January 23, 1944 Sunday

Dear Marjorie,

Just finished a letter to the folks, and when I went to address it, habit made me put your name on the envelope! So I have the envelope for this letter all made out now. “Miss Marjorie Ann Nelson” just automatically goes on my envelopes.

This week I am again leading the cloistered life of a restrictee. Have it down to a science now, however, and have had a very enjoyable time. Over at the waiting room there are about 10 old books that somebody had nothing else to do with, so they left them there. I picked one up at random and read most of last evening. It was “The Cathedral” by Hugh Walpole, and was a nice soft change to indulge in for an evening. Got my eyes all tired, and didn't get to write you as a result. It was all about the wrangling of the priests in a cathedral town in England, and the conservatism in the little town. Not very exciting, and with a flowing style that was pleasant to read. Relaxing. Slept 10 hours as a result.

Today I have rested some, too, and hope to some more. It isn't that I'm tires but that I enjoy doing nothing for a while after running all week.

Found out that my much-gigged bunk-mate Bryant is not only a junior R.O.T.C. from Ohio State. He has a master's degree in floriculture, no less. I was surprised, altho he is old enough to be more than a junior. He has even less hair than I, but it hasn't turned gray yet. Not that mine has. However, he is a little disappointing to me in spite of his intellectual look. His sole interest in floriculture seems to be in the money he can make from it. He has it all figured how he is going to take some new variety of flower that somebody else develops and raise it in quantity before anyone else.

We are listening to the Philharmonic now, as I feel that you are doing, too. The Brahms concerto is just beginning. I enjoy this program a lot. You know, I have a secret belief that the violin would have been my instrument if I had started early enough. Remember when I was very young I used to want one and that once my folks nearly got me one. Wish they had. The French horn is very nice, and you always have an alibi when you goof off on it -- “world's hardest instrument” and all. Not as versatile as a violin, tho.

Took a short nap and am now ready to continue. Sleeping is fun, isn't it? I pretend you're there and we are so comfortable. You know, Hon, it isn't being away from home that bothers me. It's just being away from you. I'm sure I would feel very much at home in Tibet if you were there. You could enjoy skiing in Tibet, and we could go call on the Llama on Sundays – or would we ride one one? Anyway, I think we could be very happy there. You'd be all set for the weather, tho. Very much like Westmoreland.

We do have one recreational facility here at O.C.S. It is a dilapidated old police dog named Streaky. I guess he's over 100 years old, but he never has outgrown his puppy days. His one passion is to chase a ball and bring it back to a candidate. He has a football, a baseball, and one big stone. He uses the first two outdoors on weekdays. The stone changes his game to a parlor sport for the day room. He's a friendly old boy, but creaky. Don't say creaky squeaky, now.

Did enjoy your letter last night, Bunny. Read it over and over. Yes, we will have some readjustments to make when we are together, but as long as we can be as understanding as we are even in our letters, we will have no trouble. We can't lose what we've got. It's much too important.

I love you forever, my Bunny,
Wallace