Moe stopped and waited to hear voices chinning politics, dishing dirt, or maybe a few poker game rants. Instead, there was just the music and an occasional soft moan. As Moe inched toward the door, other sounds became clear: grunts, groans, and slapping flesh – the distinct kind of slapping heard only from a four-legged frolic. He peeked into the room and nearly had to sew his jaw back into place. Scenes like this could only be seen at movie houses. And even then, only a movie house opened after midnight and featuring stag films. French antique furniture had been shoved toward the walls, forming a periphery that resembled Conestoga wagons circled for an attack. At the front of the room sat the lone piece of furniture still in play: a throne the likes of which only the pope or a king would own, decorated with mother-of-pearl inlay, elaborately carved with Empire style lions beneath the arm-rests, and polished to a high sheen. Sitting on the throne, without a stitch of clothes, was. A dozen long years went by, my Father fell ill and my Mother was caring for him all the time. All of the work running the farm became my job. It was a full time job, too, balancing loans for seed and fuel against time and weather. Some years slipping ahead, some years falling behind. I was resigned, I had made my choice. One day there was a knock on my door as I sat finishing my evening meal. I answered, It was Sarah. I was happy to see her, ushered her in. We sat until the wee hours of the morning bringing each other up to date. Sarah had been to Paris, travelled, seen the world. I had seen the highway into town, and the fields of our family farm. She told me that she was taking over her family farm next door. I knew her mom had passed a few years earlier, and her Dad was getting long in the tooth and it was becoming difficult for him. I had even been thinking of trying to buy him out if my crops had a solid year, the extra ground would add to the work but improve my chances. I was.
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