What Grows in Your Garden

by Carolyn P Schriber

  “Then we face four weeks of hard labor, non-stop term-paper grading, and we are into finals week, when we all converse with little more than snarls. Finals finish up on Friday, May 16, and final grades must be in by Monday, May 18. Do not plan on enjoying that weekend. You may, however, join our graduates in some of their graduation celebrations during the following week if you choose to do so once your grades are in. There will be street dances, picnics, a champagne breakfast—our usual semi-controlled celebration of four grueling years. Graduation takes place on Saturday, May 23, and you must attend, appropriately decked out in full regalia and trying your best to suppress your glee at getting rid of some of these folks.

  “That’s your schedule until we release you on Saturday afternoon, after which you may feel free to wander the four corners of the globe and rediscover how to enjoy life.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Best-Laid Plans

  March–April 2009

  Once the flurry of campus gossip subsided and the newspaper turned its attention to a series of burglaries on the other side of town, even the history department could get back to normal. A humble Cassie returned to class but stayed on the sidelines of any discussions that took place. And as far as anyone knew, she was obeying the injunction to spend as little time on campus as possible. A much-relieved Sarah returned to Friday night prayers at the synagogue, and it was there that Mrs. Cohen caught up with her.

  “Sarah? I’ve been hoping to run into you. David told me to call you, but I hate using a telephone. I much prefer face-to-face conversations.”

  “Shalom,1 Mrs. Cohen. I understand. My mother feels the same way about telephones. Is your husband with you?”

  “No. Working late, as usual. But that gives us time to talk. There’s coffee in the social hall. Do you have a few minutes for a nice chat?”

  “Sure.”

  With coffee and cookies in hand, they settled at a small table in the corner.

  “David has told me how busy you are, and I quite understand why you cannot join us for the Feast of Purim. It was also generous of you to offer to help with the Purim baking. But as you heard in the announcements tonight, the synagogue will open a soup kitchen to feed the poor as the Torah instructs us to do during Purim. So, we will not be having a family dinner. I will be here with the other women starting on Monday morning to bake the three-cornered pastries and then make the kreplach for the soup. We’ll serve dinner Monday night and lunch all day on Tuesday.”

  “It sounds like a huge undertaking, but a nice alternative to the traditional silliness we hear about in some places.”

  “I agree. So, you will fly off to visit your shikse2 friends in Chapel Hill, and we will take care of HaShem’s business here at home.”

  Sarah bristled, but forced herself to smile. “I’m looking forward to seeing my college roommate, but I’ll be hard at work most of the time. I’ll have three full days of research in the UNC library, and then the Nineteenth-Century Studies conference. As I’ve been trying to explain to David, what looks like vacation time to most people is hard labor time for academics. It’s our only chance to do the research that the college expects of us.”

  “You need not explain to me, dear. My father was a physics professor at Princeton. He spent every school vacation shut in his lab while the rest of the family listened to mother’s stories of what real people did on their days off.”

  “Thanks for understanding. And about Passover . . .”

  “Yes, I’ve heard your plans for that, too, and I must tell you I learned another lesson from you. The Seder for lonely college students sounded like such a good idea that I began investigating similar plans. I’ve now extended Seder invitations to ten widowed or single members here at the synagogue, and eight of them have accepted so far. On the first night of Passover, Leonard and I will open our empty nest to strangers and turn them into an extended family. I couldn't bear to think of doing all that work to remove chametz3 from my kitchen and then not having anyone for whom to cook a Seder meal.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea!”

  “I thought so, and you can hear all about it when you come for our second night of Passover dinner.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “You look surprised. But then, I haven’t told David and Hannah, either. We’ll just be eating left-overs and doing an abbreviated version of the Haggadah, but it will bind our family together for the coming year. I’m willing to share all of you, but I won’t give you up entirely.”

  A dozen thoughts were buzzing through Sarah’s brain, each one pushing her further toward panic. David’s mother had already accepted Sarah as David’s chosen mate and was treating Sarah as a member of the family. What Sarah did next might change her life forever. Should she knuckle under and accept the inevitable? If she refused to be treated as a member of the family, she might alienate her future in-laws. Or . . . or . . . She could just walk away from the whole scene and have nothing more to do with any of them.

  Instead, she smiled. “I’ll talk to David.” Avoidance? Maybe, but it was his family. Let him sort them out.

  “Oh, and one other thing.” Mrs. Cohen was not ready to give up. “I want you to bring Elijah, too. Hannah’s little Benjamin is old enough to understand the stories of Passover, and I’d love for him to hear Elijah’s story.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t make any predictions about how that cat would behave in a new situation with people he doesn’t know.”

  “You can bring him in his carrier, and we won’t let him out unless he feels comfortable.”

  “He might feel comfortable, but I’ll be a nervous wreck.”

  “Please. I’m hoping for two good outcomes. First, Hannah is an excellent artist and for some time she has talked about writing and illustrating a children’s book. Elijah’s story about Passover would appeal to a Jewish publisher I know. I just need to get Hannah and Elijah together. And second, I want a cat of my own. I’m hoping Elijah will help sell my husband on the idea. Please?”

