The American Experience In 737 Novels

Here in the land of tumbleweeds so immense and fiercely mobile, once after a Santa Ana windstorm in Glen Avon, California, an ‘unincorporated community’ in a valley of granite boulders and turkey ranches, the skeletal balls of thorn engulfed the tiny house where my mother and I lived. Tumbleweeds of six and eight feet tall, packed in heaps that covered the windows. ‘It was like a snowstorm,’ my mother said. ‘I couldn’t even open the door.’
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