Juggling four offices and a 60-hour work week in his forensic counseling practice, my husband rarely has time to chill out and watch TV.
So it was an occasion worth noting when I walked into the family room and saw him seated in front of the big screen chuckling to himself.
“What’s so funny?” I asked him.
“This info-mercial,” he replied. “This so-called therapist is hawking his book and tapes on how to change your life by changing your attitude.”
“So?” I shrugged. “It’s not like we haven’t heard that song and dance before.”
“Yea, but I personally know this guy,” said my husband, shaking his head. “He doesn’t even have a degree in psychology much less a license to practice. All he has is a hypnotherapy certificate. Where does he get off posing as if he’s some big expert?”
“That’s just the problem with society today,” I told him. “Everybody thinks they’re an expert whether they truly are or not.”
Yep, that’s one of the reasons I’m sitting here at home blogging and collecting unemployment instead of doing something productive like looking into the reason for cost overruns on what should have been a routine road construction project.
I’ve been replaced by citizen journalists and user-generated content providers who can do my job for free.
Well … they could do my job. Except they don’t want to make the effort to sit through boring meetings, wade through reams of boring documents, makes tons of phone calls and interview tons of people to get both sides of the story and then go out of their way to make sure the story is well-written, interesting, factual and, most importantly, credible.
I’m flabbergasted as I read through endless streams of blogs posted by self-professed authorities on various subjects and find fiction presented as fact, propaganda passing for information and self-serving punditry qualifying as legitimate truth.
Where can the public turn for fair, unbiased information in this digital age? The public doesn’t have any guarantee that its getting facts or half truths from the Internet. After all, who is holding the blogger accountable?
In this information era when we’re being bombarded with content from televisions, computers, phones, IPods, radios and anywhere else marketers can think of to infiltrate our brains, we’re getting carpet bombed by a generation of self-proclaimed experts who have established themselves as bloggers and twits with forums that provide them with a semblance of legitimacy despite the fact that they have no credentials.
Sites such as HubPages, Allvoices.com and Examiner.com have recruited bloggers on virtually every subject matter of interest in every community across America.
For instance, Meryl Lee, the Tampa Beauty Examiner for Examiner.com, is available to provide all sorts of practical advice on fighting frizz and keeping your skin smooth.
“We all have seen the commercials for Smooth Away promising lasting hair free results. Now you can buy them in any store. The question is, do they work.” said Meryl Lee in her blog, minus question marks and hyphenation.
I’m anxious to hear what Meryl Lee, who looks about 15 years old in her photo, has to say. After all, she’s the Tampa Beauty Examiner.
“The result is no they don’t. I wanted to try these because I hate shaving. Also my skin cant tolerate shaving my legs more than once every two weeks.”
Thanks for sharing and forgetting the apostrophe, Meryl Lee.
She ended her blog saying that Smooth Away does have some redeeming qualities.
“I would add that the smaller pad is great for little patches of hair. If you have a few hairs on your toes or stomach that you would like to get ride of this works really well.”
Hey, guess what Meryl Lee? You’re a freak. I don’t have hair on my toes or stomach.
As a Tampa Bay homeowner, I especially appreciated this blog on AllVoices under the headline “Tampa Bay Real Estate Great Place For Your Investment.”
“Tampa real estate is the place where to look for quality of home to purchase whether it is a vacation home or a place where to retire to. If you are thinking of place to relocate, you do not have to worry because Tampa can provide you all that you need and trying to look for.”
Whew. Now I can sleep tonight, especially since this report received a top beta rating by Allvoices.com.
According to Allvoices.com, “This beta report credibility rating is intended to help our community sort through uncensored citizen media reports. The credibility is based on community interaction and response, reporter reputation and the power of the Allvoices intelligent news analysis platform.”
Alrighty then. On the HubPages. This is a site that allows creative, intelligent people to establish blogs on any area of interest. You’re probably going to get blogs from geneticists sharing the latest genome research or historians exploring how the Great Depression compares with today’s economic woes.
Or, more likely, you’ll encounter Sandra Rinck discussing female orgasms despite the fact that Rinck is the first to admit she’s no expert on female sexuality. In describing herself, she says, “I have two personal blogs, one for fly-fishing reels and equipment and the other is a rant blog about why religion is dead.”
However, she had no qualms about telling the world her opinion about female orgasms.
“I have totally heard about women who cannot get an orgasm or have never had one,” she tells her blog fans. “I think, wow! That must really suck. But obviously there is something going on mentally that is preventing you from having one.”
And this is one reason why I am no longer able to continue my lifelong desire to be a working journalist. No, that really sucks, Sandra.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
We Didn't Abandon Journalism; Journalism Abandoned Us
After three days of nonstop crying, my eyelids looked like Michelin tires.
I could barely see through the swollen red slits as I fumbled through the kitchen catch-all drawer, feeling around for something shaped like a writing instrument.
I thought I was prepared. I’d been expecting it for months. But the reality of receiving that phone call and learning that I was no longer needed after nearly 25 years on the job was a bigger disappointment than I was ready to handle.
Journalism wasn’t simply a job, or even a career. It’d been my life. Childhood friends as far back as elementary school recall me carrying around a reporter’s notebook, prodding them with endless questions and then writing little stories for the school newspaper.
Journalism is all I’ve ever wanted to do. Now it seemed as if my life was over. I had lost my purpose.
Voila! My fingers groping in the catch-all drawer uncovered what felt like a pen. Now for paper…
How ironic, I thought, grabbing a nearby pad of stationery bearing the logo of a local funeral home. It’d been a free gift for spending $10,000 in February cremating my sister-in-law; who had died from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma way before her time.
It seemed apropos for my last will and testament.
I was forming the “G” in “goodbye” when I realized the pen wasn’t working. I had to spread my swollen eyelids open with my thumb and forefinger to inspect it closer. The pen bore the logo of the newspaper that had just laid me off. It figured.
I wasn’t about to scratch the words, “Goodbye, cruel world,” into the stationery using the end of a nonworking pen from a company responsible for my despondency, so I searched for an alternative.
On the kitchen wall was my antique Felix the Cat chalkboard.
“Goodbye, cruel world,” I wrote in chalk.
I stood back to admire my handiwork and couldn’t help but chuckle. The words appeared ridiculous on Felix’ round tummy. Well, it’d have to suffice.
I then ordered Oliver North, my Yorkshire “terror,” into the woods behind my house to retrieve a poisonous snake.
Just days before, the 7-pound Yorkie, a German shepherd wannabe, cornered and killed a water moccasin next to our pool. Oliver brooks no creatures trespassing into his yard and particularly delights in taking on snakes, which he whips around his head, beating them against the concrete until they die a slow, bloody, painful death.
With Oliver’s assistance, I figured I’d go out in style, like Cleopatra with her asp.
Oliver just looked at me and gave a hoarse bark as if to tell me that he had no intention of contributing to my death by venomous snake.
“It’s OK, boy,” I sighed, patting him on the head. “I wasn’t serious anyway.”
Why should I commit suicide when the newspaper industry had done a fine job of it for me?
The industry has been slowly killing itself for years.
Too late the industry realized it was easier to get news form the Internet and Iphones than to open a newspaper.
In an attempt to comfort me after I was laid off, friends commented, “They took away your job, but they didn’t take away your talent.”
“Yes, but they took away my ability to get paid for it. That’s pretty important, too,” I replied.
A fellow University of Missouri-Columbia School of Journalism grad who also received his marching papers put it into perspective.
“We didn’t abandon journalism,” he said. “Journalism abandoned us.”
This is true. We steadfast reporters stuck it out through all the many transitions, trends and technological evolutions journalism has experienced. We’ve always adapted. From typewriters to Compaq computers to laptops; from large-format cameras to 35 mm to digital; from letterpress to offset to composing; from narrative to inverted pyramid style to condensed news for today’s readers with no time to read. We’ve done whatever was demanded of us.
But when journalism could no longer keep up with the technology and still make money, when it failed to find a way to transition effectively to the Internet, the industry tossed aside those journalists who had devoted their careers to bringing fair, factual, thought-provoking news to readers.
The result is the public now receives condensed chunks of news from those remaining in the media who no longer have the time or resources to thoroughly research stories or the forum to run those stories even if they were able to conduct in-depth research.
Even worse, the public gets its news from so-called citizen journalists who have no training, no ethical guidelines and whose motivations are suspect.
This is not what Thomas Carlyle envisioned when he referred to journalism as the Fourth Estate in the early 19th century.
For the past 200 years, journalists have served as watchdogs, exposing countless political and corporate misdoings that would otherwise never have come to light.
Now zoning meetings once publicized by newspapers and attended by scores of concerned residents receive no publicity. Developments are approved helter-skelter with little to no opposition.
Issues that should be of general concern, such as a significant rise in domestic violence and rape in Tampa Bay associated with the economic downturn, go unreported. I know. I was working on this story when I was laid off.
As for me and my friends who have gotten the boot, we’ve always been flexible. We’ve always been willing to embrace new technology if it means reaching more people with our stories. Give us twitter. Give us video. Give us blogs. Give us air cards. We just want to report the news.
I could barely see through the swollen red slits as I fumbled through the kitchen catch-all drawer, feeling around for something shaped like a writing instrument.
I thought I was prepared. I’d been expecting it for months. But the reality of receiving that phone call and learning that I was no longer needed after nearly 25 years on the job was a bigger disappointment than I was ready to handle.
Journalism wasn’t simply a job, or even a career. It’d been my life. Childhood friends as far back as elementary school recall me carrying around a reporter’s notebook, prodding them with endless questions and then writing little stories for the school newspaper.
Journalism is all I’ve ever wanted to do. Now it seemed as if my life was over. I had lost my purpose.
Voila! My fingers groping in the catch-all drawer uncovered what felt like a pen. Now for paper…
How ironic, I thought, grabbing a nearby pad of stationery bearing the logo of a local funeral home. It’d been a free gift for spending $10,000 in February cremating my sister-in-law; who had died from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma way before her time.
It seemed apropos for my last will and testament.
I was forming the “G” in “goodbye” when I realized the pen wasn’t working. I had to spread my swollen eyelids open with my thumb and forefinger to inspect it closer. The pen bore the logo of the newspaper that had just laid me off. It figured.
I wasn’t about to scratch the words, “Goodbye, cruel world,” into the stationery using the end of a nonworking pen from a company responsible for my despondency, so I searched for an alternative.
On the kitchen wall was my antique Felix the Cat chalkboard.
“Goodbye, cruel world,” I wrote in chalk.
I stood back to admire my handiwork and couldn’t help but chuckle. The words appeared ridiculous on Felix’ round tummy. Well, it’d have to suffice.
I then ordered Oliver North, my Yorkshire “terror,” into the woods behind my house to retrieve a poisonous snake.
Just days before, the 7-pound Yorkie, a German shepherd wannabe, cornered and killed a water moccasin next to our pool. Oliver brooks no creatures trespassing into his yard and particularly delights in taking on snakes, which he whips around his head, beating them against the concrete until they die a slow, bloody, painful death.
With Oliver’s assistance, I figured I’d go out in style, like Cleopatra with her asp.
Oliver just looked at me and gave a hoarse bark as if to tell me that he had no intention of contributing to my death by venomous snake.
“It’s OK, boy,” I sighed, patting him on the head. “I wasn’t serious anyway.”
Why should I commit suicide when the newspaper industry had done a fine job of it for me?
The industry has been slowly killing itself for years.
Too late the industry realized it was easier to get news form the Internet and Iphones than to open a newspaper.
In an attempt to comfort me after I was laid off, friends commented, “They took away your job, but they didn’t take away your talent.”
“Yes, but they took away my ability to get paid for it. That’s pretty important, too,” I replied.
A fellow University of Missouri-Columbia School of Journalism grad who also received his marching papers put it into perspective.
“We didn’t abandon journalism,” he said. “Journalism abandoned us.”
This is true. We steadfast reporters stuck it out through all the many transitions, trends and technological evolutions journalism has experienced. We’ve always adapted. From typewriters to Compaq computers to laptops; from large-format cameras to 35 mm to digital; from letterpress to offset to composing; from narrative to inverted pyramid style to condensed news for today’s readers with no time to read. We’ve done whatever was demanded of us.
But when journalism could no longer keep up with the technology and still make money, when it failed to find a way to transition effectively to the Internet, the industry tossed aside those journalists who had devoted their careers to bringing fair, factual, thought-provoking news to readers.
The result is the public now receives condensed chunks of news from those remaining in the media who no longer have the time or resources to thoroughly research stories or the forum to run those stories even if they were able to conduct in-depth research.
Even worse, the public gets its news from so-called citizen journalists who have no training, no ethical guidelines and whose motivations are suspect.
This is not what Thomas Carlyle envisioned when he referred to journalism as the Fourth Estate in the early 19th century.
For the past 200 years, journalists have served as watchdogs, exposing countless political and corporate misdoings that would otherwise never have come to light.
Now zoning meetings once publicized by newspapers and attended by scores of concerned residents receive no publicity. Developments are approved helter-skelter with little to no opposition.
Issues that should be of general concern, such as a significant rise in domestic violence and rape in Tampa Bay associated with the economic downturn, go unreported. I know. I was working on this story when I was laid off.
