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Erie, Pa.
Sunday, Nov. 19, '39.
Today was another of those very difficult days on account of Mother. She was in one of her most difficult moods - ultra critical, ultra sensitive, feeling badly to boot. Willie made some remark yesterday about the cost of living going up and Mother took it as a direct slam at her and an implication she was "sponging" on us. That took what seemed like a half hour of very unpleasant discussion which, as usual, got nowhere. There was the old complaint we don't talk at the table. One reason we don't talk much is that Mother has a most annoying habit of interrupting people while they are talking. It is very common to have her cut right into the middle of a conversation, so common that I personally hesitate to say anything for fear of being interrupted or contradicted or involved in an argument. She interrupts me, Willie, the children. If anything is said at the table she doesn't approve of, she clearly shows it by making a face or raising her left eyebrow which is embarrassing, unpleasant. The children see it, feel it. But I can't tell her these things. On the few occasions I have ever essayed to do such a thing, I have been so heaped with abuse, I swore never to be so rash again. All this makes life at home unnatural, strained, unpleasant, nerve racking. I don't know what to do about it. It just seems to be something to which there is no solution. Mother complained to me