When I telephoned my 82-year-old mother to ask if I could write a novel about her early life, she erupted in objections. “My childhood isn’t interesting at all,” she insisted. “I can’t remember dates and places anymore, and there just aren’t enough memories to write about.” After calming her down, I persuaded my mother to let me come for a visit to explore the feasibility of the project. The dismal, wet drive from Springville, Utah, to Boise, Idaho, offered no hint of the miraculous year and a half that lay ahead.
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