Dear Son Boy —
Long times have passed since last I wrote. That is my way to avoid you being in the pain we suffer here. It is not any lack of concern for keeping you informed and in the family reach. Your ma and I are most proud of all you have managed and only rue our own suffering crowds out much joy.
Grampy sits in a daze. We thank God for the freeze because it keeps the flies away from the spittle caked around his bloodless lips. Never have I been so grateful for such cold. Your sister claims to be returning for the upcoming season from her time with the ancient people but the ancients have fallen to sin and appropriations are properly taken from them. They cannot escape justice. Yea, we pray she will escape to us.
Your uncle is gone. Rumor is he is rutting in the woods with the free and wild women but folks talk too much and think too little. Your mother cares for my injury with ability, candor, and only rare cruelty. That is my burden and hers.
Do not believe what they say son boy. It is liars and Pharasites who claim Christmas was derived from the pagans. They are filled with sin and the evil of the world that oozes out from its dirt, its trees, and the sapped, sordid, skin of its creatures. I feel that evil stirring even under the ice and I am afraid.
But do not let the children of Hell steal Christmas. Do not allow it. Rise to smite them. Smite their filthy souls—may that I would have had the strength the world needs you to summon but I did not. Now I lie in the filth.