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Back
and forth, back and forth my grandparents, my brother and I drove
between our home in Charleston and my grandfather’s plantation,
Spring Island. We were not permitted to ask, “How much
further, how much further?” We picked out our favorite
landmarks, and from the clock on the dashboard of Papa’s prize navy
blue Buick, we’d measure the time between out selected landmarks,
the Sweet Grass Basket Ladies. There was only one at each
location, sitting in a chair with a stand behind her filled with so
many baskets; we couldn’t imagine how she would ever sell them all.
Yet there she sat weaving more. Shaded from the scorching sun
by only her big, wide-brimmed straw hat and a piece of old canvas
supported by four cane poles. Each of them looked like the
next, except one or two would have a big umbrella. But one
day, one Sweet Grass Basket Lady became special to us forever.
Papa’s
beloved, shiny Buick had a flat tire just a little bit past the last
basket stand. Papa got out and tried to figure out what to do
while we sat in the scorching car. Then we heard the Sweet
Grass Basket Lady holler to someone in the little house behind her.
A little boy, about nine, with no shirt and no shoes on, came
running over the gravel road to us. “My grandmother say for me
to ask you if I can help. She also say your Missy and children
should come sit in the shade of our porch.” “We thank you
kindly,” said Papa. “What’s your name, son?” asked Papa, “and
what is your Grandmamma’s name?” “My name be Zachariah, and
she be called Essie.” We all started toward the porch.
“We thank you kindly, Miss Essie,” my grandmother said, “You’re a
fine Christian.”
The
tiny house, with its neatly raked sand yard, sat in the middle of a
small grove of massive shady oaks. On the banister rail of the
porch were large glass canning jars with sweet potatoes and water,
the vines of bright green leaves and deep pink stems trailed the
whole way to the porch floor. Zachariah motioned us to the
porch swing and then into the house, letting the screen door slam
behind him in haste. Quick as lightning, he returned with some
straw fans, a tray of three sweet teas, and a plate of homemade
peanut butter cookies. It was the best I ever tasted.
After
that, there was a long silence as Zachariah and the three of us
tried to think of something to talk about. As the swing gently
rocked back and forth on it’s rusty squeaky chain, we studied the
charm of the way the porch was arranged and decorated with
hand-potted plants.
Our
eyes were drawn to a special color: the bright blue paint around the
doors and windows. That particular blue paint was seen more in
those days, but can still be seen. It is clearly understood by
southerners as an ancient method believed to protect the home from
evil spirits.
As hot
as the weather was, there was a slight breeze on the porch. It
was gardenia blooming time, and the sweet fragrance, heavy and
seductive, was suspended and trapped in the thick humid air.
Continued on page 2
Sculpture and verse © by
Alyse Lucas Corcoran
Icons of Charleston
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