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Healing Herbs

Heather Chandler

    Granddaddy had the unfortunate experience of being murdered twice. Now, the folks down at the Sheriff’s office only know about one of them, and we’re thankful for that, but there was more to Granddaddy’s death than what showed up in the papers the next day. And I’m sure those deputies breathed as much of a sigh of relief as the rest of us. You see, Granddaddy was always fightin’ mad. He’d get stirred up with that Wild Turkey, and so as not to let the good name of the bottle put on airs, he’d live up to the suggestion.
    Granddaddy was a devil. Granny said most of the folks at the funeral just showed up to make sure he was dead, rather than pay their respects. And Granny was one of them. She sat there with him in that black suit, calloused hands folded gently on his stomach, and watched him, half-expecting him to wake up and start raging again. The only other time she saw him in a suit was the day she married him. That suit was rented. So was this one. In fact, they even rented the coffin for the viewing. He’d be incinerated by nightfall. Granny thought he was too rotten to go into the ground and chose to plant some roses instead. He’d be carried off by the wind, howling like he always did. Great Granny Hall said he came into this world a hollerin’ and screamin’. Seems like a fitting end.
    Some folks just up and die, Granny says. Others just leave when they’re called, like Gunner, our old cat. One day, he just moseyed on into the woods to meet the spirits, and we never saw him again. Granddaddy died. That Tennessee bourbon dulled his senses, and he never could hear the whisperings to leave. They’d have to holler louder than Granddaddy.
    I never met him. He was yanked out of this world when Mama was just eight years old. But I’ve walked around this house with his ghost still haunting the memories of Granny and Mama. I could see the way they’d stop on a windy night, head cocked to the side, and listen to his raging against the windows. Granny just smiled. Mama was frightened. “He’s not coming back in here, Bridget.” And then Granny’d just go back smilin’ adding a little more salt to the windowsills.
    Mama and Granny did a lot of tinkering in the kitchen, but I was still a little too young to learn their ways. Sometimes Granny’d take me for walks and stoop down and gather up some small wild plant and say, “You see this one? This is Calamus, though some folks call it Sweet Grass. Its long leaves bring good luck and protection. You can powder up the roots for healin’ satchets. But be careful with this ‘un. You must be sure not to confuse it with another that looks just like her but are very poisonous if ingested.”
    To be honest, all them leaves looked the same to me, so I just played with the ones I knew for sure. You could find blackberry bushes for good luck too, and you could also just snack on em. Seems to me like that’s lucky enough. Granny and Mama knew lots of secrets with the plants. Once, when Mama’s hand was scalded by a pot boiling over, Granny sent me to the blackberry bush to gather the leaves instead of the fruit. She dipped nine of them blackberry leaves in spring water, laid them against Mama’s wound, and softly whispered:
    Three ladies came from the east,
    One with fire and two with frost,
    Out with fire, in with frost.
    Mama’s hand healed up by the next day, and that’s when I knew that Granny wasn’t just special, she was a healer. I always wondered why she never conjured up a fix for Granddaddy’s meanness. Maybe there’s no leaves for that.
    But most of my favorite times during those walks with Granny were the stories she’d tell. Granny was a great storyteller, lacing her stories with wisdom that sparkled in the summer evening like the fireflies in Texas.
    She didn’t always let that wild spirit of hers out. Mostly, she was working around the house, washing clothes and putting up food in the larder. But every once in a while, her lively spirit would come to visit, usually with the help of the liquid spirits she kept locked in the cabinet above the stove.
    She was a stark contrast to Granddaddy. Where he was usually harmin’, she was healin’. Maybe opposites do attract. Seems like the right way with the world. But no matter how good my Granny was, Granddaddy set his mind to being worse.
    We never could figure out how Granny and Granddaddy decided to marry each other, but Granny says things weren’t always bad. Some men get finer with age, like a good wine. Some start to rot. Ya just never really know if you’ve got a bottle of wine on your hands or vinegar. Granny always warned us about sheep’s clothin’ and smooth talkin’. Some men are straight up devils out there, she’d say. And I reckon she’s right.
    Granny said Granddaddy was a handsome man, but what swept her up was how hard he worked. She first met him out at Wilson’s farm, when she was helping Ole Miss Marjorie while Granddaddy was clippin’ rye. She liked his broad shoulders and the way the sweat dripped down his brow. She had a regular courter, Joshua, the preacher’s son, but she knew a hard-workin’ man beat any ole preacher’s son, any day. Besides, those preacher’s sons were raised on smooth talkin’ and once the wedding was over, they could be as devilish as any man. Sometimes worse. And while Granny loved the Good Ole Book as much as anyone, she just didn’t think all the ideas in there were the right ones. The curse of childbirth seemed a little harsh. “Good thing there’s some leaves for that,” Granny’d smile, like she outsmarted God on that one.
    Granny found her way out to Granddaddy on that field, bringing him some cool lemonade and supper. Two months later, they were married. Granddaddy stole Ole Man Wilson’s car and rifle and that’s how our kin ended up in these parts. About six months after the wedding, when Mama was on the way, Granddaddy was picked up at the Apple-Mart on account of a few warrants out for his arrest.
