Hayride Quotes

When I look at a pumpkin muffin, I see the brilliant orange glow of a sugar maple in its full autumnal glory. I see the crisp blue sky of October, so clear and restorative and reassuring. I see hayrides, and I feel Halloween just around the corner, kids dressed up in homemade costumes, bobbing for apples and awaiting trick or treat. I think of children dressed as Pilgrims in a pre-school parade, or a Thanksgiving feast, the bounty of harvest foods burdening a table with its goodness. I picture pumpkins at a farmer's market, piled happy and high, awaiting a new home where children will carve them into scary faces or mothers will bake them into a pie or stew.

When the first day of autumn rolls around, I don't care how hot it is outside, I bust out the over-the-knee boots, sweater dresses, Halloween decorations, fall-scented candles, and I google the nearest pumpkin patch. I can't get enough of everything fall-related. I want apple cider. I want to spend the whole month of October watching Hocus Pocus on repeat. Haunted hayride? Yes, please.

Every day that we live, we must address new truths that pertain to life and death. Each incremental decade in the hayride of life incites us to address a newfangled realism. By age ten, the weepy passing of pets or grandparents, the death of sitting or past presidents, or the demise of other notable figures, obliges us to address the fact that no one including our parents and siblings will live forever. Cognition of each person’s fickle mortality spurs an awaking in our ken, which newly grasped knowledge is sure to cause a ray of resentment for humankind’s lack of immortality, especially if the people who a person cares deeply about fail to sanctify their body with nourishing and purifying habits.

In desperation Veronica opened her mouth wide and yawned loudly in Simon’s face. To her dismay Simon yawned back happily. “Gosh, that’s pretty funny, huh, Ronnie, how yawns are contagious. Of course, the lack of oxygen, which triggers the response of opening the mouth, can’t scientifically be explained by—” Veronica regarded Simon with revulsion.

He took a stool two away from Enid. She didn’t look up from her drink or glance his way. On the other side of him a guy wearing a porkpie hat was bouncing his head up and down as though to music but no music was playing and he wasn’t wearing earphones. A rainbow of rusted license plates took up most of the back wall—probably plates representing all fifty states, but Simon wasn’t really up for checking. There were neon signs for Miller High Life and Schlitz. An oddly ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling. This place, like the inn, was all dark wood, but that was the only similarity, like this was the poorest of poor cousins of the inn’s rich dark wood. “What’ll you have?” The barmaid’s hair was the color and texture of the hay on that hayride and done in a quasi mullet that reminded Simon of an ’80s hockey player. She was either a hard forty-five or a soft sixty-five, and there was little question she had seen it all at least twice. “What kind of beer do you have?” he asked. “We have Pabst. And Pabst.” “You choose for me.

pick

Farmer Ben disappeared into a nearby shed and came back carrying two buckets. Some of the cubs covered their noses. “It’s not the best-smelling stuff in the world,” said Ben, “but potatoes love it.” He handed one of the buckets to Ferdy. “Now, son, I want you to toss a bucketful of fertilizer over each half of this plot. Go to it.” Ferdy stood at the edge of the plot, facing east. But the rising sun was in his eyes. So he walked around to the other side and faced west, away from the sun. He got a good two-handed grip om the bucket and steadied himself. “Uh-oh,” the cubs heard Farmer Ben mutter. With all his strength, Ferdy flung the bucketful of fertilizer into the wind. And the wind flung it right back in his face. “Ar-r-r-gh!” cried Ferdy. Hope you had your mouth closed!” cracked Queenie as the other cubs laughed. No one laughed harder than Trudy. “Beginner’s mistake,” said Farmer Ben, handing Ferdy a rag to wipe his face with.

Where are the cows?” asked Lizzy, looking around. “In the barn, waiting to be milked,” said Farmer Ben. “But they left plenty of cow pies out here yesterday, so watch your step.” To one side of the barn stood the chicken coop. Ben stopped in front of it and said, “Before milking the cows, we have to feed the chickens.” The chicken coop was even smellier than the fertilizer. “Pew!” said Queenie. “Go ahead, Ferdy. You’ll fit right in!” Farmer Ben picked up a large bag of chicken feed and poured the feed into a bucket. He handed the bucket to Ferdy. “Now, how hard can feeding chickens be?” he said. “Show us how to do it, my boy.” He unlatched the door to the coop and held it open. “Go on, son. Git!” Ferdy stepped inside and walked to the center of the chicken coop. He scooped a handful of feed from the bucket and said, “I believe the common phrase for such a task is ‘piece of cake.’” Then he began to scatter the feed in a circle around him. The cubs heard Farmer Ben chuckle. “That’s mighty close to your body, son!” he called to Ferdy. But it was too late. Ferdy was already surrounded by a mass of clucking, pecking chickens. What’s more, in scattering feed so close to him, he had accidentally dropped some into the cuffs of his overalls. Soon there were chickens pecking hungrily at his ankles. “Ouch!” cried Ferdy. “Ow! Stop! Back, I say!” The cubs laughed as Ferdy dropped the bucket and did an awkward dance to avoid his attackers. Lucky for him, the chickens went for the feed that had spilled from the fallen bucket. That gave Ferdy a chance to dash through the door and slam it behind him. Farmer Ben patted Ferdy on the back. “We farmers have a saying,” he chuckled. “‘He who drops chicken feed at his own feet soon finds himself in a peck of trouble.’ Get it? Peck of trouble?” “Very clever,” Ferdy grumbled as the other cubs hooted and hollered.

