Sweetgrass

by Monroe, Mary Alice

  “Now, my great-grandmother was Delilah. That’s her name right there. She was the last of our family enslaved at Sweetgrass, and it was Delilah who first began to write down our family history. She was the head housekeeper at Sweetgrass and a fine, intelligent woman. Taught herself how to read and write from the children’s schoolbooks. Had to sneak them, of course, at great peril. It was only after the War Act that she felt safe to write openly. Must’ve been a fine day when Delilah wrote her first entry in this Bible. Look close!”

  The children leaned forward to read the elaborate loops and the even shapes of Delilah’s first entry on February 26, 1865. Freedom Come! The second entry was her marriage to John Foreman, and the third, the birth of her first child, a daughter named Delia.

  “Her child—my grandmother—was the first freeborn in our line. After emancipation come, Delilah stayed on at Sweetgrass, working as a free woman, living in the kitchen house next to the main house with her husband and children until it fell to her daughter, Delia—your great-great-grandmother—to note the date of her mother’s death in this Bible. They buried Delilah in the graveyard on Sweetgrass where many of our kin were laid to rest.

  “Now, Delia had a daughter named Florence. When she married, she didn’t want to live in that kitchen house no more, so she moved here on Six Mile Road and built the house across the street. But she continued working for the Blakely family. Before long, she wrote in the Bible the name of her firstborn.”

  “Nona,” read Gracie. “That’s you.”

  “That’s me. And I’m the last in our line to work for the Blakely family.”

  “There’s my mama’s name,” Gracie said in rote, pointing to Maize’s name. “And mine and Kwame’s.” It was a ritual, this pointing out of their names in the family Bible.

  “You see the names, Kwame?”

  “Yes’m.”

  Nona nodded her gray head. “Good.” She firmly believed that with each recognition of their name in a long line of family, the roots of these young sprouts grew strong and fixed.

  “Our family’s been born and buried on Sweetgrass land near as long as the Blakelys have. This land is our history, too. And the sweetgrass that grows here is as dear to me as it was to my mother and her mother before her. Maybe more so, as the grass is fast disappearing from these parts. Our family’s been pulling grass on this land since time was. Making sweetgrass baskets is part of our culture. I don’t want my grandchildren to forget their heritage. That’s why I’m teaching you how to make the baskets. It’s part of who we come from. Even if your mama don’t care to.”

  “Yes’m,” the children replied, sitting straight in their chair.

  Her face softened at the sight of them, her grandbabies. These were the beacons she was lighting to carry on into the future. And didn’t they shine bright?

  She reached out to place her wrinkled hands upon their heads, then gently offered them a pat. “Go on, now. It’s time for you to get home and finish your homework. Kwame, don’t forget to fix the spelling on that paper.”

  After kisses and quick orders, Maize gathered her children and sent them ahead to the car. She paused at the door, her smooth face creased with trouble.

  Nona sat in her chair, waiting.

  “Mama,” Maize said at length, raising her eyes to meet Nona’s steady gaze. “You’re the strongest woman I know. You hold this family together, and I know I wouldn’t be the woman I am without you. I don’t mean to be so harsh about the Blakelys and Sweetgrass. I’m all churning inside with my feelings about them. You seem to have it all so settled in your mind. I envy that. I wish I could be so at peace with it. But I love you. And I’m proud of you.” She laughed shortly and wiped away a tear. “And you’re right. What do I know about you and Mrs. Mary June? Maybe she is your friend. Lord knows I have few enough of them myself.”

  Nona opened up her arms.

  Maize hurried to her mother’s side and hugged her, placing a kiss on her cheek.

  Nona squeezed her youngest child close to her breast, relishing the smoothness of her cheek against her own. When Maize let her guard down and hugged her like this, all time vanished and it felt to Nona like her daughter was a small child again, seeking comfort in her mama’s arms.

  After they left, Nona remained sitting in the hardback chair, her hand resting on the treasured family Bible for a long while. She had to make sense out of her rambling feelings.

