December 1, 1954
Two letters in one day—you are in luck! (HAH). I really don’t have the time, but I guess I have sounded pretty glum in the last few letters.
Well, actually, that’s the only thing I have to write about that’s out of the ordinary. As to poppa’s references to “my troubles”—I haven’t the vaguest idea what he means. I don’t have any “problems” that I know of—just this Navy life in general. And as it’s being “too tough” for me…it is tough—damn tough (pardon my crudeness, but it’s the best explicative I could think of), & I’ll be very proud of myself if I ever get through this program.
See, I have to sit down here in sunny Florida & take all the dirt & mud & garbage the Navy can throw at me. Probably it is harder for me than for most of the other guys down here because I was always so choosy (“But mom, I don’t like carrots.”). And the only way I have of blowing off steam is in my infrequent letters home. Sorry if you have to take the brunt of my woes, but that’s partially what mommas & daddys are for—no? So—just take my idiosyncrasies with a grain of thought—like a hangover, I always feel better in the morning.
I could take up talking to myself, but I always end up in a violent argument with myself so that I find it futile.
I remember when I was little, I used to talk to Momma (the cat—remember her?), especially when you’d send me to the store at night. Instead of whistling in the dark, I’d call Momma & talk to her. Wonder whatever became of her? Anytime I’d whistle “Shines the Name of Roger Young” (remember that one—an old World War II favorite) & no matter where I was, Momma would come to me—within a radius of a block of 328 Blackhawk Ave., that is. Then one day I whistled for her & she didn’t come—I still miss her after all this time.
My roommate (one of them) is sitting here pouring over his navigation, saying “Why can’t I be brilliant? Why, darn it, why? This is a miserable *@ life.”
So you see, other people have their troubles, too….
I can be an officer, but I don’t particularly care to be. They have about as much “individuality” as an Egyptian water buffalo. And as for “molding character” I think I should have an idea of what kind of a character I want to be molded into. Don’t kid yourself—the Navy is not my calling or my career. One the happiest days of my life will be the day they slap the discharge into my grubby little hand.
By the way, I expect to be picked up at the airport in a shiny new Cadillac—I don’t care too much for the new Olds’—not enough change.
I don’t know what I’m going to wear when I get home—the only thing the Navy will authorize you to wear are your blues & greens--& I have no jacket for the greens. It will seem so funny to get into civilian clothes; after four months.
Well, enough—now to get to work.
Till next time, I am
Your Loving Boy
P.S. As Confucius says: “Let’s play NavCad—you lay down & I’ll kick you.”
P.P.S. Only 17 days, 14 ½ hours, & I’ll be home.