Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice

what do you want to do?”

      Mama June reached up to pat his cheek affectionately. Dropping her hand, she said, “I can’t separate the decision of what I want to do for myself from what I must do for the family. To my mind—and to your father’s—the Blakelys are Sweetgrass.”

      “You’re beginning to sound like Daddy.” He brought his face closer. “What do you want to do?” he persisted.

      She found his pressure exhausting and lowered her forehead into her palm. “I don’t know.”

      He leaned forward and this time kissed her cheek. “Don’t fret, Mama. I’m not trying to annoy you. I was just hoping to hear what you wanted, for a change. Tell you what. You stay home today and mull it over. I’ll go downtown to this hospital and check on Daddy.”

      3

      During the days of slavery in the Old South, men made large work baskets from bull rush because this marsh grass was strong and durable. Women made functional baskets for the home using sweetgrass, which was softer and abundant. Today’s baskets are made with sweetgrass, bull rush and long-leaf pine needles bound together by strips of the unopened center leaves of palmetto trees.

      NAN’S HAND RESTED ON the telephone receiver as she gathered her wits.

      “Close your mouth, Mama. You’re catching flies.” Harry jabbed his younger brother in the ribs as they laughed. They were gathered around the table, waiting on dinner.

      Nan snapped her mouth shut only for as long as it took her to smile. She hurried over to the table.

      “You won’t believe it!” she announced, her voice rising. She was rewarded with the rarity of the complete attention of her teenage sons, Harry and Chas, as well as her husband, Hank.

      Looking at the bunch, she thought there could be no doubt who the boys’ father was. Not that she and Hank looked all that different from each other. The boys both had their parents’ blond hair and bright blue eyes. Harry, at seventeen, had the Blakely height and slender build, while it looked as though Chas would be shorter and more muscular, like Hank. Though at fifteen, he might sprout another few inches and be taller than his father.

      Hank’s neatly cropped blond head emerged from behind the Post and Courier. “We won’t believe what?”

      “That was Mama June. You’ll never guess who’s home!”

      “Morgan,” answered Hank with little enthusiasm, returning his attention to the newspaper.

      Nan felt a flutter of disappointment that his quick answer stole the thunder from her announcement. She rallied. “Yes! That doesn’t surprise you?”

      “Not really. Your father is in the hospital. It’s only fitting he’d come home.”

      “What’s the big deal?” Chas asked sullenly, disappointed in the news.

      “Yeah, who cares?” added Harry. “We barely know who he is.”

      Her pale brows furrowed with displeasure at their lackluster reaction as she cut the heat on the stove with a quick twist of her wrist. “Well, it took me by surprise.”

      Sometimes it was just plain hard living with a bunch of males, she thought. They just didn’t get it. Matters of family didn’t register. She was sick to death of listening to their endless sports reports or excruciating details about cars. Sometimes she felt as though she were talking to herself throughout the meal, desperately trying to engage them in conversation while they ignored her and shoveled food.

      Nan looked at her sons. Despite their outwardly good looks, they sometimes struck her as spiritless. She didn’t detect the spark of drive or ambition or dreams that gave even ordinary-looking boys such appeal. She brushed aside her disappointment and told herself they were just going through a phase.

      With practiced efficiency she gave the rice a final lift and poured the mass into a brightly colored serving bowl that coordinated with the dinner china. Then with a quick grab of serving spoons, she carried the rice and a bowl of buttered beans to the table of waiting men. She sat in her chair and they all bowed their heads and said the blessing.

      “It’s a sorry state of affairs that y’all feel so blasé about your only uncle being in town.” Nan handed Harry the bowl of rice to pass.

      “He’s not our only uncle,” corrected Harry, taking hold of the serving spoons and helping himself. “We’ve got Uncle Phillip and Uncle Joe living right close. We see them all the time.”

      “On my side, I meant. In the Blakely family, there’s just me and Morgan.”

      Hank relinquished his newspaper to take his turn with the rice. “I don’t know where you get this me and him stuff,” he argued. “Seems to me your brother is a me only kind of guy. In all the years I’ve known him, Morgan’s made it pretty clear how he feels about family. How long have we been married? We’ve seen him, what? Two or three times? It’s his own fault that his nephews don’t know who he is.”

      “I know, I know,” Nan released in a moan, bringing the country-fried steak on a matching serving platter closer. Still, the criticism seemed to her unfair. “Morgan has a lot of history to deal with, don’t forget.”

      Her hands rested on the platter as she paused and looked around the table. It was moments like this, seeing her family gathered together, that she treasured most. “I’m truly blessed to have you and the boys,” she said, gifting each of them with a loving look. “Morgan has nothing or no one. It’s just so sad, is all.”

      “Uh, Mama…” Harry lifted his brows, his gaze intent on the meat.

      “Oh.” The moment was gone. She reached out her hand with alacrity to pass the platter of meat around, followed by the beans. One by one the plates were topped with enormous mounds of rice, thick slices of fried steak and scoops of beans.

      “Pass the gravy, Chas,” Harry demanded.

      Nan rose to carry the serving dishes to the sideboard. The boys were growing faster than cotton in July and she never seemed able to fill the bottomless pits they called their stomachs. She sighed as she watched them dive into their plates. The thought that it would be polite to wait for their mother to be seated at the table before eating never even crossed their minds. She looked at Hank for support, but he was ladling gravy on his rice, oblivious to the poor manners of his sons.

      “Boys…” she muttered as she reached for her glass and poured herself a liberal glass of wine. When she took her seat at the opposite head of the table, no one so much as lifted a head. Nan sipped her wine, shoving her plate aside.

      At least they were eating together as a family, she told herself, tamping down the disappointment she always felt at mealtime. Mama June had always maintained lively discussions at the dinner table, encouraging each of her children to join in. Nan remembered heated debates and merciless teasing and, always, laughter.

      At least until Hamlin died. Her brother had been so alive! A natural storyteller with a joke or a quip always dangling at his tongue. Everything had changed after he was gone. To this day, she mourned.

      When Nan married, she’d tried to restore the vitality in her own family that she’d felt was lost in the Blakelys after the tragedy of her brother’s death had torn the family apart. At the very least, she was keeping the family dinner tradition alive.

      Suddenly, she remembered something else.

      “Oh, yes! Mama June wants us all to come for Sunday dinner.”

      This announcement was met with rolled eyes and groans from the boys.

      “You just stop that, hear? You haven’t been to see your grandmother in so long, she’s taken to asking after you. Don’t you realize how lonely she is with Granddaddy in the hospital? You two boys are the apples of her eye and it’s a scandal how seldom you pay her visits. I should take your car privileges away.” It was a feeble threat