As for me and my friends who have gotten the boot, we’ve always been flexible. We’ve always been willing to embrace new technology if it means reaching more people with our stories. Give us twitter. Give us video. Give us blogs. Give us air cards. We just want to report the news.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Lead Them And They'll Find Their Way
By D'Ann Lawrence White
Poor Dr. Jeremy Poole.
I can still see the stunned look on his face as I sobbed and hugged him.
He’d just informed me that I was pregnant.
I’d been told my chances of having a child were slim to none due old scar tissue so I didn’t even try to contain my emotions when Dr. Poole made his surprising announcement 13 years ago.
I was 35 years old; my husband 41. We were pretty much resigned to life without a child. We chalked my pregnancy up to nothing short of a miracle.
Because of my age, doctors recommended I undergo amniocentesis. We agreed only to prepare ourselves for any problems we might encounter when our child was born. It didn’t matter if our child was born with Down syndrome or any other birth defect. We were prepared to treasure this child regardless of any special needs. This child was a blessing.
However, we did agree on some guidelines to raising him.
We vowed to never pressure him to be an all-star baseball player or straight-A student. After all, intelligence and athletic prowess are qualities you’re born with, whether you believe they’re inherited or God-given. They’re out of a parent’s control.
My heart always goes out to a child whose parent berates him for not swinging the bat correctly or for getting a B on his report card. We agreed to encourage our son to do his best but not set our expectations too high.
However, there are qualities a parent can nurture in a child. In a letter to our unborn child, we wrote down a few of those qualities we hoped to instill in our son.
We prayed that he would grow up to be kind, loving and forgiving, to respect others, to take life’s problems in stride, to have a sense of humor, to be honest and act with integrity when he’s wrong, to be empathetic and generous toward those who are less fortunate and to not fear trying, even if he doesn’t always succeed.
If he grows up possessing those qualities, we agreed we’d done our job as parents.
I recalled that letter as I read through a book my son’s fourth-grade classmates compiled discussing his “character traits.” Throughout the year, his teacher asked each student to write about their classmates’ strengths. Then, at the end of the year, she presented the bound collection to each student.
I chuckled at some of the comments. They could just as well have been written about me. “When Ian believes in something, he isn’t scared to tell his mind.”
“He stands up to people when they’re wrong.”
“Ian is always telling us what the right thing is. He will speak his mind.”
I was a bit surprised to discover that my son has cast himself into the role of peacekeeper, helping resolve disputes on the playground or lifting the egos of children who feel dejected.
“Ian sticks up for others.” That comment included a little cartoon of two kids fighting and a third child, Ian, I assume, standing over them. In a balloon next to Ian’s mouth are the words, “Stop fighting.”
“Ian shows leadership by stopping fights and helping people get more friends.”
And my personal favorite: “Ian is like a live little conscience that is watching you everywhere you are and whatever you’re doing.”
I could see that our efforts to instill the virtues of honesty and integrity stuck.
“If he does something wrong, like talking in class or in the line and teacher asks who’s talking, he says it was him. Ian is always ready to confess.”
Actually, a number of the children wrote about how quick he is to admit when he is doing something wrong and take his punishment, especially when another child might be blamed. I found that pretty impressive.
“He tells Mrs. Larsen that he’s talking during class when Mrs. Larsen thought James was talking.”
Yes, my son exhibits many of the qualities we vowed to nurture when he was born nearly, as well as a few we hadn’t anticipated.
Nevertheless, he is definitely his own person with abilities and personality traits we could have never predicted.
While I was spelling bee champion of Pierremont Elementary School and began composing short stories at the age of 7, my son gets average grades in spelling and groans whenever he has a writing assignment.
My husband was a quiet, well-behaved kid, the perennial teacher’s pet.
However, our son is anything but quiet. He never met a stranger. At his preschool graduation, the other children got awards for “Best Helper,” “Most Cheerful” and “Best at Following Directions.” My son received the dubious award for “Most Irrepressible.”
By the same token, he has a larger vocabulary than most adults I know and was off the charts in standardized testing for knowledge of social studies. His favorite channel is the History Channel but I’ve seen him become equally engrossed in a segment on Fox News.
Only time will tell what path his life will take. At various times, his career choices have ranged from politician to pope.
His most recent aspiration is to attend the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs so he can learn to fly a plane. However, he doesn’t plan to use his flying skills for war, he tells us. Instead, he’ll become a general and hopes to be assigned as a presidential envoy to further world peace.
OK, Mr. Peacemaker. I can live with that.
Poor Dr. Jeremy Poole.
I can still see the stunned look on his face as I sobbed and hugged him.
He’d just informed me that I was pregnant.
I’d been told my chances of having a child were slim to none due old scar tissue so I didn’t even try to contain my emotions when Dr. Poole made his surprising announcement 13 years ago.
I was 35 years old; my husband 41. We were pretty much resigned to life without a child. We chalked my pregnancy up to nothing short of a miracle.
Because of my age, doctors recommended I undergo amniocentesis. We agreed only to prepare ourselves for any problems we might encounter when our child was born. It didn’t matter if our child was born with Down syndrome or any other birth defect. We were prepared to treasure this child regardless of any special needs. This child was a blessing.
However, we did agree on some guidelines to raising him.
We vowed to never pressure him to be an all-star baseball player or straight-A student. After all, intelligence and athletic prowess are qualities you’re born with, whether you believe they’re inherited or God-given. They’re out of a parent’s control.
My heart always goes out to a child whose parent berates him for not swinging the bat correctly or for getting a B on his report card. We agreed to encourage our son to do his best but not set our expectations too high.
However, there are qualities a parent can nurture in a child. In a letter to our unborn child, we wrote down a few of those qualities we hoped to instill in our son.
We prayed that he would grow up to be kind, loving and forgiving, to respect others, to take life’s problems in stride, to have a sense of humor, to be honest and act with integrity when he’s wrong, to be empathetic and generous toward those who are less fortunate and to not fear trying, even if he doesn’t always succeed.
If he grows up possessing those qualities, we agreed we’d done our job as parents.
I recalled that letter as I read through a book my son’s fourth-grade classmates compiled discussing his “character traits.” Throughout the year, his teacher asked each student to write about their classmates’ strengths. Then, at the end of the year, she presented the bound collection to each student.
I chuckled at some of the comments. They could just as well have been written about me. “When Ian believes in something, he isn’t scared to tell his mind.”
“He stands up to people when they’re wrong.”
“Ian is always telling us what the right thing is. He will speak his mind.”
I was a bit surprised to discover that my son has cast himself into the role of peacekeeper, helping resolve disputes on the playground or lifting the egos of children who feel dejected.
“Ian sticks up for others.” That comment included a little cartoon of two kids fighting and a third child, Ian, I assume, standing over them. In a balloon next to Ian’s mouth are the words, “Stop fighting.”
“Ian shows leadership by stopping fights and helping people get more friends.”
And my personal favorite: “Ian is like a live little conscience that is watching you everywhere you are and whatever you’re doing.”
I could see that our efforts to instill the virtues of honesty and integrity stuck.
“If he does something wrong, like talking in class or in the line and teacher asks who’s talking, he says it was him. Ian is always ready to confess.”
Actually, a number of the children wrote about how quick he is to admit when he is doing something wrong and take his punishment, especially when another child might be blamed. I found that pretty impressive.
“He tells Mrs. Larsen that he’s talking during class when Mrs. Larsen thought James was talking.”
Yes, my son exhibits many of the qualities we vowed to nurture when he was born nearly, as well as a few we hadn’t anticipated.
Nevertheless, he is definitely his own person with abilities and personality traits we could have never predicted.
While I was spelling bee champion of Pierremont Elementary School and began composing short stories at the age of 7, my son gets average grades in spelling and groans whenever he has a writing assignment.
My husband was a quiet, well-behaved kid, the perennial teacher’s pet.
However, our son is anything but quiet. He never met a stranger. At his preschool graduation, the other children got awards for “Best Helper,” “Most Cheerful” and “Best at Following Directions.” My son received the dubious award for “Most Irrepressible.”
By the same token, he has a larger vocabulary than most adults I know and was off the charts in standardized testing for knowledge of social studies. His favorite channel is the History Channel but I’ve seen him become equally engrossed in a segment on Fox News.
Only time will tell what path his life will take. At various times, his career choices have ranged from politician to pope.
His most recent aspiration is to attend the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs so he can learn to fly a plane. However, he doesn’t plan to use his flying skills for war, he tells us. Instead, he’ll become a general and hopes to be assigned as a presidential envoy to further world peace.
OK, Mr. Peacemaker. I can live with that.
Sometimes Words Aren't Necessary
By D'Ann Lawrence White
I desperately struggled to find words that might comfort Dave Mangold.
We were at Wednesday night Eucharistic Adoration at St. Stephen Catholic Church in Valrico where we’re both members. I had just learned that they’d called in hospice for his wife, Wendi, the 35-year-old mother of three young children whose breast cancer had spread to her liver and spine.
I’d interviewed Wendi a few weeks before when her friends were organizing a benefit to raise funds for her to undergo clinical trials. I’d titled the article “Counting On A Miracle.”
My friend, Nancy Shirina, was with us at church, and I envied her ability to distract Dave, make him chuckle, giving his emotions a much-needed respite from the grief.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t contain my tears, and Dave admonished me.
“Wendi wouldn’t want you to cry,” he said sternly. “No tears.”
“But I was counting on a miracle,” I told him.
“We got our miracle,” he smiled and hugged me.
He was referring to the community’s response to the fundraiser -- the hundreds of people who showed up with yard sale items and baked goods, the businesses that donated raffle items, the residents who purchased tickets and supported the sale, raising $42,000, which will now go into a trust fund for the Mangold children: Mary, 1, Charlie, 3, and Davey, 5.
Dave told us how Wendi was ready to take her place with God; how she had chosen legacy gifts that her children would receive on their 18th birthdays; how she’d planned the details of her funeral and asked that everyone wear bright colors and celebrate her life rather than mourn her death.
Wendi died four days later and, just as she wanted, we all wore bright colors to celebrate her life at her funeral last Wednesday.
Two days after my conversation with Dave, I recalled Wendi’s healthy outlook toward death and the positive affect it will undoubtedly have on her children as we drove to St. Augustine for a rare family trip.
Our Yorkie, Cookie, was with us. Because of her small size, she went everywhere with us. She was perfectly content being carried around in a pouch and would rather be with her family than left with a pet-sitter or at a kennel.
Cookie never made it to the nation’s oldest city. She began having seizures while riding in the back seat with my 11-year-old son, Ian. We turned around and headed home, intending to take her to her vet. I was riding in the back seat holding her in my arms when she died.
Our regular vet, Dr. Sharon Hunter, was closed for the day so we stopped by Care Animal Hospital. Ian insisted on carrying Cookie into the clinic. A woman in tears rushed out as we entered the doors. Nodding knowingly when we described the symptoms, the veterinary technician told us Cookie was the sixth victim of contaminated pet food they’d seen that day.
I permitted Ian to choose an urn for Cookie’s cremated remains and I described to him how peacefully she died in my arms.
We went on to St. Augustine “because Cookie would have wanted it that way,” Ian concluded.
It was late by the time we reached the hotel but Ian couldn’t sleep. He wanted words of comfort, the same words I’d groped for when speaking with Dave earlier that week. I was tempted to call my pastor, Father Bill, but didn’t think he’d appreciate the late-night phone call so I began searching for the inevitable Gideon’s Bible in the hotel desk drawer instead.
I read Psalm 23 to Ian. He wasn’t inspired. He said he already knew the Lord was his shepherd and he didn’t fear death. He wanted to know how to make the hurt go away.
The next day our first visit was to the Mission of Nombre de Dios where we lit a candle and offered a Mass intention for Cookie at the Our Lady of La Leche Shrine.
As we explored the mission grounds we came upon the shrine of St. Francis, patron saint of animals. Cookie always wore a St. Francis medal on her collar.
Ian knelt and read St. Francis’ prayer out loud.
It’s a powerful prayer and Ian grasped its message immediately.
“…that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.
Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted;
to understand, than to be understood;
to love, than to be loved.
For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.
It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.
It is by dying that one awakens to eternal life.”
“He’s saying I’ll stop hurting by reaching out and helping others to stop hurting, helping them understand that death is really eternal life,” Ian said with a wisdom that belied his young years.
Those were the words I wanted to say to Dave Mangold. But they weren’t necessary after all. Dave already knew them.
I desperately struggled to find words that might comfort Dave Mangold.
We were at Wednesday night Eucharistic Adoration at St. Stephen Catholic Church in Valrico where we’re both members. I had just learned that they’d called in hospice for his wife, Wendi, the 35-year-old mother of three young children whose breast cancer had spread to her liver and spine.
I’d interviewed Wendi a few weeks before when her friends were organizing a benefit to raise funds for her to undergo clinical trials. I’d titled the article “Counting On A Miracle.”
My friend, Nancy Shirina, was with us at church, and I envied her ability to distract Dave, make him chuckle, giving his emotions a much-needed respite from the grief.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t contain my tears, and Dave admonished me.
“Wendi wouldn’t want you to cry,” he said sternly. “No tears.”
“But I was counting on a miracle,” I told him.
“We got our miracle,” he smiled and hugged me.
He was referring to the community’s response to the fundraiser -- the hundreds of people who showed up with yard sale items and baked goods, the businesses that donated raffle items, the residents who purchased tickets and supported the sale, raising $42,000, which will now go into a trust fund for the Mangold children: Mary, 1, Charlie, 3, and Davey, 5.
