Hometown Memories Quotes

I am, and always have been - first, last, and always - a child of America. You raised me. I grew up in the pastures and hills of Texas, but I had been to thirty-four states before I learned how to drive. When I caught the stomach flu in the fifth grade, my mother sent a note to school written on the back of a holiday memo from Vice President Biden. Sorry, sir—we were in a rush, and it was the only paper she had on hand. I spoke to you for the first time when I was eighteen, on the stage of the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, when I introduced my mother as the nominee for president. You cheered for me. I was young and full of hope, and you let me embody the American dream: that a boy who grew up speaking two languages, whose family was blended and beautiful and enduring, could make a home for himself in the White House. You pinned the flag to my lapel and said, “We’re rooting for you.” As I stand before you today, my hope is that I have not let you down. Years ago, I met a prince. And though I didn’t realize it at the time, his country had raised him too. The truth is, Henry and I have been together since the beginning of this year. The truth is, as many of you have read, we have both struggled every day with what this means for our families, our countries, and our futures. The truth is, we have both had to make compromises that cost us sleep at night in order to afford us enough time to share our relationship with the world on our own terms. We were not afforded that liberty. But the truth is, also, simply this: love is indomitable. America has always believed this. And so, I am not ashamed to stand here today where presidents have stood and say that I love him, the same as Jack loved Jackie, the same as Lyndon loved Lady Bird. Every person who bears a legacy makes the choice of a partner with whom they will share it, whom the American people will “hold beside them in hearts and memories and history books. America: He is my choice. Like countless other Americans, I was afraid to say this out loud because of what the consequences might be. To you, specifically, I say: I see you. I am one of you. As long as I have a place in this White House, so will you. I am the First Son of the United States, and I’m bisexual. History will remember us. If I can ask only one thing of the American people, it’s this: Please, do not let my actions influence your decision in November. The decision you will make this year is so much bigger than anything I could ever say or do, and it will determine the fate of this country for years to come. My mother, your president, is the warrior and the champion that each and every American deserves for four more years of growth, progress, and prosperity. Please, don’t let my actions send us backward. I ask the media not to focus on me or on Henry, but on the campaign, on policy, on the lives and livelihoods of millions of Americans at stake in this election. And finally, I hope America will remember that I am still the son you raised. My blood still runs from Lometa, Texas, and San Diego, California, and Mexico City. I still remember the sound of your voices from that stage in Philadelphia. I wake up every morning thinking of your hometowns, of the families I’ve met at rallies in Idaho and Oregon and South Carolina. I have never hoped to be anything other than what I was to you then, and what I am to you now—the First Son, yours in actions and words. And I hope when Inauguration Day comes again in January, I will continue to be.

The fact is that I hate this city. I've hated it so long I can hardly remember feeling any other way about it.

The memories come back like the rainbow after the rain with all the hues and shades of color and an unending train the bougainvillea tree nearby my parents house where I grew up did not ask me my name she embraced me as she had done in my schooldays in every way the same the little squirrel just now tip-toed down the lane looking at the spectacle unfolding in the rain after all these years I have come back to my parents home the clouds have different shapes but the air smells the same ...

Yes, it's hard to start seeing your mother as she is, hard to push aside all the resentment and anger that you may feel and see her as another woman. Hard, but worth every bit of the effort.

I may have smiled to myself as I watched the familiar pattern of the town pass, the bus cruising through shade to sunshine. I'd grown up in this place, had the knowledge of it so deep in me that I didn't even know most street names, navigating instead by landmarks, visual or memorial. The corner where my mother had twisted her ankle in a mauve pantsuit. The copse of trees that always looked vaguely attended by evil. The drugstore with its torn awning. Through the window of that unfamiliar bus, the burr of old carpet under my legs, my hometown seemed scrubbed clean of my presence. It was easy to leave it behind.

Let memories of your own hometown flow back to you as you read this fascinating story, "A Place called Gouyave," about the author's recollection of the characters, stories and the lessons learnt in his hometown during his youth on the Caribbean island of Grenada.

The current narrative we seem to tell ourselves about our privacy is that it is a sort of currency we trade to corporations in return for innovation. But the corporation has an insatiable appetite for our most personal data in order to drive us to consume during our every waking moment. I think this is critical, because in some ways social networks are powerful engines of conformity. The ability for students to develop their own ideas, identities, and political affiliations should take place outside of the panopticon view of Facebook, but whether this is any longer possible is an open question. My own memory is that the development of my political and cultural persona between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one had a lot to do with being outside the zone of judgment of my parents, their conservative peers from my hometown, Cleveland, and maybe even from my siblings. I’m not sure that it could happen if we were all on Facebook together.

I understand that feeling. Memories are a mixture of happiness and sadness, with a large helping of regrets

Listening to some songs makes us nostalgic. All the past memories flood our mind, and we begin to miss our hometown achingly.

