Ardis Diary

Tonight a different spirit was felt among all of us, the weary travelers.  One man plays the violin, a woman brought her treasured cello, another fellow plays the harmonica.  They had been practicing together in the evenings for the last week or so.  I was privileged to watch one of their practices.  I sketched the experience.  It was delightful to watch.  The cellist is so serious as she plays, the fiddler laughs and smiles endlessly, the harmonica player is a combination of the two.  Sometimes in a lively, spirited rendition he stamps his foot in a rhythmic tattoo.  Even though his mouth is thoroughly engaged in playing a song he still will smile around it.  It's the most interesting thing.

 Tonight they played and people danced.  I danced with Billy and Papa Aidan.  I was acutely aware of my husband's absence.  Mother Bee says that she doesn't care for the frivolity of dancing.  When she was dancing with Papa Aidan, I noticed that she couldn't keep a smile from her face.  She frequently burst into laughter.  This relief from daily, seemingly endless travel to Oregon was much needed.  At the same time, as I took my place underneath the wagon for rest, I was desperately aware of my lack.  

Why did Tom believe that a battle was more important than helping his family achieve this goal that was his alone?  I tried not to be bitter when Tom sold my parents home and land without even consulting me.  He said, "It never crossed my mind.  As  your husband, I am solely responsible for the financial details of our marriage.  Women do not have sufficient intellect to attend to such duties."  At that moment I sincerely contemplated attacking my husband.  He sold my birthright, MY birthright without even a consideration for me.  I certainly had no desire to travel this endless, miserable trek.  Uncertainty lies at the end of our journey. 

What will this place, Astoria, be?  I have heard stories in penny dreadfuls about men being shanghaied, kidnapped and sold as slaves.  It might be years before their family has any idea what happened to them.  They just disappear.  Some of them never return.  

Today, I'm going to sketch a picture of Tom. This picture will be a bit different than the usual.  Instead of making his face classically handsome, which it certainly is, I'm going to show him with a secret smirk.  He will somehow convey the selfishness of his soul on that face.  I suspect that it will help me somehow to make peace with the irony of my situation.  I'm on a trip to a place that I never wished to go.  My birthright was sold without my permission or knowledge.  The person who put me in this dilemma, LEFT, to fight, what he termed, "A glorious battle."  I know very little of the world, but I know that there is nothing glorious about men killing strangers, some men in THIS battle are family, but most wars involve total strangers killing and wounding each other.

 Sigh....I promised myself that I wouldn't again envision such grim thoughts.  It just helps me to have a safe place for my musings.  I certainly will never share with my in-laws these negative thoughts about their son.  Mother Bee would never even listen to a negative word about "Her Thomas," as she lovingly calls him.  Papa Aidan loves his son deeply.  I would not trouble him with these ideas.  Small brother Billy?  To him Tom is a hero of Scottish nobility.  I would never rob him of this ideal.

 So it is to you Letitia that I bare my soul.  Even though I gave my diary this name, it feels as though I'm chatting with one of my beloved friends that I left behind in Tennessee.  Thank you for listening.    Once again, I must spare my lantern from its kerosene usage.

Ardis Diary

 I awoke with my heart racing.  I turned to snuggle into Tom...only Tom wasn't there.  It was just me, alone, under the wagon.  I heard a wolf howling, that's what awakened me.  It took me a very long time to go back to sleep.  I try to protect myself by putting up things between me and the outside world.  I stack wood, or layer rocks that I've found during the day.  It might not save me but at least it would give me a slight chance of awakening before I'm attacked.  

I'm writing now in broad daylight.  I'm supposed to be eating my lunch.  I can eat my lunch while I walk.  That is what we do each and everyday, we walk, then we walk, and when we're sick of walking, we walk some more.  It's hot now, dusty, and an annoying wind often blows the dirt directly into my face as I walk endlessly.  

I have tried to repair the soles of my shoes.  I used some old newspapers when holes formed.  That didn't last for long.  So I tried ripping up an old dress and creating pads that I put on the inside of my shoes.  That worked the best, but finally the sole was so worn that the pad wouldn't stay in the shoe.  Finally I took the leather tops of my shoes, I turned them upside down so that I was walking on the side of the shoe.  I tied the two sides of the shoe together so that one side was on the bottom, when that wore out, I turned the last leather side to the bottom and tied it to my feet with the laces that had been in the shoes.  That worked for awhile.  NOW?  There is no leather left.  Even the rawhide ties wore out.  The ground is parched with heat.  My feet swelled.  Then they crack open and bled.  It was awful to look behind myself and see a trail of blood.  Finally, my feet are as hard and parched as the leather shoes that I used to wear.  I'm grateful.  Having my feet so leathery helps with the pain of step after step after weary step!

