TLCLA Writers' Circle Blog

Solidarity for Slave Lake: It Could Have Been You

TLCLA Writers — Thu, 19 May 2011 18:03:47 +0000

Today, Debbie challenged us to write about the fire and the aftermath in Slave Lake. We have all been watching, listening. Here are our writings in support of the people there.

Slave Lake: It Could’ve Been You

A fire that leaves little behind for its victims. The sad part of it all is that so many fires are started by human activity.

When I had little belongings in 1953, a fire took the little I had. Few understand the feeling you have when you can’t shave the next morning. My I.D. was gone and I felt like a nobody. The fear that it could flare up again and burn your grain and other buildings.

It was what decided me to go to Edmonton, with $35 to my name.

by Pat Cole

it could’ve been you

what a horrible thing to happen

to family and friends

businesses and homes

burnt to ashes

what a situation to be in

leaving their belongings all behind

their precious belongings

that mean so much

and can never be

replaced, thousands of

men, women, children weeping

friends taking people in

that they don’t even know.

by Lil Gallant

This devastation of our neighbours

has affected all of us, WE ARE A

FRIEND, WE ARE A FAMILY member,

This could’ve been you?

You take a lot for granted

where you live, but you

have no control over what

happens to it,

you think life is great one

day all of a sudden you’re

being told never mind forced

to flee your home, your emotions

run on overdrive, adrenaline, trying

not to look back at what

you’ve built, knowing it will be

gone.

It could’ve been you,

devastation of the anger of

mother nature, cleansing, healing

learning you a lesson

let’s help the one, the hundreds

it could have been you.

by Debbie Lathlin

What is going on

in Slave Lake just think

that could have been you

and your town or city.

It could’ve been

your house or business

it could’ve been

your family or pets.

What would you do?

If you were in that

situation with the

fire and losing

everything that you

worked so hard for

it could’ve been you

or it could’ve been me.

Now there are hundreds

of people now with no

homes to raise their families

and no place for them to call home.

It could have been you

that lost every thing and

now we ask would it ever

happen to us, it could have been you.

by Jeanne Armstrong

It was me in 1987. On my Dad’s farm, my brother was working with the grinder. The spark from the grinder started the fire, then the wind picked up, the fire got away on them.

It burnt my house down, and it came close to Dad’s house, it was five feet from his house.

by Dwight Williamson

I’m Gonna Git That Bird

TLCLA Writers — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 05:55:53 +0000

You remember the one who awakes me up every morning at 6:15.

I have gone to great effort and some expense to hush that roving minstrel. Ear plugs have worked wonders for noise in general.There are a few troublemakers who seem to think they can disturb everyone’s sleep with their drunken rages; the trains that shunt at any time of the day or night, plus the noise of the rush hour traffic on the Yellowhead.

Keeping those earplugs in is a difficult task. As I sleep, I take them out! They are lost somewhere in those gosh darn sheets or even worse, under the bed. Oh well, what can I do… It`s just something else to look for at three in the morning.

Mr. Birdie seems to play a mean game of Catch Me If You Can. When I hear him first thing in the morning I am not even awake enough to get up, let alone, get out of the bed. I have so many things to do first thing in the morning that I have no time to chase after this rascal at that time of the day. Finally, I’m ready for the walk. Standing on the front porch breathing in the pollution from those horrid refineries, I hear him, but cannot find him. My eyes wonder to and fro… searching desperately in the trees . “Enough already“, I say to myself. I have to get on with my exercise. That is why I am up so bright and early. No time to dilly dally-dallying taking pictures.

Fifteen minutes later, I am back with the camera. Maybe today I will have my victory. I wander around, intently listening, waiting for action. I found him! I walk closer and closer to the two toned melody. Ah ha!!! I see what I think is the culprit. I no sooner get him into the sight and he flies off. I follow him to the tree across the street, get him once again in the sight and decide that could not be that bird. He looked too much like a chickadee. So, off I go and so does he. I decided to give up, go home and get ready for a night of musical entertainment at the Winspear.

Just as I turned the corner, there it was again, clear as a bell, that dual toned melody, hit my ear drums.
Perturbed this time to say the least, I think , if I just rush around to the back of the condo, I’m sure I could snap a shot.

I’m beginning to be obsessed over this wandering musician. I so want to know what he looks like. Can I let him go? Sure, yes, of course- as soon as I shoot him with my camera. Sorry to say… No victory today.

