Using the work you did in class today (and the ideas we discussed), please submit some "smelly" writing.
Begin with these words: "I remember the smell . . .
Sorry that I sent the wrong file to myself. It will need to wait until Wednesday. Sorry!
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I remember the smell of my grandmother’s bread baking at her farm south of Foremost, Alberta. She baked a batch of ten loaves every few days, the yeasty dough rising to double in a yellow plastic bowl. It was white bread—my granny grew up thinking that white bread was what well-educated, cultivated people ate, not the brown bread of those too poor to pay for milling. After shaping the loaves and putting them into the pans, we had to wait, enduring the teasing smell of the bread baking in her electric oven. The tops of the loaves were mushroom-brown and shiny when they came out, four loaves at a time. As a child, I waited impatiently for a loaf to cool off enough to cut and then slather with farm butter and strawberry jam. I can still taste it, although nowadays I rarely (if ever) eat any white bread like my grandmother’s.—153 words; redrafted from an in-class first draft in September
“Oh,God. No!” I gasped and my cousins laughed.
Whenever it was harvest time, my family went to a countryside, my dad’s hometown, to visit his relatives. As usual, my dad bought a new car again and he couldn’t wait to show off his new car. Since my countryside relatives didn’t have any cars, except motors or tractors, my dad was so proud of his new car.
And so, the annual trip began, and every time it went terrible.
When my family got there, it seemed the whole neighbourhood was there to greet us, but it seemed to look at the car rather than us.
“Yup, this is my CAR, brand new. . . Do y'all wanna see inside? This car even has three airbags, and cassette tape player, and has automatic car keys. . . Yup, my car has the high-tech. . .” I noticed as he said this, my dad’s shoulder got wider and wider and his neck was high and stiff as if his neck and shoulder were in a cast.
We didn’t mind at all because I, for one, it was so spectacular thing to see the wildest thing I’ve ever seen before.
Being a city kid like me, it was so easy to trick me, and I was naive to think about the countryside life. And so, whenever my distant cousins dared me to do something wild, I did it. If not, my cousins definitely called me ‘chicken’ until I cried and ran over to my mom.
I still remember one sunny day; as usual, my cousins dared me to do something wild. And of course, I had to do it for the youngest kid among my cousins.
“Let’s see, what to do today, what? Ooh, I got an idea. You, yes, you. . . Come over here. How about, I don’t know, taking your dad’s car key bring it to an out house, huh? What do you say?”
An out house, for the city kid like me, was a nightmare because one, it was a dark place, and besides when I took a wrong turn, I could go inside. It was THE horrible place for me.
So, the plan started; the plan began at dawn, because we, me, my two older siblings, and my distant cousins suspected that everyone, including my dad were sleeping soundly, and easy for me to sneak around and taking my dad’s car key.
As the morning comes, my heart began to run faster and faster as I was doing it.
And when I brought it to my cousins, and they threw it into an out house.
And I was the one who had to retrieve it IF, only if I wanted. Oh, the smell… Smell of the waste, and a pee together.
After awhile, I was lucky to get the key back from the toliet and no one spoke of it whatsoever.
From Lola:
I never forget the smell of mom’s hand-made yellow-bean paste, even though I am not usually sensitive in scent. Mom starts this complicated job in the end of December; dad always is her only one and important assistant. They spend several days to look for the qualified fresh yellow beans which should be mixed grassland and fertilizer soil of farm’s smell in market, wash them, and cook them in a big pot until the thick maturate bean’s aroma arise to the whole room, then wait for cool. Once they shape them to rectangular prisms and place them in order, their job is almost finished in half. On April, the prisms are finally all yeasted with unpleasant odor; choose a bright day, make the prisms to small pieces, and stir them in a huge bowl. One month later, through the continual strong stirring and sunshine’s help, the salt taste health paste just ready for all family. Honestly, the yellow-bean paste isn’t my favorite food, but that familiar smell often comes to my dream, remind me to give my parents a call.
From Kay:
4 smells--
1) Picnic smell : Hot Dogs and Beans
2)Tow boat smell : Diesel fuel , grease and oil, wet wood and barnacles
3)Ocean smell: Seaweed, saltwater and fresh air
4)Galley smell: fresh baked buns for our hot dogs
Memory :Picnic on the "Gryphon", small,strong towboat with big heart holding true to its namesake: Fabled monster with body and legs of a lion, wings and beak of a eagle .
As kids we jumped aboard getting a strong whiff of diesel, grease and oil, not unpleasant ,
a very masculine smell .
Crew consisted of Captain Albert my father , who's clothes bore the odor of his job.
Deckhand ; Emil Schmit : year 1941, we didn't think anything about Emils name or german
accent , he was just simply a good deckhand and friend of my fathers.
We picniced on the forward bow, experiencing the scent of fresh air and salt water .
I remember getting in trouble for drinking the boiled weiner water, spicey smell too good to resist, I was always getting in trouble for something.
Someday I will talk or write about my family life but not yet . A family of six kids , we all view
our childhood and homelife differently ,maybe it really was different for each of us ... Are memories accurately true ?
I can never forget the smell, I thought, as I passed by a group of men smoking weed, and so was the day quit smoking it.
It was a Sunday and it was raining.
“Stay where you are!” The man in a blue uniform screamed, commanding everyone inside the room, my friends Gino and Boylit, myself, included.
“Drop on the ground,” added the man in bullet-proof vest, hilding an AK 47. “Hands behind your back, move a finger, you’re dead.
The galvanized-iron door flew away from its frame when they entered, making a cloud of smoke visibly exit the room. “You guy’s stink!” said the man in blue uniform. “You,” the other man said, pointing his gun towards Gino, “Where’s your garbage, just give me your garbage.” We all knew that they were not searching for a reeking spoiled food, or a rotten, dead rat, what attracted their corrupt noses was the sweet and soft smell of the smoke, still emitting from the three-foot bong on the table-- they were after our weed.
“We don’t have enough, Sir,” Gino said. “We only got a few joints.”
“You think your smart?” said the man with AK.
“Sir,” I said, “ We seriously don’t have enough weed.”
What I meant by “enough” was enough for them to actually make money from it.
He walked towards me, smirking, pointed his gun on my head and said, “I told you not to freaking move,” then kicked me on my face. His shoes were wet, then so were my face. I did not dare to move again, not until a metallic smell filled my nose -- blood. I wiped it with my shirt and said, to the man who kicked me, “Damn, man, you’re a PIG!”
“Shut up, man,” Boylit said, almost in a whisper. “Don’t talk back.”
“Too late for that . . .” the man who kicked me said, then grabbed me by the shirt.
He was the one who stunk. His mouth reminded me of my bedroom--the month old, half-full beer, the rotten pizza, the soiled bed sheet--and it was gross.
“ . . . Got to teach this kid a lesson.”
“O.K.” Boylit said, “I’ll give you my crap. Just leave us alone, please, Sir.”
“Attaboy!”
Boylit reached under his couch, and on his hand was a bag full of marijuana.
“There, Sir, you can have it all.”
“Of course we can.”
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