Feb. 27, 1941
Greetings and salutations, Merry Xmas, Happy New Year, and Happy Fourth of July; I guess that should take care of all the time since I’ve owed you a letter and all the time it will probably take you to answer this. If I thought sure I was going to see your kid brother on his way to your frontier paradise (?), I’d save three cents and let him bring this, but he’d probably lose it anyhow, so here you are.
For your information, you prejudiced old banshee, my Ford is still in one piece, and doing very nicely, averages 1 quart of oil every 950 miles, and that’s not just for one 950 mile hop, it’s for a total of 10,000 miles, so there, too. Of course, I’m not at all prejudiced when I say that a Ford is perhaps the most marvelous of all modern petrol consuming vehicles, and all it needs to start on a cold morning is a whisper uttered in a seductive manner under the hood (it must be under the hood) to this effect, “Turn over Lizzie and let’s get started.”
Is your flying progressing any better than it was around Christmas time? I knew your dad said that you’d been having a little trouble with coordination. I’ll bet that by now you’ve had it disappear, all at once, no doubt. It seems that for a while, you fly (?) and fly, sloppily and rotten, then one nice (?) Maybe I mean fine, day, your troubles all disappear, and you find to your amazement, but not chagrin, that you can land the damn thing, no? I’ve got my private license now, but haven’t had the time, OR MONEY, to do any flying since I passed the flight test; at six bucks an hour, it gets pretty expensive.
Some of the fellows and I went on a toot on the night of the day I passed my flight test, we go on the slightest provocation, and had quite a time. Wound up in a dive in Des Moines, picked up some nice-looking dames and damn near got beat up when their husbands came out of the back room after having hit the jackpot’s on all the slot machines in the joint; I think I filled one of ‘em. The next day we had guests for dinner, the director of housing and the chief dietitian, no less, and I had to act as chauffeur (?) and bring them over. All went well until a bump knocked the empty whiskey bottle out from under the front seat, and oh my, tch, tch, didn’t I get glared at. I had to do quite a little explaining because drinking here at dear old I.S.C. means the boot; evidently, my explanation was good, because I’m still here.
I’ve got to go bowling now – big tournament, may not get any more written for a month or two, will file this for future typing practice, and stuff.
Don’t know if I can write this and listen to Sherlock Homes too, but it’s almost over now, and the crooks will soon be in the jug. Yep, just caught ’em. Just heard they’re having a blizzard in N.Y. tonight, tsk, tsk, and here it’s almost spring. How did you and Dan survive the winter, any frozen digits?
I guess I should have closed last night, this is all a lot of b.s., And I’m up to my elbows in it now, so will quit before it gets up on the keys of this contraption.
P.S. Hope you feel inclined to write sooner than I did.
Charlie Hall grew up with the boys in Trumbull. I believe he was closer in age to Dick, possibly because they got into trouble a few times, but here he is writing to Ced.
The rest of the week will be devoted to two letters from Grandpa to Lad, Dan and Ced, those sons away from home right now.