The other day at the library I picked up a free seniors' magazine, not the one I write for. I read it for a specific column by a writer I know. I sought that column first, skipping the many ads for retirement residences and avoiding the illness-related articles. But as I leafed through, I happened to glance at the editorial. The editor, who looks young in her photo, gave readers seven tips on how to have a good life as an oldster. Much of the advice was sound, but one item jarred: "Judge others less harshly."
In my experience (fifteen to twenty years) working with people older than myself, I have found that seniors don't judge others harshly. They are usually willing to make allowances and to look for extenuating circumstances. They remember the the rough edges they had when they were younger, and are generally tolerant, kind, and appreciative when treated kindly.
But life experience has also taught older people to recognize what's worthwhile and what's not. As a Reiki master once said to me, "We're too old to put up with things that aren't right."
Another article urged older adults to "let go of grudges, jealousy, guilt and regret" and not to be "stuck in negativity." On the surface, this advice seems sound. Reacting negatively sucks up energy that would be better spent on something enjoyable. Mulling over this advice, though, I concluded that it is glib. It glosses over the reality and the complexity of life. Few of us can say, "Je regrette rien," like Edith Piaf in her famous song. Moi? Je regrette beaucoup.
And, can you will a feeling away? Feelings in a particular situation may fade as one moves forward in life. Feelings change when we observe something or learn something that makes us feel differently.
I believe in forgiveness, sure, but should an older adult forgive someone who ripped him or her off in a serious way (or tried to) and then accept that person into his/her life as a bosom friend? Sometimes a little wariness is a healthy thing. Sheould a senior put himself or herself in close proximity to someone who deals in put-downs and passes them off as banter? ("Oh, you're just tooooo sensitive!")
The best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour. Sure, some people grow and become better people. Some undergo transformative experiences that change the way they act toward others. And sometimes the change doesn't last.
All of us, including older adults, must look after our own well-being, and if that means keeping at arm's length certain people who have wronged you in the past (even by eroding your self-esteem) then so be it.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
Poor Relation
An old friend of mine once remarked that creative writing class is the poor relation of any program, whether it be at a community centre, continuing education facility or library. This remark arose when she, as a participant in one of my classes, and I, the instructor, were informed of a room change at the last minute. We had to tote all our books and papers to another location and were expected to set up heavy tables before other members of the group arose.
Generally I enjoy teaching writing classes, but it's because of the people I meet and the stories I hear, not because of the venues in which I have to teach. True, I remember one location which seemed ideal, a pleasant board room containing a large oblong table with plenty of space for everyone. It was the ideal democratic arrangement, once I got the door open. It was always a hassle to get the key, as the program administrator was never around when I arrived to teach.
I remember one centre where I never knew from one week to another where we would be meeting. At some point I complained that a space we had been assigned had no table, just chairs scattered randomly. "You mean you need a TABLE???" demanded the person in charge. When I said, "Yes, we need one to write on," she rolled her eyes. Imagine, people actually wanted to write - in a class called "Creative Writing!
My elderly friend who made the "poor relation" remark eventually moved from her condo to a retirement residence. As a volunteer, I led a class at this residence for a number of years and met many wonderful senior citizens there. Creative Writing was held either in the Activities Room or the Craft Room, whichever happened to be free, and usually the activities director had a "round table" arrangement set up for us.
Oddly, enough, though, it was at this well-run retirement residence that my students and I had a uncomfortable experience. On the designated day, the Activities Room was occupied by bridge players, so we were assigned to the Craft Room. The activities director told us that an all-women "barbershop" singing group (perhaps a branch of the "Sweet Adelines" - I can't remember for sure) was coming to entertain in the great room of the residence. They would need to leave their coats in the Craft Room closet before our class started, but that otherwise they wouldn't bother us. "Fine," I said.
My class included about ten women and three men, polite gentlemen in their eighties. They had been educated in the etiquette of bygone days - to rise when a woman entered the room, to hold a lady's chair when being seated at the dinner table, etc. No singers were around at 2:00 when our class began, so we settled at the table and I introduced the writing topic/challenge of the day.
At 2:30, when my writers were applying pens to paper, the door opened and in trooped a group of attractive middle aged women. They looked a bit startled to see us. They took off their coats - to start with. Some were carrying gorgeous green satin blouses on hangers. The singers had a costume for performances - dark skirts or slacks and identical blouses. Some came wearing the outfits; others intended to change into them on site.
