July 29th, 1981
Entry #001 --- Testing the Journal Function

Here I am, sittin’ on a Greyhound bound for Oregon, tapping away on my own two hands’ work. If all goes well, this little lap computer oughta make for a fine journal, and, Lord willing, a good place to store my notes. Or a place to ramble, should the mood strike me—which, evidently, it has.

I suppose I oughta make a habit of this. A proper 'scientist' keeps records, after all, and I reckon I could do with the practice before I get to Gravity Falls. If this trip is even half as eventful as Ford made it sound, I'll need all the notes I can manage. Though, knowing him, he'll be losing his own left and right same as always. Man was always losing his notes back in college, scribbling on napkins, margins of textbooks, once even on his own arm when we ran out of paper at the library. Nearly gave himself ink poisoning. ‘Course, I’m sure he’s got himself more organized these days, what with that big ol’ thesis of his—but even the best minds get scattered. This thing's barely out of testing, and I'm already setting to build him one of his own. Maybe I'll surprise him! He was never much for surprises, but I think he'd like this one.

I even added a music player to this thing! Not only can I write, but I can listen while I do it! It's sorta like a walkman, but more useful! Got all my favorites loaded up already, and I reckon I’ll add Ford’s, too, once I figure out what he’s listenin’ to nowadays. Probably still that same jazz station he had on in our dorm back in the 70s. Suppose I’ll have to be sneaky about it—make it a surprise too.

Lord, it’s been a long trip already. Left California just after dawn. It was a pretty sight, I suppose. Sun bouncin’ off the pavement, palm trees stretchin’ tall like they always do. Left a lot behind, but that’s life, ain’t it? Nothin’ stays still forever.

Still—can’t say I won’t miss home. Certain parts of it, anyhow.

But Tate—Lord, that was harder than I thought. Didn’t hit me ’til the bus was past the city limits that I won’t get to hold him for a while. He’s too little to understand what it means when I say “Daddy’s gotta go work.” Just blinked up at me with those big eyes, all wide and trusting. I already miss him something fierce. I’ll call home once I get settled, just so he can hear my voice. Emma-May’ll pick up, of course, and she’ll tell me all about what a darling little angel he’s been.

Maybe I ought to put a reminder in here—“Call home for Tate.” Might be good to have somethin’ pop up so I don’t get too swept up in work. This journal’s already shaping up to be mighty useful.

I ought to call once I get to Oregon. Let ‘em know I got there safe. Wouldn’t want to worry anybody. Maybe if Tate’s awake, I can get him to the receiver, let him hear my voice. He won’t understand, not at his age, but I like to think he’d recognize me. Babies got a way of knowin’ their folks. I hope he knows me.