly. He was apologetic. Even embarrassed. And I couldn’t seem to find the words to tell him that there was nothing he needed to apologize for.
The impact of that moment I shared with Carl was significant. He was well spoken, very stoic, but there was an imprint of war left behind – an unrecorded cost - that not even 60 years could change. I knew I would never forget that day.
I learned about the price of a tear.
Sr. Airman Daniel Johnson
While scrolling down the lists of posts on Facebook in October 2010, I came across a story that immediately grabbed my attention. An employee at Vandenberg Air Force Base was notifying his “Facebook friends” of the death of Senior Airman Daniel Johnson, a 23-year-old Illinois native who was stationed at Vandenberg and specialized in explosive ordnance disposal.
Because of his specialty he was one of only a few Vandenberg airmen to be sent to Afghanistan. His body was being brought back to Vandenberg –to his family and his new bride- for memorial services.
The Facebook post inspired me to contact Vandenberg and ask if I could attend the memorial services. I was given permission and did so. I was on the flight line when the jet carrying his body landed. Here is an excerpt from the story I wrote:
“9:30 a.m. Wednesday. A Kalitta Charters jet carrying the body of Sr. Airman Daniel Johnson lands at Vandenberg Air Force Base.
The morning fog remained low, keeping the flightline slightly shadowed as if it knew the sadness of the day.
As Air Force escorts carried the casket from the jet to the hearse, fellow military personnel, as well as military veterans, saluted Johnson with tears streaming down their cheeks.
A few hours earlier, the jet left Dover Air Force Base in Delaware where Johnson’s remains were taken after he was killed in action on Oct. 5, 2010, in Hendu, Kandahar, Afghanistan.
It was his second deployment.”
The story concluded with this:
“As we left the flightline that morning, base personnel had lined up alongside the streets to pay their respects as the procession made its way to the chapel. Some saluted. Some stood with their hands over their hearts. Hundreds of people who likely never knew Johnson.
On that day, it wasn’t about the war, the controversies or the politics. As a reporter, it wasn’t about getting the story. It was about paying tribute to a man who sacrificed his life while serving his country, Once known only as an airman, now remembered as a hero, brought home for one final farewell.”
I learned that, thus far, wars will continue to exist. And with that existence comes airmen, seamen, Marines, and soldiers to heed the call of duty, and pick up where the veterans of previous generations left off.
The greatest lessons I’ve learned weren’t in the classroom. The greatest lessons I’ve learned were in the home or hospital room of a veteran.
This column marks the first in what will be a new series featured in the Santa Paula Times called Hometown Heroes. I’ve partnered with the Veterans Home of Ventura to start writing profiles about the residents at the home. Though I will be focusing heavily on residents of the Veterans Home, the column will not be exclusive to that community. I will welcome story ideas from throughout Ventura County as I did with my previous column. Those interested in submitting a story idea may contact me via e-mail at hometownheroes805@gmail.com.
