February 23, 1942

San Francisco
February 23, 1942
Wednesday evening

It has been several days since I've made an entry in my little book — have been either too lazy or too tired. Then every evening the radio is on with all the war news – one commentator after another with various and sundry phases of the war situation. Some of them are excellent and some mediocre.
Fulton Lewis Jr, William Winter, Bill Heury, Raymond Gram Swing and Robert Desmond are among my favorites.
'The President gave a half hour talk this evening that was magnificent. He always speaks forcefully and with beautifully chosen words. It is a joy to know that we have at the head of our government a man so cultured and intelligent. Oh, I know that is a controversial point about his speech, but at least, even those who oppose him most bitterly, have to admit that he is a cultured and intelligent gentleman.
Auntie Alice came over this afternoon and Betty McCae came over also. We went for a little drive and saw the thrilling sight of a big blimp hovering over a sub-marine that was gliding through the bay. There are many ships sailing in and out of the harbor now and many mine sweepers out at the heads to guide them in and out.

One day Dad and I went up to the "Crow's Nest" – that's what we call that lookout spot below the Marine hospital – and watched a fleet of ships enter the harbor. There were seven mine sweepers making a lane to guide them through the channel, the blimp, shining like silver, hovering over, and any number of airplanes scouring the water for miles around. It was a thrilling, unforgetable sight. It made me very happy to know the ships have such excellent convoy. For I didn't know but that my darling Ginny might have been on board the very ships we were watching enter the bay.

Today was a gorgeous day. We took a little drive down the highway and between the emerald hills and the gorgeous cloud effects and the ocean being particularly beautiful – such a deep blue and the visibility perfect – we were actually breathless. We've had nineteen inches of rain to date and everything along the highway is growing beautifully. There are dozens of different shades of green and splashes of wild mustard and the wild flowers are beginning to blossom. We always have lovely weather around George Washington's birthday. Thirty-one years ago yesterday – my first Washington's birthday here in California – the day was warm and very lovely. I took Kreigh to the park and we sat on the grass and listened to the municipal concert while he played. It seemed so unusual to me, for I had come from a state where such a thing was unheard of – on February 22. Such lovely days! When I look back after all these years I wonder how I had such courage.

Tomorrow is another work day. How I hate it, but I suppose that isn't a very nice attitude to take. Well, I do. I'd much rather putter around the house and do the things I think are needed to make it a real home. I love the garden and wish I could spend more time there. Dad is no gardener and what is sadder he won't try to learn. He hasn't the least conception of the simplest, most elementary rules and becomes actually hostile when you make the least suggestion. One Christmas, just to be silly (but secretly hoping he'd make the effort) I gave him a garden book with this idiotic little jingle, but to no avail:

When "Wandarin' Willie sallies forth
with rake and how and spade
You know full well that garden history
Is certain to be made
He hoes up all the pansies
And the mignonette so sweet
And the fragrant little posies
Are all crushed beneath his feet.
He cultivates with pleasure
Some prolific, silly weed
But he never fails to dry up
Mother's freshly planted seed
Now things go very lovely
Until mother from the door
Spies her Willie's noble efforts
And she lets out such a roar
That neighbors come a running
From near and far and wide
To witness Willie's effort
And observe each homicide.

Now with this little booklet
Amid these pretty shiney tools
Willie soon should be the master
Of some simple garden rules.

But it didn't work. I suppose you have to have a real love of the soil. It means something to me to let it trickle through my fingers and to smell the fresh, damp earth. I can understand now the pride my father took in the neighbors' remarks that Bill Kreigh had the tallest corn and the cleanest fence corners in all of the country around. Well, I'd have the prettiest garden too if it weren't for my silly old back...