Response Skills: Paraphrasing and Summarizing Texts (TEKS.ELA.8.6.D) Practice Test

Along the Texas Gulf Coast, a chain of barrier islands acts like a natural shield. These long, narrow islands absorb storm waves, slow dangerous surge, and give wetlands time to drain. But decades of dredging, stronger hurricanes, and rising seas have sliced dunes and let salt water push farther inland. In response, coastal scientists, local governments, and volunteers are rebuilding the islands in careful stages. First, engineers add sand to low beaches and reshape dunes so they can break waves. Next, crews plant marsh grasses whose roots stitch the sand together. Finally, wildlife teams fence off nesting areas so shorebirds can raise their young undisturbed. These projects do more than protect vacation homes. Healthy barrier islands keep working harbors open, shelter fisheries, and reduce flooding for inland neighborhoods. Early results are promising: new dunes held during last year's storms, and planted grasses survived high tides. The work will need steady funding and patient monitoring, because islands constantly move. Still, the plan's logic is simple: strengthen the front line so the coast behind it can endure longer.

On Saturday morning, I burst onto Mr. Alvarez's porch with a roll of neon plastic and a fistful of string. He eyed my supplies and said only, "Measure twice." I nodded, then ignored him. By noon I had taped a bright diamond, but when I ran across the field, the kite buckled and nosed into the grass. Mr. Alvarez walked over without a smile or a sigh. He handed me a yardstick and showed me how the cross spar should sit a hand's width below the center so the wind would catch, not crush, the frame. We retied the string, this time marking the balance point. The second launch lifted for a breath, then spiraled down. I wanted to quit. "One more problem," he said, guiding my hands to twist a tiny tail of scrap along the bottom edge. The third try rose smoothly, the tail scribbling air as the line hummed. We stood in the shade, passing the string back and forth. I told him I guessed measuring mattered after all. He shrugged. "Mostly, it's patience." I believed him.