Chuck Jones’ letters to his daughter, Linda

 

Post #32

 

Wednesday, November
26

 

Dearest Linda;

 

Boy, have I been a
lousy correspondent—so now I’m a despondent correspondent—on account of I’m
sorry I haven’t written more often. 
As I told you I’ve been banging madly away on this outside picture, so I
have a legitimate excuse, but who wants excuses?  I feel particularly bad for letting you down when you were
sick abed.  There’s nothing so foul
and sick-making as a cold.  It is a
humiliating disease and a wretched ailment all the way around.  You can’t dignify the little bastard by
calling it serious and yet it is impossible to ignore it, for it can serve as a
jackknife to something more formidable. 
(I was thinking of “spring-board” in the previous sentence, just why it
came out “jack-knife” I cannot say.)

 

I don’t imagine you
will get this before you return from Florence, so please write us all about
it.  You know, I think we must be the
most indulgent parents alive: if it sounds like fun, we’re all for it, to Hell
with anything else.  It was quite
different in my day.  The fact that
a teenager suggested a thing was usually sufficient to generate an automatic “NO!”  It was supposed that a youngster was
always up to mischief, that it would only lead to trouble to give him what was
known as “his head”.  Phooey!  People were very, very jerky in that
age.  It is indeed amazing that we managed
to attain adulthood with any degree at all of common sense.  The amazing thing, too, is that we are
able to be different than they were.

 

I am never able to
understand from your letters just what kind of a student you are.  Between reports you seem to sink to the
most astonishing depths only to rise to fairly respectable levels when we
receive your grades.  I know that
this situation may alter, that your grades may agree with your letters or worse
yet that your letters may glow with optimism and your grades shine with the
faint light of decay.  All things being
equal perhaps your present course is the best, but tell me, Linda, is there any
hope for you?

 

Hm?

 

The Lutzes will be
here at 9:00 o’clock tomorrow by Union Pacific R.R.  We shall whisk them to the house, wash their little paddy
paws, back into the car, pick up Russell Baldwin (an old friend of our school
days) then over the freeways to Jack and Joyce and a thirty-five pound turkey,
courtesy of bl. Joneses.  Whole
tribe will be present, including Bob and Bob and new bobbie, I mean baby.  Should be a hectic, but fun type
day.  I will report on it to you.

 

Hell, no more
paper.  I love you.

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