Dear Mom,

I am writing your birthday letter early this year. I have so much to tell you, and it can’t wait until June. The sad news is Dee had a stroke. I couldn’t talk her into taking better care of her health. She is improving every day. I know how fond you were of her—your first grandchild. I appreciate how much you helped me when she was born 73 years ago.

Now, the good news. Remember I told you I was writing a historical novel? It is finished and accepted by Rockinghorse Publishing, and printed! I bet you would love it. Do you think that is an odd name for a publishing company? I do, but it is easy to remember. Water Under the Bridge is a work of fiction, but a lot of it mirrors our life when we lived in Claypool, Arizona. I tell about the time we went to see the first aeroplane, and also the couple in the book had to convert the parlor into a small store because of the Great Depression. I also mention your voting dress and how it got its name.

I already told you how I was published in an anthology, Journeys to Mother Love. Well, it is selling well. One of the nine authors whose stories are in the book, Ardis Nelson, contacted me by email. She is also writing to her dead mother. It would be nice if you could find her in Heaven, don’t you think? Ardis and I are becoming friends. Ardis promised to pray for Dee and for my joints. Isn’t that sweet of her?

Oh, yes, Larry is getting married this month. They wanted me to fly out to Oregon for the wedding, but I’ve decided against it. The last time I tried to fly, Missouri had a snow storm and we were stuck in the airport for 12 hours. The first plane we boarded developed problems and we had to get off while they tried to repair the damage—with no luck. What an unpleasant experience.

You get a chance, beam down and we’ll attend Easter services together. That would be a blast. I’m going to the covered bridge again this year. Leave me a message, if you can—maybe plant a wildflower on the spot where you rested the day we went there with Lewis, or place a rabbit close by. But no copperheads, please.

My eyes hurt. I’ll close for now. I love you and will soon join you and all the others whom I miss. Tell Irene when you see her—tell her I’m coming. Soon!

Love,
Verna