It was, regrettably, far too many years after Bob and Mary moved in next door, off my backyard, that we actually spoke. Walking with my dog, Seamus, past their house, they invited us to sit with them on their porch to enjoy the cool of an uncharacteristically-mild Virginia summer evening. These welcome visits became more frequent and I looked forward to their regular invitations.

As he explained it, after the war, Bob managed airports in his career, which led him all over the world. Military families often were stationed nearby. They stayed for a time, then just as suddenly moved on, as is their way. It seems the dog of choice for these families was the German Shepherd. Sometimes, the families could take the dogs with them to their new posts. When they could not, they gave the dogs to Bob.

Over time, Bob was able to find homes for most of the dogs. Those he could not, he kept. He told me that in his tenure, he had known seven German Shepherds; three he had at the same time. Not only were these dogs his constant companions, but in less-than-appealing parts of town, they succeeded in keeping disreputable elements at bay.

My Seamus is a German Shepherd/Collie mix, smarter than any of today’s honor roll students, clever, and with a wonderful disposition, with enough of the German Shepherd’s physical characteristics to prick Bob’s ears and jog fond memories. We visited Bob frequently during the day when he was alone at home with his aid, Mary at work.

Bob delighted in our visits, dazzled by Seamus’s boundless energy, intelligence, and striking good looks. We laughed together as his little terrier, Angie, chased Seamus mercilessly around the back yard, across the deck, in through the open door, then out again, and through every room of the house, crashing into furniture and, I fear, jumping onto beds. When it rained, we confined our visits to the indoors. Bob’s love, respect, and awe for the German Shepherd was palpable. Gazing at Seamus, Bob frequently said, “he is beautiful”, reaching to pet him every time the dogs dashed past.

In the time I spent with Bob, I learned of his war experience. Barely more than a boy, America sent Bob along with many thousands more young Marines to storm the beaches, into the carnage of the battle for Okinawa in the Pacific, what is now more than seventy-five years ago. All that Bob ever said of it to me, softly and with a heavy sigh, is all that men from his generation ever said to anyone who was not there, “It . . . was . . . rough.”

I said, “Bob, I cannot even begin to imagine what it was like for you there, for you and your comrades—the horror, the struggle, the sacrifice, the suffering, Thank you for your service.”

Our friendly visits continued, sometimes during the day, dogs racing to and fro, other times in the evenings when Mary could sit with us. Earlier this summer, I undertook a new project on my 1952 Chevrolet pickup truck. I told Bob about it and he was intrigued. On impulse, I fired up the truck late one afternoon and pulled up in front of his house. With Seamus on their doorstep announcing our arrival, I invited Bob and Mary out to to view my latest creation: the lovingly restored bed and matching stake sides crafted out of repurposed rafters from a 90-year-old house, finished with successive coats of marine varnish.

Bob and Mary were, in a word, impressed. As Bob caressed the wood, I asked if I could take him for a ride. Mary agreed. Bob was excited. We carefully loaded him onto the bench seat, passenger side. Then, I climbed behind the wheel, Seamus between us. Bob could not resist; as the engine spun to life, Bob’s fingers already were buried deep into Seamus’s soft fur, and there they remained. Before pulling away from the curb, I asked Mary if she wanted me to bring Bob back or should we simply keep going. Mary became quiet for the longest time, searching the sky, fingers clasping her chin as she weighed her new options.

We confined our adventure that day to the neighborhood, if memory serves, driving every road in Hollin Hall at least twice. At a stop sign, I asked Bob if he was ready to go home. His left hand still in motion on Seamus, with his right, he beckoned us onward, saying “we can keep going.” Off we motored again, the same roads, the same old Chevy, the same thoughtful man stroking the same contented dog. At some later stop, I asked again if we should head back. As before, hand on dog, other hand beckoning us onward, Bob said, “we can keep going,”

Checking him frequently, I realized that Bob’s expression never changed, smiling, lost in the moment, almost a dream. I had never seen him so happy. Here on this day, petting his favorite dog, tooling along in my 70-year-old Chevy, this adventure became a time machine for Bob, his youth, life and a time a bit simpler, perhaps stirring fond memories.

As we pulled up to the curb, Mary hurried from the house to greet us. We eased Bob out onto the grass. He and I shook hands warmly, and I promised Bob that this was only the first of his many rides in my truck. He beamed at the thought and agreed. Then, with a firm grasp of his arm to steady him, Mary guided Bob’s uncertain steps across the lawn and into the house. As they stepped away, Mary smiled at me and offered a warm, gentle thank you.

My only regret is that I never had the chance to fulfill my promise to Bob for future rides. I can only hope that the adventure we shared, the solitary ride we three took together is a memory Bob carries home.