©2013 Allyson Latta

See more of my photos here. (NEW “view” allows you to scroll easily through previous WW photos.)

And drop in on the following writer friends for their takes on Wordlessness:

Allison Howard

Barbara Rose Lambert

Carin Makuz at Matilda Magtree

Cheryl Andrews

Elizabeth Yeoman at Wunderkamera

Enjoy these recent posts on writing …

“Of Eloquent Blood”: the story of the woman who ran one of North America’s largest fur trade companies

Write on! Deadline for UofT School of Continuing Studies writing competition is almost here

“C” Fundamental (a process): guest post on writing by Carin Makuz

On Memory: Study Finds Our Memories Can Be Reactivated During Sleep

This Story Is Full of Holes, an essay by Kyo Maclear

From an early age I was intrigued by the story my grandmother told me about her grandmother, an Indian woman who ran the Mackinac Company. Besides, I was named after this woman — Elizabeth. And when  in my late teens I learned there was information about her in a book my mother had, Fred Landon’s Lake Huron, I was hooked.

For the next forty-odd years I collected books, pamphlets, maps, pictures, everything I could get my hands on related to Elizabeth Mitchell (née Bertrand). I corresponded with researchers and distant relatives of my ancestors in Arkansas, Kansas, Montreal, Michilimackinac.

My grandmother, my mother, and I took a road trip to Mackinac Island. We met a woman who remembered where Elizabeth’s house had been and we took a picture of it. We visited the fort where Elizabeth’s husband, a graduate in medicine from the University of Edinburgh, was once surgeon’s mate in the 8th King’s (Liverpool) Regiment, and we were shown Elizabeth’s tombstone, moved for safety from the cemetery of St. Anne’s Church below the fort.

The story became more and more fascinating as I learned that here was a woman who ran a massive fur trade company, once the largest in North America, the influence of which stretched all the way from Montreal to the Mississippi and from Michilimackinac down Lake Michigan to the St. Joseph River. This was a heroic woman whose story had profound implications for the history of Canada. Yet she was never talked about.

Now what was I to do with all this?

My husband suggested I give a paper at the Fourth North American Fur Trade Conference in October 1981. My speech created some interest but was not included in the papers published in book form because “there was no one with the expertise to vet it.” I gave one more paper, jointly with another Indian scholar, at the Fifth Fur Trade Conference in Montreal, but I was becoming discouraged.

Meanwhile a friend in Women’s Studies at the Toronto Board of Education spoke to a colleague at OISE about my work, and one day I got a phone call from TVO asking if I would be willing to do a research paper for a half-hour French program about “Elizabeth” as part of its series Témoins du Passé, which was to include Etienne Brûlé, the Head of the Grey Nuns, J.A.S. Plouffe, Oliva Dionne, and eight others. The program about Elizabeth was a great success, though I was sad it was not shown in English as well.

Soon after that I went back to teaching, half hoping someone else would take up the cause. There were lots of leads out there for another researcher-writer to pick up on and I was tired of it all.

It wasn’t until I retired thirteen years later that I realized something: no one else was going to write this book. I would have to write it. And I decided that, lacking a PhD in history, I would have to make it a historical novel.

I’ve never regretted that decision. It allowed me more flexibility, and having the characters actually talk to each other and disagree about important matters added a new dimension to the historical events. Of course, it was challenging to merge fact and fiction and in the process make the characters come alive. At first the historical facts often overwhelmed the story. Each time, my editors made me aware of this and it was back to the drawing board. The manuscript, now 400 pages, has been substantially edited and undergone numerous rewritings. Sometimes I find it is best to go back to your original draft, but in general the book improves each time you go over it. Even John Milton rewrote his manuscripts more than once.

Sometimes revising means finding new material to expand a section; other times changes are more straightforward. I make lots of spelling errors — I never could spell very well — and often have to look up words in the dictionary. I find this revising enjoyable on the whole. It’s not like the terror of dealing with a blank page.

This book has taken me over ten years to write, not counting a lifetime of research, corresponding with interesting people, and having the privilege of working, consecutively, with not one but two fantastic editors. I’ve hardly ever disagreed with either one of them. More than anything, researching and writing about the fascinating life of Elizabeth Bertrand has made me realize that what happens in the world, good and bad, has very little to do with religion, politics, country of origin, race, sex, et cetera. It has everything to do with the character of the individuals involved.

