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Book Title: The Last Martin|
The author of the book: Jonathan Friesen
ISBN 13: 9780310720805
Date of issue: April 10th 2011
Format files: PDF
The size of the: 7.40 MB
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Reader ratings: 4.6
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There’s always a Martin. One Martin. Martin Boyle already has plenty to worry about. His germaphobic mother keeps him home from school if she hears so much as a sneeze, and his father is always off somewhere reenacting old war battles. Julia, the most beautiful girl in school, won’t even speak to Martin, and the gym teacher is officially out to get him. Which is why Martin really doesn’t need this curse hanging over his head. On a trip to the family cemetery, Martin wanders among the tombstones of his ancestors and discovers a disturbing pattern: when one Martin is born, the previous Martin dies. And—just his luck—Martin’s aunt is about to give birth to a baby boy, who will, according to tradition, be named Martin. Martin must find a way to break the curse, but every clue seems to lead to a dead end. And time is running out.
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Read information about the authorI had the perfect life.
I was the grade-school star and the teacher’s pet. The world revolved around me and I suspected it always would. If you ask most people about their life, they don’t begin with fifth grade. But that was a good year.
Illness changed that. I retreated into a shell and escaped into words. Writing a story sucked the pain out of me, at least for a while. That’s when I learned to “feel” on paper. I didn’t think I’d be an author, I didn’t think I’d be much of anything, I was simply writing to survive.
Life changed in college. Health returned, the cloud lifted, and I got my teaching license.
Being a teacher, and being with those kids healed me. Surrounded by them, I relived periods of time stolen by childhood sickness. I was in my glory. But I couldn’t escape storytelling. All those years expressing myself on paper left their mark.
While my students worked, I wrote at my desk. Jerk California, my first book, flowed out of my own “lost years,” but hope fills the pages. Writing it was a beautiful thing to experience.
I now live on a horse farm with my wife, three children, and a growing number of animals.
Our home is on a hill that overlooks a river that snakes through a beautiful valley. We tear along the stream on the 4-wheeler. My three kids race through the pasture and scale the sides of the sand pit; they search for agates and chase wild turkeys that trespass on the gravel road that connects our hill to the rest of the world. I have promised them chickens and horses, but for now they settle for bald eagle and bear. It’s a good place to play and write.
At night, I walk out and listen to the wind rattle paper-thin bark on our birch trees. I stare at stars nobody else has seen and start a bonfire so bright it chases all the stars away. Then, my clothes full of smoke and my mind filled with ideas, I come inside and write until my fingers get heavy on the keyboard.
I love it here.
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