Just a few lines to let you know I'm still alive. I'm writing this letter slowly because I know you can't read fast.
We are all doing very well. You won't recognize the house when you get home: we have moved. Your dad read in the newspaper that most accidents happen within 20 miles from your home, so we moved. I won't be able to send you the address because the last Irish family that lived here took the house numbers when they moved so that they wouldn't have to change their address.
Your father's got a really good job now. He's got 500 men under him. He's cutting the grass at the cemetery.
Your sister Mary had a baby this morning but I haven't found out if it's a boy or a girl so I don't know if you are an auntie or an uncle.
Your Uncle Patrick drowned last week in a vat of whiskey in the Dublin Brewery. Some workmates tried to save him but he fought them off bravely. They cremated him and it took three days to put out the fire.
I went to the doctor on Thursday and your father went with me. The doctor put a small tube in my mouth and told me not to talk for ten minutes. Your father offered to buy it from him.
The weather isn't bad here. It only rained twice this week, first for three days and then for four days.
We had a letter from the under-taker. He said if the last payment on your Grandmother's plot wasn't paid in seven days, up she comes!
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 loving Mum
P.S. I was going to send you some money but I had already sealed the envelope.