Alfred Duryee Guion (Grandpa)
Trumbull, Conn. January 30, 1944
Picture the scene as I sit in the alcove this Sunday afternoon having just finished smoking one of the cigars Lad sent as a Christmas gift (I’ll have one of Dick’s Brazilian cigars later.) I am seated at the new typewriter desk (Elizabeth’s gift) facing the French window. With the leaves off the trees I can see the sun glinting on the brook, and peeking over the cement terrace railing are the long slender shoots of the rose bushes also glistening in the sun and waving long tentacled fingers which are pointed in my direction, bobbing up and down and backwards and forwards in the breeze. The lawn just beyond, now brown and sere, is littered with pieces of broken furniture which Ced, in the act of cleaning the attic, has thrown from the window, giving the same appearance as the other side of the house looked after the fire in Lad’s room in the attic. A friend of Jean’s, (Audrey), having joined us at dinner, and Dave having arrived home last night on the weekend furlough, decided to take a walk up to the reservoir or Pine Brook or someplace, the party consisting of Ced, Jean Mrs. Dick Guion), Audrey, Paul and Arnold (Gibson). Dave, I think went up to see Elizabeth at the Zabel’s and may have joined them later. Aunt Betty is seated here beside me enjoying the cheerful blaze in the fireplace, and there you have the background for today’s epistle to the Gentiles.
As to the human side of the news, there is little to report. Ced is still without word of any sort from Anchorage as to his induction status. Dave is uncertain whether he is to remain another week at Devens, and therefore cannot say whether he will be home again next week. If plans went through as intended, Marian, by the middle of the week, we’ll have joined her hubby in Texas (which is the reason, Marian, I am not mailing my customary copy to you at Stratford Avenue). Jean says Dick has jointly purchased a horse with another fellow at camp, probably with the idea in mind of being ready for any emergency so that if the Alaska plan does not go through he can readily become a South American gaucho. No word this week from Dan or Lad or Marian, the two latter being undoubtedly busy as bees getting the new hive ready for their respective honies.
We celebrated Marty’s (Bissie’s second son) birthday Thursday by moving en masse to Cornwall Street in Stratford for supper and the usual present unwrapping ceremony to the accompaniment of birthday candlelight, etc. Outside of Butch (Bissie’s oldest) sticking his finger in the ice cream several times and each time finding it good enough to lick off, everything went according to schedule.
Among points of minor importance, most of us are scratching our heads trying to figure out the income tax, wondering whether we can get any more coal to replenish the fast dwindling supply (my theme song: “Darling, I am growing colder”) and of course, wondering when we’ll hear from you all again. To add emphasis to the latter, here is one of the new American one cent piece, which might be interpreted as meaning “a penny for your thoughts”, and otherwise may serve as a curiosity in case you have not yet seen them. They are frequently mistaken for dimes and there is a rumor that they will be recalled.
Butch, Marty and their parents (Biss and Zeke) have just come in so I guess that means the end of this letter, even if I had any more to tell. Marty informs me he went for a walk to the “witherwar”, which, being interpreted by his mother, means ”reservoir”.
Love and kisses from
Tomorrow, another letter from Marian (and Lad), then two more letters from Grandpa.