Loader Quotes

In my opinion, if there is one extremely legitimate use for petroleum besides running wood chippers and front-end loaders to handle compost, it's making plastic for season extension. It parks many of the trucks [for cross-country produce transportation]. With the trucks parked, greenhouses, tall tunnels, and more seasonal, localized eating, can we feed ourselves? We still have to answer that burning question.

My loader was moved by this, and he shook his head, saying that the Americans should not sacrifice their men in this way.   You

said. “That breech loader has killed everthing but a train engine, and now it’s done that too.

The best example I know, of this astonishingly stupid attitude towards sport, is that of Franz Ferdinand. His, however, was an achievement with the gun. He used to shoot at Konopist with no less than seven weapons and four loaders, and he once killed more than 4,000 birds, himself, in one day. [A propos of statistics and quite beside the point: a Yorkshireman once drank 52½ pints of beer in one hour.] Now why did Franz Ferdinand do this? Even if he shot for twelve hours at a stretch, without pause for luncheon, it means that he killed six birds in each minute of the day. The mere manual labour, a pheasant every ten seconds for twelve successive hours, is enough to make a road-mender stagger; and there is little wonder that, by the time the unhappy archduke had accumulated his collection of 300,000 head of game, he was shooting with rubber pads on his coat and a bandage round his ears. The unfortunate man had practically stunned himself with gunpowder, long before they bagged him also at Sarajevo.

With the gun which was too big for him, the breech-loader which did not even belong to him but to Major de Spain and which he had fired only once, at a stump on the first day to learn the recoil and how to reload it with the paper shells, he stood against a big gum tree beside a little bayou whose black still water crept without motion out of a cane-brake, across a small clearing and into the cane again, where, invisible, a bird, the big woodpecker called Lord-to-God by negroes, clattered at a dead trunk. It was a stand like any other stand, dissimilar only in incidentals to the one where he had stood each morning for two weeks; a territory new to him yet no less familiar than that other one which after two weeks he had come to believe he knew a little--the same solitude, the same loneliness through which frail and timorous man had merely passed without altering it, leaving no mark nor scar, which looked exactly as it must have looked when the first ancestor of Sam fathers' Chickasaw predecessors crept into it and looked about him, club or stone axe or bone arrow drawn and ready, different only because, squatting at the edge of the kitchen, he had smelled the dogs huddled and cringing beneath it and saw the raked ear and side of the bitch that, as Sam had said, had to be brave once in order to keep on calling herself a dog, and saw yesterday in the earth beside the gutted log, the print of the living foot. He heard no dogs at all. He never did certainly hear them. He only heard the drumming of the woodpecker stop short off, and knew that the bear was looking at him. he did not move, holding the useless gun which he knew now he would never fire at it, now or ever, tasting in his saliva that taint of brass which he had smelled in the huddled dogs when he peered under the kitchen.

The United States in the twenty-first century is not very much like nineteenth-century Prussia (Prussia today isn’t much like Prussia then, either), but we still use its educational methods. We would never think of using its transportation methods (horsepower was literally horsepower), its communication methods (telegraphs), or its military technology (muzzle-loaders and bayonets). But government-run systems have a way of preserving themselves well past any rational point, which is why the United States still maintains the helium reserve it established for dirigible warfare—presumably to fight those nineteenth-century Prussians.

After the initial burst of energy and determination that I felt when the attack started, I began to feel pity for these troops, because they kept arriving in landing craft. The craft would deposit them in the shallows, and they would walk towards us through the water in the same way as the first set of troops. We fired at them in the same way, causing the same deaths and injuries. My loader was moved by this, and he shook his head, saying that the Americans should not sacrifice their men in this way.

Jimmy Hoffa’s first notoriety in union work was as the leader of a successful strike by the “Strawberry Boys.” He became identified with it. In 1932 the nineteen-year-old Jimmy Hoffa was working as a truck loader and unloader of fresh fruits and vegetables on the platform dock of the Kroger Food Company in Detroit for 32¢ an hour. Twenty cents of that pay was in credit redeemable for groceries at Kroger food stores. But the men only got that 32¢ when there was work to do. They had to report at 4:30 P.M. for a twelve-hour shift and weren’t permitted to leave the platform. When there were no trucks to load or unload, the workers sat around without pay. On one immortal hot spring afternoon, a load of fresh strawberries arrived from Florida, and the career of the most famous labor leader in American history was launched. Hoffa gave a signal, and the men who would come to be known as the Strawberry Boys refused to move the Florida strawberries into refrigerator cars until their union was recognized and their demands for better working conditions were met.

