Читать книгу Sweetgrass - Мэри Монро, Мэри Элис Монро, Mary Monroe Alice - Страница 8

The art of basket making was brought to South Carolina by slaves who came from West Africa more than three hundred years ago. “For generations, the art has been passed from mother to daughter to granddaughter.”

—Vera M. Manigault, basket maker

MAMA JUNE’S HANDS TIGHTENED on the steering wheel of her ’95 Oldsmobile sedan as she leaned forward and squinted, focusing on the steady flow of traffic that whizzed past. Her heart beat like a wild bird in her chest.

The private road to Sweetgrass was accessed directly from Highway 17. In colonial days when Sweetgrass was a plantation, the roadbed was called Kings Highway and was a major artery for planters. In the twentieth century, it grew to become a sleepy highway for people traveling between Charleston and Myrtle Beach. As construction of housing developments, shopping malls and tourism burgeoned, however, the traffic roared by.

Mama June didn’t care much for driving in the first place, and it was no time for daydreaming if she didn’t want to get clobbered just trying to get out of her own driveway.

There was a break in the traffic and Mama June eased her great rumbling sedan onto the highway, earning a nasty honk from a speeding car that careened over to the left. As the car passed, the driver gestured rudely, yelling. Mama June smiled sweetly and returned the wave.

Most likely a tourist, she thought, her smile falling hard. She was smugly gratified to see the out-of-town license plate as it sped past. Mama June smoothed her hair, feeling both indignant and embarrassed. No one local would be so rude as to honk like that, or yell such things, she thought. Especially not to an elderly woman.

“What’s becoming of this town?” she muttered as she gradually eased her Oldsmobile up to just below the speed limit. She didn’t want to go so fast that she’d miss the stand. It ought to be coming up right soon.

The rickety wood stands that bordered both sides of the four-lane highway had been there for as long as she could remember. Beginning in Mount Pleasant and progressing clear up to Georgetown, African-American women could be found sitting in the shade beside their basket stands. They’d sit weaving the indigenous sweetgrass into baskets, patiently waiting for some local or tourist to stop alongside the road and purchase one of their works of art.

In bad weather, the lean-to stands stood stark and empty. In good weather, however, soft yellow-and-brown baskets by the dozens dangled from the wooden slats, some with bright red ribbons affixed during the holidays, some with paper price tags dangling gaily in the wind. All kinds of baskets were available: some with handles, some with tops, some large and flat and others with curves and twists. Mama June slowed down, her eyes peeled for one basket stand in particular.

Mama June remembered the day, so long ago, that her mama drove this same road to Myrtle Beach. It was her eighth birthday and her mother was taking her on a special holiday—just the girls. There would be swimming on the long stretch of pearly beach, shopping and eating out at restaurants. Oftentimes, her parents went off to the Grand Strand, giggling like teenagers. So this time was very special. She’d packed her new yellow dress with the stiff pastel crinolines that made her feel like a princess and shiny patent leather shoes bought specially for the trip.

Her mother had to make a stop in Charleston, so afterward they drove north along Highway 17. It was the first time she’d seen the many rickety, wooden stands that lined the road. In her child’s mind, she’d thought they were ramshackle houses and had felt sorry for the poor people who lived in those lean-tos. How her mother had laughed at that one!

Her mother had pulled over the big red Buick alongside one of the stands, Mama June recalled as if it were yesterday. Being young, she was nervous about approaching the two African-American women who sat in a companionable manner, weaving. They were kindly and took the time to show her how they wove the narrow strips of palmetto leaf through the sweetgrass to create a basket.

Mary June was mesmerized. As she watched the women’s strong fingers twist the yellow, sweet-smelling grass into shape, her own fingers moved at her sides. Impulsively, she begged her mother for a basket, saying she’d rather have one than a trip to the Strand, a comment that made the weavers roll their eyes and chortle. Because it was her birthday, her mother let her choose any one she wanted. Mama June still had that basket in a place of honor on her dining room shelf. It was the first of many baskets she’d collected over the years.

Mama June smiled at the memory, then shook her head, focusing on the road. She didn’t have to drive far before she spotted a basket stand that had a large number of more intricately designed baskets than most of the other stands held. Mama June pulled over to the side of the road and cut the engine just as an eighteen-wheeler pushed past her, causing even her large Olds to rock.

“Heaven, help us,” she exclaimed, holding tight to the wheel. Coughing lightly from the dust, she peered over her shoulder before pushing open the car door and scurrying out from the sedan to safety. As she approached the stand, Mama June’s experienced eye recognized the evenness of the stitches, the uniform rows of sweetgrass and the clever, subtle shift of color from the golden sweetgrass to the coffee-colored bull rush. To her mind, this weaver was a master.

One woman in a dull brown skirt and blue patterned blouse sat in the shade of a sprawling live oak. The woman’s hands stilled and her face lifted in expectant welcome. She had short, steel-gray hair worn in tight curls around her head, a straight nose that flared wide, bold cheekbones and a jawline that could have been carved of granite. Her appearance was regal and might even have been regarded as rigid were it not for her eyes. They were wide, deep and full of expression, so that one would always know her opinion on a matter without her having to speak a single word.

“Nona!”

Nona’s eyes widened in recognition and she raised her palms up. “Lord have mercy! Mary June! I haven’t laid eyes on you in weeks!”

