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January 12, 1973

Dear Mother,

I miss your letters and feel (cannot help but feel) that you are too sad these days to write. The Christmas season was not easy for you at all, and Dean's color certainty did not make you happier. I assure you, though, that I am much happier married to him than I have been for the years alone, despite our problems we get along very well. I hope you decide to write.

It has been bitterly cold this week. I have not gotten sick, despite the prevalence of the London flu (many people I know here have been quite sick for at least 6-7 days with it; I hope my luck continues Dean, despite his aversion for the cold, has been out taking care of business and did at least one day's work on a miserable messenger job. Today he will go out to see if he can take up modeling work again (he was on a Roll-Aid TV commercial for six months, I even say him on it before I met him) with a few agencies. A very well-known Negro producer, Ossie Davis, was filming bits from a new movie on the West Side when he ran into him