Bangor Quotes

If there's one American belief I hold above all others, it's that those who would set themselves up in judgment on matters of what is "right" and what is "best" should be given no rest; that they should have to defend their behavior most stringently. ... As a nation, we've been through too many fights to preserve our rights of free thought to let them go just because some prude with a highlighter doesn't approve of them." [Bangor Daily News, Guest Column of March 20, 1992]

Hell. Six other pilots available and I had to be the one to get you,” Jonah mutters to himself. … “ ‘Don't worry, Calla.' 'It's no big deal, Calla.' That's what a decent person would say,” I mumble. “I'm here to get your high-maintenance little ass to Bangor, not soothe your ego.

Take my hand, Constant Reader, and I’ll be happy to lead you back into the sunshine. I’m happy to go there, because I believe most people are essentially good. I know that I am. It’s you I’m not entirely sure of. Bangor,

The root assumption here is that neither party would nominate a man more than 20 percent different from the type of person most Americans consider basically right and acceptable. Which almost always happens. There is no potentially serious candidate in either major party this year who couldn’t pass for the executive vice-president for mortgage loans in any hometown bank from Bangor to San Diego. We

The Correspondence-School Instructor Says Goodbye to His Poetry Students Goodbye, lady in Bangor, who sent me snapshots of yourself, after definitely hinting you were beautiful; goodbye, Miami Beach urologist, who enclosed plain brown envelopes for the return of your very “Clinical Sonnets”; goodbye, manufacturer of brassieres on the Coast, whose eclogues give the fullest treatment in literature yet to the sagging breast motif; goodbye, you in San Quentin, who wrote, “Being German my hero is Hitler,” instead of “Sincerely yours,” at the end of long, neat-scripted letters extolling the Pre-Raphaelites: I swear to you, it was just my way of cheering myself up, as I licked the stamped, self-addressed envelopes, the game I had of trying to guess which one of you, this time, had poisoned his glue. I did care. I did read each poem entire. I did say everything I thought in the mildest words I knew. And now, in this poem, or chopped prose, no better, I realize, than those troubled lines I kept sending back to you, I have to say I am relieved it is over: at the end I could feel only pity for that urge toward more life your poems kept smothering in words, the smell of which, days later, tingled in your nostrils as new, God-given impulses to write. Goodbye, you who are, for me, the postmarks again of imaginary towns—Xenia, Burnt Cabins, Hornell— their solitude given away in poems, only their loneliness kept. Galway Kinnell

Louis volvió a Bangor por el puente Chamberlain y se instaló en el motel Howard Johnson, en la carretera de Odlin, cerca del aeropuerto y del cementerio Pleasantview donde estaba enterrado su hijo. Se inscribió con el nombre de Dee Dee Ramone y pagó en efectivo.

4:40 Greyhound from Bangor to pull in. The Beast might be sitting next to you at a band concert or having a piece of pie at the Chat ’n Chew on Main Street.

It was the river valley they were looking into, of course; the Penobscot, where loggers had once floated their timber from the northeast down to Bangor and Derry.

ninety miles west of the city near the town of Bangor, Pennsylvania. The following year, fifteen Rosetans left Italy for America, and several members of

restaurants and bars opened along Garibaldi Avenue. More than a dozen factories sprang up making blouses for the garment trade. Neighboring Bangor

This book was begun in Bangor, Maine, on September 9th, 1981, and completed in Bangor, Maine, on December 28th, 1985.

Also, she wrote good old western stories that you could really sink your teeth into, not all full of make-believe monsters and a bunch of dirty words, like the ones that fellow who lived up Bangor wrote.

applied for passports to America, leaving entire streets of their old village abandoned. The Rosetans began buying land on a rocky hillside connected to Bangor by a steep, rutted wagon path. They built closely clustered

became a flood. In 1894 alone, some twelve hundred Rosetans applied for passports to America, leaving entire streets of their old village abandoned. The Rosetans began buying land on a rocky hillside connected to Bangor by a steep,

potatoes, melons, and fruit trees in the long backyards behind their houses. He gave out seeds and bulbs. The town came to life. The Rosetans began raising pigs in their backyards and growing grapes for homemade wine. Schools, a park, a convent, and a cemetery were built. Small shops and bakeries and restaurants and bars opened along Garibaldi Avenue. More than a dozen factories sprang up making blouses for the garment trade. Neighboring Bangor was largely Welsh and English, and the next town over was overwhelmingly German, which meant—given

They spent their first night in America sleeping on the floor of a tavern on Mulberry Street, in Manhattan’s Little Italy. Then they ventured west, eventually finding jobs in a slate quarry ninety miles west of the city near the town of Bangor, Pennsylvania. The following year, fifteen Rosetans left Italy

We had been told in Bangor of a man who lived alone, a sort of hermit, at that dam [on the Allegash], to take care of it, who spent his time tossing a bullet from one hand to the other, for want of employment. This sort of tit-for-tat intercourse between his two hands, bandying to and fro a leaden subject, seems to have been his symbol for society.

