Abstract
Recently, I picked up this old book from a stall outside a used bookstore in Pittsburgh's Squirrel Hill, and as I held it a certain remembrance slipped from its pages though I had never read the novel. The Walls of Jericho by Paul I. Wellman. The book has no jacket and its boards are of a maroon color. A striking illustration, perhaps in a pen and ink wash, decorates the end papers. The picture leads the eye along the perspective of a half-harvested wheat field and into a small town in the distance. The standing water tank and an assembly of grain elevators a windmill on the outskirts identify the place as a prairie community. I know this place; that is, I remember passing through it on a childhood journey to visit cousins in Topeka, Kansas; my grandfather at the wheel of the Buick. It is always a hot and dusty excursion from Kansas City, and my grandmother sits in the passenger seat, fanning herself with a program from last night's Democratic Party meeting. She had been one of the principal speakers. Yes, I remember all that, and I remember the moment in the present tense in which all memory is stored.
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