He loves you,’ I said, and smoothed the tumbled hair off her flushed face. ‘He won’t stop.’ I got up, brushing yellow leaves from my skirt. ‘We’ll have a bit of time, then, but none to waste. Jamie can send word downriver, to keep an eye out for Roger. Speaking of Roger …’ I hesitated, picking a bit of dried fern from my sleeve. ‘I don’t suppose he knows about this, does he?’ Brianna took a deep breath, and her fist closed tight on the leaf in her hand, crushing it. ‘Well, see, there’s a problem about that,’ she said. She looked up at me, and suddenly she was my little girl again. ‘It isn’t Roger’s.’ ‘What?’ I said stupidly. ‘It. Isn’t. Roger’s. Baby,’ she said, between clenched teeth. I sank down beside her once more. Her worry over Roger suddenly took on new dimensions. ‘Who?’ I said. ‘Here, or there?’ Even as I spoke, I was calculating – it had to be someone here, in the past. If it had been a man in her own time, she’d be farther along than two months. Not only in the past, then, but here, in the Colonies. I wasn’t planning to have sex, she’d said. No, of course not. She hadn’t told Roger, for fear he would follow her – he was her anchor, her key to the future. But in that case – ‘Here,’ she said, confirming my calculations. She dug in the pocket of her skirt, and came out with something. She reached toward me, and I held out my hand automatically. ‘Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.’ The worn gold wedding band sparked in the sun, and my hand closed reflexively over it. It was warm from being carried next to her skin, but I felt a deep coldness seep into my fingers. ‘Bonnet?’ I said. ‘Stephen Bonnet?’ Her throat moved convulsively, and she swallowed, head jerking in a brief nod. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you – I couldn’t; not after Ian told me about what happened on the river. At first I didn’t know what Da would do; I was afraid he’d blame me. And then when I knew him a little better – I knew he’d try to find Bonnet – that’s what Daddy would have done. I couldn’t let him do that. You met that man, you know what he’s like.’ She was sitting in the sun, but a shudder passed over her, and she rubbed her arms as though she was cold. ‘I do,’ I said. My lips were stiff. Her words were ringing in my ears. I wasn’t planning to have sex. I couldn’t tell … I was afraid he’d blame me. ‘What did he do to you?’ I asked, and was surprised that my voice sounded calm. ‘Did he hurt you, baby?’ She grimaced, and pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them against herself. ‘Don’t call me that, okay? Not right now.’ I reached to touch her, but she huddled closer into herself, and I dropped my hand. ‘Do you want to tell me?’ I didn’t want to know; I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, too. She looked up at me, lips tightened to a straight white line. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I don’t want to. But I think I’d better.’ She had stepped aboard the Gloriana in broad daylight, cautious, but feeling safe by reason of the number of people around; loaders, seamen, merchants, servants – the docks bustled with life. She had told a seaman on the deck what she wanted; he had vanished into the recesses of the ship, and a moment later, Stephen Bonnet had appeared. He had on the same clothes as the night before; in the daylight, she could see that they were of fine quality, but stained and badly crumpled. Greasy candle wax had dripped on the silk cuff of his coat, and his jabot had crumbs in it. Bonnet himself showed fewer marks of wear than did his clothes; he was fresh-shaven, and his green eyes were pale and alert. They passed over her quickly, lighting with interest. ‘I did think ye comely last night by candlelight,’ he said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. ‘But a-many seem so when the drink is flowin’. It’s a good deal more rare to find a woman fairer in the sun than she is by the moon.

I thought that this bombardment would be over soon, but I found that it continued on and on. It became impossible to react, or even to think clearly, because there was no pause between the explosions, they followed in fractions of a second all the time. Frankly, I began to lose track of time, and my only thought was that I wanted this shelling to be finished. I assure you that I was not afraid to fight, but to be subjected to these colossal, ceaseless explosions was not the same as fighting. The man who was the gun loader reacted even worse than me, and he began to scream and bang his hands on the concrete wall; I could not hear his voice, but I could see his mouth and fists moving.

Rommel reached the wood at Cerfontaine on May 16, 1940. He wanted to get through it fast, so as to reach the bunkers themselves before dark—but how, without alerting the bunkers that he was coming? Rommel took the microphone and quietly ordered all tank commanders to drive through the woods, this time without firing a single shot. Their crews—gunner, radio operator, loader and commander—were to ride outside the tanks and wave white flags. He himself rode Colonel Rothenburg’s Panzer IV. Ulrich Schroeder recalled: “The enemy was in fact so startled by this carnivallike procession that instead of shooting at us they just stood back to either side and gaped.

