Threads & Hands
Both sets of my grandparents worked the land. My dad’s side left the state of Minas Gerais with the promise of buying a piece of land in Goias, in the heart of Brazil where the raised the family.
On my mom’s side, my grandmother Antonia was a sharecropper and weathered by life. I got to know her a bit, through letters we exchanged, food that she sent us and brief visits. But mostly I met her through stories, lots and lots of stories.
I grew up hearing that Antonia’s daughters are hard working and have a lot of grit. Everyone in the village would note these characteristics in my mother and her sisters, too. None of them went to college, but each has a good roof over their heads. Antonia’s daughters saved and sent money to their relatives whenever they could. They never stopped working, helping others, raising their families and taking in the needy. They took care of their sick until death. They were, they are survivors.
Among the stories are tales of loss and grief. They come together to pick up the pieces, from broken marriages, broken health, broken children, and broken finances. When they were young the sisters worked the fields as farmers and helped as domestic workers. They worked in retail, were cooks in hospitals and schools, ran catering business out of their kitchens, washed clothing, ran clothing businesses from their bedrooms and hair salons from their garages. They sold jewelry and Tupperware from their bags everywhere they went. Most are now retired, but they never really stopped. This buzz, this busyness of supportive women is always with me.
When I was a kid I did a lot of sewing by hand, made clothing for my favorite doll – she was small and lived in a box with furniture made of matchboxes. When I learned to crochet, she got all kinds of new looks. Maybe a bit too warm for Brazil! But that was play, and that was okay. But not for a living, as I was told when I asked if I could be an artist. I remember my parents saying, “what about a dentist?” That became a joke. I had my first camera when I went to kindergarten, mom tells me. How I wish I could remember. I became a photojournalist.
In 2022 I took my kids to visit the village of Sucesso in Bahia, where my mom was born and it looked like everything had not changed since the last time I visited.
My mom’s oldest sister, Augusta, still lived there at that time and welcomed us with a pot of tea made with whatever was growing in the yard, as is customary.
Augusta still saves water in clay pots. The bookshelf in her living room holds photos of many daughters, including mine, along with saints and portraits of the deceased.
On our way out, she wanted to send me home with “polvilho” tapioca flour for me to bring to the US. When she could not find a vessel, she got a dish towel, sat by the door and stitched it close to make a sac. “This will travel well and it will not spill.” She was a mirror image of grandma Antonia 3 decades ago, wearing a dress, sitting at the end of the day on the front porch with her hand spindle and a handful of cotton she gathered from the field.
I am Antonia’s daughter, making things with my hands.
Tea from the garden:
Caramelize raw sugar in a pot watching it doesn’t burn. When sugar starts to get darker, remove from heat and let it cool. Go outside if you happen to have things growing around you or use what you have in your pantry.
Add water to the cool “burnt” “açucar queimado” along with dried herbs, leaves and spices. Let it simmer. Add milk if desired.