Senior Citizens Writing II

Description

SENIOR CITIZE01 General/trade WRITING II continues the tradition of the first volume with new examples of seniors citizens writing from the unique and succesful workshops facilitated by W.. Ross Winterowd. In this new collection, readers will find memoirs, short stories and poems from eleven authors, ranging in age from 63 to 87, U.S. born as well as immigrant.

Sujets

• Anthologies
• Poetry

Informations

• Publié par: Parlor Press, LLC
• Date de parution: 13 mai 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781602357501
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Senior Citizens Writing II
With an Introduction and Notes by W. Ross Winterowd
Edited by Bill Reid
Parlor Press
West Lafayette, Indiana
www.parlorpress.com


Parlor Press LLC, West Lafayette, Indiana 47906
© 2009 by Parlor Press
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
S A N: 2 5 4 - 8 8 7 9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Senior citizens writing II / with an introduction and notes by W. Ross Winterowd ; edited by Bill Reid.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-60235-107-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-60235-108-0 (adobe ebook)
1. Autobiographies--United States. 2. United States--Biography. 3. Older people’s writings, American. 4. Aging--Literary collections. I. Winterowd, W. Ross. II. Reid, Bill, 1930- III. Title: Senior citizens writng 2. IV. Title: Senior citizens writing two.
CT101.S39 2009
808’.06692--dc22
2009017701
Printed on acid-free paper.
Cover and book design by David Blakesley
Cover images ©
Thanks to Susan Bales for providing copy editing assistance on this project.
Parlor Press, LLC is an independent publisher of scholarly and trade titles in print and multimedia formats. This book is available in paperback and Adobe eBook epub formats from Parlor Press on the Internet at http://www.parlorpress.com. For submission information or to find out about Parlor Press publications email [e-mail].


Preface
I thank Dr. W. Ross Winterowd for the encouragement, sage commentary, and friendship he so freely endowed on me, and generously endows on all older adult writing workshop attendees. I learned a great amount about life, writing, and story from his tireless efforts during the sixty workshop sessions I attended. I also attest that the many other workshop participants, who I now know as friends, have benefited in like manner, particularly the ten other authors who worked with me on the anthology section of this book.
Workshop attendees wish to thank the Huntington Beach Union High School and staff for their support for the Writing Workshops for older adults, sponsored since the Fall of 1999 and offered three times per year. We thank in particular Dr. Doris Longmead, principal of the Coast High School and Adult School, and her able staff; Catherine McGough, assistant principal at the school, and Dr. Winterowd’s boss; Lynn Bergman, secretary; June Stark-Karaba, specialist for older adult classes; and Georgina Amparan, department secretary.
The patience and support of the anthology section authors was greatly appreciated, and I thank Paul Larkin, Joanne Simpson, and Marie Thompson for their reading, editing, and proofreading assistance on some of the contributions.
Thank you David Blakesley and Parlor Press for authorizing this second book on Senior Citizens Writing.
I give special thanks to Norma Winterowd and Tessa Reid, beloved wives whom Ross and I owe for the time we invested in the preparation of this book.
—Bill Reid


Acknowledgments
We are grateful for permission to reprint or adapt from the following sources:
Marjory Bong-Ray Liu : China map and inset: Courtesy of the University of Texas Libraries. The University of Texas at Austin. Excerpts included in “My Adventures in China During World War II” appeared in Emeritus Voices , the publication of the Arizona State University Emeritus College. Used by permission.
Richard Wrate : Excerpts from The Aspen Times : Courtesy of The Aspen Times, Inc.
Paul Larkin : “Ole George” and “The Paper Boy.” Courtesy of TomBigbee Country Magazine .


Contents
Preface
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Eddie Hasson
The Most Dynamic Class in Junior High School
Human Reproduction
Co-Ed Health—Undivided Attention
First Aid Unit
Coed Health Class House Rules
A Sad Story
Talent Shows and Other Performances at the Junior High Level
Old Mother Hubbard
Mary Ann Huisken
A City Girl on the Farm
Sleeping Under the Stars
Decorating the Christmas Tree
“Mother, Where Are You?”
Paul “Sammy” Larkin
“Ole George’’ and the Paper Boy
Amory Library
“Tick”
Baseball Long Toss Contest
Knockout Punch
The Ring
In the Morning
Marjory Bong-Ray Liu
My Adventures in China During World War II
QI (Chee) *
Snow in Beijing
Kathy Recupero
As I Remember It—Love at First Slight
Daddy, a Beloved Irishman
New York! New York! It’s a Wonderful Town
Our Year in Tuscany
William (Bill) Reid
There’s a War On!
“Sassenachs! Go Live Among Them?”
Joanne Simpson
Bubbles of Remembrance
It Was the 60’s!
Fred
Marie Thompson
Another Chance
The Norton Simon
The Scruff
The Button
An Enchanted Oasis
Sanctuary
Phan V ū
Autumn Love
A Bus Ride
Edna Woolley
One Remarkable Woman
Molly’s Folly
What Fun It Was
Ted
My Greek Vacation
Richard Wrate
Beauty in the Beast
Buttermilk Returns?
Contributors