Dave told us how Wendi was ready to take her place with God; how she had chosen legacy gifts that her children would receive on their 18th birthdays; how she’d planned the details of her funeral and asked that everyone wear bright colors and celebrate her life rather than mourn her death.
Wendi died four days later and, just as she wanted, we all wore bright colors to celebrate her life at her funeral last Wednesday.
Two days after my conversation with Dave, I recalled Wendi’s healthy outlook toward death and the positive affect it will undoubtedly have on her children as we drove to St. Augustine for a rare family trip.
Our Yorkie, Cookie, was with us. Because of her small size, she went everywhere with us. She was perfectly content being carried around in a pouch and would rather be with her family than left with a pet-sitter or at a kennel.
Cookie never made it to the nation’s oldest city. She began having seizures while riding in the back seat with my 11-year-old son, Ian. We turned around and headed home, intending to take her to her vet. I was riding in the back seat holding her in my arms when she died.
Our regular vet, Dr. Sharon Hunter, was closed for the day so we stopped by Care Animal Hospital. Ian insisted on carrying Cookie into the clinic. A woman in tears rushed out as we entered the doors. Nodding knowingly when we described the symptoms, the veterinary technician told us Cookie was the sixth victim of contaminated pet food they’d seen that day.
I permitted Ian to choose an urn for Cookie’s cremated remains and I described to him how peacefully she died in my arms.
We went on to St. Augustine “because Cookie would have wanted it that way,” Ian concluded.
It was late by the time we reached the hotel but Ian couldn’t sleep. He wanted words of comfort, the same words I’d groped for when speaking with Dave earlier that week. I was tempted to call my pastor, Father Bill, but didn’t think he’d appreciate the late-night phone call so I began searching for the inevitable Gideon’s Bible in the hotel desk drawer instead.
I read Psalm 23 to Ian. He wasn’t inspired. He said he already knew the Lord was his shepherd and he didn’t fear death. He wanted to know how to make the hurt go away.
The next day our first visit was to the Mission of Nombre de Dios where we lit a candle and offered a Mass intention for Cookie at the Our Lady of La Leche Shrine.
As we explored the mission grounds we came upon the shrine of St. Francis, patron saint of animals. Cookie always wore a St. Francis medal on her collar.
Ian knelt and read St. Francis’ prayer out loud.
It’s a powerful prayer and Ian grasped its message immediately.
“…that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.
Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted;
to understand, than to be understood;
to love, than to be loved.
For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.
It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.
It is by dying that one awakens to eternal life.”
“He’s saying I’ll stop hurting by reaching out and helping others to stop hurting, helping them understand that death is really eternal life,” Ian said with a wisdom that belied his young years.
Those were the words I wanted to say to Dave Mangold. But they weren’t necessary after all. Dave already knew them.
Iras' Rainbow
***
Iras Donahue and I were unlikely friends.
Iras had a mind like a computer. She got her master’s degree in business administration and was perfectly happy spending her days juggling numbers as a certified management accountant.
I, on the other hand, am chronically math challenged. I’m baffled by the arithmetic it takes to participate in Macy’s 20-percent-off sales.
Nevertheless, Iras and I clicked from the moment we met. She was one of the first people I met when I moved to the area and joined the nearby Catholic church. She set the bar, making me feel welcome – this tiny pixie-like lady with a grin that lit up her entire face.
I felt as if I’d come home.
When the church opened up a Catholic school, Iras volunteered to be the school’s accountant. That proved lucky for me. As I enrolled my son, Ian, in the school that inaugural year, Iras walked me through the financial paperwork.
Over the next five years, Iras continued to make sure my automatic withdrawal account was up to date.
Each Sunday we would sit together at Mass while her husband, Tim, served as usher. When he mentioned he could use some help, I volunteered and he trained me. I became his “underling usher.” I’d call the Donahue household to discuss usher business with Tim, and Iras and I inevitably would get into lengthy conversations about everything from parenting to pedicures, and I’d forget the reason I’d called.
I wish I’d been less hurried, more attentive the last time I spoke with Iras.
We were at Mass and the church was packed. Tim and I gave up our places but I seated my son securely next to Iras.
In between seating latecomers, Iras and I were talking about getting together for a girls’ luncheon, just the two of us.
Out of the norm, Iras wasn’t at Mass the following Sunday. Tim said she hadn’t been feeling well. Later that week, he e-mailed me to say it looked as if Iras needed to have her gall bladder removed. The surgery was scheduled for Friday. He asked if I could handle ushering the Mass alone.
I told him not to worry. I asked him to give Iras my love, assured him I’d say prayers for her and promised to visit after the surgery.
Ever conscientious, Iras left copious instructions at the school, worried about how they’d handle the accounting during her absence.
It’s possible that Iras knew something we didn’t.
The day after her surgery, Iras had a heart attack and fell into a coma. The EKG showed no brain-wave activity and she was placed on life support.
I drove straight to the hospital after getting the news. Tim was able to sneak me into ICU before the staff caught on that I wasn’t a member of the family.
I stood there in shock and held Iras’ tiny hand in mine. I told her I loved her and began whispering prayers. At one point she squeezed my hand. Tim told me it was just a reflex. But I like to believe she somehow heard me, that she knew I was there. It was a moment I forever will cherish.
Ironically, Bob and Mary Schindler, the parents of Terri Schindler Schiavo who was in the national spotlight over the right-to-die issue, were the guest speakers at my church that Sunday. Their visit opened my eyes to the struggles of families facing life-and-death decisions.
Unlike Iras, Terri wasn’t on life support. She only needed a feeding tube to survive, not unlike an infant who needs only a bottle or a breast. Also unlike Iras, Terri had no living will. Iras had made her wishes crystal clear. She did not want to be kept alive on life support.
Still, you could see the pain and indecision in Tim’s eyes. It was agonizing enough to lose the love of his life, but then to be forced to play a role in her death was more than he could bear.
Iras used to tell me how very lucky she was to have Tim for a husband. She’d laugh recalling how her family didn’t want her to marry him because he was an Irish Catholic from the wrong side of the tracks. But Tim quickly won over Iras’ big brother, Alan, who’d taken over the paternal role when their father died. And Tim and Iras’ love only grew stronger over their nearly 40 years of marriage as they consoled one another during times of grief and found solace in their faith.
However, looking at his wife lying in the hospital, surrounded by monitors and wires, Tim knew there would be no miracle for Iras. He was just hoping she would take the decision out of his hands.
But it wasn’t to be. He’d been devoted to her. Now Iras expected Tim to fulfill this one last duty.
I felt so helpless as I hugged Tim shortly after he ordered the doctors to remove Iras from life support. Iras was breathing on her own but her respiration was low. It was only a matter of time. Tim sadly shook his head when I asked if there was anything I could do for him. He just wanted to sit with Iras.
He urged me to go ahead with my plans to participate in the three-day Project Cure breast cancer walk, saying Iras would have wanted me to. The breast cancer walk was in honor of two mothers and the wife of a teacher from our school who lost their lives to breast cancer. Iras knew all three women.
So I walked. Even though my heart felt like it was in my throat, I walked. Sunday, the final day of the walk, the weather was picture perfect. The air was crisp and the skies were sunny with a few fluffy clouds here and there.
As our group of walkers headed down Natures Way toward Culbreath Road in Bloomingdale East on the second lap of that day’s walk, someone shouted, “Look, a rainbow!”
Sure enough, a rainbow had appeared in front of us although there was no rain in the forecast.
My friend, Amy Meany, walking beside me, recalled that a rainbow represents God’s promise. She felt it was a sign that our walk would be a success.
Someone else noticed that the main color of the rainbow was pink, the signature color for the fight against breast cancer.
“I don’t think so,” I said softly, reaching for my cell phone.
I knew Iras was gone even before I heard the agony in Tim’s Voice.
“I know,” I told him. “We’re looking at her rainbow. She’s telling us goodbye and that she loves us.”
My best friend, Mary Owens, had stopped with me as I made the call to Tim.
Tim was too devastated to reply. All I could do was tell him that I loved him before he broke the connection with a sob.
I cried as we continued walking. When we caught up with the other walkers and told them the sad news, we gathered and prayed for Iras.
A meteorologist can provide any number of scientific explanations why that rainbow appeared at that time to that particular group of people.
But Tim told me that Iras always loved rainbows. They were her personal signature. And my friend and fellow walker, Lisa Huetteman, reminded me that the Spanish word for rainbow is “arco iris.”
It made perfect sense that Iras would send us a rainbow to let us know that she was at peace and that she would see us again.
D’Ann White
Oct. 19, 2006
Iras Donahue and I were unlikely friends.
Iras had a mind like a computer. She got her master’s degree in business administration and was perfectly happy spending her days juggling numbers as a certified management accountant.
I, on the other hand, am chronically math challenged. I’m baffled by the arithmetic it takes to participate in Macy’s 20-percent-off sales.
Nevertheless, Iras and I clicked from the moment we met. She was one of the first people I met when I moved to the area and joined the nearby Catholic church. She set the bar, making me feel welcome – this tiny pixie-like lady with a grin that lit up her entire face.
I felt as if I’d come home.
When the church opened up a Catholic school, Iras volunteered to be the school’s accountant. That proved lucky for me. As I enrolled my son, Ian, in the school that inaugural year, Iras walked me through the financial paperwork.
Over the next five years, Iras continued to make sure my automatic withdrawal account was up to date.
Each Sunday we would sit together at Mass while her husband, Tim, served as usher. When he mentioned he could use some help, I volunteered and he trained me. I became his “underling usher.” I’d call the Donahue household to discuss usher business with Tim, and Iras and I inevitably would get into lengthy conversations about everything from parenting to pedicures, and I’d forget the reason I’d called.
I wish I’d been less hurried, more attentive the last time I spoke with Iras.
We were at Mass and the church was packed. Tim and I gave up our places but I seated my son securely next to Iras.
In between seating latecomers, Iras and I were talking about getting together for a girls’ luncheon, just the two of us.
Out of the norm, Iras wasn’t at Mass the following Sunday. Tim said she hadn’t been feeling well. Later that week, he e-mailed me to say it looked as if Iras needed to have her gall bladder removed. The surgery was scheduled for Friday. He asked if I could handle ushering the Mass alone.
I told him not to worry. I asked him to give Iras my love, assured him I’d say prayers for her and promised to visit after the surgery.
Ever conscientious, Iras left copious instructions at the school, worried about how they’d handle the accounting during her absence.
It’s possible that Iras knew something we didn’t.
The day after her surgery, Iras had a heart attack and fell into a coma. The EKG showed no brain-wave activity and she was placed on life support.
I drove straight to the hospital after getting the news. Tim was able to sneak me into ICU before the staff caught on that I wasn’t a member of the family.
I stood there in shock and held Iras’ tiny hand in mine. I told her I loved her and began whispering prayers. At one point she squeezed my hand. Tim told me it was just a reflex. But I like to believe she somehow heard me, that she knew I was there. It was a moment I forever will cherish.
Ironically, Bob and Mary Schindler, the parents of Terri Schindler Schiavo who was in the national spotlight over the right-to-die issue, were the guest speakers at my church that Sunday. Their visit opened my eyes to the struggles of families facing life-and-death decisions.
Unlike Iras, Terri wasn’t on life support. She only needed a feeding tube to survive, not unlike an infant who needs only a bottle or a breast. Also unlike Iras, Terri had no living will. Iras had made her wishes crystal clear. She did not want to be kept alive on life support.
Still, you could see the pain and indecision in Tim’s eyes. It was agonizing enough to lose the love of his life, but then to be forced to play a role in her death was more than he could bear.
Iras used to tell me how very lucky she was to have Tim for a husband. She’d laugh recalling how her family didn’t want her to marry him because he was an Irish Catholic from the wrong side of the tracks. But Tim quickly won over Iras’ big brother, Alan, who’d taken over the paternal role when their father died. And Tim and Iras’ love only grew stronger over their nearly 40 years of marriage as they consoled one another during times of grief and found solace in their faith.
However, looking at his wife lying in the hospital, surrounded by monitors and wires, Tim knew there would be no miracle for Iras. He was just hoping she would take the decision out of his hands.
But it wasn’t to be. He’d been devoted to her. Now Iras expected Tim to fulfill this one last duty.
I felt so helpless as I hugged Tim shortly after he ordered the doctors to remove Iras from life support. Iras was breathing on her own but her respiration was low. It was only a matter of time. Tim sadly shook his head when I asked if there was anything I could do for him. He just wanted to sit with Iras.
He urged me to go ahead with my plans to participate in the three-day Project Cure breast cancer walk, saying Iras would have wanted me to. The breast cancer walk was in honor of two mothers and the wife of a teacher from our school who lost their lives to breast cancer. Iras knew all three women.
So I walked. Even though my heart felt like it was in my throat, I walked. Sunday, the final day of the walk, the weather was picture perfect. The air was crisp and the skies were sunny with a few fluffy clouds here and there.
As our group of walkers headed down Natures Way toward Culbreath Road in Bloomingdale East on the second lap of that day’s walk, someone shouted, “Look, a rainbow!”
Sure enough, a rainbow had appeared in front of us although there was no rain in the forecast.
