“What the hell” is correct, Danny, old son, the bother is all in your own mind. It wouldn’t be much fun if we couldn’t feel we were being useful to someone, it’s about the only way we at home can gratify the urge to help, and it’s particularly pleasing to know it really is a worthwhile service. This week I shall try to get off to you some of the layette items. And thanks for the photos of Paulette. Enclosed, in return, some snaps Lad took of Ced and his plane,
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print which, incidentally, Lad graciously worked until 3 o’clock this morning so that I might send them off to you in today’s mail.
And that quite properly brings us to the other long letter I received this week from Ced. He mentions the fact that Leonard and Marian Hopkins are leaving Anchorage on Jan. 15th for a trip to the East, with the possibility of their calling at Trumbull. As to his (Ced’s) return flight, he says: “Presumably you are curious to hear details of the plane trip up here. I made no notes, took very few pictures and all that I have to go on is a rather vivid memory of the high points of the trip. On this letter item I am toying with the idea of perhaps trying a fling at an article or story. Perhaps nothing will come of it but we shall see. The rough details I should now narrate for your edification only. I left Monroe Airport on Dec. 10 amid a show of field “buzzing” in a farewell salute to members of the family who had turned out to bid me Godspeed and to give Lad an opportunity to take some movies. (I trust he got some good ones). Having climbed to about 1000 feet I faced the nose the ship to the West in the gray dawn of an overcast day, and visit myself with instruments, maps, etc., likely to be needed at the start of a long cross-country trip. This activity I failed to know for quite an extended. The course of my craft over the terra firma below and soon I realized I had lost sight of familiar landmarks. I compass had swung far around to the north and east and so I tried to make corrections. The next thing I knew I was winging serenely westward across the Housatonic at Stevenson Dam, and that, dear family, is why you heard my engine for such a long interval. Actually I made a big circle to the east while I was lining up my maps. Well, my embarrassment and chagrin somewhat soothed by again coming on course I settled down to a more alert contemplation of the ground under me and was presently passing over Bethel, Lake Mahopac and points west, and that, by the way did include West Point.
I’ll be posting the rest of this letter throughout the week.