On Wild Pink Yonder, community, cure and cause...

I don't know a lot about the organization, except that it involves a wagon train, horses and the pink ribbon breast cancer campaign, but last year I became aware of Wild Pink Yonder for the first time, when their route took them through my home town of Rimbey. Folks really got involved: town council made promises, residents rolled up their sleeves, businesses poured out their civic pride for all to see,

I've always been really proud of my home town and I cherish my history there, but as flower pots, store fronts, lawn ornaments and curbs began to bloom pink, I did begin to wonder where it would end. I mean, really!  Three mega-sized pink ribbons painted onto the full east wall of the local feed store?  The massive gates to the rodeo grounds, painted pink?  

This year, another small town has picked up the torch. Breton, about forty miles north of Rimbey, has turned pink. Now, I have never lived in Breton, but I go there occasionally. My overwhelming impression of this fine little town has always been the friendliness of the people.  It may be a town by-law that you must make eye contact and smile at everyone you meet, you must discuss the freshness of the grocery produce in the local supermarket with complete strangers, because really, who is a stranger?  

So it can really be no surprise that Breton has turned pink. Pink plastic wraps the power poles, pink painted ribbons adorn the streets, pink banners festoon the store fronts, one family has painted their antique walking plow...pink. And that is just the beginning. Pink petunias, pink tissue, pink, pink. And the most massive pink bra on a vacant lot, made from hay bales and PVC pipe!

As a breast cancer patient (just waiting for the chance to use the word survivor), I am strangely touched by this spectacular demonstration. It is a mixture of thoughts:  does someone in the organization have the pink paint concession? The focus on early detection and improved treatment has likely made the best kind of difference for me.  Fond admiration for the work my friend Liza does to try to raise a similar profile for ovarian cancer (I would just love to see that depicted with hay bales and PVC pipe). The enhancement of an incredible sense of community in towns where that sense is pretty incredible, already. The sense of fun that surrounds the Wild Pink Yonder's project. The feeling of connectedness with others afflicted with breast cancer.  And gratitude. 

But now, here comes my soap box -- paint it pink if you wish.  If we can run for the cure, paint a curb for the cure, plant a peony for the cure with this kind of impact, what are we doing about the cause?  Where is the medical priority, the community will, and the government  support for identifying and dealing with the causes of cancer?  All the causes, for all kinds of cancer. Because frankly, my friends, even though it could have been a lot worse, I would not wish this year of "curing" on even the worst of you.  

On bathroom doors, wells and whiskey...

I don't know if it's true, but recently I saw a facebook post that PM Harper had a rough experience with a bathroom door on his recent trip south. And I read that he didn't handle it very prime ministerially. 

This brings to mind my own terrible, horrible, no good, (thank you, Judith Viorst) experience with a very bad day.  It was a lovely, sunny afternoon in the spruce forest where I live. The Man of My Dreams, hereafter known as MOMD, was building a badly-needed new cover over the well pit, and he was going to make it fancy with a little raised top that I could use as a potting table. The new cover was at my bidding. The fancy part was MOMD's idea. 

Since I had asked (okay, nagged) for him to do this work, I thought it would be a nice idea to offer to help out in some way. Realizing my limited talents, MOMD set me to taking off the hardware from an old school bathroom door.  Don't ask.  Just understand that MOMD's father used to go to a lot of auction sales. 

I set up in the yard and got busy with a screw driver. Not ten meters from me, MOMD was also busy with a power saw and hammer. As I recall, I paused to gaze lovingly at his back, causing me to lose my grip on my door. Causing the door to slip and fall on me, trapping me on the grass. Do you remember how heavy school bathroom doors are?  I could not move. 

I struggled briefly, to no avail. Then I hollered, "Help, MOMD, I am trapped by a bathroom door and can't move!" (or something like that), also to no avail. MOMD's back was to me and he was using his power saw. So I just kept hollering until he put the saw down, heard me and rescued me. My hero. 

Once freed, I decided that I was finished with bathroom doors, and would go over to watch the well top construction project, which seemed to be coming along beautifully, with little pickets already in place along one side. As I recall, it started to go badly when MOMD paused in his work to gaze lovingly at me, causing him to lose his balance at the edge of the well pit. Causing him to slip into the pit, and soak himself to his waist.  Fortunately, I was there to fish him out. Catch of the day!  But did it end there?  Oh, don't be silly.  

Dried off, and back to his project, MOMD needed some help to hold a board level while he nailed it in place. Glad to be of service, I held said board. Now pause a moment, and ask yourself, as I did back then, why a man who has worked as a carpenter all these years and who has an impressive collection of carpenter's tools, would be using a ball-pein hammer to put a nail into a board. 

Reading my thoughts, MOMD said, "nice little finishing hammer, isn't it?" Causing him to lose concentration. Causing him to hit the wrong nail, aka his thumb nail. And causing him to curse impressively in three languages and hurl the offending hammer right through the middle of the board I was holding. 

This was not a moment to be disturbed with comment. I calmly put down the two pieces of broken board, went into the house and poured two glasses of whiskey. I added a little ice, and MOMD and I spent the rest of the afternoon chatting on the deck. 

Reflecting on this day of disasters, I think it would be good for our country if our prime minister would take up drinking a little whiskey now and again.

On political geeks, quads and being almost old

My family calls me a political geek. I like to talk about politics. I take it as my responsibility as a citizen of this province to be informed and active, politically. I recognize that in my constituency, (where it takes little more than a job in the "patch," a four-wheel-drive pick-up truck and a quad to keep an entire culture from looking at, thinking about, talking about and doing anything about politics), I am an anomaly. I guess I should have bought a quad, but now I think I'm too old for that. 

Yesterday I attended a provincial Board meeting of the Alberta Party, where I've enjoyed getting my political fix for the past few years, as the secretary. I believe the Alberta Party is Alberta's political fix.  Some of the brightest and best minds I have ever encountered have come together to engage Albertans and to bring a better future to this province. 

After the meeting I followed a half dozen of them downtown. (I thought we were going for a beer - another great Alberta pastime, more popularly associated with quadding, but that is another blog topic.). We wound up next door to the lounge in one of the oldest buildings in Lacombe, eating wraps and drinking smoothies. 

As the political conversation(s) at the table swirled around me, I took in my surroundings. The old bay windows, the original ceiling.  Metal, perhaps, now painted white.  The new, aggressive pink and green paint on the walls. Modern and old, great juxtaposition. I recalled buying some pretty nice clothing in this building in a previous metamorphosis.

At my table there was an interesting juxtaposition, as well. Me, rural, female, and almost old.  They, urban, male and almost young. A small sample of the diversity of Albertans who have come together to articulate the present realities and future possibilities of our shared space. I felt welcome at the table. That's how it is in the Alberta Party.