Tuesday (It’s Monday tho) Nite.
Nov. 2, 1925.

My dearest Walter:

Yours of the “dark night” and Friday night came this afternoon, and they afforded me more pleasure than anything had since I received your last letter. Yes, Dear, I’ll be glad to help you with your letter writing after we are married. I think that will be fun. I’ve gotten so I love to write letters.

November 2, 1925

Sweetheart, Sunday evening my battery gave me another scare. I thought it had done what it said before it was going to do – died. I rushed out to the car in a great big hurry to get to the church a little early in order to practice a duet another girl and I were going to sing at League, I stepped on the starter and it – well, you know that sickening groan it gives when something is wrong, but it refused time after time to turn. Papa came to the rescue and cranked ‘most all his breath away, but there didn’t seem to be a spark of life left (in the car, not in Papa). We left it and resorted to the Ford. It did the same way. Finally though, it seemed to realize the desperateness of the situation (you know Fords are always so sympathetic) so it yielded to the crank. By the time I was about halfway in town, I realized that there must be something almost flat about the tire, but I was afraid to look. I finally took a peep though and saw that the left rear wheel looked awfully mushy but not entirely so. Pretty soon though that convincing “swish, swish” and a knock brought me to a standstill. In spite of the fact that I had never before changed a tire, and also that I was in a desperate hurry, and, worst of all, that I was wearing for the first time a perfectly new dress on which I had labored many many hours while making – in spite, I say, of all these entirely good reasons why I should be allowed to travel unmolested, I had to step right out, remove my coat, roll up my sleeves, make a great big wish for someone to come right away quick, and begin. I got out the right tools, (I know they were right because the man used every one of them later), jacked up the wheel and had some of those little … nuts unscrewed when a gallant young man (married) came to the rescue. While I sent forth a sigh of relief and many words of thanks, his experienced hands did the work. It was soon finished, and, with a final crank, he sent me on my way rejoicing and feeling very thankful that all the people on earth didn’t happen to be women (I think we both thought that). Later, the mechanic discovered that my battery was good yet, and the trouble was a bad connection. He fixed that in a few minutes, so everything’s lovely.

No doubt this is what you would call a “garage letter,” but I love you even though I did spend most of the time on flat tires.

With lots and lots of love, I am,

Always, your loving,
Ina.