Blades of Grass in the Desert

By Jan Morgan

Several years have passed since the old plantation-style mansion at 1324 Blessing Path was lovingly restored, but the mysterious old place is apparently still calling the shots. Years ago, when it was discovered that the house had supernatural tendencies, two retired ladies set out on a quest to determine its history. Tracing its lineage from central Texas to Charleston, South Carolina, they uncovered a love story worthy of comparison to Gone with the Wind and eventually realized that there were “plans” for the structure that had been set in place as far back as 1950.

This time, however, events lead one of the ladies not to the east coast but to the deserts of west Texas where she befriends a beautiful, young woman from Guatemala. Wondering whether their meeting was serendipitous, Jamie returns to Sweet Grass Memories, the name given the House, and shares a handwritten letter with Ms. G that the young woman gave her the last time they spoke. The letter, together with a photograph of a lone boat on the shore of the Rio Grande, lead the two of them, Reid, Tracy, and the kids of the House, on another adventure, one that rivals any television docudrama.

The story winds its way from the dry, blowing sand of west Texas, into Mexico, and finally returns to the estuaries and humidity of Charleston, South Carolina, and its indomitable Gullah people. People whose ancestors endured like blades of grass pushing through concrete; endured and sang songs about faith and hope as they journeyed toward freedom.

Just like the Gullah peoples during the slave era, today many others endure. Walking or riding northward through deserts, they journey toward a different kind of freedom; freedom from devastating drought and hunger, and freedom to live again in places that are absent the perils associated with trying to survive where malevolence thrives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685264482

Book preview

1

West Texas and Big Brown Eyes

The scar tissue will be thicker, the poison stronger, and the well of distrust deeper.

—Michael Steel, a former adviser to

Speaker John A. Boehner

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The Holland Hotel

Alpine, Texas

It was a cool, clear December morning in 2018 in Alpine, Texas, when Jillian Marie Blessing Eden’s dream for Sweet Grass Memories, her home in what is now the Dallas–Fort Worth area, resurfaced for me with a renewed sense of urgency. Avoiding the noise and festivities of the courtyard, I walked out the front door of the Holland Hotel with a steaming cup of tea and unceremoniously plopped down on the front step. My intent was to watch the little college town come alive for the day.

Earlier in the month, just before the holidays, Reid and I had decided to escape the chaos of the Dallas–Fort Worth metropolitan area and go back to one of our favorite places. It was a typical morning for the area, and I was relishing the peace and solitude of far-west Texas. The sky was a vibrant shade of blue, the air clear, and the Davis Mountains shimmering in the distance. Reid had departed for his quiet time in the desert. This year he was searching for decayed cholla branches for another of his projects.

There weren’t many people on the street at that time of the morning, so I noticed her walking toward me while she was still a few blocks away. As she came closer, I studied her appearance, trying hard not to stare.

The knee-length dress was a bit ill-fitting, and the cowboy boots scuffed and dirty. Both her shiny black hair pulled severely back into an apricot scrunchy and her long bangs nearly covering her eyes looked unruly as they jutted out from under the Sul Ross Lobos cap that she was wearing. Her glasses were held together in two places with masking tape. But even those bothersome issues couldn’t detract from her eyes. Still visible behind the glasses, they were chocolate brown, large and compelling.

She took her time, trying to appear only slightly interested in a lady sitting on a public sidewalk, but eventually she strolled over to me and sat down on the singular step. An engaging smile spread across her face as she began to speak. Her words caused me to recall another place and time, a time when I had often sat on another set of steps—steps leading up to an expansive, rundown porch of a magnificent old Southern House. It was there that I learned to eat Takis while conversing with several kids who lived near our home in the area. Kids, whose gripping words, vocalized dreams, and angry tears never failed to tug on my heart. That morning in Alpine was déjà vu all over again, but it was only one fifteen-something kid who touched my soul then, not eight to ten of all sizes, shades, and ages like before.

Perfect strangers, we talked about everything and nothing. She was gregarious and uninhibited. Thirsty for knowledge, she had more questions than I had answers, and her curiosity knew no boundaries.

I learned that her first name was Aabriella, spelled with "two a’s," she said, and that she was from Guatemala. She told me that she and her mother had left their home country and started north in the winter of 2017. They had crossed into the United States at El Paso/Juarez. I wanted to know more about her, her mother, and their story, but the sun was climbing high in the morning sky, and I knew Reid would be returning soon. I could tell that she sensed my restlessness.

