Leslie Latta:
Dad was born on September 24, 1929 in East Liverpool, Ohio. He was the first of three sons born to William Charlton and Marjorie Clippard Latta. He had two brothers, John Linton and Bruce. As the children of a Presbyterian minister, family lore has it that these three boys spent every Sunday sitting in the front pew listening quietly to their father’s preaching – not a practice that dad liked very much. After church, dad’s family would return to the manse which was often filled with the lovely smell of roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy, a favorite of dad’s throughout his life that made up for having to sit in that front row!
After graduating high school, dad’s parents agreed that he could move far from his Oakmont home – a suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania – only by agreeing to attend a Presbyterian bible college in Sterling, Kansas. We’re glad that this “talking into” was accomplished for it was at Sterling College that dad met our mom. They were basically the chaperones for their friends Paul and Marion, who were going on a swimming date to a local sand pit. This swimming experience spawned an affection that would grow into a lifelong love.
Dad graduated with his Bachelor of Arts degree from Sterling College in 1952. He had finished his coursework in January that year and enlisted in the air force, stationed in San Antonio, Texas. While on a short furlough-type leave, he and mom were married on July 22, 1952. Dad would often say that it was 105 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade on that Kansas day and it was way before in-home air conditioning was common. Straight away, the newlyweds headed to Monterey, California where dad studied Russian at the Army Language School. Dad’s military service with the U.S. Air Force as a Russian Language Specialist ran from 1952-56. During this period, he and mom returned to San Antonio where my brother Bill was born in May 1953. Shortly thereafter, dad went to Germany on his own where he was stationed for 18 months. After returning from Germany, he, mom and Bill returned to San Antonio where dad taught in the pre-language school at Lackland Air Force Base.
After completing his air force service, dad returned to Sterling College to obtain his Kansas teacher’s certificate. He taught high school English in Plevna, Kansas from 1956-58. It’s my understanding that he was also charged with the school library, which started a tradition of library work in our family. Around this time, dad decided to pursue his Master of Arts degree in English. He started out at the University of Pittsburgh during the summer of 1957. Linda was born there in June. After 1958, he made the decision to finish his MA at Kansas State University in Manhattan.
As dad was moving the family to Lincoln, Nebraska to begin his PhD in English, I came into the world in Manhattan in September 1960. Dad’s PhD studies ran until 1965. From September 1963 to July 1964, Dad completed research related to his dissertation on DH Lawrence under a Fulbright Scholarship at the University of Nottingham in England. He took us all along for the experience of a lifetime. We sailed from New York City on the Cunard Line’s Queen Mary to England and returned on the Line’s Queen Elizabeth.
After completing his PhD, Dad moved our family to Canada to teach at the University of Saskatchewan (Regina Campus). Two years later, he left Regina in -35 degrees Fahrenheit to travel to Lethbridge by bus to interview for a teaching position at a new university being established in honor of Canada’s centennial year. When he stepped off the bus, his foot landed in a puddle of melted snow brought on by a warm Chinook wind. He thought, “If they offer me this job, I’m taking it.” And, they did. Dad starting teaching English at the University of Lethbridge in 1967.
After 3 years in Lethbridge and 1 year in the 1st and only home dad and mom have ever owned, my little brother Tom was born. Our family was then complete.
Dad loved teaching but he didn’t like marking all the papers. I remember students ringing our doorbell late at night, many days after paper submission deadlines, handing in their work and I often wonder if dad docked them marks as I tend to do with students taking the “archives admin” courses I lead instruction of for UofA’s library school. Mom thinks probably not, if they were good papers.
I’m going to share with you a few words that we received via email this week from a couple of dad’s former students who both went on to teach English at the university-level themselves.
