Dear Diary,
I don't know what Charles has gotten us into. Spending all my life in Wisconsin until he moved us here to this little house on the Kansas prairie, you'd think I'd have been prepared for winter, but nothing short of moving to the North Pole would have been adequate. Last week, Santa couldn't even make it through the blizzard to leave the poor children modest trinkets in their stockings, and it's snowed every day except two since Christmas Eve. Charles and Albert can't keep up with keeping a path shoveled to the barn, and I'm afraid one morning we're all going to wake up and find the house is buried in that nasty white stuff. I hate it. Why couldn't I have runaway with a snake oil salesman who would have abandoned me, unmarried and with child, in Florida? Alone in the warmth and sunshine has to be better than being trapped in a one room unheated cabin with Mr. Machobullcrap and the depressingly upbeat cherub faces brats. When the hell are they going to invent vodka? I can't wait.
Love,
Caroline
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