Horse And Buggy Quotes

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I'll go get the horse and buggy," you'll say. And I'll say, "But I thought we were taking the hovercraft?
David Levithan (The Lover's Dictionary)
[Hades] returned his attention to the playlist while I eased the car back on the road. His fingers flipped deftly over the screen. 'Orpheus...Dusk...Orpheus...Dusk...do you have anything on here that doesn't make people want to jump off a cliff?' ... 'I'm driving. When you learn to drive something more modern than a horse and buggy, we can listen to your music.' 'I can drive!' 'Did they even have cars the last time you can to the surface?' I teased. 'Yes.' 'Not counting the minute and a half you spent rescuing me last year?' Hades fell silent, and I laughed. 'I didn't think so.
Kaitlin Bevis
The metaphor I use when I lecture on Freud is to think of the mind as a horse and buggy (a Victorian chariot) in which the driver (the ego) struggles frantically to control a hungry, lustful, and disobedient horse (the id) while the driver’s father (the superego) sits in the back seat lecturing the driver on what he is doing wrong.
Jonathan Haidt (The Happiness Hypothesis: Putting Ancient Wisdom to the Test of Modern Science)
I wonder what it was like for Anne, that first time with Gilbert Blythe. Somehow I can't imagine her giving him a head job in the horse and buggy.
Clare Strahan (The Learning Curves of Vanessa Partridge)
Do an overwhelming number of respected scientists believe that human actions are changing the Earth's climate? Yes. OK, that being the case, let's undermine that by finding and funding those few contrarians who believe otherwise. Promote their message widely and it will accumulate in the mental environment, just as toxic mercury accumulates in a biological ecosystem. Once enough of the toxin has been dispersed, the balance of public understanding will shift. Fund a low level campaign to suggest any threat to the car is an attack on personal freedoms. Create a "grassroots" group to defend the right to drive. Portray anticar activists as prudes who long for the days of the horse and buggy. Then sit back, watch the infotoxins spread - and get ready to sell bigger, better cars for years to come.
Kalle Lasn (Culture Jam: How to Reverse America's Suicidal Consumer Binge - and Why We Must)
Yes, my buggy is outside and my horse has been acting up. I wondered if you could come rub its skull and tell me if it’s got a bad case of stubborn, or if it might be indigestion?
Regina Jennings (At Love's Bidding (Ozark Mountain Romance, #2))
The difference between sex and love is like the difference between an education without a philosophy of life and one with such an integrating factor. A system without a philosophy measures progress in terms of substitution. Spencer is substituted for Kant, Marx for Spencer, Freud for Marx. There is no continuity in mental development, any more than the automobile grew out of the horse and buggy. But in a Christian education, there is a deepening of a mystery. One starts with a simple truth that God exists. Instead of abandoning that idea when one begins to study science, one deepens his knowledge of God with a study of the Trinity and then begins to see the tremendous ramifications of Divine Power in the universe, of Divine Providence in history, and of Divine Mercy in the human heart.
Fulton J. Sheen (Three to Get Married)
Well,” said one of the deputies, as he backed the horse into the shafts of the buggy in which the pursuers had driven over from the hill, “we’ve about as good as got him. It isn’t hard to follow a man who carries a birdcage with him wherever he goes.
Frank Norris (Mcteague)
I’m going to town tomorrow,” said Papa, carrying plates to the house. “Who needs something wonderful?” Papa looked at me. “Want to come, Cassie? Buy something perfect?” Mama smiled. “I’ll have a new horse, if you don’t mind,” said Matthew. “You could get me a buggy,” said Maggie. “With a leather top.” “I’ll have another piece of cake,” said Grandfather, making everyone laugh.
