by Grace Sammon
This meeting, too, is part of Sonia’s planning. Over the casual activity of detaching beans from their pods, we will bridge lifetimes.
As the students spread out, I go to one of the tables that seems slow to fill. I am assuming some of the students might be avoiding it due to the large Rottweiler at the old woman’s side. She seems cold, detached, solid, like the barn beams. Not the kind of woman that is going to gush over or work to engage her audience. As I sit, she is already responding to a student’s blurted out question, “What are all you old people doing here?” I think the question comes out rudely, but in fact there has not been one bit of problem with the kids all day. I’d like to think that I am unprejudiced, that I would not have assumed the worst of these kids, but I guess, at least in part, that isn’t true. They’ve worked hard all day, laughed, been so open to this very different experience, and now, with many of them raised by their own grandparents, they are probably more comfortable than I am in sitting with these old women.
Our table host begins. “You are probably-a wondering who we are. We all-a got here from different places and for different-a reasons,” she is saying. Looking around the room, she takes in each table and continues, “You should not-a leave here today without getting to know us a bit. We have not always been old, and each of us has a story. Our host then nods her head toward Tia, CC, and Tobias standing by one of the tables. “Tia and CC—her given name is Cynthia, you’ve already met. Tia owns this place with her father. She’s-a fifty years old. Black, but more in coloring like her mother, I think. CC is a nurse by training. She and-a Tia met while on an eco-tour in Costa Rica twenty years ago. The two of them quickly reordered their lives and-a made the commitment to live, as openly as they could, together. CC is Irish and about-a sixty-five, I think.”
Our host continues, “Jan Kiley, the Black woman over there, wearing the Bob Marley sweatshirt, is seventy-seven. She is Tobias’ wife’s cousin. You can’t see all her tattoos, but they are worth seeing. She and Tobias’ wife Joan went to Howard University together. Joan, she died-a last month.”
I pull my eyes from Jan Kiley with her arms alternately flailing the air and resting akimbo at her hips. In our table host I hear the hint of an Italian accent. I’m distracted by the accent for a moment as I’m pulled to thoughts of my own mother. I pick up the cadence of her speech and the insertion of the “a” in front, and sometimes behind, some of the words.
She continues, “The white-a woman over there is Deirdre Stalzer. She’s eighty. The other white woman over there is Margaret Mary Wright, she used to be a nun. She’s older than Tobias by some years. In-a her nineties. She’s smart as a whip and so is her tongue. It’s never been clear to me how she got here, but it’s probably worth asking.
“The only other of us who lives-a here is Sydney Blackstone. She’s come here before her time. She’s in her late forties. She has cancer and isn’t feeling well tonight. We’ll see how that turns out, by the by. The doctor who bought Tobias’ medical practice thought it would be good for her to a recover here. Yes, that’s right, Tobias is a doctor,” she responds to their shocked faces. “He doesn’t need to announce it to people. He’d think it amusing to see your surprised faces. He met Tia’s mom, Joan, when she was a freshman at Howard University. He was already graduated and pre-med. He’s taking her death pretty hard.
“Several years ago, Deirdre approached Joan with the idea of opening The Grange for others to live. She liked the idea and a plan for expanding the work of their farm to include the opportunity for residents to live together in community. Margaret Mary came next, then me, Sydney, then Jan. I think we all believe a place like this would surpass our spending the rest of our days in a nursing home or with the fear of winding up in one.
“Some of us have children we are close to, but most don’t expect to, or want, to spend their time with them.
“I was-a chairman of the board of the City Council when the application for permission to zone this spot for communal living came up. I was about to retire and had already determined that living in such a place as this would be more interesting than countless rounds of bingo, old movies, and armchair aerobics. It didn’t appeal to me to live a life where someone else determined that I needed a low-salt diet or no alcohol. Besides, I didn’t-a want to live so alone anymore. The original entrance requirement for residents was simply a desire to stay active and to contribute to the world, and mostly to not let ourselves be bored to death. Finances helped, but that wasn’t an up-front requirement. I recused myself from the vote but lobbied for it. The motion passed easily.
