Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice
rolled his shoulders, stiff under his denim jacket. Then, lifting his face to the moist, early morning air, he yawned wide and rubbed his face with callused palms. Forty some hours of hard driving sure could make a man’s muscles ache, he thought. He still felt the miles rolling beneath his feet. No wonder. It had taken him 850 miles on I-90 just to get out of Montana.
He hadn’t thought the Road Buzzard would make the journey, but the old Chevy limped along the roads like a dog finding its way home. Nope, they didn’t build them like they used to, he thought, giving the battleship-gray truck a pat of respect. He’d bought it when he was twenty-one and, being young and proud, had pumped serious money into it, adding a hitch, a winch, a toolbox and liner and, of course, a powerful sound system. Back then, he had money burning a hole in his pocket, dreams of adventure blurring his vision and enough anger and rebellion in his gut to fuel his own manifest destiny. He’d roared down this same road full throttle and never looked back.
It had been a long, hard journey. Now, years later, his tires were worn and his speakers were blown. Before leaving Montana, he’d stuffed what little extra money he had into his wallet, enough to get him home.
Home. Morgan surveyed the impenetrable wall of bush and pines that surrounded the family property from the prying eyes of folks zooming along busy Highway 17. A ragged culvert ran along the road—like a moat around a castle, he thought, mulishly kicking the gravel. He walked off to open the heavy gates. A moment later, he drove into his family’s estate.
The sunlight dappled the road as the truck crawled along. In the surrounding trees, birds and squirrels chattered at the dawn, and from the ground, a quail fluttered, squawking, into the air. At every turn, sights brought back memories he’d kept pushed back for a long while. He saw the crumbling ruins of the old smokehouse where, in colonial time, meat was preserved. Not far from it, near an underground stream of water, was the foundation of what was once a dairy. Milk and cheese used to be kept cold in the frigid waters. The spot had been a favorite play fort for the Blakely children.
Farther on by the western border lay a large peach orchard. Morgan frowned with worry at the sorry condition of the once meticulously maintained grounds. Beyond that lay the family graveyard. A little farther up the road, the trees opened to reveal a vast, cleared and mowed space that was used by the parish for Sunday picnics, oyster roasts, turkey shoots and other church functions.
He rounded a final, wide curve in the road. What he saw made him bring the truck to a stop. As the engine rumbled beneath him, he leaned forward on the steering wheel. The wave of homesickness surprised him.
Before him in the misty air of early morning was the long, formal avenue to his family home. Massive live oaks dripping lacy moss lined the narrow dirt road, sweeping low, like ancient sentries from a graceful time long gone. If the road’s culvert was the moat of this kingdom, he thought, then these noble oaks surely were her knights.
At the end of the long avenue, the Southern colonial house awaited him like a charming belle—petite, pretty and eager to welcome him into her warmth. His father loved the house like a woman—its slender white columns, the sweeping Dutch gambrel roof and the delicately arched dormers framed with quaint squares of glass. The low foundation was made of brick and oyster-shell lime, meant to last.
And it had. The house had survived two hundred years of storms, wars, tragedies and the vagaries of fortune. She was a survivor. His father had fondly referred to the house as having “pluck.”
Suddenly the front door swung open and a petite woman with hair as white as the house appeared on the threshold, clutching a pale-blue night robe close around her neck. Morgan swallowed hard with recognition. Why had he never noticed before how very much like the house his mother was? It dawned on Morgan that his father must have made that comparison many times, as well.
Morgan slowly rounded the circle, then stopped before the house. Blackjack bounded from the porch and scurried down the front stairs, tail straight up and barking in warning. Morgan cut the engine and the truck shuddered to a halt.
When did her hair grow so white? he wondered. Or grow so frail a gust of wind could carry her away? The years seemed to stretch long between them as he stared out through the dark windshield and calculated that his mother was now sixty-six years old.
The black Lab had aged, too. Blackjack ran on stiff legs and his muzzle was completely white now, but he could still raise the dead with his barking. Morgan pushed open the door. Instantly, the large dog bounded forward, lowering his head, ears back, sniffing hard.
“Hey there, Blackjack,” Morgan said as his feet hit the earth and he slowly extended his hand. “Remember me?”
At the sound of his voice the dog took a step closer, placing his gray muzzle right to the hand. Then recognition clicked in the dog’s cloudy eyes, and with a sudden leap Blackjack began yelping and barking with unbridled joy.
“You’re getting old, aren’t you, Blackie, ol’ boy?” Morgan said with a laugh, playfully petting the old dog and feeling a surge of affection for being welcomed with such devotion.
“Morgan!”
The sound of his mother’s voice pierced Blackjack’s clamor. Morgan closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly raised himself and looked over his shoulder toward her. His gaze locked with a pair of blue eyes that were shining bright through tears. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. Mother and son stood staring for an intense moment, then she flung open her arms and took a faltering step forward.
Morgan wiped his hands on his thighs and then closed the distance to her side in a few long strides. Mama June reached up to wrap her arms around him in a trembling embrace and instantly Morgan was enveloped again in the scent of gardenias.
“Oh, my dear, dear boy!” she cried. “It’s so good to see you. Shame on you for staying away so long. I’ve missed you!”
She felt his resistance in the stiffness of his arms and it pained her deeply, yet she clung a moment longer, as though her love would be strong enough to melt his iciness.
He felt awkward in the sudden emotion and drew back with shuffling steps, offering her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
“Hello, Mama June.”
She held him at arm’s length. “Darlin’, let me get a good look at you. You’re so thin! Aren’t you getting enough to eat?”
“I eat fine.”
“I’ll just bet you do…. Don’t you worry, we’ll take care of that while you’re here.”
As her eyes devoured him, his did likewise. She was different somehow. Mama June had always been slender, but time had rounded her edges and softened her skin. Her face was sleep-worn and he figured Blackjack’s barking had awakened her. Yet she didn’t look tired—that wasn’t the right word. Older. It shocked him to see it.
In his mind, his mother was always the same age as the last time he’d seen her. She was a wren of a woman, with bright eyes that shone with curiosity and quick movements that, while graceful, reflected the swift turns of her thoughts. Her hair, still long, was now a snowy white and loosely bound in a thin braid that fell over one shoulder. It was a style both old-fashioned and reminiscent of a young girl’s.
He’d known she’d be older, of course. He’d not been home in years. But knowing it and seeing it were two different things. Yet her excitement colored her high cheekbones with a youthful flush, her joyous smile brought out deep dimples and her blue eyes sparkled like a light burning bright in a window.
Mama June grinned with elation. “I…I just can’t believe you’re here! It’s a blessing! A true blessing. Oh, Morgan, what a surprise! Why didn’t you call and let us know you were coming?”
“I didn’t want to put anyone out. I figured y’all had your hands full with Daddy right now.”
Her smile slipped. “You got my message?”
Morgan nodded. “And I talked to Nan.”
Confusion flickered in Mama