Tuesday, August 11, 2009

February 24, 1941

Friday You Won't Get It Till Mon.

Dearest Frances

Once more I sit at home, all by myself, in a dark, dark, mood wishing my Fran were here to put me back in the pink. Gosh how I do miss you Hon.

Dad and Jim came up tonight, and after supper they went to look at tractors, taking Mother along, and dropping her off at Bermudian for a lesson in knitting, or what ever it is she is doing. So here I sit, with hundreds of beautiful young hens out in the chicken house and not a hand anywhere for me to hold. By the way Fran, how is your hand? I am awfully sorry I acted so beastly last night, and I won't do it again. (Till the next time) Which will be Friday. If I am not over there by 7:15 I will see you in church, so leave room in your pew for me.

Well this morning at breakfast i asked Mother what she thought of my honey, she just gave me one of her sly smiles, and said she wasn't ready to make a statement, but that it was all right if I brought you around again, I believe she thinks you are swell, only she won't tell me. One of the pups you were holding last night, asked me this morning who the swell girl was, and if you were going to be around very much, I said what do you think I'm praying for. Rain?

How did the church dinner go today? If I would have had time I could have gone for some oysters, but as it is I don't believe I will get there at all, such is life on a farm, you get about one night off a week, and then when you go to see your one and only best girl in the wide, wide world she sends you home in 3 1/2 hours. I believe I will strike for longer hours. Would you mind?

Well it's time to turn the lights off the chickens, and start scraping eggs, 4 baskets to wade through, so I will close, and remain, with all my love

*letter pictures to come*

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