Mama Mary Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Mama Mary. Here they are! All 100 of them:

Mama you hold the fuck on! You promised me! Don’t you leave me woman or I swear to fucking Christ I will find a way to follow you and drag your fucking ass back here! NICOLE!!” 
Jordan Marie (Breaking Dragon (Savage Brothers MC, #1))
You belong to me. My mark all over your body, I know what you’ve given me and you’re not fucking getting it back, you hear me Mama? You’re mine.” “Forever,
Jordan Marie (Breaking Dragon (Savage Brothers MC, #1))
If what Granma Mary Rommely said is true, then it must be that no one ever dies, really. Papa is gone, but he's still here in many ways. He's here in Neeley who looks just like him and in Mama who knew him so long. He's here in his mother who began him and who is still living. Maybe I will have a boy some day who looks like Papa and has all of Papa's good without the drinking. And that boy will have a boy. And that boy will have a boy. It might be there is no real death.
Betty Smith (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn)
It takes courage to live in the midst of hate. And it requires strength to keep that hatred from eating your soul.
Mari Serebrov (Mama Namibia)
Biting the hand that feeds you, that's what you're doing Mary Logan, biting the hand that feeds you.' Again Mama laughed, 'If that's the case, Daisy, I don't think I need that little bit of food.' With the second book finished, she stared at a small pile of second grade books on her desk. 'Well, I just think you're spoiling those children, Mary. They've got to learn how things are sometime.' 'Maybe so,' said Mama. 'But that doesn't mean they have to accept them. And maybe we don't either.
Mildred D. Taylor (Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry (Logans, #4))
No Mama. Been here awhile seen a lot of girls, in a lot of places. Don’t believe I’ve ever seen one pumping gas barefoot.
Jordan Marie (Breaking Dragon (Savage Brothers MC, #1))
While Mary brushed my pistachio silk carriage dress, Mama tugged the laces of my corset as tight as they would go. She grunted and I groaned, and we sounded like the giant hogs I'd seen at the zoo-except that, rather than play in the mud and eat to my heart's content, I was forced to sit daintily in the parlor without lunch. For two hours. With my mother for company.
Susan Dennard (Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly, #1))
The older I get, the more I realize that what other people think about me has little to do with who I am. … We can’t change other people, and we can’t force them to see us the way we would like to be seen.
Mari Serebrov (Mama Namibia)
Mama said if you can’t name two actual real people, then you’re just being prejudiced. So name two peasants who hate us.
Mary Doria Russell (A Thread of Grace)
Oh, Mama,” I said. “What if I don’t live that long?” My mother didn’t hesitate one second. “By hook or by crook, you will. Having children only increases your grip on the world. It’s like reading a thriller. You can’t put it down because you have to know how the story turns out.
Jo-Ann Mapson (Along Came Mary (Bad Girl Creek, #2))
Mama had indeed risen up with a ferocity I didn’t think she possessed. I’d been wrong about her my whole life. Her quietude was not weakness; it was an ardent watchfulness that would be replaced by a roar when required.
Marie Benedict (The Other Einstein)
Whenever we said ‘they,’ Mama told us to name two.” Claudette divides the lump of cheese, handing half to Albert. “Mama said if you can’t name two actual real people, then you’re just being prejudiced. So name two peasants who hate us.
Mary Doria Russell (A Thread of Grace)
Going home in the trolley, Francie held the shoebox in her lap because Mama had no lap now. Francie thought deep thoughts during her ride. 'If what Granma Mary Rommely said is true, then it must be that no one ever dies, really. Papa is gone, but he's still here in many ways. He's here in Neeley who looks just like him and in Mama who knew him so long. He's here in his mother who began him and who is still living. Maybe I will have a boy some day who looks like Papa and has all of Papa's good without the drinking. And that boy will have a boy. And that boy will have a boy. It might be there is no real death.' Her thougths went to McGarrity. 'No one would ever believe there was any part of Papa in him.
