National Review, February 25th, 2008
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IN the winter I have a clear view through the bare trees of my dirt driveway, all the way to the road. Hardly any strange cars come down it except those of Jehovah's Witnesses, so when one appeared I went out the door wondering whom I would meet. The driver said he lived up the road (it's a long road), and heard that I wrote about the area. "Sometimes," I said somewhat encouragingly. "Well, here's a book about this road." How can you refuse a book about the road you live on? We chatted, I thanked him, then I looked at my gift.
The book was a memoir, self-printed in a...
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