Today is February 29, 2016. Leap day. I would like to think today was full of activities making this an extra-special extra day in the year — more coffee, walks, decadent chocolate, perhaps  a fresh sumo mandarin orange peeled wide — but the reality is I am presenting my book outline on Thursday. This will be a bonus day of work, moving post-its and staring out the window contemplating words until the letters twitch. And besides, the rain is pouring down.

Food keeps sneaking into my story, my narrator escaping into the kitchen and baking  gingerbread and soft-curd scrambled eggs, furtively eating entire boxes of chocolate, skimming the crackling fat off roast beef. I feign and block this diversion and intrusion daily; this isn’t a food story, this is a coming-of-age during the worst of times story! Just eat and move on!

But for my writing group this week I gave in, set the scene where it belonged in the kitchen, where spices and thick batter filled the house with scented memories, where four generations of women kept me company in the kitchen while I baked from the recipe they passed down to me, written on a yellowed slip of stationary. Recognized that the square pan of moist crumb was essential for me on the last week of my mother’s illness as much as wine, friends or sleep.

The more we write the more this happens, the pull of the senses, the surprise at the end of the page. Just like I cannot leave out my brother in my story, I cannot leave out the intricate layers of pleasure that were necessary to survive the trauma of 1982-1986. As my mother slowly died, I lived by slipping into the kitchen and more. That is the complicated equation of  survival.

Today I will peel a thick skinned orange while standing up over my writing table, look out the watery windows, and later, make cream scones for tea. And remember. There is no stopping these memories leaping from heart and pencil.

My father, Richard Grave, eating scones and eggs  under the Shagbark hickory tree.  1981

A few minutes ago I did the unthinkable. I changed my political party.

Politics have always been a hot button issue for me in different ways than most other people. I was the granddaughter of Senator Lucy T. Hammer, Republican, Connecticut. I attended rallies young enough to get bounced on Senator Lowell Weicker’s knee, sat at endless chicken dinners with my white gloves tucked under my thigh, stumped with her at county fairs handing out expandable sponges that read, in large black letters, Vote For Lucy T. Hammer!

She was larger than life, all five feet of her, the wife of a small-town factory owner who wanted to make a difference. Politics were the only topic of discussion at the dinner table: Political squabbles, bills for education (her passion), the upstarts on the House floor, the ones who had promise (“this new man Lieberman will go a long way,” she had exclaimed one September). We were all Republicans and there was no other option.

And just like I promised her I would never, ever, take her from her home and put her in a nursing home, I promised her that I was Republican for life.

So I have played a little cat and mouse game at dinner parties over the last three decades, championing who I agreed with but skirting the party issue, claiming independence. All the while gone cold in my heart that she would somehow hear me lean towards the ultimate disloyalty — lose faith in all that she believed in and championed. All things Republican.

But today, would she agree?

I don’t know that, but I do know I cannot skulk into the voting booth and see Republican next to my name another year. Not with the rotten whiff of Donald Trump’s cologne exuding from the newspaper pages. Not with the Republican Party’s inability to be non-partisan and represent common, basic human understanding regarding abortion, immigration, and education.

I would like to think this afternoon Lucy T. Hammer is applauding me, that she is as disgusted about her party as I am. But just like I had to ultimately move her to live near me in an assisted living facility for the last three years of her life to keep her safe, I had to change my political party to keep my politics safe. And as my finger hovered over the ‘send’ button on my computer, I had to reassure myself that deeply and truly, I was preserving her legacy of fairness and integrity with my decision.

Hello, Democrats. Let’s party.

Alexandra Dane, Benjamin Cornell and Lucy T. Hammer, photo shoot, 1969.

A guilty pleasure turned into a thought-provoking exercise a few days ago. Over morning tea, slightly mad from endless torrents of rain on the roof, I clicked on one of those Facebook personal ‘analysis’ sites using my name. Here is what popped up:

I want to point out a few trails of thought from this (creepy)(not-so-wrong)random device:

For one, how does this search engine find these descriptions? I post my blog, WordNest, on Facebook. Ok, there (here) are my opinions out in the open air. But how does this searcher know how often I have been skewered in writing groups for showing the underbelly of caregiving? And kept going?

Memoir is the writing version of the ‘Janet Jackson‘ moment — the bodice ripping moment where writers show intensely private pieces of their story to the public. I have been criticized/questioned/confronted for my dirty underwear truthfulness, taken to task that this story is about being Florence Nightingale and also her ugly cousin. Inevitably, the words go viral through the writing groups and beyond (“she’s writing sort of a revealing book…”). And how does that search engine know I go back to the Nest, pour a (large) goblet of white Bordeaux and instead of crying in my glass say “HAAHA, THAT got their attention!”