Betty Smith (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn)
În acea dimineață în care urma să ne întoarcem în sat, mama se îngropase pe jumătate în scoici și m-a chemat să îi îngrop și a doua jumătate, căci ea nu putea singură. I‑am spus că o să răcească: pentru că pe mare se stîrnise vîntul, nisipul era ud, ea avea cancer și valurile veneau mari. Mama însă a insistat. Am tot îngropat-o răsturnînd peste ea pumni de scoici mărunte, pînă cînd în locul ei a apărut o ridicătură sidefată, ca un val împietrit care vorbea și speria pescărușii. Valul cu miez de mamă era nespus de frumos și emana o lumină multicoloră, ca un curcubeu pe moarte. "Curcubeul muribund" a fost al treilea tablou, pe care nu-l voi vinde nicicând, pentru că era preferatul Moirei și despre care ea a spus odată că îl vom agăța în dormitor, ca să îl vedem în fiecare dimineață și seară, iar mama să vadă că noi îl vedem și să se bucure. Acum este la ea. Am lăsat-o să zacă acolo acoperită de scoici, ca într-o fașă, până când valurile ajunseseră prea aproape și i-am spus că ar fi bine să plecăm, dar nici atunci nu m-a ascultat. Mi-a răspuns că ar prefera să moară exact în acea secundă, pentru că nu ar fi existat moarte mai frumoasă, mai ales după a viață atât de nefrumoasă ca a ei.
Tatiana Țîbuleac (Vara în care mama a avut ochii verzi)
I don’t date Nicole.” “You don’t what?” I ask dumbfounded. “I don’t date.” “Dragon, everyone dates.” “I don’t.” I don’t really know how to respond. It seems unreal, but I can tell he is completely serious. “Like ever?” “That’s what I said, Mama.” “How can you tell if you like a girl if you don’t even know her?” I ask and something about this conversation hurts me. “I fuck her.
Jordan Marie (Breaking Dragon (Savage Brothers MC, #1))
Cum atâția ani irosiți cu tatăl meu lăsaseră niște goluri destul de mari, viața mamei a fost ca o continuă învățare de a le umple, cum sunt victimele unui accident vascular cerebral care învață din nou cuvintele uzuale. Felul timid în care se privea în oglindă, la fel de critic și plin de speranță ca un adolescent. Modul în care-și prindea bretonelul scurt cu două clămițe, pentru că, așa cum spunea ea „îmi intră-n ochi la serviciu”...
Maria Caranica (Notițe cu cerneală verde)
When people think you're a "good person", they're essentially putting you inside of this jar with a label on it and the ingredients on that label are whatever the fuck they think "good person" means. Of course it always just basically means "this person was born to make me feel good in any circumstance of my life." And then they pound you into that jar--every inch of you-- and think you've gone spoiled rotten when the time arises that you're no longer making them feel good, for whatever reasons that may be. And that's "good person" from other people's perspectives. Meanwhile, "good person" in first person perspective is basically "hypocrite". It's basically "let me enact these roles I think I am supposed to perform so God and mama Mary and and the neighborhood will believe I am a good person." I am always described as a "good person" and from any perspective that's coming from, I hate hearing that. I hate it. It either means they think they can stuff me in a jar and mix me with their kool aide; or it means I am sticking myself in my own jar and mixing myself with everyone's kool aide. I am a fucking wonderful person-- that is what I am. And that is exactly how to say it: "fucking wonderful"! Not just wonderful. Fucking wonderful. It's not good; it's full of wonderment! It's not bad; it's full of wonderment! So, am I a good person? I have a heart that bleeds with others and a soul that gives people homes. I don't need to be good. I need to be wonderful.
C. JoyBell C.
Lady Mary nodded and smiled sadly. "There is nothing in this life that is certain but death," she stated pensively. "And tariffs, Mama," added Jerome. At that Lady Mary laughed.
Jocelyn Murray (Corfe Castle (The Gilded Mirror #1))
• Looking backward should never divert our path to one of hatred and bitterness, for those steps lead nowhere but to destruction. To live in hatred is to miss the point of living.
