I was just 14 years old. It was August 1969, and I was working at one of my very first jobs, as a busboy at Norm’s Restaurant during the ten-day run of the New York State Fair. Norm’s was not one of those tiny booths that popped up like mushrooms during Fair week and then disappeared for a full year, but a sprawling, cafeteria-style restaurant on the far south end of the aging Horticultural Building.

Anyway, we staffers (most of us, wet-behind-the-ears school kids) were told by Ada Rothschild, Norm’s wife (who pretty much ran the joint), that at 10 AM we we'd be serving 50 Gold Star mothers. I had no idea what a Gold Star mother was, so I just went with it.

And, sure enough, at 10 o’clock those 50 mothers came parading in to eat whatever it was we'd agreed to serve them. To my 14-year old eyes, the ladies were ancient; every one well over 50, maybe even 60 or 70, all with gray hair and, more often than not, thick, cat's eye or gold-rimmed glasses. They were also all dressed in something that appeared to be a nurse’s uniform, with every last one sporting a little white hat featuring, as their name suggested, a tiny gold star.

As I was going about my business, cleaning dishes, piling up trays and wiping tables, I noticed one of the mothers watching me closely. Every time I looked over I caught her stealing glances my way. And unlike the others, she was not seated in a group. Instead, she sat all alone, her small plate of food in front of her.  And she didn't wear glasses, but had the icy blue eyes of a much younger woman.

Eventually, as I was walking by she smiled and said a soft, “Hello.”  I did the same. Then shortly thereafter, as I was wiping down a table adjacent to her, she asked me if I’d like to join her. I told her I really couldn’t. I said I had a job to do. But even as I was saying that, I found myself pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down.

It was though her eyes and their inherent warmth and tenderness had beckoned me, and I was almost powerless to do a thing about it. And those eyes, even at probably 70 years old, were mesmerizing. They were both beautiful and full of sparkle, and they communicated a depth of character that was so palpable that, I swear, I felt I could almost touch it.

As she stared at me, smiling, in a very soft and tender voice she started asking me about myself. What was my name? Where did I go to school? What grade was I in? What did I like to do with my spare time? Did I have lots of friends?  Did I like baseball? And the whole time this was going on, I kept looking directly into those blue eyes of hers, which continued to look back at me with a love that even my own mother would probably have a hard time topping.

Finally, I apologized and said I had to get back to work. I said it was nice talking to her and I hoped she'd have fun at the Fair, but I really had a job to do. Her eyes glistened a goodbye, and she smiled at me one last time. And that was the last I ever thought of her.

Until the following year.

I was back working at Norm’s for Fair Week. The Gold Star mothers were again headed our way at 10 AM. And once again we were told to be on our toes. But this time I asked Ada something I should have thought to ask her twelve months prior. “What the heck,” I asked, "is a Gold Star mother?”

Ada looked at me as if I had carrots growing out my ears, and said, “You’ve never heard of the Gold Star mothers? Those are mothers who've had a son killed in war.”

I stood there dumbstruck, the realization hitting me like a 2x4 to my thick skull. The woman wasn’t staring at me because I was a nice guy, or especially cute, or happened to clean tables particularly well. She was staring at me because something about me apparently reminded her of her son who'd been killed while defending his country -- my country.

I was stunned. I couldn't talk. And for a moment I could barely move or breathe. All I knew that was when I eventually turned away from Ada, who'd returned to doing whatever it was she'd been doing, my eyes were brimming with tears.

Because even though I'd never answered my doorbell during wartime, never been handed a little brownish yellow telegram from the War Department, and never been forced to slowly read the thing, including the chilling words “ We regret to inform you…”, I’d come as close as I would ever want to.

I had stared deep into the eyes of a World War II mother who’d actually gotten such a telegram, and who'd actually read it. And I, for the briefest of moments beheld, in all its power and majesty, the very thing that almost killed that woman and yet somehow allowed her to soldier on.

I saw and felt the enormity of her love. It was just a tiny sliver of it, I'll admit that, but that was more than enough. Because I saw in her a love she'd always carry in her heart, a love that allowed her to get up each morning and face the day, even after learning that the son she'd once cradled in her arms and sung to sleep at night had given his life so that his fellow Upstate New Yorkers -- including knuckleheads like me and my friends -- could continue to go to state fairs, play baseball, shoot off fireworks, and, yes, bus tables.

It’s late on Memorial Day, 2015. I was getting ready for bed a moment ago. But as I was brushing my teeth and putting a fresh set of sheets on the bed, she came to me again, just as she’s done every Memorial Day for the past 45 years. My Gold Star memory. As I was putting on the fitted sheet, there she was; that beautiful, loving, selfless woman seated at one of Norm's tables, smiling at me yet again, and looking into my eyes for a trace of her son.

And I had to sit down right there on the bed as she visited me yet again. And for a few moments I remembered one more time that morning so many years ago when I got to sit at arm’s length and look into the soul of a courageous mother, gentle warrior, and true American hero, a remarkable woman who, as Abraham Lincoln might have written, had laid so costly a sacrifice on the altar of freedom.

That’s why I’m writing this now, while my bed sits unmade. I figured it was time to finally commit my Gold Star memory to words ,and to honor a woman and her heroic son, a guy I only got to know as a reflection in his mother's eye, but a guy with whom I'm sure I would have loved to have had a chance to go a ballgame, share a joke, or knock back a cold one or two.

Here’s to our freedoms, my friends. Here’s to our Gold Star mothers. And here’s to all those from coast to coast who have paid so dearly on a debt we all owe.

May you and yours have a joyous, peaceful, and meaningful Memorial Day.