Ho Ho Hold on a Second...

I have a confession to make: last year Brian and I did not put up a Christmas tree. Now, while you pick your jaw up off the floor (or laugh at me for sounding so melodramatic about it) realize that for the previous eight or so years we have had a very firm tradition. As soon as we can after Thanksgiving, we travel out to Granville to the Timbuk Tree Cutting farm and pick out an appropriate tree. We cut it down, struggle to fit it into the car, and bring it home. We also walk around Granville and take in the sights. I love eating at the soda shoppe cafe there, and take comfort in the fact that my maternal grandmother (Gloria Woods "Glo") went to school at Dennison and not much has changed. We stop at the little book store and usually buy a few books. We always marvel at the size of the houses there.

We put the tree up and haul out the decorations from the basement. Each of us has a large collection from years of gifts but mine is particularly special. Every year as far back since I was a baby both Glo and her mom, my great-grandmother (Grace Danner) would give the children ornaments and write the names and the year on them. Not long ago, my mom started giving me Christopher Radko ornaments, including his annual breast cancer awareness ornament. After Brian and I married she started also gifting us the annual White House collection ornament.
Seriously - we have a collection of collectors pieces as well as sentimental, priceless artifacts with history all their own.

And last year we did not put up a tree.

So this year we did.

And when we hauled out the ornament box I opened it to find that mold had invaded the box.

Not just invaded - taken over and won.

As I made my way through layer upon layer of ruined ornaments to pick out the ones which were salvageable, I found my self becoming more and more upset. But why? These were only material artifacts. They cannot replace the memories I have. Many were handcrafted and of felt or wood. Some were even made by Glo or Grace themselves. Certainly in my teen years, I didn't appreciate these gifts. They hold no monetary value and I wouldn't make any money on eBay with them. But as I sat there and lifted out a fabric unicorn that was a gift from Glo and marked my Christmas as a 5 year old and the fabric crumbled with mold and mildew, I crumbled inside. Is this what it's like to grow old? To feel your memory slip away? Neither Grace nor Glo are around to ask them what the ornament meant or why they chose it for me. Maybe that's why I became so upset. The sodden pieces of fabric and mold covered wood were ties to the past that help sustain something, even if it truly doesn't exist anymore.

I salvaged what I could, vowed to purchase new containers and Brian promised to store them in a different area of the basement. When it was all done the tree still sparkled with the multi-colored disorganized glow of a homespun, non-designer tree. And I know that even in the years to come,when we don't put up a tree, I will haul up the ornaments and check on them, and maybe even take them out to adore them one by one and admire the tenuous gifts they hold.

You are invited...

Yesterday morning, one of my Columbus friends passed away from metastatic breast cancer. She was just 36 years old. She was diagnosed at the age of 31, just 3 weeks before she was married. Yolanda discovered the YSC and all that it offered 3 years ago by coming to our annual Conference for Young Survivors on a scholarship. She attended Project LEAD and learned about the science behind breast cancer. She joined other YSC volunteers at our affiliate leadership conference a year ago. She wasn’t just surviving – she was thriving because she found an organization just for her – the YSC. Next Friday night, November 6th, the Central Ohio Affiliate of the YSC will be holding its annual fundraiser, In Living Pink. This gala event provides the necessary funding to allow local young women diagnosed with breast cancer to find supportive programs and services just for them. It brings together families and friends of those living with the disease, and those who have passed, and those who work to fight it. In this month of pinkness ~ this event is unique because it is about Yolanda: young women with breast cancer.

In addition to raising money through raffles and live/silent auctions, we’ll celebrate the accomplishments and contributions of special friends of the YSC:

• Miguel Perez and Ologie
• Dr. Ewa Mrozek
• Jody M. Carrico

Please join us as we gather to honor those who passed yesterday, celebrate with those who thrive today, and raise money to support those who will be diagnosed tomorrow, so they will not be alone.

Heavy hors d’oeuvres ~ Cash bar ~ Live music by 80’s cover band “Six Pack Theory”

DATE: Friday, November 6, 2009
TIME: 7pm – 11pm
LOCATION: Worthington Hills Country Club, 920 Clubview Blvd. S.
COST: $75 per person, $35 for Survivors

To register (or make a donation if you are unable to attend) please click here but you must do so by October 30!!

The words we reach for . . .

As an undergraduate, I majored in cultural anthropology. I loved it. I adored and immediately bonded with the culture concept. I am certain this had to do with having lived in numerous places growing up (Dayton, Washington DC, Okinawa, Cincinnati, the Gulf Coast) and witnessing firsthand how people were diverse from place to place at a young age. I think you can actually feel this diversity internally in their clothes, their mannerisms, and their traditions. So it felt very natural and right to learn that there was a concept and an entire academic discipline completely devoted to the idea of how these things shape people. I was in love! I loved analyzing the microcosms of culture that spring up even between two people. I loved legitimizing the culture of restaurant folks where I worked during college.

And that was where I wrote one of my most fascinating papers. In my linguistics course we had to do a study of a language that was not a formal language. My peers seemed to struggle with this task. I pounced on it and began immersing myself into the role of ethnologist within the Ruby Tuesday’s I was working at (with permission from the staff and management, of course!). For the next two months I audio taped my shifts from various spots throughout the place, and then typed up the transcripts when I got home. I wrote detailed diary accounts of the shifts, trying to analyze the night from an objective viewpoint. On the last week of the class, I typed up an analysis of the “language” used in the restaurant, detailing the special slang, terminology, even the informal curse words, and derogatory slams against customers. I knocked the paper out in about 5 hours, and even included a dictionary. I got a 100 and an A for the course.

Thus began a fascination with words. I love the idea of words and especially how easily we reach for certain, specific ones. We are influenced by that reach by our culture, of course. But even more so, we are influenced by certain things, call them Freudian factors if you will, as well. It’s that reach that I am fascinated by. That stretch for the perfect descriptor to capture the essence of the moment…or that quick nab that elicits that completely wrong reaction and makes us want to hide away.

Equally fascinating to me is the effect that the words of others choosing has on us as individuals, or as groups. Witness so many reactions to calling someone’s death from cancer a “lost battle.” I myself struggle with this. Does it imply that the person did not fight hard enough? Does it not belittle their final days as being nothing but war, instead of peace? One friend has issues with the word “survivor,” a word that many of us embrace lovingly. Many a metastatic person has moved on to “thriver.” Still others question the concept of being labeled at all.

Awhile back I was having a discussion with someone who was struggling with some concepts regarding various organizations and groups. I asked him to describe what he thought they did. He did and the words he used were completely counter to what the mission statements were. I asked him he thought they truly worked against the mission statement or was that simply a slip. He apologized and said that he just was using the words that first came to mind.

Lastly, I will say this. On Sunday, Alison and I were on our bikes riding 60 miles as part of our training for the Tour de Pink for the Young Survival Coalition, to raise money for support for young women with breast cancer. A group of boys in a car drove by and one rolled down his window and yelled at us to “get off the road, you bitches!” Somewhere along the way, this boy has learned that it is perfectly acceptable to talk to women this way. Somewhere, this young man has learned to reach for those words . . .probably to impress his friends.

As I like to say, yet another reason why we still need feminism, and not just the word.