“We are very old. Separately, we have-a lived a sum of five hundred and eighty years. My-a name is Elizabeth Jacobi, I am eighty and this,” she says, leaning heavily into the Rottweiler, “is Pavarotti. He’s about the most loyal thing I’ve known in life and he’s a huge help to me now.” The dog leans into her and takes his black tongue and wipes it across her face.
Elizabeth looks directly and intently at me. “As I said, we are old. This means we have good stories if you are willing to listen.” I’m unnerved, somehow, by her look and turn away to take in the activity at the other tables. “Whatda ya hafta do,” I hear her say behind me.
The conversations continue, table to table, as students work to separate bean from pod. I imagine that each of the women is telling some version of Elizabeth’s story as the beans are shucked and sorted. Bowls fill. My own hands slow as I run them through the colors—this bowl is filled with beans that resemble Shamu the whale or the Asian symbols for Ying and Yang, this one with beans that are half maroon and half white, these others are tiny and as black as ebony, and these are the color of polished walnut. Some will be stored for food, some will live again and be replanted to produce a new generation of beans for next year’s harvest, and some make their way into my pocket.
We are done. The food is all catalogued and weighed. The empty pods are swept from the floor and gathered for the pigs. Everything that fits under the seats on the bus goes to the Anacostia Food Pantry for the needy, and will, undoubtedly come to some of these students’ tables though that organization. Everything else goes to the store parking lot at the corner of Rt. 4 and The Grange road. There, those in want and need can take it freely. “It’s about a single gift,” Tia says as we get ready to leave.
There is one final ritual, however. CC asks for us to reassemble in the barn. I notice her sneakers as she walks us up the gentle slope of a staircase to the barn loft—rainbow laces, pink-soled bottoms.
In the loft, the light shifts. Each wall is covered with a kaleidoscope of palm prints and illuminated by gallery-quality track lighting. Hands—different sizes, different colors—hundreds of them. CC explains that years ago she and her nephew traveled to Denmark and had a layover in Reykjavik, Iceland. It was a long layover in a small airport. A sign in the lounge invited journeyers to leave a comment or make a drawing on the wall. Her young nephew noticed that many people had traced their hands. The two of them overlapped their four hands, traced each one, and wrote the date. Hoping that those four prints still mark the airport wall, CC brought the same idea to The Grange. She solemnly invites each of us to leave our mark upon this place, as we had upon the land, and as we must upon the earth. I watch as boisterous voices become hushed, and as hands are gently dipped into bins of wet paint and then reverently touch to the walls.
Tobias, now standing at the bus door, silently nods his good-bye to each of as we leave.
That’s it. Six pages done. I make a note to flesh out a character sketch of those I met today, or maybe it will just unfold and I will get details over time. Yesterday was a lot to take in.
Rolling my neck, I just breathe. Sonia might be right. Not right about me hiding, that’s ridiculous, but there is something to write about here.
first, we walk
T
wo days later Sonia erupts into my parlor. I haven’t bothered to change clothes or shower since she admonished be for hiding. It’s
not important to me. I’ve got hours before I have to be at the University, and at least a few hours before Roy shows up to work.
Clearly, she’s disgusted that her plan hasn’t instantly taken hold of me, somehow transforming me into what she thinks I should be. “Jessica,” she says, emphasizing all three syllables distinctly, “Jess-cee-ka.”
I raise my eyebrows, not wanting to give her the satisfaction that I may, indeed, have taken her suggestion and written. I can feel her chastisement of me rising anew and have the distinct sense that she wants to add my middle name to the statement.
“Jessica, I have told you, this is enough.” She is close to irate. “There are many days of Washington Posts to trip over on your porch. It is amazing the neighbors have not called the police to check to see if you are still alive. Today, you will do several things. First, go take a shower and put these on. We are going walking and I am not going with you the way you look.” With that she hands me a Nordstrom’s bag filled with fully color-coordinated sports bra, panties, socks, and a running outfit with appropriately coordinated shoes.
