June,
I wish that I had good news but things are not good. We have children in the trees again. They infest the lower branches and they are eating the early fruit. Your father has locked himself in the tool shed. I'm afraid he is inventing again. I didn't have the heart to take his gun from him. His father gave it to him when he returned from the war. Your Oppa smuggled it from overseas disassembled, wrapped in strips of oilskin and sewn into the lining of his peacoat and bedroll.
It was common then. Your uncle brought home a canteen filled with foreign buttons and shell casings. Trinkets for pride and memory. So I could not take away the gun that Oppa and your father built and rebuilt together a hundred times together when they thought I was unaware quilting. But I have hidden his munitions. Every stray bullet from every kitchen drawer and the small flat box stored with the socks and ties. I worry that your father is building new bullets in the shed. Or worse, some infernal machine to scatter those children.
Dearly,
Madra
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