Ok I was asked to write 2 causes and effects for this story (below). My mom just left for a business trip which SUCKS! She usually checks over my work before I turn it in. I know the story is LONGGG but it’s really interesting. Here it is, when your done can you look over my answers?
I was twelve when I really started learning about time. I spent a week during my summer vacation building a bench with an older boy named Tony. The bench now sits near the train station in my hometown. Whenever I return, I drive to the station to watch weary commuters collared by time sit on the bench and observe life passing by.Tony was my grandparents’ neighbor. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was more interested in spending time with Tony than in spending time with my grandparents. Tony had a real talent for woodworking, and he had a set of tools that looked ancient yet perfectly at home in his young hands.The bench we built was made entirely from an old moss-covered walnut log we found behind Tony’s woodshed. We spent the last three days of my vacation scrambling to complete the bench. Countless times I told Tony and my grandfather, who would pop in to check our progress, that we didn’t have to finish right away. But my grandfather would have none of that. He grew up in an era in which time and resources were precious and counted in lives and lost opportunities, not in days, hours, or minutes. In this respect, Tony and my grandfather were alike. Tony seemed wise beyond his years, as if he held answers and secrets deep within him. We had no plans, no pictures to go by. Tony envisioned the bench and then went to work. “Let’s mill the log into planks, Jess,” Tony commanded. “We’ll rip the boards to width and cut them to length.”
I learned a new language and how to see the uniqueness within common objects. We planed planks into smooth rails and elegant slats. We cut joints that were tight and strong. I like to think now that Tony and I were joined that week, not only by the common goal of finishing the bench, but also by something much stronger than any joint cut with a saw or chisel. Parched and tired, we took periodic breaks. “Jess, go fetch a couple pops from da ‘frigerator,” Tony would bark. We’d sip the cold, fizzy liquid and yell like kids at neighbors and passing cars. Occasionally the summer air was punctuated by roaring motorcycles. “Whooooo, boy, Jess” he’d yell at me. “That’s the motorsickle fer me." We finished the bench and it sat in my grandparents’ garage for some time. They eventually donated it to the town. Tony, I learned, had joined the army. Only recently did I learn why he never returned to claim the bench. Today, I tell my son about Tony and how we built the bench. I show him Tony’s tools, which I now have, with handles worn dark and hard from the hands of a boy who ran out of time. And together we search old woodsheds for another moss-covered black walnut log with a secret buried within.
Cause #1: The grandfather grew up in an era where no time could be wasted
Effect #1: Since the grandfather thought no time should be wasted, he encouraged the boys to finish the bench.
Cause #2: Jess admired Tony for everything he did, especially woodworking.
Effect #2: Since Tony was great at woodworking, Jess decided to spend A LOT of time with Tony to finish a bench.
Can you please check them?
Yep, that’s correct!
