Carpenter Dad Quotes

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It's like when my doctor told me the story of these two brothers whose dad was a bad alcoholic. One brother grew up to be a successful carpenter and never drank. The other brother ended up being a drinker as bad as his dad was. When they asked the first brother why he didn't drink, he said that after he saw what it did to his father, he could never bring himself to even try it. When they asked the other brother, he said that he guessed he learned how to drink on his father's knee. So, I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we'll never know most of them. But even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them.
Stephen Chbosky (The Perks of Being a Wallflower)
Sometime during eternity some guys show up and one of them who shows up real late is a kind of carpenter from some square-type place like Galilee and he starts wailing and claiming he is hep to who made heaven and earth and that the cat who really laid it on us is his Dad
Lawrence Ferlinghetti (A Coney Island of the Mind)
Who says you have to be the best anyway?” “My dad.” Michael gave him a curious look. “Is it because you’ve done time that you think you’re not as good as anybody else?” “Oh, I think I’m as good. Other people are the problem.” “Because you’re an ex-con?” “And a carpenter. Not as much status in that as in what your dad does.” “But if you do it well, that’s all that counts. That’s what Mom always says. She says I can be whatever I want in life, as long as I do it with passion. Do you do your work with passion?
Barbara Delinsky (More Than Friends)
at the seat. Instead of blowing his top, he picked me up in his arms and said, "You did it?" I nodded, "Yes I did it!" "But, look son." He tried to explain, "I can't go out with a bottomless pajama — I am a man". I whispered, "And so am I". He just stared, and embraced me. And from that day I got proper pajamas to wear. Dad was a great friend, a very understanding and loving person. Time flies fast — my father's leave was almost over, but the construction work still remained incomplete. He had to go back to Amritsar to resume his duties, and my mother badly needed more money. Two days before his departure he took a loan of Rs. 1,500 from a friend, a Zargar (ornament maker), to somehow finish the construction work, and mortgaged our part of the haveli for this amount. This Rs. 1,500 brought a lot of trouble and hardship to the family as the interest for the loan went on adding. My father resigned his job as a postman and searched for a new clerical job. He did his best to pay off the loan; he but could not. Destiny's smile had changed into a fearsome frown. Soon my little sister Guro was born. While my father slogged in Amritsar to support the family and pay the monthly interest, my mother and grandmother somehow managed to survive. I fell sick, very very sick and the chubby child was soon a bundle of bones. The fair skin was tarnished and looked quite dusky. The handsome Kidar Nath became an ugly urchin. Lack of nourishment also made me a dull boy. The only thought that kept me alive was that my father was my best friend, and that I must stand by my best friend and help him to surmount his difficulties. Having found a tenant for the rebuilt Haveli, we all moved to Amritsar. Across our house lived a shop-keeper known for being a miser. He called a carpenter to fix the main door to his dwelling, because the top of the frame had cracked. A robust argument ensued because the shop-keeper would pay only half a rupee, while the carpenter wanted one. His reason being that an appropriate piece of wood had to be cut to match the area being repaired and then he would have to level the surfaces at a very awkward angle. But the owner was adamant and said, "Just nail the piece of wood, do not level it or do any fancy work, because I shall pay you only half a rupee", as he walked away in a huff.
Kidar Sharma (The One and Lonely Kidar Sharma: An Anecdotal Autobiography)
Dad, as well as me and Grand, accepted that she may never leave the house again. It was Sal who did not accept this. He was calling out her world and letting her know it would win a carpenter a prize, but it’d never be a darling of the universe where the stars commit to the real thing.
Tiffany McDaniel (The Summer That Melted Everything)
Michael OToole hated going to school, He wanted to stay home and play. So he lied to his dad and said he felt bad And stayed home from school one day. The very next day he decided to say That his stomach felt a bit queasy. He groaned and he winced ‘til his dad was convinced, And he said to himself, “This is easy!” At the end of the week, his dad kissed his cheek And said, “Son, you’ve missed too much school.” “But still I feel funny, and my nose is all runny,” Said the mischievous Michael OToole. Each day he’d complain of a new ache or pain, But his doctor could find nothing wrong. He said it was best to let Michael rest, Until he felt healthy and strong. Michael OToole never did get to school, So he never learned how to write— Or to read or to spell or do anything well, Which is sad, for he’s really quite bright. And now that he’s grown, he sits home alone ‘Cause there’s nothing he knows how to do. Don’t be a fool and stay home from school, Or the same thing could happen to you!
