If you’re one of my two readers (hi, Colleen!), you know I’m always reading Winesburg, Ohio — even when I’m not. When I chit-chat books with literature buffs, I can scarcely contain my excitement when the town of Winesburg swings gracefully into view, its buildings and streets and people. Its lonesome mournfulness. Maybe I love the book for strictly personal reasons. After all, Anderson crafted this lovely little gem just for me. Every word, every sentence, every story reads like an envelope stuffed with a personal letter kindly penned by Anderson to say something about a pastoral world, going, going, gone. “Hands,” the first vignette, reads with great simplicity and throat-tightening poignancy. Even its memory moves me to emotion. What a gorgeous book!