Seriously, people have never called or told me that I was an unproposed guy or the lame loader or the douchebag’s dude, but it was me who felt it safe and secure after I named to myself, wondering what negatives I would feel if people name it. Same thing happens with us everywhere in life.

Remember what I said. I don’t care how much I want to help or how much it will eat at me not to, I will tear apart the world for you, Flames. Innocents be damned.

The darkness that surrounds us cannot hurt us. It is the darkness in your own heart you should fear.

You’re of no acquaintance to the monsters inside his head, so don’t comment on his ‘creepy’ like you know a goddamn thing about

Since Perroz was a coal loader and therefore had no pick, Poincaré reasoned that it must have been Pautot who had accidentally punctured the lamp with his axe, and then inadvertently exchanged lamps with Perroz. Sometime after that switch, the punctured lamp 476 had lit the atmospheric methane, initiating the conflagration, and setting off a secondary explosion at the point where the incompletely burnt gas encountered the principal flow of air.

Shirt" The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes— The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity. A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers— Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers To wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader, The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields: George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit And feel and its clean smell have satisfied Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone, The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

yeah,” said Helen. “The second angioroom is going to be out all day today while they install a new film loader.

Thus Jesus shares with many Jewish authors of the time the view that men are to take responsibility for their sexuality, not women, and not seek to cover and control them. Jesus belongs with those who do not see women as a danger or threat, though clearly not all his disciples shared this stance.

More recent studies have recognized that the image of Jesus as law observant and promoting law observance is reflected not only in Matthew and Luke (Matt. 5.18; Luke 16.17; Matt. 23.23; Luke 11.42), but also deeply rooted in their common source Q and historically more plausible. The conflicts reported in the earliest traditions between Jesus and his contemporaries related not to the validity of biblical law but to its interpretation and where the emphasis should lie. Depictions of his trial give no hint that people heard Jesus as rejecting the law.

As Meier observes, ‘Perhaps one reason that we have so little from the historical Jesus on sexual topics is that, apart from the two special cases of divorce and celibacy, where he diverged from mainstream Judaism, his views were those of mainstream Judaism.’14

To not risk is to not learn. Or to state this more positively; risk taking can make one open to learning and can ensure that this learning is retained.

Useful learning needs to begin where the student is at that time and then builds on what that person knows. The biggest challenge to an educator is what to forgo from the ‘old’ curriculum in favour of something more relevant. Then

While those of us in schools may wish to blame others for imposing constraints, many of our constraints are self imposed. Are we able to escape from these and respond to what we believe is best for our students? One

The additional R is that of resistance. When you bring in changes there is opposition from those who do not want to have change. This is to be expected, and yet we continue to be surprised by this resistance when it occurs.

Encapsulation is almost always a good thing to do, but sometimes information can be hidden in the wrong place. This makes the code difficult to understand, to integrate, or to build behavior from by composing objects. The best defense is to be clear about the difference between the two concepts when discussing a design. For example, we might say: • “Encapsulate the data structure for the cache in the CachingAuctionLoader class.” • “Encapsulate the name of the application’s log file in the PricingPolicy class.” These sound reasonable until we recast them in terms of information hiding: • “Hide the data structure used for the cache in the CachingAuctionLoader class.” • “Hide the name of the application’s log file in the PricingPolicy class.” Context independence tells us that we have no business hiding details of the log file in the PricingPolicy class—they’re concepts from different levels in the “Russian doll” structure of nested domains. If the log file name is necessary, it should be packaged up and passed in from a level that understands external configuration.

There is a certain internal logic to Paul’s argument which suggests that he sees a close link between denying God’s true nature in idolatry and then going on to deny the true nature of human sexual relations: both are marks of sinfulness and alienation. This is all the more likely if the allusion to those deserving death in 1.32 derives directly from the prohibition of same-sex relations in Leviticus 20.13.

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To be fair to me, I’ve never had a chair pulled out for me so I’m not really sure what to do. Do I drop my ass onto the chair and then scoot it out of his hands and under the table? Sort of hover my butt over the seat and let him scoop me up like a front loader? Dump my trunk like dead-weight and force him to push the chair in like a bricklayer pushing a loaded wheelbarrow?

Sure seems that way,” Zech said. “That breech loader has killed everthing but a train engine, and now it’s done that too.

