Family History and Memorial Day

I was too busy yesterday to write anything, but it was Memorial Day here in the U.S., a holiday set aside to remember all our service veterans, past and present who served our country in their respective branches of military service.  In my family, as in many others, it has poignant meaning.  My uncle was listed Missing in Action in 1944, and remained so for nearly forty years.  In 1986, we received notice from the Pentagon that his remains had been found in New Guinea. A media flood ensued, and my grandmother turned out to be the only living parent of any of the men on the plane.
Here is the link if you would like to read one of the articles still available to be found on the internet:

http://www.people.com/people/archive/article/0,,20084215,00.html.

The article is nicely written, but so much was left out of the story that only family knew.  Weldon was only 23 when he died.  He never referred to my grandmother in his letters as Mother, or Mom, or any of the traditional names.  He always started with "Dear Honey"; his personal pet name for her.
It didn’t tell there how she, as a single mother, was struggling to raise her four children during a world war alone, after my grandfather left, or how he joined the military to help relieve her of financial burden.  
No mention was made that the day the fateful telegram arrived to tell her he was missing, her 16 year old son (my dad) had managed to enlist in the naval air corp, and had arrived in San Diego for his first day of basic training.
It couldn’t properly convey the look of sadness in her eyes each time she spoke of him, and it was frequently.   All the stories of the uncle I never met are stored in my mind, having heard them many times down through the years.  I remember the never ending hope in her voice, that somehow a miracle would occur and he would still show up on her doorstep one day, alive and well. I saw the pain and longing she carried my entire life for her lost son.
 When my son died, I held him as his heart beat it’s last, and he took his last breath.  I kissed him goodbye, and watched as they lowered his casket, and I still could hardly admit to myself that I would never see him, or hold him, or speak to him again in this life.  In my mind I created scenarios where it was all a huge mistake; that it wasn’t REALLY Austin who died.
I can’t imagine how much worse it was, never knowing where he lay all those years
When all was said and done, he received the burial he was due, in the family plot where Grandma now lies right beside him.  We got a letter from President Reagan expressing his condolences and his gratitude for the sacrifice Weldon, and by extension my grandmother, made.  And the flag that was draped over the casket came from the White House.
Nothing could remove the awful grief of losing her son, but when the time came it seemed as though the entire country did it’s best to express their gratitude.  
And a grateful mother finally got to bring her son home.