More photos, less farm work

In 1948 my youngest sister and her husband immigrated to Canada. We used to spell it with a "K", "Kanada", but I guess we were told otherwise at some point.
And there it happened all over again; pictures and letters from a strange and far away place. It looked a lot more exciting than what my life had been up until that point. 
Not much had happened in my life at that age aside from living and working on a farm that my parents owned. We did the occasional camping trip or a bike ride into Breda, where my brother lived close to the Belgian border.
But things were about to change. We, my mother, father and myself, moved into town into a "normal" house. There was no more farm work and all the chores it entailed any longer.