As winter begins to ease, the tone of the letters shifts with it. The days grow milder, the routines remain, but their weight begins to change. Where winter was defined by endurance, spring is marked by anticipation—tempered by uncertainty.
Rosa’s focus turns increasingly toward leaving—watching for orders, counting days, and preparing to send belongings home. The letters take on a more practical rhythm: decisions about shipping packages, tracking mail, and tying up the small details of daily life. Movement returns, but not all at once. It comes in fragments—plans, expectations, and the sense that things could change at any moment.
There is still work to be done, still frustration and fatigue, but they are now measured against what lies ahead. Home is no longer an abstract distance—it feels close enough to imagine, though not yet certain enough to reach.
By the final letters, the rhythm has shifted again. The waiting remains, but it has narrowed. Time is no longer stretching—it is closing in. The year is ending, and the journey is beginning to turn back.
April 1, 1955
Letter Pages & Envelope
Notes:
Written on April 1, 1955, this letter finds Corporal Richard Rosa in a reflective, almost transitional mood as he prepares to leave Korea. He opens with small frustrations—no mail, delays, and the usual military routine—but quickly shifts to the logistics of winding down his time overseas, carefully packing and shipping home his camera equipment, lenses, and personal belongings. There’s a practical, almost businesslike tone as he tracks costs, asks about airmail, and follows up on packages, yet moments of personality peek through: a joke about his expensive haircut, curiosity about the weather back home, and even a passing image of driving a convertible in the warm sun. He notes the improving conditions of his quarters and the sluggish pace of outgoing shipments, hinting at the in-between state of a soldier waiting to move on. By the end, his anticipation is clear—he expects to be gone or on his way by the time the letter arrives—capturing that restless final stretch between duty and home.
Transcript
April 1, 1955
Dear Mother & Dad,
Well, I just come back from the city and there was no mail. I should get at least a couple tomorrow. There isn’t too much to write about, has never the less I’ll write.
Yesterday was payday and I had about twelve now already. I bought that lens I mentioned and it cost me 65. I’ve made for my Contax. It fits my Ikon lens isn’t as good on that. I have all of the stuff packed that I’m sending home yet. I have my camera, lens, light meter, gadget bag, and case in a box just about all wrapped.
I was going to send it air mail but the thing was far too much to send that way. I hope it will get home in good condition, like that. Oh yes, also included in my tripod. Have you received the Contax I sent by registered airmail yet??? You should have gotten it by now. Did the projector get there yet?
Snow is melting at home. And I hope so for everything is ok here. I should be on the next drop whenever that is. In fact I’m very sure I’ll be on it. But the only thing nobody knows when the drop will come down. All there is to do is wait.
The weather is just perfect for driving in a convertible with the top down. The sun is starting to get hot too. Here the weather here, it looks like the eastern part of the country had a storm. I’ll let you know if any of it is.
I got your letter of the morning of the 25th last night. Also one from Uncle Mike. My room around here, it looks very nice. With it painted and remodeled too. It will be very nice coming home to a place like that.
Well, I could tell you to stop writing when you get this letter, and I guess you can.
When you get this letter I should be gone or leaving. I’ll keep writing as much as I can, it will keep you posted on what happens. I hope you’ve been writing up until now too. I guess the mail is fouled up a little too. You can tell to L E to stop sending the boxes now if you want. It won’t reach them if you don’t do.
Well it’s getting past my bed time, so I think I’ll say goodnight for now. Hoping to hear from you tomorrow.
Give my love,
Your Son,
Dick
April 5, 1955
Letter Pages & Envelope
Notes:
Spring doesn’t arrive all at once in Rosa’s letters—it seeps in, almost reluctantly. By April 1955, the tone has shifted again, not with relief exactly, but with a cautious sense of nearing the end. He’s still waiting—still checking for mail, still marking time—but now the focus has sharpened. He mentions not having “any date coming down yet,” watching for orders, hoping something will break before the week is out. The waiting has changed shape: no longer open-ended, but pointed toward departure.
Practical concerns take center stage. He weighs the cost of sending packages home, calculates postage by the pound, and decides how best to split shipments between air mail and regular mail. There’s a quiet care in these details—making sure things arrive safely, intact, worth the expense. Even the mention of a projector being on its way home carries a kind of forward motion, as if pieces of his time overseas are already being packed up and sent ahead of him.
The letters also begin to reconnect more fully with home. He asks about painting projects, family routines, the old familiar circles of relatives and neighbors. He talks about hunting dogs, local clubs, and the small details of life waiting for him back in New York. These aren’t just questions anymore—they feel like rehearsals for return.
There’s still fatigue, still routine, but it no longer dominates the page. Instead, there’s anticipation, tempered by uncertainty. Rosa doesn’t yet know exactly when he’ll leave, but he knows it’s close. Even time itself seems to move differently now—not dragging, not rushing, but narrowing.
Spring, in these letters, isn’t about the weather. It’s about direction.
Transcript
April 5, 1955
Dear Mom and Dad,
Well I’m still here, so I thought I might just as well write a few lines letting you know what’s happening. I haven’t heard of any date coming down yet. I hope they will be one down before the end of this week. There was no mail tonight, so I’m wondering if you had stopped writing already. I hope you write and let me know if you got the camera too. I am still undecided whether to send the other package by air mail or not. It must weigh at least 25 pounds, and at 80 cents a pound it costs quite a bit. The more I think about it, the more I think it is worth it. If I send it back mail I take a very good chance of getting it broken up. I’ve got $55.00, so I think I can get both of the packages sent for that money. I’ll send the one air mail and the other regular mail. You should get the projector any day now. I don’t think anything happened to it. It is in a pretty good box so it shouldn’t have gotten broken in any way.
Well, I hope everything is still alright there at home. How is the painting coming along. What are you doing now, if you have Mother and Carol’s room done? I suppose you’re doing your own room.
Glad to hear the old folks are all in the best of health. I doubt if I’ll have time to write to them before I leave, so when you see them again tell them I was asking about them and everything.
How are all those hounds doing? I suppose Duke is still running like a weed. Are you still taking them out up to the league club? They should be pretty good next season. How is the prize dog Pepper doing? I hope nobody is spoiling Duke like that. He has to be trained to do them already.
I’m looking forward to seeing my bedroom too. It sounds very nice. I guess that desk will really shine.
Well, I can’t think of anything else to write about. I hope everyone there had a very nice Palm Sunday. I never realized it was Palm Sunday until a little while ago. I’ll write again tomorrow. Until then I’ll say good night for now.
The slash-typer—
Your Son,
Dick