During the months when my parents’ dream of owning a farm died, I became a sleepwalker, and Dad became ever more diligent about hygiene. He shaved twice a day: once before the sun rose and again just before sleep. He kept his steel-toed work boots dirt-free, the leather mink-oiled, the laces neatly double knotted. He starched his Allis-Chalmers cap weekly, using Mom’s flour canister to shape it so the top was perfectly flat. He brushed his teeth with such vigor that he appeared to be foaming at the mouth. He took scalding-hot showers and scrubbed so hard that he abraded his cheeks.