Ever seen a cow milked by hand in the movies?” he asked. “Certainly,” said Ferdy. “Then I guess you know all you need to,” said Ben with a wink at the other cubs. “Go on, son. Git!” Ferdy sat down on the little stool behind Old Bess and placed the bucket under her bulging udder. He grasped two nipples and pulled gently. Nothing happened. “Better pull a little harder, son,” Ben advised. Ferdy tugged harder. But all that happened was that Old Bess looked back at Ferdy. “Uh-oh,” said Lizzy, who had a way with animals. “She looks mad.” Just then Old Bess lifted a hind leg and kicked the stool right out from under Ferdy. Ferdy fell forward and landed with his head in the bucket. “You’re sure havin’ your problems with buckets this morning, son,” said Farmer Ben. “I doubt it was my fault,” said Ferdy icily. “Old Bess seems to be working no better than her milking machine.” “We’ll see about that,” said Farmer Ben. He took a seat on the stool and reached for Old Bess’s udder. Within minutes he had a full pail of fresh milk. “I’ll bet Ferdy’s had enough for one day, cubs,” said Farmer Ben. “We should all thank him for being such a good sport. And a good teacher. You can learn a lot by seeing how not to do things, you know.

Who’s that?” she asked Farmer Ben. Ben gave one look and muttered, “Uh-oh. It’s Ed Hooper. I’m almost afraid to ask him what he wants…” In his three-piece suit and expensive hat, Hooper came stepping across the pasture, being very careful to avoid the cow pies. When he reached the pumpkin patch, he walked right up to Farmer Ben and held out his hand. Ben made no move to shake it. “As you wish, Ben,” said Hooper, lowering his hand. “Five, four, three, two, one, zero!” “What’s that?” said Ben. “You going into the rocket-ship business?” Hooper laughed. “No, Ben,” he said. “That’s the countdown for the number of grocery stores left in Beartown. The last one just closed down for good.” “For your good, maybe,” Ben sneered. “Not for mine.

In his three-piece suit and expensive hat, Hooper came stepping across the pasture, being very careful to avoid the cow pies. When he reached the pumpkin patch, he walked right up to Farmer Ben and held out his hand. Ben made no move to shake it. “As you wish, Ben,” said Hooper, lowering his hand. “Five, four, three, two, one, zero!” “What’s that?” said Ben. “You going into the rocket-ship business?

I’ve got a broken milking machine I can’t afford to fix, and I’ve already had to fire my farm hand! My wife had to quit the farm and take a job in town! I won’t let you do this to me, Hooper! It would be an insult to all my farming ancestors if I sold my goods to you at these rotten prices! I swear I’ll sell this farm before I do it! Farmer Ben’s outburst had been so loud that some of the cubs were left holding their hands over their ears. But Ed Hooper hadn’t so much as flinched. “Well, what you do with your farm is none of my business,” said Hooper. “It darn sure isn’t!” yelled Ben. “Because your business is robbery! You’re nothin’ but an old-fashioned highway robber! You put a supermarket out on the highway and use it to rob folks!” Hooper’s smug little smile got bigger. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Ben,” he said. “But I can get my farm goods elsewhere. I’ll be on my way now. Have a nice day, Ben.” Hooper turned to leave, but happened to glance back and see Farmer Ben reaching for a pitchfork stuck in the ground. “Have a nice day?” Ben cried. “Don’t you dare tell me to have a nice day!” And with that, Farmer Ben raised his pitchfork and chased Ed Hooper into the cow pasture. Hooper dashed across the pasture toward his shiny new car. He reached the car safely, but not before stepping in three cow pies.

Well, what you do with your farm is none of my business,” said Hooper. “It darn sure isn’t!” yelled Ben. “Because your business is robbery! You’re nothin’ but an old-fashioned highway robber! You put a supermarket out on the highway and use it to rob folks!