Is that “not giving a shit?”(Sorry. I quote. I try to avoid that kind of language here.)

Actually, reader, that is me really and truly caring. About you, about my story, about the sanity of caregiving. Because we try so hard to make ourselves perfect when in fact the bodice can rip at any moment and, truthfully readers, does rip — alcohol, anger, disassociation, bad decisions, challenging medical advice and care, words we regret happen as often during illness and caregiving as those life-affirming moments we never forget and carry us through the rest of our life.

Illness cracked me at the root at twenty-one. But I came from strong, vital root stock. So here I am, facing the beasts, tipping over the laundry basket of the story.

But Alexandra is smart. She has listened to many caregiving stories and lived them herself.

She keeps writing.

Hellebore I planted outside the Nest, January 2016.

Put together a small, historic street edged in snow, ten degrees, wind blustering through, add a sprinkle of ice with a major snowstorm on the way and presto: terrible drivers. This is giving the benefit of the doubt that Massachusetts drivers even know on a good day that the white, blocked out area glowing in the dark means pedestrians crossing.

Today I stepped out onto one of those very white, obvious crosswalks — a third of the way into one to be precise  — and a small red car blew right in front of me by inches. I couldn’t help myself.

“HEY” I shouted in a most unladylike manner. She never hit the brake or looked at me. “I get so angry when this happens,” I said, turning to the gentleman walking a few steps behind me.

The hood turned. Dark eyes looked at me solemnly.

The beard spoke softly, “You got to let that go.”

Long hair blew across his chin, wrapped around his jacket.

He continued, “Anger is the red bull, it does not give you wings.”

I stopped on the other side of the road and thanked him.

Well, readers, I have certainly been thinking about that red bull all afternoon. Am I getting to that age — that ‘freeing 50’ — that somehow gives me the right to tell off strangers? That I know what is right or wrong, absolutely?  Horrifying. Maybe. Sometimes.

But I am really thinking about those wings. What transcends us out of the dark days of January, the dangerous crosswalk, the difficult days?

I like to look at this photo and remember: My mother had a year left when I photographed her that day. Would you know that in this picture? She had her lamb, her scottie, chickens were squawking at her feet and the sun was beaming down on her. She was a master of staying in the moment, especially in 1984, chemo options exhausted. She was looking at the bright side, the wonderful day, her beautiful farm.

“It’s a good day,” she would say when I got grouchy about something that spring.

“So shut-up about that.”

Take the moments. Let that red bull out to pasture. Feel the sunlight of family and friends. Keep each other safe.

Thanks, strange guy. I will not forget you.

I will look both ways, everyday.

Mom, Lambert and Lily, 1984.

January is the month I resift and reorganize and revisit stacks of boxes in the garage.

Not to horrify the relatives that may be reading this, but I was bequeathed with way, way, way too much stuff. My mother was an only child. I was the only granddaughter. Both emotionally and physically these boxes taunt me every time I pass through the garage, twelve months of the year. They whisper,

Read us. See us. Remember us. 

So January is the month I sift through, sort a little more, discover and read a few more letters — business letters, fun letters, love letters —  from as far back as 1834 and some, earlier. New ideas bubble up from this, sitting on an upside down box in my parka, transported to the land of garden tea parties and horse and buggy, to Smith, Mt. Holyoke and Yale, to the houses I remember in my dreams. My roots dig deeper into the earth with each envelope.

For those of you who follow my winding path, I have been working on a memoir about caregiving in my twenties. Not singly, but collectively, with friends, family, and strangers after my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at 47 years old in 1982.

This is not a straight line process, or an easy process, but to me, has been a completely satisfying career choice: Writing to making words show how I survived the good, the bad and the beautiful while taking care of someone I loved with every cell in my body, who was diagnosed with an incurable illness. Some of this is messy. Some is obvious. Some is scary.

Memoir is a maze, and some of the time, over the last two years, I have gone down the ‘rabbit hole’ of story lines. I keep a stack of photographs on every work table from here to Seattle and I am adding to the pile this week. They keep me focused.

Organizationally, I know there are better ways: Pay someone to scan and put the photos on disc. Buy some fancy boxes and sort by year, person, decade. But I like one box per person, and I like my stacks. I like to touch the words, the nests of old dusty letters, and think about what they mean to me today, trace the significance over the decades.

This morning I went from 1834 to 1959 when I came across this black-and-white. And I remember why I write and write and write and try to make sense of all that was given and all that was lost.

Our love affair began early. I’m beginning to think my manuscript is a love letter that I started writing right here, on this summer day, so long ago.

Alexandra Hammer and Alexandra Dane, Summer, 1959. Milford, Connecticut.

Christmas Scene, Marblehead MA 2015

It’s beginning to look a lot like…

…Family holidays become absolutely more precious and priceless with each year we can still be together.

