March 4, 1936

Laramie, Wyo.
March 4, 1936

Dear Fay--

I am dropping you these few lines to wish you a quick and easy recovery from your operation.  I hope that I am already too late in saying this and that you are well again by now.  I thought that you were looking fine when I saw you, anyhow.  Leaving town a little ahead of the time I had figured on, I didn't get the chance to see you again.

Ogden surely looked swell to me while I was there.  I'm even thinking of moving back there again this summer.  The only thing wrong up here is the weather--and it is always wrong.  And unless the University gives me that job I'm trying to land there will be few ties between Laramie and me after this quarter, for at last I am about to graduate.  Graduation is supposed to be the high spot in a person's life, but I do not see that it means so much to me.  Maybe I am leaving a year too soon--the U. has a new building that I would like to use, and the Mormons have built a new building here with the best dance floor in town as a feature.

Aside from all of this we eat, sleep, study, work, and drink beer.  Are you doing any better than that?  I suppose that you drink orange juice.

Well, having received my little message of joy and good wishes in the first paragraph, you need not worry much about the rest of this epistle.  It's all ad lib, anyhow.  I would have spared you all of this reading except that it concerns me deeply to find any of my old pals sick, dying, or married.  Probably the latter is the worst ailment.  Let me know when you catch someone--I beg your pardon, I meant, when you catch that serious ailment.

All joking aside, I hope you recover without any trouble.

You may buy orchids, candy, or whatever you wish with the enclosed check.

Well, be good

Love & kisses

L. R.

P.S.--I couldn't find my checkbook.  Sorry--