Her baby wouldn’t stop crying. She’d started fussing at the last station, when the Greyhound bus out of Bangor stopped in Portland to pick up more passengers. Now, at a little after 1 A.M., they were almost to the Boston terminal, and the two-plus hours of trying to soothe her infant daughter were, as her friends back in school would say, getting on her last nerve.

In East Bangor, Pennsylvania (population 800), there’s a little diner named for the trolley that used to take people to the once-bustling steel town of Bethlehem. The proprietors have adorned the walls with photographs of other local things that are no more. There’s one of the East Bangor band, a group of about twenty men and boys, in uniform, in front of a bandstand draped with bunting. There’s also one of the Kaysers, a local baseball club, on the day of an exhibition ballgame against the Philadelphia Athletics. These were Connie Mack’s A’s, which team in those early 1930s featured Hall of Famers Jimmie Foxx, Mickey Cochrane, and Lefty Grove. How did a village of under a thousand people manage to have its own band? How did a cluster of slate-belt villages field a regular baseball club, apparently good enough to stay on the same field for nine innings with the Philadelphia Athletics? What

When a scientist splits an atom, the event is locked away like a jewel in a castle, funneling down to the public through a myriad of institutions. But when an artist stumbles upon the key to unleashing universal evil, the forbidden fruit of his painstaking labor is packaged and sold at every corner store from Bangor to Bangkok. I’m still unsure whether this is the result of a lack of respect for artists (compared to scientists) or the moral corruption of artists (compared to scientists).

The prevailing wisdom today is that any candidate in a standard-brand, two-party election will get about 40 percent of the vote. The root assumption here is that neither party would nominate a man more than 20 percent different from the type of person most Americans consider basically right and acceptable. Which almost always happens. There is no potentially serious candidate in either major party this year who couldn’t pass for the executive vice-president for mortgage loans in any hometown bank from Bangor to San Diego.

King of The Road Trailer for sale or rent Rooms to let, fifty cents No phone, no pool, no pets ain't got no cigarettes Two hours of pushin' broom Buys a eight by twelve four-bit room I'm a man of means, by no means King of the road Third boxcar, midnight train Destination: Bangor, Maine Old worn out suit and shoes I don't pay no union dues I smoke, old stogies I have found Short, but not too big around I'm a man of means, by no means King of the road I know every engineer on every train All of the children and all of their names Every handout in every town Every lock that ain't locked when no one's around They sing, trailers for sale or rent Rooms to let, fifty cents No phone, no pool, no pets I ain't got no cigarettes About two hours of pushin' broom Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room I'm a man of means, by no means King of the road Trailer for sale or rent Rooms to let, fifty cents No phone, no pool, no pets I ain't got no cigarettes About two hours of pushin' broom Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room I'm a man of means, by no means King of the road

Far to the north, in Bangor, Maine, a little- known professor at Bowdoin College named Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain read the news and “could not abide the thought of a divided nation; the Founding Fathers ‘did not vote themselves into a people; they recognized and declared that they were a people’ whose bonds out not to be severed by political, social, or economic grievances.” The professor was seized with anger that “the flag of the Nation had been insulted,” and “the integrity and existence of the people of the United States had been assailed in open and bitter war.

a paying career out of her writing. She and Emerson talked about many things, including self-reliance, but most concentratedly about German literature. She, as well as Carlyle, was now absorbed in Goethe’s writings and was working on a translation of Eckermann’s great Conversations with Goethe. Emerson was working on his (German, increasingly convinced, as were other friends such as Hedge from Bangor, and Parker and Ripley from Boston, that the most interesting intellectual and artistic currents, the really vital ideas seemed recently to have been coming out of Germany. No one, they thought, would be able to understand the nineteenth century without taking Kant, Herder, Hegel, and Goethe into account. Until one had read them, one’s basic education was not complete.

