Memorial Day was always a special day for me, even as a child. It was a particularly important day of remembrance for my mother. Every year, she made sure we wore the commemorative red poppies to honor her youngest brother, the family hero.

Kenneth Arthur MacMillan was the youngest of four children. When their mother dies, my mother, Alberta, was 6 and the siblings were 4, 2 and baby Kenny was 14 months. He never knew his mother who spent the last months of her life in a tuberculosis sanitorium. Alberta remembered the four children gathering below their mummy’s window to wave and throw kisses. She held Kenneth in her arms, teaching him to wave. She remembered the only time her mother ever spoke from her window, noting that Kenny’s bright auburn hair was the same color as Alberta’s. “I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins,” she said. It was the last time the children saw their mother laugh.

Alberta actually gave Kenneth his nickname, Buddy. With their mother’s health ebbed, many baby-tending duties fell to Alberta. Feeding, bathing, diapering, she did what she could to help – for her special little Buddy. He was easy to love and care for, an adorable, happy baby.

After their mother died, the family was split, and the children never lived together again. It was 1925, in an era when many fathers were incapable of caring for young children. Within months, their father consented to Buddy’s adoption thinking it might be a better start for the little boy. He struggled to find decent situations for his other children. Eventually they all went “on the city” – placed in foster homes.

Buddy’s adoptive parents had been unable to have children. But within months of Kenneth’s arrival, the young father became jealous of the baby. His wife was totally enamored with the new love in her life. Eventually, the husband gave her an ultimatum: “Either he goes, or I do.” Buddy, the abandoned toddler, was returned to a Boston foster home.

Alberta, devastated when her Buddy was adopted, was thrilled he was returned and visited him as often as she could. The children were scattered in four different foster homes across metropolitan Boston. Their father visited infrequently. It was a mean, tough childhood.

Kenneth grew into a tall, slim boy. Alberta was his solace, his always reliable anchor. And he admired his big brother, Chester. In 1942, soon after America declared war, Chester enlisted. Kenneth, fresh-faced kid out of high school at 17, followed his brother. When his age was questioned, he declared his birthdate as April 1, 1921 … 3 years prior to his real birthdate. Kenneth was deployed to Europe, Chester to the South Pacific.

By then, Alberta had married and I was born mere weeks before the bombing of Pearl Harbor. I found a picture of little me with both uncles in new uniforms, having just finished their basic training. Devoted to her brothers, Mom wrote to them on alternating days. She sent packages of cookies, comic books, and film. They wrote when they could, often receiving 4 or 5 of her letters during one mail call.

My mother loved the song “My Buddy,” a tune from the first World War. She wrote to Kenneth about it, and sang its sentimental verses often throughout my childhood:

“Nights are long since you went away I think about you all through the day My buddy, my buddy No-body quite so true Miss your voice, the touch of your hand Just long to know that you understand My buddy, my buddy Your buddy misses you”

Two years into his enlistment, Kenneth was driving a tank in France when a Luftwaffe bomb landed a direct hit. My mother was notified only when one of her letters was returned. Kenneth’s name was crossed out, the word “deceased” written across the envelope. Hysteria preceded her grief. Her Buddy was buried in France.

It wasn’t until 1949 that he was disinterred and brought to the States. He was buried in Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery on Point Loma overlooking San Diego Bay. My mother tapped all her savings to fly to the ceremony.

Kenneth’s mostly hard-knock life ended tragically soon after he turned 20. Sadly, his original lie to the Army about his age is reflected on his tombstone. His April 1 birthday is correct, but the year engraved on the stone is 1921, not 1924, forever declaring him an age he never reached.

When I lived in San Diego, I visited Uncle Kenneth’s grave often. Atop that high bluff, the view is magnificent, the constant sun blessing the spot with beauty, serenity. But I never left without regretting that wrong date on his stone.

In my mother’s last days, she said, “I’m looking forward to seeing my buddy again.” It took me a minute, and then, remembering, I sang the song with her. She smiled through her tears.

All I have today of my Uncle Kenneth are his purple heart and a few sepia-toned snapshots. I wish I had really known him.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren. Send comments to moby.32@hotmail.com.