Chapter 6 #2
He sighed. “During the Civil Rights Movement, Black people in Gee’s Bend started comin’ over to Camden to register to vote.
People who looked like me didn’t want people who looked like you votin’, so they shut down the ferry.
You can drive it,” he continued, “but back then, the road was pretty bad. Most folks didn’t have time to deal with that.
Yup, removing the ferry option effectively shut down the vote. ”
I watched the water, sobered by the history, until the man spoke again, his tone shifting to one of admiration and pride.
“But Gee’s Bend is a resilient community.
They find a way. They are known for their quilts, you know.
My wife is a big quilter, and we try to come every year to the Airing of the Quilts Festival, but we missed it this time around. ”
“I’ve seen a Gee’s Bend quilt,” I said.
“Oh yeah…the best in the world, if you ask me. But you don’t need an old white man tellin’ you this history. You should stop at the Gee’s Bend Quilters Collective. They’ll tell you all about it.”
As I stepped off the ferry, the crisp tang of river air greeted me.
I paused at the Gee’s Bend Welcome Center.
Inside, time seemed to slow as I wandered among the displays, each unfolding a part of the town’s rich history.
I lingered, reading every word. It took me a while to read each one, some words not yet common to me.
I learned that Walt was right: With a population of 208, Gee’s Bend—also known as Boykin—was more rural, more remote than Camden.
There were no large subdivisions or grocery stores; it was a place where solitude and simplicity intertwined effortlessly.
Before I left the welcome center, I seized the opportunity to visit the facilities, replenish my water, and collect a few free pamphlets and a map of Gee’s Bend.
Looking at the map, I realized I had severely miscalculated the walk to Chilatchee Creek Campground.
Halfway there, I abandoned the idea of scouting it, the campground’s allure dimmed against the backdrop of Gee’s Bend’s wilderness.
Here, amid the thick and untamed trees, I could get lost for as long as I desired.
It would take some planning and supplies, but I could do it.
This wouldn’t be the first time I had vanished into the woods.
After what had happened, I spent almost three months in hiding, living off the land and using every skill Daddy had taught me.
They found me in the end, but only by accident; two hunters, lost and trespassing on a private trail, stumbled upon me washing in the river, naked.
They couldn’t believe their eyes, at the sight of me and my campsite, so out of place in the wild.
I could have lived there forever. The woods were ours and I knew every bend, every tree, every trail.
They should have never found me. But they did and told the local police.
This time, I would be even more careful.
Midday, I veered off the road, my shoes crunching on dry underbrush as I cut through a thicket of pines.
After a few minutes, I found a secluded spot tucked behind a dense wall of trees.
I sank to the ground and unwrapped a sandwich, then ate in the shadow of the towering pines.
Afterward, I returned to the road and kept walking until I came to a fork.
At the corner stood a rustic wooden flower stand with a crooked sign that said PAY WHAT YOU CAN beside an unassuming metal box.
Three bouquets of yellow and red roses rested on the shelves.
I peeked in the box and saw a stack of bills weighted down by a couple of rocks.
To the right of the stand, a faded sign pointed toward the Flower Farm.
I stood at the crossroads—the path toward the ferry and one to the Flower Farm.
The sun hung low in the sky, and the wind stopped as if nature herself held her breath in anticipation of my decision.
I should have kept walking to the ferry.
But curiosity got the best of me. I wanted to see it firsthand, see a flower farm up close.
With apprehension, I headed down the dirt road to the Flower Farm.
Whatever expectations I might have had of what a flower farm looked like were shattered by the sight before me.
Nestled within a valley surrounded by trees, the Flower Farm emerged.
The afternoon sun shone on endless fields that burst forth in a variety of colors, ranging from the palest pastels to the deepest jewel tones.
Each row was meticulously arranged, each flower standing tall and proud, each petal catching the light.
Closer, the air became infused with an intoxicating medley of scents.
It was a mesmerizing sight, one that held me in place.
This wasn’t something I had ever imagined existing outside of a picture book.
Yet here it was in the middle of nowhere, this picturesque farm known only to the fortunate few who ventured down this road, a testament to the beauty that flourishes in the most unexpected corners of the world.
A figure in the distance, standing among the blooms, waved in my direction.
