When I was young in the mountains, Grandfather came home in the evening covered with the black dust of a coal mine.  Only his lips were clean, and he used them to kiss the top of my head.

Growing up in the mountains was special.  Grandmother made hot corn bread and fried okra.  There were trips to the swimming hole and Crawford's store.  

Each pleasure was one to share—and remember.  And each is part of a gentle story, illuminated with perceptively happy paintings, that evokes the love of a way of life, of a family, and most of all, of a place.

From the dust jacket