Mari Serebrov (Mama Namibia)
She slid a look toward him, one edge of her mouth tilting up. "My Mama told me to watch out for boys like you." "Your Mama was right," his voice dropped an octave, "but I am not a boy.
Mary Jane Hathaway (These Sheltering Walls (Men of Cane River, #2))
Suppose a man is walking across a field. To the question "Who is that?" a Southerner would reply by saying something like "Wasn't his granddaddy the one whose dog and him got struck by lightning on the steel bridge? Mama's third cousin - dead before my time - found his railroad watch in that eight-pound catfish's stomach the next summer just above the dam. I think it was eight pounds. Big as Eunice's arm. The way he married for that new blue Cadillac automobile, reckon how come he's walking like he has on Sunday shoes, if that's who it is, and for sure it is." A Northerner would reply to the same question (only if directly asked, though, never volunteering), "That's Joe Smith." To which the Southerner might think (but be much too polite to say aloud), "They didn't ask his name, they asked who he is!
Mary Hood
You should hear mama on the chapter of governesses: Mary and I have had, I should think, a dozen at least in our day; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all incubi - were they not, mama?" Blanche Ingram
Charlotte Brontë
Mary, Mary don't say no, down the basement we shall go. Slap your ass against the wall, here i come balls and all. Won't your daddy be disgusted, when he sees your cherry busted. Won't your mama be surprised, when she sees your belly rise! Sound Off....(ect.)
U.S. Military
Even though I didn't notice it while it was happening, I got reminded in ninth grade of a few things I guess I should have known all along: 1. A first kiss after five months means more than a first kiss after five minutes. 2. Always remember what it was like to be six 3. Never, ever stop believing in magic, no matter how old you get. Because if you keep looking long enough and don't give up, sooner or later you're going to find Mary Poppins. And if your really lucky, maybe even a purple balloon. Thanks, Mama. I love you.
Steve Kluger (My Most Excellent Year)
Old Mama Saturday" “Saturday’s child must work for a living.” “I’m moving from Grief  Street. Taxes are high here though the mortgage’s cheap. The house is well built. With stuff to protect, that mattered to me, the security. These things that I mind, you know, aren’t mine. I mind minding them. They weigh on my mind. I don’t mind them well. I haven’t got the knack of  kindly minding. I say Take them back but you never do. When I throw them out it may frighten you and maybe me too. Maybe it will empty me too emptily and keep me here asleep, at sea under the guilt quilt, under the you tree.
Marie Ponsot
DEAR MAMA, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. Every time I try to write to you and Papa I realize I’m not saying the things that are in my heart. That would be O.K., if I loved you any less than I do, but you are still my parents and I am still your child. I have friends who think I’m foolish to write this letter. I hope they’re wrong. I hope their doubts are based on parents who loved and trusted them less than mine do. I hope especially that you’ll see this as an act of love on my part, a sign of my continuing need to share my life with you. I wouldn’t have written, I guess, if you hadn’t told me about your involvement in the Save Our Children campaign. That, more than anything, made it clear that my responsibility was to tell you the truth, that your own child is homosexual, and that I never needed saving from anything except the cruel and ignorant piety of people like Anita Bryant. I’m sorry, Mama. Not for what I am, but for how you must feel at this moment. I know what that feeling is, for I felt it for most of my life. Revulsion, shame, disbelief—rejection through fear of something I knew, even as a child, was as basic to my nature as the color of my eyes. No, Mama, I wasn’t “recruited.” No seasoned homosexual ever served as my mentor. But you know what? I wish someone had. I wish someone older than me and wiser than the people in Orlando had taken me aside and said, “You’re all right, kid. You can grow up to be a doctor or a teacher just like anyone else. You’re not crazy or sick or evil. You can succeed and be happy and find peace with friends—all kinds of friends—who