Bridge-Logos Foundation releases "Mary Jones and Her Bible" edited and updated by Hollee J. Chadwick

In the year 1800, a young Welsh girl took a walk.
This was no meandering stroll during which her teenaged mind wandered and she daydreamed of boys, and clothes, and the musicians of the day.
No, young Mary Jones set out from her home at the foot of Cader Idris mountain, in Gwynedd, North Wales, in the early hours of the morning to walk 25 miles to Bala, to purchase a Welsh Bible with money she had been saving up for six years. Being from a poor family, Mary’s journey was undertaken with bare feet.
The Reverend Thomas Charles of Bala, to whose house Mary had journeyed to buy the Bible, was moved by Mary’s love and dedication in this endeavor. He told and retold the story of Mary Jones and her Bible and, in a move that would change the world, he proposed to the Council of the Religious Tract Society that they form a new society to supply Wales with Bibles. And, in 1804, the British and Foreign Bible Society was established in London.
This is the story of Mary Jones and her Bible. It is true to the original version—only better.

Through the years, Mary Jones and her Bible, penned by Mary E, Ropes in 1882, and later updated in 1919, has been read and enjoyed by millions of children. Today, the book remains on the Top 100 List of Christian and secular children’s books on Amazon.com.

The editor, Hollee J. Chadwick, has taken Ropes’ original version and added commentary, footnotes, and definitions for terms not common today. Ropes’ prose remains intact because this is the version that has remained on the bestseller list for generations.

Mary Jones and her Bible is included in many home-schooling curriculum, is an excellent read-aloud book, and is suitable for all ages with a reading level of Grades 4 to 8.


Mary Jones and Her Bible by Mary Ropes (edited by Hollee J. Chadwick). ISBN: 978-0-88270-061-8; TPB; 176 pages; $9.99. 

Save $2.00 by purchasing your copy from Better Living Bookstore. Just click on http://www.blretail.com/mary_jones_and_her_bible.htm

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Published in: on April 5, 2012 at 6:54 pm  Leave a Comment  

Thirty Dr. Seuss quotes that can change your life

Dr. Seuss Quotes
[Via: 30 Dr. Seuss Quotes to Live By]

(Thank you to http://www.mamiverse.com/30-dr-seuss-quotes-to-live-by-4920/)

Published in: on March 10, 2012 at 5:05 pm  Leave a Comment  

15 Grammar Goofs That Make You Look Silly

15 Grammar Goofs That Make You Look Silly
Like this infographic? Get more copywriting tips from Copyblogger.

Published in: on March 6, 2012 at 10:09 am  Leave a Comment  

For Daniel Silveria’s Family and Friends – His Stories

I “met” Daniel Silveria in 2004 when we were both bloggers on Blogit.com. When we first met, I did not know that he was wheelchair-bound—he never referred to it in any of his wildly humorous posts.

It was not until he and I collaborated on a series of children’s stories that I learned he had Spinal Muscular Atrophy. In later years, Daniel would write about this in his blog post called Justifying My Existence.
Daniel was a gifted writer, a brilliant thinker, and one of my dearest friends – even though we never met face-to-face. He never complained about his life to my family or me—he encouraged us, kept us laughing, and sometimes made us cry, all though the gift of his words.
Daniel went to be with the Lord on December 10. Today, Friday, December 16, is his funeral in Brockton, Massachusetts.
Since I can’t be there to celebrate the life of this gifted young man, I want to share with all of you two of the stories he wrote. They are excerpts from Introducing Paxton Grundle.

First, Daniel’s description of Paxton:

“My name is Paxton Grundle. I’m six and a half, and live in a big ole house on Cranberry Street. At least I think it’s big. Everything looks big to me cuz I’m jus’ little. But I’m tall for my height. I live with my mom and dad, my dog, Fur-Face, and my big, smelly, older sister, Kelly. I like Mom, Dad, and Fur-Face.”

