Ruts worn into the Oregon Trail, Photo by O.N. Eddins,
used by special permission
It seems some days as if we have been traveling forever, and that all there is in life is our little world of canvas and wood, pulled by tired oxen over ruts worn deep by other travelers in previous years. Our father planned well, and we haven't run out of food like some at this point, but we are all weary, so weary. My mother was the heart and center of our family, always ready with a smile, a kind word of encouragement. How I miss her already. So do we all.
I must not give way to discouragement -- baby Mary Jane is all my responsibility now that Ma is gone. It feels strange to be a mother when I am yet barely a wife. When people ask 'how long have you been married' and find out the wedding was only this May, and here we have a bouncing baby one year old, they give the strangest looks. I suppose I will be explaining she is my niece, and my sister died, for the rest of our lives, but that explanation does not define our relationship. She is now my daughter, and James and I love her dearly already.
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