Another Irish Poem

TLCLA Writers — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 04:50:49 +0000

March 17,2011

May your hills be always upward
May your skies be ever blue
May your smile be up and never down
The song in your heart be true
May the hand of God be guiding
Toward His Heavenly Light
Heaven bound, homeward bound
Where everything will truly be alright.

I’m A Little Bird

TLCLA Writers — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 20:21:56 +0000

I don’t remember coming into this world, just that I did. After a long road of chewing on a hard surface and in a circle no less, I was freed from the place where I spent the first 21 days, while I became me.
Oh my, I was wet and tired!
After a few hours, I dried out and sported a fuzzy yellow down suit.
Then I met Momma… She hooked her beak into mine and I began to eat for the very first time. What an experience! It felt as though she would shake my head right off; but eventually, my neck strengthened and I could withstand the experience.
I grew bigger and stronger by the day. Momma fed us bread crumbs and eggs and broccoli. I did not know I would squeak as the food went down.That was too funny.
I was still able to flap my featherless wings and use my brothers and sisters to lean against, to exercise my legs.
One day I will be able to fly away.

At the End of Ten Years’ Work

TLCLA Writers — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 17:17:31 +0000

At the end of ten years’ work,
I have four walls filled with a mess
As there are papers of maybe stories
Also in that mess is every colour of yarn
As I knit when I need a breather from writing.
What is the dreaded four walls
To many of my friends, some who are mentally ill
Is my Retreat.
The hills in my past have been steep
And winds stormy, but
My pen has liberated me from the past
And in the ten years I have a bright moon
And winds of friendship.
I want to die with peace of mind.
The rest can stay outside.

– Pat Cole

Pat’s poem is a response to this one by Song Sun:

At the end of ten years’ work
I have a hut with a straw roof.
The clear wind lives in one half,
And the bright moon in the other.
There’s no space to invite the hills.
They will have to stay outside.

My Sister

TLCLA Writers — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 17:20:51 +0000

My sister came to Edmonton in 1953 at the age of seventeen. She got a job at Lang’s Grocery Store.
Two years later she married an alcoholic who was not a good provider. As she says, ” I was trapped.”
She raised two boys and a girl and now wonders how she did it. Her husband died of a heart attack when her oldest child was eleven years old, and she went to work.
She got a job with Ecco. Heating and made pipes, elbows and all sheet metal products. Her wages were meagre and there was no union to take up grievances with the company.
Eight years later, her oldest son, who had dropped out of school, wrote his Grade 12 exam, and said it was eas. He told his mother to write it too, and quit being a tin basher.
She wrote the exam and got high marks, and showed her boss her diploma. The manager at Ecco. Heating moved her to Finance, where she collected money from their customers; she was good at it, and even collected on bad debts.
She got a good salary and became a voice on all company transactions.
Today she is retired with a goo pension, and sings with The Sweet Adelines, who travel extensively.
This is what happened to my sister by extending her education, and with the help of the Learning Centre, it could happen to you.
Pat Cole

Whittling with Debbie

TLCLA Writers — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 18:04:15 +0000

Here’s an example of our editing work. First, the original piece, a lyrical poem about Debbie’s grandfather. After our group of writers had a look through, asking questions and making suggestions, Debbie re-wrote it, in the second version.

widdle the willow

his hands were weathered

broken in

gently rocking in his rikity

rocking chair

uneasyness, a lil shaky

leathered hands widdle

the willow

dusk falls, randomly

mentioning

shadows on white sands

remembering the beauty

of peace

quietly asking in a whisper

to widdle a willow

glassy eyes and his

angelic grin

he handed me a willow

whispering breaking the air

widdle away.

deb lathlin

Whittle the Willow

His hands were weathered,

broken in

gently rocking his rickety

rocking chair

uneasiness, a li’l shaky

leathered hands whittle

the willow

dusk falls randomly mentioning

shadows on white sands

remember beauty of peace

quietly asking in whisper

to whittle a willow

shadowed eyes

angelic grin

he handed me a willow

whispering, breaking the air

Whittle away.

Deb Lathlin

As you can see, Deb made great use of suggestions from her fellow writers. She also was inspired, when editing the above poem, to write a companion piece, for her grandmother.

Let the Flowers Breathe

fragile and shaky

ivory skin

kneeling on her achy bones

she pulls the weeds

to let the flowers breathe

with dirt-stained hands

she evens out the soil

silently humming with

a hint of smile

ignoring the arthritis

seeping through her fingers

with a confused stare

disappearing into herself

she remembers tinted bluish green

coverings, blankets of protection

out of the blue, those bodies

of water were a beaut.

mentioning … wishing to see

the beauty she saw.