Yvonne Trainer wrote mom, saying, “I have many fond memories of reading poetry with Dr. Latta [she was the only person who ever called Dad “Dr.”], English department parties at your house where we made homemade ice cream, and Dr. Latta’s class on the history of the English language. His passion and knowledge in that course ignited my lifelong interest in the history of the English language. I can still hear his voice when I read poems in old and middle English.”
John Johansen wrote me, saying, “Please know, and let your family know, that I will always miss your father. His knowledge and humour, his quiet affirmation to me of who I was and what I wanted to do, his understanding, support and encouragement, were formative for me as I moved into adulthood. I always think that I have him to thank for a considerable portion of any professional success I've had, and in many ways I saw him as a model to me of the kind of person I've wanted to be in life. I am very grateful to have known him, and so sad to think he is gone.”
I remember and my mom has recently confirmed that my parents hosted many gatherings with great food and drink in our home, with Canadian poets and writers. My friend John Reilly posted the following comment on my Facebook timeline this week, “Sad to hear of your dad's passing. I'll never forget the day that he mentioned, as I sat on the couch in his living room quietly reading Who Has Seen The Wind?, “That is where W.O. Mitchell sat when he came over for tea.” My mom told me last night that the teacup was likely filled with scotch!
After retiring from the UofL in 1990, dad and mom took another adventurous step and moved to Gifu, Japan. There, dad taught English at the Shotoku Gakuen Women’s Junior College.
From 1992 on, dad and mom enjoyed their retirement. They traveled a great deal including trips back to Germany and England, and throughout North America visiting family and to newly experienced locations. Dad had a bit of a daily routine he followed, which included rising early to read the Lethbridge and Calgary Heralds, ensuring that his face was cleanly shaven with his trusted electric razor, and watching the sports he loved on TV – golf, baseball, and American college and Canadian football. He was a K-State, Nebraska and Saskatchewan Roughrider football fan, and Phil Mickelson was his latest favorite golfer. Dad was to travel with Bill and Tom to Toronto this August 10th to watch 3 Blue Jays’ games in honor of Bill’s recent 60th birthday. Mom will now be going along in dad’s place.
Dad and mom celebrated their 61st wedding anniversary the day after he was admitted to the Foothills Hospital … a week before he passed.
Emily and I had the opportunity to sit with dad in his hospital room that anniversary day. Em was saying goodbye as she needed to head back to Edmonton to complete a house and dog sitting commitment for friends. Over his bed, she asked me about my best memories of dad. A few things that I mentioned included:
- A day when I was about 20 years old. I was walking through a bit of a dark period in my life and I didn’t have much belief in anything greater than myself. My dad came up and sat with me in my bedroom, and told me that it was important for me believe in God. I wanted to argue that he didn’t go to church, so why should I believe. I just wanted to argue … about anything. He sat there and gently told me that although he was not a regular church goer, he definitely had a deep personal spiritual belief. Although I didn’t know it at the time, this interaction planted a deep seed related to the development of my own spiritual connection over the years.
- A second memory was the evening my dad encouraged me to consider applying to library school as I was almost finished my undergrad studies. I balked at the suggestion, as I wanted to do something much more glamorous with my life … like work for a fashion magazine. Really, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do. Well, I followed my dad’s advice and I have had the best career experience ever since. I now pass on much the same encouragement as my dad gave me, when young folks come to talk to me about the potential offered up by the pursuit of a master’s level library degree.
- And finally, I spoke about dad’s obvious love of and interest in his grandchildren. I think he was on the road to see each and every one of his seven shortly after their birth, the drive to Edmonton to see Emily being the farthest.
I have learned a lot watching my parents age these last few years … through the experience of dad’s fall and broken hip a few years ago, which alerted us to the fact that he’d had a few minor strokes and was dealing with short-term memory loss … through the experience of my mom’s more recent knee replacement surgery and my stay with dad while she was in the hospital that week. In hindsight, I have learned that enduring love is greater than the push and pull experience of everyday peaks and valleys that a marriage can encounter. This has led to some deep regret over personal moments where I let fear push me to run and isolate in my own life, but also it has led me to find the courage to keep walking forward … as everything life offers is just an experience that makes me a fuller human being.
