Home Depot Door Quotes

It’s sort of weird to see doors out of context like this, leading to nowhere, knowing that eventually each of them will be bought and put to use, like this one will become the front door of someone’s childhood home that they will remember forever, and that one will be the back door that always squeaks when you try to sneak out at night. How things go from meaningless or unknown to significant with just one purchase, one decision, one encounter one night with the one right person. Or the wrong one. What can I say? Home Depot brings out my existential side.

Home Depot didn’t open until 5:00 a.m., and I was parked outside ten minutes before the doors unlocked. They shouldn’t have sold to me. I looked unhinged: beard going scruffy, deep hollows beneath my eyes, my long hair escaping the knot at the back of my neck, fury and purpose in all of my movements. No one buys a chainsaw before dawn with good intentions.

Self-Sufficiency [10w] When God closes a door, buy a Sawzall from Home Depot.

Carpetbag in hand, Lee descended to the muddy ground out side the Virginia Central Railroad depot at the corner of Sixteenth and Broad. The depot was a plain wooden shed, much in need of paint. A banner on the door of the tavern across the street advertised fried oysters at half price in honor of George Washington's birthday. The banner made Lee pause in mild bemusement: strange how the Confederacy still revered the founding fathers of the United States. Or perhaps it was not so strange. Surely Washington, were he somehow to whirl through time to the present, would find himself more at home on a Southern plantation than in a brawling Northern factory town like Pittsburgh or New York. And, of course, Washington was a Virginian, so where better to celebrate his birthday than Richmond?

When Aru opened her eyes, she found herself in the only place in the world that made her feel like she could breathe a bit easier, a place where broken things could be fixed, where all the answers lay in plain sight, where the aisles held the rare perfume of possibility tinged ever so slightly with the sweetness of mulch and wood chips…. “Aru, you really need to get over your Home Depot obsession,” said Nikita, staring down with her hands firmly planted on her hips. “Can’t you dream about someplace else?” “Nope,” said Aru. Of course, in the dream, Home Depot didn’t really look the same. First, Aru was sitting in an armchair that seemed to be made of cotton candy for no apparent reason. For another, the aisle banner over her head said FLOORING, but instead of the shelves being filled with things like wood laminate or vinyl plank, she was staring at a rotating row of moon jellyfish and miniature thunderclouds. At the end of the aisle, which somehow seemed as if it were hundreds of feet away and yet close enough to touch, stood a huge podium where an endless supply of doors rotated.

The bus rumbled and loomed above me like an ocean liner as it idled beside the small Greyhound bus depot next to the Elite Laundry where Mother worked. With door open and the driver standing beside it checking tickets, the bus seemed to me then like Alice's "Looking Glass," which, once I passed through it, would open a whole new world to me—a world so fantastic and removed from Gallup, New Mexico, that I would be transformed into one of the saints or heroes of the books that brought me to this moment of departure. It was the end of August, 1951. I was fourteen years old—a boy about to leave home for a Franciscan seminary 1500 miles away in Cincinnati, Ohio.