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Stoughton, Mass.
18 July 1944.

Dear Sid:

Doris lost the postcard I sent to you this morning on her way to the store. Maybe someone picked it up and sent it, maybe not. Anyhow the big event is that Mrs B. is gone, gone, gone, and we are at peace again. I never knew such an old egoist, such an old bedizened, if that is the word, female. The weight of a dozen disagreeable souls is off me. Her rich cooking so upset my digestion that I go gulping around still, but I'll be all right as soon as I get back to a simple diet. Doris is already bewailing her pimples. I gave her $20 and she seemed satisfied and regards it as a yearly event now. Anything to get rid of her. 

It is cold today and we sit in the house with all the doors closed and a coal fire, except during the warm hours. I have been trimming up trees, chopped down one old oak. D. & I lugged them up for chopping when you arrive if not sooner. My mother is happy with 4 tomatoes the size of marbles now.  She foresees a bountiful crop on her poor spindly little shaded plants, - but they are doing pretty well considering the shade. We lug water out to them faithfully night and morning. 

I called up Ilga today, and am going over to see her a little while Thursday afternoon. She said her father was growing stronger, but at 90+ he cannot get much strength, and poor Ilga is pretty confined to her own house. I may go to Cambridge on Friday. Miss