Kiddie Table

By Daniel Silveria

So, it’s Thanksgivin’ again and, even though I’m a whole year older than I was last year—if I did my math right—they still had me sit at the kiddie table. They sure know how to make a guy feel small. I was forced to sit with Cousin Emo, Cousin Deborah Ann, and Diaper-load Davey. Besides them, there was a bunch of new kids I didn’t rectonize. They keep addin’ new faces to the mix every year, but nobody ever runs it by me. I don’t know where they all come from. Mom told me about an ostrich, or somethin, droppin’ babies off to their mommies and daddies. Maybe it was a carrier pigeon, I don’t member.
Cousin Emo is a year older than me, but about 100 years dumber. He likes to punch ya in the shoulder when you’re not s’pectin’ it; and he kicks at your legs under the table. For some reason, nobody sees it when he does it to me, but if I taliate and do the same thing to him, then I get yelled at and get no chocolate cream pie! Emo doesn’t do this to Diaper-load Davey. In fact, most us kids keep a safe distance from Davey. He’s a good enough guy, I guess, but he’s not a winner, ‘specilly by a nose.
Deborah Ann is the most annoyin’ girl on the face of the earth—and that’s a doobies distinction, cuz all girls are annoyin’. For one thing, she’s got two first names. Jus’ who does she think she is? Pick a name and stick with it, that’s what I did. But that’s not even the most annoyin’ thing about her; she insists on bein’ all touchy-feely—GROSS! Deborah Ann tries to kiss me every chance she gets! She looks like a big ole guppy fish comin’ at you with her lips puckered all the time. I’d probably get in trouble for punchin’ her, too. So, the whole time I’m sittin’ at the table, I’ve got the two-name Deborah Ann hangin’ onto one arm and Cousin Emo sockin’ me in the other one. I was outnumbered and hand-in-capped, cuz the grown-ups at the aptilly named Grown-up Table were completely ‘blivious!
My older sister, Smelly Kelly, has been allowed at the Grown-up Table for as long as I can ‘member, and she rubs my face in it. I’ll look over at her and she’ll be grinnin’ down at me like she’s Queen Turkey. Ha ha and ha! That’s cuz she is! Queen of all turkeys—a big ole stuffed bird!
Anyway, Smelly Kelly was sittin’ next to Uncle Ned, and that’s no treat when he’s scarfin’ down Gramma Edie’s baked beans. Even Kelly gets out-smellied in that contest. P U!
Bein’ that my arms were both ocktey-pied most of the time, my food was gettin’ cold. One time, Dad told me that cold turkey was probably the hardest thing he’d ever done. It really wasn’t that hard, though. The cold mashed tatters were much worse. So, I flung most of ‘em at Emo with my fork, cattapolt style—ha ha!! Hittin’ him at all was good enough; the fact that some really got stuck in his hair for the rest of the day was jus’ gravy on the pate.
I would have taken a shot at Deborah Ann, too, but she’s such a Clingon I couldn’t get my arm free. She told me she has a crush on me, and she said it in front of everybody. That girl has had more crushes on more people than the auto yard crusher machine has had on cars. There are strains of cooties named after her! Diaper-load Davey was the only one smart enough to keep his distance.

