Sweetgrass (36 page)

“I would have sold it,” Adele replied, her tone flat and without emotion.

Mama June shivered and looked up at the darkening sky. The storm was moving in fast. “You know what’s really sad?” she said in way of conclusion. “You say that you wanted to belong to the family. So you tried to belong through ownership of a house.” She shook her head. “Adele, a family is not a house. Nor a piece of land. Preston tried to hold on to the family by holding on to the land and it didn’t work. The Blakelys are not just this land. That’s our history, yes, but it’s not us. You belong to a family through relationships. That’s what a family is. And that, I’m afraid, is what you’ve lost.”

Adele turned on her. “I regret that I ever brought you home to Sweetgrass.”

Mama June felt the words deeply. “There were days I regretted it, too,” she replied honestly. “But I believe my destiny was here, for better or worse.”

Adele rose, grabbed her purse and started down the stairs without a goodbye. This time, Mama June did not go after her. At the car, Adele turned once more to look at Mama June.

“Tell my brother goodbye for me,” she called out. “Tell him not to wait, I won’t be back. Tell him…” Her eyes
flashed with tears. “I don’t give a damn about his forgiveness. I don’t forgive him!”

Without another word, she drove off.

Mama June watched the sleek car disappear into the foliage just as the first raindrops began to fall.

AS WAS THEIR CUSTOM,
Mama June and Preston sat side by side on the front porch watching the sun lower in its predictable, fiery path into the horizon. Another day was done. Mama June reached to place her hand over his, a familiar-enough gesture but bittersweet nonetheless. In years past, it had always been his hand that covered hers. Not that it mattered, she told herself. All that mattered in this sunset of their lives was that their hands were still united.

The house was blissfully quiet. Morgan and Kristina had gone to spend the night at Blakely’s Bluff, and Nan had returned home to set her own house in order. Divorce was never easy and this one would be no exception.

“We’re empty nesters,” she told him. “Again.”

She heard his chuckle rumble in his chest.

“I kind of like it, us being alone. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but all that excitement is just too much for me. I’ve found I miss the peace. How about you?”

She didn’t need to look to see if he was blinking twice. The gentle pat of his hand was answer enough.

She sighed. She was thinking about how to phrase her next question.

“Our children have grown up at last,” she began. “I’m proud of who they’ve become. We’re very lucky.”

She paused, unknowingly stroking his hand.

“I know it’s hard for you to see the land broken up, but I know, too, that you’re proud of the way Morgan’s found a way to save Sweetgrass for the family. Your son came through for you. That has always been your dream. You thought I didn’t know that, did you?” She turned to look at his face. “I know about that phone call you made to Morgan the night of your stroke.”

Preston turned in surprise and looked at her.

“He doesn’t know why you phoned him. He thinks it was a call to duty—and I let him think that. It’s your place to tell him the truth. He’ll want to know it someday, and you’ll know when the time is right.

“But I know the truth. I know why you called him. He was your prodigal son. You loved him and you wanted him to know it. And I love you for having the lionhearted courage to pick up that phone and make the first call.”

His chest filled with air and he exhaled a ragged breath.

“We’ve lived through a lot, you and I. It’s been a good life. It’s been a hard life. It’s been,” she added with a soft chuckle, “the life that was handed to us. We’ve made our choices the best we could.” She rubbed his hand, choosing her words.

“We have one more to make. I’m afraid to ask you what I’m about to ask.” She cleared her throat and faced him. “I’m wondering, Preston… Can we…I believe we should leave Sweetgrass.”

His eyes widened as he stared at her.

“You need more help than we can provide for you here! Your progress, as good as it’s been, can be better. I’ve talked to your doctors and they agree. I hate to think you’re being held back. Besides, the in-home services will be ending soon, and darlin’, I’m just too old to carry this by myself. We both agreed, we don’t want to be a burden to our children.”

Preston continued to stare at her with unflinching attention.

She persevered. “The details of Morgan’s plan will work out, Morgan will see to that. He’s doing a fine job and I do believe Kristina will stand by his side.” She licked her lips. “I thought we could give Blakely’s Bluff to Morgan. He’s always preferred Bluff House to this one. It suits him.”