He remembered the features of the land at all the different places. He thought back to the birds or the flowers or the trees that were native to those specific regions. And yet he had never thought of going back to pay a visit to any of them. Each of them was finished with, over, as if his memories had been abruptly cut off midway. The different locations failed to intersect with each other but lay separate and unconnected in the shadows of his mind. If your hometown is the place you think of when you come to a crossroads in your life, or when you find yourself in crisis, then Aose had none. All he had was the light.

When you believe in God, you know for certain that heaven will be your everlasting hometown. All of the pain and injustice you’ve experienced will fade from your memory.

When I met with Dr. Treffet in his hometown of Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, he told me that these innate skills are, in his words, "factory-installed software", or "genetic" memory. ...... Why the brain suppresses these remarkable abilities is still a mystery, but sometimes, when the brain is diseased or damaged, it relents and unleashes the inner genius.

Many psychological traditions have noticed that a given behavior pattern was originally a helpful strategy for survival, a strategy that may no longer apply in the present. If you were bullied in the seventh grade, there might be a block in your home-town or city where the bullies used to wait for you, and even as an adult your sense memories might cause you to hesitate before walking confidently down that block. This is definitely true for me, having grown up in New York City. Thus, we have to acknowledge that every habit contains a kind of protective intelligence, a wisdom that somehow got frozen in a bygone time.

Lanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch,” repeated Aunt Maddy, beaming happily and popping a sherbet lemon into her mouth. “That’s the name of our housekeeper’s hometown in Wales. No one can say I don’t have a good memory.

The play was performed often in Fürth, then at a film festival in Munich, and in 2002 in Zurich. And then in Czernowitz. On the anniversary of the world premiere the cast travelled to Selma's hometown, where it was put on in a theater very similar to the one in Fürth. As Jutta Czurda reported in a letter to me, both performances were almost sold out and the audiences were very enthusiastic: "Almost 1,000 people saw Selma …After the play we all signed countless programs and answered questions. And so for us, you, too, returned symbolically to Czernowitz with your voice, and built a direct bridge to Selma for the audience." She is right. Although German is not spoken in Czernowitz today, Selma and I came home somehow.

You didn't have parents or society telling you that you should love one another because you were brothers, you just did it by yourselves. There is no way, no earthly way, that that can ever be called a failure. You succeeded with Huck more than most people ever succeed with anyone.

Tory kept looking at the gun; it was quivering. The kid's hand was shaking; he was nervous. Oh, great. Just her luck, to be held up by a bunch of amateurs. Listen, we're all a bunch of amateurs too. My waitress stutters, my bartender can't hear, my janitor is an ex-junkie out on parole, and I used to twirl a baton for three hours a day. Give us a break.

Tory was starting to feel a little foolish standing here with her hands in the air. It was like the whole bar had assembled to watch her nails dry. Why didn't someone say something?

What a mess this was. Robbers too stupid to ask for money, and a victim too stupid to pretend that she didn't have any.

You go first," Joe told Tory. "Wait in the parking lot for the rest of us." Tory and Sweatshirt set off, threading their way around the tables and the silent customers. Davy grinned at her when she got to the door. She went out into the parking lot, and as the other customers filed out—there were perhaps thirty of them—they formed an orderly double line in front of her. She felt a little like the last baritone in a church choir.

Her safe was in the spare bedroom. She went in and knelt down in front of it. Sweatshirt and Joe followed. She noticed that Joe turned away as she started to spin the dial. Sweatshirt, however, kept staring. Oh, well, it wasn't likely that he would be able to remember the combination.

Dad's Buick—what a great car it had been all these years—

Joe had long resented how American culture had taught him to want. There were so many things pictured in ads, displayed in store windows: stereo TVs, personality dolls, electronic board games, inboard-outboard motors, personalized bowling balls, graphite baitcasting rods. You were taught to want it all.

beauty contests, she said seriously, they gave out scholarship awards. "It's the biggest scholarship program in the world—they told us that at the Miss Sullivan City Pageant. I won a few hundred dollars, but the people who do well in their state pageants and then in Atlantic City get really big ones." "Well, Tory did well; she came in third.

She was down to three customers, all sitting at one table. There had never been more than a handful this evening, and Tory had known beforehand exactly who her Christmas Eve customers would be. They were all watching It's a Wonderful Life. It made her think of Joe. In the movie, Jimmy Stewart wanted to get on a train and leave the small town he had grown up in. He wanted to travel, to build things. But he never made it out. Instead, he stayed home, married, had a family—all the things Joe had been raised to do, all the things he wasn't doing now.