I have been graced with opportunities to drive to Kansas and back with mom and dad last summer, to spend a week with them in Hawaii over Easter this spring along with Tom’s family, and along with Linda and Evan, to fly back to Kansas with them over our recent Canada day weekend to attend my mom’s sister’s, my Aunt Janice’s, memorial service. This type of travel allows one to slow down individual thought processes that speed too quickly. And, to gain perspective on what is most important in life. Family … friends … relationships with other people.
Speaking on behalf of my family, this was our experience during dad’s final week. We gathered. We slowed our pace. We focused on dad and his comfort. In turn, we comforted mom and one another. We helped dad reach his peace and in turn, he helped us achieve a piece of our own.
I want to thank my dad for being a good man.
Evan Strangward:
For those of you who don't know me, I am Evan, Bill's grandson. I moved to Lethbridge in the fall of 2006 and completed a degree at the University of Lethbridge over the next four years. Many people ask me why I chose Lethbridge for university. Was it to move away from Calgary and experience living on my own, or maybe it was a specific degree at the University that interested me? Well although maybe both of these had a little to do with why I chose Lethbridge, one of the things that I did not really consider when I decided to move, but which ultimately became one of things that I am most happy and proud about from my time there, was the relationship I built with my grandparents over those four years, and how it has continued in the three years since I went back to Calgary.
That is not to say that I did not have a good relationship with my Grandparents before I came to Lethbridge; I have very fond memories of them as a child. I will always remember coming down to Lethbridge in the summer with my sister Lauren, and spending a week with my grandparents going to the air show, or making pickles with my grandma, or going to baseball games with my grandpa. One memory in particular from those weeks in the summer was watching the Blue Jays with my grandpa every night in the sun room, and watching him cheer on players like Joe Carter, Carlos Delgado, and Otis Nixon. Little did I know, the passion he taught me for the Toronto Blue Jays would be something that we would share for the rest of the time that we had together, right up to us watching baseball together in his hospital room last week.
Our relationship would change when I moved to Lethbridge though, as I came to know my grandparents as an adult. I was able to see them on a nearly weekly basis, and this allowed us to create the strong relationship that I still enjoy. As a child you appreciate your grandfather because of how well he treats you, how he spoils you with different things, and how it always seems that he is a lot easier to get along with then your parents, but as an adult you come to appreciate other things. One of these things was how well he treated my grandma. When I saw my grandpa look at my grandma, his eyes truly lit up, and I could tell that it was true love. It is a love shared between my grandparents, which I think is what we all hope for in our lives, and they made it look so easy. We celebrated my grandparents 61st wedding anniversary in the hospital room on July 22, an amazing milestone that I think we all should celebrate. I also came to realize how much my grandpa loved the rest of my family, and how well he treated us. At family events, holidays and celebrations of all kinds; the way he showed his love for my family, and the way that we returned that love, showed just why he is the great patriarch of our family.
Some of the things I learnt from my grandpa while spending time with him and my grandma are how he appreciated the simple things in life, and how he often found humour in different situations. If it was listening to a song on his stereo in the living room, or bird calls in his big book of birds chirps and whistles, he always had quite the ear for hearing the beautiful things that surround us in life. He also found humour in many aspects of life, from the back and forth banter that would be shared between members of my family at different events to commercials on TV that he thought were hilarious. I remember watching the news with him one day in the fall of 2009, and a story came on about a man at the Calgary Zoo, who climbed two fences to get into one of the wild cats exhibits. The poor man was mauled, and although neither my grandpa or I wished any pain or suffering on this man, the very thought of the foolishness of this action brought him and I to lose ourselves in laughter. His laugh was infectious, and for those of you who have experienced it, I am sure it will be one of the fond memories of Bill that you will remember when reflecting on his life.