My friend, Amy Meany, walking beside me, recalled that a rainbow represents God’s promise. She felt it was a sign that our walk would be a success.
Someone else noticed that the main color of the rainbow was pink, the signature color for the fight against breast cancer.
“I don’t think so,” I said softly, reaching for my cell phone.
I knew Iras was gone even before I heard the agony in Tim’s Voice.
“I know,” I told him. “We’re looking at her rainbow. She’s telling us goodbye and that she loves us.”
My best friend, Mary Owens, had stopped with me as I made the call to Tim.
Tim was too devastated to reply. All I could do was tell him that I loved him before he broke the connection with a sob.
I cried as we continued walking. When we caught up with the other walkers and told them the sad news, we gathered and prayed for Iras.
A meteorologist can provide any number of scientific explanations why that rainbow appeared at that time to that particular group of people.
But Tim told me that Iras always loved rainbows. They were her personal signature. And my friend and fellow walker, Lisa Huetteman, reminded me that the Spanish word for rainbow is “arco iris.”
It made perfect sense that Iras would send us a rainbow to let us know that she was at peace and that she would see us again.
D’Ann White
Oct. 19, 2006
Everyday Miracles
By D'Ann Lawrence White
Life hasn’t been perfect.
Like everyone, I’ve had my share of sorrow, my moments of struggle.
“Character builders,” my dad used to call them. He died two years ago after facing the ultimate character builder, a life-and-death battle with cancer.
Nevertheless, even in my darkest hours I can’t imagine the depths of despair that drove Rose Miranda to leave her 6-year-old daughter and 4-year-old son in a borrowed car June 30, 2006, walk into a Crown Bank in Lakeland, hand the teller a note and walk out a few minutes later with a bag of stolen money.
Friend and then-Tampa Tribune cop reporter Mike Wells was on call that weekend and covered the unsettling story.
“We had trouble finding anyone to take the kids,” Lakeland police Sgt. Gary Gross told Wells. “Apparently she doesn’t have many relatives here.”
Although Gross said the children appeared healthy and in good spirits, Miranda said she was out of work and had no money. No gun was found, but Miranda’s note implied she had a gun. Therefore, she was charged with armed robbery.
I was staggered by the sheer desperation it must have taken for a 23-year-old mother to summon up the nerve to rob a bank while her two children waited in the car.
But I wasn’t surprised.
Unfortunately, in my years as a reporter, I’ve witnessed my fair share of hopelessness and despair, and I didn’t have to look far. Right in my own community I’ve seen things most people expect to find only in Third World countries. I’ve seen homeless families sleeping in cars, children foraging in trashcans and elderly invalids left to lie for days in their own feces.
Every year I treat my son to a rather unorthodox Thanksgiving spent feeding the homeless. He watches in astonishment as destitute people emerg from cars, woods and from behind buildings for a hot turkey dinner beneath a shelter. He stood silently beside me while a drug addict described how he’d beaten up his girlfriend after someone sold him crack laced with embalming fluid.
You would think after more than two decades in this business I would become inured to heartache. But every story still reduces me to tears. If anything, I’ve become more empathetic over the years.
Despite their emotional toll, it’s these stories that give my job meaning. Sometimes they make me angry, sometimes sad and helpless, and sometimes the stories are so compelling, so powerful, they’ve changed my life and the lives of people who read them.
If I do my job right, I’m able to convey that sense of injustice, urgency, spirit and poignancy to the reader. Maybe I can bring some attention to a problem, maybe match a person needing help with someone who can provide the help or perhaps simply show the amazing fortitude of the human spirit.
Like that of FishHawk Ranch resident Dan Lynott when he attended the father-daughter dance at Lithia Springs Elementary School.
Dan had married Anita the year before and adopted Anita’s daughter, Mattie. Shortly after they married, Dan discovered he had terminal cancer. His greatest wish was to live long enough to dance with his daughter for the first and last time.
Nor would I have traded the hour I spent watching 9-year-old Sydney Simms and 8-year-old Zachary Tucker giggle as they played the Homer Simpson version of the board game Operation. Both were battling rare forms of cancer. With purple smudges beneath his vivid blue eyes, Zachary had that ethereal quality you’d imagine an angel might have, and I had this terrible ache in my heart as I watched him carefully retrieve Homer’s funny bone as if he hadn’t a care in the world other than winning that game against Sydney. It was then I realized that, without uttering a word, Zachary was sending me a message in his own shy, quiet way. I’d been taking life way too seriously. I hadn’t been spending enough time playing. I stopped at Wal-Mart on my way home and bought the same Simpson Operation game for my son and me to play.
I was struggling with a serious illness of my own May 9, 2006, when I received word that Zach was dead.
I consider it a privilege when people trust me enough to tell their stories, and I’m humbled when, every so often, they lead to a welcome outcome, dare I say miracle?
I’m not talking about the kind of miracle that parts seas or causes statues to weep. I’m talking about the miracles that occur when people respond with genuine human kindness. They’re not nearly as dramatic, but wondrous all the same.
Like the time sheriff’s deputies surprised a family of foster children with a new play set after theirs was stolen just before Christmas. Or when 4-year-old Thomas Tucker of Seffner received the life-saving therapy he needed for spinal muscular atrophy after his story was published.
Sometimes publicity isn’t even necessary. I happened to mention to someone that I knew of a single mother who was having some financial troubles. Before I knew it, word spread a senior adult men’s Bible study class at First Baptist Church of Brandon. The class wrote out a check to me, no questions asked. They figured my word was good enough. In effect, they’d given me a gift as well: their trust.
Granted, as Jesus told his disciples, there always will be poverty, sickness and despair. But, in my experience, there always will be people willing to help.
I wonder if Rose Miranda would be facing armed robbery and child neglect charges today if people had known how desperate she was, if someone had been able to tell her story.
My guess? We’d have pulled off another miracle.
Life hasn’t been perfect.
Like everyone, I’ve had my share of sorrow, my moments of struggle.
“Character builders,” my dad used to call them. He died two years ago after facing the ultimate character builder, a life-and-death battle with cancer.
Nevertheless, even in my darkest hours I can’t imagine the depths of despair that drove Rose Miranda to leave her 6-year-old daughter and 4-year-old son in a borrowed car June 30, 2006, walk into a Crown Bank in Lakeland, hand the teller a note and walk out a few minutes later with a bag of stolen money.
Friend and then-Tampa Tribune cop reporter Mike Wells was on call that weekend and covered the unsettling story.
“We had trouble finding anyone to take the kids,” Lakeland police Sgt. Gary Gross told Wells. “Apparently she doesn’t have many relatives here.”
Although Gross said the children appeared healthy and in good spirits, Miranda said she was out of work and had no money. No gun was found, but Miranda’s note implied she had a gun. Therefore, she was charged with armed robbery.
I was staggered by the sheer desperation it must have taken for a 23-year-old mother to summon up the nerve to rob a bank while her two children waited in the car.
But I wasn’t surprised.
Unfortunately, in my years as a reporter, I’ve witnessed my fair share of hopelessness and despair, and I didn’t have to look far. Right in my own community I’ve seen things most people expect to find only in Third World countries. I’ve seen homeless families sleeping in cars, children foraging in trashcans and elderly invalids left to lie for days in their own feces.
Every year I treat my son to a rather unorthodox Thanksgiving spent feeding the homeless. He watches in astonishment as destitute people emerg from cars, woods and from behind buildings for a hot turkey dinner beneath a shelter. He stood silently beside me while a drug addict described how he’d beaten up his girlfriend after someone sold him crack laced with embalming fluid.
You would think after more than two decades in this business I would become inured to heartache. But every story still reduces me to tears. If anything, I’ve become more empathetic over the years.
Despite their emotional toll, it’s these stories that give my job meaning. Sometimes they make me angry, sometimes sad and helpless, and sometimes the stories are so compelling, so powerful, they’ve changed my life and the lives of people who read them.
If I do my job right, I’m able to convey that sense of injustice, urgency, spirit and poignancy to the reader. Maybe I can bring some attention to a problem, maybe match a person needing help with someone who can provide the help or perhaps simply show the amazing fortitude of the human spirit.
Like that of FishHawk Ranch resident Dan Lynott when he attended the father-daughter dance at Lithia Springs Elementary School.
Dan had married Anita the year before and adopted Anita’s daughter, Mattie. Shortly after they married, Dan discovered he had terminal cancer. His greatest wish was to live long enough to dance with his daughter for the first and last time.
Nor would I have traded the hour I spent watching 9-year-old Sydney Simms and 8-year-old Zachary Tucker giggle as they played the Homer Simpson version of the board game Operation. Both were battling rare forms of cancer. With purple smudges beneath his vivid blue eyes, Zachary had that ethereal quality you’d imagine an angel might have, and I had this terrible ache in my heart as I watched him carefully retrieve Homer’s funny bone as if he hadn’t a care in the world other than winning that game against Sydney. It was then I realized that, without uttering a word, Zachary was sending me a message in his own shy, quiet way. I’d been taking life way too seriously. I hadn’t been spending enough time playing. I stopped at Wal-Mart on my way home and bought the same Simpson Operation game for my son and me to play.
I was struggling with a serious illness of my own May 9, 2006, when I received word that Zach was dead.
I consider it a privilege when people trust me enough to tell their stories, and I’m humbled when, every so often, they lead to a welcome outcome, dare I say miracle?
I’m not talking about the kind of miracle that parts seas or causes statues to weep. I’m talking about the miracles that occur when people respond with genuine human kindness. They’re not nearly as dramatic, but wondrous all the same.
Like the time sheriff’s deputies surprised a family of foster children with a new play set after theirs was stolen just before Christmas. Or when 4-year-old Thomas Tucker of Seffner received the life-saving therapy he needed for spinal muscular atrophy after his story was published.
Sometimes publicity isn’t even necessary. I happened to mention to someone that I knew of a single mother who was having some financial troubles. Before I knew it, word spread a senior adult men’s Bible study class at First Baptist Church of Brandon. The class wrote out a check to me, no questions asked. They figured my word was good enough. In effect, they’d given me a gift as well: their trust.
Granted, as Jesus told his disciples, there always will be poverty, sickness and despair. But, in my experience, there always will be people willing to help.
I wonder if Rose Miranda would be facing armed robbery and child neglect charges today if people had known how desperate she was, if someone had been able to tell her story.
My guess? We’d have pulled off another miracle.
What Were They Thinking?
By D'Ann Lawrence White
If I had my way, the Fourth of July would fall some time around mid-January.
What were our Founding Fathers thinking when they signed the Declaration of Independence in sweltering weather?
Sure, they were smart enough to write this enduring document, a document that could withstand 230 years of court battles. But they didn’t have the foresight to figure out that we would be obligated to stage parades and fireworks displays on the hottest day of the year.
Or maybe they did. Maybe before signing the Declaration of Independence, Button Gwinnett from the most southern of the 13 colonies, Georgia, asked the rest of the guys to reconsider.
“Hey, can’t we wait a few months to sign this thing?” pleaded Gwinnett. “If we sign it today, people won’t need to light a fire to cook their celebratory barbecue ribs.”
Unfortunately, he was outvoted by all those patriots from cooler climes.
“What do you mean?” countered fellow signee William Whipple of New Hampshire. “July’s a great time of the year. It’s perfect beer and baseball weather.”
Thomas Jefferson was tapped to head a committee to compose the Declaration of Independence in early June 1776 and he quickly got down to business, presenting the first draft to the Second Continental Congress June 28.
Of course, that first try wasn’t quite up to snuff. The Second Continental Congress suggested some changes -- 86 in all. So Jefferson and his team -- John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Philip Livingston and Roger Sherman -- went back to the drawing room, so to speak, and came back out on July 4.
They could have stayed in the drawing room longer. We’re talking about a critical document. Clearly it deserved to be pondered over until at least … umm … October.
My theory is that Jefferson and Adams somehow knew they would both die on July 4, 1826, and they liked the irony of having the Declaration of Independence signed on the same day.
Actually, our forefathers didn’t finish signing the declaration until August. It was July 4 that the colonies voted to accept the Declaration of Independence. By the way, of the 13 colonies, nine voted in favor of the declaration. Pennsylvania and South Carolina voted against it. Delaware was undecided and New York abstained.
Granted, I dread the blazing temperatures that are inevitable on Independence Day. Nevertheless, I haven’t missed a Brandon celebration in 22 years.
Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment but there’s nothing that evokes those warm-and-fuzzy feelings like a hometown parade led by the sheriff’s deputies and veterans color guard.
I’ve viewed the parade from just about every angle, including some I’d rather forget.
I still cringe when I recall once walking the entire parade route wearing a cardboard box painted to look like a newspaper rack. Fortunately, I wasn’t alone. Fellow employees Marci Alter and Susie Howell shared my humiliation. Near the end of the parade, my newspaper rack got overheated and fell over in someone’s yard, and my fellow newspaper racks had to run off and summon help.
I’ve posed as other characters throughout the years -- a World War I dough boy, an 1890s paper boy and Uncle Sam. I’ve driven in, ridden in and walked behind cars, trucks and golf carts in the parade. I’ve sat on the reviewing stand where I’ve been bombarded with beads as I’ve tried to judge cheerleading squads, floats, marching bands and Scout troops. I’ve walked the parade route taking photos of adorable kids keeping comfortably cool in wading pools and lamenting with those parents who didn’t think to bring wading pools. And I’ve simply sat beneath the shelter of an oak tree at Campbell’s Dairyland, cradling my toddler in my lap, seeing the Shriners’ miniature motorcycle camels through his eyes.
