Grief turns to action
On Veterans Day and throughout the year, parents who have lost children to war channel their loss into minimizing troops' pain and injury
Her back hurts and her kitchen's a mess, but Denise Gionet won't be slowing down anytime soon. She's got 200 pounds of beef to slice, marinate, and then dehydrate.
"My son loved it," Gionet said last week as the kitchen of her Pelham, N.H., home was transformed into a homespun beef-jerky factory. "Every time he called home, he'd say, 'Send more beef jerky, please.' "
On June 4, 2006, her 23-year-old son, Army Sergeant Daniel R. Gionet, was killed in Baghdad.
But she hasn't stopped making his favorite treat. Now she just sends it to the soldiers who are still fighting. She's hoping that this batch gets there in time for Veterans Day.
"The guys over there really appreciate it."
Like many people who have lost loved ones in the war on terror, Gionet, a 48-year-old hospital secretary, has channeled her grief into action.
"I have to stay busy," she said, "because if I don't, I'll end up feeling sorry for myself."
She is not alone.
A retired school bus driver from Dracut has persuaded hundreds of corporations to donate what has amounted to 12 tons of supplies for the troops, while a Bedford entrepreneur is putting the finishing touches on his bomb-sniffing robots.
"You have all this energy," said Brian Hart, the robot maker, whose son, John, was killed by Iraqi insurgents in 2003. "And you realize pretty quickly that it can be positive or destructive."
Maureen Arvanitis of Salem, N.H., has opted for the positive, too. Her son, Army Corporal Nicholas Arvanitis, was killed the day after he turned 22 in Bayji, Iraq, last October.
She e-mails his fellow soldiers often. "I try to let them know that I am thinking of them every day," said Arvanitis, a tax examiner for the Internal Revenue Service. "I know that they miss Nick a lot, just like we do."
Sue Boule of Dracut said she was propelled to action after her youngest son, Army Specialist Mathew Boule, died in Iraq at age 22.
"Before Mat died," she said, "he wrote me a letter saying there were guys who didn't have people to write to them. He asked me if I could send some extra brownies for them."
On April 2, 2003, the Black Hawk helicopter in which Boule was traveling crashed, killing him and five others.
A month later, his mother was sitting in a smoky Dracut diner, signing the letters she had written to 700 American and British companies. She wanted to send things to the soldiers.
"Lollipops, foot powder, toothpaste," her request form read. "Deodorant, pens, shaving cream."
The response was overwhelming. In just one year, Boule sent 12 tons of personal goods - including sunscreen, lip balm, and digital cameras - to Iraq. She also coordinated with military personnel so that the troops could see what had been delivered and pick out what they needed.
"It was set up like a store, but everything was free," she said.
As word of her care package spread, others began sending them, too. Eventually, Boule shifted her focus to her next project: persuading the state to adopt special license plates for Gold Star families.
Since World War I, the Gold Star has been a national symbol for a family who lost a member in battle.
Boule was successful in that endeavor, too. In July 2005, Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney presented the Boules with the state's first Gold Star license plate. Since then, she has helped people in 13 other states obtain them.
"It means a lot to a lot of people," said Joseph Desiato, a Bedford pediatrician, whose son, Marine Lance Corporal Travis R. Desiato, was only 19 when he died in combat in Iraq in November 2004. Desiato's family is one of many in Massachusetts with the license plate.
While Boule was lobbying state leaders, Brian Hart was in Washington, meeting with Congress.
After his son, Army Private First Class John Daniel Hart, was killed in October 2003, Brian Hart launched a massive campaign to ensure that American soldiers had adequate armor.
"The week before he died, he called home and told us he was going to be ambushed. He said he needed armor," Brian Hart said.
A few days later, there was a knock at the door of the Bedford home of Brian and Alma Harts: John was dead. He had been shot in the neck while riding in a Humvee in Taza, Iraq.
Enroute to Arlington National Cemetery for his son's burial, Hart heard from other soldiers about the troops' lack of armor and ammunition.
Disheartened and disillusioned, Hart began studying the way the Army supplied its soldiers. He met with Senator Edward M. Kennedy and other members of Congress and eventually quit his career as a pharmaceutical executive to lobby full time for better protection for the troops.
Soon, the lack of adequate protection was national news. Later, Martin T. Meehan, then a US representative, credited Hart when the nation spent $700 million for Humvee armor.
Then in 2005, Hart and his brother, Richard, saw a CNN video clip of a soldier pushing a bomb off the road with a Humvee. When the bomb blew up, the Hart brothers realized they could help in this area, too.
They created the LandShark, a six-wheeled robotic vehicle that can remotely detonate a bomb or probe a roadway for booby traps. At about $25,000 each, they are half the cost of other military robots.
"We are developing a product that I'm sure will find its way into Iraq in the next few years," he said.
Hart has become a vocal critic of the war, but last week, as the nation prepared to honor its veterans, he said his antiwar efforts and his robots are both aimed at the same goal: protecting soldiers. "We owe it to the soldiers, to either get them out of war, or get them equipment to properly fight it."
Christine McConville can be reached at cmcconville@globe.com. 