She looked around at the stately house she’d come to as a bride nearly half a century earlier. It never appeared more beautiful to her eyes than it was at this moment in the brilliant hues of the Lowcountry sunset. She thought of Beatrice. She’d been a strong, pioneering woman. She’d built this house, and Mama June thought the matriarch had signaled her choice of standard bearers. Beatrice’s legacy of strong, independent women would continue with her daughter.

“I’d like Nan to have this house. Your parents did not do right by Adele. And I’m ashamed that we persevered in that sorry tradition by giving Nan but a paltry few acres of wetland. She’s earned better by right of birth and by loyalty.”

His mouth worked uselessly, and she could see frustration building in his eyes.

Tears filled her own eyes, believing she was destroying his lifelong dream by asking him to leave Sweetgrass now.

“I know you love this place. Sweetgrass has been your whole life. You’ve worked every day from dawn to dusk giving it your all—your sweat, your blood, your tears. I daresay
even your heart. Who am I to ask you to leave? You took pity on me forty-seven years ago. You’ve given me a home, your name, your honor, and I hold those gifts most dear to my heart. But I believe this is the right thing for us to do. Forgive me, Preston, for asking this,” she said, her voice trembling. “Forgive me.”

Preston rose up straighter. His chair shook with his effort and with a great show of strength.

Mama June drew back, choking back her tears, stunned into silence. She looked at his face. A fine sheen of sweat formed on his upper lip as he worked his mouth.

Mama June leaned forward, holding her breath.

He closed his eyes and took a breath. Then, opening them, he tried again.

“All.”

His lungs filled, and with great concentration he moved his lips.

“For.”

Weary now, but with fiery determination, his mouth worked to form one more word.

“You.”

He collapsed back against his chair.

Mama June gasped and her hand flew to cover her trembling mouth.

All for you.

Forty-seven years of misunderstanding were swept clear with those three words.
All for you.
Was it true? Could he have loved her that much? She lowered her hands, noticing that they were shaking. Then, lifting her searching gaze into her husband’s eyes, she understood what he was telling her.

It was never for Sweetgrass. It was never for Tripp. It was never for the children. Least of all, it was never for me. Everything I did. All I ever worked for. It was all for you.

Mama June was humbled. She was exultant. She felt free from the past at long last.

Preston’s face grew solemn and his eyes glistened as he nodded his head in confirmation.

Mary June Blakely leaned far over to wrap her arms around her husband and rest her weary head upon his shoulder. She breathed in the scents of sage and eucalyptus, ones she’d forever more associate with him, and watched the sun slip soundlessly into the horizon.

Autumn creeps into the Lowcountry. After the dog days of August wind down and the children are dragged from the beaches, September seems to slide by. Lowcountry folks stay close to home and keep their eyes on the sky and their ears tuned to reports of storms swirling in the Atlantic Ocean. Only by October, when the hurricane threats settle down a bit, do the people start to relax their guard and take notice of the subtle shift in nature occurring under their very noses.

The tourists were migrating with the birds, heading northward to begin another year of school and work, packing up their memories of days swimming in the surf, golfing, fishing in the creeks and sightseeing the historic buildings and plantations.

Mama June loved the fall. Summer schedules were always bustling and everyone was dashing off somewhere. In the fall, however, the days were shorter and the lovely crispness in the air encouraged folks to take a walk in the woods.

The Blakely and Bennett families had gathered together at Sweetgrass to meet the state-authorized archeologist for a hike to the sacred spot. They drove in cars and trucks down the road to where Elmore told them to pull over and park. They’d have to go the rest of the way on foot. The vehicle path through the fields was well worn and wide, so Morgan could
push Preston’s wheelchair over the crisp leaves and compost for the remaining several hundred yards. When the path ended, Elmore led the way, beating a rough trail through the woods and wildflowers with a large stick. Harry and Chas flanked the wheelchair, pushing hard when they came across a rut or root. But the day was dry, the air cool, and Preston laughed for the pure joy of being out of doors in the wild again.

Mama June smiled, witnessing his happiness. It was a glorious day. The ground was blanketed in the vibrant purples and gold of wildflowers. Flitting over them was a cornucopia of bright orange Monarchs and fritillaries, yellow-and-black swallowtails and the sweet, common yellow sulphur butterflies that she adored.

As much as she thrilled to all these things, however, nothing prepared her for the wondrous sight that awaited her at Nona’s sacred spot.

