WASHINGTON – "Call me back on November 3rd," Willis Anthony had said. I had sincerely not intended to do so. But then I did. Because he had been right. He and his wife had both been right, when in that living room in St. Peters, Minnesota, buried between the grain silos that stood like towers in the vast emptiness of the northern lands, in that little house as polished as a mirror and that atmosphere of neat simplicity, they explained their beliefs, with a bit of embarrassment. They had been right when, in response to my incredulity in the face...