As sweat pours down my face and I reach for my battery-operated combination fan and water spritzer and pull another can of ice-cold soda from the cooler, I’m reminded that I’m sharing in a tradition that began July 4, 1778. That’s when American celebrated the signing of the Declaration of Independence with the first “procession” and fireworks display.
They didn’t have battery-operated fans, wading pools and ice-filled coolers back then. So who am I to complain about the heat?
If I had my way, the Fourth of July would fall some time around mid-January.
What were our Founding Fathers thinking when they signed the Declaration of Independence in sweltering weather?
Sure, they were smart enough to write this enduring document, a document that could withstand 230 years of court battles. But they didn’t have the foresight to figure out that we would be obligated to stage parades and fireworks displays on the hottest day of the year.
Or maybe they did. Maybe before signing the Declaration of Independence, Button Gwinnett from the most southern of the 13 colonies, Georgia, asked the rest of the guys to reconsider.
“Hey, can’t we wait a few months to sign this thing?” pleaded Gwinnett. “If we sign it today, people won’t need to light a fire to cook their celebratory barbecue ribs.”
Unfortunately, he was outvoted by all those patriots from cooler climes.
“What do you mean?” countered fellow signee William Whipple of New Hampshire. “July’s a great time of the year. It’s perfect beer and baseball weather.”
Thomas Jefferson was tapped to head a committee to compose the Declaration of Independence in early June 1776 and he quickly got down to business, presenting the first draft to the Second Continental Congress June 28.
Of course, that first try wasn’t quite up to snuff. The Second Continental Congress suggested some changes -- 86 in all. So Jefferson and his team -- John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Philip Livingston and Roger Sherman -- went back to the drawing room, so to speak, and came back out on July 4.
They could have stayed in the drawing room longer. We’re talking about a critical document. Clearly it deserved to be pondered over until at least … umm … October.
My theory is that Jefferson and Adams somehow knew they would both die on July 4, 1826, and they liked the irony of having the Declaration of Independence signed on the same day.
Actually, our forefathers didn’t finish signing the declaration until August. It was July 4 that the colonies voted to accept the Declaration of Independence. By the way, of the 13 colonies, nine voted in favor of the declaration. Pennsylvania and South Carolina voted against it. Delaware was undecided and New York abstained.
Granted, I dread the blazing temperatures that are inevitable on Independence Day. Nevertheless, I haven’t missed a Brandon celebration in 22 years.
Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment but there’s nothing that evokes those warm-and-fuzzy feelings like a hometown parade led by the sheriff’s deputies and veterans color guard.
I’ve viewed the parade from just about every angle, including some I’d rather forget.
I still cringe when I recall once walking the entire parade route wearing a cardboard box painted to look like a newspaper rack. Fortunately, I wasn’t alone. Fellow employees Marci Alter and Susie Howell shared my humiliation. Near the end of the parade, my newspaper rack got overheated and fell over in someone’s yard, and my fellow newspaper racks had to run off and summon help.
I’ve posed as other characters throughout the years -- a World War I dough boy, an 1890s paper boy and Uncle Sam. I’ve driven in, ridden in and walked behind cars, trucks and golf carts in the parade. I’ve sat on the reviewing stand where I’ve been bombarded with beads as I’ve tried to judge cheerleading squads, floats, marching bands and Scout troops. I’ve walked the parade route taking photos of adorable kids keeping comfortably cool in wading pools and lamenting with those parents who didn’t think to bring wading pools. And I’ve simply sat beneath the shelter of an oak tree at Campbell’s Dairyland, cradling my toddler in my lap, seeing the Shriners’ miniature motorcycle camels through his eyes.
As sweat pours down my face and I reach for my battery-operated combination fan and water spritzer and pull another can of ice-cold soda from the cooler, I’m reminded that I’m sharing in a tradition that began July 4, 1778. That’s when American celebrated the signing of the Declaration of Independence with the first “procession” and fireworks display.
They didn’t have battery-operated fans, wading pools and ice-filled coolers back then. So who am I to complain about the heat?
Words To Live By
By D'Ann Lawrence White
The bumpy six-hour ride to Tallahassee for the Greater Brandon Chamber of Commerce’s Tallahassee Trek was an ideal opportunity to observe my fellow trekkers outside the normal chamber events and community functions.
Dr. Carlos Soto, president of the Brandon campus of Hillsborough Community College, passed the time listening to classic rock songs by “The Who” as well as some of his son’s contemporary choices on his MP3 player. Wearing headphones, he stomped his foot to the beat of songs unheard by his fellow passengers.
Meanwhile, Tribune ad manager Melonie Hall dosed herself with Dramamine and moved to the front of the bus to keep the nausea caused by bad shocks or a misaligned axle at bay.
The rough ride combined with the hum of the bus engine had the opposite effect on me, lulling me to sleep. Not even the victory shouts and groans of defeat from the back of the bus where a group of trekkers played poker could disrupt my state of semiconsciousness. I was aware of the conversations around me but couldn’t shake off the urge to slumber.
The discussions in front and behind me ranged from the high rate of homeowner’s insurance to the Gators’ chances of bringing home their first national basketball championship.
In my near dream state, I heard Kerri McDougall ask the question, “Who would you have lunch with if you could invite anyone, dead or alive?”
I silently seconded George May and Andy Mason’s choice of Thomas Jefferson. With the ongoing debate over separation of church and state, I’d love to know once and for all if our forefathers intended to keep any reference to God out of our government buildings and schools.
However, if I could have roused myself enough to join the conversation, I would have told them my first choice would be Mother Teresa of Calcutta.
I’d heard stories about Mother Teresa all my life, how she worked tirelessly to provide the poorest of children with an education and would sit for days comforting people dying of leprosy and AIDS.
But it wasn’t until she was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979 that I realized she was not only a woman of great faith but also a woman of great wisdom. Although she’d never claim to be one of the world’s great intellects, her words demonstrated an understanding of humanity you can’t learn from books.
They were words that transcended religion and politics, words that all people can take to heart.
Her belief that the home, the family is the root of all the world’s joys as well as its woes was a constant reminder to me that the most important job I have is raising my son.
“Just get together, love one another, bring that peace, that joy, that strength of presence in each other in the home. And we will be able to overcome all the evil that is in the world … Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do but how much love we put in the action that we do,” she said.
The endless despair she witnessed would have overwhelmed the average person. However, she never allowed the sheer numbers of those suffering to get the best of her.
“If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one,” she said. “It is not the magnitude of our actions but the amount of love that is put into them that matters.”
However, it was her gentle smile in the face of all that despair that most impressed me.
Whenever I encounter an angry driver pointing a finger my way, Mother Teresa beseeches me to smile, “especially when it is difficult to smile, for the smile is the beginning of love.”
Whenever I come across an irritable sales clerk, I recall Mother Teresa’s plea for understanding: “Kind words can be short and easy to speak,” she said. “But their echoes are truly endless.”
I keep a picture of Mother Teresa on my desk at work as a constant reminder to be patient and kind as I deal with the pressures of deadlines, unreasonable demands and hurtful criticism. The photo sits beside my computer where I can gaze at it while an irate reader berates me on the telephone.
Mother Teresa mounted a sign on the wall of Shishu Bhavan, the children’s home she founded in Calcutta. It’s her own version of “The Paradoxical Commandments” written by author Kent Keith when he was a sophomore at Harvard University. Keith’s commandments originally were written for publication for student leaders. Mother Teresa amended them to fit any situation.
Her version is mounted to my refrigerator with a Spongebob Squarepants magnet where I can review them as I rummage through outdated milk cartons and week-old leftovers in search of something to make for dinner:
“People are often unreasonable and self-centered; forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of ulterior motives; be kind anyway.
If you are honest, people may cheat you; be honest anyway.
If you find happiness, people may be jealous; be happy anyway.
The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow; do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough; give your best anyway.
For you see, in the end, it is between you and God; it was never between you and them anyway.”
I have no doubt that my fantasy lunch with Mother Teresa, most likely a meager meal of rice and bread, would be the richest lunch of my life.
The bumpy six-hour ride to Tallahassee for the Greater Brandon Chamber of Commerce’s Tallahassee Trek was an ideal opportunity to observe my fellow trekkers outside the normal chamber events and community functions.
Dr. Carlos Soto, president of the Brandon campus of Hillsborough Community College, passed the time listening to classic rock songs by “The Who” as well as some of his son’s contemporary choices on his MP3 player. Wearing headphones, he stomped his foot to the beat of songs unheard by his fellow passengers.
Meanwhile, Tribune ad manager Melonie Hall dosed herself with Dramamine and moved to the front of the bus to keep the nausea caused by bad shocks or a misaligned axle at bay.
The rough ride combined with the hum of the bus engine had the opposite effect on me, lulling me to sleep. Not even the victory shouts and groans of defeat from the back of the bus where a group of trekkers played poker could disrupt my state of semiconsciousness. I was aware of the conversations around me but couldn’t shake off the urge to slumber.
The discussions in front and behind me ranged from the high rate of homeowner’s insurance to the Gators’ chances of bringing home their first national basketball championship.
In my near dream state, I heard Kerri McDougall ask the question, “Who would you have lunch with if you could invite anyone, dead or alive?”
I silently seconded George May and Andy Mason’s choice of Thomas Jefferson. With the ongoing debate over separation of church and state, I’d love to know once and for all if our forefathers intended to keep any reference to God out of our government buildings and schools.
However, if I could have roused myself enough to join the conversation, I would have told them my first choice would be Mother Teresa of Calcutta.
I’d heard stories about Mother Teresa all my life, how she worked tirelessly to provide the poorest of children with an education and would sit for days comforting people dying of leprosy and AIDS.
But it wasn’t until she was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979 that I realized she was not only a woman of great faith but also a woman of great wisdom. Although she’d never claim to be one of the world’s great intellects, her words demonstrated an understanding of humanity you can’t learn from books.
They were words that transcended religion and politics, words that all people can take to heart.
Her belief that the home, the family is the root of all the world’s joys as well as its woes was a constant reminder to me that the most important job I have is raising my son.
“Just get together, love one another, bring that peace, that joy, that strength of presence in each other in the home. And we will be able to overcome all the evil that is in the world … Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do but how much love we put in the action that we do,” she said.
The endless despair she witnessed would have overwhelmed the average person. However, she never allowed the sheer numbers of those suffering to get the best of her.
“If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one,” she said. “It is not the magnitude of our actions but the amount of love that is put into them that matters.”
However, it was her gentle smile in the face of all that despair that most impressed me.
Whenever I encounter an angry driver pointing a finger my way, Mother Teresa beseeches me to smile, “especially when it is difficult to smile, for the smile is the beginning of love.”
Whenever I come across an irritable sales clerk, I recall Mother Teresa’s plea for understanding: “Kind words can be short and easy to speak,” she said. “But their echoes are truly endless.”
I keep a picture of Mother Teresa on my desk at work as a constant reminder to be patient and kind as I deal with the pressures of deadlines, unreasonable demands and hurtful criticism. The photo sits beside my computer where I can gaze at it while an irate reader berates me on the telephone.
Mother Teresa mounted a sign on the wall of Shishu Bhavan, the children’s home she founded in Calcutta. It’s her own version of “The Paradoxical Commandments” written by author Kent Keith when he was a sophomore at Harvard University. Keith’s commandments originally were written for publication for student leaders. Mother Teresa amended them to fit any situation.
Her version is mounted to my refrigerator with a Spongebob Squarepants magnet where I can review them as I rummage through outdated milk cartons and week-old leftovers in search of something to make for dinner:
“People are often unreasonable and self-centered; forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of ulterior motives; be kind anyway.
If you are honest, people may cheat you; be honest anyway.
If you find happiness, people may be jealous; be happy anyway.
The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow; do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough; give your best anyway.
For you see, in the end, it is between you and God; it was never between you and them anyway.”
I have no doubt that my fantasy lunch with Mother Teresa, most likely a meager meal of rice and bread, would be the richest lunch of my life.
I Get By With A Lot Of Help From My Friends
"My tongue is the pen of a ready writer." Psalm 45
By D'Ann Lawrence White Tampa
It’s not that I’m a loner. On the contrary, I’m the ultimate people person.
My husband and 10-year-old son lament that a simple trip to the store for a gallon of milk turns into a marathon for me because I can’t resist striking up a conversation with the nearest person, whether I know him or not.
It doesn’t matter if the target of my verbal onslaught is grumpy and antisocial. He’s simply more of a challenge.
No, being around people isn’t my problem. Having to depend on people is.
Ask my mom who used to call me Little Miss Independence because I always insisted on doing things on my own in my own way.
I couldn’t wait for teachers to do their jobs. I taught myself to read, and then I proceeded to read everything I could get my hands on.
My parents must have cringed when I graduated from the University of Missouri, loaded my 1975 Oldsmobile with all my earthly possessions and drove from St. Louis to New England to begin my first newspaper job.
I didn’t even have an apartment lined up. I slept in my car until someone directed me to Mrs. Bernasconi’s boarding house.
But Mom and Dad, bless them, never interfered.
They knew I had to do it my way.
