Rose: Being abandoned is the worst. I know. I was almost abandoned.
Dorothy: Almost?
Rose: I was nine. It was the last night of the Deep-Root Vegetable Carnival, and I was having the greatest time. Eating candied turnips and guessing how many sweet potatoes were in the glass jar. Bobbing for yams. I had a knack of always coming up with the firmest, most appealing yams.
Blanche: I was once told I had the firmest, most appealing gams.
Dorothy: Blanche, try and stay with us.
Rose: Anyway, the last time I surfaced, clutching a humdinger of a yam between my teeth, my parents were gone. Frantically, I searched the carnival grounds. I was convinced I'd spend the rest of my days with the bearded lady as my foster mother, and the man who hoses down the elephants as my dad. Anyway, I was lost. And scared. But then I did what generations before me had done. I gazed up into that dark night sky and found the bright star that could guide me home.
Dorothy: The North Star.
Rose: Actually, it was the Texaco star. From a service station across the street. Our farm was just down the road from it.
Dorothy: Rose, honey, have you been washing the fruit off before you eat it?