...grand oaks, maples, and chestnuts muscle in on one another, flared in their autumn robes; a motley conflagration under the dazzling mid-October sun. We are in the middle of a beautiful nowhere, digging into sprawling hinterlands, into territories of wild earth. The rolling, winding roads away from Bangor took us through towns with names like Charleston, Dover-Foxcroft, Monson, and Shirley, all with their own quaint, beautifully cinematic set dressing. It was like each was curated from grange hall flea markets and movie sets rife with small-town Americana. Stoic stone war memorials. American flags. Whitewashed, chipping town hall buildings from other centuries. Church bell towers in the actual process of tolling, gonging, calling. To me, the sound was ominous in a remote sort of way, unnamable.

It was the middle of the afternoon, on a sunny day in early August of 1952, when we pulled into the bus dock in Bangor, Maine, located next to the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad Station. As I got off, I heard people talking about a moose that had run down the main street that morning, but I had my own problems. The Men’s Room in most bus and railroad terminals leaves a lot to be desired and this one was no exception, but now was not the time to complain. It had the usual disgusting engravings, with information on who would do what to whom, and how they could be contacted. The floor was also decorated with toilet paper, and someone forgot to flush, but my needs were urgent, and so I quickly overcame my inhibitions…. Not long after and much relieved, I emerged from the lavatory and looked around trying to get my bearings. Down the street, parked in front of a “No Parking” sign, I could see a blue school bus with “MMA” painted in white lettering above the windshield. This was my first contact with Maine Maritime Academy, the school that would shape my being for a lifetime.

The coast of Maine has many fishing villages and old seaports, and its past is steeped in maritime history. Twelve miles from Bath, we came into Wiscasset, known for the wrecks of two old sailing vessels: the four-masted cargo schooners the Hesper and the Luther Little. The Hesper was launched on the 4th of July, 1918. It was a wonderfully festive day when the Hesper was allowed to slide down the inclined ways, but because the ship builders had underestimated her weight, she only slid down the ways by about 10 yards before everything collapsed. The Hesper came to a grinding halt, but fortunately didn’t roll over. It was not until that August before the ship was once again shored up, and launched into the Sheepscot River. Her master was Captain Caleb A. Haskell from Deer Isle, who then sailed her to Lisbon, Portugal. On her maiden voyage she carried a 2,000 ton cargo of coal. I got to know Bo’sun, or Boatswain, Vernon Haskell, who drove the bus that later picked me up in Bangor. He also came from Deer Isle and sailed on these very same ships when he was a young man. Back in those days seafaring was a family tradition, and the Haskells were well-known seafaring folks in these parts. These two sailing ships are now gone and with their loss, some more maritime history is lost forever.

The bus continued on to its last stop before Bangor. In the mid-nineteenth century, Belfast became known for its production of large five-masted schooners. This was due to the abundance of tall pines in the proximity that were used as masts. There were fortunes made in shipbuilding and some of the larger homes, which are still in existence, are testimony to that. Unfortunately, this all ended with the advent of iron ships and the steam engine. Even the labor-intensive shoe manufacturing industry, which followed shipbuilding, faltered. Belfast still had its poultry business in 1952, and once a year held a popular Broiler Festival that brought in many people.

In Bangor, she’d had no incentive to do homework—her foster parents were partiers, and she’d come home from school to find a house full of drunks. In Spruce Harbor, there aren’t so many distractions. Dina and Ralph don’t drink or smoke, and they’re strict. Jack has a beer now and then, but that’s about it. And Molly discovered that she actually likes to study.

Austin Phelps makes this point in a chapter in his volume on prayer. He tells of Ethelfrith, the pagan Saxon king of Northumbria, who had invaded Wales and was about to give battle. The Welsh were Christians, and as Ethelfrith was observing the army of his opponents spread out before him, he noticed a host of unarmed men. When he asked who they were, he was told that they were the Christian monks of Bangor, praying for the success of their army. Ethelfrith immediately realized the seriousness of the situation. “Attack them first,” he ordered. Phelps goes on to say that the non-Christians of the world often have more respect for the “sturdy reality” of prayer than we do. The power of prayer “is no fiction, whatever [we] may think of it.”334 If prayer is so powerful, how should we use it?