The Santa Plan

By Daniel Silveria

I was watchin’ Barbara Walters’s 10 Most Interestin’ People of the Year show and couldn’t believe that Santa Claus didn’t make the list! Is Barbara Walters wacko or somethin’? None of the guests she inner-viewed can travel ‘round the ‘tire world in one night. Maybe some of ‘em could slide down a chimney, but I serially doubt any of ‘em could push a button in their nose and fly back up the chimney. This guy is incredible! At least interestin’, I’d say.
I stayed up last year, tryin’ to see Santa. I know, I know, that’s a bad-boy thing to do, cuz he knows when you are sleepin’ and he knows when you’re awake, an’ he knows if you been bad or good and if you stole the cake! But he’s getting’ old, ya know, so I was thinkin’ I would test ‘em to see if he was still sharp. My Gramma is like a million years younger than him, and she tries to change the microwave with the TV remote. So I figured it was possible Santa was getting’ rusty too.
So I waited and waited for Mom and Dad to go to sleep, so that I could sneak out and watch for The Big Guy. But they kept comin’ into my room, checkin’ to see if I was still awake! That was getting’ very tirin’. I had to hold my eyes open with my fingers some of the time. I kept callin’ Fur-Face over to lick my face, so that I would be freshed up, but I could tell he was getting’ aggravated cuz he wanted to go to sleep himself.
Dogs aren’t much interested in Santa Claus, I guess. Make that Dogs and Barbara Walters.
Mom came in for the third time to check on me, and this time she said that Santa was prolly avoidin’ our house cuz I was still not sleepin’. She ‘spressed concern that we might not get any presents if I stayed awake much longer. Meanwhile, I’m slappin’ myself in the head, attempin’ to keep myself from dozin’ off.
It was like 10,000 o’clock or somethin and I was startin’ to question the whole plan. Obvidiously Santa was still sharp enough to know that I was still not sleepin’. But I had stayed up that late so far, and I wasn’t ‘bout to call it quits after all that.
The next time Mom came into my room, I maked believe that I was sleepin’. She said, “Paxton? Paxton, are you awake?” and this time I didn’t say a thing.
When she left, I popped up and snucked out of my room real quiet. I barely knew where I was goin, cuz I was so tired. I heard whisperin’ in the living room, and then I heard the front door open. This woked me up right away, cuz I was thinkin’ Santa ‘sided to use the front door stead of the chimney!
I frozed right where I was. A trillion things started goin’ through my mind. I was a-scared too. If he caught me bein’ awake, there’d be no Christmas presents for Paxton Grundle. So I looked around for a place to hide. First thing I saw was the Christmas tree, but, when you’re tryin to hide from Santa, under the Christmas tree prolly isn’t the best choice. My heart was thumpin’ so fast I thought I was goin to be heartiac arrested! If I heard somebody say “Ho Ho Ho” I’d have dropped dead right then and there.
Then I jus’ started runnin’ with no ‘ticular destination in mind. I ran through the dinin’ room, passed the kitchen, into the laundry room, and then jumped into the clothes basket. But it was dark in there and would hamper my view of Mr. Claus—which was what this was all ‘posed to be ‘bout—so I jumped back out. (Also, it smelled like dirty laundry in there.)
By this time—really late—I was ‘zausted, so I couldn’t run no more. I jus’ kinda dragged myself around like a puppet. ‘Ventually I found myself crawlin’ to the sofa, which was back in the livin’ room, which was prolly where Santa was. I was ready to confess to bein’ a bad-boy and ‘cept what was comin to me. It would be worth it jus’ to see him at last.
When I finally got to the sofa, nobody was in the room ‘cept for me and the tree. It was all sparklin’ and the lights were blinkin’ off and on and off and on. That kinda made my stayin’ awake that much more harder. My eyes were all blurry, and the sofa was so soft. My head started tellin myself that I could jus’ take a quick nap before Santa came back with more presents. I didn’t believe my head, cuz it’s wrong 10 times out of 9, but my eyelids started agreein’ with my head and they started closin’ by themselfs.
And that’s when I heard the front door open again. I heard bags bangin’ and clutter clatterin’. I wanted so bad to be able to wake up, but I was like two-thirds asleep, or maybe four quarters. Beats me—I hadn’t taken math at school yet, let alone Geometry.
With eyes fuzzier than Fur-Face the time Smelly Kelly blow dried his fur, I could see big, black, snow-covered boots walkin’ toward me. As my heavy eyes went up higher, I could see red pants above the black boots. Then I tried to get my eyes to go up even further. That’s when all I saw was black, cuz my eyes were closed. Last thing I ‘member was somebody whisperin’ “Merry Christmas, Paxton.”
The next mornin’, I woked up on the sofa, surrounded by presents. I done did it! I managed to saw Santa and still got tons of gifts! Me and my family sat around openin’ up all the stuff. Fur-Face knocked over the Christmas tree, cuz he’s not used to seein’ trees inside the house—thought it was an ‘truder or somethin’, I guess. But anyway… everything was perfect and the best thing was openin’ the presents.
There’s no time like the present. No time at all.



