2 November 1948, 13 Days from Home!


Hi Cyclone!

Darling, if you ever feel like getting me very angry, it will be very simple.

All you will have to do is, insist, as you did once before, that you have no talents.  Oh! that makes me boil!

What matters is how you feel towards me, your religion, your outlook on life, your amazing ability for making love, and your gladness of your capability, which you will soon discover.

A man doesn’t marry someone because they can paint, make trays, or hook rugs.  A man marries someone who can make his home and family into something so dear to him that without them he’d be lost.  

You say you like to rest your head on my favorite spot.  You’ll be the most talented girl in the world when, on nights that I am tired or worried, you draw my head to the lovely, comfortable, corresponding favorite spot of yours.

When, as I rest my head there, maybe you run your fingers over my forehead a time or two, and draw all the troubles out, leaving a happy, contented husband and pal.

Now, I ask you, are you talented?  Oh lady!  You have the talent to make our life a thing of lasting beauty, and to bring up children who shall be a lasting monument to our love.

I have to catch the mail with this, so I’ll say, “Home” soon darling, forever,




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