Many years ago a librarian told me that she'd gone to a farm auction and among the items she'd bought was a big box of old books. Upon getting home, she was delighted to find a diary written by the farm wife. She sat down to read it.
"Did chores." was the first day's entry. She turned the page. "Did chores." she read. She looked through out the entire diary. "Did chores." "Did chores." "Did chores." That was the extent of it.
She said she'd wished the farm wife had written more. What chores had she done? Did she hang the clothes up on the line and when she did, did she take a few minutes to watch the clouds or listen to the birds sing? Did she go out on the porch in the evening for a few minutes and look at the stars before going to bed? What did she
think about as she did her chores? Did she have any dreams? Did she make quilts or pies or a doll for a child? No one will ever know because all the farm wife wrote was the simple "Did chores."