…I can survive on five hours of sleep. Once in a while.

…June. In December. Global what?

…I do like snow, especially when there is none.

…I may be eating all the Assumption Abbey fruitcake by myself. All two pounds of it. Bring it on.

…Handmade gifts rock.

…A walk on the beach with a dog is good for the soul, especially in December.

…Star Wars will never die.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas is a wrap and the new year is ahead, despite the world, the news, the weather and Scrooge.

I am grateful to you, all my readers, for clicking on AlexandraDaneBlog and reading my WordNests.

Cheers to Words, Thoughts and You. I hope to be worthy of your reading time again in 2016.

Thank you.

Alexandra Dane

Christmas Scene, Branford CT @1967. Ok. My brother got to put on the star. I was pouting. With Lucy T. Hammer supervising.

So on to the next holiday, the one with all the cheer and merry and bright. Only the world isn’t very cheery or merry or bright.

This week three friends have remarked, “I don’t even open the paper now — or turn on the news — or listen to the radio.” Today, the third-year anniversary of the Sandy Hook School tragedy, I am almost paralyzed thinking about that community. Facebook is enraged as we should be — about politics, guns, death, war, refugees, cancer, the environment, climate change, ISIS. Everything we read and see is a barrage of anger, words, photos and turmoil.

So. Those are all off the table for the next 100 words. Period. You have that covered on all your social media. And not because these issues and dramas and tragedies aren’t important. But because let’s take a little break.

Print out this calendar: Holiday Calendar and catch up.

Try these 15 things to do when the world feels like a terrible place.

How about these 15 things to do when you feel terrible.

How about baking a few dozen cookies?

How about going to your church, or community center, or temple and listening to the voices around you? Sing. Talk. Smile. Close your eyes and take this in, this good humanity that is around you.

I have made quarts of lemon curd in the last few weeks, preserved in beautiful glass jars, and gave them all away unconditionally. Sweet and tart. Love and hate. Peace and War.

Today I mourn innocence. And acceptance. And cheer. And plan to do something about that. Beginning with a slow walk, Olive barking at the fog. I am thinking about all of you. Take care of yourself and those around you. Fix the world by cherishing your world. Take it back, one inch, one jar, one song, one person at a time.

The Famous Thanksgiving Pies!

This morning I did my first down dog in yoga since my shoulder began to stiffen up seventeen months ago. The word for today is encouraged. But the only way I got to that mat, and into that position, was patience.

There are a lot of surgical solutions to ‘frozen shoulder’ but in my obstinate and type-A mentality I wanted to see if I could tough it out and let the shoulder heal organically. According to the Mayo Clinic website:

“Frozen shoulder, also known as adhesive capsulitis, is a condition characterized by stiffness and pain in your shoulder joint. Signs and symptoms typically begin gradually, worsen over time and then resolve, usually within one to three years.”

Trust me, there were a thousand moments when I came close to caving and making the surgery date from the mind bending pain: pulling on pants, getting out of bed, brushing my hair. I didn’t use a blow dryer for a year. Even the simplest task brought tears to my eyes. For a very, very long time.

During these long months I gave up my 5-days-a-week yoga practice, my ten-pages a day writing, and walked 15,000 steps a day whenever possible. The lack of movement for so long took a toll on my arm muscles, my upper back and my neck. And my manuscript.

This healing took strength, faith (in my body) and two therapists that put all their knowledge into their hands (thanks Val and Diane). The  understanding from all those around me was critical: My workshops when I couldn’t type, my friends when I needed assistance doing anything, my family when we had to cook or clean or even shake out a tablecloth. My dog when we went on a walk.

Practicing patience, I gained in other ways —  time to read more books, to reread my pieces written so far, to let Olive explore even more sidewalks. I learned to pack light and carry a backpack. I was gifted an Airbook. The most important lesson came from accepting I couldn’t do anything but a few exercises and grant myself forgiveness. I had to wait.

I am almost there, minus about ten degrees of rotation. The road ahead is long, slowly rebuilding the atrophied muscles.

But to drop my head into child’s pose, chin on the ground, was sublime.

It’s the little things. My patience is encouraged.

Alarmingly, this stage-the meal-ahead technique is working.

So much so that this morning I went to a bakery in Salem with Olive, then strolled around the Peabody Essex Museum grounds, not in the car as usual but on foot, coffee in hand, and had a chance to stand amongst the Stickwork exhibit, by the artist Patrick Dougherty.

We wandered through these massive stick structures and my heart thumped hard. Human nests. Brilliant blue sky. Divine. We walked back to the car breathing in the crisp air, happy for a chance to take a breath and actually — amazingly — enjoy the morning.

I have a lentil butternut squash soup ready in the crockpot for tonight, a loaf of Pumpkin Cornmeal bread for dinner under my arm, and a salad to construct.

