Every July 18th I have a big bowl of ice cream. It’s my way of celebrating her. To really do it right, I should go to a Friendly’s and order a Jim Dandy, or Carvel and get the biggest vanilla soft serve that could fit on a cone without toppling over, but really, any ice cream will do, because she was all about enjoying whatever was in front of her.

She stood 4’11”, and wore a 4½ shoe. If she knew I was going to the mall she would ask me to take a look and see if any of the shoe stores carried her size in a wedge heel. That was her favorite. They never did. There are not many elementary school kids wearing wedge heels, and children’s stores were the only place I was able to find her size. Her hands too were small, but incredibly strong, easily kneading the dough for pizza, or pasta, or pie well into her nineties. If I were in the room she would instruct me to touch whatever it was she was making, so I would know what it should feel like to get the best results. She did most things by feel.

It’s those hands, wrinkled and gnarled by years of hard work, I remember most clearly. Probably because I spent so much time looking at them as she showed me how to sew, to knit and to crochet. I liked to watch them as she wrote because her penmanship was beautiful. She took great pride in it, having had to leave school after the 8th grade to help support her family. Everything from checks to shopping lists looked as though they had been done by a calligrapher. Small, daily works of art. Her hands were her means of expression in so many ways.

Maria Josephina went by many names: Mary, Goomah (godmother) Mary, Josie, Jo, Ma, Great Ma. To me she was just Gram. Most would agree she was an incredibly generous person, especially with her time. She loved to teach others to make things, from tomato sauce to blankets, dolls to cookies. After she died people we didn’t even know would tell my mother all the things they learned from her. We hadn’t fully appreciated the extent of her reach. Bragging was not her thing.

As a teenager intent on designing my own clothing, I would often go to her when I got stuck making a pattern. We had many “discussions” about why she was telling me to do something a certain way. I would ask a question. She would explain. I would ask again. She would explain. And so it went, ask, explain, ask explain, over and over until I finally got it. Occasionally though, I didn’t get it, or thought I knew better, and had the gall to challenge her, a master seamstress with decades of experience, about how a sleeve should be set, or the placement of a waistband. She would patiently allow this to go on for a certain amount of time, until finally, if I did not stop, one of those tiny hands would rise, all five fingers extended and pinched together. “STATAZITA!” would escape from her lips as she marched off to her room and closed the door not so softly behind her. I knew there was no point in trying to say anything else after that. For the time being the discussion was over. Period.

Inevitably, I would recognize the error of my ways and sheepishly knock on her door to apologize. There she would be, smiling at me from her armchair, feet dangling inches above the floor, the crochet hook in her hand moving swiftly through a ball of yarn, not so much as looking down as the blanket on her lap grew larger. “I’m sorry, Gram,” I would say. But she had already forgiven me and moved on. She was special that way.

I remember asking her once what “Statazita” meant. “It means…please be quiet.” Recently, I came across the word while reading. Based on the context of the writing, I am pretty sure a closer translation would be, “Shut the F*%$ Up,” and I got a good laugh out of that.

It’s not a coincidence I chose today, her birthday, to start posting my art again. I decided to say “Statazita!” to myself for all the reasons I keep giving for not sharing my work, or participating more fully in the creative community I enjoy so much. With any luck, I will be making and teaching well into my nineties, working by feel, allowing my hands to express what is often so hard to say out loud.