Tell me a story, Mama, about when you were little....Just any old story.

The child knows exactly which story she wants: the one about the mean old woman with the bulldog, and then the one about Mama and Aunt Jessie on the train alone to St. Louis, and about Grandmama crying when her children moved away truly, and...

Mama herself can hardly slip a word in edgewise. But when she does, the word is perfect.

From the dust jacket