Once I heard my mom’s friend ask her about my marriage prospects. “Oh, I don’t think D’Ann will ever get married,” she answered. “She’s too independent.”
It surprised us both when I met and married my husband, Michael, 25 years ago.
But my husband’s a rare breed who’s always sensed my need for space and never griped about late-night meetings, 1 a.m. deadlines or sacrificing weekends for the sake of a story.
I was able to vigorously guard my independence until my son was born.
Being a working mom with a child, I found myself having to ask a friend for a favor here and there, always careful to keep track and return the favor.
“I’m running late. Can you pick my son up from school?” “I’ve got to be at a meeting. Can you take my son to the birthday party since you’re already going?”
It bothered me and I did it sparingly. I hate having to admit I can’t do it all.
However, in April I wasn’t given a choice. I became ill, was stuck in bed for an extended, agonizingly boring period of time and wound up in the hospital.
The upshot is I learned a few new lessons.
I learned that I really can do that stunt Jennifer Beals performed in the movie “Flashdance” when she removed her sports bra without taking off her shirt.
There were no rooms available in the emergency room so I was on a gurney in the hallway when the nurse asked me to change into a gown. No problem. “What a feeling!”
Unfortunately, I also learned I was claustrophobic when the MRI technician rolled me into that big tube.
Simultaneously, I learned how easily rules can be broken when it means calming a hysterical woman.
“OK, lady, we’ll let your husband inside the room with you. Just stop screaming.”
Most importantly, I learned how much I need my friends, especially my two best friends, Mary and Rita.
I met Mary nearly 11 years ago when we showed up at Primary Prep preschool cradling our 6-week-old babies, born just a week apart.
We both wore that look of indecision and fear you see on the faces of all new working moms placing their babies in the hands of virtual strangers, and we bonded instantly.
We attend the same church. Our kids attend the same school and summer camps and Mary’s become a second mother to my son, a mother who is way more organized, a better disciplinarian and much more patient than I am, which is why I teasingly call her St. Mary.
I think people are a little surprised to find out we’re best friends.
She’s so together and I’m so, well, not together.
I met Rita about three years later when she, her husband and three children moved into the house two doors down from ours.
Our boys promptly struck up a friendship and are best friends to this day.
Likewise, Rita and I immediately connected. Rita also attends the same church and our kids go to the same school.
Rita and I share the same quirky sense of humor that some people, namely our husbands, just don’t understand.
For instance, neither of us had time to put together a really creative Greek god costume for the fourth-grade Mount Olympus festival so we challenged one another to put together the lamest costume.
Rita won by sticking an old brown shepherd’s tunic over her kid’s head and calling him Thor.
During my six-week illness, between Mary and Rita, I never had to worry once about who would pick up my son from school, who would drive him to extracurricular activities, birthday parties, the St. Stephen Spring Jubilee and Scout meetings.
Mary hosted my family at her house on Easter and made sure my son got to participate in an Easter egg hunt.
She prepared dinners for my husband and served as a surrogate parent for my son at Meet the Teacher Night at school.
Rita, likewise, entertained my son with movies and overnight stays.
She rushed to my side at the hospital (Mary was out of town or she’d most likely have been there as well), where she laughed, witnessing my "Flashdance" performance.
She left the hospital only to pick up our kids from school and then care for my son until my husband left the hospital to retrieve him.
Then, in one of the most spiritual experiences of my life, Rita sat beside me, holding my hand while my priest, Father Bill, performed the sacrament of the anointing of the sick on my behalf.
It wasn’t easy for me -- letting go, admitting that I needed help. And, no matter how much Rita and Mary demur, their gift isn’t a simple favor that can be repaid in kind, though I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying.
I believe people come into your life for a reason. You can either accept them or turn them away. My first instinct was to turn them away. Thank God Mary and Rita wouldn’t let me.
By D'Ann Lawrence White Tampa
It’s not that I’m a loner. On the contrary, I’m the ultimate people person.
My husband and 10-year-old son lament that a simple trip to the store for a gallon of milk turns into a marathon for me because I can’t resist striking up a conversation with the nearest person, whether I know him or not.
It doesn’t matter if the target of my verbal onslaught is grumpy and antisocial. He’s simply more of a challenge.
No, being around people isn’t my problem. Having to depend on people is.
Ask my mom who used to call me Little Miss Independence because I always insisted on doing things on my own in my own way.
I couldn’t wait for teachers to do their jobs. I taught myself to read, and then I proceeded to read everything I could get my hands on.
My parents must have cringed when I graduated from the University of Missouri, loaded my 1975 Oldsmobile with all my earthly possessions and drove from St. Louis to New England to begin my first newspaper job.
I didn’t even have an apartment lined up. I slept in my car until someone directed me to Mrs. Bernasconi’s boarding house.
But Mom and Dad, bless them, never interfered.
They knew I had to do it my way.
Once I heard my mom’s friend ask her about my marriage prospects. “Oh, I don’t think D’Ann will ever get married,” she answered. “She’s too independent.”
It surprised us both when I met and married my husband, Michael, 25 years ago.
But my husband’s a rare breed who’s always sensed my need for space and never griped about late-night meetings, 1 a.m. deadlines or sacrificing weekends for the sake of a story.
I was able to vigorously guard my independence until my son was born.
Being a working mom with a child, I found myself having to ask a friend for a favor here and there, always careful to keep track and return the favor.
“I’m running late. Can you pick my son up from school?” “I’ve got to be at a meeting. Can you take my son to the birthday party since you’re already going?”
It bothered me and I did it sparingly. I hate having to admit I can’t do it all.
However, in April I wasn’t given a choice. I became ill, was stuck in bed for an extended, agonizingly boring period of time and wound up in the hospital.
The upshot is I learned a few new lessons.
I learned that I really can do that stunt Jennifer Beals performed in the movie “Flashdance” when she removed her sports bra without taking off her shirt.
There were no rooms available in the emergency room so I was on a gurney in the hallway when the nurse asked me to change into a gown. No problem. “What a feeling!”
Unfortunately, I also learned I was claustrophobic when the MRI technician rolled me into that big tube.
Simultaneously, I learned how easily rules can be broken when it means calming a hysterical woman.
“OK, lady, we’ll let your husband inside the room with you. Just stop screaming.”
Most importantly, I learned how much I need my friends, especially my two best friends, Mary and Rita.
I met Mary nearly 11 years ago when we showed up at Primary Prep preschool cradling our 6-week-old babies, born just a week apart.
We both wore that look of indecision and fear you see on the faces of all new working moms placing their babies in the hands of virtual strangers, and we bonded instantly.
We attend the same church. Our kids attend the same school and summer camps and Mary’s become a second mother to my son, a mother who is way more organized, a better disciplinarian and much more patient than I am, which is why I teasingly call her St. Mary.
I think people are a little surprised to find out we’re best friends.
She’s so together and I’m so, well, not together.
I met Rita about three years later when she, her husband and three children moved into the house two doors down from ours.
Our boys promptly struck up a friendship and are best friends to this day.
Likewise, Rita and I immediately connected. Rita also attends the same church and our kids go to the same school.
Rita and I share the same quirky sense of humor that some people, namely our husbands, just don’t understand.
For instance, neither of us had time to put together a really creative Greek god costume for the fourth-grade Mount Olympus festival so we challenged one another to put together the lamest costume.
Rita won by sticking an old brown shepherd’s tunic over her kid’s head and calling him Thor.
During my six-week illness, between Mary and Rita, I never had to worry once about who would pick up my son from school, who would drive him to extracurricular activities, birthday parties, the St. Stephen Spring Jubilee and Scout meetings.
Mary hosted my family at her house on Easter and made sure my son got to participate in an Easter egg hunt.
She prepared dinners for my husband and served as a surrogate parent for my son at Meet the Teacher Night at school.
Rita, likewise, entertained my son with movies and overnight stays.
She rushed to my side at the hospital (Mary was out of town or she’d most likely have been there as well), where she laughed, witnessing my "Flashdance" performance.
She left the hospital only to pick up our kids from school and then care for my son until my husband left the hospital to retrieve him.
Then, in one of the most spiritual experiences of my life, Rita sat beside me, holding my hand while my priest, Father Bill, performed the sacrament of the anointing of the sick on my behalf.
It wasn’t easy for me -- letting go, admitting that I needed help. And, no matter how much Rita and Mary demur, their gift isn’t a simple favor that can be repaid in kind, though I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying.
I believe people come into your life for a reason. You can either accept them or turn them away. My first instinct was to turn them away. Thank God Mary and Rita wouldn’t let me.
A Little Money Goes A Long Way
Test tubes and microscopes don’t normally excite me unless, of course, the tubes are filled with liquid gold or the scopes are focused on diamonds.
However, I have to admit the equipment in staff scientist Sean Yoder’s lab held special appeal for me despite its lack of glitter.
A group of friends and me were taking a tour of the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program at the H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center & Research Institute in Tampa, getting a dumb-downed explanation of how the money we raised from last year’s Project Cure was being used.
Project Cure is our pie-in-the-sky dream of wiping out breast cancer. However, we discovered our dream might not be quite so out of reach anymore.
Four years ago we decided to raise money for breast cancer research after three young mothers at our children’s school, St. Stephen Catholic School in Riverview, died from the disease. Two of the mothers had children in my son’s class and the third was the wife of the music and art teacher.
Determined to take action, we hosted a three-day, 60-mile walk along Natures Way in Bloomingdale East as well as a children’s walk and festival at the school. We sold pink baseball caps decorated with the breast cancer signature ribbon, jewelry, signed up sponsors for the walks, solicited donations, even stood on street corners with jars during the three-day walk.
Frankly, we were a bit stunned to discover we’d raised $26,000 during the first-time effort. There were six of us in the core group and none of us had ever tackled a major fundraiser before. We just knew that we had lost too many friends to this terrible disease and needed to take action, to ease our sense of helplessness and grief, to give meaning to our friends’ deaths and to show their children they did not die in vain.
Heck, I was just happy I completed all 60 miles.
It wasn’t until July that I discovered the real impact we made. That’s when Moffitt arranged a tour for us including lunch with Dr. Bradford Carter, a cancer surgeon, professor of oncology surgery and leader of the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program.
He’s also my personal hero. I saw him speak at a breast cancer fundraiser hosted by the Lightning Foundation and the Greater Brandon Community Foundation at Bell Shoals Baptist Church in 2005, and was impressed by the research he spoke of that was taking place at Moffitt. I hadn’t realized such groundbreaking studies were occurring in our own back yard.
In fact, Moffitt is ranked third in research and treatment in the country by the National Cancer Institute and has 13 clinical programs studying different types of cancer including the Don & Erika Wallace program.
When we discovered we could raise funds that would all go to research, not administrative costs or overhead, we agreed that Moffitt should be our benefactor.
We knew our money was in good hands when we turned it over to Shirley Fessell. She not only works for the foundation but happens to be a parishioner at St. Stephen Catholic Church. Ironically, we didn’t meet her until after we chose the foundation as our charity.
The researchers at the foundation, though, will tell you that Shirley didn’t mince words when she handed them our hard-earned treasure.
“This is the Lord’s money,” she told them solemnly. “It has to be used for something special.”
It just so happened Moffitt researchers had something special in need of funding.
Dr. Pam Munster, a member of Moffitt’s Division of Experimental Therapeutics and Breast Oncology, was short $10,000 to complete an important Phase I clinical trial. Munster is looking at women’s DNA histories and how they can be used to optimize the benefits of chemotherapy for breast cancer.
Right now, doctors blast cancer patients with chemo, hoping the chemo will find the cancer cells. However, only 15 out of 100 patients actually benefit from the treatment.
Munster is trying to figure out how to unravel each patient’s DNA so doctors can target the cancer cells and leave the healthy cells alone.
The study goes along with Moffitt’s new partnership with Merck & Co. Inc., which is supplying the technology for Moffitt to collect the DNA samples of 50,000 patients and identify the genetic markers, allowing doctors to personalize cancer therapy for all patients. That’s what Yoder was doing the day of our tour. He was examining all these miniscule microarrays through the microscope, studying their genome structure.
So, according to Carter, a group of women with little more than luck and good intentions managed to help complete an important Phase I clinical trial and help begin the second phase. I’d say that’s better than liquid gold or diamonds.
“Your contribution made a huge impact,” said Carter, and I don’t think he was just humoring us because he added that competition for research dollars from the National Institute of Health, the American Cancer Society and other groups is pretty fierce. To be handed 26,000 unfettered dollars is a coup.
I got the distinct impression that he wanted us to go back and raise more money.
So that’s what we’re doing for the fourth year. To date, we’ve raised more than $70,000. We’re inviting all churches in the community to form teams and join us for the fourth annual Project Cure walk Nov. 13-15. Although it’s a three-day, 60-mile walk, participants are free to walk any distance they feel comfortable and to raise as much money as they can. There is no requirement to raise a minimum amount of money.
Registration forms are available at www.projectcure.ststephencatholic.org.
However, I have to admit the equipment in staff scientist Sean Yoder’s lab held special appeal for me despite its lack of glitter.
A group of friends and me were taking a tour of the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program at the H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center & Research Institute in Tampa, getting a dumb-downed explanation of how the money we raised from last year’s Project Cure was being used.
Project Cure is our pie-in-the-sky dream of wiping out breast cancer. However, we discovered our dream might not be quite so out of reach anymore.