 My dearest Daniel – I love you to the moon.
Published in: on December 16, 2011 at 11:21 am  Leave a Comment  

In Honor of Andy Rooney – A Collection of Great Quotes

All men are not created equal but should be treated as though they were under the law.
 

Anyone who watches golf on television would enjoy watching the grass grow on the greens.
 

As an old reporter, we have a few secrets, and the first thing is we try the phone book.
 

Computers make it easier to do a lot of things, but most of the things they make it easier to do don’t need to be done.
 

Computers may save time but they sure waste a lot of paper. About 98 percent of everything printed out by a computer is garbage that no one ever reads.
 

Don’t rule out working with your hands. It does not preclude using your head.
 

Elephants and grandchildren never forget.
 

Figure skating is an unlikely Olympic event but its good television. It’s sort of a combination of gymnastics and ballet. A little sexy too which doesn’t hurt.
 

Happiness depends more on how life strikes you than on what happens.
 

I didn’t get old on purpose, it just happened. If you’re lucky, it could happen to you.
 

I don’t like food that’s too carefully arranged; it makes me think that the chef is spending too much time arranging and not enough time cooking. If I wanted a picture I’d buy a painting.
 

I don’t pick subjects as much as they pick me.
 

I don’t think the government is out to get me or help someone else get me but it wouldn’t surprise me if they were out to sell me something or help someone else sell me something. I mean, why else would the Census Bureau want to know my telephone number?
 

I hope all of you are going to fill out your census form when it comes in the mail next month. If you don’t return the form, the area you live in might get less government money and you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you.
 

I just wish we knew a little less about his urethra and a little more about his arms sales to Iran.
 

I like ice hockey, but it’s a frustrating game to watch. It’s hard to keep your eyes on both the puck and the players and too much time passes between scoring in hockey. There are usually more fights than there are points.
 

If dogs could talk it would take a lot of the fun out of owning one.
 

If you smile when no one else is around, you really mean it.
 

Making duplicate copies and computer printouts of things no one wanted even one of in the first place is giving America a new sense of purpose.

Description:

Most of us end up with no more than five or six people who remember us. Teachers have thousands of people who remember them for the rest of their lives.
  

Nothing in fine print is ever good news.
  

Obscenities… I think a lot of dumb people do it because they can’t think of what they want to say and they’re frustrated. A lot of smart people do it to pretend they aren’t very smart – want to be just one of the boys.
  

People will generally accept facts as truth only if the facts agree with what they already believe.
  

Taxes are important. President Bush’s tax proposals leave no rich person behind. Voters approve of President Bush helping the kind of people they wish they were one of.
  

The 50-50-90 rule: Anytime you have a 50-50 chance of getting something right, there’s a 90% probability you’ll get it wrong.
  

The average bright young man who is drafted hates the whole business because an army always tries to eliminate the individual differences in men.
  

The average dog is a nicer person than the average person.
  

The closing of a door can bring blessed privacy and comfort – the opening, terror. Conversely, the closing of a door can be a sad and final thing – the opening a wonderfully joyous moment.
  

The dullest Olympic sport is curling, whatever ‘curling’ means.
  

The federal government has sponsored research that has produced a tomato that is perfect in every respect, except that you can’t eat it. We should make every effort to make sure this disease, often referred to as ‘progress’, doesn’t spread.
  

The only people who say worse things about politicians that reporters do are other politicians.
  

The Super Bowl isn’t for kids, I had a great time though and it was worth every nickel of it because by doing this lame piece about the game I can put it on my expense account.
  

The world must be filled with unsuccessful musical careers like mine, and it’s probably a good thing. We don’t need a lot of bad musicians filling the air with unnecessary sounds. Some of the professionals are bad enough.
  