Maybe another day, if you come back to this spot, we can talk again, she offered.

As she stood up to leave, her voice trailed off, but her words were laced with calm conviction, You know, miss, I believe I can make a difference in this world.

I felt that an odd thing to say at the time, particularly since she had never asked my name, I had never volunteered it, and we had barely met.

Her words were to play repeatedly in my head for months afterward each time I recalled that chance encounter, and soon I came to appreciate just how prophetic and out of place the conversation had been. It was a festive time of year and a tranquil place. But the stirring in my heart was as strong and urgent as it had been those hot summer days in Eden Hill so many years prior, and I was uneasy. I could hear Indigo’s words once again: Ms. Jilo say that the chillun and the House need each other, and una chil, una need dem too. Dis is de Mastuh’s plan. Una be ’e cyaa’pentuh. After comin’ home, are you ready now?

If you have never crossed paths with an immigrant child, I am not certain you will fully understand the story I am about to share. I know I didn’t, not really, not until I was nudged into yet another opportunity to make Jillian’s dream a reality yet again.

2

The House, the Kids, and the Changing Times

Kids deserve the right to think they can change the world.

—Lois Lowry

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Sweet Grass Memories

Before I begin the story of Aabriella and the others I came to know after that December day in west Texas, you need to hear another story—a story about an abandoned House; some disenfranchised kids; two old, retired ladies; and two Charleston, South Carolina families with a link to Texas.

The story of the House began sometime around 2010 when, on my way to teach evening classes at a local college, I’d drive by an untidy, little cul-de-sac called Blessing Path and often felt that someone there was speaking with me. The House was the only structure on that tiny street, and it was abandoned. More disconcerting was the fact that no one ever seemed to be around when I felt its words. Yes, you read that correctly. A dilapidated old, abandoned House seemed to be communicating with me.

I was around sixty years old at the time and without a purpose. As it turned out, however, the House had a purpose for me, and over the course of the next five to six years, several kids, myself, and good friends helped solve a riveting mystery about it and its original owners that united the past and present in a triumphant mission of hope.

We encountered many roadblocks and faced innumerable frustrations during that journey, but we were never permitted to fail in our attempt to pull together the pieces of an intractable puzzle; a puzzle that spanned more than sixty years and, when completed, was meant to fulfill the vision of a beguiling and compassionate Southern lady whose full name was Jillian Marie Blessing Eden.

Days, months, and even years passed as we toiled on, and sometime during the journey, it began to seem that the old House became contented, comfortable. We had brought it back to life both structurally and, I think, even spiritually, if houses have spirits. Every inch of space seemed to come alive with laughter, learning, and shared dreams. Kids of all ages were hanging out, studying together, adjusting their attitudes, and perhaps even their destinies. Homework was usually completed, kindness took center stage, and the smell of cookies, usually chocolate chip, wafted daily from the kitchen.

Our mission was finished, or so I thought. But that was not to be the case. There was uneasiness in the air. Even the original porch crew—the kids I first met while munching Takis on the dilapidated old veranda—seemed to sense it.

Sometime around 2014, four years or so after we had first encountered one another, I realized that the House hadn’t spoken to me in a while, and as I fretted about how anxious that made me feel, I was led back to Jillian’s words in a letter she had written to her sister, Charlotte, in January 1951:

Quite honestly, I believe that God must surely have had a long-range plan when he united Thomas and me. Thomas has taken great pains to incorporate the best aspects of both Charlestonian and western architectural features in the design of the Texas House, but now we realize that our real mission is to let the community know we believe that differences should be celebrated and embraced. We hope the House, in its uniqueness, will simply be a catalyst for that message.

Jillian’s words often hung in the air around Sweet Grass, and as each day rolled over into another, the palatable disquiet resurrected more memories. The House was a live entity in our tiny corner of Texas, and it was clear its story still had chapters to be written.

One evening Ms. G, the lady who had been my partner in solving the mystery, and I were sitting on the back veranda watching twilight descend upon the place we had lovingly named Sweet Grass Memories. As always happened during our conversations, we ended up talking about what else we, the adults in charge, were meant to do after achieving what we assumed had been Jillian’s dream. It had become clear then that we were at a tipping point, and ever the librarian, Ms. G mentioned a quote she recalled from something she had read:

We should embrace our immigrant roots and recognize that newcomers to our land are not part of the problem. They are part of the solution.

