I have decided to continue the account of my doings starting from about one month from returning from my mission in the Mexico Monterrey East Mission. The account of those best two years is not covered here but I may make reference to it on occasion. I will make sure to explain the contexts.
Following my return I have fallen into a routine of irregularity. I find myself tied up with a range of activities, only half of which turnout to be worth the time. With no other obligations on my time I like to read or visit with my sisters or parents who lend an ear out of love, or pity I’m not sure which. My activities consist of reading or talking, sporadic sessions of exercise, occasional naps, late nights, and general dawdling.
I have made up my mind to learn to milk the cow and get used to doing such duties at home. Dad said that I didn’t do too bad for a first attempt, then he took over to get the job done.
I have made a good practice of keeping the basement stocked with wood and coal. The coal-burning is a new development here. One chunk the size of my shoe will keep the fire from going out until morning so we only have to put a log on instead of building a new fire every morn. Dad hasn’t had to start one but once this winter. Pretty good I’d say.
Not being a missionary lets more trivial activities creep into ones time at the expense of other worthwhile things like scripture study. That can’t happen. I probably would have gotten into trouble had I not written myself a letter as a missionary to my future self, reminding me of what I thought of returned missionaries that pour their knowledge and experience down the drain for things of naught.
I am vulnerable to insignificant project ideas that get me no closer to my long-term goals. I found a video on the internet about how to build a rocket stove out of tin cans. I tried it. I put one together and cooked myself some eggs and chorizo, a Mexican dish of which I am fond.
On another occasion I took a walk and decided to test my outdoor survival skills by making myself a bow drill fire. I crunched through some six-inch deep snow in tennis shoes to a grove of trees and found an old fallen aspen tree. I grabbed some dry branches and fashioned myself a shaft, carved a socket into the log as I straddled it, and put together a bow using my shoelace and a curved stick. I don’t know how long I was out there drilling my shoelace to a frazzle but I finally gave up and ran home bragging that I had succeeded in producing smoke. I must say a shoelace is a high price for just a stupid waft of smoke.