In 2011, my Grandpa had a fall that put him in the hospital for several weeks, with a recovery that he was still even until a few weeks ago working towards. At first the prognosis of his injury suffered in the fall was not good, but he made a recovery that left us all amazed. During that period I was able to meet several of my grandparents close friends, people who just like my grandparents are some of the nicest people you will meet. Chuck and Cecile were there for my grandpa and grandpa from day 1, and were a huge part of the recovery process that brought him back from the fall. After his fall a few weeks ago, they were the first people my grandma called, and were over in minutes to look after things. My family and I are grateful to them for what they have done for us, as well as the many other friends and neighbours that have looked after my grandparents and my family throughout this difficult process. A few years ago Chuck, Cecile and I joined my grandparents to celebrate my grandfathers birthday at CoCo Paza. After we had finished dinner and were preparing to leave, one of my grandparents friends Ester Lambert stopped us and wished my grandpa a Happy Birthday. She then led the entire restaurant in singing happy birthday for him, an act that was greatly appreciated by us. This was just one of the great acts of friendship that I am sure he experienced in life, and I was lucky enough to be a part of it.
I was also lucky to be involved in the last week of my grandpas life. He was in a hospital bed at the Foothills Hospital, and he was surrounded by his loving family. Although the week was filled with sadness because of the situation he was in, it was only a small part of what was going on in the room. I was able to spend the week with my uncles and aunts, my cousins, my mom, dad and sister, and of course my grandma and grandpa. We laughed and we told stories, and we loved each other and my grandpa in a way that would make anyone who was near the end happy they had one more week. He woke up several times that week and we were able to talk to him a little, but the rest of the time we knew that he could hear us, his family surrounding him with their love, for the great man who brought us all together. I had talked to my aunt Jody about this after my grandfather passed, we discussed how we do not need a sad event like this to bring us together. We should be expressing our love and spending time together whenever we have the chance to. Grandpa’s last gift to us was a week for my family to be together, to cherish the memories of his life, and to support each other though his passing.
At the start of July, I was able to travel with my Grandparents, my aunt Leslie and my Mom to Kansas to attend the funeral of my Great Aunt Janice. Although the reason for the trip was quite sad, and although I would not realize it at the time, it gave me the opportunity to spend one last memory filled weekend with my grandpa. From eating Barbeque with him in Kansas City, to sitting with him on the sunny porch at his bed and breakfast in Wamego, to the time we spent driving across the beautiful state he called home for a number of years, we were able to enjoy each other’s presence and spend quality time together. One memory from the trip stands out, a memory that will remain with me for a long time. We were in Kansas City and my grandma, aunt and mom wanted to check out a quilting store. My grandpa and I were asked if we would like to join in on the quilting adventure, but instead we decided to sit in a town square nearby, and enjoy the jazz music that was playing from a live band. We sat there enjoying the sun, a nice song and a cool breeze. We did not exchange many words, we didn't have to; we were together, relishing each other’s company and enjoying the simple things in life, as my grandpa had over the years taught me to do.
Laurie Ricou:
In the last class of the Fall term, no matter what course he was teaching, Bill would invariably read aloud--or play a recording of--Dylan Thomas’ A Child’s Christmas in Wales. Although Bill himself was softspoken, often laconic, his own poems a celebration of “quiet absence” (Snapshots), he loved many cadences and many languages, including Thomas’ “bombilating” “gong.” So, as his students dispersed he gave them this challenge and gift, to “taste” the “word[s]” “slowly / and with pleasure / as one ought.” (Myedlenno) He savoured the resonant, rotund, rolling phrases of Thomas’ poem-story, invited his students to luxuriate in its layered language, to appreciate that words uniquely combined could carry you to new worlds: to some “wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea.”
