There's something about having a military son that hasn't changed in a century. When your boy answers the call and heads to Basic Training, you won't see him for months, and your only communication during that time will be letters and a handful of phone calls.
My father served in World War II, joining what was at that time the Army Air Corps. This was before the Air Force was created. A wiry young lad, born on a farm in West Virginia, my father had known many hardships in his young life. His father died in the flu epidemic of 1918 as did several other close relatives. His mother had to sell the farm, move into town and take in boarders, cook and clean, while caring for two small boys. The family relocated to Buffalo, NY when his mother finally remarried.
My dad was one of many who saw joining the military as an opportunity to protect our nation and do something important. Love of country was stronger than love of self. Leaving everything familiar behind, men like my dad, headed off to a very uncertain future and possibly death. The only link to home was through letters.
It's an interesting thing about these letters. I would bet if you asked 100 military people, 99 would say they saved every note, every card, every letter they received while serving. Those letters are a delicate lifeline that can cross thousands of miles and tether a soldier to home. My dad saved the letters he received as well as the ones he wrote home. Upon his mother's death, they were found among her treasured possessions, of which there were few.
After my father's death, my mother gave each of the children some of those letters. What a treasure. Reading them gave me a better sense of the man my father was in his younger years, and they helped me get to know my grandmother. Though I never met her, I feel I know her well. We share a bond, stronger now because of her letters.
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