Four years ago we decided to raise money for breast cancer research after three young mothers at our children’s school, St. Stephen Catholic School in Riverview, died from the disease. Two of the mothers had children in my son’s class and the third was the wife of the music and art teacher.
Determined to take action, we hosted a three-day, 60-mile walk along Natures Way in Bloomingdale East as well as a children’s walk and festival at the school. We sold pink baseball caps decorated with the breast cancer signature ribbon, jewelry, signed up sponsors for the walks, solicited donations, even stood on street corners with jars during the three-day walk.
Frankly, we were a bit stunned to discover we’d raised $26,000 during the first-time effort. There were six of us in the core group and none of us had ever tackled a major fundraiser before. We just knew that we had lost too many friends to this terrible disease and needed to take action, to ease our sense of helplessness and grief, to give meaning to our friends’ deaths and to show their children they did not die in vain.
Heck, I was just happy I completed all 60 miles.
It wasn’t until July that I discovered the real impact we made. That’s when Moffitt arranged a tour for us including lunch with Dr. Bradford Carter, a cancer surgeon, professor of oncology surgery and leader of the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program.
He’s also my personal hero. I saw him speak at a breast cancer fundraiser hosted by the Lightning Foundation and the Greater Brandon Community Foundation at Bell Shoals Baptist Church in 2005, and was impressed by the research he spoke of that was taking place at Moffitt. I hadn’t realized such groundbreaking studies were occurring in our own back yard.
In fact, Moffitt is ranked third in research and treatment in the country by the National Cancer Institute and has 13 clinical programs studying different types of cancer including the Don & Erika Wallace program.
When we discovered we could raise funds that would all go to research, not administrative costs or overhead, we agreed that Moffitt should be our benefactor.
We knew our money was in good hands when we turned it over to Shirley Fessell. She not only works for the foundation but happens to be a parishioner at St. Stephen Catholic Church. Ironically, we didn’t meet her until after we chose the foundation as our charity.
The researchers at the foundation, though, will tell you that Shirley didn’t mince words when she handed them our hard-earned treasure.
“This is the Lord’s money,” she told them solemnly. “It has to be used for something special.”
It just so happened Moffitt researchers had something special in need of funding.
Dr. Pam Munster, a member of Moffitt’s Division of Experimental Therapeutics and Breast Oncology, was short $10,000 to complete an important Phase I clinical trial. Munster is looking at women’s DNA histories and how they can be used to optimize the benefits of chemotherapy for breast cancer.
Right now, doctors blast cancer patients with chemo, hoping the chemo will find the cancer cells. However, only 15 out of 100 patients actually benefit from the treatment.
Munster is trying to figure out how to unravel each patient’s DNA so doctors can target the cancer cells and leave the healthy cells alone.
The study goes along with Moffitt’s new partnership with Merck & Co. Inc., which is supplying the technology for Moffitt to collect the DNA samples of 50,000 patients and identify the genetic markers, allowing doctors to personalize cancer therapy for all patients. That’s what Yoder was doing the day of our tour. He was examining all these miniscule microarrays through the microscope, studying their genome structure.
So, according to Carter, a group of women with little more than luck and good intentions managed to help complete an important Phase I clinical trial and help begin the second phase. I’d say that’s better than liquid gold or diamonds.
“Your contribution made a huge impact,” said Carter, and I don’t think he was just humoring us because he added that competition for research dollars from the National Institute of Health, the American Cancer Society and other groups is pretty fierce. To be handed 26,000 unfettered dollars is a coup.
I got the distinct impression that he wanted us to go back and raise more money.
So that’s what we’re doing for the fourth year. To date, we’ve raised more than $70,000. We’re inviting all churches in the community to form teams and join us for the fourth annual Project Cure walk Nov. 13-15. Although it’s a three-day, 60-mile walk, participants are free to walk any distance they feel comfortable and to raise as much money as they can. There is no requirement to raise a minimum amount of money.
Registration forms are available at www.projectcure.ststephencatholic.org.
You Can No Longer Sit On Your Hands
By D’Ann Lawrence White
My four fellow walkers applauded as I crossed the finish line one of them created by rubbing the toe of her athletic shoe across the dirt in the parking lot.
I’d completed my first 18-mile walk.
It was far from doing the 60 miles over three days I was expected to do the next weekend for Project Cure. But it wasn’t too shabby for a 47-year-old woman whose idea of exercise up until recently had been carrying a basket of laundry up the stairs and chasing the cat out the door.
We’d been training all summer, every weekend at 5:30 a.m. on Natures Way where our three-day walk to benefit the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program for the H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center & Research Institute would take place in memory of our friends at St. Stephen Catholic Church and School who lost their lives to breast cancer.
I was determined to walk, not only for my friends Rosana Bryant and Cheryl Nance, who died in their 30s leaving young children behind, but for all my other loved ones and friends who have lost their lives to cancer.
You reach the point where you can no longer sit on your hands, and when I heard a Moffitt researcher speak at the Greater Brandon Community Foundation Pink Tea and learned that the cancer center was conducting breakthrough genome research, I realized we could make a measurable difference by putting funds directly into the hands of the people who are seeking answers.
That was really my only contribution to Project Cure. We teamed up with the Lightning Foundation, which already had the fundraising arm in place and allowed us to sell its signature pink baseball caps with all proceeds going to the Wallace program.
All the real work was accomplished by a group of women whose strength and determination leaves me in awe – Lisa Huetteman, Mary Owens, Ivette Wagner, Amy Meany and Jean Weber, with a whole lot of help from the St. Stephen parish.
Let me amend that. With a whole lot of help from everyone we encountered and shared our story with.
Nearly everyone has been touched by cancer. I was speaking with Capt. John Marsicano of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office, asking if he could send a patrol car by occasionally to check on a group of women walking Natures Way in total darkness at 5:30 a.m. carrying nothing more for defense other than mace and Grace (a stone Father Bill Swengros gave me with the word “grace” carved into it for me to rub to use my Parkinson’s tremors). Marsicano lost a son to cancer and was more than happy to do anything to help. The only problem, he joked, after discovering we were doing a 20-minute mile, was finding a cruiser that could pace us that slowly.
Actually, we probably walk a 15-minute mile, but thanks to the graciousness of the Bloomingdale Golfers Club, we take a break at the clubhouse restrooms about every two laps and spend more time than we should taking advantage of the clubhouse’s running water and air conditioning.
Of course, you aren’t required to walk the entire 60 miles. You can walk one mile, five miles or just come out and volunteer. We welcome everyone.
For information, visit, www.projectcure.ststephencatholic.org.
My four fellow walkers applauded as I crossed the finish line one of them created by rubbing the toe of her athletic shoe across the dirt in the parking lot.
I’d completed my first 18-mile walk.
It was far from doing the 60 miles over three days I was expected to do the next weekend for Project Cure. But it wasn’t too shabby for a 47-year-old woman whose idea of exercise up until recently had been carrying a basket of laundry up the stairs and chasing the cat out the door.
We’d been training all summer, every weekend at 5:30 a.m. on Natures Way where our three-day walk to benefit the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program for the H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center & Research Institute would take place in memory of our friends at St. Stephen Catholic Church and School who lost their lives to breast cancer.
I was determined to walk, not only for my friends Rosana Bryant and Cheryl Nance, who died in their 30s leaving young children behind, but for all my other loved ones and friends who have lost their lives to cancer.
You reach the point where you can no longer sit on your hands, and when I heard a Moffitt researcher speak at the Greater Brandon Community Foundation Pink Tea and learned that the cancer center was conducting breakthrough genome research, I realized we could make a measurable difference by putting funds directly into the hands of the people who are seeking answers.
That was really my only contribution to Project Cure. We teamed up with the Lightning Foundation, which already had the fundraising arm in place and allowed us to sell its signature pink baseball caps with all proceeds going to the Wallace program.
All the real work was accomplished by a group of women whose strength and determination leaves me in awe – Lisa Huetteman, Mary Owens, Ivette Wagner, Amy Meany and Jean Weber, with a whole lot of help from the St. Stephen parish.
Let me amend that. With a whole lot of help from everyone we encountered and shared our story with.
Nearly everyone has been touched by cancer. I was speaking with Capt. John Marsicano of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office, asking if he could send a patrol car by occasionally to check on a group of women walking Natures Way in total darkness at 5:30 a.m. carrying nothing more for defense other than mace and Grace (a stone Father Bill Swengros gave me with the word “grace” carved into it for me to rub to use my Parkinson’s tremors). Marsicano lost a son to cancer and was more than happy to do anything to help. The only problem, he joked, after discovering we were doing a 20-minute mile, was finding a cruiser that could pace us that slowly.
Actually, we probably walk a 15-minute mile, but thanks to the graciousness of the Bloomingdale Golfers Club, we take a break at the clubhouse restrooms about every two laps and spend more time than we should taking advantage of the clubhouse’s running water and air conditioning.
Of course, you aren’t required to walk the entire 60 miles. You can walk one mile, five miles or just come out and volunteer. We welcome everyone.
For information, visit, www.projectcure.ststephencatholic.org.
Raising Money For A Miracle
By D'Ann Lawrence White
Brow furrowed in confusion, my son watched as tears streamed down my face.
He’d just turned 6 and this was his first funeral.
We were there to support Keely, his kindergarten classmate at St. Stephen Catholic School, and her mom, Denise, following the death of Keely’s dad, Vito Mattera, to cancer.
Keely didn’t understand the tears any more than her classmates. As she and her mother followed the coffin out of the church, she waved excitedly to her friends, oblivious to the tragedy that would forever alter her life.
A few weeks later, Keely and her classmates gathered to plant a tree in front of the school in her dad’s honor. Over the years, as the children blossomed, the tree bearing Vito’s name would mature with them.
By the time the class reached the end of first grade, the children were a bit more prepared for what to expect at a funeral. Over the course of the year, their homeroom mother, Roseanna Bryant, Joshua’s mom, courageously battled a particularly virulent form of breast cancer. The students watched as she lost all of her hair but never lost her spirit, or that familiar, engaging laugh that accompanied the amusing activities she would plan for the class.
This time, my son Ian understood my tears as the pallbearers brought the coffin bearing Roseanna into the church. He quietly got up from his seat and went in search of some tissues. Later at the cemetery, he stood like a little soldier with his arm stiffly around Joshua’s shoulder as we bid a final farewell to Roseanna.
As they did with Keely’s father, the classmates gathered a few weeks later to plant a tree in honor of Joshua’s mother.
The close-knit group of students was granted a two-year reprieve. Cheryl Nance, mother of quiet, little Olivia, tried to hide her illness from the children as long as she possible. Like Roseanna Bryant, Cheryl was in her 30s when she was diagnosed with breast cancer.
We were convinced she would beat it. It seemed impossible our children would lose another parent.
But it was not to be.
We gathered with Cheryl just before Christmas to pray for a miracle. Cheryl died just after the new year.
My eyelids were swollen from crying as I stared unbelievingly at the portrait of Cheryl’s ever-smiling face on the easel near the altar of the church. Beside me, my son reached into my purse to pull out the tissues I had stashed there.
Now accustomed to the tradition, the children prepared to plant a third tree.
Shortly after, the students noticed a change in their normally cheerful, carefree music and art teacher, Harry Stuart. He seemed preoccupied. He wasn’t as quick to smile. Some days he didn’t come to school. And when they saw him at church, his young wife, Cathie, wasn’t at his side as usual.
We dreaded telling them that Cathie, too, had breast cancer. The school and parish community rallied to support and pray for the Stuarts and their two children.
But, again, Ian and his classmates were compelled to attend a funeral.
Ian was armed with a box of tissues but I didn’t need them this time. I was too numb to cry. bond
I think we were all shell shocked. Our sorrow, our efforts to support these families, our concern for the children and spouses who were grieving, had bonded us, transforming us from a group of acquaintances with a shared interest in our children to lifelong friends.
And in the midst of our shock, it was clear to us all that God was sending us a message.
He was demanding that we take action.
We considered forming a team and joining the Susan G. Komen for the Cure 3-Day Walk. But a fellow parishioner told us that Susan G. Komen provides funding to Planned Parenthood.
As Catholics, we firmly believe in the sanctity of life. Susan G. Komen admits that more than half of its 116 affiliates provide grants to Planned Parenthood abortion clinics. The Komen organization defended the grants, saying the money specifically funded breast exams for low-income women.
Nevertheless, we could not, in all good conscience, support an organization that provided any funding for abortion clinics.
Also alarming was the discovery of where our hard-earned dollars would go.
According to the national Better Business Bureau’s charity review for Susan G. Komen for the Cure, in 2006 the charity’s chief operating officer’s yearly salary is $293,405. It also pays the salaries of 173 employees. In all, the charity’s administrative expenses totaled $2,042,073. Its program expenses were $25,269,582.
We began searching for an organization we could morally endorse and trust to use our funds wisely.
In October 2005, as Cheryl Nance fought for her life, I attended a fundraiser at which H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center & Research Institute researcher Dr. W. Bradford Carter spoke. He talked about groundbreaking genome research being done at Moffitt to identify specific cancer molecules so oncologists could provide targeted therapy.
Carter’s research is funded through the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program at Moffitt.
With the idea that life-saving research is being done in our own back yard, we developed Project Cure where 100 percent of the funds we raise go to breast cancer research through the Wallace breast program. No funds are spent on overhead or administrative costs.