You aren't feeling sorry for yourself over wrapping paper, are you? Yes, yes, she was. It was certainly possible to like your life 364 days a year, and then come Christmas, begin to wonder about it. But what could she do? Nobody came into a bar to hear a bartender's problems, did they?

Listen, Joe, is your offer to oh and ah over my presents still good?" "Sure." "Then give me a minute to close up and we'll go upstairs." Go upstairs? Joe wasn't sure what to say. And when Joe wasn't sure what to say, he said nothing at all.

And if this random, aimless driving worried parents, the driving was certainly preferable to the parking. More girls got pregnant in the summer than during the other three quarters of the year.

you also need rehearsal clothes and sitting-around-scaring-the-other-contestants clothes. I showed up in Atlantic City with eleven suitcases and twenty-three pairs of shoes.

He knew why he was angry. Tory got angry when she cared; he got angry when he felt powerless. At Christmas, he had come to understand how people around here were basically powerless, how their cars and snowmobiles were substitutes for power. And that's why so many of them got angry easily, because they didn't have any control over what was happening to them.

He didn't know how to change her.

Wags couldn't make it through the night without creeping over to Tory and whimpering that she had to use the ladies' room. So Tory would have to get out of bed, take her outside and down the stairs, and stand there in the middle of a chilly spring night, waiting for Wags to attend to herself.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. Amidst this backdrop of shared heritage and collective dreams, Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of Leeton life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. Amidst this backdrop of shared heritage and collective dreams, Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of Leeton life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just As Cowboy went about his day, the people of Leeton watched, drawn by the familiar sight of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. Amidst this backdrop of shared heritage and collective dreams, Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of Leeton life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just As Cowboy went about his day, the people of Leeton watched, drawn by the familiar sight of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just As Cowboy went about his day, the people of Leeton watched, drawn by the familiar sight of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

I suppose the most important memory is of Mr. Electrico. On Labor Day weekend, 1932, when I was twelve years old, he came to my hometown with the Dill Brothers…. He was a performer sitting in an electric chair and a stagehand pulled a switch and he was charged with fifty thousand volts of pure electricity. Lightning flashed in his eyes and his hair stood on end. I sat below, in the front row, and he reached down with a flaming sword full of electricity and he tapped me on both shoulders and then the tip of my nose and he cried, 'Live, forever!' And I thought, 'God, that’s wonderful. How do you do that?'...So when I left the carnival that day I stood by the carousel and I watched the horses running around and around to the music of 'Beautiful Ohio' and I cried. Tears streamed down my cheeks because I knew something important had happened to me that day because of Mr. Electrico. I felt changed. And so I went home and within days I started to write. And I’ve never stopped.

He sets the Gatorade down and strides toward me. “Wait, hold up. I’ll still help you with training, when I can. I jog most mornings anyway.” “That’s not necessary. I’ll just walk the marathon if I have to.” Conor shakes his head. “What is it with you and this damn marathon? Just drop out of it, Harlow.” “I can’t.” “Why?” “Because it’s being run in my hometown in memory of my parents.” Conor exhales. “Why didn’t you just tell me that?” “I’m sick of people feeling sorry for me. I didn’t want your help because I’m an orphan and you pitied me.

cat. I’m a witch! And what a coincidence too, because he comes from my hometown. As do you...” “What?” Skeleton Steve said. “Really?” My home? She knew my home? How could she know us? I’ve never even seen a witch before! “You know Mr. Whiskers?” I asked. “You know me?” “No, boy,” she replied. “I do not know Mr. Whiskers. I’m going by what he told me! Your cat was born after I left our home. But I do know who you are. Or at least, I did, for a while...” “How is this possible?” Skeleton Steve asked. “Diamodia is a small world, red-eyed skeleton,” she replied. “Too small for you. And maybe too small for Devdan here, in time…” “Devdan?” I said. “That is your name, young zombie. If my memory serves. Your name, back when you were a young villager, was Devdan. You were the armor smith’s boy.” Devdan. The armor smith. My father! I waited for the memories to flood back, like they did when I heard Mr. Whisker’s name, but nothing came...

There is a theory that all chain hotels are participants in a conspiracy to convince the international traveler that there is only one hotel on the planet, and it’s just like the one in their own hometown. Personally, I don’t believe it: it seems much more plausible that rather than actually going somewhere I have, in fact, been abducted and doped to the gills by aliens, implanted with false and bewildering memories of humiliating security probes and tedious travel, and checked in to a peculiarly expensive padded cell to recover. It’s certainly an equally consistent explanation for the sense of disorientation and malaise I suffer from in these places; besides which, malevolent aliens are easier to swallow than the idea that other people actually want to live that way.

I resist thinking about slavery because I want to avoid the overwhelming feeling that comes from trying to conceive of the terror, violence, and indignity of it. I do not like to think of it happening in my hometown, where I work, in my neighborhood, or near any of the places where I conduct my life.