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