Introduction
W. Ross Winterowd
You and I are exactly alike, you know. We both have limited time on this Earth, and we should choose to squeeze from the hours and days every possible drop of joy, every moment of peace. Even in this bleak age, with an even grimmer future. Of course, what I’m saying now makes perfectly good sense, but that sense is worthless. It adds up like two and two are four. Except that our adding machine is haywire, and good sense sometimes doesn’t make sense. That’s why all of us should lose ourselves in immensity. For every waking moment, we should try to make ourselves a part of eternity, that universe out there. When I was a boy, in summer I slept out on our back lawn, and I can remember gazing at the starry heavens and thinking that God must be there somewhere among the galaxies. Maybe when I was a boy I understood more than I do now. No one can know the infinite like you know the multiplication tables, but you can know it in your heart and soul, the joyous mystery of the whole thing. People used to talk about the music of the spheres. I think that I heard that music, more grand than any organ or choir. We all should try to hear that music again.
In groups of fifteen or so senior citizens huddle together, listening for a chord or a strain or a passage, and it’s surprising how often we hear it. When we read Anna’s story of the ramshackle house her father built, with varmints and bugs rustling in the walls; or the story of Michelle’s doll that never smiled; or Art’s tale about his wife’s hats; or Paul’s account of first sensing the awe and mystery of monastic life; or Phan’s story about two lovers in wartime Viet Nam. . . . We perk up when we encounter the dissonance of Gerry’s political tracts or the precision of Gordon’s explanations of technology.
The term “creative writing” is anathema to us, for we believe that all serious writing is creative. Every well-crafted piece gives us echoes from the music of the spheres, those symphonies that we all heard when we were youngsters.
In our association with one another, in our work, and in our responses to that work, we find a mellow, autumnal music that is more satisfying than the rollicking melodies of spring or the songs of summer—because, of course, we know that the dirges of winter lie ahead.
Ah then, how do such marvels come about?
Here’s the secret: people who want to write get together every week to read and respond to each other’s work. That’s such an arcane, mysterious concept, that I’ll repeat it: people who want to write get together every week to read and respond to each other’s work.
Years ago, a well-known scholar, one of my colleagues in the English Department at the University of Southern California, sputtered, “But everyone, ahem, knows, ahem, that you can’t teach anyone to write.” He was perfectly correct: you can’t teach anyone to write or to play the cello or cast flies for trout—if by teaching you mean lecturing. But, of course, Piatagorsky would not have given a student a fifty-minute lecture on playing the cello (with the purpose of enabling the student to play the instrument), nor would Lee Wolf have given me a fifty-minute lecture on fly-casting. Both masters would probably have demonstrated first, then asked the student to attempt the passage or cast, and finally would have given feedback regarding the performance.
It is axiomatic, then, that the workshop leader be a writer, preferably a compulsive writer, who week-by-week shares his work with his workshop pals. (I have submitted sections of two novels, a couple of short stories, several essays on language and others on religion, as well as my series of vegetable poems, such as this one:
Ah, parsnip, pallid winter root,
Thou symbol, yes, that very fruit
Of fallow fields and frozen ways,
I alone will sing thy praise
Before I whack thee quite in two
And pop thee in this evening’s stew.
Oh, vegetable melancholic,
When people dine and drink and frolic,
Thou liest in the basement bin,
A beetle bumbling blind therein.
Thou suffer’st yet the worst of taunts:
You’re never served in restaurants.
The wonderful thing about the workshop is that all the participants very quickly become masters, able to give meaningful feedback to their colleagues. “I don’t understand what you mean here. Can you clarify?” “You need more detail. I want to be able to ‘see’ that living room that’s so important in your story.” “Gee, you’ve bog