“Sonia,” I begin, “I can’t have you do this. I’m fine. Look, I’ll grab my sneakers and we can walk if that makes you happy.”
“Jess-cee-ka Ma-rie.” I actually giggle at the sound of this, but I now know she’s serious. “You will shower and put these on. Perhaps, my dear, if you begin to look like you can crawl out of this prison it will happen.” With that she moves to my kitchen to make coffee.
After showering and drying my hair I don my new outfit and feel ridiculous. The bright colors and yoga-like running outfit only exaggerate my weight gain. I feel overly coordinated in blues and grays and pinks, an over-stuffed version of Sonia. There is little arguing with Sonia at this point, or actually any point. I head downstairs. She has Roy’s marble countertop set with placemats and china. Sliced fruit has magically appeared on the plates and The Washington Post, sans plastic wrapper, is lying there, inviting me to read.
“Sonia,” I try to protest, but can’t help laughing. “You really are a stubborn bitch you know.”
“Do not speak to me right now,” she says, showing me her palm. “I am reading the paper.”
We sit in silence as we each read through several sections of the paper, making occasional asides about government, both local and federal. Here, in DC, they are the same. After a while, she says “Crossword?” with a fun, yet manipulative grin.
“Don’t push it, Sonia. If you came here to walk, let’s do it.” I counter.
“Sudoku?” She laughs and questions me, rising from her stool.
“This is good.” Sonia states. “Today we walk. You look very good. Remember what I said, when you are dead no one will remember what you said, they will remember only how you looked!”
As the two of us begin our walk we talk about the work on the townhouse. She asks about Roy, and if I am happy with his work, and what I think of him. I love the work but have little opinion of him other than his quirky preciseness and ever up-beat attitude. Although he has been at my home for months, we have never really talked beyond the other night. I am honest, as I always am with Sonia, telling her that I shared the story with Roy and that I regret it. Vodka, stress, embarrassment, devastation—my theme. I should have left well enough alone and let him draw his own conclusions at my panic.
I discern a slight cringe and a small disapproving shake of her head, but Sonia doesn’t really seem to be listening. I marvel anew at the ease with which she seems to do everything. She’s chatting away about her work, a man she’s thinking of asking out down at the community college, and her work at The Grange. She’s talking about Erica and being on schedule for getting herself emotionally prepared to have Erica gone and off to college in a few years. She wonders aloud what it will be like not to see her daughter all the time.
I notice she catches herself here.
“There’s really no way to be prepared for them to be gone, you know,” I tell her.
I am surprised at her barbed reply. “Jessica, apparently you do not remember that I know your whole story. I know what you felt in losing Ryn and Adam. However,” she states, waving her finger from high to low, “I am someone who believes that in large measure we can write our own stories, change the endings.
“That is why I demand your help at The Grange. This is a very fascinating place to me. There is something very magical there. We have this historical place and we have these interesting people. I believe we have this unique opportunity to make a difference. I feel as if this concept, the women living together, is there, but, also, not quite focused. More needs to happen. I think they need your help.”
Sonia is almost yelling at me, pressing some point she feels is lost on me. “Jessica, I do not understand why you do not see what I see. These women each have a story to tell, I can feel it. You have a deep interest in women’s history. You should be hungry to hear their stories. They are old but not in the way I thought being old would be. They are vibrant. Jan is just, what is the word that you use? “A hoot.” She defies anything I thought of as what growing old looks like. Margaret Mary is a master quilter—you have your unfinished squares. Elizabeth has something brewing, something unspoken, but I can’t put my finger on it. Deirdre and Sydney, I don’t know well but they are part of this puzzle.
“Then there is Tia and CC, they’ve been doing this harvest project for a few years, and I’ve seen how it changes people. There’s probably grant money there, and stories to tell. Tobias and Tia have the land and the store. They are struggling with how best to coordinate all the many changes that are going on there. You are struggling. It is clear to me. These are all dots and you, the disconnected Jessica, must connect them.”