Stephen Carpenter (Kids Pick The Funniest Poems: Poems That Make Kids Laugh (Giggle Poetry))
My father gets quite mad at me; my mother gets upset— when they catch me watching our new television set. My father yells, “Turn that thing off!” Mom says, “It’s time to study.” I’d rather watch my favorite TV show with my best buddy. I sneak down after homework and turn the set on low. But when she sees me watching it, my mother yells out, “No!” Dad says, “If you don’t turn it off, I’ll hang it from a tree!” I rather doubt he’ll do it, ‘cause he watches more than me. He watches sports all weekend, and weekday evenings too, while munching chips and pretzels—the room looks like a zoo. So if he ever got the nerve to hang it from a tree, he’d spend a lot of time up there— watching it with me.
Stephen Carpenter (Kids Pick The Funniest Poems: Poems That Make Kids Laugh (Giggle Poetry))
Here’s who it’s okay to share a bed with: Your sister if you’re a girl, your brother if you’re a boy, your mom if you’re a girl, and your dad if you’re under twelve or he’s over ninety. Your best friend. A carpenter you picked up at the key-lime-pie stand in Red Hook. A bellhop you met in the business center of a hotel in Colorado. A Spanish model, a puppy, a kitten, one of those domesticated minigoats. A heating pad. An empty bag of pita chips. The love of your life. Here’s who it’s not okay to share a bed with: Anyone who makes you feel like you’re invading their space. Anyone who tells you that they “just can’t be alone right now.” Anyone who doesn’t make you feel like sharing a bed is the coziest and most sensual activity they could possibly be undertaking (unless, of course, it is one of the aforementioned relatives; in that case, they should act lovingly but also reserved/slightly annoyed). Now, look over at the person beside you. Do they meet these criteria? If not, remove them or remove yourself. You’re better off alone.
Lena Dunham (Not That Kind of Girl: A Young Woman Tells You What She's "Learned")
Dad…? What did you say to her?” He made a face. “It’s more what she said to me. I told her I didn’t think it was such a good idea, me going to her movie set, and she drew a line in the sand.” He shook his head. “Not really like Muriel, but that’s what she did.” With some exasperation, Vanni said, “Do you think you can possibly make this explanation any more confusing? What’s going on?” “When I told her I didn’t really want to come to her movie, that I’d feel out of place and strange because I don’t know anything about movies, much less making them, she said…” He cleared his throat. “She said that was ridiculous, there wasn’t anything special about this location set—it was just a lot of working people. Grips, carpenters, cooks, et cetera. I had to Google ‘grips,’ that’s how little I know. And she expected me to make an effort or she was going to be left to assume she didn’t matter enough for me to swallow down a little unease so we could have some time together.” Vanni grinned. “She told you.” “She hasn’t called since. And my calls go to voice mail.” “How long has that been going on?” “All week. We usually talk every day.” “Apparently, Dad, you haven’t left the message she’s been waiting for.” “Apparently.” Vanni
Robyn Carr (Paradise Valley)
We are not doctors, carpenters, artists, businessmen, or other such things; these are things we chose to do. We are not moms, dads, sisters, brothers, or other such things; these are relationships assigned by birth. These things are external to us, not internal, so they cannot be who we are. Working to realize who we are will also make clearer who we are not.
Anthony P. Mauro, Sr.
After the Accident Before we run out of pages, I want to tell you a little of what happened to my family after the accident. My mother moved to a small house in Western Shore. Her first concern was finding a way to support herself and Ricky. Being an ex-dancer, motorcycle rider, and treasure-hunter was not likely to open any doors, so she decided to go back to school. She enrolled in a business course in Bridgewater and began her first studies since she was 12 years old. Soon she earned a diploma in typing, shorthand, and accounting, and was hired to work in a medical clinic. Ricky had been on the island from age nine to 14, mostly in the company of adults--family members and visiting tourists--but hardly ever with anyone his own age. Life on the mainland, with the give and take and bumps and bruises of high-school life was a challenge. But he survived. In time he became a carpenter, and is alive and well and living in Ottawa. My mother made a new life for herself. She remained fiercely independent, but between a job she loved and her neighbors, she formed friendships that were deep and lasting. Of course, she missed Dad and Bobby terribly. My mother and dad had been a perfect match, and my mother and brother had always shared a special bond. Bobby’s death was especially hard on her. My mother felt responsible. One day, before the accident, Bobby had taken all he could of Oak Island. After a heated argument with Dad, Bobby packed up and left. My mother had gone after him and convinced him to return--his dad needed him. She rarely spoke of it, but that weighed heavily on her for the rest of her years. My mother never left the east coast. She was 90 years old when she died. For the last 38 years of her life, she lived in a small house on a hill, in the community of Western Shore, where, from her living room window, she could look out and see Oak Island.
