R-129 May 11, 1941 at Trumbull, Conn., (Lord knows what time it will be when this reaches you at Anchorage – “the place the mailman forgot”.)
Dear Alaska Dancedick and Aleuzenev Al:
What do you want to bet that this letter will start out by referring to the fact that still another week has passed into the limbo of time without a letter from Alaska? Well, I’ll fool you. I won’t say anything about it, so nya, nya. I did get a short but newsy letter from Lad stating that the “powers that be” down there have finally informed Lad that he may take a month after he gets home to decide whether he wants to come back with them again at a salary of twenty-five simoleons more than he is now getting. He starts for home late in May or early in June – – definite details later when he has had an opportunity to make more definite plans. Of course, this is the big news and all else fades into comparative significance although there are a few happenings that merit mention as the clock of time ticks off events in Trumbull.
First I must mention the bang-up the party we had last night. Unveiled for the first time to an interested audience, or to be more precise, spectators, consisting of Aunt Betty, Jean Mortenson (Dick, don’t interrupt with those ahs) Jean Hughes, Red and Dave (the operator) and yours truly, in the Guion ménage kitchen were a series of the Venezuelan and Alaskan films, which have the company present on the edges of their seats for excitement. Lad’s latest contribution was a fierce oil fire, a little sailboat on the blue water and a bevy of beautiful señoritas in swimming. We can understand why he may want to go back. And the latest Alaskan film just received is a wow. Dick’s landing, his difficulty in attracting Ced’s attention away from his dearly beloved airplanes, the luggage toting to the door of their Alaskan home, Ced’s reeling home, drunk with joy at the arrival of the transcontinental auto driver, Dick’s brave attempt on skis, even the brakeman spitting as the train disembarked it’s load, (how significant a gesture this might be) ending with Dick walking out of the picture on the long, long trail. This last film is by far the most interesting so far, perhaps because it has so much human interest for us home – – views of the boys rather than just scenery. That, by the way, is one of the things we miss most in Lad’s pictures. He ought to get someone to take pictures of him doing some of the typical things associated with his life in Pariaguan.
Debonair Dave and Devastating Dad drove down to dreadful Brooklyn yesterday morning, leaving the house here at 10 minutes before seven and arriving at Aunt Betty’s hotel at a little after 9 o’clock. We then drove across Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan, parked the car, saw a morning performance of Fantasia, (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fantasia_(1940_film)) had lunch at the automat and drove home early in the afternoon.
I’ll post the rest of this letter tomorrow, which includes quite an interesting review of Fantasia by Grandpa and a glimpse of Sir Launcelot.
On Saturday and Sunday, more early memories of Trumbull.