Vegetarian – that’s an old Indian word meaning lousy hunter.
  

We’re all proud of making little mistakes. It gives us the feeling we don’t make any big ones.
  

When those waiters ask me if I want some fresh ground pepper, I ask if they have any aged pepper.
 

 

Published in: on November 5, 2011 at 10:55 am  Comments (1)  

The Weisenheimer

My youngest brother, Thomas, is something of a genius. I find this odd.

Thomas is practically a generation younger than me (a generation being the average interval between the birth of an individual and the birth of its offspring of 20 or 25 years). He was born in 1970, and I . . . wasn’t. 
My most vivid memories of Thomas are of changing his diapers and watching him prepare for his first day of kindergarten. 
After high school, he joined the Air Force and was stationed in Wyoming after boot camp. On one of his visits home, I remember wondering where the years had gone. I knew that I had grown older, and by then had three daughters, but since Thomas was not in Ohio at the time, he was surely in a state of suspended animation wherein he never grew older, or taller.
Now he towers over me and somewhere along the line, has developed an intellect that stretches mine beyond its limits, and I ain’t no dummy.
Case in point: Thomas posted a conversation between him and and his absolutely beautiful, and obviously long-suffering wife, Mona. It went like this:
Mona: I read that the planetarium says that you can fit over 100 earths inside Jupiter!

Thomas: Uh…Don’t think so. If you just mean “how many times larger, by volume” is Jupiter, the answer is straightforward. You simple take the ratio of the radii of Jupiter and the Earth and cube it (i.e., multiply it by itself three times).
Radius of Jupiter = 69911 km
Radius of Earth = 6371 km
 
66911
—– = 10.97
6371
 
10.97^3 = ~1320
 
So, the volume of the Earth would fit inside the volume of Jupiter
about 1320 times.
 
However, if you wanted to “pack Earth-sized spheres inside” the volume of Jupiter, you need to account for the “empty space” between the spheres. It has been mathematically shown that the densest possible packing of smaller spheres within a larger sphere only “wastes” about 25% of the space.
 
So, this means that you could fit about 990 (1320*.75) Earth-size
spheres within Jupiter.
Mona: Shut up. You’re never going to the planetarium with me.
See what I mean.  Kinda makes you want it give him a noogie, doesn’t it?

Published in: on October 12, 2011 at 6:14 pm  Comments (1)  

A Review in Review – Be Careful Whose Opinion You Ask!

I regularly read PWxyz, the blog of Publishers Weekly. I have always loved the magazine for keeping up with the publishing world, and with the digital age, I can do so every day, rather than waiting for my magazine to arrive in the mail.

Today, I read a post that once again highlights one of PWxyz’s favorite fellow blogs – Letters of Note.

According the the About Me notation: Letters of Note is an attempt to gather and sort fascinating letters, postcards, telegrams, faxes, and memos. Scans/photos where possible. Fakes will be sneered at. Updated every weekday. It is edited by Shaun Usher.

So today, I am stealing a letter featured on Letters of Note and PWxyz, written by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) because, as a writer and editor, I have received my share of rejection letters and quiver at the thought of a bad review. This review by Twain/Clemens is fair warning to choose your critics wisely. If you want simpering praise, ask your mother to read your manuscript. If you want truth (YOU can’t handle the truth . . . or maybe you can?), then see if you can get a widely-published author to read your manuscript, and brace yourself!

Publishers Chatto & Windus asked (Mark) Twain for a blurb for one of their books, Nuggets and Dust Panned Out in California by Dod Grille, which was by one of Twain’s friends, Ambrose Bierce. The publishers probably expected a kind word from Twain, but instead he ripped the book apart:

SLC

Farmington Avenue,
Hartford

4/8/74

Gentlemen:

“Dod Grile” (Mr. Bierce) is a personal friend of mine, & I like him exceedingly — but he knows my opinion of the “Nuggets & Dust,” & so I do not mind exposing it to you. It is the vilest book that exists in print — or very nearly so. If you keep a “reader,” it is charity to believe he never really read that book, but framed his verdict upon hearsay.
Bierce has written some admirable things — fugitive pieces — but none of them are among the “Nuggets.” There is humor in Dod Grile, but for every laugh that is in his book there are five blushes, ten shudders and a vomit. The laugh is too expensive.

