Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice
I suppose so,” she replied, though she didn’t really feel so. Old scabs had been reopened that would take time to heal. “Perhaps I put too much store in all going well today. I so wanted their cooperation.”
“And you’ll have it. They just had to blow off steam.”
“I’m not so certain. Adele can be rigid, and Nan’s a dear but she follows Hank’s lead.”
“She’s a sweet kid, but she has no backbone.”
Mama June didn’t respond, fearing that the same might have been said about herself over the years.
“Adele pinched the cup, you know,” Morgan said with amusement in his voice.
“What? The porridge cup?”
He nodded, his lips twisted in disgust.
Mama June shook her head. “It was hers, anyway.”
“You’re not going to say anything?”
“No, let it go. I offered it to her, after all. Besides, it’s not the first thing she’s pinched, as you call it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s never something of great value, at least monetarily. But over the years I’ve noticed a photograph missing, or a piece of family silver, or a painting from her old bedroom. All things that I’m sure she’s rationalized belong to her. For whatever reasons, she needs them. I’ve found it best just not to say anything.”
Movement caught her attention, and turning her head, she saw a thick-set woman in a blue floral dress and a purple slicker coming up the sidewalk from around back.
“Nona!” she called out with a quick wave.
Nona’s face rose toward the stairs and broke into a quick grin. “’Afternoon, Mary June.”
“Nona!” Morgan exclaimed, dashing down the stairs. He swooped Nona in his arms and they hugged warmly, instantly nanny and child again. Morgan held her at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. I swear, you never change. Make a pact with the devil to look so good at your age? And it’s no use lying. I know exactly how old you are.”
“Just living the good life,” Nona quipped. “More than I can say for you! What’s all this long, shaggy hair? And buttons missing from your shirt? You used to be such a fine dresser. Remember those white bucks? Lord, you were like a peacock in those days. You need some caring after, that’s for certain. Don’t they have women where you been living? You can’t find yourself a wife?”
“Come in, come in,” Mama June exclaimed, gesturing with her hand toward the house.
“I can’t stay long. I came along with Elmore. He’s out yonder checking on the sweetgrass,” she said, indicating the direction of the fields with a jerk of her chin. “The first pulling of the season will be here before we know it. Speaking of which…” She lifted her arms to Mama June to offer a beautiful sweetgrass basket with a curved handle.
“Elmore and I, we were sorry to hear Mr. Preston took sick and wanted to bring something. From our house to yours.”
Mama June was more touched by the sentiment than she could express. She took hold of the intricately sewn bread basket made of coiled sweetgrass, rush and pine needles with the same reverence she would an olive branch. Inside the basket, tucked neatly in a blue-checked napkin, were Nona’s homemade buttermilk biscuits.
She felt her heart shift and pump with age-old affection. “Nona, this is so kind of you. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted one of your biscuits. Morgan was saying how he longed for them. Please, won’t you come in? We just had dinner, but I have pecan pie. And coffee.” She grinned wide. Nona’s love for coffee was well known.
“Maybe just for a coffee. It’ll give me a chance to catch up with that wild boy of yours.”
Later, after coffee and pie were finished and Morgan had gone off to tend to Blackjack, Mama June spoke in confidential tones to Nona about what had transpired that afternoon.
“Good riddance,” Nona said, her lip curled in disgust. “That woman is a real pain in the you-know-where. Always has been.”
“What have I done?” Mama June asked, staring out with dismay.
“You showed some backbone, that’s what you’ve done. Praise Lord!”
Mary June placed her fingers to her brow. “A lot of good it did me. I’ve alienated my family. Now I’m alone.”
Nona pursed her lips, then said, “No, you’re not. You have me.”
Mama June dropped her hand. “But…”
“I realized I was no kind of friend to let you go through this alone. Not after all we’ve been through together. Now, I can’t do all I used to—and neither can you. But together we’ll manage. I’ll come by to make sure the house is running smoothly and make certain you’re not starving while you tend to your husband. And I’ll lend an ear when you need it. It’s the least any friend could do.”
Mama June’s hands squeezed around Nona’s. “I can’t thank you enough. Just knowing you’re here…”
“Let’s not get all weepy. Lord knows, we’ve got our work cut out for us!”
6
Skill, craftsmanship and long hours of work are involved in making sweetgrass baskets. A simple design can take as long as twelve hours. A larger, more complex design can take as long as two to three months.
NONA SIGHED HEAVILY as she brought her van to a stop at Sweetgrass. She looked through the shaded windshield at the handsome white house. It sure was a picture, she thought, cloaked as it was in the pink light of early morning. She’d spent the better part of her life working in this old house and a part of her was happy to come back to it. Maize couldn’t understand such feelings—and that was okay. Nona prided herself on the choices she’d made in her own life and didn’t care to change her ways now. The wind did blow when Maize heard she’d decided to come back to work at Sweetgrass, but it was up to Maize to accept what was.
Nona pulled herself out from the shiny white van, stretching a bit after landing in the soft gravel. She’d bought the car after years of saving her basket money, and every time she looked at it, a ripple of pride coursed through her. Usually it was stuffed to the brim with her baskets, but she’d removed the treasures to store safely in her house until things were settled here at Sweetgrass. She pulled from the van a large canvas bag filled with grass, palmetto fronds and her tools. Every spare minute, her fingers sewed the baskets.
Blackjack greeted her in his usual manner, a grayed muzzle at her thigh and his tail waving behind like a tom-tom drum.
“Hello, you ol’ hound dog,” she exclaimed with affection, bending to pat the fur.
Morgan’s voice caught her by surprise. “’Morning, Nona! You’re here early. What? You can’t stay away?”
His tall, lanky form came from around the side of the house. He was dressed in a faded old T-shirt that was torn at the neck, paint-splattered jeans and worn hiking boots caked with mud. His face was as yet unshaven, and his thick brown curls tumbled askew on his head. He looked like the eight-year-old boy she remembered running in from the field, blue eyes twinkling, to show her a robin’s egg or a snake skin or some other treasure he’d unearthed.
Nona clucked her tongue. “What you got in your hands there?” she asked, indicating the towel he was carrying. “A frog?”
He lifted a paintbrush from the towel. “I’m fixing up the kitchen house. Mama June wants the new aide to stay there. I’ve patched up a few leaks in the roof, put in a window air conditioner in the bedroom, new screens on the windows and now I’m finishing up a fresh coat of paint. You know,” he said, scratching his jaw, “it’s looking pretty good. I’m thinking maybe I should move in,