6 January 1945
Today's mail brought me six letters, and a Xmas card from Ruth, and I don't have to tell you that it is only an event of this nature that has the power to instill a feeling of happiness in me, While I'm reading your letters, Sweet, I'm almost at peace with the world. Believe me, it's a distinct let-down for me when I have finished reading and I pick up the old hum-drum routine where I have left off! You still haven't lost that trick of writing just as you would speak, and the impression I get while reading your letters is more like listening than reading. When I read the last few words it is just as if you had stopped talking. You say, darling, in one of your letters, that you hardly remember what I look like. Be that as it may, I find that I can’t say the same where you are concerned. I not only remember very well what you look like, I remember everything about you. (Perhaps too well!) I remember the fragrance of you, or rather, three separate fragrances about you. The first is that unaccountable “baby smell" about you in your early morning drowsiness, Remember how I used to remark about it? The second is your "afternoon aroma.” This odor I identified as a conglomeration of powder, lipstick, rouge, and the fragrance of a freshly pressed blouse, slip, or what have you. The third is your “going out”, which, if you remember, was wont to bewitch me and intoxicate my senses (if I may call my animal impulses by that name) to such a degree, that on a few occasions it proved a cause for embarrassment (yours). Remember, Chippie? But what I started to say was - I remember everything about you, so that when I “listen” to your letters, I hear your voice. Maybe you see nothing strange or wonderful in this phenomenon, Baby. You may consider it, in fact, entirely natural. Why, then, is it only your letters “speak” to me, and no one else’s? At this rate, though, I won't get any of your letters answered, and because nothing of particular interest happened to me today, I'll get right after it.—Four of the six letters were yours, Baby. They are those of 6 Dec., 7 Dec., 8 Dec., and your “longie” of 9-10 Dec. The other two were a very nice letter from Clara Wagman, and an exciting V-mail from Milt Brown. I’m dying to know exactly where he is, but I just can't place him by anything he has written. I must try to get letters off to both him and Clara. Incidentally, Ev, I've fallen behind in my correspondence again, and I'm seriously considering resorting to the expedient of spending my next 48-hour pass right here on the base in order to catch up with it. My regular routine day allows me time for no more than your letter, so you can readily understand why this is the only way. I may not have time to answer all your letters tonight, honey, but I'll do what I can ’til "lights out"
Your letter of the 6th tells about Abe Feinberg's duplicity in the matter of your mother's estate. There's a jerk for you! Then, a few paragraphs about Eddie's reluctance to have you visit him. I think I know exactly why he has adopted this attitude, Chippie, and I'm surprised that you even wonder about it. Surely, my letters about him should give you a pretty good idea for his conduct. I hope, Sweet, that by the time this reaches you, that you will have seen him and that it will all come clear for you. I was glad to learn that Goldie is giving you a hand more frequently with the household chores.
In your letter of the 7th you enclosed that "chunky" pin-up girl, and stated that you "Sure do wish I looked like that!" Who ya kiddin’, honey? You know damned well that I don't go for that type of figure - that, as a matter of fact, your own slim lines suit me right down to the ground, and are much preferred to the ones you appear to envy. I say "appear,” ’cause you don't fool me for a minute, Chippie. You were fishing for compliment - and caught it, and I hope your feminine vanity is gratified. If it isn't - well, we're pretty young yet, and I still have a coupla thousand words on the subject up my sleeve - so just have patience, Baby, and they'll be forthcoming. With this pleasant thought, I'm afraid I must sign off for the time being. I'll continue answering your letters tomorrow. ’Bye now, sweetheart. My love to the punkin - and all.
More than ever—
More than ever—
January 6, 1945
Each time I write to you after I’ve visited your home, I say to myself I’ll make this one a super special letter, because you do need cheering up. Hell, man, I’m the guy that needs the cheering up. You know Phil, it would be hell for you to come and then have to go away again, because it’s almost that for me. If I were you I wouldn’t.
Phil, you’ve something real to return to. If everyone were in your position there never would be another war, ’cause when they came back for good they’d always be happy.
I’ve seen the punkin’. She’s all girl. I mean that were her hair parted and combed like a boy’s and were she to wear trousers and such, she still couldn’t pass as a boy. She already has that definite a feminine personality that it’s amazing. My heart bleeds for you chum, for having had this period of her life only through Evelyn’s eyes, even though you do have the most wonderful substitute.
Still I can’t help but repeat that when you do resume your real life you will be loaded with happiness and the bubble will never burst, but make of itself, amoeba like, smaller ones.
Evelyn is doing grandly, too, Phil. She looks and feels swell, and is sustained by your constant presence, when certain things like her friends tough luck try to wear her down. She believes in you so implicitly, you are indeed to be complimented as is she for being your inspiration.
Your Mom was just swell to me as always. She’s a wonderful woman, Phil. She’s holding up very nicely under a terrific burden, and don’t you for a second lose sight of that. Somehow I feel I am being superfluous, ’cause you must realize all this yourself. Still I had to say so.
Harry and Goldie, in their way I guess, will be happy. They’re different, by our standards, but they’re different together, so that they’re seemingly not different at all.
I thought I’d talk about one other thing that stands out to me, no two. The first is Eddie’s return. He’s 98% normal. When he’s talked enough about his awe-inspiring adventure, that is when he is here long enough so that he’ll not speak any more of them, except casually, he’ll be 100% normal. I really did enjoy seeing and hearing him.
The other is my date with Ev when we went to see “Mrs. Parkington.” The picture and the company had me in one of the most wonderful of mellow moods I’ve ever experienced. I hope Ev felt the same way. I think she did. If so I’ll accept your thanks right this minute if you please. Of course as we joined Eddie and his girl friend for sandwiches and malteds, we were both very conscious of the fact that you weren’t with us, but who cared. We returned home to ponder the problem of my getting married and how and if and when and Denver and business, we would all get together after the war. When Ev and I are along like that the situation becomes perplexing. I need your support to parry her breaking down of my points. So hurry the hell up and come home.
I’m in Kansas City now and I’ve made no attempt to contact Marilyn. (This is her home and she asked to to look her up.) I guess I do love Marjorie. I’ve bought a setting and have had one of Mom’s stones, the biggest, put into it. It makes a lovely engagement ring. I hope she can see her way clearly. If so, Marge will accept it. I’ve met her folks. They’re swell but I don’t know if they know that I’m serious. I’ll find out.
I’ll have to quit soon to catch my train back to Chickasha and Marjorie.
My ear is going to be O.K. I’ll let you know when I can say it is O.K. I’m 95% recuperated and only a violent jar or very rapid head movement can cause a slight dizziness that passes in a second.
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