I'm sorry to have failed you last week. Please accept a would-be-thrifty housewife's excuse - and apology. 'Tis the canning season. Time, tide and tomatoes wait for no man. It's a great thrill, after eight gardenless years, to have a garden - and all the magic that comes out of a packet of seeds. Not that our garden is so grand. It's full of weeds now. And at least 30 tomato plants have no props. In humilation and resentment they hide their luscious red fruit until some foraging creature or the rot gets them. Next spring we'll buy lumber for stakes - or fell an old tree. Since writing the above I took time out to eat an early Sunday morning breakfast (to wake me up). I don't know how to eat alone without some reading matter in my hand. There lay the September 23 issue of the Sat. Eve Post open at the page where Demaree Bess writes, "The Buzz Bomb Dooms Germany." Also a companion article by Martin Somers. There you see the killed and wounded civilians of London, and the rubble heaps that were once their homes. The ironic thought came to me, "Londoners don't have to search far for used lumber - for tomato stakes, or what have you." And once again comes the keen appreciation of our good fortune, to be, thus far, removed from the death-dealing bomb.***
Now it is Monday morning. Not a moment did I have free - to finish this letter yesterday. The past week filled with richness and beauty - and no time to tell about it. But I promise you a letter this coming week. Begging Mr. Walker's indulgence, I am,
Faithfully yours,
Florence B. Taylor