In the Craft Room there was a one-person-at-a-time washroom. A few dove in there. Others, after some hesitation, stripped off their sweaters and T shirts and changed into their satin blouses. Meanwhile, the men in my group blushed and kept their heads down, their eyes firmly fixed on their pens and paper.
The activities director had mistaken the singers' time of arrival and hadn't realized they would need to change clothes.
Nothing quite so awkward has happened since in any of my classes. I still have to set up tables, though, or bring my husband along to help me. Also, it seems that just when a class gets underway, someone has to come into the room for a stack of chairs, a cardboard box, or the like. They can never wait until my class is over.
Why is creative writing the poor relation, the class that is imposed upon or shoved into a corner? Don't think I'm not assertive. I've ordered "movers" to come back later. I've complained about locations and demanded that a more suitable place be found. On one occasion, I took it upon myself to postpone a class for a week, informing the admnistrator by email that we would be back when there was a proper place for us to meet.
I think the problem lies with a general disrespect for writers and writing. Since most people learn the rudiments of writing in school, they think it's something anyone can do well - nothing special. They read articles in newspapers and magazines which flow simply and clearly and imagine that this simplicity and clarity is easily achieved. They don't realize that it is the product of talents honed over a lifetime, and of painstaking revision.
Program administrators don't like creative writing because it isn't flashy. Fifty people singing along and clapping in time to a musical entertainment is the sort of thing administrators like, because everyone seems engaged and happy. It makes for good photographs or videos. (Never mind that it's a passive type of activity and that people may be present for want of better alternatives.) Creative writing isn't flashy. People sit around a table writing, quietly discussing, reading to each other, occasionally laughing, and working home alone. It's too solitary and introspective to appeal widely in a world where it's more popular to exercise your body than your mind.
Meanwhile, I'll continue to assert myself on behalf of our "craft and sullen art."
Generally I enjoy teaching writing classes, but it's because of the people I meet and the stories I hear, not because of the venues in which I have to teach. True, I remember one location which seemed ideal, a pleasant board room containing a large oblong table with plenty of space for everyone. It was the ideal democratic arrangement, once I got the door open. It was always a hassle to get the key, as the program administrator was never around when I arrived to teach.
I remember one centre where I never knew from one week to another where we would be meeting. At some point I complained that a space we had been assigned had no table, just chairs scattered randomly. "You mean you need a TABLE???" demanded the person in charge. When I said, "Yes, we need one to write on," she rolled her eyes. Imagine, people actually wanted to write - in a class called "Creative Writing!
My elderly friend who made the "poor relation" remark eventually moved from her condo to a retirement residence. As a volunteer, I led a class at this residence for a number of years and met many wonderful senior citizens there. Creative Writing was held either in the Activities Room or the Craft Room, whichever happened to be free, and usually the activities director had a "round table" arrangement set up for us.
Oddly, enough, though, it was at this well-run retirement residence that my students and I had a uncomfortable experience. On the designated day, the Activities Room was occupied by bridge players, so we were assigned to the Craft Room. The activities director told us that an all-women "barbershop" singing group (perhaps a branch of the "Sweet Adelines" - I can't remember for sure) was coming to entertain in the great room of the residence. They would need to leave their coats in the Craft Room closet before our class started, but that otherwise they wouldn't bother us. "Fine," I said.
My class included about ten women and three men, polite gentlemen in their eighties. They had been educated in the etiquette of bygone days - to rise when a woman entered the room, to hold a lady's chair when being seated at the dinner table, etc. No singers were around at 2:00 when our class began, so we settled at the table and I introduced the writing topic/challenge of the day.
At 2:30, when my writers were applying pens to paper, the door opened and in trooped a group of attractive middle aged women. They looked a bit startled to see us. They took off their coats - to start with. Some were carrying gorgeous green satin blouses on hangers. The singers had a costume for performances - dark skirts or slacks and identical blouses. Some came wearing the outfits; others intended to change into them on site.
In the Craft Room there was a one-person-at-a-time washroom. A few dove in there. Others, after some hesitation, stripped off their sweaters and T shirts and changed into their satin blouses. Meanwhile, the men in my group blushed and kept their heads down, their eyes firmly fixed on their pens and paper.
The activities director had mistaken the singers' time of arrival and hadn't realized they would need to change clothes.
Nothing quite so awkward has happened since in any of my classes. I still have to set up tables, though, or bring my husband along to help me. Also, it seems that just when a class gets underway, someone has to come into the room for a stack of chairs, a cardboard box, or the like. They can never wait until my class is over.
