When I was thirteen, we moved to Dalton, Missouri, a flyspeck on the road map, so my father could supervise the 960-acre farm he and his two partners had bought several years before. It was a return to his roots. Our new home in Dalton was infinitely more primitive than our South Side Chicago apartment and even more primitive than my aunt and uncle's hill-country house on the other side of the county. It was a hotel, one that hadn't entertained guests...