With her wrinkle-etched eyes

glassy from the brightness

of the outside

she glances up quietly whispers

me too, my dear.

Deb Lathlin September 21, 2010

Hurts

TLCLA Writers — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 17:47:04 +0000

Our writers’ circle is made up of struggling writers: some of whom feel that life has dealt them a hand of hurts.

Robert Louis Stevenson, a famous poet and story writer, was an invalid who spent his childhood in bed. But his pain and weakness did not prevent him from being cheerful, by creating a world of imagination as he lay in that bed.

We can see this in his book, The Child’s Garden of Verses, which is drawn from his own experiences when he was a child.

The publication of his first long story, Treasure Island, made him popular.

He did not only write, but he married the woman he loved.

Can we not be like this person who put his hurt aside, and let our imagination flourish?

To be like this person, we have to put on a cheerful smile, and let our imaginations reach for the top.

Pat Cole, November 2010

Onward to Editing

TLCLA Writers — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 17:44:31 +0000

Courage. Kindness.

To live well takes courage and kindness.

So it is with writing as well. To write well, in whatever form we choose, takes courage and kindness.

This autumn’s meetings of our Writers’ Circle have shown me that, yet again.

It takes courage to write what is true for you, and courage to share that with others.

And it takes kindness to hear and appreciate another’s truth.

We’ve been stretching our courage and kindness this fall, as we did peer editing for the first time. I have to admit, I was nervous. I’ve been with many different writers’ groups, as student, participant, leader; I know that peer editing can be tough. Editing includes criticism. Criticism can hurt. Hurt people can react badly. And bad editing can be worse than none at all.

On the other hand, peer editing can also be a wonderful experience in gaining trust in and respect for each other. Another person’s eyes and ears notice things we might overlook ourselves. Without honest feedback, how do we know we have written something that clearly sends the message we intended?

I have had good teachers, and have gotten a lot out of peer editing over the years. And i’ve seen this group working together, supporting each other, giving good feedback on the simple level we’d been using to this point. So, while I was nervous, I was also excited.

I told the group a story, that first day, that involves a colleague of mine, the father of good friends, who is a noted writer. Later that same week, I shared that story with his children, who shook their heads; no, no, that wasn’t how it went, not as far as they remembered. But then they laughed and said they supposed it was just the sort of thing that could have happened, he was that passionate about his work.

So, there’s one point: our memory is an editor, too. Sometimes, fact checking is important.

In this case, though, I think the man would not mind, if he knew. For the story was this:

As a young poet, he’d once gotten into an argument with a peer, over the placement of a comma. A single comma, plus poetic doses of alcohol, led to him hanging his friend out a hotel window by the ankles, insisting that his comma choice was the correct one…. and that’s my main point. We take our writing personally.

It has become my cautionary tale of choice, when talking of editing… it could come to that, I warn, if we are not all careful to give and receive honest criticisms, in a spirit of mutual support.

I probably needn’t have worried. We never even came close to ankle-shaking window-hangings. Instead, we’ve been having that wonderful kind of experience, where we all teach each other. We all come to see our own and others’ work more clearly, and we all come to appreciate the skill, passion, and vision of each writer. I hope we’ll continue to find this road of peer editing a good one to travel together. Should be okay… we’ve got plenty of courage and kindness amongst us. And our windows don’t open; we checked.

wing of my grandmother

TLCLA Writers — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 18:45:11 +0000

yes. i am a wing of my grandmother.
my grandmother was like my mother
i held her on a high pedestal, beside my mother
when she passed away
if nobody had been there to hold me back
i’d have been in that grave with her
i hold her that high
i hold her so high
i cannot get the words out
she was a mother
she was my best friend
when we had to move down to take care of her
i told everybody
i’m going to be upstairs with my grandmother
yous can be downstairs
that’s the way it’s gonna be
yous can listen to me
or scrap with me.

i wouldn’t care if they buried me alive.

i’d have been right in there with her.

whenever i needed someone to talk to she was there
when she was sore, i’d go rub cream on her
we’d do crosswords
watch tv

my folks used to keep pill bottles
full of toonies and loonies
each of my sisters and i would get one
but after they went home
i’d be given that extra one

that’s how high i held her
if they hadn’t been there to hold me back
i’d be in that grave with her
i hold her that high.

– Kevin Samson