I just finished the loveliest memoir.

Lee Martin tells the story of his southern Illinois boyhood with a steady and loving voice, a voice I think I’d recognize anywhere.  I can hear the telephone ring in that farmhouse of 50 years ago.  I can feel the gentle and angry steel of his father’s artificial hands, how cold they are, how awkward and wanting.  The tenderness of his mother’s fear and affections.  The tension of what it feels like to desire a home you can never, not really, return to.  The complicated love between a father and son.

This is one of those books, one of those stories, that makes me want to stand up and say, Bravo.