Patricia MacLachlan (More Perfect than the Moon (Sarah, Plain and Tall #4))
We take the stairs down to the first level of the parking garage and I lead us toward the area reserved for doctors. She makes her way toward a black Audi, turns, and waits for me to join her. I smirk. “That’s not my car.” She nods. “Right, of course. I see it now.” She goes to a bright yellow Ferrari that belongs to one of the plastic surgeons. The vanity license plate reads: SXY DOC88. “Here we are.” “Not even close.” “Oh, okay. I get it. You aren’t flashy. Maybe that gray Range Rover over there?” I press the unlock button on my key fob and my rear lights flash. There she is, the car I’ve driven since I was in medical school. “You’re kidding. A Prius?! Satan himself drives a Prius?!” She turns around as if hoping to find someone else she can share this moment with. All she’s got is me. I shrug. “It gets good gas mileage.” She blinks exaggeratedly. “I couldn’t be more shocked if you’d hitched a horse to a buggy.” I chuckle and open the back door to toss in her backpack. “Get in. Traffic is going to be hell.” We buckle up in silence, back up and leave the parking garage in silence, pull out into traffic in silence. Finally, I ask, “Where do you live?” “On the west side. Right across from Franklin Park.” “Good. I have an errand I need to run that’s right by there. Mind if I do that before I drop you off?” “Well seeing as how you stole my backpack and forced me into your car, I don’t really think it matters what I want.” I see. She’s still pouting. That’s fine. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.” She doesn’t think I’m funny.
R.S. Grey (Hotshot Doc)
The girl and Doctor Reefy began their courtship on a summer afternoon. He was forty-five then and already he had begun the practice of filling his pockets with the scraps of paper that became hard balls and were thrown away. The habit had been formed as he sat in his buggy behind the jaded white horse and went slowly along country roads. On the papers were written thoughts, ends of thoughts, beginnings of thoughts. One by one the mind of Doctor Reefy had made the thoughts. Out of many of them he formed a truth that arose gigantic in his mind. The truth clouded the world. It became terrible and then faded away and the little thoughts began again. ("Paper Pills")
Sherwood Anderson (Short Shorts)
After driving 30-minutes East of Seattle, I expect to see a great bowling alley. But, as we pull into the parking lot, all I see are pot holes, a horse and Amish buggy, and no cars to speak of- broken down or otherwise. Even the building is in shambles, needs painted and looks a bit haunted. The old road sign reading- Flicker Lanes- is half-burnt out. Seeing the building's interior lights on, I'm reassured that the place is open- but then again, maybe they've been left on by mistake. "There's LOTS of NICE bowling alleys in SEATTLE," I said. "Why did we come ALL THIS WAY to go BOWLING?" "I take it that you've never BEEN here before." "I don't think ANYONE HAS. I don't even KNOW what PLANET we're on." "I don't know what PLANET you're on either... but the rest of us are on your ANUS." I half-smile, marveling at his wittiness.
Giorge Leedy (Uninhibited From Lust To Love)
After Tom leaves for work, I take Evie to the park, we play on the swings and the little wooden rocking horses, and when I put her back into her buggy she falls asleep almost immediately, which is my cue to go shopping. We cut through the back streets towards the big Sainsbury’s. It’s a bit of a roundabout way of getting there, but it’s quiet, with very little traffic, and in any case we get to pass number thirty-four Cranham Road. It gives me a little frisson even now, walking past that house—butterflies suddenly swarm in my stomach, and a smile comes to my lips and colour to my cheeks. I remember hurrying up the front steps, hoping none of the neighbours would see me letting myself in, getting myself ready in the bathroom, putting on perfume, the kind of underwear you put on just to be taken off. Then I’d get a text message and he’d be at the door, and we’d have an hour or two in the bedroom upstairs.
Paula Hawkins (The Girl on the Train)
Uncle Peter is one of our family,” she said, her voice shaking. “Good afternoon. Drive on, Peter.” Peter laid the whip on the horse so suddenly that the startled animal jumped forward and as the buggy jounced off, Scarlett heard the Maine woman say with puzzled accents: “Her family? You don’t suppose she meant a relative? He’s exceedingly black.” God damn them! They ought to be wiped off the face of the earth. If ever I get money enough, I’ll spit in all their faces! I’ll— She glanced at Peter and saw that a tear was trickling down his nose. Instantly a passion of tenderness, of grief for his humiliation swamped her, made her eyes sting. It was as though someone had been senselessly brutal to a child. Those women had hurt Uncle Peter—Peter who had been through the Mexican War with old Colonel Hamilton, Peter who had held his master in his arms when he died, who had raised Melly and Charles and looked after the feckless, foolish Pittypat, “pertecked” her when she refugeed, and “’quired” a horse to bring her back from Macon through a war-torn country after the surrender. And they said they wouldn’t trust niggers! “Peter,” she said, her voice breaking as she put her hand on his thin arm. “I’m ashamed of you for crying. What do you care? They aren’t anything but damned Yankees!
