I’ve said nothing about the main thing here: mosquitoes, the worst in the memory of men. I have bought a spray you pump up, have enough DDT coming to provide 400 gallons of fluid, and now, on top of this, we are having a professional do the place with one of those big machines. That was one thing, the one thing, about New Mexico: sitting out under the stars and not being bitten by anything. But I feel a little effete mentioning mosquitoes to you, for though you resent insects, you are still a Minnesotan — and I get the impression it’s sort of chicken or something to give mosquitoes too much thought. But as it says on the first bottle of spray I bought: “Who enjoys your yard, you or the mosquitoes?” This struck me as a very powerful line, one upon which to act. But the bottle is all gone (and at $2.50 a quart), and I step very lively as I pass between house and garage; the children are kept indoors. […] I must do justice to the mosquito in literature, for it plays a large part in our life here.
But I ramble. I trust you are finding your new assignment pleasant.3 I imagine by now, a week there, you’ve got the place pretty well organized. Always a few things to iron out when you first take over, isn’t that right? Now, I don’t know how you fathers do it, but here’s how I do it …
Jim
HARVEY EGAN
St Cloud
August 1, 1957
Dear Fr Egan,
No office today; too hot. […] Del4 has had it, from me. I sympathized with manager Glickman when he said, “Listen, Flanagan…” […] All for now.
Jim
20. Scabrous Georgian, noble views of the sea, turf in the fireplaces, October 14, 1957–February 13, 1958
Hugh and Jim, Port of New York, 1957
The six-day voyage on the Britannic was brutal, thanks to storms and high seas on the North Atlantic, seasickness, and the Asiatic flu. Jim and Betty arrived in Ireland in bad shape, mentally and physically. While still in the United States, they had arranged to rent St. Stephens, a furnished house in Greystones, for the time it would take to find a permanent place.
BIRDIE AND AL STROBEL; BERTHA SEBERGER
Ireland
12:40 a.m., October 14, 1957
St Cloud
6:40 p.m., October 13, 1957
Dear Bertie, Al, G’ma,
Here we are with our dying fire, into our second bottle of Canadian Club (compliments of Doubleday & Company), and I’ve just finished, with much help from Betty, my ad for The Irish Times, which I’ll be dropping off tomorrow when I go to Dublin.
Wanted to rent house in possible surroundings for long period by unpopular author and family. Greystones to Dublin. 5/6 bedrooms. Cooker, immersion. View of sea? Require furniture, expect to have to collect it, but would consider furnished house if this would not mean eyesores, radiogram veneers, contemporary. State rent and other interesting details in first letter.
Well, there it is. It is calculated to catch the eye of that exceptional person who would not ordinarily reply to a blind ad but who, on reading this one, would suddenly decide to move out and rent it to us. […]
As you can imagine from this, we are not in the best of spirits — I speak loosely — and whatever happens from here on can’t help being better. We have had hard times ever since we left the Britannic, and the last two days on it, with each of the kids being sick with the flu and finally Betty in Cork, where we stayed another day, not according to plan, so she could recover. Even now, everyone isn’t well, Hugh and Boz still very much off their feed. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for three days on account of Hugh — the first night in Cork he started off in bed with me and then tired of me, as men will, I’m told, and I ended up on the floor between two comforters, short ones at that, with my head sticking out one end and my feet the other. (Betty, should your question concern her, was in the other twin bed, and very narrow twin beds they were, about what we’d call an army cot.) And so it goes. […]
Jim
You amaze us with your salesmanship. I refer to the way you’ve been selling our things. I am most impressed by the sale of the watercooler. I am the only person I know who would be tempted by it. […]
MICHAEL MILLGATE
St Stephens, Victoria Road
Greystones, County Wicklow, Ireland
October 23, 1957
Dear Michael,
Hoped by now that I’d be writing from a more permanent address, but we are still at the above, having arrived here on the 12th, with no prospect of improving ourselves. […] I have more or less despaired of finding what I had in mind: a small Georgian residence in surroundings and view of the sea. I just sit here with the Telefunken. I celebrated Trafalgar Day on the Light yesterday, the return of the queen to London, and today listened to Victor Silvester and His Ballroom Orchestra, an old favorite of mine (he makes Guy Lombardo sound like Count Basie). And of course it’s nice having The Observer and Sunday Times right after Mass on Sunday. Beauty we have too, the sea — snot green under the sun today — and Bray Head and the Sugar Loaf Mts. Stilton cheese and Double Diamond in this Crown Colony and Jersey cream. But … but this isn’t it, Michael, and I’m not inviting you over. We would like to see you here when and if we find the place. (Betty is off seeing an agent now who advertises that he covers the waterfront. Words, words.) Let us hear from you.
Jim
LEONARD AND BETTY DOYLE
St Stephens, Victoria Road
Greystones, County Wicklow, Ireland
October 29, 1957
Dear Leonard and Betty,
Betty has given you a good picture of our life here. I can mention two more positive items. Haircuts are two bob (two shillings or 28¢); 1⁄6 (one shilling, sixpence) for lads like Boz. Do you want me to get an estimate on bearded gentlemen? The other thing is Jersey cream and Irish oatmeal. I haven’t made oatmeal a feature of my life in the past, but here I look forward to it. Of course radio you know about, the highbrow 3rd Programme on BBC, of course, but I have a weakness for such music from “Grand Hotel, the Palm Court,” which means “Tell Me Pretty Maiden” and “I Leave My Heart in an English Garden,” medleys from Gilbert and Sullivan, “Zigeuner,” and such, just the thing for the middle-aged tea toper …
I am full of questions about the Movement. I do hope you’ll draw closer to it, Leonard, and not be the outsider you were, appearing only rarely at the smaller gatherings. Make a practice of dropping in on the Humphreys and O’Connells and others I want the latest on. Think of yourself as a routeman or roundsman, as the expression is here. If necessary, go to work for Jewel Tea or Watkins Products. You may not sell a lot, but you will get around regularly, and no one need know your real business — which is news, news, news! About payment, well, you name it. Maybe legman is the term for what I want you to be. Especially Don needs close covering. He’s tricky, as everybody knows. Even when I was there on the spot, too much escaped me, and unless Mary is involved in the opposite point of view — unless it is to her personal advantage that the truth come out — you can expect little help from that quarter. Then, too, where you are concerned, she is inclined to be skittish, if you know what I mean. You are familiar, I hope, with the theory some of us hold that women are both fascinated and horrified by you. Mary is not the only one so affected; your wife is another; and there are others nearby. In fact, I can’t think of a single one who doesn’t qualify. You are the lion in that little jungle. There is a sudden stillness when you come nigh. My reports, such as they are, on Don haven’t been much. I learn he is limping about; I learn he has worked Sputnik into his repertoire. The latter I had known instinctively. I still don’t know what it is, what it’s for, only that it somehow serves Don’s ends on earth …