With Hands to the Plow

January 2, 1411

     My cozy recliner by the fire is getting harder to resist. The warm crackle of burning pitch, soft fur of the dogs, and the soothing smell of woodsmoke beg me to stay with them. God, why is it so cold?

January 15, 1411

     It's official. Plowing season should be warmer. Gisele has enough fat on her to pull and not mind the cold, but it kills me. It's like pushing a knife through cold cheese. Acres of cold cheese. I just want it to be spring.

February 3, 1411

     Day in and day out. Hand to the plow. Pushing and pushing. Every few feet, lug a millstone off the field and trudge back. Hand to the plow. Push. Trudge. Push. Trudge. Another stone. Acres and acres of field left to go. Blistered fingers numb. Toes chilled in my boots. If I just make it through the day, there's a fire waiting.

February 10, 1411

     Even the fire has lost its appeal. At the end of the day, exhausted and frozen, it just reminds me that early tomorrow I'll be out there again. In the cold. Tired hands pushing through the field again. Where is the spring?

February 11, 1411

     Woke up this morning and thought to take the day off. Realized it would be dense not to get ready for spring. No other choice but to plow. I bundled up and went back to the field.

February 24, 1411

     I hate this. Can I just stop being? Existence is a drudgery. Nothing to do but plow. Spring will come and go. Winter will come again, and with it more plowing. Will there ever be an end? It doesn't really matter. Hand to the plow. Push. Trudge. Stone. Push. Trudge...