Miss Duncan Goes to Washington, Part 4 of 7

Letter to Mother - April 21st [1941]

Constitution Hall
Washington, D.C.

Dear Mother:

Guess where I am now. The jolly old Red Cross is having a Convention of about 5,000 people. I have been assigned for the week to the registry desk where I am expected to slip little cards into big badges, file identification cards, and answer innumerable questions. 

The doors don't open until a half hour yet, and I have been locked in, posted by the telephones to tell people we are sorry but no exceptions can be made, while policemen guard every door against the mob of too hot but beautifully dressed delegates. Most of the Washington public is expected tonight too, because Franchot Tone is to be here, and Conrad Thibault, and Burgess Meredith.

This afternoon Franchot was rehearsing and we took turns sneaking in to gawp [sic] at him. Looked pretty normal to me, and a bit healthier. I always thought he was the sort of wistful type. The trouble with this organization is that the whole country is a member and you can't turn anyone away or even be snappy.

 
Even Mr. Leverenz noticed my sunburn today when he came over to get a badge for young Neil. And he introduced me to his wife. I am truly a secretary, when I meet the boss’s wife. Anyway, I was driven down to where Dick and Bill Stix keep their boat, in an open car in all the heat and got quite a burn, but becoming. Dick got an A 2 - or is it a 1 B rating - on the draft, which means that he won't be called until they have taken all the physically fit. The big accusation against him is that he is "underdeveloped." So we are writing a song about My Underdeveloped Husband, still in embryonic form, of course.

             

Rosalind and Dick did really see Mrs. S. last week. But it was necessary to threaten that Dick would never darken her door again to make her do it. Dick has never been so happy and they are planning a June wedding. R. will probably give up her job by the middle of May and concentrate on furniture and a trousseau. The issue of the minister still hasn't been met and I think that meeting the lady is only the beginning, but they are in a very optimistic mood just now.

Went for a very romantic walk with a young Southerner at the Red Cross on Sunday night, all around by the Lincoln Memorial etc. Sweet summer night, soft breezes, and all that sort of thing. Spring. Doesn’t seem to add up to the right answer, though. A good time was had by all. Particularly not the tall Southerner. We came back and ate at our House. Ye ghads, but it has been hot. Too hot for my suit a couple of times. On Sunday I wore my new red seersucker. The wind blows up the full skirt something higeous.

To dinner last Wednesday with that radio person, and - of all things - golf afterwards. We went to one of those places where they give you a pail of balls and a target and set you to it. I got a blister and not a little enthusiasm for the game. Not at all expensive when someone else pays for it... R. was overcome with joy when I told her, after all her hecklings in St. Andrews to make me play. And the blister was awfully convincing.

Things are pepping up here and so Igudda start being polite again. Have a lovely time.

Love and Kisses, 

Nancy

Copyright 2005 by Curt Taylor

Miss Duncan Goes to Washington, Part 3 of 7

February 10, 1941 

Dear Mother --, 

Perfectly blissful weekend - absolutely nothing to do. All of Q Street [group of single men, many of whom are Jewish and work for the federal government] has gone home to celebrate the Passover, so I am left in pleasantly Christian solitude. Yesterday after meeting Rosalind at the Allies Inn for lunch in my new suit, I went back to the office and worked until after six all alone.

We have been quite swamped these last few days. The State Department doesn't know whether it's coming or going and we have to keep straightening them out. We finally got the complete list of all Americans waiting in Lisbon for passage to this country - about 300 of them - and we are trying to get together all possible information about them to send on to Sadie. This entails no end of red tape with the Passport Division, Division of Account, Special Sections, and various other parts of the Department of State. Quell mess. 

My suit is a Constant Joy. I have worn it twice without a top coat; it has been that warm down here. Rosalind is still faintly green. The other two are all hemmed, pressed, and put in a dark corner to await the real heat. I haven't got around to the cherries yet, though.

Nancy's Friend, Harold Leaventhal, 1941

Saw Blossom Time with Harold on Thursday night. It seemed a bit tacky, or maybe I am developing Harold's sophisticated attitude, or maybe our seats were too good. Fun, though. Friday night dancing at the Madrillon with a boy named Mauer who works in radio somewhere. All I really know is that he isn't a lawyer. A couple of very pleasant luncheons with Frank Newman of the R.C. Practically all in my suit. 

Rosalind and Dick have left for New York and the Salant residence today, the ultimatum having had some effect. I am on the old pins and needles to hear the results. No word on his being drafted yet. 

I have been so industrious this morning. I washed all the Venetian blinds for the first time in the history of Robduncanbuck Digs. Also all shelves, the kitchen, and the icebox. Then I made orange jelly and poured it into the egg shells that I had blown empty for my scrambled egg. Or did you see that stunt in the Ladies Home Companion too? I kept some of the extra juice so I could taste it when it jelled, and just had it for lunch with - I blush - whip cream. 

A really marvelous letter from Donald: "and then when they hear that they must go to Washington for the duration to work on defense housing and defense and bombs and bomb shelters - they say oh hell and they are a little torn because of other things - then they loose the chance on account of they were too slow to chuck their ideals into an anti-aircraft shell." (I guess that he’s been reading a lot of Dos Passos again.) Lord, I hate to think what his setting up residence in Washington would mean. . .
 

