My Story

Week Four
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Week Four

Lesson 7 Syllabus

This lesson is supposed to be all about time management. NIMR would never have come into existence if I didn’t already have that skill.

 Lesson 7 Class notes

Every writer can use a private journal (don’t let anyone else see it) to record your feelings and to explore them further.  Remember, this is a commitment to spending at least 10 to 30 minutes day, every day.  Don’t be surprised if you find yourself recording all your complaints. Don’t go back to read or edit for 6 weeks.

Doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose? I’ll go back and read it any damn time I like! In fact, I just might not keep a journal at all, so there!

Don’t be surprised if writing in your journal becomes a gripe session. It’s normal. And it may bring other memories to mind.

Me, gripe? Heavens! (That’s a sarcastic remark, Doc.)

Be cheap. A simpler spiral binder won’t compel you to be neat and tidy like a leather bound one.

I’d have to use a cheap one, what with Edith pulling NIMR out from under my control, and selling Seaview!

Writing your life story, and ‘assembling all the ingredients’ will take time. Depending on your activities, you may only be able to spend a short time each day.

I have all the time in the world since all I’m good for any more is to take this damn course!

Set aside an area where it will be difficult for you to be disturbed. You may have to determine a time of day or night when you’re at your most creative or reflective.

I sure as hell won’t be disturbed by any business calls, that’s for sure!

 

 

 

Homework
 
This lesson doesn't have a homework assignment, thank goodness. I'm still trying to get the damn character sketches done!

Lesson 8 Syllabus

I’m supposed to learn my ‘voice pattern’ for writing my story, how to do some research. No doubt I could tell the instructors a thing or two about that!

Lesson 8 Notes

Your ‘writer’s voice’ is your choice of words, phrasing, etc. that reflect your feelings.

Well, duh.

You can preserve your history by pen, pencil or high tech software. In addition, you can record interviews by camera and audio, and take photos.

I guess it just depends on your age or comfort level. I prefer longhand, what a relief that it’s allowed even these days.

If you’re working from someone else’s letters, stories, etc., try to  use their ‘voice’. (Include slang, style of speech, how their eyes spoke, etc.)

The ‘Aye’s have it. Sorry, couldn’t resist.

Homework: ‘I learned it myself’.

In 500 words or less (fat chance!) I’m to write why I wanted to learn something, how I learned it, what I learned in the process. Sure doesn’t seem to be part of the lesson.

I have two ideas, so I’ll have to think about this. Maybe I’ll ask Sharkey what he thinks.

HOMEWORK

I Learned It Myself

By Harriman Nelson

 It beckoned. From the middle of the living room, it sat with a couple of old dolls, stuffed animals that had certainly seen better days, and an even older fairy castle. The items were  apparently destined for new homes or the trash, but this one item shone like a beacon of  comfort and warmth.

God knew I needed some. So did my best friend Jiggs, who’d I dragged with me.

I needed some R&R from another long boring cruise on a cramped, antiquated sub which should have been scrapped years before.  Jiggs was in the doldrums and needed a change of pace after having had to put up with his posting as an aide to the Commander of Submarines Atlantic for the past year.

Little had I realized that we’d be coming to an empty house, my parents not having planned on their sailor son to come  home from the sea any time soon. I hadn’t been able to contact them about my unscheduled leave, but I’d had no idea they’d go and flee to Florida. I suppose I should have thought about it. It wasn’t the first time they decided to leave snowed under Boston for the sunshine state.

Apparently,  they’d also taken the live in staff with them and let the day staff off for the duration, at least that’s what the bank manager said when I called to make sure nothing was wrong. (If anyone knew anything about the Nelsons coming and goings, he did.)

“Well, at least they left the power on,” Jiggs slapped me on the back. That was his way of trying to make me fell batter.

“And the heat,” I added, finding myself walking toward the old toy. “I never knew Edith had one of these.”

“The packaging is pretty good marketing,” Jiggs said as he fingered the artwork of the cakes, brownies and cookies on the original package of the EZ Bake Oven.  “I remember the ads on TV, ‘so easy a child can do it’, or something like that. Not too bad looking for something baked by a light bulb. Hey, it still has some packaged mixes in it! And utensils! You know, this might be worth something.”

“Only if it works,” I said, not realizing that collectors might not care if it worked. The value of old stuff can be complicated.

“Those brownies sure look good,” Jiggs said of the picture on the box.

I think he was drooling.  I know I was. Our captain didn’t think cookies  or brownies were the kinds of things his crew should be eating. He  thought such things were ‘effeminate’.  And in those days, that also meant ‘soft’. And no crew of his was going to be soft if he could help it. I’d tried pointing out to him once that the chemical equations of such  items were variations of bread and cake, but after he raised his eyebrow at me,  I didn’t dare mention it again.

