Shamefully, I Am Not Dieing At The South Pole

My lack of blogging lately has been something of a concern with me. I become introspective and ruminative and try to get to the meaning of things, and then start thinking about something else and a few days later remember that I haven't been blogging a lot, lately.
One of my excuses is that I've been spending quite a bit of time away from the farm, lately, in the middle of a swamp, where there is no Wi-Fi. Driving across the state so much, I got myself into books-on-tape. The selection of just the right tape was a constant challange. I wanted something that would keep me entertained for 500 miles, but never chose something that I might actually want to read someday. All garnered from the rather skimpy shelves of the local library.
Because I was headed for the Coast, I started selecting books of a nautical theme. I discovered Patrick O'Brien, and listened to the story of someone who escaped from a Japanese prison camp and made it to Australia in a fishing boat. I listened to Linda Greenlaw's books. I got reacquainted with Thor Hyerdaal, and now know more about Ernest Shackleton than any human being rightfully should. The Shackleton thing led me to a book about Robert Scott and his quest for the South Pole.
What strikes me most about Scott's tale, other than the fact that they both mourned and ate their sled dogs, was their fidelity to their journals. Every detail of the journey is recorded somewhere: weather, dates, times, latitudes, longitudes, the performance of their equipment, what dogs they ate, and what other menbers of the team did and said. And they did this every day, in sub-zero weather, while starving and freezing to death.
I blog once a month, if I get around to it.
My farm records start off with a bang in April, get slightly neglected into June and July, and future archeaologists will conclude that absolutely nothing happened around here in October.
And the best thing about the Scott team's journals are the delightfully British tone to everything: Dreadful weather today. Lost another toe. Then they'd record the temperature and take a celestial fix and march another twenty miles.