Where did that come from? I asked.

Oh, I think from an American cardinal who was the archbishop of Los Angeles for a while.

No, I continued. I don’t mean who said it but what made you think of it now.

It just sort of popped into my head.

So is that it? I asked incredulously. Are we to pursue welcoming more newcomers? And who exactly qualifies as a newcomer anyway? I thought everyone who came to our door was to be regarded as such. Surely, we aren’t supposed to go out and get them now.

I knew I sounded annoyed, but I couldn’t help it. I was frustrated with feeling that we still had more to do besides maintaining the status quo we’d worked so hard to establish. I just wanted to relax, relish in our accomplishments, and love on our one hundred plus kids. Yes, I’ve believed in the diversity message all along and have always felt that Sweet Grass Memories had a responsibility to respect, support, and advertise the beauty of heterogeneity. In fact, when I observed the kids in our House on any given day, I saw a variety of shapes, sizes, colors, and personalities. So in my mind, we were doing just that.

Some of those whose laughter daily reverberated from room to room had come to us from places as far away as Somalia, the Sudan, Mexico, the Republic of the Congo, Botswana, southern Mexico, and the Republic of Tonga while others had never been outside the Dallas–Fort Worth area. Because of these variations, I had always assumed our kids understood and appreciated the value and richness of diversity, but now I wasn’t so sure. Something was changing. The world in general—and our smaller sphere in particular—didn’t seem as carefree anymore.

I had begun to hear it in their conversations with one another, and I realized that just because our sweet kids were different in physical appearance, that did not necessarily mean they were open to welcoming others who might believe and live differently than them—others who were lately new to our country and of cultures they had never encountered. I began to hear something that surprised and shocked me. It was the word racist, and while not a new term to me, a person who had grown into adulthood in the sixties in the deep south, I never expected it to resurface with them. I was naïve.

So to move off dead center that spring, we decided to take kids to South Carolina—Jillian’s home and the initiation point of our Sweet Grass story. During the summer of 2015, five of our youth were selected by their peers to visit the place where the story of Sweet Grass Memories had its roots. They wanted to know about Charleston, and I thought that perhaps learning more about the gentle Gullah people who helped shape our story would broaden their understanding of the beauty and power of welcoming differences. Maybe such a visit would go a long way toward dispelling the use of that ugly word so easily thrown around in their conversations of late.

3

Pluff Mud and Benne Wafers

In Charleston, more than anywhere else, you get the feeling that the twentieth century is a vast, unconscionable mistake.

—Pat Conroy

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Indigo’s Cottage

James Island

And so it was that one steamy July morning Esi, Teru, Naki, Karina, and Suhailah, affectionately known as Charleston Team I, boarded a Delta Air Lines flight to finally see the Holy City. Reid, my husband, and I, known as Ms. Jamie to the kids, accompanied them.

For some it was the first airline experience they could remember. They had packed, unpacked, and repacked for days before and argued about whether a window or an aisle seat was better. But once we were in the air, all were busily engaged with their phones and music except Suhailah who fretted about the shells, her shells, which she had excavated from the backyard of the House. She mumbled her concerns to anyone who would listen; should she have packed them in her carry-on luggage rather than the checked bag?

In Suhailah’s mind, the cache of Ms. Jillian’s shells was the most tangible symbol of the spirit they all had come to know as Sweet Grass Memories; the link between past and present, Charleston and Eden Hill, the Blessing family, and us. The shells were invaluable, and they were in her charge.

When we landed and picked up our luggage, oblivious to the irritated looks of everyone around her, Suhailah immediately retrieved her pink bag, plopped down, and spread out on the floor beside carousel 2. It was with great relief that I saw the intact shells in a corner of the bag when she unzipped it.

As I had hoped, George, looking as dashing as ever, met us in the luggage retrieval area and gave each child her own special little bag of benne wafers as a welcoming gift. Never missing an opportunity to paint vivid pictures of his favorite city, he began his welcoming speech almost immediately. It was, if you knew George, his typical presentation mode of lacing history with stories of current local color. The girls couldn’t have been more beguiled and nearly left their luggage continuing to revolve on the carousel as they followed his stately figure and compelling words with their eyes and ears.

