Maria's Hands

Throughout my childhood my family travel 10 hours in a car from Central Oregon to the Bay area of California. It was during these visits that I felt truly at home. It was my grandma Maria Elizabeth DaSilva Castro that gave me that sense of belonging.

My grandmother was Portuguese and Spanish. Her mother tongue was Portuguese but she spoke in Spanish with my Grandfather, his native language. Grandma met my grandfather in Hawaii in her teens. They came to the Bay area of California and had five children. My father was the oldest, and the only male.

When we would make the journey to come visit my grandparents, it was a time of great celebration for my grandmother. I was the only granddaughter for 16 years. I even now feel warmth and glee as I recognize how much my existence meant to her. She was so happy for my Dad to have had a daughter. When we would come to the home where my father was raised, I would be flooded with the smell of linguica and coffee. My grandmother would reach out to me, cup my face in her hands, gaze into my eyes, kiss me on the cheeks and pull me into a warm tight embrace. I could feel her hands warm, firm, and sure upon my back.

My grandmother would whisk me out to her garden and show me the flowers that were in bloom. She would take me to the fruit trees and take off the best looking orange. She would deftly peel it and hand me, slice by slice, this gift that she and the earth had grown. Often, she would have a small pairing knife in her hand and would cut open the different cucumbers and melons that were in season and share them with me. Of course, there were other people with us, and she would share with them as well. However, my grandmother had such a quality of attention toward me that I felt completely seen and accompanied.

My grandmother would harvest what was in season, take it inside and prepare it. She would quickly cut it up into its appropriate sizes and fix zesty salads or sautéed veggies for all of us to share. She was sure, quick and skilled with the knife, the pan, and the spatula.

After we ate, I could see her hands collecting the plates, quickly washing the dishes, drying them, putting them in their cupboards. She did this for our entire family in the matter of minutes. Her voice was cheerful, her body was energetic and efficient.

After dinner she would take me into her sitting room. There she would show me all the dolls for whom she had crocheted clothing. There was all manner of designs, colors and styles of crocheted clothing on the dolls. She would sit with me tight up against her hip. She would take out her current project with her crochet hook, her string or yarn, and begin to crochet. She would tell me stories about my aunts and cousins. I would watch her hands move quickly with a sense of awe and mystery.

My grandmother was accustomed to being thrifty. The dolls that she made the clothing for, were found in the thrift stores. Because my grandmother never learned to drive, she would walk to the nearest thrift stores. She would take me by the hand and walk along the sidewalk holding me close to her and telling me stories. At the thrift stores, she knew exactly what she was looking for. The dolls came in various shades of skin tone. There were different body shapes and hairstyles, not like the dolls I would see in the stores or in my peers' collections of Barbies.

It must have been when I was about eight years old that my grandmother taught me how to crochet and then knit. She was patient. She would frequently touch my hand and put her hand over mine to guide my movement. Her body would be surrounding mine. I would feel securely held by this 4 ft. 10 inch tall woman smelling of linguica and chocolate.

My grandmother never pressured me to engage in making the outfits for the dolls. Rather, she seemed completely engrossed and content in being able to make them for others. I regret to say that I don't have one of her dolls with its crocheted clothing. I was a tomboy and did not have dolls.

One of the stories that my grandmother told me spoke to her indominable spirit and her ability to use her hands to protect herself. She recounted to me that early on in her marriage with my grandfather, he worked with his brothers to open a bar. My grandfather had been a fisherman for most of his life. He had worked in the cane fields of Hawaii. But throughout the Great depression and afterwards, he had been a fisherman. So this opportunity to open a bar with his brothers, was a hope for a more substantial income.

My grandmother recounts the story that he started coming home later and later smelling of alcohol and cigars. Sometimes when he would come home, he would expect different things from her. He might expect food to be warm and ready and on the table. He might expect that she would be interested in being romantic. If things did not meet his expectations, he became violent. This was new behavior from my grandfather. My grandmother was confused and taken aback. She hoped it was temporary and he would come to his senses after seeing the black eyes or the bruised arms the next day.

When seeing the evidence of his abuse was not enough, my grandmother attempted to talk with him about it. She asked him not to come home drunk. This did not result in the change of her being safe. After more rounds of abuse, she talked to her sisters. She talked to her neighbors and friends seeking help. My grandmother told me that she and the neighbor, another Maria, made a firm decision that they would no longer accept being abused.