Why is creative writing the poor relation, the class that is imposed upon or shoved into a corner? Don't think I'm not assertive. I've ordered "movers" to come back later. I've complained about locations and demanded that a more suitable place be found. On one occasion, I took it upon myself to postpone a class for a week, informing the admnistrator by email that we would be back when there was a proper place for us to meet.
I think the problem lies with a general disrespect for writers and writing. Since most people learn the rudiments of writing in school, they think it's something anyone can do well - nothing special. They read articles in newspapers and magazines which flow simply and clearly and imagine that this simplicity and clarity is easily achieved. They don't realize that it is the product of talents honed over a lifetime, and of painstaking revision.
Program administrators don't like creative writing because it isn't flashy. Fifty people singing along and clapping in time to a musical entertainment is the sort of thing administrators like, because everyone seems engaged and happy. It makes for good photographs or videos. (Never mind that it's a passive type of activity and that people may be present for want of better alternatives.) Creative writing isn't flashy. People sit around a table writing, quietly discussing, reading to each other, occasionally laughing, and working home alone. It's too solitary and introspective to appeal widely in a world where it's more popular to exercise your body than your mind.
Meanwhile, I'll continue to assert myself on behalf of our "craft and sullen art."
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
More from "Winter Moon"
Here is another excerpt from a story in my new collection, "Winter Moon", ISBN 978-1-926-596-92-1 (Ottawa, Baico, 2010), soon to be published. This is from the story, "Snake in the House":
The snake had come Special Delivery in a cardboard box. The courier had thrust a clipboard into Grandpa's face and ordered him to "Sign here." Grandpa, who had been roused from a nap and hadn't had his glasses on, scrawled his signature on the dotted line. The delivery man then shoved the box into his hands and departed. Grandpa had assumed that it was a parcel from a publisher containing books for Mum to review. Only after closing the door did he realized that there were air holes. He wrested the box open and out shot a snake, which slithered to the floor and vanished down the hall. He'd pu the box out with the garbage which subsquently had been collected.
"Was it a garter snake or something bigger?" asked Clea, who was fourteen.
"Bigger, and drak," said Grandpa. "Like a fan belt. Not circular, of course."
Mum blanched.
The snake had come Special Delivery in a cardboard box. The courier had thrust a clipboard into Grandpa's face and ordered him to "Sign here." Grandpa, who had been roused from a nap and hadn't had his glasses on, scrawled his signature on the dotted line. The delivery man then shoved the box into his hands and departed. Grandpa had assumed that it was a parcel from a publisher containing books for Mum to review. Only after closing the door did he realized that there were air holes. He wrested the box open and out shot a snake, which slithered to the floor and vanished down the hall. He'd pu the box out with the garbage which subsquently had been collected.
"Was it a garter snake or something bigger?" asked Clea, who was fourteen.
"Bigger, and drak," said Grandpa. "Like a fan belt. Not circular, of course."
Mum blanched.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Winter Moon
Soon I will have a new collection of short stories in print. "Winter Moon" will be published by Baico Publishing in Ottawa baico@bellnet.ca The ISBN is 978-1-926-596-92-1
The stories in "Winter Moon" include quite a few that have been among the winners in local contests or have been published in literary magazines.
Here is an excerpt from "Big Whitey":
(c) Ruth Latta, 2010
"When Earl's head nods over the newspaper, his shock of white hair falls forward. Sometimes he mumbles, "Get out-a there!" or "What the hell are you doing?" His grandchildren smile indulgently and when he wakes up, they say, "You were having quite a nightmare!" He just smiles. He was time-travelling, back to the farm and Big Whitey. All the animals on his grandparents' farm interested Earl, but the one that impressed him most was Big Whitey, the bull. ..."
Below is an excerpt from "Clive and Cuddles"
(c) Ruth Latta, 2010
" Cuddles was part miniature poodle and part something else, perhaps Pekinese. Though his fur was matted and he needed a bath, his soulful eyes reminded Clive a litlte of Karen's. A hairball of a dog would be perfect for a maternal person like Mom. He had some misgivings when he bundled the little animal too roughly into a carrier, and Cuddles nipped him, but, all in all, his impulse had proved right.
