In the summer of 1956, in the quiet farming town of Delta, Colorado, a young woman named Dotty Allen stood at the bus stop, her heart heavy with emotion. She blinked back tears, reluctant to leave the warmth of her parents’ embrace and return to her life in California. Her vacation had ended too soon, and she longed for just a little more time at home.
A small crowd gathered at the station, waiting for the bus that would carry them westward. Dotty’s parents stood close, offering reassuring smiles, though they, too, felt the weight of the impending farewell. She braced herself for the long journey back to Oakland, where she worked as a telephone operator, connecting voices across the miles while feeling increasingly disconnected from the family she loved.
As the bus rumbled up to the curb, hissing to a stop, her mother nudged her gently and pointed. A group of young soldiers in crisp dress greens lined up to board, their pressed uniforms and polished boots a stark contrast to the dusty station platform.
“Oh, I would sit by that one,” her mother said, nodding toward a tall soldier with dark hair and warm brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled.
Dotty wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. “Umm… no, not that one. I think I’ll sit by that one,” she replied, motioning toward another young man standing nearby.
Her father chuckled, exchanging a knowing glance with his wife. “Your mother’s right. I believe you should sit by that fella.”
Passengers began to shuffle forward, handing their tickets to the driver. Dotty lingered, reluctant to take that final step onto the bus. She clung to these last moments with her parents, memorizing the way her mother’s eyes crinkled when she smiled, the scent of her father’s worn flannel shirt as he hugged her one last time.
With a deep breath, she turned and climbed aboard.
The door shut behind her with a finality that made her throat tighten. As the bus lurched forward, she quickly scanned the aisle for an empty seat, her vision blurred by unshed tears. She barely noticed when a soldier stood and reached for her suitcase, lifting it effortlessly into the overhead bin.
“You can have the window seat,” he offered, his voice warm and gentle.
Still dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, Dotty slid into the seat he had offered. It wasn’t until she glanced up that she realized—with a mixture of amusement and surprise—that she had unknowingly taken the very seat her mother had suggested. The handsome soldier with the kind eyes smiled at her, seemingly unaware of the small twist of fate that had placed them side by side.
Her father smiled from the platform. Her mother chuckled. Dotty had unwittingly chosen the man they had both nudged her toward.
As the bus pulled away, Dotty gave a final wave, clutching the soldier’s handkerchief in her hands. At first, she remained quiet, lost in thought. But the soldier was patient, making gentle attempts at conversation. Eventually, she responded, and they began to talk. His name was Harold Reeder, and he was also heading to California, returning to his military base.
By the time they arrived, something unspoken had passed between them—a spark, a connection. In the weeks and months that followed, letters crossed between them, their friendship deepening with every exchange.
A year later, Harold found the courage to propose. He didn’t have money for a traditional ring, but that didn’t stop him. Instead, he presented Dotty with something even more meaningful: a simple copper charm, once a penny, flattened and smoothed into an oval. Stamped onto its surface was the Lord’s Prayer—a testament to his love, resourcefulness, and devotion.
He gave it to her before he was stationed in Anchorage, Alaska.
While Harold was away, Dotty continued working at the telephone company, her fingers deftly connecting calls while her heart remained tethered to the young soldier miles away. She wore the copper charm close, a tangible reminder of the promise he had made.
Four years after their meeting, on May 27, 1960, Dotty and Harold were married in Alameda, California. True to his word, Harold later bought her a beautiful engagement ring and a matching diamond band. But no matter how lovely the rings were, nothing could replace the sentimental value of that small copper charm.
Their life together took them to various places—first Alameda, then Fort Lewis in Seattle, Washington, Colorado, and then back to Alameda. They built a home filled with laughter, love, and the stories that would one day be passed down to their children.
Among the many treasured keepsakes in our family, two stand out: the copper charm and Harold’s dog tags. Time has darkened the metal, but the significance remains untarnished. These small tokens, once a promise between two young hearts, are now heirlooms—a testament to a love story that began with a simple bus ride and a mother’s gentle nudge.
The photos captures a moment in time: my parents, Dotty Allen Reeder and Harold Reeder, standing with me on Roger’s Mesa at my grandparents’ ranch. Two months after I was born, we moved to Hotchkiss, Colorado, when my dad was stationed at Fort Carson.
And still, among my most cherished treasures, are that copper charm and those dog tags—symbols of the love that brought our family into being.
Dorothy Marie Allen and Harold LeRoy Reeder
Tales of a Family 