A big thank you to everyone for your support over the past two years. Realizing that this blog keeps growing and that the options for making it navigable with blogger are diminishing week by week, I've moved over to WordPress. I hope this doesn't cause any unnecessary inconvenience.
The original article you are looking for is below this short message. After reading, if you have a moment to check out the new (and hardly changed) "The Other Things Matter", please drop in. Would love to hear from you.
Hi all,
A big thank you to everyone for your support over the past two years. Realizing that this blog keeps growing and that the options for making it navigable with blogger are diminishing week by week, I've moved over to WordPress. I hope this doesn't cause any unnecessary inconvenience.
The original article you are looking for is below this short message. After reading, if you have a moment to check out the new (and hardly changed) "The Other Things Matter", please drop in. Would love to hear from you.
The following is a short story for ELLs. Usually, I write these stories so that they are as easy to understand as possible. I try and keep as much of the vocabulary as possible within the first 2000 most frequently used words in English as identified by the General Service List. Often times I will also write with a certain grammar point in mind. This time, I decided to focus on ellipses. There are two main types of ellipses. Textual ellipses are when a word or phrase is omitted because it can be inferred from the clause or sentence either proceeding or following it. There are also situational a ellipsis. In that case, general knowledge of the situation allows us to imply something without clearly stating it. For example, if someone is about to stick there hand into a running laundry machine, we might say, “I wouldn’t!” leaving out the, “stick your hand in a running laundry machine,” as the situation itself provides the information included in the second part of the sentence. This story has a fair number of textual ellipses and, as far as I can tell, not even just one situational ellipsis (see comments).
It’s my hope that by keeping the story and the vocabulary simple, students will be able to recognize points in the story where things have been left out and perhaps even why. Usually I just put the stories up as is, but in this case I am including a second version of the story with “[]” markings to signify an ellipsis. The second version can be found at the end of this post.
Suggested activities:
- Students could be asked to fill in the ellipses after reading the story.
- Students could be given a list of clauses or phrases and asked to match them to the ellipses in the story
- Students could be asked to circle the word, phrase or clause which makes the ellipsis possible.
- Students could read the ellipsis-filled version of the story, then be given a version in which all of the implied phrases or clauses are included. Finally students could be asked to read the ellipsis-filled version again, filling in the implied phrases or clauses.
I am sure there are lots of other, probably more interesting, activities that could be done to help students recognize and use ellipses, and hope you might let me know your ideas in the comments.
Text Information:
First 1000 most frequently used words (GSW): 89.61%
Second 1000 most frequently used words (GSW): 8.23%
Academic Word List: 0%
Outside lists: 2.16%
Total Word Count: 457
Flesch Reading Ease score: 88.7
Flesch-Kinkaid Grade Leve: 3.6 (~9 years old)
The Closing of the Ocean
During the first week of November, all the police officers leave their clean pressed uniforms on the front steps of their houses. Anyone in town is free to pick them up, put them on, and see what it is like, this work of being an officer of the law. But this year the uniforms were left untouched. It was the first time.
My brother and I are sitting in the coffee shop on Heart Street. I pour some milk in my coffee. My brother drinks his black. My brother is a police officer. Lately his eyes get kind of empty when he talks about work, which isn’t often. He’s in charge of keeping people off the beach at night. Too many accidents of late, so they decided to close down the ocean until summer. Even put up a white sign with big red letters. The sign reads, “Ocean Closed Until Further Notice.” And my brother is the one who makes sure it stays shut down nice and tight. I imagine him, walking on the sand, spending his nights making sure that no one is breathing in the salty air. No one is looking and looking at the dark water as the lights of fishing boats flash on and off. No one is counting the rocks shining like bones in the moonlight.
My brother takes the last sip of his coffee. “A few weeks ago, we had a big problem,” he says and shakes his head. “A bunch of old men, big Russians with big chests, decided to take a quick swim. I had to pull them out of the water one by one. Big steaming men acting like children.” My brother looks in his cup like there might be an answer at the bottom. “And then they just walked away. They didn’t say anything. Just walked away like it was all my fault.”
Now it is February. Soon enough winter will end. Soon enough the ocean will be open again. My brother looks at the clock. It’s almost seven. “I’ve got to go close down the ocean,” my brother says and stands up. As if it actually means something, this idea of closing the ocean. But maybe it does. Maybe it means something important. And not only to my brother.
In November this year, the police officers’ uniforms remained where they had been placed, untouched. They just sat there, waiting. It was the first time. But every night the beach was filled. Filled with footprints. Filled with the whispers of lovers trying to hold on to a few more moments. Filled with kids laughing like they already had a hundred tomorrows rolled up tight and put away safely in their pockets, saved up for the coming of spring.
Ellipsis Marked Version:
The Closing of the Ocean
During the first week of November, all the police officers leave their clean pressed uniforms on the front steps of their houses. Anyone in town is free to pick them up, put them on, and see what it is like, this work of being an officer of the law. But this year the uniforms were left untouched. It was the first time [].
My brother and I are sitting in the coffee shop on Heart Street. I pour some milk in my coffee. My brother drinks his [] black. My brother is a police officer. Lately his eyes get kind of empty when he talks about work, which isn’t often. He’s in charge of keeping people off the beach at night. [] Too many accidents of late, so they decided to close down the ocean until summer. [] Even put up a white sign with big red letters. The sign reads, “Ocean Closed Until Further Notice.” And my brother is the one who makes sure it stays shut down nice and tight. I imagine him, walking on the sand, spending his nights making sure that no one is breathing in the salty air. [] No one is looking and looking at the dark water as the lights of fishing boats flash on and off. [] No one is counting the rocks shining like bones in the moonlight.
My brother takes the last sip of his coffee. “A few weeks ago, we had a big problem,” he says and shakes his head. “A bunch of old men, big Russians with big chests, decided to take a quick swim. I had to pull them out of the water one by one. [] Big steaming men acting like children.” My brother looks in his cup like there might be an answer at the bottom. “And then they just walked away. They didn’t say anything. [] Just walked away like it was all my fault.”
Now it is February. Soon enough winter will end. Soon enough the ocean will be open again. My brother looks at the clock. It’s almost seven. “I’ve got to go close down the ocean,” my brother says and stands up. As if it actually means something, this idea of closing the ocean. But maybe it does []. Maybe it means something important. And [] not only to my brother.
In November this year, the police officers’ uniforms remained where they had been placed, untouched. They just sat there, waiting. It was the first time []. But every night the beach was filled. [] Filled with footprints. [] Filled with the whispers of lovers trying to hold on to a few more moments. [] Filled with kids laughing like they already had a hundred tomorrows rolled up tight and put away safely in their pockets, saved up for the coming spring.
