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.
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