I’m writing this letter slow because I know you can’t read fast. We don’t live where we did when you left home. Your dad read in the newspaper that most accidents happen within 20 miles of your home, so we moved.

I won’t be able to send you the address because the last Arkansas family that lived here took the house numbers when they moved so that they wouldn’t have to change their address.

This place is really nice. It even has a washing machine. I’m not sure it works so well though: last week I put a load in and pulled the chain and haven’t seen them since.

The weather isn’t bad here. It only rained twice last week; the first time for three days and the second time for four days.

John locked his keys in the car yesterday. We were really worried because it took him two hours to get me and your father out.

Your sister had a baby this morning; but I haven’t found out what it is yet so I don’t know if your an aunt or an uncle.

The baby looks just like your brother.

Uncle Ted fell in a whiskey vat last week. Some men tried to pull him out, but he fought them off playfully and drowned. We had him cremated and he burned for three days.

There isn’t much more news at this time. Nothing much has happened.

Love, Mom

P.S. I was going to send you some money but the envelope was already sealed.