  In retrospect, Maize wasn’t totally wrong when she said the Blakelys weren’t friends. Maybe friendship wasn’t the right word for what she shared with Mary June Blakely. Maybe bond better described their relationship. Working in someone’s home was more personal than working in an office. Maize couldn’t understand that. She hadn’t lived in that house all those years, hadn’t shared the private moments or the secrets. Or the tragedies. Truth was, Nona couldn’t explain to her daughter the complex feelings she harbored about the Blakelys. She couldn’t explain them even to herself. She doubted Mary June could, either.

  Nona placed her palms on the table and dragged herself to a stand. Lord, what a day, she thought, rubbing her back, feeling the ache travel straight down her legs. She carried the large book back to its resting place on the bookshelf. It wouldn’t be too long before Maize would make the final notation about her mother in the Bible, she thought. Nona wasn’t afraid of what was coming—no, she was not. She’d walked a straight path in her life, even if it seemed a bit narrow at times, and she would walk a straight path to the Lord when He called her home.

  She gingerly nestled the fragile leather Bible between two sweetgrass baskets. One had been woven by her mother, Florence, and the other by her grandmother, Delia. She gently traced her fingers along the intricate stitches of the palmetto fronds that held together many strands of soft yellow sweetgrass. The baskets were old and dry, cracking at places, but the stitches held tight.

  This treasured Bible and these precious woven baskets helped make her thoughts more clear. Looking at them, Nona realized that the histories of the Blakelys and the Bennetts were woven together just as tightly as the sweetgrass in these baskets. Like it or not, history could not be changed. It was what it was. Strong ties, the ones that are ironclad and bind souls, are forged in shared history, she thought. This was a bond, not bondage.

  Nona readjusted the baskets on the shelf. Then she walked to a large cardboard box in the corner of the room, beside the sofa. In this box she stored the baskets she’d made to sell at her stand. Sorting through, she chose one she was particularly proud of. It was a deceptively simple design with the twisting handle she did so well. She held it up to the light, proud that the stitches were so tight, not a pinprick of light shone through. This basket would hold for generations to come.

  Nona placed this basket on the kitchen table, then began to pull out flour, tins and her mixing bowls from the cabinets. All her earlier fatigue had vanished in the fervor of her new mission. She was clearheaded now and knew what she had to do.

  5

  The basket making tradition is a family affair. It was the custom for men and boys to gather the materials while women and girls sewed the baskets. Though this tradition continues, nowadays all members of the family gather materials and make the baskets.

  SUNDAY DINNER HAD LONG been a tradition for the Blakely family, as it was for many Southern families. Nan recalled Sunday dinner beginning in the early afternoon, soon after their return from church. Nona used to cover the dining room’s long mahogany table with the old damask tablecloth while Mama June set flowers from her garden in sparkling crystal vases. The Blakely silver would be set, polished to a burnished gleam, as well as the graceful candelabra that had come from the Clarks and had been promised to Nan.

  She had taken for granted those days when the table was overflowing with uncles, aunts, cousins and friends. On those occasions when the extended family came, the children were sent, grumbling, to the kiddie table in the kitchen. But when it was just the immediate family, the children always sat at the din
ing room table and were expected to be on their best behavior. On Monday night, they ate on everyday china. On Tuesday night, Hamlin might slouch in his chair. On Wednesday, Morgan might rest an elbow on the table. On Thursday, Daddy might remain silent, engrossed in his thoughts. On Friday, Nan might stir her peas on her plate or laugh with her mouth full at something Hamlin said. On these nights, Mama June looked the other way.

  But on Sunday in the dining room, Mama June’s eyes were sharp and everyone was on their best behavior. Linen napkins were on the laps, no one left the table without being excused, Daddy was attentive to conversation, and each child was expected to know which fork to use.

  The Sunday dinner tradition had fallen to the wayside after Hamlin’s death, when Mama June couldn’t summon the effort. It wasn’t decided upon; the tradition just silently slipped away.

  To Nan’s mind, the end of Sunday dinners marked a sad turning point in the family’s history. The sense of collective purpose, the ready conversation, dissipated as silent months turned into years. In time, Nan married and left home, followed by Morgan’s angry departure to points west. Yet, even now, when she thought of her family, Nan thought of those precious years of joy when the family was strong and united together for Sunday dinner.