Lee Lamb (Oak Island Family: The Restall Hunt for Buried Treasure)
Not Dad.’ My dad, my lovely dad, had gone
Elisabeth Carpenter (99 Red Balloons)
When hunting season came around, though, Dad’s priority shifted from making duck calls to going out to hunt every single day. I joined him when I could or hunted with my brothers or my buddies. Jessica had gone hunting some with her dad. I’d been out with her dad a couple of times, and he had a beautiful deer stand with a heater. It was elegant and finished well and looked like a carpenter had built it. Dad’s old deer stand wasn’t near as nice. He’d built it twenty feet up in a big tree with a fork in the middle, and it was a ramshackle structure that I don’t think had a level spot in it. There was a big, rickety old ladder attached. When Jessica came deer hunting with me, I had to talk her into climbing the ladder. “Is this safe?” “Oh, yeah,” I reassured her. She spotted some old rotten felt that Dad had used to insulate the blind; it had seen better times. She examined the mold and fungus covering the felt and asked, “What all is on that thing?” “Oh, it’s nothing,” I said. “Don’t worry about that.” Then she saw the spiders and started yelping. “Ssshhh,” I whispered. “We’re deer hunting.” She tried to be quiet; I’ll give her credit. But the spiders sent her over the edge. “I can’t handle it,” she whispered back. “Go on back to the truck. I won’t be long,” I said, helping her get back down the ladder. Another time she went along with me to hunt snakes. We try to shoot as many cottonmouths on the property as possible, and I was walking away from the four-wheeler when I heard Jess say, “There’s a snake.” I turned around, and she’d climbed up and was standing on the seat. I was more freaked out than she was because I got a good look at the snake, and it was a big one. I shot it, but that time it was a little too close to her for comfort, and I don’t think Jess realized the danger she was in.
Jep Robertson (The Good, the Bad, and the Grace of God: What Honesty and Pain Taught Us About Faith, Family, and Forgiveness)
Night after night I would speak to Violet in the womb (no matter how strange that may seem to some people) because I was looking forward to the day when I would hold her in my arms, no longer just talking to my wife’s pajamas like a fucking lunatic. When the day finally came, I was nervously packing up the car to go to the hospital when I noticed a huge rainbow overhead, something that happens maybe once every thousand years in Los Angeles. I was immediately calmed. Yes, it sounds nauseatingly romantic, but yes, it’s true, and I took it as a sign. After a long and difficult labor, Violet was born to the sound of the Beatles in the background, and she arrived screaming with a predetermined vocal capacity that made the Foo Fighters sound like the Carpenters. Once she was cleaned up and put under the little Arby’s heat-lamp bed, I put my face close to hers, stared into her gigantic blue eyes, and said, “Hey, Violet, it’s Dad.” She immediately stopped screaming and her eyes locked with mine. She recognized my voice. We stared at each other in silence, our first introduction, and I smiled and talked to her as if I had known her my whole life. I am happy to say that, still to this day, when we lock eyes it’s the same feeling. This was a love I had never experienced before. There is an inevitable insecurity that comes along with being a famous musician that makes you question love. Do they love me? Or do they love “it”? You are showered with superficial love and adoration on a regular basis, giving you something similar to a sugar high, but your heart crashes once the rush dies off. Is it possible for someone to see a musician without the instrument being a part of their identity? Or is that a part of the identity that the other loves? Regardless, it’s a dangerous and slippery slope to question love, but one thing is for certain: there is nothing purer than the unconditional love between a parent and their child.
Dave Grohl (The Storyteller: Tales of Life and Music)