Munching on one of Beatrice’s oatmeal cookies, Lafe watched her move about the kitchen with practiced ease, baking bread.

"You know what, Beatrice. I'll bet you’ve baked a thousand loaves of bread."

"More like ten thousands I imagine, little Lafe." "Don’t you ever get tired?"

"Never let myself. Last time I got tired I was nine years old. I just sat down, wouldn’t budge. My pappy took me by the hands walked me outside--I was sure we were going for a switch. He stopped me under the big old oak we had in our yard. He pointed up. "See that?" he said, and he reached down and picked up an acorn. 'That came from this, it never never gets tired. Now every person has an acorn inside them. I don't know what kind you have, Beatrice,’ he said, 'but you’ve got one, and it’ll grow and grow and you’ll be real proud of yourself one day. Tired, my foot,’ he said. ‘Lazy's more like it. If at the end of your life you want to wind up with one ungrown acorn, that’s your business. But If you want that,’ and he pointed up again, ‘you've got to work, girl. Work.!"

"Do you think Daddy believes that, Beatrice?"