Lesson 4 - Part 1 and 2

Lesson 4 Link:

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This bitem link no longer in use since the class is closed until next session.  However, I have written the assignment below.  If you are reviewing this assignment, please keep in mind it was an assignment and not a short story with plot, etc.  I may become the root of a story but please don't yet judge it as one.  it is merely the combination of examples # 2-23.

Assignment #1, Lesson 4

This lesson is designed to stimulate your own creative picture/visual/sense for the rest of the class 

1.  Create 15-20 examples of your own sensory sentences, incorporating the 5 senses listed above.
Use at least three examples of each sense in your assignment.
You are welcome to create a series of related sentences including more than one sense.

2.  Label the sentences to show which senses you are using in each.
You must add the labels noting which senses are in each sentence or you will not receive credit!
Do not use any of the examples of sensory details listed above in your own assignment!

Assignment #1, Lesson 4

Part One:

1. His face was bathed in the halo of the television screen, resembling a ghost of the man she once married.

Sight: 1. bathed in the halo

2-5. No need for alarm clocks, my grandmother played her morning with the cacophony of dishes clanging in the sink as she washed them by hand.  Silverware collided in the drawer as I strained to follow the constant chatter of a woman who didn’t require my presence to have a conversation.

Sound: 1. cacophony, 2. clanging, 3. colliding, 4.chatter

6-9. It was six a.m. and I wiped the crusty crystals off my sleep deprived eyes.  Dishes finished, my grandmother was now the conductor of a gastronomic symphony; the hiss and crackle of salty bacon in the cast iron skillet blended delicately with the undercurrents of buttered biscuit.  They both circulated through the air vents like breath through a clarinet, and my nose was the lucky instrument. 

Touch: 1. crusty;  Smell: 1. salty, 2. undercurrents of buttered biscuit,
Sound: 5. hiss and crackle

10-14. I kicked the smothering blanket into a rumpled heap beside the bed and tottered down the hall, fingertips brushing the grooves of the paneled walls for balance as I followed the savory aroma of the morning. 

Touch: 2. smothering, 3. fingertips brushing the grooves of the paneled wall,
Sight: 2. rumpled heap, 
Smell 3. savory aroma of the morning

15-19. The familiar waft of aftershave and hair oil drifted from the kitchen table where my grandfather sat.  He and I were competitors in the field of seconds.  Bacon, eggs, and buttered biscuits already in place, we grasped the cold metal utensils and made ready for battle.  I forked a large red disk of tomato and stacked it on the biscuit along with the bacon.  The juice from the tomato bathed the little sandwich and my chin, wet and sticky, in the process.  I caught it with the rough braille of the cheap paper towel my grandmother apologized for, saying she ran out of the soft dinner napkins.     

Smell: 4. waft of aftershave and hair oil
Touch: 4. grasped the cold metal utensils, 5. juice from the tomato bathed . . . and my chin, wet and sticky in the process 6. braille of the cheap paper towel
Sight: 3. red disk

20-23. I broke the salty flavor of the bacon and butter with some homemade fig preserves, sweet yet exotic. It was the flavor of the country, not the saccharin tinge of grape jelly of the city grocery store I was used to.  I smothered the preserves on a second buttered biscuit, ever watchful of my grandfather eyeing the last piece of bacon.  He squinted at me like a bull to my red cloth.  I let him have the bacon, though, refining my strategic edge.  It would fill him up before he took the last biscuit. 

Taste: 2. salty flavor 3. fig preserves, sweet yet exotic 4. saccharin tinge of grape jelly
Sight: 4 squinted at me like a bull to my red cloth




PART TWO:

    No need for alarm clocks, my grandmother played her morning with the cacophony of dishes clanging in the sink as she washed them by hand.  Silverware collided in the drawer as I strained to follow the constant chatter of a woman who didn’t require my presence to have a conversation.  It was six a.m. and I wiped the crusty crystals off my sleep deprived eyes.  Dishes finished, my grandmother was now the conductor of a gastronomic symphony; the hiss and crackle of salty bacon in the cast iron skillet blended delicately with the undercurrents of buttered biscuit.  They both circulated through the air vents like breath through a clarinet, and my nose was the lucky instrument.  I kicked the smothering blanket into a rumpled heap beside the bed and tottered down the hall, fingertips brushing the grooves of the paneled walls for balance as I followed the savory aroma of the morning.

