Chuck Jones’ letters to his daughter, Linda


Post #41


March 18, 1953


Happy First Day
After St. Patrick’s day!


Why do Irishmen have
names like O’Hoolihan?  Why do
Irishmen persist in smoking clay pipes and burn peat in their stoves?  Hm?  What the devil are we buying you an expensive education for
if you can’t answer the simplest question?


Leonard Levinson was
telling me the other day of something that for some mysterious reason struck
him and me as very funny indeed. 
It was a theater program that said this, “Scene One:  Two thousand years ago.  Scene Two:  The next morning.”


Going along the same
cheery way, try this:  put the tips
of your fingers together with the tips of the fingers of the other hand, one
above the other.  Now push your hands
forward and back (or up and down) holding the tips of the fingers
together.  Know that that is?  A spider doing push ups on a mirror.


There is a definite
aroma of spring in the air today. 
It would surprise me not one whit to see a robin, to even talk with a
robin, discuss the price of eggs perhaps. 
I feel that somehow, somewhere there are fields of bluebells just
waiting for me to come walk barefoot through ‘em.  It must be getting gorgeous as hell in your area, to coin a
poetic phrase.


As you will
doubtless hear from Dottie, Nana
was de-gall-bladdered
today.  I guess it was very
successful, chap name of Hatfield did the job; very competently I’m told.  She is at the Doctor’s Hospital, 325
West Jefferson, Los Angeles, and will probably be there until next
Wednesday.  A quick note sent
airmail would doubtless catch her still there.  No?


Your play [a melodrama in which Linda
was the poor widow about to be evicted with her tiny baby into the cold by a
devilish landlord; baby was played by a live chicken wrapped in a baby blanket;
songs were all written to well known tunes]
was not only a great success there; it was a huge one here,
too.  Only difference was that we
gave it two performances and first prize. 
Had two casts, too: the Joneses (late of Old Vic), then the Harters
warbled all the parts at the evening performance.  Theirs was perhaps the more touching, since they didn’t know
all the music, but ours was the more convincing since we knew the music, but
couldn’t make it come out.  Thanks
to Teatro Adobe and the impresarios therein.
[they didn’t have the chicken, though]


You remember our
next-door neighbor, Mr. Sheldon?  
Well, damned if he didn’t up and drop dead the other day.  Just like that.  Perfectly healthy right up to the
minute, then Boom!  Gone.  Boy, what a year this has been for poor
Mrs. Sheldon:  both of her children
get married and leave her and now this. 
Must be very tough indeed.


You must admit that
this letter is a very diversified one. 
I try to keep you up on things. 
Lucky you.


Don’t know for sure
yet whether we will be over on Easter weekend or another one right after.  The main studio is reorganizing and
there may be a few minor changes around here.  Not being a minor, I don’t expect it to effect me.


Oh, well, in spite
of everything I continue to love you in the same old paternalistic foolish way,
mainly because you’re a Hell of a nice person and I’m real prpoud to have you
as a daughter.  “Prpoud” is “proud”
with two “p’s”, where else can you get such service?





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