Huntsville Quotes

This is Kurt Vonnegut in the effing state-of-the-art lethal injection facility in Huntsville, effing, Texas signing off.

I sent one boy to the gaschamber at Huntsville. One and only one. My arrest and my testimony. I went up there and visited with him two or three times. Three times. The last time was the day of his execution. I didnt have to go but I did. I sure didnt want to. He’d killed a fourteen year old girl and I can tell you right now I never did have no great desire to visit with him let alone go to his execution but I done it.

Over a hundred German scientists arrived here [Huntsville] at eleven o’clock on an April morning and by nightfall more than sixty had applied for cards at the free library.

I grew up in Huntsville, Alabama, a thoroughly dedicated rocket town. The father of everyone I knew—mine included—was some sort of engineer working to build the Apollo rockets to send men to the moon. For a while as a child, I thought that when you grew up you became a rocket engineer if you were a boy and you married a rocket engineer if you were a girl; few other options in the world appeared to exist.

Here are some of the towns I played last year: Carmel, Indiana; Hutchinson, Kansas; and Huntsville, Alabama. I even played Peoria. So why not limit my dates to easy-to-reach cities like Toronto, Chicago, and Reno? Easier still, why not just retire?

Thistle flashes a wicked smile. "Oh, you haven't heard that one? The government struck a bargain with a cannibal, and they use him to dispose of bodies after executions." "Who told you that story" I ask, trying to sound casual. "The supermax prisoners use it to scare each other up in Huntsville. Better watch your step or a man from the government will come and eat you." She shrugs. "It doesn't make much sense, but conspiracy theories never do." "Right. It's probably bullshit." Thistle laughs. "Probably?" "Definitely bullshit," I clarify. Then I take another bite out of Nigel Boyd's thigh.

Nevzpomínám si ale na jejich argumenty, tak nemohu odolat a neříci vám, co podle mne vedlo k nedostatku komunikace v NASA. Když se v NASA pokoušeli letět na Měsíc, vládlo velké nadšení. Byl to cíl, jehož chtěl dosáhnout každý. Nikdo nevěděl, jestli se to podaří, ale všichni spolupracovali. Mám o tom představu, protože jsem pracoval v Los Alamos a zažil to napětí a tlak, když jsme všichni společně pracovali na atomové bombě. Když měl někdo problém – třeba s detonátorem –, všichni věděli, že je to velký problém, a přemýšleli, jak se s ním vypořádat, a podávali zlepšovací návrhy. Když jsme se všichni dověděli o jeho vyřešení, byli jsme šťastní, protože to znamenalo, že je naše práce užitečná. Kdyby nefungoval detonátor, nefungovala by ani celá bomba. Uměl jsem si představit, že totéž probíhalo zpočátku v NASA. Kdyby nefungoval skafandr, nemohlo by se letět na Měsíc. A tak se každý zajímal o problémy těch druhých. Když pak projekt letů na Měsíc skončil, NASA zaměstnával spoustu lidí: měl velkou organizaci v Houstonu, velkou organizaci v Huntsville, nemluvě o Kennedyho středisku na Floridě. Když se skončí s velkým projektem a vy nechcete vyhodit lidi z práce a poslat je na ulici, co uděláte? Musíte přesvědčit Kongres, že existuje projekt, který může uskutečnit jen NASA. Aby se to podařilo, je třeba – alespoň to v tomto případě zřejmě třeba bylo – přehánět. Přehánět o tom, jak ekonomický raketoplán bude, jak často bude moci létat, jak bude bezpečný, jak velké vědecké objevy učiní. „Raketoplán může absolvovat tolik a tolik letů a bude stát tolik a tolik. Letěli jsme na Měsíc, tak tohle dokážeme taky!

If I don’t get the f**k away from her I’m gonna go back to prison for sistercide! And I’m too young to ride the lightning down in Huntsville.

