November 11th, 1952 — Joyce writes Earl on another Monday, her longing so intense she says she’d walk the turnpike just to be in his arms. Her day has been a whirl of productivity: reading assignments, practicing McDowell’s Sonata from memory, doing laundry, and handling dorm life gossip — including Winnie’s likely March wedding and a tangled triangle involving Anita.
She learns she’s not eligible for associate membership in Mu Phi Epsilon, but is still invited to all the fun parts. Safety concerns at night make her hesitant to attend a meeting, especially with reports of strange men in cars near campus. Joyce muses about upcoming graduate and written exams, possible post office holiday work, and her modest savings. There’s humor in her private code for “Junior” and her plans to make a puppet named “Earl William” from a potato and a sock.
The letter moves between daily details and deep yearning — the ache of weekends apart, the sting of being teased by Earl, and the warmth of imagining a life without having to part at all. She signs off planning to knit a few rows, her love as constant as her stitches.
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