As the sun fell over the Davenport Drive-In and the previews lit up the giant screen, Annalisa and Thomas laughed hysterically at the people scrambling out of the trunks of cars. They’d do anything to avoid the two-dollar admission. Annalisa recalled it all from Bangor: the swath of light shooting from the projector to the screen up front, the fogged-up cars with kids making out in the back seat, the savory smell of buttery popcorn wafting through the air. With

The Rosetans began buying land on a rocky hillside connected to Bangor by a steep, rutted wagon path. They built closely clustered two-story stone houses with slate roofs on narrow streets running up and down the hillside. They built a church and called it Our Lady of Mount Carmel and named the main street, on which it stood, Garibaldi Avenue, after the great hero of Italian unification. In the beginning, they called their town New Italy. But they soon changed it to Roseto, which seemed only appropriate given that almost all of them had come from the same village in Italy.

It begins, in fact, with the closing years of the 6th century AD and the arrival on these shores of Augustine, the Roman Catholic bishop whose job it was to bring the British Isles under the political sway of the Roman pontif. The story is well known from Bede et al how the British Christians who were here to greet Augustine declined his demand that they place themselves under the Roman authority, and were later massacred for their refusal at Bangor, twelve hundred of the finest scholars and monks of their day being put to the sword.

The recorded history of the early Britons was to remain in oblivion for the five hundred years that followed the massacre at Bangor. But then an incident occurred that ensured its revival and survival to the present day, even though that revival was itself to last only a matter of a further five hundred years or so. The incident, which occurred sometime in the 1130s, was the presentation of a certain book to a British (i.e. Welsh) monk by an archdeacon of Oxford. The monk's name was Geoffrey of Monmouth, the archdeacon was Walter of Oxford, and the book was a very ancient, possibly unique, copy of the recorded history of the early Britons, written in language so archaic that it needed to be translated quickly into Latin before either the book perished or the language was forgotten.

When we turned right at the One Stop, I knew it was bad. They never take emergencies to MDI Hospital unless they are doomed without immediate care. There was no time to life-flight us to Bangor, or even drive to Ellsworth;

The "Union," of Bangor, Maine, spoke no less decidedly to the same effect: "The difficulties between the North and the South must be compromised, or the separation of the States shall be peaceable. If the Republican party refuse to go the full length of the Crittenden amendment—which is the very least the South can or ought to take—then, here in Maine, not a Democrat will be found who will raise his arm against his brethren of the South. From one end of the State to the other let the cry of the Democracy be, Compromise or Peaceable Separation!

Telegram@velocemarco Buy Cocaine online in Bangor

Amelia’s second trip to Bangor was called Woman’s Day, an event arranged by the chamber of commerce in cooperation with Boston-Maine Airways. Planes of the air service flew nearly empty out of Bangor, a fact lamented by Godfrey himself. A commonly held perception was that the wives of businessmen perceived flying as dangerous and thus discouraged their husbands from using aircraft for business trips. This belief hindered the growth of air passenger service. Amelia hoped to dispel that notion.

garment trade. Neighboring Bangor was largely Welsh and English, and the next town over was overwhelmingly German, which meant—given the fractious relationships between the English and Germans and

The Indians say that the river once ran both ways, one half up and the other down, but that, since the white man came, it all runs down, and now they must laboriously pole their canoes against the stream, and carry them over numerous portages. In the summer, all stores—the grindstone and the plow of the pioneer, flour, pork, and utensils for the explorer—must be conveyed up the river in batteaux; and many a cargo and many a boatman is lost in these waters. In the winter, however, which is very equable and long, the ice is the great highway, and the loggers' team penetrates to Chesuncook Lake, and still higher up, even two hundred miles above Bangor. Imagine the solitary sled-track running far up into the snowy and evergreen wilderness, hemmed in closely for a hundred miles by the forest, and again stretching straight across the broad surfaces of concealed lakes! We

He tells of Ethelfrith, the pagan Saxon king of Northumbria, who had invaded Wales and was about to give battle. The Welsh were Christians, and as Ethelfrith was observing the army of his opponents spread out before him, he noticed a host of unarmed men. When he asked who they were, he was told that they were the Christian monks of Bangor, praying for the success of their army. Ethelfrith immediately realized the seriousness of the situation. “Attack them first,” he ordered.

Austin Phelps makes this point in a chapter in his volume on prayer. He tells of Ethelfrith, the pagan Saxon king of Northumbria, who had invaded Wales and was about to give battle. The Welsh were Christians, and as Ethelfrith was observing the army of his opponents spread out before him, he noticed a host of unarmed men. When he asked who they were, he was told that they were the Christian monks of Bangor, praying for the success of their army. Ethelfrith immediately realized the seriousness of the situation. “Attack them first,” he ordered.

