Trumbull, Conn., June 10, 1945
Here is one third of the month gone already and we really haven’t had one typical June day all-day yet. Today is nothing that the Chamber of Commerce could rave about either. Yesterday afternoon I was able to get part of the lawn mowed and some of the fallen tree trunk in back sawed up, but I haven’t yet finished taking down all the storm windows and putting up screens. (Note to Lad. There are some jobs like the aforementioned storm windows that can’t wait for you boys to come home, much as I appreciate your thought of helpfulness in a recent letter).
Dave is the only one who made use of P.O. Box 7 this last week. I am beginning to get concerned about Ced. It’s been over two months now since we last heard from him and you must admit a lot can happen in that time. However, I suppose I need not assume he has set the post office on fire, run over the edge of a glacier with his Buick, skied into a hospital bed or ran afoul of a plane landing on Woodley Airways field. In due time, I suppose, I shall get a letter from Ced, the old smoothie, contrite, sincerely regretful and so full of pathos that we are moved to tears and joy at its receipt, like the shepherd that rejoiced more at the one lost lamb that returned to the fold, more than the 99 that didn’t stray away, we straightaway forget the endless mailbox searching’s twice a day fruitlessly conducted and give full reign to the joy of the occasion. Just the same, if we don’t hear from him soon, he will be eligible for Dick’s class. Fact is, I haven’t heard from him since he reached the age of 28. I ask you, isn’t it enough to worry about the boys in the war without taking on peacetime worries too? Yet statistics show that more people are hurt and killed in auto accidents annually then in war. In fact I can’t even feel you are safe when you are in bed because these same statistics show that more people die in bed then in any other place. However, I’ve said enough, Ced, so that you may draw the conclusion that this might be construed as a gentle hint a letter from you might be welcome.
However, if you think the above paragraph finishes with you, Ced, and warrants my turning the spotlight elsewhere you are mistaken. The cup is not only full but runneth over. The Southworth’s invited us all in for a buffet supper Thursday night, and as both the boys are most interested in flying, you somehow or other got into the conversation and of course nothing would do but they must see pictures of the landing field during an Alaskan blizzard, plane wreck, etc., and this in turn led to my reading them the account of your famous rescue mission, but alas and alack, after much travail and many vicissitudes, you leave us balanced on the edge of a precipice, teetering back and forth, so that to this day, we do not know what happened and frequent calls for help interspersed with S O S’s have failed so far to supply the final details. In memory of your childhood days and recollections of the “Perils of Pauline”, don’t keep us longer in suspense. And incidentally, if you have snapshots of the crew, the cat or the wannigan, I should like to file copies in the scrapbook with the typewritten account. So now that your duties as president of the ski club are lightening, force yourself to completing this monumental work of an Alaskan adventure.