I’m sorry you feel that way, Ben,” he said. “But I can get my farm goods elsewhere. I’ll be on my way now. Have a nice day, Ben.” Hooper turned to leave, but happened to glance back and see Farmer Ben reaching for a pitchfork stuck in the ground. “Have a nice day?” Ben cried. “Don’t you dare tell me to have a nice day!” And with that, Farmer Ben raised his pitchfork and chased Ed Hooper into the cow pasture. Hooper dashed across the pasture toward his shiny new car. He reached the car safely, but not before stepping in three cow pies.

Wow!” said Queenie. “I’ve never seen Farmer Ben so mad!” The cubs were huddled in the pumpkin patch. “Where did he go?” asked Lizzy. “Into the house,” said Ferdy. “I’ll bet he’s asking his ancestors for help again.

You’re all forgetting about Farmer Ben’s pride,” he said. “I hardly think he’ll allow someone else to name his new market.” The other cubs agreed instantly. They all raced to the farmhouse to tell Farmer Ben about Trudy’s idea. Just as Ferdy had predicted, Ben was in the living room, gazing at the portraits of his ancestors. As Trudy breathlessly told him about her idea, a smile came to his face and a twinkle to his eye. “That’s a great idea!” he said. He looked back at the portraits. “I knew you’d come through,” he told them. “What will you name the new market, Farmer Ben?” asked Queenie. “Can you think of a good snappy name that folks will notice?” Farmer Ben thought hard for quite a while. Finally his eyes lit up. He raised a forefinger high in the air. “I’ve got it!” he cried. “The perfect name!” “What is it?” asked the cubs all at once. Smiling broadly, Ben announced the perfect name: “Farmer Ben’s Market!” While the cubs shot puzzled looks at each other, Ferdy spoke up. “An excellent name!” he said. “So simple and direct! You certainly have a way with words, Farmer Ben.

Of course, we respect your decision, Farmer Ben,” he said. “I’d like to make one last request, if I may. Would you allow us cubs to sleep in the barn tomorrow night? Sort of our way of saying good-bye to the farm.” “A sleepover?” said Ben. “Why, sure. After everything you cubs have done for Mrs. Ben and me, it’s the least I can do.” “Then perhaps you’ll grant me another last request,” said Ferdy. “Would you and the cubs wait while I go home and get my camera and tripod? I’d like to take a group photo right here in the living room.” “I’d be honored,” said Farmer Ben. “Go on, son. Git!” Trudy went with Ferdy so she could carry the camera while he carried the tripod. As they headed down the drive to the front gate, Trudy said, “A sleepover and group photo are wonderful ideas, Ferd. Very sweet.” “Sweet has nothing to do with it,” said Ferdy. “I think I know how to save the Halloween Festival--and, thus, the farm!

Look!” she cried. “Up in the hayloft!” Three glowing faces had appeared side by side. They seemed to float in the air, just above the bales of hay. “Burglars!” said Barry. “Hay burglars?” Queenie wondered.

Ferdy, you’re a genius!” “That’s what all the girls say,” said Ferdy. “Boys, too, actually.

There’s one thing about all this I just don’t understand,” he said. “Ed Hooper could have run Farmer Ben’s Market out of business by lowering his prices. Sure, he would have lost money for a few weeks, but it would have been a lot safer than damaging Bens’ crops. Same thing with the Halloween Festival. Hooper didn’t have to ruin it. All he had to do was wait until Farmer Ben’s Market got going again, then run him out of business by lowering prices. But it seems that Hooper didn’t just want to run Ben out of business. He wanted to embarrass him. He wanted to destroy Ben’s reputation, and he wanted to be there to watch it happen. It wasn’t just business. It was personal. I wonder why.” No sooner had Brother started thinking about Papa’s question than a picture floated into his mind’s eye. It was a picture of a terrified Ed Hooper running wildly through Farmer Ben’s cow pasture, stepping in cow pies, with Ben chasing him. “No need to wonder, Papa,” said Brother with a grin. “ think I know the answer.

After dinner, the cubs gathered at the Burger Bear, where they had agreed to meet to celebrate their new jobs. Brother and Sister were late, but the others didn’t have to worry about waiting for them to start the celebration. That’s because there were no jobs to celebrate.

My dad says business isn’t so good right now. He can’t afford to hire anyone. Not even cubs.” “I’m afraid the Bearsonian won’t be of any assistance, either,” said Ferdy. “Uncle Actual says it runs on donations from Bear Country businesses. Lately a lot of businesses have been doing poorly, so donations are down. He will take us on as volunteers, however.” “Oh, great!” said Queenie. “That’ll be a big help!