The most dramatic consequence of the new constitution [of 1901] was the one most desired by its drafters, the sudden and dramatic decline in voting. [...] What makes the 1901 suffrage provisions even more significant is comparison with the state's first constitution. Otherwise one might assume that the operative principle in Alabama public policy had always been anti-democratic. Actually, the opposite was true. The 1819 constitution, which ushered Alabama into the Union, was a projection of the towering presence of Thomas Jefferson and the democratic aspirations of the American Revolution. Delegates to that convention had pointedly refused to restrict suffrage based on literacy, ownership of property, or even church affiliation. Any white male 21 years of age or older could vote, whether or not he could read, write, owned property, belonged to a church or even believed in God. But the democratic assumptions of that first gathering of founding fathers at Huntsville in July 1819 were not shared by their successors in Montgomery in the summer of 1901. Nor was the democratic assumption of Alabama's own past the only principle violated in 1901. So was the dominant democratic thrust of the 20th century both in America and throughout the world. It was the federal government and not the state of Alabama that enfranchised women in 1919. It was the Supreme Court that demanded that every vote count the same by compelling reapportionment after the Alabama legislature refused to do so for six decades. It was Congress in the 1965 Voting Rights Act that finally enfranchised Alabama blacks. And it was the U.S. Supreme Court in 1966 that ensured the right to vote for all the state's poor of whatever color when it struck down the poll tax. If the century-long wail for states' rights by Alabama's white elite struck many Americans as hollow and hypocritical, perhaps it was because that otherwise noble ideal for restricting tyranny was so often employed in Alabama on behalf of tyranny. For in Alabama, the constitution did not empower the people; it empowered the legislature. Without recall, initiative, referendum, or home rule, power was vested was vested in government, not in citizens. Democracy was forfeited to the federal Congress and to federal courts.

The entire WS-315A program was deployed, in England and Italy, in large numbers during the Cold War. What is most interesting is that two weeks after we won the Air Force contract to design for the DM-18 against the Army’s Missile Development Center at Huntsville, Alabama (headed by Dr. Von Braun, the senior concept designer of the German V2 missile) we also won the contract to build the whole system to deploy

A Southern Vegetarian’s Story By Erin Stewart, Alabama Grits It wasn’t easy being a vegetarian in Huntsville, Alabama, but I managed it throughout my high school years. At least I thought I did. I remember one trip with my parents that threw everything into doubt. It was a Saturday, and we had reservations at Miss Mary Bobo’s, the famous restaurant in Lynchburg, Tennessee, the home of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. Miss MaryBobo’s is known for serving at least one item cooked in Jack Daniel’s at every meal: this time it was the apples. What really interested me, though, was the greens. I think they were mustard greens. I was just eating my third bite when a large man next to me turned to our hostess, who was watching us all eat at one communal table, and said, “Miss Mary Bobo, these are the best greens I’ve ever had. What’s your secret?” Without a second thought, she replied, “Why, real lard, of course.” I must confess: I took one more bite before I put my fork down! (Don’t tell anyone!) To this day, those are some of the best greens I’ve ever tasted.

Covered with snow on a clear day, the houses looked cheery and well cared for. They also looked empty. Dusty thought about empty houses in little towns like this all over the world, with men going and gone and no women left inside. Houses without housewives. No cooking and cleaning, no humming and apron-wearing wives and mothers like in the old sitcoms. No rushing minivans driven by lithe women in yoga pants whose children were well behaved and spoke Mandarin. No soap-opera-addicted, overweight, neglectful trailer trash with a dozen kids running around screaming, their mouths always stained with Kool-Aid. Every man in Huntsville remembered another life, expecting to come home every day to find someone there. All the empty houses sat. No one numbered the silent days.

took that money and flipped it into a 70-unit complex in Huntsville. I paid

Whatever archive or courthouse we visited in Huntsville left one impression on me above all others. There was a huge mural tracing Alabama history. It started with the Native Americans - the Cherokees in the Northeast, the Creeks across the East, the Choctaws in the Southwest, and the Chickasaws in the Northwest. It then moved on to planter after judge after governor after businessman, as if that's all Alabama history was - a series of successful white men who came after the removal of noble, civilized, but still-in-the-way savages. There was not one black man or woman on that mural. For all of our suffering and sacrifice, turmoil and toil, it was like we never even existed, or - better yet - built Alabama.