“Sonia,” I manage to fit in before she continues. “No one could ever accuse you of being oblique.”
“I am asking you to do just two things. First, I have left for you an envelope from Erica. It is under this morning’s paper. After you look at this, call Tia and set up a meeting with Tobias. He will have to give you permission to allow us to interfere.” I smile at her choice of words. “Do not think you need to know where this is going before you start, Jessica. This trip will end where this trip ends, but it cannot begin unless you are willing to start.”
When I don’t respond, she’s exasperated. “I am too tired of you, Jessica.”
We’ve walked through tree-lined streets, crisp with fall air, past closely parked cars, our feet rustling through fallen leaves, yet the only sense and sound that I am aware of is that of the pit I feel in my stomach, and the sound of Sonia’s last words echoing in my head—she’s too tired of me.
We continue in silence for quite a bit, something I imagine is quite hard for Sonia. We turn onto Columbia Road for the last leg home and we fall, naturally, into the small talk of friends. We lament that The Omega restaurant is no longer on the corner. Best black beans, ever. We lapse into nerdy professor talk about demographics and how the neighborhood, Latino for decades, has become more diverse even in its “Latino-ness.” We are enveloped in the smells coming from the restaurants as they prepare to open for lunch. There’s a peace to this, a natural rhythm.
Later, with Sonia gone, the house smells, welcomingly, of coffee. Pouring another cup, I slide the envelope out from under The Post and join Gabler on the sun-drenched window seat. I’m used to reading Erica’s papers for school and anticipate it. Her witty writing always needs editing. She is the victim of “texting” and the verbal shortcuts of her generation. But what greets me instead of a paper for school are photographs. Surprisingly, they are in black and white, a stark contrast to the colorful Erica. There is nothing stark about the photos, though. They are deep and inviting. Rich in tone. They make you want to trace your fingers around the edges and in the shapes. This young woman has captured the feel of our recent day together with an eye I didn’t anticipate. There are silhouettes of arms holding up huge carrots against the fall sky. A student’s hands splayed in the
rich earth, dirt under the nails. Shadows on walls. Tobias’ feet and the foot of his cane. Young hands caressing bowls of beans. Steam coming off bowls of chili. Mud- and manure- covered bus tires.
And the women!
CC’s swollen-legged, sneakered-feet, ascending the staircase to the loft. Jan’s head thrown back, in profile, in a howl of a laugh. One of the other women’s arms, all hangy-down-upper-arm skin, around a much taller shoulder. A set of eyes creased and crinkled. Breasts, large and heavy. Elizabeth’s huge hand tugging on Pavarotti’s ear.
One of the photos makes me catch my breath. It’s of a single empty chair with two unmatched hands gripping the back of it. One, clearly, Tobias’ hand, I recognize the age and gracefulness of it. The other, I assume, is Tia’s. The focus is so sharp you can see tension in the photo. My mind leaps, trying to fill in a blank. This chair was filled by someone else at previous harvests. Surely, Tobias’ wife, Tia’s mom, had sat here. What was her name?
What had Elizabeth said? Tobias’ wife had died just last month. Tobias and Tia, tense, uneasy, not wanting to take her chair. In this frame Erica has brilliantly left space for her lost image. Erica, too, sees what I do not. I stare at the blank space left by a woman I will never meet. I imagine she invisibly greets me, and the name comes to me. “Joan.”
I flip quickly through the rest of the pack and there’s not one photo of a whole person, and no full-on faces. Fascinating.
Picking up Gabler I take her and the photographs to the dining room table. Spreading the photos, I look to see what’s there, what is missing, what is the story that is being told. I ask myself, “OK, Erica and Sonia, what do you see that I do not?”
I make a few notes on the back of papers left by Roy.
Sonia has pushed two of my big buttons. First, she said she needed my help. I owe her much, and the thought that she is “too tired of me” is painful. Secondly, she has tempted me by making this a women’s history project, a journey of discovery. It’s been way too long since I had a hunger for that.