This evening I again drove to Madaket beach to look at the setting sun.  Made some progress installing and covering the receptacles in the second floor south east bedroom. Was startled to be unable to arise from a chair without armrests. There's no avoiding the fact that I'm getting old.

Thank you for your letter.  Even without knowing the details, I've never had any doubts about the passion with which you practice medicine. 

I've always assumed that the painting in Konnarock shows a "generic" breakwater. If my memory is correct such breakwaters, to the casual observer, one indistinguishable from the next, stud the entire west cost of Sylt von Hörnum bis Ellenbogen. I don't known how effective these breakwaters are. Over the centuries, Sylt has lost much land to the ocean, perhaps proportionately more than Nantucket.

When he met my mother, my father was an enthusiastic skier and horseman, traits which my mother did not share, and which would have separated them if he had insisted. My father made the effort to teach Margrit and myself to ski, and bought skis for us. My mother said "no thank you." I can remember only one skiing expedition, als Papa mit Margrit mir zum Torfhaus fuhr und wir von dort auf Schiern den "alten Postweg" in Richtung Altenau hinabliefen. Wie wir zum Taufhaus zurückkehrten, kann ich mich nicht besinnen.  Papa, Margrit and I brought our skis to Konnarock, but we never used them because the snow was never deep enough, and melted soon after falling.

Papa was also an avid swimmer. I have no memory of the event, but Mutti reported that on at least one occasion when he swam from Wenningstedt to Westerland (4.4 Km, 2.73 miles) and back, he was absent so long that she and her friend (Grete Runze) feared for his life ... The psychoanalysis of all this, I leave to you.

Good night.