Chuck Jones’ letters to his daughter, Linda

# 7 Post:

Friday, Sept. 26, 1952

Dear Linda;

Five days on this blasted diet!  I’m not thin yet, but I’m haggard.  The rangers in the early French-American wars used to say that there was less nourishment in one moose than one porcupine because the moose was made up of lean meant, while ole porky was just a tub of oil and grease.  This diet keeps you as full as you want, but it’s like being stuffed with feathers.  I hope I don’t get irritable.  (Can’t remember having had occasion to spell “irritable” before.  I didn’t even know what to look up.  Seemed like it sprang from ‘irate’ but there ain’t no ‘irateable’.  “Irascible” is the closest thing to ‘irate’.  Irritable of course comes from irritate.  Still looks silly.)  Well, anyway, I hope I don’t get irritable.

The letter you wrote Sunday finally reached us yesterday.  Very happy to receive it.  A good letter because it conveyed that lost, lonely, unsure first-day feeling that everybody has at the beginning of a new experience.  Rain, early morning, strangers, what a bleak combination that is.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been new on a job, but that is the precise feeling one has.  Write more of the same, just let it roll.

Linda003
Old Benny just rolled into the room for his morning benediction.  More I see of Washam, the more convinced I am that he belongs in “Pogo”.  He’d be right at home in Pogofenoke Swamp with Churché la Femme and the noble dog.  Ben is essentially a very sweet human being, sort of like noble dog, unquestionably man’s best friend, especially this man.  He sends his greetings and his high regards to you, as do the others, Abe, Ken, and so on.  They are all a fine bunch of artists, devoted and talented.  I’m lucky to have had them with me so long.

Weather here remains essentially the same.  It is now Friday, but it’s still muggy.  Sort of a pall hanging over the city dominated by thunderclouds.  We had rumbles of thunder last night and some tricky little cracks of lightning, but no rain.  By George, there’s some thunder now…distant, but definitely rumbly.  Remember that strange day we crossed Colorado and Utah on the way home?  The strange suspended rainstorms all around us and the long crooked lightning streaks like neon blood-veins?  That is odd, forbidding country in such weather, but exciting.

How goes the Latin?  If it goes sluggishly, please remember to send up a rocket.  Help is always available.

Sunday we are going to the mountains.  The Fergusons invited us up to their place in Idyllwild for the weekend, but Sunday was the best we could do.  ‘Tis wonderful to be a social butterfly, so many demands on ones time!  So mad, the whirl of receptions, cotillions, tea dansantes, balls, pageants, etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.  I think they have a two-room lean-to up there, built of uncured scrub-pine boughs layered over with sod.

Check on the time it takes these notes to reach you.  I don’t know whether it pays Warner Bros. to supply airmail stamps or not.  Maybe mail reaches the ranch just as fast through regular channels.   Check, will you?  (Two ‘checks’ enclosed in the previous paragraph.)

Is there anything you need?  Anything we can supply that was forgotten?  Let us know.  We thought we would drift over toward the first of November, visit the Merkley’s and Browns and bring the saddle up to you.  Would it be all right to do this, or can you tell yet?  If not, just say so, no big fat explanation necessary.

Love, and since you mention it: xs.

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