Letters To Home

I’ve been reading over several letters from home in which Mom and Dad mention a patent deal that dad is working on, and I don’t know what to think—or say.  This work that Dad and Uncle Reuben have been doing this summer on their own hook definitely proves that they have the capitalistic viewpoint in business.  Therefore, I’m not surprised that they recognize the opportunity for profit in invention.

They have told me little or nothing of the device itself.  And, not being of a mechanical nature, I probably wouldn’t understand if they did.  The first time anything was said about it to me was only a few weeks ago.  I wonder if the invention of this thing is as sudden as it appears to me, or if they have been working on it for a few months.

Some people have made money on patents—more people have probably lost money on them.  Not knowing anything about this invention, I am in no position to predict which category it will put them in.  I think they understand that a patent lawyer’s fees are not dependent upon the success or failure of the patented device.  He has nothing to lose.  They have.  The fact that an invention can be patented is not in itself proof of value.  The prime requisite of any invention thought to be of potential value is its marketability.  Someone must want it.  In fact, it should be something the prospective buyers will fight over.

How is it that it takes so much money to get something patented?  The government grants patents, and I can hardly believe that it would put the cost of a patent as high as the figure they mentioned.  If the greater part of that goes to the attorney, as I suspect it does, why do they deal through him anyway?  Can’t they find out from the Patent Office what the procedure is in obtaining a patent?  And how do they figure it will take a year or two to obtain it.  I should think 3 months would do it.  It didn’t take a year the last time, did it?  Does the attorney take care of the selling of it?

I wonder if dad was kidding when he asked me if I wanted a share in it.  If he has any ideas, he should put his cards on the table.

We are having our summer now. It goes like this—2 weeks of rain, one nice, warm sunny day, 2 weeks of rain, etc.  The days are now very long.  Doesn’t get dark until midnight.  And have I ever been staying up!  Never do get to bed before 11 and sometimes it’s later.  That gives me some trouble at 6 the next morning, but the feeling soon wears off.  The main problem is getting up.  Some of the boys have terrible fights with themselves to get up.

Have seen some good shows of late.  Last Friday night we went to see a murder mystery “Phantom Lady” with Franchot Tone and some others.  After the show we went to the Red Cross Aeroclub on the base and argued about the movie for an hour or two over a sandwich and a cup of coffee.  What excitement we have here.

[letterstohome copyright 2008]

I wrote a letter to one of my high school teachers, Mrs. Busby.   It’s always a pleasure to hear from someone in the old home town.  I say “old” because Spokane is supposed to be my home town at present.  At least, that is what I repeatedly tell my Army acquaintances.  They are now so well award of the fact that “Mac” and “Spokane” have become practically synonymous.

We have to be very careful where we’re from while I the Army.  A fellow may come from this city or that, or he may be a native of such and such a state, but, as a rule, soldiers do not hail from small towns.  You’d be surprised at the location of some of the “suburbs” of our large cities.  I am still looking for a GI from Illinois who is not a Chicagoan!

I told Mrs. Busby that, just between the two of us, I will admit that I’m about as familiar with Spokane as I am with Belfast.  I lived in Spokane for just four months, and soon after I was shipped overseas, the family moved to a newly purchased home.  If I arrive in Spokane at night, I may have some trouble finding where I live.  And if the city were having a murky Irish blackout of the type thought which we must grope on wintery nights, I wouldn’t even try to find the place.

Next month will mark a year that I have been stationed in Northern Ireland.  I am now more or less used to the idea of being here, but at first I frequently found myself thinking “So this is Ireland?”  Any doubts on the subject which I may have had at that time have been completely dispelled.  Yes, this is Ireland.

I believe certain aspects of Belfast would interest Mrs. Busby, as they did me.  In the broad light of day, it is merely another large city, drab and uninteresting.  But, dusk ushers in a fascinating transformation.  How eerie the streets look during the long, dark night of autumn and winter.  Imagine a stiff breeze whipping in from Belfast Lough.  Perhaps there is a bit of mist, or maybe a steady rain.  The side streets are foreboding; at the main corners pale colored lights thrust half-heartedly into the darkness.  Except for the faint, unfamiliar sounds drifting up from the harbor, everything is still.  Gloom shrouds the city’s ugly gray and brown buildings.  Shades of Dorothy L. Sayers!  Who could fail to appreciate such a setting for murder?

But that is blacked-out Belfast in the dead of winter, not Ireland, scenic masterpiece in the blush of spring and summer.  I have a notion that the real Ireland is to be found outside the large cities.

Northern Ireland is very small or “wee”, as the Irish put it.  Spokane and Whitman counties combined would compare favorably in size, I’m sure.

Ireland looks quite unlike the parts of the United States through which I passed.  Some boys from Pennsylvania have indicated a resemblance between the land here and that in parts of their state.  The larger cities are not attractive in the least, and the climate leaves something to be desired (good weather?); however, the small cities, towns, and villages and the open country are picturesque, beauteous, even awe-inspiring.  (The views expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of anyone else).

As I rode to the city the other day, I tried to pick out points of similarity between what I saw and the land in the Palouse country.  Their respective appearances could hardly be more unlike one another.  The greater part of the land that I have seen consists of low, flat hills, virtually blanketed with trees and grass.  I don’t wonder that Ireland is associated with the color green.  In comparison with the cleared-off areas of the West, this looks like a vast park, stretching out in all directions as far as the eye can see.  The landscape presents a blending of light green grass- and grainfields and dark green trees and scrubbery that is most pleasing to view.  Miles away one can make out the angular outlines of small tracts of land, carefully bordered by the ever-present hedges, of which these people seem to be so fond.

It is a calm, peaceful scene.  The land has an appearance typical of Britain.  It is what you would expect to find here.

The weather undoubtedly is the country’s chief liability.  The “refreshing” rains of the Northwest will not be found here.  Irish rain is cold and inhospitable.  Darn wet, too.  The wind, often sweeping in from the sea, is brisk and sharp.   One might call it “unkindly”.  There are countless numbers of tall shade trees, but very little sunshine.  In July we have a scant five hours of darkness, in December, eight and a half hours of light.

Britons are quick to point out that summer came on a Tuesday last year!  And it is “frightfully decent” of them to do so.  Lets us know just where we stand.  According to the observations of one Yank, Britain has but three seasons instead of the usual four, namely: early winter, winter, and late winter.  And the inevitable gag about the Irishmen who “were saving their money for a sunshiny day” made its debut soon after that first contingent of Yanks stepped off the boat and into the downpour!

Well, taken all in all, it’s an experience to be here in Northern Ireland, one that I can appreciate and no doubt will remember for a long time to come.

[letterstohome copyright 2008]