His father wore what his father always wore when Moses imagined him - nearly ruined jeans which match a nearly ruined jean jacket. It was the lighter blue one with the ripped left elbow and padded inner flannel lining. He wore the Ford baseball cap - faded and soft in every imaginable sense - that had covered his brow every day Moe could remember him out working. And his father out working was an everyday fact. The farm was on the southlands of the city - rolling hills of wheat and corn as far as the eye could see. At least this was the image of the farm held frozen from Moe's boyhood - he had not laid true eyes to his old home in some two decades. He had no pictures of the place and nobody who could give him a proper recollection. For Moe it was a constant homage of sepia tones and blue skies, of an old red rusty tractor and a white farmhouse with red shutters. No livestock, no animals - nothing alive except his father who would drift through the scene like a watchful spirit. Moe dreamed of this often - anytime he could wrestle control of a daydream or flighting fantasy ... he arrived here.
His father never spoke. Moe knew why. Moe could no longer remember the sound of his voice. At times the ghost of his father would open his mouth expectantly, as if he had words of advice or some portent from the world beyond - but it would never take long before he simply pressed his lips firmly together and looked despondently to some point beyond the horizon of crops.
Well if you discount my early morning headstart, the first day would have been pretty bad - well lower than the 1666 daily requirement. I'm ahead for now, but we're out of town this weekend and I doubt it will stay that way for long.
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