Margaret Mitchell (Gone with the Wind)
For years now I have heard the word “Wait!” It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This “Wait” has almost always meant “Never.” We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.” We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God-given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jet-like speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, “Wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick, and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son who is asking: “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross-county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger,” your middle names becomes “boy” (however old you are), and your last name becomes “John,” and your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodiness”—then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait.
Martin Luther King Jr. (The Autobiography of Martin Luther King, Jr.)
Outside, men were helping with the horses and buggies. They used chalk to number the horses and buggies so they could be matched when it came time to hitch them up.
Ora Jay Eash (Plain Faith: A True Story of Tragedy, Loss and Leaving the Amish)
I enjoyed spending time with Ora Jay, but he had a bit of a wild streak. He had a new horse, a new buggy, and new clothes, and he even had an eight-track player in his buggy.
Ora Jay Eash (Plain Faith: A True Story of Tragedy, Loss and Leaving the Amish)
1 Corinthians 13: 4 - 7. Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Ruth Hartzler (Kindness (The Amish Buggy Horse, #5))
Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful. Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.
Ruth Hartzler (Charity (The Amish Buggy Horse, #3))
Back then I’d told her, over and over, not to judge people by the way they looked. Or where they lived. Or by their horse or their buggy or their barn. But those days when I held such influence were long gone.
Leslie Gould (Courting Cate)
I was born with the horse and buggy. I die with the space shuttle. What kind of thing is that?” His eyes twinkled. “I live the good life!
John Medina (Brain Rules: 12 Principles for Surviving and Thriving at Work, Home, and School)
The Kimball horse and buggy was never too busy to be used for deacons quorum work. If the other boy assigned to collect with him didn’t show up, Spencer went out alone and got the job done.”13
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Spencer W. Kimball)
The idea that an expanding economy implies that all industries must be simultaneously expanding is a profound error. In order that new industries may grow fast enough it is usually necessary that some old industries should be allowed to shrink or die. In doing this they help to release the necessary capital and labor for the new industires. If we had tried to keep the horse-and-buggy trade artificially alive we should have slowed down the growth of the automobile industry and all the trades dependent on it. We should have lowered the production of wealth and retarded economic and scientific progress.
Henry Hazlitt (Economics in One Lesson: The Shortest and Surest Way to Understand Basic Economics)
The electric car was simpler: a box of batteries, an electric motor, and a sliding lever or pedal to control the motor’s speed. Its problem, besides frequent and slow recharging, just as today, was its relatively low power: since batteries were heavy, higher power had to be traded for battery life. The electric was ideal for city driving, however, clean and quiet, the mechanical equivalent of a horse and buggy. But with little charging infrastructure outside the city, it was unsuited for pleasure driving or longer-distance travel.
Richard Rhodes (Energy: A Human History)
parishioners
Harry H. Brown (Stories of Yesteryear - Horse and Buggy Days)
You’ve been fed a bill of goods for a degree that doesn’t match with the current economics of your time. Promised something that can and will never occur given what’s happening with the world at large. A belief that’s fifty years out of date, and fits in about as well as a horse and buggy on a freeway.
Randi Darren (Incubus Inc. II (Incubus Inc., #2))
we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter.
Bryan Loritts (Letters to a Birmingham Jail: A Response to the Words and Dreams of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.)