Farmer Ben called about an oak table Papa’s repairing for him. They got to talking, and Ben told Papa that the farm has run into hard times. He had to fire his full-time farm hand. And now a lot of chores aren’t getting done. So Papa asked him if he would hire us to do them. And he said yes!” “Super!” cried Babs. “Outta sight!” said Queenie. “How much is he gonna pay us?” asked Lizzy. “Not much,” said Brother. “Just chicken feed.” “Chicken feed?” gasped Barry. “We can’t pay for Christmas gifts with chicken feed! We’ll get kicked out of every store!” “It’s just an expression,” said Fred. “It means ‘money, but not a lot.’” “I knew that,” said Barry, blushing.

The day went by very quickly. There was so much to do. Grandpa took them on a hayride. They played in the sandbox and rode their bikes. They made cupcakes with Grandma. Bedtime came faster than Claire, Andrew, or Griffin wanted.

Halloween, everyone can partake in. From infants to adults, anyone can dress up. You can go trick or treating or get drunk in the woods or…go to a haunted hayride. It truly is the most magical time of the year.

When people at school looked online for party outfits and looks, she was genuinely confused. There were people who seemed not only to understand these things, but to accomplish them. A striped top, a wide-brimmed hat, shorts for that “special beach weekend.” Lipsticks for fall, jeans that were perfect for a hayride, pendant earrings for that holiday party and snowball fight. Who lived these lives?

Would you rather have sex in the middle of a hayride field or in a cemetery?” “Easy. A hayride field. I’d never disrespect the dead like that.

And who are these guys that run this Haunted Hayride? This amusement park of pure evil. Just exactly what are they getting out of it? I think maybe you should ask yourself that very question the next time you go to a haunted house or a haunted hayride or even a scary attraction at a theme park. What do the people who get so much enjoyment out of scaring you to death get out of it? But be careful if you ask yourself that question. Be very careful. Because the answer might not be what you want to hear.

On August 7, 1948, Hank made his first appearance on the Louisiana Hayride. He was the fifth act on the opening 8:00–8:30 p.m. segment.

Kelley gives the planning everything he’s got, both strategically and financially. He rents a Jaguar, the height of luxury (and fast, Kelley thinks). They will drive to Boston, have dinner at Alden and Harlow in Cambridge, and stay at the Langham, Mitzi’s favorite hotel—then in the morning, after breakfast in bed, they’ll drive to Deerfield, Massachusetts, and meander through the three-hundred-year-old village. From Deerfield, they’ll head to Hanover, New Hampshire, to have lunch at Dartmouth (Mitzi’s father, Joe, played basketball for Dartmouth in 1953 and Mitzi has always felt an affinity for the place), and then they’ll drive to Stowe, Vermont, and stay at the Topnotch, a resort. From Stowe, it’s up to Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom to spend the night in St. Johnsbury. From there, they’ll go to Franconia Notch State Park, where they’ll ride the Cannon Mountain Aerial Tramway for the ultimate in foliage viewing. They’ll end with a night in charming Portsmouth, New Hampshire, a town Kelley thinks is possibly the best-kept secret in America. He has arranged for a couple’s massage in front of the fire, for them to go apple-picking, on a hayride, out to dinners at fine country inns where bottles of champagne will be chilled and waiting on the tables, and for a personal yoga instructor in Stowe and then again in Portsmouth. He has made a mix of Mitzi’s favorite songs to play on the drive, and he’s packing up pumpkin muffins and his famous snack mix (secret ingredient: Bugles!) in case they get hungry on the road.

The importance of the Hayride wasn’t its pay scale. Most of the performers were paid union scale, $12 a night, which barely covered their gas and food. The value was the exposure. With its potent fifty-thousand-watt station, KWKH’s signal alone provided invaluable reach, but the Hayride show was also carried by some two hundred other stations, from as far west as El Paso, north to St. Louis, east to Jacksonville, and down the coast to Miami. That meant a lot of potential record buyers.

When Opry manager Jim Denny proved cool to Elvis’s performance, Phillips thought immediately of the next-best country showcase—the Louisiana Hayride in Shreveport, Louisiana. The Hayride, which had played a major role in the launching of Hank Williams, was less formal than the Opry, more open to change and experimentation.

Hardys set off for the Morton farm at five o’clock. When they arrived, the group learned that Chet had piled hay into his father’s truck, so they could all go on an old-fashioned hayride to the amusement park. “Len is going to drive us,” Iola announced. A big cheer went up from the boys. Len Wharton, a good-natured former cowboy, had recently come to work at the Morton place. Len grinned. “Shucks, I figured that if I was seventeen I sure wouldn’t want to be stuck with the drivin’” Zigzagging through the back-country roads, Len stretched the trip to Elkin

Abby recalled her grandmother’s sentimental stories about horse-drawn hayrides. Gran might not have been so nostalgic if her rides had terminated in a kinky battle zone.

but she’d since been bludgeoned by episodes of major depression beside which Patty’s own depressions were apparently autumn hayrides in an apple orchard.