    He spent six years in the penitentiary, and unbeknownst to Granny, those six years would be the best years of her marriage. You see, Granddaddy was a devil. Now, I know you know all about them devils, cause they lurk all around, their hot mouths lying, and their sly hands taking what don’t belong to them. Come to find out, Granddaddy took lots of things that didn’t belong to him. And not just that car and rifle.
    During his time away, Granny and Ma managed just fine, thanks to Ole Miss Anna. She lived on the edge of town, where the creek and the woods greeted each other. Miss Anna took in Granny, and that was mighty convenient cause Miss Anna was a midwife. Granny worked beside her, learning all sorts of crafts, like how to cook, raise a garden in temps that boil blood, how to deliver them babies, and how to heal.
    Now all these skills served Granny and us alright over the years, but when I think about it, I’m most thankful for the cookin’. There ain’t nothing Granny makes that tastes bad. When she’s in that kitchen, the smell of the vegetable soup on the stove, made with last summer’s tomatoes and green beans, is akin to the incense those Catholics burn as they pray. And her corn pone might as well just baptize you. I can hear the lard cracklin’ in that cast iron pan, Granny singing “I Fall to Pieces” on the radio, and thinking that this place, this kitchen, well, it was more spiritual than Reverend Mark’s revivals. Granny’s cooking was a full-blown resurrection, enticing all our senses, and I’m pretty sure as close to heaven as it gets.
    But Granny didn’t always sing. That came after her own healing.
    Granny first figured out that Grandaddy was botherin’ the girls about a month after he came home from prison.
    Whisperings started. Granny got wind of some of the rumors and started to do a little investigatin’ herself. That’s when she saw him with Courtney Davis, who was barely pushing 15. She could see the way Granddaddy started putting his hand on her knee, there in that pew, and the knowing fear that settled on Courtney’s face. It didn’t take any kind of magic to see what Granddaddy was up to.
    Granny bustled into the room, acting unaware, but gave Granddaddy a look that let him know she was wise to his games. Courtney ran out of the sanctuary, glad for the interruption. But Granddaddy didn’t have a look of shame cross his face. Rather, he was angry. By the time Granny made her way home, her eye was nearly swollen shut from the backhand he laid across her cheekbone. Later that night, he’d stagger in drunk and she’d get worse.
    As soon as Granddaddy left for work that day, Granny headed out to gather her herbs for tonics. And that’s when she discovered a small patch of Calamus and got an idea. Her eye might’ve been blackened, but she saw the light pretty quickly that morning. That night, she’d make a nice big pot of vegetable soup for dinner. She gathered up the small herbs and headed home.
    Later that evening, the radio played while Granny cooked. Granny hummed along to “Pancho and Lefty,” singing softly along to Van Zandt’s lilting voice. She chopped up the potatoes and onions, frying them up in a bit of the bacon grease leftover from breakfast, and stirred in the tomatoes, green beans, and corn, adding enough water to cover the softened vegetables. She fed Mama some dinner, washed her up and put her to bed, kissing her on her forehead, and went back into the kitchen. She peered over the pot, took a sip, and then stirred in the herbs and waited as they infused into the broth.
    Granddaddy wandered in later than normal that night, smugly looked at Granny, and sat down for supper. Neither of them spoke. He ate the soup and Granny nibbled on the bread, on account of eating earlier with Bridget. After supper, he grabbed his hat and went back out. Granny cleaned up the dishes, tossing the rest of the soup in the compost bin. She went back inside, cleaned herself up, and went to bed.
    Around 2 a.m. there was a knock on the door. Granny’s heart pounding, she peeked through an open crack.
    “Waymon?” she asked, fearfully.
    “Ma’am? This is Sgt. Russell. Can we come in?”
    Granny’s heart pounded. She hadn’t expected the herbs to work so quickly. Maybe she started out too strong. She hadn’t killed a man before. It should only start thinning the blood, she thought. She opened the door and felt the blood drain from her face. The two officers stepped in and removed their hats.
    “Ma’am...” the second officer stumbled. “I’m afraid we have some bad news.”
    Granny composed herself and stated, “No other kinda news comes at this hour.”
    “There’s been a scuffle down at Tate’s Tavern. Your husband has been shot. I’m sorry to tell you, he passed away at the scene.” The officer shifted nervously. He always hated this part of his job.
    Granny stood frozen. She could hear the clock ticking on the mantel. She could imagine her husband lying in a pool of blood at the bar. Her thoughts shifted to her daughter sleeping soundly in her bed and then back to the men in her living room. Her pulse pounded so hard she could feel it in her temples, and her palms began to sweat.
    “Who shot him?” she asked softly.
    “Mr. Davis. He, uh...” the heavier officer stumbled.
    “He accused your husband of bothering his daughter, Courtney.” Sgt. Russell interrupted, guiltily.
    Granny stood there, still stunned.
    The officer studied her for a moment and felt sorry that he had to deliver this small woman two terrible truths about her husband tonight, but she’d hear all about it in town soon enough.
    Granny sat down on the edge of the worn sofa, thoughts swirling about her head. She knew those herbs were handy, but they had proven themselves to outright magical tonight.
    The officer moved closer to her. “How long had he been hittin’ you, ma’am?”
    Granny looked up, astonished. She had forgotten about the bruise on her face and said nothing. But another bit of magic was taking place that night. One stronger than the herbs could ever produce—her freedom ushered in through the front door with the news of Waymon’s unfortunate demise. Those healing herbs had worked like a charm.

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