One night, my grandfather came home drunk. He expected that there would be dinner ready on the table, warm and welcoming him. When it was not, he abused my grandmother. He exhausted himself and lay down to sleep and recover from his drunken state. However his slumber was to be abruptly interrupted.

My grandmother gathered a broom in one hand and a cast iron frying pan in the other. She approached my grandfather's sleeping body on the bed and began to whack him with the broom. My grandfather woke up, ineffectively defending his face and yelling "Maria what are you doing?" My grandmother calmly, strongly, and resolutely informed him, "James, you have to sleep at some point. Next time you hit me, I'll use this one." And with that she raised the cast iron pan into view. My grandmother told me that he never hit her again.

My grandmother was a devout Catholic. She attended Spanish Mass several times a week. Whenever there were charity sales for the church, you would see her dolls standing proudly for sale.

When our visits allowed it, my grandmother would invite me to mass with her. She would braid my hair. We would find the best clothing I had. I would walk hand in hand with my grandmother to the church. I would sit with her, kneel with her, and stand and sing. I wasn't there to be with God, I was there to be with my beloved grandmother.

On one occasion, my grandparents made the journey to visit our family on our farm in Central Oregon. I vacated my room for them to have a comfortable bed and space of their own during their visit. My grandmother was very interested in the farm and how it was for me. It was during this visit that I learned that my grandma could use her hands to defend those she loves.

At that time, it was my job to collect the eggs from the chickens. This had become a job that I dreaded. Each time I embarked on this chore I felt immense fear. The source of my fear, a rooster named Buster. As roosters go, Buster did a good job in his role. That included attacking any intruder into the chicken house. I must have been five or six years old. Buster saw me as an intruder he could take on and defeat. I had complained about this to my family members. Sometimes my mom would send out one of my brothers to accompany me. My brother's were one and a half and two and a half years older than me. They were taller. They were more assertive and accustomed to aggressive behavior. When Buster moved toward them to attack, they would kick him. If that was not effective, they would grab the nearest stick and whack him. Buster would go away dazed, confused and defeated. My brothers would hand me the stick and proudly say "That's how you do it."

I had tried this trick of kicking Buster when he came to attack me. Buster responded by jumping and flapping a bit until he ended up on my leg where he could peck it. He would then move closer to the core of my body and peck my hands. I would run away screaming as fast as I could.

Next I tried the stick. When Buster approached me to attack, I swung the stick at him. Buster jumped up onto the stick, putting him quite close to my arm and within pecking range of my face. I dropped the stick and ran away screaming.

My grandmother noticed my dread of this chore. She volunteered to join me. As we walked out, Grandma asked me about my feelings. I told her that I was afraid of Buster because he always attacked me. She asked how my brothers handled this. When I told her of their tactics and how those tactics worked for me, she appeared thoughtful.

As we approached the chicken house, Buster approached me. My grandma stepped in the way to protect me. Buster maneuvered around her in order to access me. My grandma turned and kicked him. She bent down and looked me in the face and said, "You go ahead inside, I'll take care of getting the eggs. "

It seemed to take longer than usual to collect the eggs that day. When Grandma finally did return to the house she had a basket of eggs in one hand, and a dead rooster hung by the feet in the other. She put the eggs on the counter, and handed the rooster to my mom saying, " How about chicken for dinner Diana?" I never witnessed any further discussion of this delivery of Buster for dinner. But I felt a great sense of relief and protection.

As time went on, my aunts began to have children and my grandmother had five more granddaughters to love. Don't get me wrong, she loved every one of her for grandsons as well. But I could see her hands loving those granddaughters, holding their hands, kissing their cheeks, combing their hair, making their food.

When I was about 24, going to University, I traveled on my own to visit grandma. My grandfather had been dead for several years. The grandchildren had grown old enough that they no longer needed childcare with grandma. Actually, all of her daughters had moved away. My grandmother was living alone in her home. This was the first time she had ever been alone. She was experiencing what the medical field calls dementia. A young immigrant woman had been hired to care for her.

During that visit, grandma saw me as several different family members at different moments. She called me by her siblings names. She called me by her aunts' names. At one point, she lay on my lap, looked into my eyes, and called me Mama. I stroked her hair, looked deep into her eyes loving her. I was able to reflect some of that love she had blessed me with all those years of my childhood.

To this day, every year in the winter, I make it a practice to knit. I love making projects for the people in my life. And I remember my grandmother's hands as I do so. I feel her influence, her blood, her love flowing through my hands as I knit. I recognize my grandmother's presence in the act of my living and loving. Gracias a Dios para la vida de Maria!!!