Aberration of Starlight

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My dear Bud,

I meant to write and thank you and Herb and the fellows for the first rate supper you arranged just before I left for Jersey. What with packing and this and that I haven’t had the time. So consider this a bread and butter note in all sincerity to you and Herb and Davy and even old man Neumiller.

The old Stellkamp place is the same as ever. It is strange to be here without my wife, God rest her soul, and to be staying six weeks. I feel like Rockefeller. But between you me and the lamppost I can’t wait to get back to the old routine. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

The Sapurtys are here. I think you met Ralph Sapurty two or three years ago when you and your wife drove over one Sunday after visiting your grandchildren, and the three of us walked to the Bluebird for a glass of beer. Well he’s still the same horse’s ass but there’s not a mean bone in his body. Did you meet Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt that day? A prince of a man who passed away last winter just about the same time as Bridget. Never sick a day in his life. Mrs. Schmidt is here as a guest of the owners. It makes it easier for me knowing that she has her own cross to bear. She’s a fine woman with never a complaint out of her and happy as the day is long.

The fly in the ointment here is that there is a wise acre here this summer, a divorced man with no shame to him at all. A real five-hundred-dollar millionaire with a little greaseball moustache and a coupe with a rumble seat. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth and he is nothing but soft soap. You know the sort of article I mean. I take him down a peg or two when we play croquet although right is right, to tell you the truth he’s better than poor Sapurty by a damn sight. I’d rather play with my ten-year-old grandson than with him. It’s just like taking candy from a baby.

All right, Bud, time to close and wishing you good health and best regards to everyone in the office. I’ll see you all soon.

Regards,

John McGrath