Free Lessons of a Lowcountry Summer by Rochelle Alers Page B

What he did not sell he brought home to his family.
    It wasn’t the urge to eat that prompted Hope to get out of bed this morning but curiosity. She wanted to reunite with the people who clung to the old ways and made her proud of her Gullah heritage.
    After completing her morning ablution and letting her sister know she had arrived safely, Hope began the task of mixing tinctures of the six herbs Lana had recommended as a premenstrual formula. A shelf in the small kitchen held a plethora of dark apothecary bottles filled with seeds, herbs, barks, roots, and flowers that probably could be found on the island.
    Fortified with a cup of the herbal tea, dressed in her favored white man-tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a pair of cropped navy blue pants and running shoes, she left the house and walked along Beach Road and into town to reacquaint herself with her mother’s ancestral home.
    As she removed her sunglasses, Hope’s smile matched that of a man standing behind the counter at McKinnon’s mini-market. “Ya famemba me?” she asked, lapsing easily into the Gullah dialect.
    Charles Hill’s smile widened. “Who be dat?” he teased. “How could I ever forget the prettiest girl to ever step foot on McKinnon.” He came from behind the counter, arms extended. Hope moved into his embrace and hugged him.
    She kissed Charles’s cheek. He was still handsome. His dark gray eyes were incongruent in his tobacco-brown face. It was rumored among the Gullahs that his grandmother had been kept by a white man whose ancestors had owned the island’s largest rice-producing plantation.
    â€œIt’s good seeing you again, Charles.”
    He held her at arm’s length. “How long has it been?”
    Shaking her head, Hope said, “I can’t remember. The last time I visited three years ago, your father told me you’d moved to Tennessee to coach a high school football team.”
    She and Charles had dated briefly during their seventeenth summer. Whenever he hadn’t been working in his family-owned store, they had spent their time together swimming or sitting on the beach reading their favorite novels. He had not had the money to take her to Hilton Head or Savannah, because he’d been saving every penny for college. When Hope had offered to pay for the ferry ride and dinner, he’d broken off with her. It was her first introduction to what she would come to recognize as machismo.
    Charles nodded. “I did. I’m back this summer to help out in the store. Mama called me a couple of months back to say that Poppa’s sugar is up again. She complains that he’s been working too hard, so here I am. What’s up with you, Dr. Hope? Why have you come back?”
    It was apparent her old friend was familiar with her column. The last time she had come to McKinnon, her column had not yet celebrated its first anniversary. “Please don’t call me that,” she chided. “I’m thinking of writing a book, so I decided McKinnon is the best place to find a little peace and quiet.”
    â€œIt’s so quiet that if you’re not careful you’ll fall asleep standing up.”
    Hope laughed and Charles joined her. They talked, reminiscing about the residents who had passed and moved away, and those who had remained. Charles proudly showed her photographs of his wife and two young daughters, who had elected not to vacation on the island this summer.
    Charles left to wait on a customer, and Hope wandered around the general store. It was stocked with as many hardware items and over-the-counter drugs as foodstuff. A door at the far end of the store led to a space that doubled as the post office. Incoming and outgoing mail was processed in Savannah and transported to and from McKinnon Island by ferry.
    Waving to Charles, she left the store and made her way along the two-block business district. She peered into the plate glass