Cuddles and Mom McBride have settled into the Meadowview. When Cuddles isn't humping the ottoman he is on her lap, casting territorial glances at anyone who comes tooclose to her. He has grown plump on his favourite treat, chocolate covered cherries. Mom's comings and goings are governed by Cuddles' likes and dislikes. He enjoys malls but hates high rises, so Mom and Cuddles don't visit the condo too often, much to Clive's relief. ..."
"Winter Moon", containing these stories and others, will be available from me and from Baico in a couple of weeks.
The stories in "Winter Moon" include quite a few that have been among the winners in local contests or have been published in literary magazines.
Here is an excerpt from "Big Whitey":
(c) Ruth Latta, 2010
"When Earl's head nods over the newspaper, his shock of white hair falls forward. Sometimes he mumbles, "Get out-a there!" or "What the hell are you doing?" His grandchildren smile indulgently and when he wakes up, they say, "You were having quite a nightmare!" He just smiles. He was time-travelling, back to the farm and Big Whitey. All the animals on his grandparents' farm interested Earl, but the one that impressed him most was Big Whitey, the bull. ..."
Below is an excerpt from "Clive and Cuddles"
(c) Ruth Latta, 2010
" Cuddles was part miniature poodle and part something else, perhaps Pekinese. Though his fur was matted and he needed a bath, his soulful eyes reminded Clive a litlte of Karen's. A hairball of a dog would be perfect for a maternal person like Mom. He had some misgivings when he bundled the little animal too roughly into a carrier, and Cuddles nipped him, but, all in all, his impulse had proved right.
Cuddles and Mom McBride have settled into the Meadowview. When Cuddles isn't humping the ottoman he is on her lap, casting territorial glances at anyone who comes tooclose to her. He has grown plump on his favourite treat, chocolate covered cherries. Mom's comings and goings are governed by Cuddles' likes and dislikes. He enjoys malls but hates high rises, so Mom and Cuddles don't visit the condo too often, much to Clive's relief. ..."
"Winter Moon", containing these stories and others, will be available from me and from Baico in a couple of weeks.
Monday, September 27, 2010
A poem for fall
Since summer is turning into fall, I decided to resurrect this 2006 poem of mine for this post.
FRAGILE MOMENT
by Ruth Latta
If you would like to join me
in my back yard, together
we'd gaze at pine and maple,
enjoying autumn weather.
I'd listen if you told me
of southern sand and sun,
and long-ago adventures
when you were well and young.
A red vine and a gold one
trail from the neighbours' yard.
Toward me, on the brickwork
some runners, trying hard,
reach out in friendly fashion.
They're subtle in approach.
Their progress is so gradual,
reluctant to encroach.
The bees buzz round, and asters
wave gently in the breeze.
So transient the moment!
Tonight it all may freeze!
Does your room have a terrace?
I know there is a lawn.
I wish that you could join me
before the summer's gone.
(c)Ruth Latta, 2006, 2010
FRAGILE MOMENT
by Ruth Latta
If you would like to join me
in my back yard, together
we'd gaze at pine and maple,
enjoying autumn weather.
I'd listen if you told me
of southern sand and sun,
and long-ago adventures
when you were well and young.
A red vine and a gold one
trail from the neighbours' yard.
Toward me, on the brickwork
some runners, trying hard,
reach out in friendly fashion.
They're subtle in approach.
Their progress is so gradual,
reluctant to encroach.
The bees buzz round, and asters
wave gently in the breeze.
So transient the moment!
Tonight it all may freeze!
Does your room have a terrace?
I know there is a lawn.
I wish that you could join me
before the summer's gone.
(c)Ruth Latta, 2006, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Smile
Recently a friend told me that I was "too negative." I had been trying to make her aware of the difficulties of getting a book published. At the time, the illnesses of several old friends and the death of a family member were taking a toll on me.
I brooded about her comment. I hadn't intended to be a wet blanket. One of my mother's favourite sayings sprang to mind: "Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep and you weep alone." On the other hand, my mother also quoted, "Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted."
While musing about my friend's remark, a recent book by Barbara Ehrenreich came into my hands. "Bright-Sided: How Positive Thinking is Undermining America", is published by Picador, a branch of Henry Holt and Company, New York. I have been impressed by Ehrenreich's articles in "Harper's Magazine" and found "Bright-Sided" fascinating.
In "Bright-Sided", Ehrenreich tackes the pervasive positive thinking movement. She is all in favour of happiness, noting studies that show that the most routine obstacle to happiness is poverty. Rich countries and rich people are happier than poor ones.
