Sister, I still remember us living in Camp Hill; in that little block house. When you were nine and I was ten. One day we slipped away, across the street just wondering through the woods. Well, you were in front, leading the way, when all of a sudden you started screaming. My heart sank! I rushed to you and you were knee deep in quick sand. I tried to pull you out; but I started to sink too. I managed to get out of it, enough to pull you out, but we were unable to save one of your shoes. Needless to say, when we arrived home, we were in deeper trouble than the quick sand. Mamma told us to go get a switch. Sister, you got the right size switch; but I came back with one way too short. Mamma used your switch for you, but Mamma went and got a larger one for me. We learned one of many lessons. I miss you Sister. Your brother, Gary.