Some other tourists, intrigued as well, asked me if he was our guide and could I share the name of the agency he represented. Overhearing the conversation, George, of Gullah heritage and actually the Blessing family chauffeur, beamed with pride and subsequently raised his deep, booming voice a notch or two.

Ladies, I welcome you to my home, where water stands in the ditches, alleyways are fragrant and mysterious, and the Atlantic shimmers just for you. I want you to meet my horses, taste shrimp and grits, and smell both the sweetness of confederate jasmine and sour uniqueness of pluff mud.

Later, as we drove along Highway 526 from the airport into the city, questions tumbled out of their mouths so fast that we had difficulty answering them: When will we see Miss Charlotte, Ms. Indigo, and Mr. Matthew? What is pluff mud? How far from here do they live? Can we drive there, or will we need to take a ship?

Ooh, what kind of church was that? Where is the market Ms. Jamie always talks about? How far away is the ocean and the beach anyways?

I looked over at Reid and smiled. It was good to be back in the low country once again, but I realized then that I needed to show the kids a map of the peninsula so they could fully grasp the uniqueness of this city’s location.

Recognizing that the size of our crowd was a bit large for the Blessing family car, George had rented a limo to transport us to the Mills House, our hotel downtown. The girls were thrilled, felt quite special, and acted as such when we disembarked and entered the elegant lobby.

Reid and I could hardly suppress our laughter as we watched them walk in as if they knew exactly how to check into the opulent, historic hotel. They had fussed over their makeup in the car, cleaned their sunglasses twenty times, and put their earbuds back in so that when George opened the doors, they could disembark using the best red-carpet impressions each could muster.

As I got out of the car into the steamy air of my favorite downtown, Cardinal Mahony’s quote replayed in my mind. I prayed that this visit to one of the places at the heart of the Gullah peoples’ struggles for justice and acceptance would illustrate for our kids the gifts this city could offer our entire Sweet Grass family. I hoped that it would ultimately translate into tolerance of others at home.

I should not have worried. George, as our guide, was a master at weaving words and images together about his people and their homeland. His words were perfectly chosen, and their magic penetrated each girl’s heart the minute he enveloped them in the sights, smells, and mystique of the Holy City.

It was a special time that passed too quickly and represented the culmination of the first installment of the Sweet Grass Memories story. As I look back, I now realize that taking the kids to Charleston clearly solidified in their minds the link between Jillian’s dream for the House in Texas and her expectation that each of us who crossed that threshold commit to loving and serving others. Sitting at the feet of Charlotte, Matthew, George, and Indigo, each of them, in her own way, finally came to respect the beauty and power of the experience they had been provided.

I returned to Texas relishing in our decision to visit my favorite city and quietly decided that we should continue to make an annual pilgrimage to South Carolina. It seemed like a rite of passage that could work to solidify our purpose. However, the questions still lingered in my heart about whether I should be doing more once we had returned. In addition, the House continued to irritate me with its silence.

Esi and Teru were in seventh grade when we got home and were heavily involved in athletics and extracurricular activities—looking ahead to college opportunities and scholarships, they were maturing into beautiful, caring young women. Nevertheless, each remained committed to assisting our new little ones and youth in understanding the value of paying it forward. They made me smile.

Naki started college in 2017, and Karina was scheduled to start in the fall of 2019. Both want to actively pursue careers of service, but they returned to us when they had a free weekend. Naki is struggling to find her place and seems bent on running from teaching as a profession. We talk frequently.

Karina hopes to work in forensic science or pursue a career in law enforcement. Unfortunately, the blanket application of new governmental guidelines for certain classes of immigrants, such as her dad, has impacted her ability to accept a full four-year scholarship to a local university. She maintains her positive attitude, however, and will enroll in a local community college where she can take fewer hours free of charge (the result of a partnership between her high school and the college) and be able to work to help support her family. While she doesn’t know it, I keep in touch with the administration of the university that offered her the scholarship in hopes that we can eventually reclaim the offer.

Regardless of where each is now, when one or more show up at the House, her/their words of wisdom hold our young ones spellbound. Consequently, there is rarely an evening in the Sweet Grass living room when someone doesn’t ask for a retell of the Charleston story.

Finally, there is sweet Suhailah. In high school she remains the most mesmerized by the mystical nature of the Gullah culture. I think, had we permitted her to do so, she would have stayed in Charleston when we visited that first summer in 2015.