Ah Tom, where are you?  Are your shoes worn out?  Have you signed up with some union army unit?  We're from the south, but we are religiously against slavery.  We believe that ALL men WERE created equal.  That includes men, and women of all colors.  Why should we benefit from the sweat and toil of these souls?  Slavery needs to end.  

It's just hard for me to embrace war.  I do not believe that there is anything glorious about the action of young men fighting, wounding, and killing total strangers.  If they were to meet in a social gathering they might even become friends.  Instead, father is fighting his sons, brother is against brother, and the entire thing is a colossal waste of good men, horses, and life.  Instead of fighting each other, these men should be working to support their families.  They should be watching their children grow up, and helping those children to be loved, and strong.  Old men decide that we need to fight each other.  They sit in great comfortable offices and strategize.  They move the men around on the battlefield as though it was a game of chess.  A remarkable difference?  Nobody dies in a game of chess...NOT ONE SOUL!!

There is the cowbell.  That means that we walk on...and on....and on...and on!  When I reach Astoria, I will ride a horse anywhere I go.  I may never walk anywhere ever again!!!.

Ardis. Diary

 I can't bear it!!  How will I continue to put one foot after another and keep walking towards the unknown without my husband?  I married Tom because of a promise that he made to my parents as they lay dying.  I love Tom, but not in the magical feelings of romance novels that I read.  I sneaked those books into the barn and read.  My parents would have been scandalized.  Just watching my parents relationship showed me how a marriage should be.  They were absolutely besotted with another.  I think they both died because they simply couldn't imagine any life without the other.  They had known each other for most of their lives.  They came to Tennessee as a newly married couple.  The only asset they carried with them was their love for each other and ten dollars.   

My mother told me that I would grow to love Tom.  Tom and I are so very different.  He is reserved. I am not. He has very definite opinions about a few things, but simply isn't even curious about anything else.  Our conversations are thence extremely limited.  I must admit that one of his favorite subjects bores me to tears.  Oh how he loves discussing the best types of seeds for the best harvest rewards.  He studies the soil obsessively.  

The only time that I found this interesting conversation was one time when he was plowing and dug up a beautiful statue.  It was carved from stone.  He gave the statue to me.  I treasure it.  It has a woman kneeling looking up towards the heaven that she is imploring.  

Tom simply said, "She's probably praying to some heathen God."  I don't believe in Tom's limited judgmental God.  His God only recognizes the pious Christian.  I was taught that even if we call our God a different name, chances are that we are still praying to the same Father in Heaven.  I was also taught that we are all brothers and sisters, children of the same God.  Tom is biased against anybody that is a different color, a different religion, or just plain different.  

I feel badly as I reread what I just wrote.  I'm going to now explain the things that endears Tom to me.  When my parents became desperately ill, Tom was at our home everyday doing all that he could to help me care for them.  He loved my parents as well as he loved his own flesh and blood.  When my parents died, I had nowhere to go, no family left, except in impossibly far away Scotland.  Somehow Tom convinced folks to watch over me for the last two years before I was old enough to marry him.  I often think that he married me out of a sense of duty to my dead parents more than any type of love.  Love is a most practical thing to Tom.  He cares for the duties of marriage in the same way that he cares for the duties of farm life.  I thought that lovemaking would be....well...more pleasurable.  Okay, no more of that conversation.  It makes me very uncomfortable. 

When I discovered that Tom was actually leaving to go fight in a war that has nothing to do with us?  I was furious.  Then I was desperate.  Finally I gave up.  Tom is the most determined human that I've ever met.  In other words stubborn!  He drives me crazy sometimes with his unwillingness to be flexible or see anything from other than one viewpoint.  Sigh.

I did realize that I do love Tom when I realized that I may never see him again.  He could actually fight and die in this dreadful war.  I can't believe that anybody thinks that it's acceptable to own another human, regardless of their skin color.  They have the same emotions, the same bodies, their skin is just a prettier color.  Tom and I do share this belief.  We think that it's unconscionable to profit from the sweat and labor of others with no remuneration.  

Tom has spent his life listening to tales of brave Scottish warriors.  His dad told him bedtime stories from Scottish history.  I fear that Tom went to sleep with battles painting the colors of his dreams.  This influence drives him to the idea that war is glorious.  Warriors are men that face their fears with bravery.  Oh Tom, why did you have to leave?

I'm beyond weary and tomorrow I will have to get up at the dawn of the new day.  I'm alone now under the wagon.  I start at every howl of coyotes or wolves.  I have a lamp here with me.  I must blow it out.  I fear that I'm being greedy with my use of our limited kerosene.  Good night.