February 1, 1942

Dear Mother and Dad,

Received your swell letters this week. Quit bragging about the snow and cold weather. In this tropical climate it makes me home-sick for my boards and boots. Sorry I haven't written sooner. Have been threatening to every night this week. Here it is my dead line for clearing the week so nothing can stop me now.

Wed., when I received your letters, I got up and started to write. When I completed the first line, Andy came bounding in and said "What the H--- are you doing up? How would you like to ride down to the ship yards with me while I pick up some plans?" The next thing I new I had on my cleaner shirt and was riding south enjoying the weather and the sunshine---the first time I had seen it this week. I planned to write the letter after dinner.

We drove through ten miles of oil fields and over rolling green hills. The scenery was beautiful but marred by the stench of the oil. From the tops of the higher hills you could see the ocean. The color combination of the green hills, the pale blue sky, and the deep blue ocean was a contrast of colors--artistic grandeur. However, I wouldn't like to see such a color scheme in clothing or the likes. Andy was driving about seventy and eighty miles an hour and we reached Los Angeles harbor in short order.

The stench of oil was soon quenched by that of fish and the smell of production and dust. We started up the harbor from the western end. We weren't over five hundred feet from the waters edge at any time--we saw L.A. ship yards, Consolidated, and California ship. The weighs--the forms the ships are built in before they are launched--settled practically the entire harbor front. Men looked like ants or flies working around the huge cranes and mammoth weighs. The streets in that area are, bustling with activity and the little towns look like boom towns. When we left, we got caught in the shift change--four O'clock--and were swept from the harbor district to L.A.--thirty miles away--in forty five minutes. At five thirty we were home. Instead of writing to you after dinner I went to bed to rest my eyes and go to work a bundle of energy.

My eyes have been feeling better since I stopped reading at night. I manage to read something every night but only a paragraph at a time. Went bowling one night last week with some of the boys from the plant; had a lot of fun but can't say much for my score. From the bowling alleys we went directly to work on the side. Have been making good record since my butch and have now got a crew as fast as any on the graveyard. The boys aren't quite sure of themselves yet but they seem to understand what they are doing. With a little prompting from their instructor they manage to get out two skins a night--the quota. Now I'm bragging again. Starting last night I got a four cent raise per hr. and am now classified as a junior craftsmen. Still bragging.

Tonight is my night off. I got up at three this afternoon determined to write. I picked up my laundry while I was having my room cleaned, got a bite to eat, and helped the Landlord fix a leaky pipe on the bathroom basin. Haven't made any plans for tonight but intend to do something. A couple of the boys from the basement I run around with occasionally, are coming up and, I think, we are going ice skating. Dinner is ready and I think it is rabbit. Will drop another line tomorrow and tell you about tonight. Am in a writing mood. Maybe I ought to try writing a story. Oh yes, I balanced my books today for the year "41" and am out fifty cents, so I chalked it up to depreciation. I made seven hundred and forty six dollars for the year, lacking four dollars of the minimum requirement for taxation. Am being paged for dinner. Love, Tom