Recount+Summative+Task

> If you don't know how to do this, I will help, and if your email is not working then we will save it onto my USB as well. THEN..... 8. You will draft the recount on your own - read through it carefully and fix up any errors or problems you might come across. THEN... 9. Email me your final Recount by midnight on the due date. I will assess this version, but keep your initial draft for comparison.
 * STEP BY STEP INSTRUCTIONS**
 * 1) Read the Task carefully
 * 2) Choose ONE of the subjects for your writing
 * 3) Create a blank WORD document (or handwrite with your name on it) and call it "Recount"
 * 4) Save this document into your Onedrive - English - Recount folder
 * 5) Keep saving throughout the task time
 * 6) Complete the task - make sure you proofread and correct your recount carefully. You will have most of the double lesson.
 * 7) When completed, you will Email your work to me at cmckenzie@stjohns.sa.edu.au

Good luck.

**Here is the Task:**
==**Write a polished recount of an experience you have had, using the attached models for guidance. You must choose ONE of the following subjects for your recount: //(NB: this will be available on the day of the task//)**== = = = You will Email your first draft to me at the end of the double lesson, then POLISH and PROOFREAD your work for final submission by Midnight on the due date ie Friday evening. Work can be submitted at any time prior to this of course. =

**Read the handout of model recounts (“The Indian Dog” and “One Liar’s Beginnings”) to give you ideas and help you to structure your own writing.**
N. SCOTT MOMADAY The Indian Dog W hen I was growing up I lived in a pueblo in New Mexico. There one day I bought a dog. I was twelve years old, the bright autumn air was cold and delicious, and the dog was an unconscionable bargain at five dollars. It was an Indian dog; that is, it belonged to a Navajo man who had come to celebrate the Feast of San Diego. It was one of two or three rangy animals following in the tracks of the man’s covered wagon as he took leave of our village on his way home. Indian dogs are marvelously independent and resource­ful, and they have an idea of themselves, I believe, as knights and philosophers. The dog was not large, but neither was it small. It was one of those unremarkable creatures that one sees in every corner of the world, the common denominator of all its kind. But on that day—and to me—it was noble and brave and handsome. It was full of resistance, and yet it was ready to return my deep, abiding love; I could see that. It needed only to make a certain adjustment in its lifestyle, to shift the focus of its vitali­ty from one frame of reference to another. But had to drag my dog from its previous owner by means of a rope. It was nearly strangled in the process, its bushy tail wagging happily all the while. That night I secured my dog in the garage, where there was a warm clean pallet, wholesome food, and fresh water, and I bolted the door. And the next morning the dog was gone, as in my heart I knew it would be; I had read such a future in its eyes. It had squeezed through a vent, an opening much too small for it, or so I had thought. But as they say, where there is a will there is a way—and the Indian dog was possessed of one indomitable will. I was crushed at the time, but strangely reconciled, too, as if I had perceived intuitively some absolute truth beyond all the billboards of illusion. The Indian dog had done what it had to do, had behaved exactly as it must, had been true to itself and to the sun and moon. It knew its place in the scheme of things, and its place was precisely there, with its right destiny, in the tracks of the wagon. In my mind’s eye I could see it at that very moment, miles away, plodding in the familiar shadows, panting easily with relief, after a bad night, contemplating the wonderful ways of man. // Caveat emptor. // But from that experience I learned some­thing about the heart’s longing. It was a lesson worth many times five dollars. 463 words

B RADY UDALL One Liar’s Beginnings Before all else, let me make my confession: I am a liar. For me, admitting to being a liar is just about the most difficult confession I could make; as a rule, liars don’t like to admit to anything. But I’m trying to figure out how I came to be this way — what influences, what decisions at what forked roads have led me to be the devious soul I am today. And as any clergyman worth a nickel can tell you, before you can discover the truth about yourself, first you must confess. I can’t say I remember the first lie I ever told. It’s been so long, and there have been so many lies in between. But I can only believe that my first steps, first day of school, first kiss — all those many firsts we love to get so nostalgic about—none of them was in any way as momentous as that first lie I ever told. It’s a dusty summer day. I am three years old, and in the Udall household there is going to be hell to pay; some fool has gone and eaten all the cinnamon red-hots [1] my mother was going to use to decorate cupcakes for a funeral luncheon. Down in the basement, I am bumping the back of my head against the cushion of the couch. This peculiar habit, //head-bouncing// we called it in our house, was something I liked to do whenever I was nervous or bored. I was most satisfied with the world when I could sit on that couch and bounce my head against the back cushion — you know, really get up a good rhythm, maybe a little Woody Woodpecker on the TV — and not have anyone bother me about it. Along with worrying that their son might be retarded on some level, my parents also became concerned about the living room couch — all this manic head-bouncing of mine was wearing a considerable divot in the middle cushion (my preferred section) right down to the foam. So my father, after trying all he could think of to get me to desist, finally threw up his hands and went to the town dump and came back with a prehistoric shaggy brown couch that smelled like coconut suntan oil. He put it down in the basement, out of sight of friends and neighbors, and I was allowed to head-bounce away to my heart’s content. So there I am down on the couch, really going at it, while my mother stomps around up above. She is looking for the red-hots thief, and she is furious. My mother is beautiful, ever-smiling and refined, but when she is angry she could strike fear into the heart of a werewolf. As for me, I am thoroughly terrified, though not too terrified to enjoy the last of the red-hots. I put them in my mouth and keep them there until they turn into a warm, red syrup that I roll around on my tongue. My mother is yelling out all the kids’ names: //Travis! Symonie! Brady! Cord!// But none of us is dumb enough to answer. Finally, she stomps down the steps and sees me there on my couch, bobbing back and forth like the peg on a metronome, trying not to look her way, hoping that if I can keep my eyes off her long enough she just might disappear. “Brady, did you eat those red-hots?” she asks, her mouth set hard. I begin to bounce harder. “Hmmm?” I say. “Did you eat them?” I imagine for a second what my punishment will be — maybe spending the rest of the afternoon cooped up in my room, maybe being forced to watch while the rest of the fami­ly hogs down the leftover cupcakes after dinner — or maybe she will have mercy on me and opt for a simple swat on the butt with a spatula. “Did you eat them?” I don’t really think about it, don’t even know where it comes from — I look my mother straight in the eye, say it loud and clear as you please: “No.” She doesn’t press me, just takes my answer for what it is. Why would she suspect anything from me, a baby who’s never lied before, innocent as can be, a sweet little angel who doesn’t know any better than to spend all his free time banging his head against the back cushion of a couch from the dump. “All right,” she says, smiling just a little now. She can’t help herself — I am that innocent and cute. “Why don’t you come upstairs and have a cupcake?” Right then I stop bouncing altogether. It feels as if there is light blooming in my head, filling me up, giving me a sensa­tion I’ve never had before, a feeling of potency and possibility and dominion. With a word as simple as “no” I can make things different altogether; no, it wasn’t me who ate those red-hots; no, it’s not me who deserves a swat on the butt or no car­toons for the rest of the afternoon. What I deserve is a cupcake. It’s a wonderful epiphany: with a lie I can change reality; with a lie I can change the world. 870 words

[1] **red-hots** an American brand of candied sweet