Concrete Retaining Wall Quotes

We needed to drive down the road a couple of miles to meet the rest of the cowboys and gather the cattle from there. “Mom, why don’t you and Ree go ahead in her car and we’ll be right behind you,” Marlboro Man directed. His mother and I walked outside, climbed in the car, and headed down the road. We exchanged pleasant small talk. She was poised and genuine, and I chattered away, relieved that she was so approachable. Then, about a mile into our journey, she casually mentioned, “You might watch that turn up ahead; it’s a little sharp.” “Oh, okay,” I replied, not really listening. Clearly she didn’t know I’d been an L.A. driver for years. Driving was not a problem for me. Almost immediately, I saw a ninety-degree turn right in front of my face, pointing its finger at me and laughing--cackling--at my predicament. I whipped the steering wheel to the left as quickly as I could, skidding on the gravel and stirring up dust. But it was no use--the turn got the better of me, and my car came to rest awkwardly in the ditch, the passenger side a good four feet lower than mine. Marlboro Man’s mother was fine. Lucky for her, there’s really nothing with which to collide on an isolated cattle ranch--no overpasses or concrete dividers or retaining walls or other vehicles. I was fine, too--physically, anyway. My hands were trembling violently. My armpits began to gush perspiration. My car was stuck, the right two tires wedged inextricably in a deep crevice of earth on the side of the road. On the list of the Top Ten Things I’d Want Not to Happen on the First Meeting Between My Boyfriend’s Mother and Me, this would rate about number four. “Oh my word,” I said. “I’m sorry about that.” “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she reassured, looking out the window. “I just hope your car’s okay.” Marlboro Man and his dad pulled up beside us, and they both hopped out of the pickup. Opening my door, Marlboro Man said, “You guys okay?” “We’re fine,” his mother said. “We just got a little busy talking.” I was Lucille Ball. Lucille Ball on steroids and speed and vodka. I was a joke, a caricature, a freak. This couldn’t possibly be happening to me. Not today. Not now. “Okay, I’ll just go home now,” I said, covering my face with my hands. I wanted to be someone else. A normal person, maybe. A good driver, perhaps. Marlboro Man examined my tires, which were completely torn up. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, actually. You guys hop in the pickup.” My car was down for the count.

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With the backing of Soviet first secretary Leonid Brezhnev, Erich Honecker now took on the mantle of leadership, ruling with his small clique, including the minister of state security, Erich Mielke. Ulbricht retained the official title of head of state, but this new leadership was now closely aligned with Moscow. The ailing and somewhat bitter Ulbricht would suffer a stroke and pass away in August 1973. The Wall was his legacy, and by 1976 construction of a fourth-generation Wall began. “Grenzmauer 75” would be state-of-the-art in design and construction, a world away from the prefab first version of 1961. The new iteration was speedily installed, comprising L-shaped reinforced concrete sections

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Cheapskate The day I blurted the word out at my father I was still an in-the-dark toe-headed excuse for leaving early from the Sunday ritual - the after-church bourbon-fumed lunches of deviled eggs, Vienna sausages, and saltines at his mother’s airless La Jolla bungalow, what Purgatory must’ve smelled like in 1962. I doubt even this “intermediate state after death for expiatory purification,” according to Webster, endured as long as our visits that my own mother artfully dodged and I failed to appreciate, an annoyance that incited the battle-axe’s contempt and me to mime her derision, drawing into question the battery life of her cumbersome hearing aids. Often my father zipped a finger across his throat, though amusement danced in the lines of his brow, unlike when I burst in on them à la Soupy Sales or lurched into histrionic spasms of boredom, forcing their conversation into ellipses, usually over an envelope he set by her lipsticked tumbler. That called for banishment to the tiny courtyard where among a few droopy orange trees I could kill time and escape the weird reversal of my father no longer himself to her, but a mother to his own mother, a slow suffocation that on occasion drove him outside. During our last visit, the week of a heat wave, I’d been rolling oranges like depth-charges into her moribund pond of scabby goldfish. I had no idea anger could travel in the family when the door kicked open, and out he came cracking like ice in a glass of the bourbon hidden in her unused kitchenette oven. One of the oranges swiped his wingtips with its fetid juice, and he picked it up, a Zeus lost in a thousand-yard gaze of divine wrath, then hurled it at the pink retaining wall. Long after he returned inside I stood still, entranced by the splatter as if its tentacles of anger reached out to me, though my behavior, the orange, or even cash in an envelope - what he feared I’d one day too place beside his own drink - had less to do with his outburst than imagined. Nothing was ever so simple about him. On the drive home, the windows rolled up, we swept by 31 Flavors without slowing down while kids on tailgates slurped ice cream, and riding shotgun, I just snapped, calling him that terrible thing you can never take back - a cheapskate. Suddenly we coasted in the wake of it worse than any blasphemy or sacrilege, the tires thumping louder than ever on seamed concrete until his white knuckles flew off the wheel at me, and belted-in I ducked to cushion the blow. His legacy halted mid-air. By chance in the rearview mirror he’d caught his own father’s fist coming on fast, too late for both of us to get out of the way.