april 5, 1811 (fri.)

When Mr. Jefferson came back to Monticello from Bedford County about a month ago, he found the that the plants he'd started in the greenhouse had died during his absence. And he still didn't have his flour. The miller said he'd send it as soon as it was ground. It's not here yet, but should be coming soon, and some of it can then be sold, with the money going toward paying down debts.

february 21, 1811 (thur.)

This business trip to Poplar Forest keeps dragging on. Nothing is resolved. Mr. Jefferson's wheat is still at the mill, still unground. The mill dam has broken a second time, and then, as a result, Mr. Calloway, the miller, went bankrupt. Now someone else owns the mill, but he still has to fix it. Mr. Jefferson, usually a cheerful man, is beginning to feel rather glum. Because of the unexpected nature of the situation, and the fact that it's in the worst time of year for traveling, he's here alone. (Except for the enslaved servants, who are, of course, ever present, but don't provide true companionship.)

He thinks of his grandson, Francis, staying at Monticello, because his papa, a U.S. Representative from Virginia, thinks that the family should wait until after the winter to travel to Washington, D.C. What a shame to be stuck here, wasting precious time he could be with the boy.

He thinks of his granddaughter, Anne. She and her husband are thinking of moving to land they have here in Bedford County. It would be nice to have them nearby. Mr. Jefferson would like to plant some asparagus, gooseberries, and raspberries for her, but with temperatures dipping down below freezing at night, this hasn't been possible. It was below freezing during the day a couple of days ago, too, and even when it's not that cold, it's been hovering at that wet, chilly temperature that gets into the bones and feels miserable. Repeated snows, and melted snow, and half-melted slush have made the roads impassible.

Add to the isolation the fact that the post from Lynchburg to Milton, near Monticello, goes out only once a week. He'll write Martha again when it does, in a few days. No sense in writing any letters now. He shifts in his chair so that the waning firelight falls on the open pages of his book.

february 9, 1811 (sat.)

Mr. Jefferson is back at Poplar Forest. He had to return unexpectedly last week because of some business there. He had left his wheat to be ground at Mr. Calloway's mill, but the mill's dam has broken. It was supposed to have been fixed yesterday, but now it looks like the mill won't be able to start up again until the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, Mr. Jefferson's wheat, and that of several neighbors, languishes in limbo.

december 25, 1810 (tue.)

Mr. Jefferson is spending Christmas this year at Poplar Forest. It's just a short stay. He's been there only about a week and will be back at Monticello before the new year.

november 28, 1810 (wed.)

Last week Mr. Jefferson received a rather odd letter, written by an anonymous gentleman (or several) calling himself (or themselves) "I J K L & M," on behalf of a madman named John Polly.

It began, "John Polly is a crazy man and wants to see you very much, If you (or any body) who this should fall into the hands of will make him hold his tongue it is more than any one else can do previous to this. ..."

Mr. Jefferson, of course, simply noted that he received it and filed it away.

october 25, 1810 (thur.)

Mr. Jefferson sent the manuscript of the English translation of Antoine Louis Claude Destutt de Tracy's Commentary and Review of Montesquieu's Spirit of Laws back to Philadelphia publisher William Duane today. A correspondent of Monsieur Destutt de Tracy for years, Mr. Jefferson tweaked the translation in a few places to better fit the best way to express his friend's ideas in idiomatic American English.

He's now writing a forward, which will give a description of Destutt de Tracy without disclosing his identity. After all, the purpose of the translation is to sneak the book -- a treatise of democratic ideas -- into Napoleon's France by the back door. If it is published in America and gains support in the English-speaking world, perhaps someone will then translate it back into French and re-publish it in France.

july 4, 1810 (wed.)

Mr. Jefferson likes to say, "The only birthday I ever commemorate

is that of our Independance [his spelling], the Fourth of July."

As he watches, through the window, his grandchildren playing, he thinks, "This is why we did it. It was for them, and their children, and their children's children's children ..."

Still, his memories of the of that day thirty-four years ago in Philadelphia are bittersweet. So many of his comrades who struggled to bring about the new nation are now gone. Only thirteen other men who were with him that day are still alive -- none from New Jersey or Delaware, and he himself is the only survivor from Virginia. There ought to be two, he thinks, with a wave of sorrow. The life of his dear friend and mentor, George Wythe, was cut short by murder just four years ago. Dr. Wythe would've been eighty-four years old this year, an advanced age, but not unreasonable.

Of the Declaration Committee, only himself, Robert Livingston, and John Adams remain. Another pang, this time of regret. Mr. Adams had been a good friend, but in recent years that stubborn old fellow has let politics run away with his common sense. Or maybe he's being the stubborn one. They're both out of office now. They struggled side by side in 1776. Mr. Jefferson has no real doubt that deep down Mr. Adams is a man of courage, a true patriot. Why should mere politics stand in the way of such a long friendship? Maybe he should write. But can he be sure his letter would be welcome? Let Adams write first.

Mr. Jefferson idly fingers the corner of a sheet of letter paper on his portable writing desk -- the same desk on which he wrote the first draft of the Declaration. Then he turns and looks out the window again, and smiles.

(Editor's note, 2010: We haven't the foggiest notion what the Jefferson family actually did to celebrate the Fourth.)