My most vivid memory of her during that time was watching as she and Indigo walked down to the banks of the estuary behind the little cottage. Ready to return her precious shells to their, as she called it, rightful place in South Carolina, she had deliberated a very long time before deciding to place them on James Island rather than on Folly Beach or the Isle of Palms. We let it be her decision, and she thought it best for them to be near Indigo.

I have watched her grow and navigate this world and still see her as the epitome of Ann Morrow Lindbergh’s double sunrise shell that she referenced in Gifts from the Sea:

This shell is a rare one. Both sides are exactly the same. They are identical to each other. You wonder how it survived the pounding of the waves.

It remains difficult to fathom what God has in store for Suhailah, but I am quite confident it will have something to do with Charleston.

4

Here We Go Again

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end.

—Gilda Radner

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Cholla

Reid returned about thirty minutes after Aabriella had gone. I was still sitting on the front step of the Holland. My tea was gone, and pedestrian traffic had picked up considerably. I saw him snag a parking place across the street from the hotel near an abandoned gas station that had been converted into a quaint, little pizza place and wine bar. He motioned for me to come look at his treasures.

I found a lot this time, he shared with a grin, and carefully pulled each branch out of the back of his truck for me to examine.

Cane or tree cholla branches that remain after the plant has died are often used in artistic creations—or as decorations for aquariums—so finding pieces in abundance along a strip of highway is rare. These skeletal remnants often serve as the base for centerpiece designs of dried flowers, dried grasses, and other botanicals. Seeing them reminded me that I never cease to be amazed that items of nature can now be purchased on Amazon.com.

I ran my fingers over the rough surface of one of the branches. It looked like a Christmas cholla branch, the most widely distributed variety in the Chihuahuan desert. Although the branch was dead, I could envision its yellow, bronze, or pink flowers and the bright red, grape-sized berries of its fruit.

The fruit, however, often has spines, so any pieces to be used as a food source must be carefully cleaned before eating. High in calcium, cholla fruit was often used by indigenous tribes in the Sonoran Desert as a staple for nursing mothers and the elderly. Standing there, I tried to imagine the branch I held as a living plant, something I much preferred, but I could also appreciate the weathered beauty of its skeletal remains.

As he returned the branches to the back of his truck, I commented, Are we going into the park today?

Glancing at his watch, Reid answered, It isn’t too late, so I thought we might. We could at least try to go down to Santa Elena Canyon. I heard that the river isn’t running high enough to block the crossing.

I’d welcome the ride and hike, I commented. But knowing how the rangers periodically check vehicles for things people try to take out of the park, shouldn’t we leave the cholla in the room?

Good idea. I’ll take it upstairs. So what have you been up to this morning?

Waiting a moment, I commented, Not much. I’ve been sitting out here watching people. I met this girl though.

He stopped gathering the cholla branches together, observed me closely for a minute, and quietly said, Sounds like this is a conversation that will take a while. Let’s save it for our drive into the park.

Reid was slightly ahead of me as we walked back across the street to the hotel. When he reached the sidewalk, he turned back around with concern in his eyes and suddenly posed a question I didn’t expect, Is this another Sweet Grass thing? Has the House started ‘talking’ to you again?

It had been nearly nine years and seemed impossible that after all this time there could be a sequel to our story. Besides that, what was it with this west Texas link? I wondered if there would be enough of a signal out here to call Miss Charlotte in Charleston.

5

New Faces in the Big Bend

Our attitude towards immigration reflects our faith in the American ideal. We have always believed it possible for men and women who start at the bottom to rise as far as their talent and energy allow. Neither race nor place of birth should affect their chances.

—Robert F. Kennedy

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An Alpine mural

After filling our water bottles and coercing the kitchen staff at the hotel into giving us a couple of sandwiches and some apples, we began our trek south into the Big Bend country. As it always does, my heart raced in anticipation of experiencing once again the allure of this part of the world. Big Bend has always simultaneously challenged yet calmed me.

Alpine is the largest city and the county seat of Brewster County. It lies about seventy-five miles north and west of Big Bend National Park. The population, when last recorded, was 5,905 (suburbanstats.org), but I am assuming it has grown tremendously after being discovered by western snowbirds in the early 2000s. I have no concrete figures, though, regarding the population today. The only thing I do know is that according to the mayor—we drank a few glasses of wine together one Friday afternoon—the Alpine of 2018–2019 is growing but does not want to become another Marfa, often referred to by the locals as a modern artists’ colony in the desert.