    The familiar waft of aftershave and hair oil drifted from the kitchen table where my grandfather sat.  He and I were competitors in the field of seconds.  Bacon, eggs, and buttered biscuits already in place, we grasped the cold metal utensils and made ready for battle.  I forked a large red disk of tomato and stacked it on the biscuit along with the bacon.  The juice from the tomato bathed the little sandwich and my chin, wet and sticky, in the process.  I caught the cool liquid with the rough braille of the cheap paper towel my grandmother apologized for, saying she ran out of the soft dinner napkins.   

    I broke the salty flavor of the bacon and butter with some homemade fig preserves, so sweet yet exotic. It was the flavor of the country, not the saccharin tinge of grape jelly of the city grocery store I was used to.  I smothered the preserves on a second buttered biscuit, ever watchful of my grandfather eyeing the last piece of bacon.  He squinted at me like a bull to my red cloth.  I let him have the bacon, though, refining my strategic edge.  It would fill him up before he took the last biscuit.


REVISION: PART 2

Below is the revision requested by the instructor so that I could reduce the sentences that were not "sensory-laden." It is not my personal revision of the assignment into a well thought out story.  It still must go with the the actual assignment.

PART TWO:  Revision (with a little less commentary, though some could not be avoided).

Breakfast on Sand Mountain

  I awoke to dishes clanging in the sink as my grandmother washed them by hand. Then there was the hiss and crackle of salty bacon in the cast iron skillet.  It blended delicately with the undercurrents of buttered biscuit.  They both circulated through the air vents like breath through a clarinet, and my nose was the lucky instrument.  Drenched in sweat, I kicked the heavy electric blanket into a rumpled heap beside the bed and tottered down the hall, fingertips brushing the grooves of the paneled walls for balance as I followed the savory aroma of bacon, my tastebuds already tasting the salt-filled air.

    The familiar waft of aftershave and hair oil drifted from the kitchen table where my grandfather sat.  Bacon, eggs, and buttered biscuits already in place, we grasped the cold metal utensils and measured each delicate and crispy piece of bacon, each fluffy and lightly browned biscuit the other put on their plates.  I forked a half inch  disk of ripe tomato and stacked it on my biscuit then topped it with the pieces of bacon.  I glared at the two biscuits my grandfather hoarded, not without that sly grin and one eyed wink of his.  The juice from the tomato bathed my little sandwich and my chin grew wet and sticky in the process.  I caught the cool liquid with the rough braille of the cheap paper towel my grandmother apologized for, repeatedly, like vinyl with a scratch, saying she ran out of the soft dinner napkins.  All I could hear was the crunch and squish of each bite. 

    With one eye trained on the rapidly emptying plate of my competitor, I nodded at the short mason jar of gold and asked for it to be passed my way.  I broke the salty flavor of the bacon and butter with some homemade fig preserves, so sweet yet exotic, like country air to a child raised in city smog.  I smothered the preserves on a second buttered biscuit, ever watchful of my grandfather eyeing the last piece of bacon.  He squinted at me like a bull to my red cloth.  I nodded at the bacon, offering it up in exchange for the last biscuit, already nestled below my greasy little fingers. 







Notes:

The above little story was done for this assignment and had to be
full of sensing words and practically nothing else.

That being said, it is still only a slightly embellished memoir of a
typical morning for a city girl visiting her grandparent's home in
Northeast Alabama.  For more stories on Sand Mountain,
check out "When Life Gives You Chicken Livers"
(Same farm, same kid, great grandma instead of grandparents.)
Stay tuned next time for "Eating spaghetti with chopsticks" (bought at
the Collinsville Trade Day).