Dart gets the important stuff out of the way, right off the bat. He misses her. A lot.
Last night he got to bed very late and then awoke early for church. Tonight there were just two people to do the work normally handled by four, so he’s very tired. He likes being busy, though, because it makes the time go faster.
In family news, Pop was stopped randomly by the police the other day. They checked his turn signals, brake lights, horn, lights, windshield wipers and his license. Satisfied that all was well with the old car, they placed a seal of approval on the windshield. “At least now we know we can stop the car. Whether we can make it go or not…”
This weekend he called Mrs. Carle to see if he could stop by for a visit. It turned out that he called on the second anniversary of Art’s death. He felt horrible to intrude on her grief like that. He said her voice was gravely and shaking, and he was pretty sure she’d been crying. I’m not sure a woman who’s lost her son to war ever really stops crying – especially over the holidays or on the anniversary of the death.
Dart surmises that Betty B must have the same impression of Dot’s money-handling skills as he. After all, who did Betty turn to for help in pinching pennies? He’s very impressed that Gordon and Betty are able to buy a bungalow already. He wants Dot to tell Betty she has good taste in budget helpers.
He believes he has a greater understanding of Dot’s job now that he’s been trained on the Plain Dealer’s phone system. He only had eight lines to manage and he never really got good at it. He left one poor sucker hanging so long that the guy gave up. There were times Dart himself felt like giving up. “What a rat-race!”
Remember that dream he had that he wouldn’t tell Dot about because he feared it might make her angry? It would appear that she has asked him about it again and he’s giving her the stall. He said he’ll tell her about it the next time he sees her, if she remembers to ask him and if he still remembers what it was. I bet she remembers to ask.
By now he thinks he should have received all the Christmas cards he’s going to get – for a total of 24. He mailed about 40 and seems pleased with his 60% rate of return. (Is he sure he’s not the engineer type?)
He signs off, but adds a PS. He thinks he should have written a x-o-*-! sort of letter like he did a few days ago. He started out wanting to, but feared it would only add to his sense of loneliness. Now that the letter is done, with scarcely a mention of x, o, or *, he still has all the loneliness inside him. Oh, how he misses her!