23 April 1956

Dear Folks

This will have to be short, since it’s quarter after nine & I’ve got to take a shower yet. They’ve announced that mail will close out at 0600 tomorrow morning. That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going anywhere—just that it might. Again today we had another surprise mail call, & I got a letter from you. (As Chip Muchler, one of my NavCad classmates used to say, "Good-O.")

For some reason, I’m very tired—well, not very, but quite. I’d love to sleep for days. This afternoon I went to Clothing & Small Stores to buy some more skivvies—mine have a habit of disappearing at the rate of three pair returned for every four sent. The smallest size they had were 34’s, which I’m sure I’ll fit into very nicely, if only I can find someone to share them with me (I got one pair). Also bought another white hat (incidentally, in the navy, we say it whitehat, not white hat.)

It’s so quiet in here tonite—sounds from the movie on the after mess decks drift in occasionally, & there is a fan going, but it is comparatively silent. Don’t recall if it was mentioned, but last night I saw "The Jazz Singer," a remake of the Jolson classic, & the woman who played the mother reminded me an awful lot of you, mom—she even looked vaguely like you.

I wish I didn’t write so small; here it is 9:25 & it looks as though I’ve scarcely begun.

Finished reading Polly Adler’s "A House is Not a Home;" enjoyed it a lot. We arrive in Athens on payday, as I probably said yesterday, & I plan to spend every spare second ashore.

Getting so I can’t even think straight. Please excuse me for cutting it off here, but I need my beauty sleep. God knows I need something.

Love

Roge