  They arrived at Sweetgrass a little late. Chas and Harry had dragged their heels in a teenage sulk at having to get dressed up and spend a perfectly good day inside, bored to death. Hank seemed eager that they all attend the family dinner and had nagged at the boys to hurry. Nan looked into the rearview mirror. The boys sat sullen and resigned in the leather back seat of the sedan.

  “Adele’s already here,” Hank said tersely as they pulled up to the house. Hank worked closely with Adele on development deals, thus Adele was not only a relative, but an employer.

  Nan chewed her lip and checked her watch. “We’re only a half hour late. I doubt we’ve even been missed. Boys,” she called as her sons launched from the car. “Be on your best manners.”

  They climbed the stairs to the front veranda where Mama June’s planters were filled with cheery yellow-and-purple pansies and all the brass was polished. Nan stood at the front door in her peach linen dress flanked by the tall, handsome men in her life. Beside her, Hank straightened his tie before ringing the bell. Nan picked a bit of lint from his shoulder and, alert to his tension, wondered why he seemed nervous about this gathering. Had he really been made to feel so much an outsider over the years? she wondered. She moved her hand to his arm and squeezed it reassuringly. He turned his head and looked at her with a quizzical expression.

  The door swung wide. To her surprise, it was Aunt Adele who welcomed them in a sensational blouse of creamy raw silk, looking every bit the lady of the house.

  “Here you are!” she exclaimed, her dark eyes brightening.

  Preston’s sister was a tall, proud woman, as fierce a competitor in golf and tennis as in the real estate development business she’d built. Her salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed away from her face, accentuating her trim, athletic good looks.

  Nan began her litany of excuses, but Adele blithely waved them aside.

  “Oh, none of that matters. Come in, come in! And you two,” she said, opening her arms to the boys. “Where have you been hiding? Come here this minute and give me a proper hug.”

  Shuffling their feet, they obliged, but Nan didn’t miss the real affection between them. Adele was the godmother for both of her children. Never having married or had any children of her own, Adele doted on the boys and spoiled them with gifts. Mama June felt a little jealous that the boys spent more time at Adele’s spacious home on Sullivan’s Island, with her boats and pool and fridge filled with snacks, than at Sweetgrass. Adele was a wealthy woman who always had a spare dollar or three to hand out, while Mama June and Preston always had to pinch pennies.

  Adele stood back to look at the boys. “My, my, don’t you look handsome.”

  Chas rubbed his finger between his collar and neck. “Mama made us dress up.”

  “Dress up? Honey, in my day, you boys would be in a jacket and tie. Without air-conditioning, mind you. So count your blessings.” She turned to Harry. “I thought you’d be out on the golf course this afternoon.”

  He grimaced. “I should be. I’m playing in a tournament next week.”

  “Your daddy told me. Say, I saw a new titanium putter at the club that’s as light as a feather and sure to help your game.”

  “Yeah?” Harry exclaimed. “But I’ll bet it costs an arm and a leg.”

  “Maybe not all that much.” She winked. “Be good today and we’ll talk.”

  “Now, Aunt Adele…” Nan interjected, not wanting the boys to always feel they needed a reward for good behavior.

  “We’d better join the others before they wonder where we are,” Adele interrupted, expertly steering the family into the living room.

  The moment they stepped in, the room exploded with hoots and hollers. Morgan rushed out of his chair and wrapped Nan in a bear hug. The affection and banter flowed freely between brother and sister, spreading throughout the room.

  Mama June wrapped her arms around herself, hearing the merriment as a string of firecrackers celebrating the family’s reunion. Hank smoothly stepped forward to act as bartender, serving the ladies mimosas.

  “Morgan, what’s your poison?”

  “Bourbon on the rocks, thanks.”

  “A man after my own heart.”

  “That sounds good to me, too, Dad,” Harry called out.

  “There’re Cokes in the fridge,” Mama June replied. “Help yourself. But first, come say hello to your uncle.”