For most of the trek the group chatted and laughed in a companionable manner. Elmore led them through the dense woods toward the light of a clearing. As they drew nearer to the sweetgrass field, however, a reverential hush fell upon the group. The crunch of their footfall sounded noisily against the woodland quiet. Mama June felt as though they were entering a great temple filled with light. In her mind, the souls of the departed rose up to greet them. They were entering sacred ground.

Leaving the dark woods, she stepped out onto a low ridge overlooking the sun-kissed clearing. Mama June’s breath was swept away in a gasp. There, in the breadth of land between marsh and forest, the low, undulating coastline was aflame with a sea of brilliant pink sweetgrass in full bloom. The whistling wind rippled the grass, cutting across the acres like waves across a rosy ocean.

Interspersed among clumps of sweetgrass, she could see a few dozen broken white headstones. She had never seen a more heavenly eternal resting place.

Nona came closer to link arms with Mama June. They looked into each other’s eyes and felt the bond resonate between them. Nona knew of her and Preston’s decision to leave Sweetgrass for a care facility. She knew, too, how hard this leave-taking would be for everyone.

“I know you’ve a lot on your mind. But I always say it’s best to make major decisions in a cemetery,” Nona told her. “Puts everything in perspective.”

Nona smiled and squeezed her arm, then moved on to join the archeologist and other family members.

Mama June stayed back with Preston. Together, they watched the ragtag army march through the field to investigate the secrets of the gravesite. Elmore, Nona, Maize, Grace and Kwame led the group. Morgan, Kristina, Nan, Harry and Chas followed. And with a jaunty step, Blackjack brought up the rear. His black tail wagged in the air like a metronome through cotton candy.

Yes, Mama June thought, our children
will
weep when we are gone.

She moved to stand behind Preston’s wheelchair and placed her hands on his shoulders. He reached up to grasp hold of one and held tight.

This was a bittersweet moment for them. Mama June’s gaze swept across the fields, and she thought their leaving in the autumn was an appropriate metaphor for their lives spent together at Sweetgrass. Together, she and Preston had shared the impulsive passion of spring and the lush, halcyon days of summer, with all its storms. And now, looking at their children and friends gathered at this sacred spot, they celebrated the harvest of their life together. Mama June sighed, know
ing that the season that followed was the quiet serenity of winter. This season, too, would have its own sparkling moments.

She looked at the man with whom she’d spent most of her life. Preston’s eyes were as bright a blue as the sky, and his hair as white as the cumulus clouds overhead. His chin was upright and noble as he looked out over his beloved land, land that he’d cared for for so many years, just as his father and grandfathers had before him. Now his son would act as its steward.

Likewise, Maize would carry on to protect this sacred spot that held her ancestors and all the precious sweetgrass that bloomed across it for generations to come.

She patted his shoulder. Preston turned his head, his gaze searching hers.

“Let’s not be sad. Someday we can come back to Sweetgrass, you know. The kitchen house will be perfect for us. After all, it’s where we began our life together. It’s only fitting that it be where we end it. But for now, my dear, it’s time to carve out a little peace for ourselves, just for you and me. Someplace where you will grow strong again, with me right by your side.”

Mama June leaned close to press her cheek against Preston’s and fervently whispered, “All for
us.
”

There are countless, wonderful sources of information concerning sweetgrass and the art of basket making. I’ve listed only those few that I have directly quoted from in my chapter headings and recommend them to anyone interested in learning more about this ancient art form.

Dufault, Robert J., Mary Jackson, Stephen K. Salvo.
Sweetgrass: History, Basketry, and Constraints to Industry Growth.
p. 442-445. In: J. Janick and J.E. Simon (eds),
New York, New Crops,
1993.

McLaughlin, J. Michael. “Sweetgrass Baskets, the Quintessential Lowcountry Souvenir.” and “Island Memories.”
Wild Dunes Island Resort,
pp. 28-32.

Raven, Margot Theis and E. B. Lewis.
Circle Unbroken: the Story of a Basket and Its People.
New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 2004.

Rosengarten, Dale.
Row Upon Row: Sea Grass Baskets of the South Carolina Lowcountry.
Columbia: McKissick Museum, University of South Carolina, c. 1986.

Weir, Carol. “Weavers Continue Decorative Tradition.”
The Island Packet.