The hiring of Nellie Ohr made perfect sense for Project Bangor, but it would later help fuel an elaborate right-wing conspiracy theory. In this version of events, the effort to research and understand Trump’s curious interactions with the Russian underworld was actually a nefarious liberal plot—reaching from the Clinton campaign to career officials and Nellie’s husband at the Justice Department—to undermine the future Trump presidency. A presidency not even Donald Trump himself thought would happen.

Another murder took place on September 17, 1898, when a young woman, Sarah Ware, suddenly disappeared. Two weeks later her mutilated, beheaded and badly decomposed body was found on Miles Lane, just northeast of the town center. In this case, a shop owner, William Treworgy, was arrested for the crime, but was never convicted. Over a century later, during the winter of 2008, Emeric Spooner, an amateur investigator and the author of In Search of Maine Urban Legends, with an interest in the paranormal, reopened the investigation. Being a librarian at the Buck Memorial Library, he had ready access to many of the original files regarding the case. What concerned him most was that no one was ever convicted of the gruesome crime and that what had happened to Sarah Ware was all but forgotten. What was left was just a faded headstone on a pauper’s grave. Searching through all of the available documents and news articles, Spooner pieced together the scraps representative of Sarah Ware’s life. He found a solitary photograph showing her with another woman and two children. He discovered that Ware had been a divorced mother with four children, who had worked hard for a local storeowner, named as none other than William Treworgy. Moreover, Spooner discovered that she had lent Mister Treworgy money out of her meager paycheck. What the court had ignored, Spooner found to be of interest and definite relevance. At the time of the murder, a detective from Lewiston and one from Bangor were called in to investigate the case. They discovered a bloody hammer engraved with the initials “W.T.T.” and a tarp with blood on it in Treworgy's wagon. Another man came forth and testified that Treworgy had paid him to move a body to a nearby swamp. Four years after the murder, the case finally was tried in court. By this time both the bloody hammer and the tarp were nowhere to be found and the man, who had claimed Treworgy had paid him to move a body, recanted. He asserted that a town selectman and some members of the citizens’ committee had originally pressured him to lie. More than 100 years later, Emeric Spooner continued his investigation and concluded that there were just too many things involving Treworgy. In so many words, he stated that if Treworgy didn't actually do it, he most likely helped move the body.

As the librarian of the Buck Memorial Library, Geraldine Spooner, pointed out, the legend ignored many conflicting facts. Colonel Buck was described in the Bangor Historical Magazine as being a man of strong mind, retentive memory, and steadfast purpose. For instance, the Colonel was only a Justice of the Peace, not a Judge! He didn’t have the legal authority to pronounce the death sentence on anyone, much less his mistress. He was considered a righteous man of exemplary piety, who was respected by all. After all, in 1779 the Colonel had organized his own troops and, leading them, stormed the British garrison at Castine. This attack was repelled by the British, but Colonel Buck became a legend. The early history of Buckstown never had a bad thing to say about their Colonel. In March of 1795, the Colonel died and was laid to rest in the small village cemetery close to the tidal water, under a headstone that was inscribed to read “In Memory of the Hon. Jonathan Buck, Esq. who died March 18, 1795 in the 77 year of his age.

Why then," he says, suddenly turning to me and folding his arms across his chest, "did your mother study in France? Why did you study in Italy? Which I presume you did because you know as well as I do that no culinary education is considered complete without an international apprenticeship." His voice is smug, his mouth curled in a half smile. "Wait a minute," I say, feeling suddenly compelled to defend American culinary tradition (not to mention my own expensive and, in my opinion, extremely comprehensive education at the Culinary Institute of America). "I studied in Italy because I cook Italian food. My mother studied in France because in the late 1960s there was no other option. But that certainly doesn't mean that there isn't a rich and varied culinary tradition in America today. Stop at a roadside barbeque in Texas, eat a lobster roll in Bangor, Maine, order a fried egg on your Primanti sandwich in Pittsburgh, for heaven's sake!

UK psychiatrist David Healy, Professor of Psychiatry, Bangor University, Wales – a former secretary of the British Association for Psychopharmacology – has subsequently identified evidence of drug withdrawal problems within the original SSRI antidepressant pre-launch drug trials.

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