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Dear Folks

The round black ink postmark on the envelope reads “Kansas City MO AUG 20 9PM 1929.”  The red two cent stamp is upside down; George Washington is standing on his head.  This letter must have been sent in a hurry.  The envelope is addressed to Mrs. Ira S. Kunkler, 309 East Jefferson, Clinton, Missouri.  A letter from my grandfather to his parents.  It is one of several pieces of correspondence bundled in with the others in the letter box.  I open up the single page letter to discover several additional pages of another letter tucked inside.  I found it.  The letter we have heard about all these years.


Dear Folks-

This has to be short.  I am sending you the letter I got from Mary Potter.  As a little explanation-The fellow she was going to marry was 10 yrs older than she.  I talked for a year to stop it, and I succeeded.  Her mother didn’t want her to and her father didn’t want it.  So I surely wasn’t wrong.  She knows it now.  

Don’t you think that is one of the sweetest letters you ever read?  When you are through with it, save it for me someplace where it won’t be lost.  I want it.

I will mail my laundry tomorrow.  I’ll be home Sat. if possible but please get it back before then if possible.  Mail it so it will get here Sat. if you can.  I’m working pretty hard now.  I’ll write more in a day or two.  I haven’t done anything to tell you about.



I can’t believe it.  I can’t believe I found THE letter.  I can’t believe that it is in one of the first envelopes I open. I can’t believe it is in an envelope with another letter.  I can’t believe Jim sent the letter to his parents to read. I can’t believe that after 83 years, the letter was not lost.  I can’t believe my grandfather sent his sweaty, dirty clothes home to be laundered.  And with a clean clothes deadline, too.  Really?  If my son ever did that I’d send the filthy load back with a coupon for Tide.  But when I stop and think about it, the only time my son sends me anything through the regular mail is my birthday and Mothers’ Day.  Believe it.

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