Elizabeth Di Grazia - House of Fire: A Story of Love, Courage, and Transformation

Additional praise for House of Fire :

House of Fire is a book of naked, sharp-edged truth, a journey into and through immense darkness. Yet it is also a profound testament to our deeply human ability to heal and transform.

Scott Edelstein, author, Sex and the Spiritual Teacher

Truly, this is a story of love, courage, transformation and determination. Beautifully written. It really works well with the back and forth from present to past, and isnt that how we all live our lives, clearing the past so we can fully arrive in the present the Real life, having learned from what has come before?

Cindy Yasmine Libman, LICSW, LMFT, CAEH

Out of the ashes of her harrowing childhood, Elizabeth di Grazia has crafted a tale of hope and renewal. In unsentimental and forthright prose, di Grazia shares how she managed to break the chains of childhood incest and create a loving family from scratchnot by erasing her past but by absorbing its hard lessons. Her resilience and determination shine through every page. This book shows it is possible not only to survive the unimaginable, but also to thrive in spite of it.

Pamela Schmid, editor, Sleet Magazine

House of Fire

A story of love, courage, and transformation

Elizabeth di Grazia

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

St. Cloud, Minnesota

Copyright 2016 Elizabeth di Grazia

Cover photos iStock/Getty Images

Author photo Rosemary Ann Davis

Cover design by Elizabeth Dwyer

All rights reserved.

Print ISBN: 978-1-68201-028-0

eBook ISBN: 978-1-68201-040-2

First edition: March 2016

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, MN 56302

northstarpress.com

To my family:

Jody, Antonio, and Crystel

Authors note

Ive changed the names of my brothers and sisters, except my youngest brother, John. He needs to be seen; I want everyone to see him. This is my story. No one can say that it didnt happen.

Table of Contents

Hope is the thing left to us in a bad time.

Irish proverb

Mary Patricia Krantz married George Edward Smith

3/15/2410/26/91 5/2/53 7/23/2012/26/92

Simon May 11, 1954

Patrick April 12, 1955December 19, 2012

David July 6, 1956April 29, 2015

Thomas July 13, 1957

Ann September 26, 1958

Mark April 25, 1960

Michael April 13, 1961

Paul November 20, 1962

Catherine June 20, 1964

Margaret November 30, 1966

Patricia July 31, 1968

John November 14, 1969May 29, 1999

Part One

D ragging our luggage to the international airline counter, I shortened my stride to stay behind Jody. Her trim runners body, a weather vane, was my directional. She was stressed. I could tell by the way she carried her five-foot, three-inch frametaut spine and determined walk. I shortened my stride because I had to practice not being Jodys partner.

Morning passengers were checking flight information or moving quickly to their terminals. Conversation was a low hum, mixed with the shuffling of gray plastic tubs and the rustle of coats, jackets, and shoes being removed at security.

The dark blue trailing suitcase tipped over again. It was unwieldy, bulging with everything two babies would need for a stay in a hotel. Bracing the baggage with my foot, I yanked it upright. I was overdressed because I didnt like to be cold. I tugged at my layers, pulling them away from my clammy skin. Jody reached for one end of the large suitcase and helped me slide the baggage to the counter. She tucked her short brown hair behind her ears.

You gals traveling to Guatemala to adopt? asked the gate agent.

Yes we are, we answered in unison.

My eyes burned. The airline attendant saw us as partners, both moms-to-be. I set down my backpack and busied myself in locating our passports, burying my glee. I hoped Jody didnt notice the inclusive language the attendant used. The previous night she had suggested we remove our matching rings. She was wound tighter than strands of cat hair in a grooming brush.

Jody would be the legal mother. She was adopting Antonio and Crystel, seven and eight-month-olds. In Guatemala, it was illegal for same-sex couples to adopt. Even in 2003, there were efforts in at least sixteen U.S. states to establish laws requiring that children be adopted or fostered only by heterosexual couples and singles. The adopting mother could easily have been me. However, we gambled that Jodys job would be the most secure. A year earlier, when we started the adoption process, unemployment jumped to an eight-year high. If we chose wrong and the single parent was laid off and lost her income, we would lose our possibility of a family. For us to be successful in adopting, I had to agree to not exist on paper. This went against everything I believed in. I was now disposable, just like I was in my birth family. Wounds I carried from being unseen were again ripped open.

It wasnt that my mother never saw me. While in my twenties, I gave the eulogy for my maternal grandmother to a standing-room-only crowd in a Catholic church. After the service, my mother asked me for the tribute and had seventy-five copies made for the reception. Though surprised, I was happy. She was obviously proud of her daughter. She worked the room until her hands were empty.

It was dj vu at my boyfriends funeral. She called asking for the address to the funeral home. Again, I was taken aback. I could not reconcile this mother who abandoned me in my childhood and teens with the mother who now, sometimes, wanted to be a part of my life. On this occasion, her attention unsettled me. I didnt know where to sitwith the boyfriends mother, my parents, or friends? I had this extra problem to deal with. My dad, who was also there, didnt register in my mind. He was absent even when he was present. Mother made him come. She always made him show up for the things she didnt want to do alone. I could picture her shooing him to the sink to shave, the shaving cream left behind his ears, and the suit that he was now wearing that she would had laid out on the bed.

Suddenly, the boyfriends mother, who wasnt much different from mine, put her henlike arms around me and pulled me to the front row, seating me next to her. I sobbed throughout the service for what wasnt and what could never be and for reasons that I didnt even know.

A couple years later, my mother was there at my college graduation. I was thirty years old. It took me thirteen years to cobble together tuition reimbursement, vocational rehabilitation grants, and money to walk onto the stage and receive my bachelors degree. After the ceremony, she took me out for dinner. I was surprised she had even wanted to be a part of the celebration. My first thoughts were that Id just receive my diploma in the mail and skip the hullabaloo until she inserted herself into my life and said that she wanted to come. Dad, silent and unseen, was with her. He never seemed to get his due. It was he who gave me a ring as a graduation present, which I would soon lose. I would never find it, though I looked and looked. My dad was a chemical dependency counselor by then. The Chippewa Herald-Telegram had recently written an article about him.

Recovering alcoholic works for Alcohol, Drug Abuse Council: A counselor from the Division of Vocational Rehabilitation office says, George can move into a family situation and immediately know the problems. He has an uncanny knack for communication. People relate to him quickly because of that. He is highly respected in the field. He is in homes and treatment centers all hours of the day. If you need something, call George.