2270 South Vine
Come with me as I meet my Mother through this series of letters, she died when I was 6 months old and this is my very first real glimpse into her world, who she was, who she wanted to be and how she loved my Father.
A collection of 36 letters hand written by my Mother Joyce at University of Denver and sent to my Father Earl at University of Colorado Boulder when they were first engaged in 1952. The letters span from September 1952 - January 1953. My Mother died from Breast Cancer in 1971 at the age of 40. The original language of the letters is read intact to maintain the integrity of the authenticity of her words, 1952 is a very different time culturally and economically.
2270 South Vine
Letter 33 01/13/1953 Symphony Tickets and Smoked Herring
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Show Notes:
January 13th, 1953 — Joyce’s world is equal parts chaos, comedy, and contemplation. She begins with gossip from home: her engagement announcement with Earl has made it into print — badly. The photo is grainy, the wording confusing, and she’s half amused, half mortified. Meanwhile, her mother still hasn’t sent the professional picture she’s waiting for.
From there, the letter spirals through the rhythms of dorm life: missing equipment (and mysterious tubes), prank wars involving smoked herring, and Joyce unleashing a few well-earned curses. Between all the noise, she turns to her studies — philosophy of childrearing, history lectures “slower than molasses in January,” and her upcoming piano lesson for which she’s only half-prepared.
Her insights about children — how they learn through association and shared responsibility — show a teacher’s heart years ahead of her time. She writes about Peter, a child she once cared for, as though she’s discovering her own maternal instincts on the page.
By the end, she’s back in her familiar cycle of humor and longing: turning down a symphony invitation, missing Earl’s voice over the phone, and worrying about a lump under her jaw. Her tone is half domestic philosopher, half lonely lover — a young woman balancing thought, mischief, and tenderness in a world that never quite slows down.
Topics Include:
- Engagement announcement in hometown paper
- Dorm pranks and frustration
- Humor and language in 1950s college life
- Teaching philosophies and parenting reflections
- Music, piano practice, and upcoming lessons
- Symphony plans and Delta Omicron alumni call
- Long-distance phone calls with Earl
- Health worries and fatigue
- Humor, chaos, and love in college dorms
Lisa Mitchell
January 13th, 53. My darling, since I'm caught up on my lessons for tomorrow, I'll write you a nice long letter. Anne Richardson, another girl from Kankakee, told me she had a clipping of Cleon's and mine engagement announcements. That stinking paper does the lousiest job. There are several dark spots on our faces. The way it's worded is very confusing also.
So far I haven't heard from mom. I sure hope she remembers to send the picture to me so I can have it in the post. Then I'll have the picture. Then I'll give the picture to her. Last night I took another look at some of my equipment and now I know it had been used. The little metal doohickey which stops and starts the flow was fastened and I never leave it like that. Never.
and to top it off it was pinched into the rubber. I sure hope no damage to the tube has been done.
This has got to be some kind of like anti-pregnancy 1952 contraption or something. Junior came this morning. Uh-huh. I had no more than gotten out of bed, four pills, and he was okay by afternoon. It's...
been 30 days for three months now. I went to bed early last night and about midnight I woke up to a bunch of yells and kids running around. When I figured out who and what was going on, I was burnt to a crisp. Those idiots I have for roommates were tearing up each other's drawers and putting
stinky, smelly, smoked herring in beds and various places. After 15 minutes, I lost my patience and called two of them damn bastards. And so they left the room. My language is steadily getting worse. My history professor is more fun than a barrel of monkeys. He goes slower than molasses in January. Every day he continues working on
an outline which is practically our test they tell me but his explanations and descriptions are really wild he practically enacts a whole scene by himself i think i'll read agar's price of union for part of the 1500 pages i'm the book i'm reading for him and family living is a book about how to have a happy home
It points out the faults of either paying a child for the chores about the house or punishing as a means of getting it done.
I'm inclined to agree. Nothing seems sillier to me than giving a child money for taking his share of the home responsibility. It has always seemed to me that children should be a part of the family unit in order to have a close family. And the sooner they learn that everyone, excuse please, shares work alike, the better off they are.
And everyone shares the family's fortunes and misfortunes also. When things are going well, they should have a fair allowance and be able to go and do the things they'd like. But when things are hard and corners are pinched, they can't whine like idiots when they can't have all of the candy and shows they want. Excuse me, I have to get a drink. Okay, I'm back.
Every time I read about how to train children, I think of Peter. He sure taught me a lot. Every afternoon at 430, we had to gather up his toys to go home. And every time I'd say, let's pick up our toys and get in our stroller so we can go home. After a while, he'd help pick me pick up. And one day I said, let's et cetera. And by himself, he picked up every...
thing and got in his stroller. I was surprised. It was then I realized that children learn the meaning of words by association. Too many women treat their kids as if they were born with the knowledge of what all the commands mean. Guilty. One of my roommates isn't going to use her spit. I can't spell tonight. Symphony ticket. So I may go. Mr. And Mrs.
Babin are playing. They were at Aspen. If I'm not here when you call, that's where I went. George hasn't been around much, at least not where I am. I'm not crying yet, though. When I started writing and I thought I had enough for a couple more pages, but I can't think of anything more to say. yes, the Delta Omicron alumni chapter called me tonight. I'm still not sure what I'll do about it.
Luckily their meaning might night is not the same as mu phi epsilons. Tomorrow is my first piano lesson. I can't begin to play the last two pages of my piece, but I know the two keys it's written in. The other 12 pages I can play with varying degrees of skill and memory. Every now and then I can't remember what comes next.
Here I am on another page, so I'll rank my brain for some more to say.
I've quit looking for a job. I'll probably regret it, but I want to wait until the Oregon job either falls through or I get it. You just called my pet. How many of the people down there can hear your conversations? No one's going to the symphony, so I don't guess I'll go either. Gee, I sure would like to though. These kids are being noisy as hell tonight. What a riot we will have till the wee hours of the morning.
Hearing your voice over the phone makes me awful lonesome. I wish we could talk half the night away. Darling, this is Wednesday morning. I hope to finish this before class and mail it. There's a funny lump under my jaw and my neck on the right side. Does that mean anything? It's nearly class time. Susie didn't count me late last night. Bye till next time. All my love, always, Joycie.
