just a few lines to let you know that I'm still alive. I am writing this slowly because I know you can't read fast.
You won't recognise the house anymore when you come home; we moved because your Dad read in the paper that most accidents happen within 20 miles of home. I won't be able to send you the address as the last family here took the numbers with them for their next house, so they wouldn't have to change their address.
There was a new style of washing machine in the house when we moved in, but it wasn't working too good. I put 14 shirts into it last week, pulled the chain and I haven't seen them since.
Auntie Maude has sent you a pair of socks she knitted, she put a third one in because she heard you have grown another foot since she last saw you.
The coat you wanted me to send you, your Aunt Sue said it would be a little too heavy to send in the mail with the heavy buttons, so we cut them off and put them in the pockets.
Your sister Mary had a baby this morning. I haven't found out yet wether it's a boy or a girl. So I don't know if you're an aunt or an uncle.
Jimmy 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 Aunt Harriet took a flight from New York to Los Angeles last week, said it was the first time she had ever arrived somewhere before she had left. Last time she thinks that might have happened, the doctors said it was Altzeimer's disease.