16 October 1955

Dear Folks

Excuse again the long loud silence; I am an ungrateful & unworthy son, & would commit hara-kiri post-haste except that I can’t stand the sight of blood.

Here it is another weekend. God, how many of my letters start that way—little chips & flakes of time, trapped on paper. I was sitting in a movie the other night, with a small bag of Hershey’s Kisses, & I’d count them as I ate them, watching the number left in the bag get smaller and smaller; as it got near the end, I’d try to eat them slower, so they’d last longer—but they didn’t.

That’s the way I am with time—I let each day pass without doing anything, & feel angry & confused with myself for wasting them. Always watching them, like the candy, getting fewer & fewer. Odd that someone as "young" as I am should be bothered with things like that, but I am & always have been. I realize that I have years & years & years ahead of me, but I dread watching them go by—every second is a second less.

No, I’m not gloomy—you should know by now that I can be serious without being gloomy. And it gives me a chance to pawn off some of my excess philosophies on someone. "My cup runneth over"—well, that’s the part that "runneth."

So, onward. I’ll be getting the car out about Wed. They’re going to wash it for me. I wonder how much the bill will be? No matter how much, it will be too much.

Went down & made reservations for dad yesterday—they don’t have any big hotels in town, but this is the nicest one. You know, I was just thinking—we didn’t take any pictures of the place mom stayed. That’s too bad, but it’s too late now.

Boy, is it ever cold—not quite winter-type cold, but cold enough that you know winter is just around the corner. Hope it warms up by next weekend. And I certainly hope it is warm in the Med.

Still can’t believe it, really. In just two short (backward-looking) years I have done more, seen more, & been more places than ever before in my life. Just hope I’m not disappointed. Things in reality are unfortunately not what they seem on paper & film.

Got a letter from DeFoe the other day—he’s almost ready to go to Corpus Christi. One of my other roommates, D.B. Lee, is already there, & a third, George Jackson (the gung-ho one) somehow managed to lose a wing (the whole wing) on a night-flying hop. I guess he was on the ground at the time, cause DeFoe didn’t mention his bailing out. Good old George (or "Pudge" as I called him).

As of today, we have 19 more days in the States--& I have around 301 more days in Uncle Sam’s Service. Incidentally, the 12th of next August falls on a Sunday, so maybe they’ll get real generous & let me off a day early. You suppose?

Soon as dad brings that tin back, mom, please fill it at once with brownies—I’m starving. Tell Aunt Thyra that I want her to meet me at the door (next Aug.) with two banana cream pies. I told her in the postcard, but keep reminding her for me. Tell grandpa I said hi, & give my regards to all the relatives.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat Supper—as I said, I’m starved. ---- (denotes passage of time) ----Just finished supper, which was filling if not particularly appetizing. Hope it lasts me.

Well, I guess I’d better close now. I’ll try to write more often. Till next time, I am
Su hijo
Roger