Harold and Nancy, 1941

Rosalind has finally decided that if she's going to get married she ought to know something about it, so she went and borrowed a Marriage Manual from one of her friends who's already practicing amalgamation of the races. Silliest book I ever read. It says it's for beginners, so we thought it was the right one for us, but ye ghads, where do they think we have been all our lives? "Since the female is more slowly aroused than the male, she must be stimulated by the loveplay, which should precede intercourse. (No!) The erotic senses are centered in the lips, the lobes of the ears--" Blah, blah in ten easy lessons. But we didn’t know all about contraceptives, except that nothing is as good as it's advertised, and the diagrams are lovely. 

I am enclosing $6. The other $5.50 which I still owe you will come after pay day next Tuesday. I haven't a penny to bank this month, but at least I'm holding my own. Also the communication, I mean commutation, ticket. Your India scarf will arrive shortly, too. 

Well, have a Happy Easter and think of my Venetian blinds. 

And Harold liked my suit. (He just better!) 

Love and kisses, 
Nancy 

Copyright 2005 by Curt Taylor

Miss Duncan Goes to Washington, Part 2 of 7

January 7, 1941

Which brings us to the job. Of course I was terrified when I pattered into that great big marble building all by myself on Monday morning at 8:30. I remained terrified all day. Old Gwin started me off with ten letters, and I spent the rest of the day typing them up, with numerous carbons. But today things solidified down a bit. I am part his stenographer and part Mr. Leverenz' secretary. The idea is that eventually I work only for Mr. L. He is the Assistant Director of Civilian Relief. (The first letter I typed for him I signed as the Civil Relief, and it didn't go over so large.) That means that he corresponds with all the local Chapters about what they are doing for the relief of people whom the other authorities can't take care of, like people who move to new places and can't go on relief because they haven't got a residence.  

Red Cross HQ, Washington, D.C., 1941

The biggest thing that they are worrying about now is what to do with a lot of Americans who are coming back from France. They are mostly people who have lived over there all their lives and resent having to return, and they haven't any money at all and probably very few friends in this country. The idea is to apply pressure on the civil authorities to make them be a bit more lenient in the residence requirement for relief, and to get them jobs when possible, and to lend them enough money to get to friends who can take them in. I imagine them all as disgruntled Henry Jameses. 

The work itself is pretty darn hard and I'm not too good at it. I'm dreadfully slow and about the best that can be said for it is that I haven't made the same mistake on two different days. I came up with a whole new batch this morning. Mr. L. is very gentle with me, but he uses such dreadful words; he came out with 'expatriation' and 'rehabilitation' in one sentence, and even in my wildest dreams I never saw those two in shorthand. But I seem to get along somehow. Mr. Gwin's secretary is very nice to me and helps me out and explains things twice for me. Taking letters from J. Blaine (Gwin) is a snap because they all say the same thing. 'We're very sorry that we have nothing to suggest just now, but we will file your application blank for future reference and if anything should come up etc.' Lord, I'm glad I never got one of those! But I typed two telegrams for him today, asking people to come to Washington at his expense to be interviewed. 

Rosalind Robb and (fiance) Richard Salant

So you see I am making out. We are still as enthusiastic about our house as in the first letter. It really is perfect, except for a few small technical matters. I would like to somewhat revise the list of requests, though. Frannie's father brought us andirons, but if you had that old Cape Cod fire lighter lying around, I bet we could remember to keep it full. Our table is 2½ by 5½ (kindly admire fractions; I have a ¼ -sign too, not to mention * and ^) when it is all open out, meaning when Rosalind's Dick and Frannie's Otto come to dinner, and we haven't one single table cloth. Also how about a half dozen of those colored napkins that don't need to be ironed, for best? Any old bureau scarves? Dish towels? The china is adequate and we're making Rosalind buy the silver to use in her kitchen after she's married, so that's all right. We do need candlesticks, though. And how about a blanket? The one that is provided on my bed has a label guaranteeing that it is at least 5% wool, but that isn't much wool. 

We are hoping that Papa is still planning to come down here sometime this coming weekend and that he will have dinner here. How funny, me inviting Papa to eat dinner in my house! Which brings me to the Bad News. We had to pay our January rent before we moved in, and the bill at the 18th Street place came to a bit, so I am at present fairly flat broke. No one has mentioned when pay day rolls around. So, unless you want me to starve after about this Friday--. Of course I have a roof over my head, which is something. 

Really, Mother, you should have seen us getting breakfast this morning. We set the alarm for 6:30, because Rosalind insists that she have fifteen minutes to get up strength enough to greet the new day. Then we all leapt out of bed, and I put the coffee on and we all squeezed oranges while dressing. But now we are going to squeeze the night before instead. We were all dressed, beds made, and breakfast on the table by 7:15---porched [sic] eggs, toast, juice of the orange, toast, (sorry) Shredded Ralston, and coffee. We decided that it would be more economical to eat a good breakfast and dinner, and then have only a 20¢ lunch, than to leave off the eggs for breakfast, and we have such a nifty little porcher [sic] to porch [sic] them in. 

Oh, I forgot to ask for a cook book. That's one thing we really need because we refuse to always eat out of the frying pan. Do write and give us some suggestions for what is cheap and easy to get and fairly substantial. 

Come visit us and sleep on our day bed and eat our porched [sic] eggs. Also admire our gate.

Love and kisses, 
Nancy 

Copyright 2005 by Curt Taylor