I glanced around before believing he was indeed beckoning me over.
I considered turning on my heel and running, but he was moving toward me, his long strides closing the gap with surprising speed.
As he drew nearer, I noticed his sun-kissed hair, long and tousled, and his white T-shirt, khaki shorts, and work boots.
“Are you lost?” His voice was warm, carrying a hint of concern.
He was no older than twenty, with a face too young to know what it wanted to be—rugged or handsome.
For now, it leaned toward both. He would be handsome one day, when enough seasons had passed; I could see it already.
His eyes—green, light brown, or even sunny yellow, depending on how he tilted his head—held a depth that belied his youth.
Though his face still wore the innocence of adolescence, his body had already chosen its path, his shoulders stretching upward. He would be a new man soon.
“Is this the Flower Farm?” I asked, torn between continuing to look at him and going back to the floral spectacle.
The man slipped off his gloves and wiped the sweat from his brow. “The one and only.” Loose locks of his hair swayed as he nodded.
“The one Jackson owns?”
He regarded me with a steady gaze, the lines of dirt, sweat, and toil etched into his complexion, pale despite what I assumed was hours under the sun. “This is the only flower farm in Gee’s Bend. Do you know Jack?”
“Kinda. I met him at the farmers market.”
Nodding knowingly, he wiped his brow again. “Are you here to buy some flowers? We’re not normally open during the week, but I could let you cut a few.”
“Cut a few what? Flowers?” I asked.
He smiled. “This is a cut-your-own flower farm. You can make a bouquet as big as you want.” He waved his hand at the rows. “Did you want to?”
“I—I…” I stuttered, unprepared for his invitation. “I was just takin’ a walk. I saw the sign and wanted to see it.”
“We get that a lot. Most people haven’t seen a flower farm up close. Did you need to see Jack?” He shaded his eyes and pointed into the distance. Now I noticed a buzz of chainsaws echoing faintly. “He’s around yonder, clearing some more space. Should be done soon, though.”
“No,” I said too quickly. “I was just…just…going to go now.”
“It’s somethin’, ain’t it?” He turned to face the fields again. “And to think, all this will be gone soon.”
“What? Why?”
“The first frost is comin’. Dahlias don’t last after the first frost.”
“And then what happens?”
He laughed, a warm sound. “Then comes the real work,” he said, turning. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
“I don’t want to get in the way. I really should be going.”
“Well…you walked all the way out here, and I could use the company,” he said, his invitation laced with a warmth that was hard to resist. “Tibb is gone until tomorrow, and Jack got all the others with him.”
A polite refusal formed on my lips. I wish I could explain why I stayed. Even today, I don’t know why I did. All I know is, there are places where your soul connects and your spirit relaxes, whether you know it or not, understand it or not. I was supposed to be there.
“Why aren’t you working with them?” I said, climbing over the fence. He offered me his hand from the other side as I perched at the top, and I took it, then jumped down and followed him into the field.
“You make one little mistake with a chainsaw, and now you’re on clearing duty,” he said, gesturing.
I found myself smiling, drawn in by his easygoing manner and charm.
“I’m Luke,” he said, hand extended.
“I’m Leigh.”
Luke slid his gloves back on, grabbed a plant whose bloom had died, and chopped the thick stem with a lopper. “I’m cutting all of these annuals at the base,” he explained, his voice a blend of experience and patience. “Right where they meet the soil.”
He casually tossed the cutting onto a growing pile beside him.
“Why don’t you just pull them out of the ground?”
“We don’t pull any flowers out,” he said, his hands continuing their methodical work. “We leave the roots to nourish the soil during the winter.”
I observed him moving along the row, each cut precise and deliberate.
“Could I give it a try?”
Luke paused and straightened up, sweat pouring down his face. For a second, I thought he might refuse, but then he nodded, a faint smile touching his lips.
“You want to do this?”
I shrugged. “If you don’t mind.”
“Hell…I ain’t goin’ to turn down the help.” He reached for an extra pair of gloves from a box of gardening tools beside him. “Here. You’re goin’ to need these.”
I slipped on the gloves and grabbed the first plant. Luke squatted next to me and pointed. “Right here.” I pressed the loppers together, and the stem snapped with a crunch.
“Was that right?” I asked.