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back in my first days in Erie, that I would one day count him as one of my most intimate friends. The others present were "Frisch" Headley and Grace, Mr. and Mrs. Bookman, and Steve Vouch and his bride. I never knew Bohlman at all but found him pleasant and his wife very attractive. I was disappointed
in Steve's wife--she wasn't as I pictured her at all. But lack of refinement doesn't necessitate one's heart being out of place. And so Saturday was full and good.

Henshaw, who is now in the Motor Division on Mr. Anderson's course, is to be married this fall. I hope we can know them--I rather like Henshaw.

Sunday we parked Dodgem on the peninsula road and took a walk along the beach. The wind was high. On the horizon was a broad band of pale-blue sky, and above that, gray clouds. The lake was rough, green waves rolling and tumbling in, breaking and foaming and sweeping across the jetty, washing the beach away. We wandered along, picking up multi-colored stones, marked curiously, some showing the quartz melted into the rock and mixed in some far-off, bygone ages when the world was soft and young and hot and steaming. We picked up the sand and ran it through our fingers. Looking closely, the sand became a miracle--instead of being a mass of gray-brown stuff, it became a pile of jewels, gleaming and sparkling--every color of the rainbow was there--blue, pink, white, purple, yellow red, black, brown, amber--all shades in a beautiful array. Life is like the sand--we look at it carelessly and it looks vast and uninteresting, but when we examine it closely, it becomes multi-colored, ever new, ever miraculous, challenging our imaginations.

Erie, Pa.
Tuesday, September 20, 1927.

We had the Luthers over for a farewell bridge party last night before they leave for a two or three months stay at Skykomish, Washington, where Ben's two Great Northerns are shortly to go into operation. Ben recounted numerous stories of Mr. Emerson and we all nearly died laughing at him. The Old Man's new Packard car is now the subject of some discussion, as well as his refusal to allow anybody to ride on the Great Northerns. The story of the Old Man's "stepping on the gas" and his experience with John Aydelott and his girl-friend, are masterpieces and Luther did them full justice. "B.Luther," another name I used to see, this on letters in Henshaw's New Haven test files last year. Little did I dream that this man also I should someday know so well and like so much. Luther says so little, assumes so little, but I believe he knows as much about railway locomotive control is any man in America. And all these people are so interesting--the life of each one would make a wonderful story. Each one has a different story, each one is different--Brandenstein who escaped death by a miracle. Luther, Bredenberg, Housden, Henshall, Luther, Clinger-