She concedes that people who project an air of optimism have a better chance of attracting friends and thereby avoiding depression. But positive thinking has become a practice or a discipline. The idea that we must work on ourthoughts and moods, blocking out unpleasant possibilities and negative thoughts, is prevalent in the United States and here in Canada as well. The social requirement to put on a happy face means that we must often suppress our genuine feelings.
"Positive thinking has made itself useful as an apology for the crueller aspects of the market economy," she writes. To paraphrase, it promotes a blame-the-victim mentality, the idea that workers who are laid off and people whose businesses fail are to blame for what has happened to them because they didn't have the right attitude of optimism and weren't motivated to try hard enough.
Chapter Seven of her book is entitled "How positive thinking destroyed the economy." She writes: "The near unanimous optimism of the experts certainly contributed to the reckless build-up of bad debt and dodgy loans, but so did the wildly upbeat outlook of many ordinary Americans."
Realism and "anxious vigilance" are vital to our survival as a species, Ehrenreich contends. In her view, the route to happiness lies not in looking inward and monitoring our moods in order to be more upbeat, but to work with others on practical actions in the world to "get food to the hungry" and the like.
This brief review hasn't done justice to "Bright-Sided". Do read it for yourself.
I brooded about her comment. I hadn't intended to be a wet blanket. One of my mother's favourite sayings sprang to mind: "Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep and you weep alone." On the other hand, my mother also quoted, "Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted."
While musing about my friend's remark, a recent book by Barbara Ehrenreich came into my hands. "Bright-Sided: How Positive Thinking is Undermining America", is published by Picador, a branch of Henry Holt and Company, New York. I have been impressed by Ehrenreich's articles in "Harper's Magazine" and found "Bright-Sided" fascinating.
In "Bright-Sided", Ehrenreich tackes the pervasive positive thinking movement. She is all in favour of happiness, noting studies that show that the most routine obstacle to happiness is poverty. Rich countries and rich people are happier than poor ones.
She concedes that people who project an air of optimism have a better chance of attracting friends and thereby avoiding depression. But positive thinking has become a practice or a discipline. The idea that we must work on ourthoughts and moods, blocking out unpleasant possibilities and negative thoughts, is prevalent in the United States and here in Canada as well. The social requirement to put on a happy face means that we must often suppress our genuine feelings.
"Positive thinking has made itself useful as an apology for the crueller aspects of the market economy," she writes. To paraphrase, it promotes a blame-the-victim mentality, the idea that workers who are laid off and people whose businesses fail are to blame for what has happened to them because they didn't have the right attitude of optimism and weren't motivated to try hard enough.
Chapter Seven of her book is entitled "How positive thinking destroyed the economy." She writes: "The near unanimous optimism of the experts certainly contributed to the reckless build-up of bad debt and dodgy loans, but so did the wildly upbeat outlook of many ordinary Americans."
Realism and "anxious vigilance" are vital to our survival as a species, Ehrenreich contends. In her view, the route to happiness lies not in looking inward and monitoring our moods in order to be more upbeat, but to work with others on practical actions in the world to "get food to the hungry" and the like.
This brief review hasn't done justice to "Bright-Sided". Do read it for yourself.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Excerpt from Spelling Bee
Recently I received some positive feedback on my novel, Spelling Bee (Ottawa, Baico, 2009). A B.C. woman who grew up in Ontario wrote:
"...Once I'd read the opening pages of Spelling Bee, I was hooked. I have spent whatever spare minutes I could... with my nose in your book in something very akin to a journey back in time. My thanks. Everything, from the experiences of early teaching in those little communities...came alive again for me. I even have a "Bibi" I met in that first school, an exotic friend, with whom I have maintained a long and deep friendship, and we have at least one good yearly chat of several hours duration from Hong Kong, where she has finally found a place to her liking after many years of teaching all over the globe."
It occurred to me that I should post an excerpt from Spelling Bee, so here it is. Please click on the link below
LINK
"...Once I'd read the opening pages of Spelling Bee, I was hooked. I have spent whatever spare minutes I could... with my nose in your book in something very akin to a journey back in time. My thanks. Everything, from the experiences of early teaching in those little communities...came alive again for me. I even have a "Bibi" I met in that first school, an exotic friend, with whom I have maintained a long and deep friendship, and we have at least one good yearly chat of several hours duration from Hong Kong, where she has finally found a place to her liking after many years of teaching all over the globe."
It occurred to me that I should post an excerpt from Spelling Bee, so here it is. Please click on the link below
LINK
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