My Grandfather’s Words: Monday August 12, 1918


The weather was hot and windy all day. Towards the evening the dust blew all around.

At breakfast we had hot cakes & syrup, coffee, and an orange. For lunch we had pork and beans, spuds, pickles, bread, and water. At supper we had meat in hot sauce, tea, bread, and apple cobbler.

Up at usual hour, reveille, and then police up. Worked in corrals from nine to seven. It was so dusty, and the wind blew a gale all day. It grew until it became a regular dust storm.

There was nothing said about my being late yesterday. They may over look it this time.

I had a dear letter from Mary today. She was at Oliver’s. They were thrashing. She says the oats were turning out good. Mary helped dig out some potatoes I had planted in the spring. My God! It seems more like three years instead of just three months and three days since I left.

I have been so homesick today. It seems as if some time I might go mad. It does no good to get homesick either, but I can’t help it. Terrible thoughts come into me sometimes, thoughts that, as a Christian, I must not harbor. Yet they persist in coming. I know God has saved some and that He will keep me as He has in the past. I must endure this awful life if it is His will.

I don’t know whether Mary will come down or not yet. I could not find suitable rooms yesterday. I have had no chance to see the doctor since I talked to him. There is another vital reason that work may not be best for her to come. Regarding that, I wrote to Mary Dear at length yesterday morning. I have written  her tonight, too. I must now read awhile and go to bed.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s