I vowed early on in this endeavor that if I had little more to say in these clean pages of paper than to tally the day’s chores and travails (often one and the same), I would leave off writing here. And that is what I have done, at least until I have something of note to tell. Today is not one of those days.
And judging from the slow, dusty progress we are making, it is unlikely that tomorrow, or any day on the horizon, will offer much worth relating. This is not a complaint (well, perhaps a little of it is), so much as it is a fact.
And so we roll slowly toward Oregon and what Papa is certain are its farming splendors. I hope it proves greener than this worrying, hot, and dusty land we find ourselves trapped in.
With that said, I doubt I shall write again here for some time to come. It occurred to me that I should use these pages more wisely, spend them like hard-earned pennies instead of treating them as if they numbered as many as snowflakes that fall in a midwinter storm. It is hot enough here, somewhere in the Dacotahs, that I tempt myself with thoughts of the cooling snows of winter. And still I fill the pages! Will I never learn?