Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