  Sarah quit fighting. There’s just no way around a Jewish mother, she realized.

  “OK, but if he pees on your carpet . . .”

  “If he does, I’ll drop a napkin over it.”

  Sarah’s trip to North Carolina was an unqualified success. At the university library, she learned that she would need advance permissions to explore the Penn Center Papers. The Oral History Collection, however, was available and turned out to contain a treasure trove of new ideas.

  A folder of cemetery photographs caught her attention. Accompanying it was an article explaining the artifacts often found on the graves of slaves—both adults and children. Almost every grave displayed some eating utensils and personal items. For a child, the tattered remains of a beloved rag doll or a ball suggested the child’s sex. Adults’ graves often included the tools of their trade—a spindle, a woodworking adze, perhaps even a hoe. All were items the person might need in an afterlife—except for one curious exception.

  Conch shells appeared with almost every burial site. Sometimes a whole row of them edged the plot. Many appeared to have been there for decades. Others were still shiny and pink. Her curiosity aroused, Sarah began searching for an explanation. The usual description mentioned shells used as a decoration, but to Sarah the conchs suggested something more important.

  The pictures had triggered a memory from her own childhood. A cousin returned from a summer spent at the beach with a gift for young Sarah. “Hold the shell to your ear,” she had said. “Listen and you will hear the waves on the shore.”

  “Water!” Sarah exclaimed to herself, and her researcher’s imagination leaped ahead to see the conch shells as a symbol of the water whose sounds they had captured. She also recalled a quote, although she could not be sure of where she had heard it. “De water bring us; de water carry us home.”

  And that same night, as she lay awake going over the day’s discoveries, she remembered several scenes from a movie she had seen. The Water is Wide was a mad
e-for-TV adaptation of Pat Conroy’s book by the same name. It told the story of an idealistic young teacher trying to break through the Gullah language barriers to reach a group of black youngsters whose families had lived on a South Carolina island since the days of slavery. The theme song from the movie echoed in her ears until she absorbed its meaning.

  Sarah tried to explain her breakthrough to David when she returned to Birch Falls. “This is the key to everything I was looking for. I can start with a short paper about conch shells on slave graves, explaining how their echoes represent the water that carried the slaves out of Africa and can carry them home again. In another article, I can look for other water images that follow the same pattern, eliciting a prayer for home and freedom. And from there I can develop a book-length monograph on slave vocabulary. The question is always about what words mean—but not what they mean to those who hear them. What do they mean to those who speak them, sing them, dream them, and think them? Examining slave memoirs from that angle may reveal hidden insights about their culture.”

  “Your five-year plan in a nutshell, so to speak.” David was watching her with a bemused expression on his face. She was bubbling with enthusiasm—a side of her personality he had not seen before. “What will this study require in terms of travel and research?”

  “That’s the best part. I spent the rest of my library time looking for other trigger words and noting sources. Then I went on to the Nineteenth-Century Studies conference and discovered a group of like-minded people working along these same general lines. Everyone was so helpful. I came away with important contacts. I have the private email address of one of the Plantation Singers, a vocal group that specializes in slave music and lyrics. A historian from the College of Charleston has promised to get me an interview with Pat Conroy himself to discuss his understanding of the Gullah language. So that alone means spending extended time in South Carolina.

  “But here’s the other amazing opportunity. I attended a conference session on how we might commemorate the sesquicentennial anniversary of the Civil War. And out of that session came a plan to concentrate on the Emancipation Proclamation. The proposal is to create The Jubilee Project, offering a year-long schedule of lectures, book releases, traveling exhibits, and educational programs, all leading up to the anniversary date itself—January 1, 2013, with a re-creation of the original celebration. Its activities can spread nationwide, while the final celebration will take place on the original site near Beaufort, South Carolina. I’m on the Planning Committee as the representative from Tennessee, which will give me that national recognition that impresses the tenure folks. My book might be out by then, too. There’s a tempting incentive for a potential publisher—the possibility of tying the book release to the celebration. And those plans will all come together during the semester when I’m up for tenure. It couldn’t be better!”

  “It all sounds promising, Little Miss Efficiency. But tell me, are there any open slots on this busy dance card of yours?”

  “Oh, David, there are. I’m ahead of schedule at the moment, so I feel more confident about my ability to get it all done. I also see the possibility of having a life outside of the academy. For now, I’ve agreed to come to a second Passover with your family, but don’t push me too far too soon.”

  “What is it that worries you about joining in my family’s holiday celebrations?”

  “Where I come from, when a dating couple attends family gatherings, it’s a sign that their relationship is moving onto a new level—a step toward a permanent commitment. I’m not ready for that.”

  “What if I promise not to hold you to any commitment?”

  “You can promise whatever you like. But that won’t change how your mother will see matters. I understand Jewish mothers all too well.”