If you’re courting me, Major Halliday,” she said, “it is only fair to tell you that I have no intention of marrying. Ever.” He unsettled Lily completely with a chuckle. “I’m not courting you,” he answered, with such assurance that Lily was stung. “But you’ll never make a spinster,” he added. “I will,” Lily insisted through her teeth. Caleb stopped the buggy and, with the black leather bonnet hiding them from the prying eyes of Tylerville, cupped Lily’s chin in his hand and lifted it. His grasp was not painful, but it wasn’t gentle, either. “You’ll marry,” he replied, “and here’s the reason why.” Before Lily could make a move to twist away he kissed her. Those lips she’d found so appealing shaped hers effortlessly to suit them. Her breasts were pressed to his chest, and she could feel her nipples budding against him like spring flowers. She gave a soft whimper as his tongue touched hers in a caressing flick, and the kiss went on. Endlessly. When Caleb finally broke away Lily found her hands clutching his shoulders. Shamed, she let go of him and made to smooth her hair. He took up the reins without a word and set the horse and rig in motion again. They’d gone some distance before Lily could bring herself to speak. “You really should take me back to Mrs. McAllister’s.” Caleb’s eyes glowed like amber coals. “Not a chance, Miss Chalmers. We haven’t finished our argument.” They had finished, as far as Lily was concerned, and he’d won. Never in her wildest dreams had she guessed that being kissed would feel like that. She could hardly wait to do it again. “What argument was that, Major?” she retorted. “You said you’d never marry.” Lily sighed in spite of herself. “You were very forward just now.” “Yes.” “Would you care to be forward again, please?” Caleb laughed. “That’s one thing you won’t have to worry about,” he answered. Lily
Linda Lael Miller (Lily and the Major (Orphan Train, #1))
This Blue Coat’s woman?” he demanded, gesturing toward Lily. Caleb shook his head. “She’s her own woman. Just ask her.” Lily’s heart was jammed into her throat. She had an urge to go for the rifle again, but this time it was Caleb she wanted to shoot. “He lies,” she said quickly, trying to make sign language. “I am too his woman!” The Indian looked back at his followers, and they all laughed. Lily thought she saw a hint of a grin curve Caleb’s lips as well but decided she must have imagined it. “You trade woman for two horses?” Caleb lifted one hand to his chin, considering. “Maybe. I’ve got to be honest with you. She’s a lot of trouble, this woman.” Lily’s terror was exceeded only by her wrath. “Caleb!” The Indian squinted at Lily and then made an abrupt, peevish gesture with the fingers of one hand. “He wants you to get down from the buggy so he can have a good look at you,” Caleb said quietly. “I don’t care what he wants,” Lily replied, folding her trembling hands in her lap and squaring her shoulders. The Indian shouted something. “He’s losing his patience,” Caleb warned, quite unnecessarily. Lily scrambled down from the buggy and stood a few feet from it while the Indian rode around her several times on his pony, making thoughtful grunting noises. Annoyance was beginning to overrule Lily’s better judgment. “This is my land,” she blurted out all of a sudden, “and I’m inviting you and your friends to get off it! Right now!” The Indian reined in his pony, staring at Lily in amazement. “You heard me!” she said, advancing on him, her hands poised on her hips. At that, Caleb came up behind her, and his arms closed around her like the sides of a giant manacle. His breath rushed past her ear. “Shut up!” Lily subsided, watching rage gather in the Indians’ faces like clouds in a stormy sky. “Caleb,” she said, “you’ve got to save me.” “Save you? If they raise their offer to three horses, you’ll be braiding your hair and wearing buckskin by nightfall.” The Indians were consulting with one another, casting occasional measuring glances in Lily’s direction. She was feeling desperate again. “All right, then, but remember, if I go, your child goes with me.” “You said you were bleeding.” Lily’s face colored. “You needn’t be so explicit. And I lied.” “Two horses,” Caleb bid in a cheerful, ringing voice. The Indians looked interested. “I’ll marry you!” Lily added breathlessly. “Promise?” “I promise.” “When?” “At Christmas.” “Not good enough.” “Next month, then.” “Today.” Lily assessed the Indians again, imagined herself carrying firewood for miles, doing wash