Every letter that my father wrote…all…all had about them an empurpled intensity … a flair … an escalation of objects and events out of the mundane and into the celestial.

February 25, 1968

Dear Shelly,

I am sitting here in Linda’s complicated room, which due to her malady is not in the most orderly state of composure. We all think of you many times and miss your happy chatter and patter which Linda contends, leads you to the refrigerator. Chucky is now in Hebrew School and is coming back shortly, after which he is leaving for a Boy Scout Hike. Fathers are not invited, so that’s that. Mother has been abstracted by relative Libby and is involved in some purchasing involvements at friend Litzie, the ladies clothes instrumentality.

Linda is just gurgling with delight as I read this letter back to her on my tape recorder, via voice box ~ Michael is paying a visit to neighbor Sollo, just north of us. That is squire Richard ~ Mikey has been having inspirations to play the trumpet, which he claims is vital for the security of our armed forces in Viet Nam and the second coming of Elijah. The tones must be long and clear and in a most

Staccatto-like fashion.

Part II