Sweetgrass

“There’s a lot to be decided, now that Preston’s taken sick. Adele has strong opinions on the matter, of course.”

Nona grunted, crossing her arms akimbo. “That woman only has one kind of opinion and that’s strong. What’s she got to say about this? It’s not her home no more.”

Mama June shrugged lightly. “It will always be her home, in some way. It’s where she grew up. It’s her heritage. She’d argue it’s more hers than mine. You know that better than anyone.”

Adele and Nona had been raised together at Sweetgrass, where Nona’s mother had been the housekeeper, as was her mother before her, and so on for generations. The two girls had always been oil and water, wise to each other’s tricks and wiles. Both Nona and Adele were formidable women, neither the least cowed by the other.

“I know that Adele sees Sweetgrass not so much as her home but as her property, if you catch my meaning.”

“That old chestnut…” Mama June shook her head. “Adele’s a wealthy woman in her own right. Why would she have any designs on poor ol’ Sweetgrass?”

Nona narrowed her eyes. “Money’s only money. What Adele wants is something else besides that.”

“She doesn’t want Sweetgrass at all. In fact, she wants me to sell it.”

“Sell it!” Nona’s hand flew back to her chest. “You can’t be meaning to up and sell Sweetgrass? Why, it’s family land.”

“I know!” Mama June echoed with feeling. “That’s why I’m bringing Preston home. He’s the one who ought to be making this decision. He’s the one who took care of the land, not me.”

Nona’s brown eyes fixed upon her as she mulled this over. “That may be so,” she said at length. “But seems to me, if Mr. Preston can’t talk, then like it or no, it’s going to be you making the decision.”

A wave of anxiety washed through her, and Mama June could taste the salty rush in her throat as she choked back words. She clutched her pocketbook tighter to her chest.

As if she understood what she was feeling, Nona stepped forward and gently placed one of her strong hands on Mama June’s shoulder. “We’ll pray on it,” she said. “God will not push you harder than you can bear. Jesus takes up for you when you need Him.”

She knew Nona was trying to be supportive, but the weight of her dilemma weighed heavily on her shoulder.

“I best be off. I have more stops to make today than hours to make them. But I thank you for your prayers. I’ll need them.”

Sell Sweetgrass?

So many memories came flooding back to Nona at the mention of Sweetgrass. Lots of them good memories, some of them not so good, all of them springing from her life spent there. But good or bad, they made up a lot of years and she had to acknowledge them all, for pieced together, they made up the quilt of her life.

When she returned home a short while later, she found her daughter, Maize, already at the house to pick up the children. Nona knew better than to mention Mary June’s visit, but she couldn’t help herself. She just couldn’t keep the words in, having to tell someone. Now she’d have to suffer the consequences.

“You can tell her we don’t work for her family anymore.” Maize’s face was flushed and she stood ramrod straight, her hands firmly planted on her slim hips.

Nona let out a long, ragged sigh. “She didn’t ask me to come back to work.”

“Good!”

Maize was just like a bantam rooster, pacing on the balls of her feet, shaking her head, eager for a fight. Anything at all to do with Sweetgrass or the Blakelys or her mother doing housework usually sent Maize off on a tirade that was more about Maize’s raw feelings about race relations than anything else. Nona knew her daughter wrestled with the devil on these issues—always had. Edwin and Earl, her boys, had the same fire in their bellies, but they just up and left to join their uncles in the north. Maize was her baby, however, and the cord was strong between them. Maize had married a local boy, a teacher at a local high school, and settled here in Charleston, giving Nona two of the prettiest grandbabies she ever could have wanted. They were happy, but there’d been sharp, painful words about Sweetgrass between them.

Though she would never admit this to Maize, since it would be like pouring kerosene on an open fire, Nona had felt a stiffening of the spine when Mary June hinted at her coming back to work. She didn’t know why, exactly. She was fond of Mary June, and working at Sweetgrass was just the way things had always been for her. She’d grown up into the job and was proud of the quality of her work.

Nona recollected how Preston’s mother, old Margaret Blakely, could make a statement sound cool and polite, but it was always understood that she was giving an order. Nona, the shutters in the front room need dusting today. It wasn’t the order that rankled. After all, Mrs. Blakely was her employer. It was the way she said it, without a smile or without even looking her in the eye that had made Nona feel less about her work. Adele had been like her mother, even as a young girl.

Mary June Clark, though, was different. She was born to land, too, but never took on the airs. Courtesy for her was the same as kindness. She’d always asked Nona’s opinions about what did and did not need doing, and she listened. The respect made the difference between them.

“You calm yourself down,” Nona said to her daughter. “Mary June just found herself in a bind, is all. It’s a shame about Preston Blakely. That poor family! Haven’t they seen enough trouble? I don’t know what they’ll do now.”

“It’s no trouble for us.”

Nona drew herself back. “Why, the Blakelys have been my friends for as long as I’ve been alive.”