in a stream, battling fleas in a tepee, being dragged to a pallet by a brave. “Today,” Lily conceded. The man in the best calico shirt rode forward again. “No trade,” he said angrily. “Blue Coat right—woman much trouble!” Caleb laughed. “Much, much trouble,” he agreed. “This Indian land,” the savage further insisted. With that, he gave a blood-curdling shriek, and he and his friends bolted off toward the hillside again. Lily turned to face Caleb. “I lied,” she said bluntly. “I have no intention of marrying you.” He brought his nose within an inch of hers. “You’re going back on your word?” “Yes,” Lily answered, turning away to climb back into the buggy. “I was trying to save myself. I would have said anything.” Caleb caught her by the arm and wrenched her around to face him. “And there’s no baby?” Lily lowered her eyes. “There’s no baby.” “I should have taken the two horses when they were offered to me,” Caleb grumbled, practically hurling her into the buggy. Lily
Linda Lael Miller (Lily and the Major (Orphan Train, #1))
I thought the tribes around here were friendly,” she said, her eyes widening as she looked up at Caleb. His broad shoulders moved in a shrug. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the red man, it’s that he’s unpredictable.” Lily bit her lower lip, thinking of all the nights ahead, when she would be alone on her little farm with no one to protect her. Caleb favored her with an indulgent smile. “You don’t need to worry, Lily. You’re safe as long as you don’t go wandering off into the countryside by yourself.” The reassurance didn’t help. How on earth could she run a homestead single-handedly and not be alone? “I’ll just have to buy a rifle and practice my shooting,” she reflected aloud. Even though they hadn’t quite reached the valley, Caleb stopped the rig again. “What did you say?” he asked. Lily sighed. “I want to practice shooting. I used to hunt grouse with Rupert, and—” Caleb was staring at her as though she’d just said she planned to ride to the stars on a moonbeam. “A lady’s got no business fooling with a weapon,” he interrupted. Lily sat up very straight. “You’re certainly entitled to your opinion, Major Halliday,” she said primly, “however antiquated and stupid it might be.” Caleb started the rig rolling again with a lurch, slapping the reins down on the horse’s back. “What would you want with a gun?” he asked after a few moments had passed. Although Lily knew her answer would start more trouble, she could no longer hold it back. “I’ll need it for hunting, of course—and to protect myself, should the need arise. I mean to farm for a living, you see.” “By yourself?” There was a note of marvel in Caleb’s voice. “By myself,” Lily confirmed as the horse and buggy topped a grassy knoll.
Linda Lael Miller (Lily and the Major (Orphan Train, #1))
You look healthy,” Dev said. “If I did not know you were sporting the remains of a bullet wound, I would think you in the pink.” “Thank you.” Anna smiled. “I slept well last night.” For the first time in weeks, she truly had. “Well”—Val sat down and reached for the iced lemonade pitcher—“I did not sleep well. We need another thunderstorm.” “I wonder.” Anna’s eyes met Val’s. “Does Morgan still dread the thunderstorms?” “She does,” he replied, sitting back. “She figured out that the day your parents died, when she was trapped in the buggy accident, it stormed the entire afternoon. Her associations are still quite troubling, but her ears don’t physically hurt.” Dev and Anna exchanged a look of surprise, but Val was tucking into his steak. Dev turned his attention back to his plate. “Anna, are you ready to remove to the ducal mansion?” “As ready as I’ll be,” Anna replied, her steak suddenly losing its appeal. “Would you like me to cut that for you?” Dev asked, nodding at the meat on her plate. “I’ve pulled a shoulder now and then or landed funny from a frisky horse, and I know the oddest things can be uncomfortable.” “I just haven’t entirely regained my appetite,” Anna lied, eyeing the steak dubiously. “And I find I am tired, so perhaps you gentleman will excuse me while I catch a nap before we go?” She was gone before they were on their feet, leaving Dev and Val both frowning. “We offered to assist him in any way,” Dev said, picking up his glass. “I think this goes beyond even fraternal devotion.” “He’s doing what he thinks is right,” Val responded. “I have had quite enough of my front-row seat, Dev. Tragedy has never been my cup of tea.” “Nor farce mine.
