A Most Unusual Passage
Copyright© 2026 by J&J
Chapter 12
I finally settled on a denim skirt and simple white blouse as being dressy enough for a dinner guest, with out seeming too prissy for Otis. Though instructed otherwise, I could not arrive empty handed. I didn’t know where to get wine or if folks here drank it, and I hadn’t seen a florist. I had come prepared with a small supply of Charleston gifts, including a few small Geechee baskets. The baskets were expensive and reserved for very special gifts, but I had already decided that Marcus was the most important man in my immediate future. I packed the basket with some low country delicacies.
Marcus’s map proved to be as clear and straightforward as his words. I had no trouble finding their place. You never have to worry about which house, since each ranch is about the size of a school district back home. I had just pulled up alongside Marcus’s old jalopy, when he and a very handsome woman, whom I judged to be possibly a few years his junior, were standing by the car to greet me.
“Welcome, Elizabeth, I’m Martha,” she said, encompassing me in a warm smile, “I just had to come out and see this amazing car of yours.” She took it all in with a long gaze. “Well, I see Marcus didn’t exaggerate; it’s as cute as a bug and very modern ... like you.”
I grinned back. “Would you like a ride?”
“Well, one day soon, for sure. We’ll go shopping; can’t have Marcus picking out your wardrobe.” The last was aimed over her shoulder at her husband.
“I was just trying to help...”
“You just wanted to see her reaction to cowboy heaven, and you know it,” she retorted, and we all three laughed.
She took my arm and steered me towards the house. “The truth is that the Co-Op is a great place, and we do need a lot of warm, practical clothes up here. Most of us farm, and it gets damn cold. However, I don’t expect steer-wrestling is in your contract, so I will show you how you can get warm clothes that are a bit more stylish. A lot of what we do is out of catalogs, and Denver is only a little over an hour and a half away.”
We passed through a very utilitarian-looking room, which I learned was called the mud room, for reasons more obvious in other seasons.
Then we entered into the living area of the house, and I was immediately struck with a very special quality. The furniture was unremarkable; it showed their history with the simple pieces a starting teacher could afford, mixed with newer items reflecting greater prosperity. The style was certainly eclectic, showing no deliberate attempt to match or create any particular visual effect at all. But the whole room had an almost seductive coziness and livability to it. I felt I could just snuggle up on the couch and happily live the rest of my life in this room.
I turned to Martha and in a quiet, earnest voice said, “I love this room. It’s as comfy looking as a feather bed. I don’t know how you get guests to leave. Our living rooms at home just don’t feel this ... well, livable.”
Martha beamed at the compliment. “Thank you very much; I appreciate that.” She motioned me towards a chair. “But let me ask you something. It’s Friday night; if you were back in Charleston with a group of friends, what might you be doing this evening?”
I thought a moment. “That’s hard to say; the weather’s so nice, but OK, maybe we’d go to The Wreck and pig out on fresh seafood, then go to the Windjammer to dance, or downtown to the Market area to hit some clubs; about midnight I love to walk on the beach by moonlight, and then we always wind up at Alex’s for pancake’s around 2:00 am. That would be a nice Friday night.”
Martha smiled indulgently. “Yes, that does sound like quite a Friday night. Now here in Otis, we haven’t got a beach, no clubs, and no restaurants after nine. The movie theater shows only one film a week, and is closed by nine. The only place Marcus and I can go tonight for fun is right here. So that explains why we lavish extra attention on making our homes as pleasant as possible; it’s where we get all of our entertainment.”
“Entertainment! Oh my goodness, I almost forgot. Please excuse me one second,” I exclaimed over my shoulder to my startled hosts, as I ran back to the car. I had committed a huge social faux pas; I had arrived without bringing in a gift for my hostess. Grabbing the basket, I returned to the living room.
“Martha, I almost forgot; I wanted to bring you something from Charleston.” I handed her the basket, preparing to explain the special nature of each item.
Martha’s eyes positively lit up. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, “a real Geechee sweet grass basket. What a wonderful gift.”
I was stunned; this was not exactly common knowledge. While I was speechless, Martha was not. She turned to Marcus. “These are handmade by the Gullah people, who live on the Sea Islands around Charleston; isn’t that right, Elizabeth?”
“Well yes ... that’s exactly right. I wasn’t aware you had been to Charleston,” I responded, as gracefully as I could.
“Who, me?” laughed Martha. “Never been east of the Mississippi in my life.” Then noticing my silent query, “Oh that; I picked it up somewhere; can’t recall; magazine article, I suppose,”
Right, I thought; can’t remember where you read it, but you use words like Gullah and Geechee. Just as I’d found with her husband, there is more to Martha than meets the eye.
Martha smiled innocently and picked up the pack of thin, light brown wafers. “These are labeled benne wafers; what are they?”
Actually, they’re sweet crackers, or you would say “cookies,” made from benne seeds, brown sugar, butter, cinnamon. They are a traditional Charleston treat, especially at Christmas,” I replied, “I always got some in my stocking.”
Marcus looked at them. “What exactly is a benne seed? I don’t recall ever having heard the term.”
“Benne is a Gullah word for ‘sesame.’ That’s what we’ve always called them”
Martha picked up the last box. “This says Charleston Tea Plantation’s American Classic Tea. Is this tea actually grown in Charleston?”
“Yes, it’s the only tea farm in America. In fact South Carolina is the only state where tea has ever been grown.”
“Well, I happen to love tea,” said Martha, “So you and I will have a cup after dinner. Right now, I’ll give you a tour of the rose garden.”
“Hold on,” Marcus objected, “how do you even know if she likes roses?”
As if speaking to a particularly slow child, Martha explained, “What woman doesn’t? And it doesn’t matter; Elizabeth knows perfectly well that it’s just an excuse to go talk about you behind your back, so of course she’s interested.”
Marcus colored. “And what if I don’t want you talking about me behind my back?”
Martha shrugged and kept right on going; she leaned over and whispered to Elizabeth, “Silly man, as though his opinion would actually stop us.”
Martha’s rose garden was not particularly large, but it was spectacular with each bush covered in lush, colorful blooms.
“My mother would die of envy,” I said. “She spends half her life tending her roses, and they never look like this, not to mention the black spot and other diseases she has to fight.”
“Well first, almost all rose diseases are fungal and don’t exist here, because of the dry air. Second, does she use plenty of fertilizer?”
“Oh, yes, it seems like every other day, she’ll call Dad to stop at Royall Hardware on the way home, to get another 10 lb bag of manure.”
Martha stated giggling uncontrollably and evolved into a laughing fit that left her gasping. “I’m sorry ... Elizabeth ... gasp ... it’s just ... that we ... always seem to be ... whew ... up to our knees ... in cow shit.” She stopped here for another spasm of laughter. “And now ... I’m picturing ... gasp, gasp, all these ... proper ... Charleston ladies ... whew ... lining up to buy it ... whew ... in little bags. Tell me, do they ... do they take the stink out, too?”
By now, I was laughing almost as hard as she was. “Believe it or not, they do, but it costs extra. Mom prefers the dry odorless kind, but Dad has her convinced that the moist smelly variety works a lot better. I think he just gets a kick out of watching her face when she uses it.”
“I think I’d like your dad,” Martha said.
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