She and Mike had been dating since December, having met in Huntsville, Alabama at Space Camp the previous year where he was working as an instructor. They

there was only one prison in Texas, and that was in Huntsville, but it was a place for hardened criminals and those who had used firearms to deprive others of their goods and savings, who had shot somebody in a political argument, had chopped up other people into tiny bits, that’s the kind of people they send to Huntsville.

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Now that the sit-in organizers had "the ball rolling," they had another trick up their sleeves. "As you know, black people like to dress," Richard Hall said. "So at Easter everybody would go out and buy an outfit generally, if they could afford it." In fact, according to Dr. Hereford, the Easter clothing splurge was the largest purchase most black Huntsvillians made all year (the second largest being for Christmas toys). On a visit to Nashville in the middle of the Huntsville protests, Hereford learned about a protest called "Blue Jean Easter" where African Americans, "instead of buying $100 suits and $100 dresses, they decided to spend five dollars on a pair of blue jeans for Easter, and I brought the idea back to Huntsville...The economic toll downtown was enormous. "There were twenty thousand black people in Madison County," Hereford said, "and ten thousand in the city, and if there are even ten thousand black people failing to buy $90 or $100 Easter outfits, that's a lot of money and losses for the merchants downtown. It could cost them a million dollars or more." As an extra, aded dig at the storeowners, Hereford said, people did not even buy their blue jeans in Huntsville...

The president fundamentally wants to be liked” was Katie Walsh’s analysis. “He just fundamentally needs to be liked so badly that it’s always … everything is a struggle for him.” This translated into a constant need to win something—anything. Equally important, it was essential that he look like a winner. Of course, trying to win without consideration, plan, or clear goals had, in the course of the administration’s first nine months, resulted in almost nothing but losses. At the same time, confounding all political logic, that lack of a plan, that impulsivity, that apparent joie de guerre, had helped create the disruptiveness that seemed to so joyously shatter the status quo for so many. But now, Bannon thought, that novelty was finally wearing off. For Bannon, the Strange-Moore race had been a test of the Trump cult of personality. Certainly Trump continued to believe that people were following him, that he was the movement—and that his support was worth 8 to 10 points in any race. Bannon had decided to test this thesis and to do it as dramatically as possible. All told, the Senate Republican leadership and others spent $ 32 million on Strange’s campaign, while Moore’s campaign spent $ 2 million. Trump, though aware of Strange’s deep polling deficit, had agreed to extend his support in a personal trip. But his appearance in Huntsville, Alabama, on September 22, before a Trump-size crowd, was a political flatliner. It was a full-on Trump speech, ninety minutes of rambling and improvisation—the wall would be built (now it was a see-through wall), Russian interference in the U.S. election was a hoax, he would fire anybody on his cabinet who supported Moore. But, while his base turned out en masse, still drawn to Trump the novelty, his cheerleading for Luther Strange drew at best a muted response. As the crowd became restless, the event threatened to become a hopeless embarrassment. Reading his audience and desperate to find a way out, Trump suddenly threw out a line about Colin Kaepernick taking to his knee while the national anthem played at a National Football League game. The line got a standing ovation. The president thereupon promptly abandoned Luther Strange for the rest of the speech. Likewise, for the next week he continued to whip the NFL. Pay no attention to Strange’s resounding defeat five days after the event in Huntsville. Ignore the size and scale of Trump’s rejection and the Moore-Bannon triumph, with its hint of new disruptions to come. Now Trump had a new topic, and a winning one: the Knee.