Publisher's Synopsis
An ancient beech tree towers over a country road that merges with Highway 70 near Waverly. The hill on which it grew was so steep, the boy had to dig his toes into the rotten leaves and loose rock and grab onto a sapling in order to pull himself upward to the tree. He reached out his hand gallantly to the girl from Mississippi, who, in a tomboyish way, pulled herself upward until they both stood under the beech tree out of breath, excited, laughing. She sat there that April day, as ladylike as possible, half reclining, hanging onto a small bush and watched the boy carve into the smooth bark their initials: J. F. + J. W., April, 1945... With trembling, arthritic fingers I brushed lightly, lovingly across the scarred initials on the ancient tree: J. F. + J. W. April 1945 - faded validation of a tender interlude shared by a dark-haired girl from Mississippi and a young foolish boy from Tennessee.