“Harry?” Jiggs interrupted my musings, “you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Needless to say I was soon in charge of precise measuring while Jiggs was the master of the spoon. We gave nary a thought to the fact that the premade mixes that came with the oven were  old. But in our defense, there were no ‘use by’ dates on packages back then.

“Harry? It’s not working.”

“Maybe the light bulb’s burned out, “ I replied.

“Do you smell something burning?”

“Well, it’s sure as hell not the cookie. It’s not even baking.”

“Uh oh,” Jiggs said. “You got a fire extinguisher?”

“Damn! The wire’s fried!” I yelled and unplugged the unit.

 “Shit. Just when I was in the mood for a homemade cookie.”

“All’s not lost,” I said, “I don’t have a master’s in electrical engineering for nothing. There may be some electric wires from my old lab downstairs.”

“Lab?”

“Yeah, I was a smart kid. As long as I didn’t blow up the house my father didn’t mind. And the basement’s good and solid. Now, you go get a new light bulb from that cabinet over there. Just to be on the safe side. Let’s fix this sucker! “

 

Our first attempt repairing the oven was a lesson on how to use the fire extinguisher before the unit melted .

The second attempt was learning how not to use  anything other than a standard, incandescent  light bulb over 100 watts. The ‘soft light’ bulbs don’t work either.

 By the time we got the oven to a reasonable state of readiness, at least we hoped so,  the packaged mixes were about used up. We weren’t even sure if there was enough to make anything else.

Jiggs spooned what he could of the last of the dough onto the little cookie sheet.

“Here goes,” he said, crossing his fingers.

 

I suppose no EZ Bake oven has ever had anyone wait and watch so  intently, continually checking for any accident waiting to happen, while checking our watches almost continually.

‘Five, four, three, two, one, zero,” I said as if I was at the fire control panel of my boat’s torpedoes.

“Harry? Just what does  golden brown mean?” Jiggs asked.

“How the hell should I know? I’m a submariner, not a cook....it looks set though...”

“It doesn’t look like that on the picture,” Jiggs pulled over the box.

“Maybe a couple more minutes.”

‘Tick...tick...tick..’ my watch sounded loud to my ears as we waited. And waited. And waited. Or so it seemed.

“This is just no damn good, Harry!” Jiggs fumed and opened the drawer.

“Be careful! That tray’s hot!” I warned.

“Well it can’t be that hot if it didn’t even bake the damn cookie and...ow!” he dropped the tray, and the lone cookie onto the floor.

“It didn’t break!” I exclaimed in surprise, picked it up and began to examine it. “It feels like a cookie should feel, only...uh, Jiggs, I think we over cooked it. Kind of hard. Doesn’t look burned but...”

“Here,” he snapped the cookie into two pieces. “We went to too much trouble to consider where it landed, road salt and snowboots be dammned,” he popped it into his mouth.

“Well?” I asked, anxiously.

“Tastes like sawdust. But...we did it Harry. We actually baked a cookie.”

“Must have been the mix.”

“Of course! That’s it!” Jiggs said, spraying me with crumbs, “c’mon, let’s go to the store. They got to have something like this in stock, don’t they? I mean, they haven’t discontinued this toy, have they?”

“You can’t be serious Jiggs. Just let the thing cool down and we’ll pack it up for the jumble sale like it was originally intended.”

“Aw c’mon Harry. After all, we know how to use the thing now...surely a new one won’t have any kind of electrical or light bulb problems, not to mention outdated mixes. Besides, I’m still in the mood for a homemade cookie.”

 

“Will that be all gentlemen?” the clerk at the toy counter asked. “Do you want this gift wrapped? And how old is the child? We have to ask because the product is not recommended for anyone under 8 years old.”

“Um,” I felt my face turning red. “No gift wrap. No problem with the age,” I forked over my hard earned cash, took the box and fled, while Jiggs just laughed.

 

Needless to say, the new EZ Bake Oven worked to perfection. In fact, we two became rather proficient with it. Except for Jiggs over cooking  one batch of  brownies because he didn’t pay attention to the directions quite as scientifically as I did. Not that my brownies or cookies were in the same class as those at a bake sale, but at least they were homemade and immeasurably comforting.

So, what did I learn?

Never underestimate the power of an old light bulb.

 

Well, it went over the word limit, but frankly I don't care. I had a story to tell, and that's the whole point of this class isn't it?
PS. It turned out that the original EZ Bake oven wasn't Edith's, but one of our younger cousins.
 
I also learned something else. Never hurts to know how to bake a cookie, even with a toy. Morton should be proud of me.

Week Four Letters

MY JOURNAL