Ys truly

Samuel L. Clemens

Published in: on September 14, 2011 at 4:29 pm  Comments (1)  

I Just Have to Share This Writer’s Digest Article Because It’s So Informative!

How to Revise Your Work (& Awesome Editing Symbols You Should Know)

by Brian Klems

Maybe I’m a nerd, but I love the editing process. I love recasting sentences to make them stronger, choosing specific words to make dialogue sing, correcting grammar until it’s fit to print and drawing little squibblies all over the page (mainly because I like the way squibblies look). Honestly, I use editing marks so much that sometimes I get bored with the usual suspects and make up my own.
Here is a list of Well-Known Editing Symbols, just in case you aren’t familiar:


Here is a list of the Brian A. Klems Lesser-Known Editing Symbols Worksheet:
If you need help revising your work, check out these excellent articles filled with advice on how to turn your good manuscript into a great manuscript:

Revisions: What Every Writer Should Know
The Revision Process: How I Prepared My Book for Publication
6 Keys to Revising Your Fiction
Revision Checklist (via agent-turned-author Nathan Bransford)

And finally, if you want to really amp up your manuscript to make sure agents read past page one, consider downloading:

70 Solutions to Common Writing Mistakes

P.S.—According to my wife, there’s no “maybe” in the sentence “maybe I’m a nerd.” Such is the life of a writer.

Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Read my Dad blog: TheLifeOfDad.com
Sign up for my free weekly eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

I Guarantee You Will Love This New Blog Or Your Money Back . . . sorta.

My dear friend, Dan Silveria, has started a new blog called: Chaosmosis – The Stationary Missionary.

I would be forever grateful if you’ll take some time and read it. I think you’ll find it is time well-spent and that you’ll be going back again and again to read this delightful, insightful, and witty blog (I couldn’t think of a -ful word to use for witty).

Please let me know what you think . . .

To whet your reading whistle (say that aloud . . . weading whithle), here’s his About Chaosmosis page text:

I’m a housebound quadriplegic couch-potato with an opinion on everything. You might say that I’m a cultural common-tader. (You might.) Smart people warn that one should always avoid the dangerous topics of Religion & Politics, so it goes without saying that my two favorite topics are Religion & Politics (but I said it anyway).
I’m an aspiring Catholic, not yet worthy of communion with the mystical body, but in the meantime, I’m an unapologetic apologist with a twist of twistedness. However, as St. Teresa of Avila so eloquently put it, “If I should say anything that is not in conformity with what is held by the Holy Roman Catholic Church, it will be through ignorance and not through malice.”
I love to think about big picture stuff, and here is where I’ll be throwing spaghetti monsters against the wall to see what sticks. A philosopher is simply “a lover of wisdom,” which is what you get when you break apart its Greek roots: “philo” meaning lover and “sophia” meaning wisdom. And “sofa” meaning couch and “spud” meaning potato, which is someone who watches excessive amounts of television. Oh, um, “tele” meaning distant and “vision” meaning … well, you get the picture.
Me

Published in: on August 8, 2011 at 12:03 am  Leave a Comment  

Mean Girls Memory Lane – Not a Nice Street . . .