“You’re not their friend, Mama,” Maize said, giving her the narrowed eye. “You’ve got to get that into your head.”

“Every Christmas, don’t they send us a side of pork or beef from their livestock? And don’t we have leave to take whatever we want from their land? Your daddy likes to hunt and gather wood, sure, but you tell me where I’d be without collecting the sweetgrass from my sacred spot. And whenever any one of us took sick, it was Mary June who came calling with food. If that’s not a friend, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s what they do. It’s called noblesse oblige, Mama, not friendship. Rich white folks aren’t friends with poor black folks like us.”

“What do you know about any of that?” Nona asked, feeling her cheeks burn at being scolded by her own daughter. “You never worked in that house alongside them, you don’t know about my relationship with Mary June. Or with Preston Blakely, either. Lots of things happen over seventy years, I can tell you.”

“Answer me this. When was the last time she stopped by your basket stand to ask you to dinner? Or even out to a movie? That’s what you do with a friend, Mama. Not ask them to come back to work for you.”

Nona knew the difference between that kind of friendship and the friendship she shared with Mary June. “There are different kinds of friends at different levels. Don’t I hear you calling those people you work with at that bank your friends? My friend this. My friend that. Yet, I never saw you go out to a movie with them, neither.”

Maize’s face pinched but she looked away.

“You think you know everything just because you got that college degree. Well, there’s a lot to know about people and life that you can’t learn in books.”

“It’s not just about the college degree, Mama. It’s about getting educated, pursuing a career, competing in today’s world. It’s about being a player. That’s the reality I want for my children. Not cleaning up some white folks’ house, doing what they say, what they want, when they want it. This family’s been in bondage long enough!”

Nona drew herself up to her full height, one hand steadying herself on the counter, the other clenching her hip. She glared at Maize, this child of her own womb who she loved with a mother’s fierce pride, yet her eyes were dark with rage and she could feel herself trembling with the hurt and fury she was struggling to keep compressed inside.

“Just who do you think you’re calling a slave, child?” Nona’s voice was low and trembled with emotion. Maize’s self-righteous expression faltered. From across the room, Nona’s two grandchildren had stopped watching the television and were watching them with ashen faces and wide eyes. Nona’s lip trembled at the shame of it, but she fought for control. When she could speak again, she said, “I’m sorry that you’re so ashamed of your mother.”

“Mama…”

She pushed Maize’s arm away, sparing her dignity. “I’m proud of my work. It was good and honest and I was skilled at it. And it was my work that put you through your fancy schooling, young lady. Gracie!” she called out, turning to her granddaughter. The nine-year-old girl startled. “Go get me the family Bible.”

Grace scrambled to her feet and retrieved a large, faded and worn black leather-bound Bible that rested in a place of honor on the bookshelf. She carried it to her grandmother with both hands as though she were in a church procession.

“Thank you, child. You’re a good girl. Now, take a seat here at the table. You, too, Kwame,” she called to her thirteen-year-old grandson. He groaned softly, dragging his feet to the table. “You’re becoming a man and need to hear this most. This is your heritage.”

“Mama, not again,” said Maize, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter in passive protest. “They’ve heard this story a hundred times or more.”

“And they’re going to hear it one more time. These children can’t hear it enough. And to my mind, you still haven’t got the message in your head. Time was, the only way a family could pass on records was through the telling of them. But our family is one of the lucky ones. We’ve got the names written down. Right in here,” she said reverently, passing her strong hand over the fragile, crackled leather.

“I might not recollect all the names,” Nona continued, “but seven generations of our ancestors labored at Sweetgrass, and not all of them as slaves. After emancipation, we were free to choose to leave or stay. Most left. But your great-something-grandmother chose to stay on as hired labor. They worked hard and saved smart and bought themselves a good piece of land from the Blakelys for fifty cents an acre. That’s the land that we, and the other heirs, are living on even to this day. This land is where our roots are. This is our history.” Her voice trembled with emotion.

Nona felt her family’s ancestors gathering close about her as she grew old, closer now even than some of the living. Sometimes at night, especially when the moon was soft, the air close and a mist rolled in from the sea, she couldn’t sleep for feeling them floating around her, comforting her, calling to her from across the divide.

She slowly sat in the kitchen chair and set the Bible on the wood table. The chair’s worn blue floral cushion did little to ease her pains, but she gave them no mind as she opened up the Bible to reveal yellowed sheets of paper as thin as a moth’s wing. Each page was crowded with faded black ink in an elaborate script. She was proud of the fine handwriting of her kin. She often marveled at their courage to practice the skill, given the life-and-death orders against slaves reading and writing.

“Most of what I know about our distant kin was passed on orally in stories. I recollect just bits, mostly about a slave named Mathilde who came from Africa. And Ben, who escaped north never to be heard from again. You remember those stories?”

When the children nodded, she rewarded them with an approving smile. Maize hovered closer, joining the circle.

“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 dining 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.”