Rose: This just makes me so mad. I mean, people like this really need help. Then there are places like Sunny Pastures.
Blanche: Well, there weren't any Sunny Pastures in the South. At least, not when I was growing up. I remember this one old man. His name was Ben. All he did all day long was sit out there on his family's front porch in that old hickory rocking chair and whittle. Just whittle. I used to pass by there on my way home from school, and I'd say, "Hi, Ben." And he'd yell back, "Hi, Blanche. Stay away from my grandsons." Anyway, I realized that Ben could spend all his days happy, whittling away, because his family was there for him. I will never forget that look on his face. He was happier than a Kentucky yearling frolicking in blue grass as high as a hoot owl's perch on the top of a spring-
Dorothy: In English, Jethro! In English!
Blanche: He was happy. Anyway, Ben got older, and I guess a little bit frail, and... This is the hard part of my story. One autumn day, I walked by that porch and old Ben was gone.
Dorothy: I bet he died in the bed he was born in.
Blanche: No, he was sent up the river on a morals charge.