Grace Burrowes (The Heir (Duke's Obsession, #1; Windham, #1))
Jim Cashman welcomed his former master back, offering him the same courtesies and warm hospitality any southern gentleman might extend to a visitor and proudly reciting his achievements. “The Lord has blessed us since you have been gone. It used to be Mr. Fuller No. 1, now it is Jim Cashman No. 1. Would you like to take a drive through the island Sir? I have a horse and buggy of my own now Sir, and I would like to take you to see my own little lot of land and my new house on it, and I have as fine a crop of cotton Sir, as ever you did see, if you please—and Jim can let you have ten dollars if you want them, Sir.
Leon F. Litwack (Been in the Storm So Long: The Aftermath of Slavery)
I turn back to the window. It is as if time slows, as if the gaps between the hollow ticks from the old clock have widened. I watch the weather-crazed animal, unleashed from its flailing, broken buggy, galloping towards the hostelry. I take a step back from the window. As I do so the brilliant lightning fades, but there is a new soft light, a long triangle of light, stretching in the way of the horse. I watch as somebody staggers out of the doorway of the Carpenter's Arms, stumbling forwards into the rain
Heidi Gallacher (Rebecca's Choice: A compelling, historical Victorian romance.)
And we’d all jump around like we’s dancing.  One time we didn’t hear Pappy coming, and he walked in right while we’s jumping and sanging.  He had a awful mighty big temper.  He grabbed his horse whip and started hitting Mammy.” Maggie gasped and grabbed Betty Lou’s hand as Grandpa continued his story.  “Johnny and Jimmy took the whip away from Pappy.  Johnny ran out to the chopping block and cut it up in pieces with the ax.  They was scared to come back in the house, so they hid out in the woods for days till they saw Pappy hitch up the buggy and start off.  Then they come in and told Mammy they’s going to leave.  She helped pack up their clothes in bundles and fixed some food, and they left.  That’s the last I ever seen them.  Mammy never played the mandolin again.  I thought she’d probably burnt it up or something.” “How old was you then?” Jeannie asked. “I’s about six, I guess.  Johnny and Jimmy was about fifteen or sixteen.  Mammy knowed they needed to leave because Pappy had such a temper, he’d probably killed them.  But after that, she never would sing no more.
Mary Jane Salyers (Appalachian Daughter)
one of Mr. Boyden’s devices is riding around the Deerfield campus in a horse-drawn buggy. There have been dark hints that other headmasters, to compete, have had to dream up devices or eccentricities or “trademarks” of their own. Seymour St. John at Choate, for instance, has been seen with a pet otter flopping at his heels, and the Reverend Matthew Warren, headmaster of St. Paul’s, was given a red-and-white golf cart by an appreciative alumnus in which to tool around the campus.
Stephen Birmingham (The Right People: The Social Establishment in America)
Most of us know far more facts than we can intelligently use. This point is illustrated by a statement the great German clinician, Traube, was wont to make when the autopsy showed that a wrong diagnosis had been made: “The facts were there but we did not think right.
Arthur Emanuel Hertzler (The Horse and Buggy Doctor)
Walking around the Quarter with its horses and buggies, cobblestone streets, and kerosene lamps felt like stepping back in time, all the way back to the time when Louise was a small child living in Fayetteville. I imagined her in a linen jumper with a white collar, skipping along the cobblestones, avoiding the cracks that would break her mother's back. It was quiet outside as well as sweltering August temperatures kept tourists off the streets and residents inside their homes. The blocks felt private and sensual as Gabriel and I held hands and walked under the lush vegetation spilling from the baskets that hung off the balconies of the houses on St. Philip. I could smell the sweet olive and the jasmine and I had the pleasant sensation of knowing that they were coming from outside of my body. New Orleans was my equal in scent, and as long as it was night and the air was a degree or two cooler than in the daytime I was sure I could walk around freely without attracting any unwanted attention.
Margot Berwin (Scent of Darkness)
Soon an Amish gray-topped buggy came along, clamored through the covered bridge, and continued down the lane to a farm over the hill. There was something about the horse-drawn carriages of the Amish that spoke of a slower pace of life and an earlier time where the things that mattered in life were always in the forefront.
