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245

En route Erie to Washington
Sunday, Nov. 29, 1942.

Spent the entire day around home, enjoying it thoroughly, and when it came time to entrain for Washington, I knew my four day "vacation" has gone by all too fast for me.  As a matter of fact, I have never [[underlined]] felt so homesick as I did tonight when I left. [[/underlined]] I could only think how I had spent the day making [[underlined]] model planes with Rog, loving Babbie, and living a normal life again. [[/underlined]] Even the train was strange tonight - no Elliott, the jovial porter, no Eddie or Ralph in the diner - just Al Olmer, nearly tight as usual, and Le Grand Skinner, whom I don't know but would like to know - he has always impressed me as probably being an extremely high grade chap, clean and fine looking.  Al on the contrary looks like a stew and a roustabout, which he is.  I know which category I prefer to be in but sometimes I wonder if I'm really in it.  I'm putting on weight and losing my looks; [[underlined]] soon I can't pass for 30 any more at [[/underlined]] the rate I'm going.  I am definitely [[underlined]] unhappy [[/underlined]] and [[underlined]] dissatisfied [[/underlined]] with things - and yet I should be the [[underlined]] opposite with all my blessings. [[/underlined]]  It is entirely in my own hands to take hold of my life and make it good make it wonderfully good and satisfying if only I would do it.  All these years I have groped for that game I like to call the "Shoals Game" because my conception of it was born at Stan Island nearly twenty years ago.  Once in a while I hit the pace I want but most of the time my life is horribly ordinary and petty - and it could be so tremendously the opposite if I would only take hold and smash down the barriers that stand between me and what I really in my inmost heart - my real heart - want to do.  Why don't I do it!

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