Bill was born in Ohio, became a devoted Canadian, but I always think of him as Nebraskan (with a little Carnaghan Kansas mixed in)-- partly because he taught me to become a life long fan of Big Red football. Especially because I know the University of Nebraska as the home of the Center for Great Plains Studies. From Lincoln to Regina and then Lethbridge he became an ever more intent student of the plains, for me a tutor “to fall back on” in what he once termed “this nowhere / place” (Blizzard). We would walk together through the coulees, or beside a field of ripening grain, or through the draft pages of Robert Kroetsch’s Seed Catalogue at each step exulting in some “quiet splash” of colour, some not-quite-visible life “fluttering within.” (Three Haiku)
Bill loved winter breakfasts at Waterton, a bowl of chili at Beaver Mines, the “miniscule tongue” (Persuasion) of asparagus in his garden, a bombilating Miles Davis on the stereo. He and Nancy, partnering in “warmth and loveliness” (To Nancy), made those spaces, and especially their living room, joy-filled welcomings. His favourite un-worded art forms were pottery (grounded, direct from the earth), and fabric arts, taught by Nancy there at her spinning wheel and loom, the yarns of flora and fauna made art but always with practical purpose.
When I came to U of L (then a few huts at the Junior College) for an interview, Bill gave me some advice. “We hope, in time, you will think of publishing some of your work in articles….But for the first few years we expect you to concentrate on preparing your classes and making them as effective as possible.” Yes—teaching comes first, and longest. Not that Bill didn’t appreciate good research, but he distrusted what our colleague Paul Upton tersely termed “shoebox scholarship.” And he especially treasured that form of advancing knowledge into discovery that evolved from student teaching student, teacher studying alongside teacher.
At the beginning of winter, Bill listened--student alongside student--to the “music rising…up the long, steady, falling night.” It was, of course, a child’s Christmas, and a child’s love of language and world that he wanted to leave with them. To leave them with the love he found in, and learned from his children. You knew that love every time you were in Bill’s presence. It wasn’t an ostentatious big-huggies-in-public sort of love, and he was never boastful—but it was the knowing glow of understanding what Bill and Linda, Leslie and Tom —and then their partners and his precious grandchildren--could teach him.
Perhaps the Bill Latta poem that most echoes Dylan Thomas (in this case “Fern Hill”) is “Persuasion.” It is also the poem that speaks most obviously to our sad today and the force that will grow our tomorrow:
Even in the dark
the green urges
….
that the land shall be verdant
in good time
shall defeat the sense
of autumn’s brown argument
shall disprove
the negative proposition
of winter.
Beneath my feet
the sprouting assertions
shout green
and tenderly.
Laurie Ricou, 3 August 2013
Charles McCleary:
Nancy, Bill, Linda and Barry, Leslie, Tom and Jody. Thank you for this opportunity.
Bill was my friend, an unwavering and genuine friend.
I first met Bill on Monday, January 5th, 1976, my first day at the University of Lethbridge as Director of Continuing Education. Bill was the coordinator of continuing education for the Faculty of Arts and Science and on that day we became colleagues.
Soon after Cecile and I were invited to Bill and Nancy’s for a “Welcome to Lethbridge” gathering and a friendship between the four of us ensued. A friendship, Nancy, that will continue despite our loss of Bill.
On reflection many events come to mind wherein our friendship matured and solidified. I share a few with you.
Our annual summer picnic. Over the Road to the Sun and on to Sprague Creek Campground in Glacier National Park. Just prior to the campground, we would stop at Lake McDonald Lodge and the small store with the wooden prospector sitting outside on the deck. Once in the store Bill and I would discuss which six pack of American beer would best suit Nancy and Cecile’s picnic lunch and our thirst. Following lunch it was on to Apgar, Hungry Horse, sometimes even to Kalispell. A return to Lethbridge via the Marias Pass was timed to beat the 9:00 PM border closing at Del Bonita.
