I have not written in here very much lately. Wintry gray has begun erasing all of autumn's glory. I'm grateful that it does not snow very much here in Oregon. Cold weather has never been my friend. My mood tends to follow the seasons.
In Autumn the brilliant colors fill my soul with buoyant joy. There are mostly evergreen trees here but every once in awhile a brilliant fire maple will peek out from among the more sedate greenery. There is a road near Blake's ranch that is lined with golden leaves on both sides. I walked it every single day before winter set in.
Spring is all about renewal...plants wake up, green creeps through the winter gray and silver. I love getting in the garden and planting seeds, then watching the crops grow. Summer? Summer brings sweeping landscapes of every kind of new plant and flower.
That brings me to the one season that I don't enjoy very much. Oh I like Thanksgiving, and then the Christmas Season. It's January through half of March that I could live without. This ceaseless rain feels as though it's pounding a drum against my head. All of my sorrow seems to eclipse any joy that might leak through.
Sigh, I had to force myself to write in here tonight. There is icy rain beating against Blake's two room ranch house. Instead of feeling cozy and comfy lying here in this warm bed, I feel a chill run down my spine. The chill is due to all the death I have witnessed in the last few years. First it was my parents. I still think that it was cruel that they died...and left me behind alone. Well, not quite alone because then I had Tom, my husband, and his family. Now they are gone as well?
I wonder if Tom is on some horrifying battle field not only fighting the cold, but the Confederates as well? Does he wonder about me as he shoots and defends himself, and our country? Why doesn't he write me a letter? Is he dead, wounded, left behind anonymously?
I have heard that some soldiers get tattooed with their name, and their military information. I have never cared for the gaudiness of tattoos. It doesn't seem like those that choose to pollute their bodies in this fashion can be truly refined. I've changed my mind after reading the headlines about this dreadful war. These designating tattoos help wives and families to be notified when a soldier dies.
I think worse than death would be for Tom to wind up in a Confederate prisoner of war camp. Horror stories have leaked into the newspapers about them as well. I don't think the Union has better detainment facilities. Just because our Union ideals are positive it does not mean that we can treat our enemies in a more positive manner than they treat us. That is the very nature of war, to kill or be killed.
Usually when I write in my journal it helps me to sort out twisted thoughts. It isn't working tonight. I just feel more twisted than ever. I'm going to attempt to get some sleep.
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