  Sarah found a more receptive and enthusiastic audience when she related her North Carolina discoveries to Julia Winthrop. Julia clapped her hands as Sarah finished describing her book concept. “It’s a wonderful idea, Sarah, and I can introduce you to some black scholars who may contribute to your understanding of how slaves communicated with each other while deceiving their white owners. Give me a few days to reconnect with some old friends.”

  “I don’t want to impose on you, Julia. I know you’re pretty well wrapped up in your tenure case right now.”

  “I’m not. All my paper work is in committee hands, and I have nothing left but the worry. I need a distraction, as Bert told me just last night.”

  “Ah, so he’s still in the picture, is he?”

  “Very much so. We're more comfortable with our relationship, and I’ve learned that many of my preconceptions were just that—quick judgments made with little basis in fact. I’ve been eager to fill you in, but not right now. My class meets in five minutes. How about a soup and sandwich tonight? Come over to my apartment around 6:30, and we can have a real girl-fest.”

  “Only if I can bring dessert.”

  “Oh, please do! See you then.”

  Over ham biscuits and bowls of homemade gumbo, Julia launched into her news. “Remember I told you that Bert and I had little chance of a future because one of us would have to choose between staying in Birch Falls and making an important career move? Well, I could be right in my case, but I was wrong about Bert. He began by reassuring me that he planned to spend his life here in his home town. While he is enjoying coaching the Smoky Mountain basketball team, he has no illusions about his ability to handle the pressures of a big-name school or an NBA team. He has big plans, but they do not include coaching.”

  “What makes him so determined to stay here?”

  “Are you familiar with the All Sports store downtown?”

  “I’ve seen it, but I’ve never been inside.”

  “I hadn’t either, although I knew Bert’s father is the store manager. What I didn’t know is that Bert owns the store. He purchased it while he was still in Harlem and then turned the day-to-day operation over to his father, who has done very well. Now Bert’s doing a master’s degree in business administration by correspondence, preparing himself for the day his father retires and Bert has to take over.”

  “He will give up coaching to manage a sporting goods store?” Sarah’s raised eyebrow suggested that she found the idea implausible.

  “You’re right. That alone would be a come-down, but his plans extend much further. He is already signing the final papers to purchase the empty lot next door. On it, he plans to build a recreation hall attached to the store. He will re-name the complex ‘Bert Wheeler Sports,’ to take full advantage of his name recognition. The new building will contain a work-out room, a full-sized gym, and a group of meeting rooms that various civic organizations can use. There will also be a social hall, classrooms, and a quiet study space. He’s seeing the complex as a community resource—a place where latchkey kids can come after school rather than hanging out on the street corner. He wants to offer all kinds of help to the disadvantaged members of our community—things such as teaching high schoolers how to get into college, providing training classes for the unemployed, using lonely seniors to teach youngsters how to cook, or knit, or paint a wall. There will be exercise classes, summer basketball camps, and tutoring for kids whose parents don’t speak English.”

  Sarah’s eyes had been lighting up as she listened. “That’s an amazing plan—what so many of our students needed in their earlier years. But how will he finance it?”

  “That’s why it’s attached to the store—the business profits will help support the charitable organization. And he’s hoping that it will draw a lot of help from volunteers, along with the support of charitable groups who will rent the meeting spaces. He says it will be self-supporting within a few years, and until then, he can afford to pay the bills.”

  “It’s an exciting idea," Sarah agreed, “and there don’t seem to be any limits to it. For instance, my first thought was a soup kitchen—one that could feed the homeless while training young people to cook, clean, and shop for food bargains. Ou
r synagogue ladies try to do something along those lines, but we’re not equipped to do it more than once or twice a year. It would mean that Bert would need to include a regulation kitchen, but that’s doable.”

  “See how easy it is to get caught up in the idea? I keep holding back on my preference, which would be to add a swimming pool. But I keep thinking, if I don’t get tenure, I could teach classes on how to pass the ACT and SAT and how to write that dreaded college application essay.”

  “Julia, I’m sure you’ll get tenure. Think positive thoughts.”

  “Bert tells me the same thing. But he made me feel better the other night. Until he mentioned it, I didn’t realize that this first decision is not the final one. I assumed that if I didn’t get the offer, I’d be packing my things and moving out of the office within days. He assured me that any denial of tenure—except for someone who has committed a heinous crime—comes with a one-year extension of the original contract and an automatic appeal hearing before the second shoe drops. So, regardless of what happens, I’ll be around for at least another year, with time to consider my options.”

  Sarah grinned at her. “And is one of those options becoming Mrs. Bert Wheeler?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I would want to keep the name on my PhD, even if I marry Bert—which is a real possibility now.”

  “I’m excited for you. Here. Have a brownie. They don’t have nuts, but they’re good.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nipped in the Bud

  April 1, 2009

  It seemed like an ordinary weekday morning. Classes were in session, the department secretary was typing a letter of recommendation, Doctor Brokowski was lounging in his office, and Mike and Ellie were using the conference table to grade quizzes. A distant phone rang, and Brokowski appeared at the door to his office.