Dear Mama,
I take pen to paper, ritin this here letter with a heavy heart.
Mama, I'm in a club called DKos, well, I guess it ain't no real club, there ain't no dues or nuthin. and I reckon about anybody can join up. but I keep a'readin how every cotton pickin body wants to throw me out. I reckon they don't care too much fer me.
Me, Mama,
Your little girl who heps the lil animals, the lil cherdren and them ole folks out at the county home.
so, Mama, I reckon all this here heartache's got me wondrin . . .
Does Granddaddy still own that lil piece of land in France . . .you know the place he was give for fightin and savin all them people . . .
reason I'm a askin is folks in this club I'm being threw out of, say the whole South is a goner and we might as well be gone.
but gone wherebouts, I'm a sittin here a worryin.
these Yankees, Mama, now these here folks are hard to figure.
I recollect Granma tellin about the Yankee hobos back during the Depression. reckon those fellers had no work and no food nowhures in them big cities. So lot's of them fellers would just start walkiin South and walk down that long dirt road by the farm there whure she lived.
and Granma never let a single feller leave hungry. I reckon she was crazy about them there Yankees.
and great uncle Marion going to that fancy school with all them rich folks jus cause he was a smart fella and then comin home and tellin folks to put the jam on the lower shelf where the little man can reach it. Now that shore is some deep thinkin there.
but we're all no count,
The Good Book says we're sposed to love one another, but I reckon these people ain't had time to read it, cause they shore do hate me Mama.
I had me an idee bout invitin some of these folks for a spread, you know where we could jus jaw a lil and reckon we could get to know each other.
but I don't believe they'd come Mama, so I reckon that idee is no good.
well, Mama, I hope it don't weigh on your mind if I get threw out of this here club.
Mama, I tried.