We also wanted our fundraiser to be all-inclusive. The event is a three-day, 60-mile walk but no one is required to walk all 60 miles. Participants can walk as little or as many miles as they wish. Likewise, participants are not required to raise a minimum amount to participate. Any donation, large or small, is appreciated.
Starting at Bloomingdale East Park and walking around Natures Way in Bloomingdale East, the event allows supporters to take part in a number of ways. They can obtain sponsors and walk. They can sponsor walkers or set up refreshment stations for walkers during the event. They can volunteer to sign in walkers or provide first aid. They can host fundraisers prior to the walk or make direct donations through the Project Cure Web site. They can provide the names of people they would like the walkers to pray for each day of the walk. Or they can simply encourage the walkers by driving by and honking their horns or placing banners with encouraging messages along the walk route. To help, visit our Web site at www.projectcure.ststephencatholic.org.
This year’s walk is set for Nov. 13-15.
In the three years since the walk began, Project Cure has raised more than $70,000 for breast cancer research.
Sure, it’s a drop in the bucket compared to the $242,618,086 Susan G. Komen raised in 2006. However, as we were treated to a VIP tour of the Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program research labs, we were able to see exactly where our funds were being spent.
In fact, the money we raised was used to complete an important Phase I clinical trial using DNA histories to optimize the benefits of chemotherapy for breast cancer. Dr. Pam Munster was $10,000 short of the funding she needed to finish her study.
She said the funding from Project Cure was like a gift from heaven.
Maybe it was.
All I know is we refuse to plant one more memorial tree without making an effort to wipe out this devastating disease – for Cheryl, Roseanna, Cathie, Wendi and all the other brave women who are fighting or have fought breast cancer.
I would like to acknowledge the incredible women behind Project Cure, the core group of mothers who have literally put their blood, sweat and tears into this effort: Jean Weber, Ivette Wagner, Amy Meany, Mary Owens and Lisa Huetteman. However, there would be no Project Cure without the unwavering support of Father Bill Swengros and the St. Stephen Catholic Church community. Thank you.
Brow furrowed in confusion, my son watched as tears streamed down my face.
He’d just turned 6 and this was his first funeral.
We were there to support Keely, his kindergarten classmate at St. Stephen Catholic School, and her mom, Denise, following the death of Keely’s dad, Vito Mattera, to cancer.
Keely didn’t understand the tears any more than her classmates. As she and her mother followed the coffin out of the church, she waved excitedly to her friends, oblivious to the tragedy that would forever alter her life.
A few weeks later, Keely and her classmates gathered to plant a tree in front of the school in her dad’s honor. Over the years, as the children blossomed, the tree bearing Vito’s name would mature with them.
By the time the class reached the end of first grade, the children were a bit more prepared for what to expect at a funeral. Over the course of the year, their homeroom mother, Roseanna Bryant, Joshua’s mom, courageously battled a particularly virulent form of breast cancer. The students watched as she lost all of her hair but never lost her spirit, or that familiar, engaging laugh that accompanied the amusing activities she would plan for the class.
This time, my son Ian understood my tears as the pallbearers brought the coffin bearing Roseanna into the church. He quietly got up from his seat and went in search of some tissues. Later at the cemetery, he stood like a little soldier with his arm stiffly around Joshua’s shoulder as we bid a final farewell to Roseanna.
As they did with Keely’s father, the classmates gathered a few weeks later to plant a tree in honor of Joshua’s mother.
The close-knit group of students was granted a two-year reprieve. Cheryl Nance, mother of quiet, little Olivia, tried to hide her illness from the children as long as she possible. Like Roseanna Bryant, Cheryl was in her 30s when she was diagnosed with breast cancer.
We were convinced she would beat it. It seemed impossible our children would lose another parent.
But it was not to be.
We gathered with Cheryl just before Christmas to pray for a miracle. Cheryl died just after the new year.
My eyelids were swollen from crying as I stared unbelievingly at the portrait of Cheryl’s ever-smiling face on the easel near the altar of the church. Beside me, my son reached into my purse to pull out the tissues I had stashed there.
Now accustomed to the tradition, the children prepared to plant a third tree.
Shortly after, the students noticed a change in their normally cheerful, carefree music and art teacher, Harry Stuart. He seemed preoccupied. He wasn’t as quick to smile. Some days he didn’t come to school. And when they saw him at church, his young wife, Cathie, wasn’t at his side as usual.
We dreaded telling them that Cathie, too, had breast cancer. The school and parish community rallied to support and pray for the Stuarts and their two children.
But, again, Ian and his classmates were compelled to attend a funeral.
Ian was armed with a box of tissues but I didn’t need them this time. I was too numb to cry. bond
I think we were all shell shocked. Our sorrow, our efforts to support these families, our concern for the children and spouses who were grieving, had bonded us, transforming us from a group of acquaintances with a shared interest in our children to lifelong friends.
And in the midst of our shock, it was clear to us all that God was sending us a message.
He was demanding that we take action.
We considered forming a team and joining the Susan G. Komen for the Cure 3-Day Walk. But a fellow parishioner told us that Susan G. Komen provides funding to Planned Parenthood.
As Catholics, we firmly believe in the sanctity of life. Susan G. Komen admits that more than half of its 116 affiliates provide grants to Planned Parenthood abortion clinics. The Komen organization defended the grants, saying the money specifically funded breast exams for low-income women.
Nevertheless, we could not, in all good conscience, support an organization that provided any funding for abortion clinics.
Also alarming was the discovery of where our hard-earned dollars would go.
According to the national Better Business Bureau’s charity review for Susan G. Komen for the Cure, in 2006 the charity’s chief operating officer’s yearly salary is $293,405. It also pays the salaries of 173 employees. In all, the charity’s administrative expenses totaled $2,042,073. Its program expenses were $25,269,582.
We began searching for an organization we could morally endorse and trust to use our funds wisely.
In October 2005, as Cheryl Nance fought for her life, I attended a fundraiser at which H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center & Research Institute researcher Dr. W. Bradford Carter spoke. He talked about groundbreaking genome research being done at Moffitt to identify specific cancer molecules so oncologists could provide targeted therapy.
Carter’s research is funded through the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program at Moffitt.
With the idea that life-saving research is being done in our own back yard, we developed Project Cure where 100 percent of the funds we raise go to breast cancer research through the Wallace breast program. No funds are spent on overhead or administrative costs.
We also wanted our fundraiser to be all-inclusive. The event is a three-day, 60-mile walk but no one is required to walk all 60 miles. Participants can walk as little or as many miles as they wish. Likewise, participants are not required to raise a minimum amount to participate. Any donation, large or small, is appreciated.
Starting at Bloomingdale East Park and walking around Natures Way in Bloomingdale East, the event allows supporters to take part in a number of ways. They can obtain sponsors and walk. They can sponsor walkers or set up refreshment stations for walkers during the event. They can volunteer to sign in walkers or provide first aid. They can host fundraisers prior to the walk or make direct donations through the Project Cure Web site. They can provide the names of people they would like the walkers to pray for each day of the walk. Or they can simply encourage the walkers by driving by and honking their horns or placing banners with encouraging messages along the walk route. To help, visit our Web site at www.projectcure.ststephencatholic.org.
This year’s walk is set for Nov. 13-15.
In the three years since the walk began, Project Cure has raised more than $70,000 for breast cancer research.
Sure, it’s a drop in the bucket compared to the $242,618,086 Susan G. Komen raised in 2006. However, as we were treated to a VIP tour of the Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program research labs, we were able to see exactly where our funds were being spent.
In fact, the money we raised was used to complete an important Phase I clinical trial using DNA histories to optimize the benefits of chemotherapy for breast cancer. Dr. Pam Munster was $10,000 short of the funding she needed to finish her study.
She said the funding from Project Cure was like a gift from heaven.
Maybe it was.
All I know is we refuse to plant one more memorial tree without making an effort to wipe out this devastating disease – for Cheryl, Roseanna, Cathie, Wendi and all the other brave women who are fighting or have fought breast cancer.
I would like to acknowledge the incredible women behind Project Cure, the core group of mothers who have literally put their blood, sweat and tears into this effort: Jean Weber, Ivette Wagner, Amy Meany, Mary Owens and Lisa Huetteman. However, there would be no Project Cure without the unwavering support of Father Bill Swengros and the St. Stephen Catholic Church community. Thank you.
Breakfast to benefit Project Cure
Beef O' Brady's in Riverview is teaming up with St. Stephen Catholic Church to cure breast cancer by sponsoring a Pancakes for Project Cure breakfast Saturday, Aug. 1 from 8 to 10 a.m.
The breakfast will launch the fundraising efforts for St. Stephen Catholic Church in Valrico’s fourth annual Project Cure 3-Day Walk to raise funds for breast cancer research at the H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center and Research Institute. Registration is now taking place for this year’s walk scheduled for Nov. 13-15 around Natures Way in Bloomingdale East in Valrico.
For an advanced $20 family ticket or $5 individual, Project Cure supporters will feast on pancakes, sausage and coffee, milk and orange juice at the Beef O’ Brady’s Family Sports Pub at 13326 Lincoln Road, Riverview.
A family ticket will feed six family members.
Advanced tickets can be purchased by contacting Project Cure special events coordinator Jean Weber at gweber@tampabay.rr.com or by asking the management at Beef O’Brady’s.
Tickets also will be available on the day of the event for $6 per person.
The breakfast also will feature drawings for golf and batting gift certificates from Ace Golf Range, certificates from McDonald’s and Beef O’ Brady’s and Frisbees.
Supporters will have a chance to purchase breast cancer “Fight Like A Girl” T-shirts, sponsored by Beef O’ Brady’s, for $10.
In addition, Project Cure organizers will sell tickets for the Oct. 4 Paint the Park Pink game at Tropicana Field during which the Rays will take on division rival, the New York Yankees, starting at 1:38 p.m. A section in the upper deck has been reserved for Project Cure ticket holders. The cost of tickets is $16 with $3 from the sale of every ticket going to Project Cure.
For more information on the pancake breakfast, tickets to the Rays game, how to register for the Project Cure walk or to donate to Project Cure, visit www.projectcure.ststephencatholic.org.
About Project Cure
A group of women from St. Stephen Catholic School founded Project Cure after several young mothers at the school died from breast cancer. After investigating various programs, they opted to raise funds for the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program at H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center and Research Institute because 100 percent of the money raised goes directly to clinical trials for breakthrough breast cancer research. No funds are spent on overhead or administrative costs. Since 2006, Project Cure has raised more than $70,000 for research at Moffitt.
Participants in the Project Cure walk are not required to walk a specified distance or raise a minimum amount of money. Project Cure welcomes all supporters of this worthwhile cause, whether they want to walk a few miles and raise $10 or walk the entire 60 miles and raise thousands of dollars. Project Cure also is seeking volunteer help the weekend of the event and submissions of names for its prayer list, which is recited each day of the walk.
The breakfast will launch the fundraising efforts for St. Stephen Catholic Church in Valrico’s fourth annual Project Cure 3-Day Walk to raise funds for breast cancer research at the H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center and Research Institute. Registration is now taking place for this year’s walk scheduled for Nov. 13-15 around Natures Way in Bloomingdale East in Valrico.
For an advanced $20 family ticket or $5 individual, Project Cure supporters will feast on pancakes, sausage and coffee, milk and orange juice at the Beef O’ Brady’s Family Sports Pub at 13326 Lincoln Road, Riverview.
A family ticket will feed six family members.
Advanced tickets can be purchased by contacting Project Cure special events coordinator Jean Weber at gweber@tampabay.rr.com or by asking the management at Beef O’Brady’s.
Tickets also will be available on the day of the event for $6 per person.
The breakfast also will feature drawings for golf and batting gift certificates from Ace Golf Range, certificates from McDonald’s and Beef O’ Brady’s and Frisbees.
Supporters will have a chance to purchase breast cancer “Fight Like A Girl” T-shirts, sponsored by Beef O’ Brady’s, for $10.
In addition, Project Cure organizers will sell tickets for the Oct. 4 Paint the Park Pink game at Tropicana Field during which the Rays will take on division rival, the New York Yankees, starting at 1:38 p.m. A section in the upper deck has been reserved for Project Cure ticket holders. The cost of tickets is $16 with $3 from the sale of every ticket going to Project Cure.
For more information on the pancake breakfast, tickets to the Rays game, how to register for the Project Cure walk or to donate to Project Cure, visit www.projectcure.ststephencatholic.org.
About Project Cure
A group of women from St. Stephen Catholic School founded Project Cure after several young mothers at the school died from breast cancer. After investigating various programs, they opted to raise funds for the Don and Erika Wallace Comprehensive Breast Program at H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center and Research Institute because 100 percent of the money raised goes directly to clinical trials for breakthrough breast cancer research. No funds are spent on overhead or administrative costs. Since 2006, Project Cure has raised more than $70,000 for research at Moffitt.
Participants in the Project Cure walk are not required to walk a specified distance or raise a minimum amount of money. Project Cure welcomes all supporters of this worthwhile cause, whether they want to walk a few miles and raise $10 or walk the entire 60 miles and raise thousands of dollars. Project Cure also is seeking volunteer help the weekend of the event and submissions of names for its prayer list, which is recited each day of the walk.
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