Trumbull, Conn., Nov. 1, 1942
Dear Flesh and Blood:
One of the first objects of this letter indicted on the first day of November is to offer atonement for having slipped up on what has been an unbroken two-year chain of weekly letters. Last Sunday my typewriter was silent. In the so-called Morning Service of the Episcopal Church, which was so large a part of my youth, there is what is called a General Confession which reads as follows: “We have erred and strayed from the ways like lost sheep; we have done those things which we ought not to have done and have left undone those things which we ought to have done and there is no health in us.” “So let it be with Caesar.”
The reason for this lapse, which the charitably inclined might label “extenuating circumstances”, lies in the fact that Sunday marked the culmination of a week of unceasing effort to turn out with a sadly crippled force of workers, sufficient multi-graph letters to help elect a Republican governor for the great little Commonwealth of Connecticut. Saturday, far into the night, witnessed Dave and his father busily working, Sunday morning Dave and Dick went to the office to add their bit while I stayed home to get a birthday dinner in celebration of my son Daniel’s natal anniversary, after which I immediately left for the office to continue again into the night the work which was to see the final touch in the production of the letter campaign. In the true Guion tradition, we finished the job and next Tuesday will, I hope, witness a favorable result to our efforts. As Lad and Dan were both home on that occasion, they probably did not greatly miss the non-receipt of the weekly letter, so perhaps this apology should point more in the direction of Alaska then southward.
Lad was again home this weekend but Dan, I learned through a letter received by Barbara, that Dan and a surveying crew have been transferred for the next few weeks to temporary headquarters at Spring Grove, Pa., where they have a job to be done. Pretty name, isn’t it? Reminds me of the song-story of the prit-ty little rabbit and the hunter and the three trees, there are and there and there.
There is still no definite word as to when Lad leaves for the west, but that he is to leave is pretty well assured in his own mind. He has sought and secured permission to drive his car to the coast, being allowed mileage, and intends to take along with him at least two and possibly more fellow travelers from Aberdeen. To that end he has just bought from Arnold four new tires so that he should have no difficulty on that score in duplicating the adventure of the Willys.
I wish there were some secret potion or amulet or magic word that could induce Ced to make more frequent visits to the typewriter, sort of a letter cathartic. Reminds me of the story of Goldstein who joined the Marines but turned out to be pretty much of a dud as a soldier. Finally he was shipped to the Solomons. Perhaps the name helped some but it wasn’t long before stirring details reached home of his bravery, decorations he had received, etc. They finally asked his captain what caused the transformation. Said the captain, “I gave him a Tommy gun, a couple of revolvers, six hand grenades, a cutlass, a knife, strapped a torpedo on his back, sent him out to the front line and said, “Now Goldstein, you’re in business for yourself”.
Tomorrow, I’ll post the rest of this letter.
On Saturday and Sunday, more early memories of Trumbull.
Next week, I’ll be posting letters written in 1945, as we get closer to the marriage of Dan and Paulette.