ABSTRACT

I arrived at the Charleston train station on the evening of July 2, 1944 after a lengthy transcontinental trip. The next morning, as I sat in my room on the top floor of 9 College Street to write Edwin, there was a gentle breeze with an overcast sky. “I have been looking at books and going through things, searching for a few things out of our wonderful past.”1 Outside the front window, the sycamore was beautiful, and the college was quiet and full of its own beauty. “This attic room speaks of you in so many ways and while nothing could make me long for you more than I have, it makes me want you differently somehow.” Our relationship, though, like the neighborhood, seemed unchanged by war.