Alfred Duryee Guion (Grandpa)
Trumbull, Conn. June 18, 1944
Well, the back porch is painted (it’s gray this time instead of the reddish brown you may remember), the back lawn is cut except where the dry spell we have been having lately has dried up the grass so that brown spots do not need the services of a lawnmower (and save a few spots like that in the immediate vicinity of the staff that holds the clothes line off the ground where it stretches between the old Apple tree and the big Maple, where the long grass deifies the revolving knives of the lawnmower), the big hole Freckles (Ethel’s dog and Smoky’s playmate) has dug at the roots of the old half Apple tree has been filled up with earth, and the canvas roof above the laundry has received another coat of paint at the seams where it has shown a tendency on the last rainy day to leak, dinner has been cooked and eaten, dishes all washed and put away, and Father, on Father’s Day, has settled down to his fatherly job of writing his weekly epistle.
And how do you know it’s Father’s Day, someone asks, just to make conversation., My children, a very proper question, that. I know because late yesterday in the last mail from the store, there was delivered a package postmarked Pomona, containing, what do you suppose? Yes Sir, a box of White Owl cigars – – and just in time too, because I recently smoked to the last of the former box and the Brazilian cigars Dick had sent – – but learning from past experience, as all wise ones do, THIS time Aunt Betty also received a box of Between The Acts little cigars, accompanied by an ode “for Aunt Betty”:
We know it’s time for Father’s Day
That Dad should get the gift,
Sending gifts to Dad alone
Has really caused a rift.
With this in mind, Aunt Betty, dear,
And so Dad need not share,
We’re sending you this little box
To keep you on the stair.
And my gift was accompanied also by a little card with a likeness of a man smoking a pipe. Skipper (the son of the tenants in the little apartment) says looks like me.
But that wasn’t all. No, indeed. Another card arrived from “Jean and Dick” with highly flattering but undeserved sentiments, and right on its heels a beautiful gift box of STAG shaving soap, powder and lotion. I feel like a little shaver now because, as you will recall, it was not so long ago that other toilet accessories in a post-Easter spirit also arrived from California. So if I don’t get shaved and smell nice afterward it won’t be the fault of my boys and girls in double harness.
And now, after having got you properly warmed up, relating my own selfish affairs, here’s the big news in this letter. We’ll let Sgt. Richard tell it in his own words:
Richard Peabody Guion
“Tuesday morning I was told to report to the Non-commissioned Officers Reviewing Board. Monday night Capt. Luck had requested that I be promoted to Sgt. The Post Adjutant wanted me to work in the civilian personnel office (Brazilian). Sgt. Saroyan asked me if I wanted to go. When I told him “No, unless I got another stripe.” He told the Adjutant he wouldn’t let me go unless I was promoted, so yesterday I was made Sgt. It’s a funny Army when you have to bargain for ratings, but I don’t care much as long as the end justifies the means. The Board asked me quite a few questions but I think I could have answered them all wrong and still made Sgt. It was more a formality than anything else”. So, there you have it. Lad already a Sgt., Dan a T-4 and now Dick. Come on, Dave, shake a leg. Oh, it’s pretty early yet, you say.
Tomorrow the rest of this letter and on Friday, a letter from Marian.