Most Fridays I send out a real love letter that I’ve transcribed from a stack I bought at the flea market. Missed one? Check the chronological list.
October 8, 1961
Dearest Kay,
If I don’t go back to school in February, I’ll crack up for sure. I’m lucky in one respect, I didn’t try to go to school full time and live at home. That would have really done the trick. I’d probably run home from the bus stop in mortal fear of attack by a herd of carnivorous butterflies or pack of hydrophobic mobile dandelions, and I’d dream of horrors beyond imagination.
Russ opens sooo many love letters with dreams of violence.
To parents, school is a thousand miles away and doesn’t exist anymore when you get home. And if you claim exemption from the myriad little tasks that they dream up for reason of study, don’t for one minute attempt to develop a personal interest (whether work or pure pleasure) because: “If you’ve got time for ____, you’ve got time to do ____.”
Friendly reminder that Russ skipped a grade in highschool and also his favorite thing in life is to complain.
Like I washed windows this weekend, which I consider a waste of time to begin with. I should’ve studied more than I did. Friday night I fooled around with my tape recorder, which was essentially work, because I was checking it over and making various mechanical adjustments as necessitated every once in a while. I spent about four hours on that with the intention of occupying the reset of the weekend (or at least a major portion of it after attending to some business at a couple of stores Sat. afternoon) studying and rewriting my notes. Saturday morning I found out, for the first time, that Sat. was shot. By Sat. suppertime, it was apparent that Sunday was shot. What is adding insult to injury is that not only am I expecting to sacrifice this needed time, I am also expected to sit around waiting for them to decide on a time. I spent from 10 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. Sunday waiting “on call.” That 2½ hours was plain and outright wasted. If I’d known what was coming off in advance I could have also scheduled things differently.
I mean. You could have rewritten your notes during those hours, but what do I know.
The best thing is to go away to school.
Yes! That worked out so well for him last year! What with the maid cleaning around him as he suffered from colitis.
That belief is becoming firmer and firmer in my mind. People don’t seem to really realize that students have no time for anything buy study and a little just plain pleasure on one night and an afternoon most weeks. Absolutely nothing else.
Is this a good time to mention I worked full time most of my college years? I waited tables for a huge chunk of it, stacking classes two days a week and working the other three to four days.
In graduate school, I worked a full-time desk job as an editor and then took the ‘L’ home from Chicago to Oak Park where my husband was waiting for me at minimum two days a week, usually four. He’d throw a granola bar at me and I’d make it to class without any time to spare by 6 p.m. until 9 p.m. When I scored a 6:30 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. class, I would have just enough time to drive myself. Some semesters I also had an all-day Saturday class!
Not even sleeping although these necessities sometimes make themselves painfully apparent. I’d better get off this tack or I’ll get “preachy.”
OH NO, SIR. IT IS I WHO WILL GET PREACHY.
I don’t know. Things just seem to drag along when you’re not around to brighten things up. Time walks with leaden boots or something like that. I have a cold also. It appeared in all its ugly magnificence Sat. morning and it doesn’t help my disposition at all. I just need you around, that’s all. I can’t sit still until Homecoming. I may appear in room 417 Lundgren by sheer force of will — teleportation. So if I make my appearance don’t be shocked and maybe forewarn Geri (that is your roommate’s name, isn’t it?) to be prepared. If she’s not decent, tell her I wont look as I will, naturally have one thing on my mind — rather one person!
😂 One thing indeed!
I’d better close now. This isn’t much of a letter, but at least you can be confident that I’m thinking about you and have got my fingers crossed for you. Goodnight, Darling, sleep tight, sweet dreams, and take real good care of yourself.
Love ad infinitum,
Tiger
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This wet blanket will be a joy when they get married. I fear his round the clock complaining may dampen the mood.