Quotes About Farm

Through my history's despite and ruin, I have come to its remainder, and here have made the beginning of a farm intended to become my art of being here. By it I would instruct my wants: they should belong to each other and to this place. Until my song comes here to learn its words, my art is but the hope of song. (Part 2 from History is Clearing, p 174)

It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, a shot rang out! A door slammed. The maid screamed. Suddenly, a pirate ship appeared on the horizon! While millions of people were starving, the king lived in luxury. Meanwhile, on a small farm in Kansas, a boy was growing up.

I like chickens," said Norwood. "You can go in a chicken house at night and they're all sitting there on them poles facing the front like they was riding an elevator.

Every summer I'd spend a couple of months on the farm in Yale walking the dirt road that led to the highway, picking wild raspberries along the way. Often I'd walk out into the watermelons, pick one up over my head, and let it fall so that it split wide open. Then I'd eat the sweet heart out of it and leave the rest to the birds.

Stripping was a simple process, really. It was possible for a very few men with the right equipment—and without all the hazards usually accompanying tunnel mining—to reduce prime forest and farm land to bare rock in a relatively short time.

By all accounts, Kehoe displayed a marked mechanical bent in his earliest years. Like countless boys his age, he seemed particularly fascinated with electricity. One neighbor would recall the young Kehoe as an inveterate tinkerer who "devoted his talents to constructing electrical devices which he installed on his father's farm.

The depopulation of rural America at the time, accelerated by the technological revolution that was rendering farm labor superfluous, was one of the most harrowing and large-scale demographic developments of the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. Because relatively few American officials attended to the problems of these people in the 1950s, the mass migrations set the stage for social and racial dynamite that exploded in the cities after 1965.73

before them an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and buildings of a farm-yard.

The real mystery was how your farm bound you to it, so tightly that you would pay any price (literally, in interest) or make any sacrifice just to take these steps across this familiar undulating ground time and time again.

At sixty miles per hour, you could pass our farm in a minute, on County Road 686, which ran due north into the T intersection at Cabot Street Road.

Otherwise, my life passed in a blur, that blessing of urban routine. The sense of distinct events that is so inescapable on a farm, where every rainstorm is thick with odor and color, and usefulness and timing, where omens of prosperity or ruin to come are sought in every change, where any of the world's details may contain the one thing that above all else you will regret not knowing, this sense lifted off me. Maybe another way of saying it is that I forgot I was still alive.

Living on the farm taught me that life is unpredictable and you need to put money away for a rainy day.

Every unwanted animal ends up on my farm: alpacas and horses and dogs and cats and chickens and ducks and parrots and fish and guinea pigs.

Family, work, familiarity. Listen, if I had a magic wand and I could make myself really be happy, I'd zap me onto a farm. And I know nothing about farming.

Donald Trump is going to work on infrastructure, building the wall. He's going to farm leaders.

After a year of doing general farm work, it was quite clear to me that chickens and I were not compatible.

In a way, being raised on the farm and doing chores and stuff it's a natural thing for me to want to work outside. It's almost kind of like a rehabilitation for me with doing that.

I was working on the farm to get in shape, about a mile away from my parents. You know, I did everything as a kid to stay in shape - jogging, work on the farm, driving the tractor. I'll never forget.

Always farm fresh eggs, never store bought.

It's not an accident that both my sister and I are writers. Our parents created an accidental Petri dish. My family has great storytellers, and I grew up in a very funny, conversational house and didn't have television. This small family farm was a bubble world that didn't have much to do with reality.

As a child. I grew up on a small farm, so I did a lot of drawings of animals, chickens and people. At the bottom of every page, I'd put a strange scribble. I was emulating adult handwriting, though I didn't actually know how to write.

I'm from a farm town that when I was a kid was about an hour outside of Omaha.

Grandpa's farm had belonged to our people ever since there had been a farm in that place, or people to own a farm. Grandpa's father had left it to Grandpa and his other sons and daughters. But Grandpa had borrowed money and bought their shares. He had to have it whole hog or none, root hog or die, or he wouldn't have it at all.

The strict competences of independence, the formal mastery, the complexities of attitude and know-how necessary to life on the farm, which have been in the making in the race of farmers since before history, all are replaced by the knowledge of some fragmentary task that may be learned by rote in a little while.