WordSisters

Author: Elizabeth di Grazia

  • Signposts

    Signposts

    Hemlock Trail
    Hemlock Trail

    I pointed my cross country skis toward the 3.2 km green striding trail. What’s that …. about 1 ½ miles? I could do that.

    If only I wouldn’t have missed my turn. At each intersection you need to stop, look and think. I did but I still went straight on Memory Lane instead of turning left to stay on Hemlock Trail.

    Hemlock Trail was certainly beautiful with the pines, their branches cradling snow.

    Memory Lane was a straight path to the evening before.

    Last night it was dark outside Indian Mountainhead Resort main lodge. A sharp cold. Not cold enough that I couldn’t stop, gaze at the brilliant stars and marvel at the wonder. I filled with gratitude for this great universe of ours and my life.

    I have a good life.

    February 23, 2015 168I had just left my 12-year old son in the swimming pool without even saying goodbye. He was with other Boy Scouts. Generally, Antonio and I bob heads, nod in acknowledgement to each other, or say a few words before I leave him. This time I didn’t. Not because I couldn’t see him in the fog that rose above the swimming pool, but because it wasn’t needed.

    This was a first.

    There was no signpost saying RITE OF PASSAGE. No moment of THIS IS IT.

    It just happened.

    Memory Lane
    Memory Lane

    The entire weekend was like that. He was independent of his two moms and sister.

    He chose to be with the group of boys even though we were an arm’s length away.

    When I told a parent about this later, she mentioned that it was a bittersweet moment.

    It didn’t feel bitter. There was no sadness. I used to be afraid Antonio would never leave my lap and that kids would make fun of him. Instead of pushing him off because that certainly didn’t feel right, I learned to enjoy his closeness.

    When I reached the River House, I knew I was on the wrong trail. I turned around and went back to the intersection and took a right onto Hemlock.

    February 23, 2015 200Jody was already waiting for me in the warming cabin. She had gone further and faster than me. That’s not unusual.

    The next day, I planned to ski Hemlock Trail again. And this time, I would know the signposts.

  • “You can choose to shave. But you have to brush your teeth.”

    IMG_3147The day came, two weeks ago, when I had his and her electric and regular razors, cream hair remover, his and her shaving cream – foamy and creamy, post shave balm, and aftershave on the bathroom counter.

    His on one side. Hers on the other.

    I let the essentials rest there for a few days, wanting to normalize the fact that, yes, 12-year-olds do grow hair and yes, some 12-year-olds would like it to disappear.

    I had brought up shaving to Antonio a couple of years ago. I am very cognizant that Antonio is the only male in our house so he often is inundated with information before its time. With Crystel, I wait for a cue.

    Our neighbor, Lynda, works at Bella Salon and Spa. It was natural to call and make an appointment for a lip and brow wax for Crystel, brow wax for me, and a lip wax for Jody.

    I mean, if it’s a cue, it’s a cue, right?

    With Antonio away on a school trip, we made it a girls’ night out.

    Antonio had already let me know about how he felt about his mustache. His Uncle Marty was over for a visit, and even though I reminded Antonio a number of times, of what a great opportunity this was (Crystel was away on a school trip), what great timing, how serendipitous, he just couldn’t get a scissors and open the packaging that held his electric shaver and all those cool attachments.

    He just dropped his voice as low as he could. “Nope.”

    We three girls tried our electric shaver first. Crystel found out very quickly that she didn’t enjoy having her hair pulled and cut by a million tweezers. Soon we were on to the razors, each of us with a leg in the bathtub.

    Hmmm. Now, there. There is possibility.

    Her choice.

    But the brushing of teeth? Nope. That’s not a choice. (Said in a Mom’s voice).

  • What To Do When Your Editor Has Your Manuscript

    ostrich-with-head-in-sand 2Surprisingly enough, I don’t have any nervous energy waiting for her response. I’m looking forward to her feedback. And, as soon as I receive her comments, I know that I’ll stick my head back into the manuscript and write, revise, and write.

    An ostrich doesn’t bury her head in the sand but she does dig a hole in the dirt to use as a nest for her eggs. Several times a day, the ostrich puts her head in the hole and turns the eggs.

    Since winning the 2013 – 2014 Loft Mentor Series in Creative Nonfiction, I devoted my time to babying my book. Every spare moment I had went into the work that would result in this baby growing into a manuscript worth publishing. I had a vision. I purged what wasn’t working and kept writing what was.

    With my newfound free time, I turned my attention to the cat room. It had become a stockpile of possibly useful stuff. Every time I walked into this room it bugged me. I’m a purger by nature. I don’t like stuff.

    Transforming this room became a creative process. I had a vision for the room. I knew that it could be more than it was. Focus, hard work, and purging would bring my vision to fruition.

    I’m the purger in our house. That’s my role. I enjoy it. For me it is creative. When Antonio and Crystel get to the point that even they can’t stand their bedrooms, they’ll turn their rooms over to me. I’ll go through every slip of paper, every drawer, every pencil box and organize, toss, give away, and rearrange. At the end of the day they have bedrooms they don’t recognize as theirs.

    Of course, there are those moments when I discard something I shouldn’t. Crystel asked me where her grocery bag of papers were. She said, “They are in the memory box like the pictures you took down off the wall, right?”

    Sorry, honey, I thought. That paper bag went straight in the trash.

    “Ms. Hutton said we’d need those later in the school year.”

    “Oooooh,” I replied.

    Jody, also enjoys when I get in this state of mind. I can bring orderly to chaos to any kitchen cupboard or linen closet.

    Maybe I am a good purger because I don’t have an attachment to stuff.

    There isn’t much that I won’t give away. I am one of twelve children and my mother would stack our clean clothes on numbered shelves. We each had a number that corresponded to our birth order. As the fifth child, I was number five. Even so, one day I couldn’t find a pair of blue jeans that I got for Christmas. Finally, I figured out that number six brother was wearing them. Possession became ownership.

    173314-stock-photo-sky-movement-head-sand-power-forceI tackled that cat room with the same intensity and focus that I used to write my book.

    Within three days, it wasn’t recognizable and I had a new sitting room.

    Soon, I’ll be burying my head back into my manuscript. I’ll be a mother to my words. Turning each one over and over. The only difference being … will be where I’m sitting. The cat room has become my favorite creative space. I’m confident I’ll emerge with a book worth reading.