Prez, when the shadow falls, find where it leads. When you fall, make sure to balance your weight. Otherwise, you’ll snap the thing,

Pretty words spoken hide violent truths. Violent truths paint pretty pictures of manic honesty,

One of the loaders bellowed at his comrades to help him—he was so confused and shocked that he could not understand that the men he shouted at were already dead.

The voice in her head was drowned by a rush of music. Low bass notes of a cello swept through her in an elegant, heart-wrenching melody of love and loss. It was the sound of Alexis reaching out to her. Penelope gripped tighter to their connection, holding into it like a lifeline. The music became loader and louder. "I can hear your heart," she said, dazed. "Can you hear it? It's singing to me." "It's because it belongs to you," Alexis replied simply.

he was one of them, after all. But he drove them hard. Before Onam, at his busiest time, his boatmen and loaders went on strike. They wanted part ownership of the company. Joppan tried to reason with them. Did they want a share of his debt as well? They weren’t listening. He felt betrayed. “You remember that Party fellow he campaigned for and helped to get elected from that district?” Anna Chedethi says. “Well, he and the Party took the workers’ side. Better to sacrifice Joppan’s one

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William Loader states, “In some ways the change for men in the alternative society is more radical than for women. Making them responsible for their own sexuality removes from them the traditional self-understanding that they must control women and can blame them.

Thank goodness the machines were basic rather than those intimidating front loader types with space-age digital displays. A few years ago, when Bernice had to replace her old washing machine, she'd had a heck of a time finding something with regular, uncomplicated knobs. In her opinion, the more bells and whistles, the sooner it would break.

loader. Seven minutes. The red-and-white strobe of the first emergency vehicles flickered in the chaos of the shipyard, the light coming from everywhere and nowhere. Filip shuffled down the rows of welding rigs and metal printers. Tubs of steel and ceramic dust finer than talcum. Spiral-core mounts. Layers of Kevlar and foam strike armor piled up

My mind suddenly flooded with memories of our relationship. But one in particular was crystalline. Willy and I, years before in Spain. A beautiful valley, the air glittery with that uncommonly clear Mediterranean light, the two of us kneeling behind a green canvas wall as the first hunting horns sounded. Lowering our flat caps as the first partridges burst towards us, bang bang, a few falling, handing our guns to the loaders, who handed us new ones, bang bang, more falling, passing our guns back, our shirts darkening with sweat, the ground filling with birds that would feed nearby villages for weeks, bang, one last shot, neither of us able to miss, then standing at last, drenched, starved, happy, because we were young and together and this was our place, our one true space, away from Them and close to Nature. It was such a transcendent moment that we turned and did that rarest of things—we hugged. Really hugged.

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Mr. Bruce, who won the Pulitzer Prize for history, put it this way: “If a large part of the Union Army had been given breech-loaders by the end of 1862,” he speculated, “Gettysburg would certainly have ended the war. More likely, Chancellorsville, or even Fredericksburg would have done it, and history would record no Gettysburg address, no President Grant, perhaps no carpetbag reconstruction or Solid South. Instead, it might have had the memoirs of ex-President Lincoln, perhaps written in retirement during the administration of President Burnside or Hooker.” So who knows?

On the day the world ended, Wyndham didn't even realize it was the end of the world—not right away, anyway. For him, at that point in his life, pretty much every day seemed like the end of the world. This was not a consequence of a chemical imbalance, either. It was a consequence of working for UPS, where, on the day the world ended Wyndham had been employed for sixteen years, first as a loader, then in sorting, and finally in the coveted position of driver, the brown uniform and everything.

They were running out of things to say to each other. That was ghastly, but it was true. His family members were all preparing to meet their maker in two or three or four weeks. The government had been handing out free euthanasia pills to anyone who wanted them; thousands had already swallowed them and bodies overflowed the morgues. Mass graves were being dug with end loaders. Meanwhile, Doob was preparing for—to be blunt, to be honest—the greatest adventure of his life. He wished, at some level, that they were already dead.

These were her compatriots, her homegrown, armed with work: builders, florists, loaders, drivers; playing it sly so as not to let on to any shared objective, and instead just, just, just: just there to take orders.

Avoid heavy equipment whenever possible; big machinery often fakes efficiency. Rain gardens are commonly dug out by backhoes and fine grading is done by skid loaders. Inappropriate or oversized equipment does more damage than good, and it takes years for a site to recover from the compaction and unnecessary disturbance. In the time spent waiting for machinery to be delivered to a site, a team of five could have prepared a planting area with three rakes, two shovels, and no compaction.