“I know. And what a spell I’ve been having!” Mama June replied as she stepped forward to take the strong brown hands into her own. The two women looked into each other’s eyes as years of shared experiences flashed through both of their minds, tightening their clasped hands in unspoken acknowledgment.

“What brings you here today?” Nona asked, releasing her hold and folding her arms akimbo, eyes twinkling. Don’t tell me you’ve come looking for a basket?”

“One can never have too many sweetgrass baskets,” she replied, her gaze moving across the rows. “But actually,” she said, fixing her gaze on Nona, “I’ve got some rather bad news. Is this a good time?”

Concern crept into Nona’s eyes, though her smile remained fixed. “As good a time as any. I’m just sewing my baskets. I’d enjoy the company.”

“I can’t stay long. I’m on my way to the hospital. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Preston’s had a stroke.”

Nona brought a hand over her heart. “Goodness, no! I didn’t hear a word about that! Now, that’s a terrible sadness. How is he?”

“Very bad, I’m sorry to say. It left him paralyzed and he can’t speak a word.”

“Lord have mercy.”

“He’s as helpless as a baby. But he’s been in intensive therapy. We have hope.”

“You got to have hope.”

“I honestly believe that the only hope he has of ever walking or speaking again lies in our getting him out of the hospital and back home. You know how much he loves Sweetgrass. I believe bringing him home will be his best tonic.”

“He surely does love the place,” Nona replied, nodding with affirmation. “Even so, you are his best tonic, Mary June. Always have been.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. But it is a big undertaking to bring him home.” Mama June gave a brief account of the army of therapists she’d scheduled to work with Preston at home and the kind of therapy each would provide.

Listening, Nona was all amazement. “And they do all that right there in your house?” When Mama June nodded, Nona shook her head. “It’s like bringing the hospital home with you! I expect that’ll cost you a bundle. All those professionals…”

“Insurance helps,” Mama June replied. “Still, it’s a worry. I’ve hired a live-in aide to see to Preston’s medical needs. But the house is another thing altogether.” She wrung her hands, unable to ask the question on the tip of her tongue, hoping Nona would read between the lines.

“What a time you’ve had.”

“Oh, Nona, there’s so much to be done. I expect to be busy as Preston’s caretaker, you see. I’m also taking care of the business of the farm as well.”

“You are?”

Nona’s shocked tone might have been insulting from anyone else, but she knew Mama June better than anyone—and was well acquainted with Mama June’s aversion to anything pertaining to money.

“Just until Preston is well.”

Nona’s brows rose. “That’s a lot to take on all of a sudden.”

“It surely is. Nona, I can tell you, I’ve been simply overwhelmed with all the decisions I have to make, and now with Preston due to come home…” She lifted her palms in a light shrug. “I probably should get some help.”

Nona looked away, lowering her hands and reaching out to straighten a few baskets in a line on the long table. “Might be a good idea,” she said in a slow voice. “Mary June, you might could get one of those cleaning crews. You know the ones I mean. A whole group of women come sweeping down on the house like locusts on a field and clean the house lickety-split.”

Mama June couldn’t speak for a moment. She felt a profound disappointment that Nona hadn’t come to her aid, as she’d always done in the past. What she really needed was someone she could depend on, someone to help manage the house. What she needed was a friend to help her out. But she couldn’t ask this without clouding the air between them.

“You’re probably right,” she replied, clutching her purse. “Well, I best be going. You take care.” She started to leave, then suddenly turned back. Nona hadn’t moved a muscle but stood, watching her. “I almost forgot. I wanted to buy a basket.”

“Now, Mary June, you don’t need to buy no basket.”

“But I want to. I see your style has changed a bit. Look at that one with the popcorn along the edges,” she said, pointing to a small capped basket. “That is a beauty. I’d like to have that one in my collection of your work or it wouldn’t be complete. How much is it?”

Nona lifted the intricate basket and slowly ran her fingers around its edges, considering. “This one didn’t take much time and there are some mistakes in it,” she replied. “Eighty dollars.”

Mama June took the basket in her hands and brought it close. “There’s not a mistake on this basket and you know it. And it took a considerable amount of time to make. It’s a bargain at a hundred.”

She reached into her pocketbook and tugged out two fifty-dollar bills. Each dollar was measured these days. She’d intended to go to the market on the way home, but this stop just cleaned out her wallet. She handed the bills to Nona.

“Thank you,” Nona said, pocketing the bills in her skirt without a glance.

“It was wonderful seeing you again. Morgan was asking after you.”

Nona’s brows rose high, creasing her broad forehead. “Morgan is back home?”

Mama June’s face eased into a grin. “Yes! At last! You could have knocked me over with a feather.” At the mention of Morgan, a child beloved by both women, the earlier tension fled as quickly as the traffic passing on the highway, and the words flowed more easily.

“What brought that rapscallion back home after all this time?”

“His father’s illness, of course.”

“Oh, Lord, of course. Well, he’s a fine boy to come to his father’s aid. I always said he was a fine boy.”

“Yes, you did. And he is. I just wish he knew that. I don’t know what I’d have done if he hadn’t returned when he did. I’ve been quite beside myself with worry. Not only about Preston but about what to do with Sweetgrass.”

“Come again? What do you mean about 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.