Driving My Grandfather to His Reunion

My grandfather served on a navy ship in the 1950s, and this spring there was a reunion for the surviving crew in Norfolk. He couldn't drive that far anymore, so I took him. Nine hours each way.

He told stories the entire drive. About the cook who made cinnamon buns at three in the morning. About a typhoon off Okinawa. About a sailor named Ernie who could whistle any song ever written.

At the reunion there were eleven men, all in their eighties and nineties, in matching ball caps. When my grandfather walked in, a man across the room shouted his nickname, which I had never heard, and they hugged for a long time.

And then Ernie, ninety-one years old, whistled "Moon River." The whole room went quiet. My grandfather squeezed my hand. I've driven a lot of miles in my life. Those were the best eighteen hours I ever spent behind a wheel.