Between 1878 and 1882, Alpine had been a campsite for cattlemen tending their herds. At that time, it was a town of tents created by railroad workers and their families to support the development of the rail system as it moved west. As a town, it grew very slowly until Sul Ross State Normal College, now Sul Ross State University, opened in 1921. The opening of Big Bend National Park in the 1940s further spurred the growth of the town.

Alpine occupies a special place in our hearts as Sul Ross is Reid’s alma mater. He loves spending quiet time here, and I cannot get enough of his stories no matter how many times we sit on the bed of the truck drinking wine and watching the sun set over the Chisos Mountains. The quiet is almost deafening, even when the train whistle looms in the distance.

There are two ways to get to Santa Elena Canyon from Alpine, but only one, the Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive, is recommended for those without a four-wheel drive vehicle. It is seventy-two miles from Alpine to the west entrance of the park and maybe forty additional miles from that point past Castolon to the canyon entrance. It was on this road that I remember seeing my first rattlesnake; other than rocks, cactus, and sand, that was about all I saw.

As we drove along the winding road, we both marveled at the scale of the beauty and variations in color and composition of the desert floor and the rocks. Our common love of this country moderated my apprehension, and we began to talk.

It was Reid who initiated the conversation. So tell me about this girl you met. I don’t know whether it is because of the chance meeting this morning or something else, but I don’t sense as much enthusiasm from my partner for hiking in the park this visit.

He glanced over at me with concern in his eyes. It has always amazed me how perceptive he is, and I struggled to find a way to explain the experience of the morning and its effect on my mood without getting too emotional or jumping to conclusions about what it might mean.

I launched out, "Reid, she was genuine, mysterious, comfortable, and curious all at once. Wise beyond her years for a fifteen-year-old kid, she asked a thousand questions, all designed, I think, to measure my compassion for people I do not know. She began talking to me like we already knew one another and appeared to have had a purpose for our meeting this morning.

She was also intuitive and sensed that I was distracted anticipating your return and the closing of the window of our time together. She knew I wanted to know more about her and her family and suggested we meet again. Yet though I smiled at her, I said nothing as she got up to leave. It was as if I was mute.

We drove on for a while when he responded, Do we hike the canyon today or head back to try to learn more about Aabriella? Your call.

I was my usual indecisive self. I don’t know. A hike would probably be good for both of us, but can I make a call first?

Grinning, he replied, Sure.

I almost hated it when he was so completely supportive and absolutely on target reading my moods. I thought that I needed to talk with someone in Charleston, someone associated with the House, so I pulled my phone out of my backpack and tried Charlotte. It was probably a good thing that there was no service so deep into the park.

6

Latino Influences Come to Sweet Grass Memories

I want a house with a crowded table, and a place by the fire for everyone. Let us take on the world while we’re young and able…and bring us back together when the day is done. The door is always open, your pictures on my wall, everyone’s a little broken and everyone belongs.

—The Highwomen, Excerpt from

lyrics Crowded Table

Sweet new friends

As we had hoped, other kids have joined our ranks, and the number who now choose to run up onto the veranda of Sweet Grass Memories almost every afternoon continues to increase. The screen door slams a lot. Sometimes Ms. G and Ms. Tracy complain, though I believe not seriously, that there is not nearly enough room for everyone these days, but we always seem to manage.

Moving among apartment complexes and various suburban/urban cities in a congested area is a common occurrence for many who live in poverty, so some of our original little people have drifted away. I keep pictures of every child who ever crossed the threshold of the House taped to the walls of my little office in the alcove off the kitchen. I cannot look at them without a blended sense of joy and emptiness.

Be that as it may, I could still recall Ms. G’s words early on in our journey. In a telephone conversation one evening, while I was in Charleston visiting the Blessing family and she in Texas, she tried desperately to help me realize that most of our kids are representative of a transient population:

Nobody who comes to Oak Lakes or moves into most any other section 8 property, for that matter, ever stays too long. The grass is always greener somewhere else; or the move-in specials down the road too good to pass up; or we lost this job and can’t stay around here; or we need to go live with somebody who has a car or access to more government assistance—on and on. The reasons are endless.

This might seem like a nonissue to most of us who live in a middle-class world. Why couldn’t the kids who