♦     ♦     ♦

ELIZABETH MASON is a former teacher. She lived for eight years in London, England, where she did post-graduate work in English at King’s College, University of London, and taught in a Secondary Modern School. Returning to Toronto she became involved in the Native Community, as a Liaison Volunteer for the Toronto Board of Education, as a Board Member at Anduhyaun, and as a teacher at the First Nations School.

This essay was originally published on this website in August 2010.

If my photo below brings to mind a memory or otherwise inspires you to do some writing, I hope you’ll share a comment.

And there is a story behind this, which I’ll share anon.

©2007 Allyson Latta

View more of my photos here.

And drop in on the following writer friends for further Wordlessness:

Barbara Rose Lambert

Carin Makuz at Matilda Magtree

Cheryl Andrews

Elizabeth Yeoman at Wunderkamera

Allison Howard will return next week

Enjoy these recent posts on writing …

Write on! Deadline for UofT School of Continuing Studies writing competition is almost here

“C” Fundamental (a process): guest post on writing by Carin Makuz

On Memory: Study Finds Our Memories Can Be Reactivated During Sleep

This Story Is Full of Holes, an essay by Kyo Maclear

Journals, Memories, and Tulips: guest post by Mary Catalfo

“Geheime Korrespondenz,” by Carl von Bergen, 1891 (Source: Wikimedia Commons)

Friday, May 24, 2013.

That’s the deadline for submissions to this year’s Random House of Canada Student Award for Fiction.

If you were enrolled in a course offered by the Creative Writing Program at University of Toronto’s School of Continuing Studies between May 15, 2012 and May 15, 2013 (today!), YOU’RE ELIGIBLE.

(Dear students o’ mine: this includes you if you took part in my UofT online course “Memories into Story” in Spring or Fall 2012, or are enrolled in my current class.)

One winner will receive a prize of $1,000. Two finalists will also be selected, and the winner and finalists will be published in a chapbook.

Entries must be post-marked on or before May 24.

Find out more about the contest and check out the submission guidelines here.

Read last year’s Winners and Honorable Mentions.

View more of my photos here.

And drop in on the following writer friends for further Wordlessness:

Allison Howard

Barbara Rose Lambert

Carin Makuz at Matilda Magtree

Cheryl Andrews

Elizabeth Yeoman at Wunderkamera

Enjoy these recent posts on writing …

Explore Memoir Writing at the Distillery Historic District: May 17

“C” Fundamental (a process): guest post on writing by Carin Makuz

On Memory: Study Finds Our Memories Can Be Reactivated During Sleep

This Story Is Full of Holes, an essay by Kyo Maclear

Journals, Memories, and Tulips: guest post by Mary Catalfo

New Downtown Workshop Location!

I’m excited about this central venue for my writing workshops: artist Heather Gentleman’s studio, Hag Atelier, in the lively, creativity-inspiring Distillery Historic District. The first workshop will take place May 17.

Rediscover Your Stories: Introduction to Memoir Writing

Location: Hag Atelier, Distillery Historic District, 9 Trinity Street, Toronto, M5A 3C4 (Map; Hag Atelier is located behind Balzac’s Coffee Shop)

Date: Friday, May 17

Time: 10 am. to 3 p.m.

Fee: $129 ($119 — discount for members of Writers’ Community of Durham Region or Writers’ Community of York Region). Bring a bag lunch or plan to grab a bite in one of a choice of Distillery eateries.

Registration: Contact me at lattamemoirs@gmail.com

Details: Have you thought of writing your stories for family, friends, or a larger readership and wondered how to get started? This workshop’s blend of instruction, fun individual and group exercises, and discussion will provide you with tools and tips to help you begin, or take the next steps in, writing your memories. Rediscover your defining moments and how to bring them to life on the page.

Upcoming Workshops at Koffler Centre of the Arts

I’ll also offer 3 one-day workshops at Koffler Centre of the Arts through the spring and summer: May 27 (Memoir Critique), June 3 (Intro Memoir), July 17 (Intro Memoir). See my Workshops page for more information.

