Hope and Trust

December 31, 1915

My only hope is to continue. No hope is despair and death in deep snow. Hope is slighter, tougher, less tangible than trust. In good times we trust life and in bad we hope. I hope I have the courage, confidence, and optimism to succeed, to live. I trust myself and fortunately, I can entrust others. Were we lucky? Maybe, but I was taught to make my own luck and anticipate it. Fearing death created a profound attraction to life. Du Bois rests and I wait. I will continue, hoping, trusting, and living until I die.

I entrusted Corina. With difficulty, the suspicion, doubt, and cynicism remained pushed aside. Was I utterly fooled and helpless? I hope not and rather anticipate her faith, belief, conviction and not her abandonment. Uncle Thomas remained adamant, “Do not return to Steamboat. Corina is not worth dying for.”

“I love her.”

“You love her attention. The contract will end tomorrow and Corina in default. She can’t pay JJ off. Someone is going to die, and I don’t want it to be you. Stay here with me or go with du Bois, it doesn’t matter. I want your word of honor. Don’t sneak back to her.”

”You have it.”

“I have what?”

“My word of honor, I’m leaving with du Bois and I’m not a skeptic of reality. Bloody hell, I’m abandoning Corina.”

(I was the main character of Julius’s diary and I cried all night after reading this brutal entry. My foolish pride, lost love, duty, and honor forced me to type it.  I stopped here again and cried. I hoped and trusted too. Goodbye, my love. CE)

A New Year

January 1, 1916

“Let’s celebrate Prohibition with a drink.” Uncle Thomas winked and set two beers on the kitchen table.

“Make mine a glass of wine,” du Bois, croaked from the bedroom. “It’ll sooth my throat.” The Frenchman had slept for three days.

“Good to heard from another country. It has to be red, it’s all I have,” my uncle’s beaming avuncular grin said, “Julius, take his temperature while I pour a glass.”

Anthony sat up in the bed, pushed the covers aside and started to get out. “You stay and hold this thermometer in your mouth,” I commanded.

“You treat me like your dog,” he mumbled holding the glass tube between his lips.

“Very well, be a good boy, sit still and no barking.”

Thomas entered the room, placed the glass on the bedside table and asked, “How are we doing?”

I checked my pocket watch and answered, “Another minute.”

Du Bois looked around the room, gazed out the window at the setting sun and the orange tinted clouds drifting at the horizon. I pulled the thermometer out, studied it and announced, “Ninety-nine degrees.”

“Vast improvement,” Thomas confirmed and handed the patient his wine.

He took a sip saying, “Yum, good. I slept a few hours, hmm?”

“More like a few days.”

“Really? I need to get to Denver.” He tried to get out of the bed again. We both held him down.

“You need to rest for at least a few more days. I telegraphed and got a credit for your train ticket.”

“I’ll miss the boat!”

“You’ll miss your life more,” Thomas stated, then asked, “How do your feet feel?”

Du Bois rubbed them under the covers, “Itchy, but better.”

“Good. You can’t travel son. I won’t allow it. Write a letter to this certain Captain Reynolds and explain your situation. In time the solution will appear and give you direction