Grey Cup games in the Latta living room. Our over-lapping year in Japan and being able to call and chat with Bill. More importantly, maybe, was the opportunity, when Cecile was in Lethbridge, to call Nancy for a cooking tip! Celebrating, on a reciprocal basis, New Year’s Day. Then, a year later trying to remember if the champagne glasses had been left behind or taken home by next year’s host. We each went into our basements in search of those four plastic champagne flutes.
I remember the time Bill and I employed two firemen to cedar shake the roof of our homes. We purchased the shakes in Claresholm. Had them transported and unloaded, in the correct quantities, at each home. Then, when the job was completed, to discover the firemen had us order something like 15% more shakes than we needed. Now, how to get rid of them? Somehow the Chief of Police learned of our dilemma. He needed cedar shakes. He got a deal and our problem was solved.
Bill made several trips with me throughout southern Alberta to meetings of Further Education Councils. I recall two in particular. The first. We were returning from a Blairmore meeting and Bill was driving the University emblazoned car. Passing through Bellvue, the two of us yaking away, suddenly an RCMP car with red/blue lights a flashing and giving-out a little siren wail appeared behind us. Bill stopped. This was Bill’s first encounter with the RCMP and he was devastated on learning he’d been speeding. Mind you, not by much, but a ticket was issued. Bill, however, soon became more concerned about passing motorists having seen the University car stopped by the RCMP. Would the news reach the University? Would he be fired? With assurance his career was not about to end the situation calmed and a pact was made. We agreed to remain mum about the incident with the proviso that this ticket and any future tickets, regardless of who was driving, the cost would be shared.
The second: This time we were returning from Claresholm and took the Granum turnoff road which was not the road it is today. It was gravel and my first time over this route to Lethbridge. As we went along I noticed the jogs in the north-south road crossings and mentioned to Bill that we were on a correction line. Bill had not heard of a correction line and an explanation on townships, sections, township lines, meridians, base lines and correction lines occurring every 24 miles from the 49th to the 60th parallel was undertaken. For Bill correction lines and jogs became an inspiration and sometime later he shared his poem “Correction Line” with us. It is a ten stanza poem that jogs between correction line realities and one’s inner thoughts on measurements, ponderings and difficulties in discovering one’s self.
Friendships though are not always perfect. I recall an incident where a disagreement between Bill and me arose. The four of us were returning in the Latta car from a Waterton outing. Just north of Margrath we encountered torrential rain and a driving wind. The windshield wipers could not clear the windows. It was scary and not wanting to run into someone in front I implored Bill to slow down, turn on the headlights and the flasher, pull over and stop. Bill, on the other hand, was determined to push on, keep moving, escape the storm and not get hit from behind. In the end Bill gave into me but not without informing me that I’d upset him, I’d made him nervous and it bothered him that I didn’t approve of his driving. The storm soon abated and a silent return to Lethbridge followed. Later that evening our phone rang. It was Bill. He called to apologize for having upset me. I reciprocated for having upset him and all was well.
As many of you know Bill was a connoisseur of fine food and Nancy an expert at creating dishes that met fine food criteria. But Bill had his hand in a few dishes. His speciality was gravlax - the traditional Nordic dish of raw salmon cured with salt, sugar and dill. Absolutely delicious.
Bill was always the gentleman - honest, gentle, sensitive, caring and emotionally connected. Always soft and succinct in word, never verbose. A family man with a true poetic soul.
I conclude by giving back some words Bill gave me when he spoke at my University retirement and reading two of his poems:
Bill’s words to me: “We live a short time on this earth, and this short time is fraught with hazards, doubts, and insecurities. Because of this, we are social beings and need a sure sense of community. As the old truism has it, ‘we need one another’.
We need friends, and we all know that certain individuals excel at being genuinely friendly.”
This was Bill. This is Nancy. Unwavering and genuine friends to both Cecile and me.
The poems:
From “Drifting into Grey” “Harmony”
From “Summer’s’ Bright Blood” “Blizzard”
Thank you