I write to let you know I am still alive. I am writing slowly as I know you don't read fast.

You won't know the house when you come home – we moved. We had trouble moving, especially the bed – the man wouldn't let us take it in the taxi and we were afraid we might wake your father.

Your father has a nice new job and very responsible. He has about 500 people under him - he
cuts the grass at the cemetery.

Our neighbors, the Browns, started keeping pigs - we got wind of it yesterday. I got my appendix out and a dishwasher put in.

There is a washing machine in the new house here, but it don't work too good. Last week I put 14 shirts in the washer and pulled that chain. They whirled around real good but then disappeared. I think something is wrong with the machine.

Your uncle Dick drowned last week in a whiskey vat at the distillery. Four of his work mates dived in to save him but he fought them off bravely. We cremated his body the next day and just got the fire out this morning.

I went to the doctor with your father last week. The doctor put a small glass tube in my mouth and told me not to open it for ten minutes. You father wanted to buy it from him.

It rained only twice last week - once for three days and once for four days. Monday was so windy that our chicken laid the same egg four times.

I got a letter from the undertaker this morning. He said if we don't make up the installments on your grandmother's grave - up she comes.

 Your loving mother,
 Stella