art by Cher Jiang

Yale Station: Letters of Love
February 21, 1947 AM Dear Emily, It has been a long time since I felt anywhere near this good, It is snowing -- cold -- sloppy, and when I look ahesd through this very gloomy day, I see little but stacks of work to be done: but I feel, very strongly, that this day means something - that tomorrow and the next day, and all the days to follow, will mean no less than this morning does. It's so very strong, right now, that I must stop work and tell you about it. -- Tell you that it's because of you, and that I don't know exactly why, and don't give a d- just why, act- ually. So many of my letters have zoomed your way recently, that the things I am saying might be becoming commonplace -- but stop for an instant and realize the full meaning of the fact that here, a long way from you -- certainly out of your personal reach, and by virtue of nothing else but that you are you, some- one's life is vitally affected -- has been given a new vigor -- new "cutting teeth", to be crude. Someone moves and acts in all things in full awareness that somewhere, doing some ordinary thing at this very moment, 1s a person like you. Very hard to say just what I mean -- emotion is always a bad explainer. Right now, perhaps you are typing one of your payrolls. You finish the A's, and coming to the B's, remark what a lot of B's there are in the world. Mistake -- it vexes you as you erase -- but people will make mistakes, you say, once you're flying gone again down the list. You come to "Barsolowski", and wonder what sort of person this Barsolowski is, perhaps subconsciously you think this. There is a Barsolowski somewhere, and just now you are involved in his affairs. That makes the man, however small an extent, mean more to you than if you'd heard the name -- read it in a book, etc. Then "Bolin" --, then "Bowen" -- should be something in between; oh yes, "Bostick" -- what a queer name -- wonder if the fellow is queer as the name sounds. Someone comes into the office; you glance briefly up, sweep in the face, to think about later -- the work never stopping. Some clear thought of last night sweeps through your attention to your work, not disturbing it. You think once, "How strange it is that these things, these records, each one a vital something for the lives of these people concerned, come to be looked upon as listed items
2. in an office." or something along that line. You recognize the things around you, without conscious thought, and without thoroughly knowing it, are awed at tne thought that our senses become so acutely trained that they pile intelligence into our minds without directed effort on our part -- that these material happenings, the minute features of these people, their meaning in their gestures, are recorded firmly in you through the mysterious little eye -- in a short second. You are amazed that out of a host of strangers, you pick, instantly, one familiar face, when you could not, for the iife of you, describe their differences from other people similiar to them. You say, "out of the billions of faces -- why do I recognize this one -- how can there be billions of utterly different people" -- you say this and wonder at it -- but know that it's true. Somewhere during the morning, some incident, very small, brings a nostalgia, without your recognizing the connection. Some insignificant little happening, word, or glance around brings a feeling of well being. Again, you don't know why, or, knowing, the knowledge is indistinct -- enough to satisfy, but undefinable. Then comes lunch {about now). The end of Chapter One in the life of Emily G. I took your advice -- and retired early last night (12). The world looks much clearer through rested eyes. But I can't keep this up, or I'll become a softie. Many times, during the "witching" hours, I think "she's fast asleep now -- and the absurd things of which dreams are made, are shifting through her mind". The very unimportant (to you) things, seem somehow very vital to me. I'd like, very much, to see you. Like to hear you talk -- see your expression, read all those things behind those eyes. Would I be destroying a world of "enchantment" if I were to ask you to our dance on the 8th of March? It's going to be a small dance -- just my college (Trumbull) -- and it will be a closed affair. The boys and I (and the girls) make it a habit to have a small party just before the dance; then the dance -- and a moderate fling uptown. I can't promise much from the dance -- there have been times when these small, closed, sessions were good -- and times when they were boring. But we can sneak out -- and I think our friend Leonard, at the Town House, can be relied upon to find us a place there. But that sounds too much like planning -- and I won't do any of that until I hear from you; except to say that, anticipating the crowded conditions at that time, I have taken the liberty of
3. making reservations for you at the Taft. Can always cancel them, you know. So this does not mean I am taking anything for granted. Try as I will to prevent it, my work always forces me to give up this most important and pleasant task -- so, until next time

letters through April 17, 1947

  1. from another correspondent, January 6, 1947 (typed)
  2. from George to Emily, February 19, 1947 (handwritten)
  3. from George to Emily, February 21, 1947 (typed) (current letter)
  4. from George to Emily, February 22, 1947 (typed)
  5. from George to Emily, February 23, 1947 (typed)
  6. from George to Emily, March 14, 1947 (typed)
  7. from Emily to George, March 23, 1947 (typed)
  8. from Emily to George, March 24, 1947 (typed)
  9. from Emily to George, March 29, 1947 (typed)
  10. from George to Emily, April 5, 1947 (typed)
  11. from George to Emily, April 6, 1947 (typed)
  12. from George to Emily, April 7, 1947 (typed)
  13. from George to Emily, April 7, 1947 (typed)
  14. from George to Emily, April 7, 1947 (handwritten)
  15. from Emily to George, April 9, 1947 (handwritten)
  16. from George to Emily, April 10, 1947 (typed)
  17. from Emily to George, April 15, 1947 (handwritten)

Return to introduction.

Minnie Renzer Bostick (1881-1955), father of Glyn Bostick, Fort Worth, Texas, 1911.
Minnie Renzer Bostick and wife Lily, on the road near Childress, Texas, 1938.
Emily Greatrex in New York City, 1939.
Emily Greatrex (left) with her friend Millie Gonzales-Coto, 1939.
Glyn Bostick, San Francisco, March 21, 1942.
Emily Greatrex (upper left) helps decorate The New York Daily News office Christmas tree, 1942.
Emily Greatrex, age 23, July, 1944.
Emily Greatrex, November 13, 1944.
Clipping from The New York Daily News, January 6, 1947.
Emily Bostick with first child Chris, Long Island, New York, March 13, 1952.
Glyn Bostick arm wrestling with Diane and Chris, Syracuse, New York, March 25, 1959.
Glyn Bostick, posed portrait, Syracuse, New York, January 23, 1983.
Glyn Bostick U.S. passport photograph, June 14, 1990.
Glyn and Emily Bostick, Syracuse, New York, March, 1997.

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