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Her Kindness Began With a Stretch

  • jeble18
  • Jun 17
  • 4 min read

This is a copy of my guest post on Lucinda Gerlitz blog on ettiquette. You can find the original here: https://lucindagerlitz.substack.com/p/exciting-news

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My husband says he is jealous. I know, this post is about kindness. How can it begin with jealousy? Bear with me.

A few years ago, Marge, a friend from elementary school, organized a reunion. Our parish church and school were housed in a two-story brick building in Oreland, a small town outside Philly. Every school day, my brothers and I had scampered up the wide steps along to our various classrooms. Or to be accurate, I had scampered. My brothers had trudged. They did their scampering coming down.


In the eight years that I plunked my fanny in little wooden desks eager to learn, many of the faces around me remained the same. A few were added. More moved away. Others left to attend the public school. As near as we can remember, we started with about 60-plus kids packed into Sister Enda Marie’s first grade and graduated 36. Marge, our organizer and historian, tracked down quite a few of us, mostly women, who came to a typical luncheon to swap stories and reminisce. After all, we had several decades of life to catch up on.


But, Marge, now our class’s unofficial Chief Organizer, connected a core group of ten. Some attended all eight grades. Some only attended a couple. No matter. All were welcome on our group texts. At first Marge would send birthday greetings. How she knows everyone’s birthday is still a mystery to me. Bing. The msg would arrive. Bing. Bing. Others would add on. Bing. Bing. Bing.


My husband would toss me his puzzled look. I’d explain, “my grade school friends”.


For a few years now, these truly exceptional people, usually led by Chief Organizer Marge, have set my phone beeping with news and musings: vacations, travel, birthdays, illnesses, and memories. Pope Leo XIV got extended airtime—even from me, a confirmed agnostic. He tied the Eagles’ super bowl win for the most bings.


Our connections from decades ago run deep. We lived just blocks apart. Many of us went to the same high schools. Our parents lived in the same houses for decades. We knew each other’s siblings. Why had we lost touch for so many years?


Six weeks ago, after more rewrites than junk mail in my inbox, my first book published. Yes, I’d written plays. I’d even won awards. But, while some authors dash off a best seller in a couple months, my book required patience and persistence. With pride, I released my final product into the flood of current fiction. I turned my effort to marketing and dutifully posted on my author Facebook page. I followed up with an Instagram post, sent out emails. and told my critique partners.


I was taking a quick breath when… Bing. A solo text from Marge. She’d already ordered four books. One for herself and three for other friends.


My buddies!


But, she confessed, she’s not a reader. From the first grade, when she was placed in the “blue” reading group, she avoided books. Still, she would read mine.


For a lifetime, reading has engrossed me, thrilled me, enlightened me, frightened me, and even rescued me. Would Marge’s act of kindness be a burden to her? Or would she find some enjoyment? Would my writing be good enough?

Why do some read and not others? Marge leads a full, rich life. Yet I cannot imagine a life without a book on my nightstand. Why are our minds always exploring different paths, different facets? What compels some of us to write? Why are we driven to share our stories?


Marge, always so giving. She would try to stretch. She might break free of the mold so unwittingly set long ago by well-intentioned teachers. She would try.


She could give me no great honor than this.


I set to work on my next project. I sketched out characters, drew up plot lines, delved into research.


And then…


Bing.


She had read the whole book.


Bing.


She liked it! She wants to read the next in the series!


Bing.


She’s sending me plot ideas!


Bing. Bing. Bing. My friends react.


My husband smiled. “Your grade school friends.”


I smile back and nod.


He, who has deep friendships, said he was jealous, not of my joy, but of so many strong bonds reaching back almost to my first memories. Precious friendships that Marge rekindled for me.


Out of kindness she stretched beyond perceived bounds. And found enjoyment.


So, I am determined. The second book in the series must not disappoint.


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Julie Eble is an author and award-winning playwright and entrepreneur. As an amateur birder, she often travels with her husband seeking out new species for their life list. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, an avid reader, and huge fan of Philadelphia sports teams.

Her debut amateur sleuth mystery, “Dad Didn’t Prep Me for Murder” published on 15 April 2025. You can find Julie on her website www.julieeble.com


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