This picture of Dick was actually taken at the wrong time of the year, but it is the only one I have of him at about this age.
Dear Children – Roun-Robin
The usual procedure is to sign one’s name after having completed the customary twaddle. Having received several such paragraphs in round-robins, I realize how stupid it is. Anyone reading the letter will probably have to read a paragraph, notice who wrote it, and then go back and read it over a second time; this time getting a little more out of it, but still feeling that he has gleaned very little from his reading. Realizing the fallacy of this procedure, I will hasten to let you know who is writing this particular stanza. It is I; little Dick.
Barbara mentioned that “WE” almost practically got stuck which is not the case at all. Although I let them all believe that the situation was critical, I had, at all times, the utmost confidence in my driving ability; being the best driver in the family. Anyone of lesser dexterity and driving knowledge would most certainly have become hopelessly engulfed in the treacherous quagmire, but with deft maneuvering, I managed to overcome the clutching, sucking morass in the nick of time. To overcome my habit of minimizing hardships, I will tell you of some of the obstacles I had to overcome. As the water lapped at the windshield, threatening to drown us like the rats they are; with three girls screaming, sobbing brokenly, and throwing their arms about my neck (which I didn’t really mind very much) with occasional bits of droll information from Dave concerning tides in freshwater pools, with little regard for Uncle Sam’s rubber and gas, I applied myself diligently to the task at hand. Waiting for the strategic moment when my sputtering motor slowed to 48 RPM’s, I firmly grasped the gear shikk shipt (one must be careful where he lays his fingers when typing, mustn’t one?) I firmly grasped the gear shift knob in my right hand and eased the car into low gear. With temples throbbing, the blood rushing cold in my veins, I relived in a split second my carefree childhood days. Then, gritting my teeth, I did the only thing possible. Not only my life, but five other tender lives were in my hands. I raced the motor, let out the clutch with a snap. For an instant we moved, but the motor died. Henry Ford had let another sucker down. The three girls had fainted by now and Dave was in the last stages of consciousness (which isn’t unusual) I felt weak and sick, but this was no time to quit, so, with trembling fingers, I pressed the starter and xxxxxxxxxx when the motor had struggled back to life, I again tramped on the gas pedal; all the while releasing the clutch pedal slowly. The motor faltered momentarily but came back to normal with tear-dimmed eyes, I glanced out the side window and noticed that we were moving forward inch by inch. I shut my eyes and prayed a thousand prayers. By the time I had finished the 999th, I had the sensation that we were rolling along forward at a much faster rate, and sure enough, just as I snapped my eyes open, a state policeman blew his siren and motioned me over to the side. Well, bread and water isn’t a very substantial diet for a defense worker, so I told the cop. He kind of smiled, He see I had him.
Adios, Hermanos, Mios
Tomorrow, the final segment of the Round-Robin, written bt Grandpa. It is full of news of family and friends.
On Saturday and Sunday, Grandpa’s story continues with his realization concerning Arla Peabody and his B.C.S. Degree.
On Monday, I’ll be posting letters written in 1945, with more about Dan’s announcement that he is getting married to a lovely French girl named Paulette.