  “I doubt they much remember you, Morgan,” Adele said.

  Mama June thought the comment unkind, but Morgan sauntered over, extending his hand with a lopsided grin.

  “I’ll bet you haven’t forgotten that boar hunt, huh?” he asked.

  Harry, who adored hunting, shook his head and readily took Morgan’s hand. “No, sir!”

  “What boar hunt?” Chas immediately wanted to know.

  Harry launched into the tale, eliciting guffaws from Hank and Morgan. Mama June listened, attuned to the gift of storytelling that her grandson had inherited from his grandfather Blakely, along with Preston’s throaty laugh. Seeing the genetic imprint carry on from generation to generation was, for her, a blessing of growing older. Her attention was distracted, however, by Adele. She meandered about the room perusing the colonial-era furniture with a proprietary air. She stopped before an empire bookcase that held several pieces of family silver.

  “Well, I’ll be….” She reached into the cabinet and lifted out a small engraved silver cup. “You found my porridge cup!”

  Mama June came directly to her side. “Yes! After all these years we found it when we moved furniture in the dining room. It was wedged between the breakfront and the wall. Don’t ask me how it got there.”

  “It was probably Press or Tripp that hid it there, just to rile me.” Adele tenderly turned the burnished silver cup in her hands. “I never thought I’d see this again.”

  “Why don’t you keep it? Take it home with you,” Mama June offered.

  Adele’s gaze shot up. “How nice of you to offer me my own porridge cup,” she said with sharp sarcasm that put Mama June’s teeth on edge.

  From the corner of her eye she caught Morgan’s swift turn of head at the tone, his eyes searching.

  Despite Mama June’s protests, Adele put the porridge cup back on the shelf with a great show.

  Mama June was sensitive to the fact that it was difficult for her sister-in-law to be a guest in the house she’d grown up in. Though she’d never said so openly, it was clearly understood by both women that even though Mama June owned Sweetgrass, she wasn’t from Sweetgrass. And that fact was a major burr under Adele’s seat.

  Letting the comment slide, she smiled and announced it was time for dinner.

  The large meal that Mama June had slaved over was consumed with relish and compliment
s. She beamed as she watched her grandsons help themselves to seconds of the chicken with Madeira sauce from an old family recipe. The cocktails had loosened their tongues and they talked amiably as they ate. For a while she felt transported in time to when such gatherings were commonplace at Sweetgrass. Morgan, never much of a talker, spoke openly about his life in Montana, and the boys ate up his stories and peppered him with questions. They liked him, she thought with delight. And the feeling was mutual. Too soon, it was time to clear the dishes, and Nan helped her serve the pecan pie and ice cream that was a universal favorite.

  She was pouring coffee when a subtle mood shift indicated they all sensed the chitchat was over and it was time to talk business. Their radars finely honed to such nuances, the boys asked to be excused from the table and dashed for the exit. Mama June sought Morgan’s eyes and they shared a commiserating look.

  He cleared his throat and all heads turned toward him. She had purposefully set him in Preston’s seat at the head of the table, a gesture she knew had not gone unnoticed by Adele at his right. Nan sat to his left and Hank to Mama June’s right at the table’s other end.

  “I wish my homecoming had been under happier circumstances,” he began.

  “Lord knows we all waited long enough, bless your heart,” Adele said.

  “Yes. A long time,” he replied.

  How extraordinary, Mama June thought. How coolly her son dealt with Adele’s niggling.

  “Well, you’re home now,” Nan said, springing to his defense. “That’s what’s important.”

  Mama June smiled gratefully at her daughter.

  “Anyway,” Morgan continued, “Mama June has asked me to stay on for a while. And I’ve agreed.”

  Adele’s brows rose as she exchanged a quick glance with Hank, who frowned.

  “That’s wonderful,” exclaimed Nan. “I’d hoped you would, what with Daddy in the hospital.”

  That was her opening. Mama June set her cup down in the saucer and straightened her shoulders. She looked around the table then settled on the supportive, bolstering stare of Morgan.