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November 13, 1944

The mountains are beautiful Nature quickly covers all ravage of the storm. Yellow green terraces nestle in blue canyons. The sun pours down.

Trinidad and other gardens are washed out and nothing coming in.

Only ten minutes of visiting hour was left when Jerry came down so tired that he couldn’t connect his thoughts or keep up a sustained conversation. He can’t bear to hear about any hospital cases which is about all I see, hear or know, and he went around and around on his cooking details—how many peanuts he had, how much he took for this, how much value in that, the
little groove of our days over and over (he used to call it counting diapers when I was that tired), until I could scream. We stop each other, irritable, snappy, until it became a wretched brief visit for which I had waited all day to no avail or pleasure. He goes back to the warm kitchen which is lighted by new storm lights and full of buzz and friendly chaff of men, while I come in to undress while I can still see, then crawl into bed to lie in the dark.