Let’s not forget the pie girls have yet to return from the grocery store this morning, make their crusts, peel their apples or measure out their pecans.

But that is not my worry.

In the fridge: Parboiled and peeled baby white onions. Brussels washed and cut. Turkey. Squash cubed. Cranberry ready. The ingredients for mashed potatoes. Tablecloth accounted for.

Tomorrow morning there are still a few things, such as cream sauce for Grandad’s onions and Lucy’s corn pudding besides the stuffing and mashed potatoes that have to be done. But today I may rake a few leaves and have an extra cup of coffee. And think about nests. All kinds, near and far, full of family and assorted friends.

I’ll let you know how those pies go.

I left Seattle at dawn last Friday to begin my turkey trot; Olive, travel crate and book (Mary Louise Parker’s Dear Mr. You) in hand.

I whispered a little goodbye as I locked the Nest door and joined the Friday-before-Thanksgiving travelers at Sea-Tac. Let’s just say everything that could happen, did happen: thanks to Delta’s new policy about dog travel it was forty minutes before I even got into the security line (we were funneled into the ‘special services’ line where she had to be weighed — and I had to pay $125 for that privilege — but thank God just her, how would THAT feel before Thanksgiving!), heightened security (three bins, no shoes, three times through the x-ray machine, dog then without leash and they pulled us out for a ‘security check’ on my computer. I laughed.), and a pet relief area in Minneapolis that consisted of two paper pads. I took a deep breath and left the building, granted Olive a gigantic pee on some respectable gravel, and then went back into the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport security line two hundred people deep to repeat the process for my connecting flight. Good times.

Now I have rolled up my mental sleeves. Because of my dedication to fresh ingredients (including fresh roasted pumpkin for the pie) the turkey has more fun than me most years. I have always done the lion’s share of the cooking on the actual day, and arrive at the table a frazzled, ungrateful heap.

But over the years I have come to realize that a LOT of that prep can be staged ahead of time. That it really isn’t all that much fun or realistic to  expect everyone to ‘all lend a hand’ on Thanksgiving morning, especially when three legal-aged children have been out all night for the traditional holiday meet + greet at the local bars. They really don’t want to get out of bed, much less peel piles of unrelenting teensy-tiny white boiling onions and slippery dirty potatoes for Grandad’s favorite dish when they need coffee and lots of it.

This year I am determined to enjoy the day, maybe take my apron off two hours before sitting at the table. To do this, I have to have a militant approach to the countdown.

So arrival night I prepared my state of mind and enjoyed a delightful Manhattan at a local restaurant. The travel experience may have had a little to do with this re-entry. Let the holiday begin.

Day #1, Sunday, with help in hand, I hit two supermarkets with a two-paged list. Empty wallet time.

Fun fact: I need five dozen eggs and five pounds of butter for this week. I did NOT say this was a diet holiday. Some of that is for scrambled eggs. Really.

Day#2, Monday, I made everything that would keep for the week: Cranberry Preserves with Ginger, Orange and Cognac, Lemon Curd, defrosted the pumpkin puree (roasted and froze in bags in October), baked a few tea breads for breakfasts. I would have done the pie crusts but I have been told two daughters are in charge of dessert. Delegating is another secret to success this year. Yahoo!

Oh yes. I bought my first crock pot and made my first pulled pork for Monday night football. Should have put more hot sauce in as the game was  a snooze.  A pic from Al’s Hot Butt BBQ House.

Day#3 dawns. Sea-Tac is a long-ago memory. I am focused: Tuesday will be about prep — cleaning brussels sprouts, peel and bag butternut squash, peel the teensy-tiny white onions, refresh liquor cabinet, then review the grocery list one last time (grocery shopping on the day before Thanksgiving simply cannot happen), get the bedding ready for overnight guests. I hear there is a Tapas dinner out with family friends. Yeah.

Cranberry Preserves with Orange, Fresh Ginger + Cognac 

 Place 4 cups fresh cranberries, 6 tablespoons sugar (I like tart, put in a few more if you like sweet), two tablespoons fine chopped + peeled fresh ginger, one seeded orange chopped well  — including rind — and finally 2 cups water in a large heavy bottomed saucepan. Bring to a boil.
When you hear the skins popping, turn heat down to a rolling simmer for ten minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove pan from the stove and stir in 1/4 cup cognac or Grand Marnier (or more if you like the flavor to dominate!). Place into a clean container with airtight lid or canning jars. You can absolutely make this a week before Thanksgiving or the day-of. Just allow to cool and gel, then refrigerate until you are ready to serve.
Makes two jam jars plus a little left over to put in a jelly dish and sample later with cream cheese and Triscuits…

No comparison.
Gobble.