Karen Rose Smith (Murder with Lemon Tea Cakes (A Daisy's Tea Garden Mystery Book 1))
Flint, Michigan. Detroit as seen backwards through a telescope. The callus on the palm of the state shaped like a welder's mitt. A town where 66.5 percent of the working citizenship are in some way, shape or form linked to the shit-encrusted underbelly of a French buggy racer named Chevrolet and a floppy-eared Scotchman named Buick. A town where 23.5 percent of the population pimp everything from Elvis on velvet to horse tranquilizers to Halo Burgers to NRA bumper stickers. A town where the remaining 10 percent sit back and watch it all go by—sellin’ their blood, rollin’ convenience stores, puffin’ no-brand cigarettes while cursin’ their wives and kids and neighbors and the flies sneakin’ through the screens and the piss-warm quarts of Red White & Blue and the Skylark parked out back with the busted tranny.
Ben Hamper (Rivethead: Tales from the Assembly Line)
Life will be less attractive than when Aden was here, but still I must step onward. With the program over, she got the horse ready with Monroe’s help. No one gave her strange looks when she drove away. Already other buggies were hitched up to leave. Her heart hurt as she drove down the gravel road and past the creek and Aden’s old
Jerry S. Eicher (A Wedding Quilt for Ella (Little Valley, #1))
At noon one day Will Hamilton came roaring and bumping up the road in a new Ford. The engine raced in its low gear, and the high top swayed like a storm-driven ship. The brass radiator and the Prestolite tank on the running board were blinding with brass polish. Will pulled up the brake lever, turned the switch straight down, and sat back in the leather seat. The car backfired several times without ignition because it was overheated. “Here she is!” Will called with a false enthusiasm. He hated Fords with a deadly hatred, but they were daily building his fortune. Adam and Lee hung over the exposed insides of the car while Will Hamilton, puffing under the burden of his new fat, explained the workings of a mechanism he did not understand himself. It is hard now to imagine the difficulty of learning to start, drive, and maintain an automobile. Not only was the whole process complicated, but one had to start from scratch. Today’s children breathe in the theory, habits, and idiosyncracies of the internal combustion engine in their cradles, but then you started with the blank belief that it would not run at all, and sometimes you were right. Also, to start the engine of a modern car you do just two things, turn a key and touch the starter. Everything else is automatic. The process used to be more complicated. It required not only a good memory, a strong arm, an angelic temper, and a blind hope, but also a certain amount of practice of magic, so that a man about to turn the crank of a Model T might be seen to spit on the ground and whisper a spell. Will Hamilton explained the car and went back and explained it again. His customers were wide-eyed, interested as terriers, cooperative, and did not interrupt, but as he began for the third time Will saw that he was getting no place. “Tell you what!” he said brightly. “You see, this isn’t my line. I wanted you to see her and listen to her before I made delivery. Now, I’ll go back to town and tomorrow I’ll send out this car with an expert, and he’ll tell you more in a few minutes than I could in a week. But I just wanted you to see her.” Will had forgotten some of his own instructions. He cranked for a while and then borrowed a buggy and a horse from Adam and drove to town, but he promised to have a mechanic out the next day.
John Steinbeck
By virtue of his extraordinary skills, Watson would be delivered from his humble beginnings as a late-nineteenth-century horse-and-buggy back road peddler, to corporate scoundrel, to legendary tycoon, to international statesman, and finally to regal American icon—all in less than four decades.
Edwin Black (IBM and the Holocaust: The Strategic Alliance Between Nazi Germany and America's Most Powerful Corporation)
Joseph A. Schumpeter, the Harvard economist who in 1943 published the iconic Capitalism, Socialism, and Democracy. The seventh chapter of that work, entitled “The Process of Creative Destruction,” is for many academics a sacred text. “The process of creative destruction,” Schumpeter writes, “is the essential fact about capitalism. It is what capitalism consists in and what every capitalist concern has got to live in.” Creative destruction is an elegantly simple idea describing the industrial mutation of old structures into new ones. The department store evolves from and “creatively destructs” the country store; the auto industry evolves from and replaces the horse and buggy business, automation makes many factory and farm jobs obsolete but creates new jobs in information technology, engineering, healthcare, and biotech.
Ellen Ruppel Shell (Cheap: The High Cost of Discount Culture)