3-Day September Retreat in the Kawartha Lakes Combines Writing & Collage

Seven Treasures: Memoir Writing & Collage Weekend: Friday, September 6 (12 noon) to Sunday, September 8 (3 p.m.).

Artist Heather Gentleman of Hag Atelier, retreat owner Janet Markham, and I are collaborating to present this special three days of memoir writing & collage workshops (suitable for beginners) based on the Seven Treasures memoir series published on my website. The venue is a spacious 10-bedroom lakefront property with separate studio space in the beautiful Kawartha Lakes.

As a guest you’ll enjoy well-appointed lakefront accommodation, all meals and snacks, writing and art workshops, a guest presentation by acclaimed author and collage artist Diane Schoemperlen, and a basic tutorial on how to self-publish a book, for yourself or others, based on what you create over the weekend. There will also be time for your own writing, discussion with other participants, and swimming if the weather’s great. Enjoy the tranquil natural surroundings from cottage, deck, dock, hammock, kayak, pedal-boat, or even hot tub.

Registration: Contact me at lattamemoirs@gmail.com to inquire or apply.

Please note: This workshop is limited to 6 to 8 participants. Most rooms with queen beds; one with twins. Registrants will receive a list of suggested items to bring for their collages; other art supplies will be provided.

For further information about upcoming courses or workshops, check out my Workshops page, or contact me at lattamemoirs@gmail.com.

Fully Booked

The Spring session of my 10-week online memoir writing course for University of Toronto, Memories into Story, is full.

My annual workshop series in June for North York Central Library (now in its seventh year) is also full, as is the waiting list. I’m sorry if you missed out on it this time.

All Wordless Wednesday photos appearing on this website are my own, other than the occasional older family photo, e.g., one I shared of my grandmother Evelyn Jeffrey, a singer and voice teacher, with contralto Marian Anderson.

©2013 Allyson Latta

View more of my photos here.

And drop in on the following writer friends for further Wordlessness:

Allison Howard

Barbara Rose Lambert

Carin Makuz at Matilda Magtree

Cheryl Andrews

Elizabeth Yeoman at Wunderkamera

Emerging and published writers, I hope you’ll enjoy my recent posts on writing …

“C” Fundamental (a process): guest post on writing by Carin Makuz

On Memory: Study Finds Our Memories Can Be Reactivated During Sleep

This Story Is Full of Holes, an essay by Kyo Maclear

Interview with Oonya Kempadoo, Grenada-based author and social development researcher

Journals, Memories, and Tulips: guest post by Mary Catalfo

“El Sueño” by Antonio Cortina Farinós (Source: Wikimedia Commons)

From “Reactivating Memories During Sleep: Memory Rehearsal During Sleep Can Make a Big Difference in Remembering Later” (Science Daily, April 13, 2013):

“Why do some memories last a lifetime while others disappear quickly? A new study suggests that memories rehearsed, during either sleep or waking, can have an impact on memory consolidation and on what is remembered later.

The new Northwestern University study shows that when the information that makes up a memory has a high value (associated with, for example, making more money), the memory is more likely to be rehearsed and consolidated during sleep and, thus, be remembered later.

Also, through the use of a direct manipulation of sleep, the research demonstrated a way to encourage the reactivation of low-value memories so they too were remembered later.”

. . .

“‘The research poses provocative implications about the role memory reactivation during sleep could play in improving memory storage,’ said [Dr. Ken] Paller, director of the Cognitive Neuroscience Program at Northwestern. ‘Whatever makes you rehearse during sleep is going to determine what you remember later, and conversely, what you’re going to forget.’”

©2012 Allyson Latta

View more of my photos here.

And drop in on the following writer friends for further Wordlessness:

Barbara Rose Lambert

Carin Makuz at Matilda Magtree

Cheryl Andrews

Elizabeth Yeoman at Wunderkamera

Allison Howard

Check out these great posts on writing …

Posted yesterday:

“C” Fundamental (a process): a guest post on writing by Carin Makuz

Plus:

Aspiring Canadian Poets Contest accepting submissions as of April 1

Journals, Memories, and Tulips: guest post by Mary Catalfo

This Story Is Full of Holes, an essay by Kyo Maclear

Interview with Oonya Kempadoo, Grenada-based author and social development researcher

Yes, they said. I could study the accordion.

We happened to have a full-size one in the hall closet. How handy.

