Instead of farming, they bought produce from the farmers in San Leandro and then paid peddlers to sell fruit and vegetables directly to customers in Oakland and the neighboring towns of Alameda and San Antonio.
Momma walked up the clean-swept wooden porch and opened the painted wooden door on the right without knocking.
“Hello!” she called out.
“Come, come,” Diana yelled from the back of the house.
They walked through the living room and dining room to get to the large kitchen.
The delicious smell of garlic cooking in olive oil welcomed Sadie. The children swarmed around their nana, giving big hugs and receiving the sour candy. Tina, nearly eight, had lost all her baby softness but had yet to show any of the changes that would transform her into a young woman.
Elena tugged Sadie’s hand. “Come with me to pick lemons. We’re making lemonade for supper!”
Sadie scooped up little Alex. Despite her own lack of children, or perhaps because of her childless status, she felt joy radiate from her chest as she held him. She kissed the top of his head, his dark hair silky and smooth. He pointed at his sister, and they followed Elena into the backyard.
Diana and Sam’s gardening skills were on display. Rows of plant starts were beginning to take hold, delicate green leaves poking through the brown soil. A torrent of pink bougainvillea contrasted with bright golden poppies and white Shasta daisies. Tight buds of purple flowers were about to blossom on a vine. Thin leaves of crocuses made Sadie smile; the blooms had come and gone in a flash in February. These special crocuses were split from bulbs that Momma had carried from Oberlin when they moved in 1873.
Even as a girl, only eleven years old then, Sadie had noticed the significance of those flowers when she and Momma dug them up in Oberlin, wrapped them in cheesecloth, and nestled them into wood shavings for protection on the journey. Momma had learned to hunt for crocuses from Mattie, yet another tradition that was passed from Mattie to their family.
Each year the crocuses were the first sign of spring. In Ohio they bloomed in April or May. In Oakland they showed their purple and yellow blossoms in January or February. They’d been split and moved many times. Descendants of those ten bulbs from Ohio were planted in every yard any of them had ever lived in.
The lemon tree was heavy with fruit. Sadie put Alex on the ground and held out her skirt as a basket. Elena harvested the produce and handed it to Alex. One at a time he set them on the outstretched cloth, the yellow of the fruit standing out from her blue cotton.
“Mama said to get eight for the lemonade,” Elena explained. “Do you want any to take home?”
“Yes. Thank you,” Sadie replied, impressed by her niece’s thoughtfulness. “How about four for us?”
Elena walked over with four more in her hands. She counted, double-checking to make sure she’d finished the job. Satisfied at the number, she headed back into the house. Sadie admired the young girl’s confidence.
In the kitchen, Diana was stirring the onion and garlic. Her black hair curled around her head, making a halo, with a few gray hairs adding a lovely contrast. Sam was finishing up the workday at their market.
“Will you stay for supper?” Diana asked.
Sadie shook her head as Momma nodded.
“One more, then,” Diana declared to no one in particular.
“Momma told you we are leaving tomorrow?” Sadie asked.
“Yes,” Diana replied. “You need help for Heinrich?”
Sadie nodded.
“I’ve sent Tina to check with Cousin Lexi,” Diana said. “She’s looking for housekeeping jobs right now; the family she was working for moved away.”
“That would be wonderful,” Sadie replied. “Thank you.”
Diana was like that. She learned what needed to be done and just did it. After Sadie had lost her babies, Diana was the one person with whom she could fully share her sorrow. She listened and soothed without being either dismissive or too emotional. Diana understood Sadie’s pain because she’d lost a pregnancy between Tina and Elena. Sadie’s foreign sister-in-law was her dearest friend.
Momma asked, “Diana, do you know of a means for transporting poppies for many days? Mattie had so hoped to see them. I would love to bring her some of their colorful petals.”
Diana scrunched her face, considering possibilities. Unlike most flowers, poppies died soon after being plucked, even when placed in a water vase.
“I have two ideas,” Diana said. “Dig up the whole root with the dirt and place it in a pot that you can water. It might make it through the journey. And take some petals pressed in a book; they won’t be the same as live ones, but can give a feel if the plant doesn’t survive the journey. In fact, I have a book for you to take on the train: Iola Leroy, by Frances Harper. You haven’t read it yet, have you?”
Both Momma and Sadie shook their heads.
“You know of it?” Diana asked.
Momma shook her head while Sadie nodded.
“It’s written by a Colored woman. The heroine of the story is mixed—Colored and White—before the Civil War. It has love, history, intrigue. You will love it!” Looking right at Momma, Diana said, “It will remind you of your childhood.”
She left the room and returned soon with the book in her hand, which she passed to Sadie. Grabbing a cup, a paring knife, and a large spoon, she gestured for them to follow her into the back garden.
Diana knelt on the ground in front of the riot of poppies.
Sadie opened the book to the title page. The right page said:
Iola Leroy,
or
Shadows Uplifted.
By
Frances E. W. Harper
The left page had a full-size image of Miss Harper standing with her hands on a chair. She looked straight at the camera, almost in a challenge, but also confident, calm. This book’s existence was an affirmation of how far race relations had progressed since the end of the war. Sadie had never held a book written by a Colored woman.
Diana dug deep into the moist clay soil until she loosened the long orange root of a poppy. She placed it into the tall glass cup and packed in soil around it. Two bright-orange blossoms waved over the lacy green leaves.
“Not too much water, I think,” Diana cautioned as she handed it over to Momma’s care.
Then she sliced three poppy flowers from their stems, took the book from Sadie’s hand, and marched back inside. Diana opened the book to the middle and smoothed the flowers against the pages, giving thought to the arrangement: one flower was wide open and the others on their sides. She closed the book and tied it shut with twine.
“You can read it when you are there,” she declared.
“Thank you, Diana,” Momma said. “I’m certain your efforts will bring a smile to Mattie’s face.”
Satisfaction shone from Diana’s eyes. They heard the click of the front door.
Tina returned, alone and panting from the half-mile run there and back.
“She can’t come now, but Cousin Lexi says she can work as your housekeeper for as long as you like,” the girl reported.
“That is wonderful news. Thank you, Tina,” Sadie replied. “I’d best head out to break the news to my husband.” She wanted to sound humorous, but her voice betrayed her concern. Had she known more of Heinrich’s personality at the time, perhaps she might have had a different answer to his proposal. But as it was, they were husband and wife, so she had to work around him.