It is Sunday night and I am watching Dateline NBC. Tonight’s episode is about bullying, specifically among teenagers.
The show started while I was doing dishes, and I was only half-listening. What caught my ear though is when they focused on what is called, in modern vernacular, “Mean Girls.” I heard how the mean girls, who for the sake of this newscaster’s story, are actors, very slyly pick apart another girl, also an actor, in front of two “innocent bystanders.” The point of the Dateline story is to see who steps in when bullying happens, and the bystanders’ parents are watching this from a hidden room.
And suddenly I am 11 years old again and back at Loveland Junior High School, and feeling all the shame and pain being heaped on me by two of my “friends.”
The one girl had been my best friend in 6th grade. We had both just moved into the school district and lived on the same street and did everything together. Then, in the summer prior to our 7th grade year, another girl moved onto our street and we became a trio of best friends.
Somehow, during the course of our 7th grade year, these two girls became my worst critics and my torturers. “Sixth grade friend” had invited me to go to an amusement park with her family, and on the day we were to go, she called and said they weren’t going. An hour later, I was outside and saw her and her family driving away, with the “newcomer” in the car, on the way to the amusement park.
I was snubbed on the street we lived on, where there were a large number of kids in our age group, although only a few of us going to the public school, while the majority attended St. Columban Catholic School until 9th grade. It was to those kids I turned for friendship when this happened. But at school, it was a nightmare. Pointing and laughing at me in the hallways, running into me, talking about me loud enough so I could hear was the kindest treatment. However, they took it as far as going to the guidance counselor and telling him that I was bothering them, that I was constantly following them, and that they wanted him to talk to me because I was making them so uncomfortable because it was obvious that there was something wrong with me.
The counselor told me everything these two girls had said, and asked for my response. When I denied everything and even admitted that I was trying to avoid them because they were being so mean to me, he said that he had to take their word because there were two of them and only one of me, and majority rules. He warned me to stop “stalking” these two girls or he would have to step in and see that I got some kind of help.
I was devastated. I had so loved both of these friends, and I could not comprehend what made them hate me so much.
Then one day, my “6th grade friend” had an argument with the “newcomer.” She came to me and said she had really missed me and wanted to be best friends again. She didn’t like “newcomer” anymore and it was all her idea to be so mean to me.
I was so happy to have my friend back. Oddly, though, my “6th grade friend” wanted to then do the same thing to “newcomer” that they had done to me. A part of me wanted to get back at “newcomer.” But the thought of inflicting that kind of pain on someone else broke my heart. But my “6th grade friend” stopped “newcomer” on our street and tore her apart, in front of me.
And I did nothing.
“Newcomer” broke down in tears and went home.
I felt horrid. “Sixth grade friend” was elated that she had that effect on her, as she must have been all the times they had had that effect on me.
The next day, I was the outsider again. No explanation. I was just ignored while the two of them went on being, well, them.
Junior High was a nightmare for me. If it had not been for Marty Faith, and Tami Funk, and Jill Baron, and some others, I would have been so absolutely miserable, I don’t know how I would have made it through the days.
High School solved everything. These two girls were no longer so important as freshman in a large school. And I had all my Catholic School friends with me now, as well as a whole new group of kids who had gone to other elementary and junior high schools in the district, and then converged on this, the only high school. I had to deal with these two only at home now, since we still lived on the same street.
We moved my freshman year, though, and the four or five-mile move put me in another school district—Kings High School. There my life was pleasant and school was an exciting adventure every day. I had marvelous friends—Rita Lester, Julia Davis, Donna Forste, Michelle Petry, Lynn Schumacher, Doreen Biehle, Martina Byrd, Cathy Stringer, and come to think of it, more guy friends than girls.
I healed while I was at Kings. All of my dear friends there helped me to feel like I was okay again, that I wasn’t some strange and fetid creature—like my two “old” friends had made me feel.
To this day, I vividly remember that feeling. I wish I had spoken up when “6th grade friend” was tearing down “newcomer.” I am ashamed that I did not. If you are reading this and know that I am speaking of you, then I ask your forgiveness. I am heartily sorry.
And yes, I did forgive these two girls, who are now in their 50s. It took me years, sadly. And apparently, I am still healing . . .
Published in: on June 13, 2011 at 12:25 am  Comments (1)  
The Salty Mama

With salt in her blood & the rhythm of the sea in her heart.

The Irrefutable Opinion

Assaults on the Casually Mundane by K. Jean King

corngoblin

A rather droll affair

Shannon A Thompson

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