My only experience of it at that point involved a vague memory of watching the bellows expand and contract one Christmas as my older sister oom-pah-pahed her way through “Silent Night” and the cat peed on the royal-blue velvet lining of the carrying case.

Lessons were Saturday mornings at the something-something school of music uptown. My dad would idle the car in front of the building just long enough for me to slide the case off the back seat and then, giving the Oldsmobile some gas, he’d holler, “Have fun!” — and drive away, honking and waving.

The case was too heavy to lift so I’d clunk it up three flights of narrow stairs, and drag it to the music room where a pale and crumpled instructor would be waiting to hear my latest rendition of “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.” Why he never leapt out the window I can’t imagine.

An hour later my dad would be back, sitting in the car, in excellent humour and smelling of cigars and coffee.

He never said where he’d been and I didn’t ask.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, strapped to that beast of an accordion and facing an aluminum music stand, I slogged through several levels of books — orange, purple, yellow — until one horrible day the pale, crumpled man announced there would be a recital in which all students of the something-something school would perform. I was assigned “Brahms’s Lullaby.” Memory goes dim at this point except for the nausea I felt each time I practised Brahms and imagined playing it in front of hundreds, possibly millions, of people. And I still see the book open to the page (a picture of a bassinet swinging in a tree); I still feel the fingers of my right hand poised over the vertical keyboard while my left searches among dozens of bass keys for the indented C Fundamental that puts the rest in perspective.

Sometime before the recital I begged (the pale man? my parents?) to be excused from playing, and after much drama on my part they agreed. This effectively put an end to any future as a concert accordionist; and the urine-scented case, along with my music stand, was retired to its place in the closet.

It was a relief not to see it, and after a while it was all but forgotten.

~~

My parents and my sister have since died, my mother most recently, and while clearing fifty years of memories from her house I am shocked to find an envelope of receipts my dad kept from my lessons — $6 each. It means he must have come inside the store to pay, and for some reason I can’t explain, this insignificant fact is jarring and draws me back into a sense of mystery about those Saturday mornings. I realize I’m still curious about where he went after he dropped me off.

We lived near the Welland Canal and I used to picture him there, on a bench in fine weather with a fat cigar, eyes closed in the sunshine or open and watching a freighter make its way through the lock. But maybe he sat on a stool at the corner diner instead, charming a waitress named Anne-Marie as he ate pecan pie. Or maybe he went home. The funny thing is I was a kid who never hesitated to ask questions, and my dad and I talked about everything, so I wonder what stopped me in this case. It’s that “what” that niggles.

At the back of my mother’s hall closet I find the old music stand, much flimsier than I remember, but no accordion, and then a few years later my “great-niece” — the granddaughter my sister did not live to meet — tells me one day out of the blue that there’s an accordion in her basement, that her grandma used to play it. I don’t tell her I used to play too. I don’t want to dilute the few stories she has about her grandmother. But it’s not just that. I feel immediate discomfort at the mention of it. Again, I wonder why.

Whenever I try writing about this, I do so in fragments, quirky at best, but always sensing a deeper layer I can’t name … The loss of my sister? The mystery of how my dad spent that hour? Surely not the trauma of Brahms?

I’d like to leave it there, quirky and fragmented. I tell myself it’s a waste of time to poke around any further and I almost believe it, but then I’m reminded of the rule in writing, how when you get to that place where things are uncomfortable and you’re tempted to stop, that’s exactly when you need to keep going. At least if you want to find something worth finding.

Geez, I hate that rule.

And so, while I haven’t a clue what’s connected to that crazy old accordion, I’m willing to strap it back on, clunk my way up that staircase, and wave goodbye to my dad again and again (seems I didn’t escape after all when I ditched the recital) until I find that oddly shaped key, the C Fundamental, the one your finger fits into automatically, the one that puts everything around it in perspective.

♦     ♦     ♦

CARIN MAKUZ spends long hours writing short fiction. Essays too. Occasionally these words are published in journals and magazines, broadcast on CBC Radio, or win prizes. All of which brightens her days immensely. Despite years of accordion lessons and a brief fling with the guitar, she is not musical. A novel remains under construction. Oddly, a piano features prominently.

Carin can be found thinking out loud at Matilda Magtree.