don’t give a damn who you go to bed with. Most of all, though, you can love and be loved, without hating yourself for it.” But no one ever said that to me, Mama. I had to find it out on my own, with the help of the city that has become my home. I know this may be hard for you to believe, but San Francisco is full of men and women, both straight and gay, who don’t consider sexuality in measuring the worth of another human being. These aren’t radicals or weirdos, Mama. They are shop clerks and bankers and little old ladies and people who nod and smile to you when you meet them on the bus. Their attitude is neither patronizing nor pitying. And their message is so simple: Yes, you are a person. Yes, I like you. Yes, it’s all right for you to like me too. I know what you must be thinking now. You’re asking yourself: What did we do wrong? How did we let this happen? Which one of us made him that way? I can’t answer that, Mama. In the long run, I guess I really don’t care. All I know is this: If you and Papa are responsible for the way I am, then I thank you with all my heart, for it’s the light and the joy of my life. I know I can’t tell you what it is to be gay. But I can tell you what it’s not. It’s not hiding behind words, Mama. Like family and decency and Christianity. It’s not fearing your body, or the pleasures that God made for it. It’s not judging your neighbor, except when he’s crass or unkind. Being gay has taught me tolerance, compassion and humility. It has shown me the limitless possibilities of living. It has given me people whose passion and kindness and sensitivity have provided a constant source of strength. It has brought me into the family of man, Mama, and I like it here. I like it. There’s not much else I can say, except that I’m the same Michael you’ve always known. You just know me better now. I have never consciously done anything to hurt you. I never will. Please don’t feel you have to answer this right away. It’s enough for me to know that I no longer have to lie to the people who taught me to value the truth. Mary Ann sends her love. Everything is fine at 28 Barbary Lane. Your loving son, MICHAEL
Armistead Maupin (More Tales of the City (Tales of the City #2))
Instinctively I had followed Mama’s caution against strangers, but she had also taught me to treat everyone the same no matter what or how different they were or what race they were. “These are only visible images,” Mama said, “like the colors and shapes of a painting. You need to look deeper to discover what the painting is about or how it affects you. It’s the same with people.”  
William West (The Ascension of Mary)
Papa cut his business trip short when he heard how ill you were. He’ll be home on the afternoon train. Won’t he be happy to see you looking so well!” Hannah came running up the stairs. “Dr. Fulton’s on his way, Mama.” “He’s in for a surprise, isn’t he?” Mrs. Tyler smiled at me. “Dr. Fulton didn’t think you’d live till morning, Andrew. The very idea--Hannah told him it would take more than diphtheria to kill you.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
Toată viața am încercat- și mi-a reușit, de cele mai multe ori să fiu discretă. Poate de la mama e chestia asta, și acum țin minte cum zicea mereu ca să nu mai vorbesc tare că ne aud vecinii (...) mai încet, că ne știe toată lumea, totul trebuia să se petreacă ușor și pe muțenie. Oricum, am încercat întodeauna să trec neobservată. Nu am vorbit niciodată în public despre evenimente care mă priveau personal(...) Sunt femeia de pe margine, le-am spus mereu și celor pe care i-am iubit , ca un fel de avertisment, sunt în afară mai mereu, acolo e zona mea de confort. O vreme mi-a și plăcut așa, eram un fel de observator neutru, nu mă implicam prea mult, nu doream prea mult, era mai sigur. În timp, însă, am trecut în cealată extremă. Am ajuns să urăsc cumințenia asta idioată care mă caracterizează, incapacitatea de a mă exterioriza, de a-mi savura plăcerile. Timiditatea, frustrările, orgoliul stupid. La mine totul se consumă încet, parcă în reluare. Între gesturi și emoțiile sau gândurile care le-au provocat există o distanță suficent de mare, încât să se ducă dracului orice urmă de spontaneitate. Calmul meu nu este calm, liniștea mea nu este o liniște, sub aparențele astea există o viermuială de gânduri, presupuneri, temeri. Tac mai mereu, dar e o tăcere care mă sufocă.
Maria Orban (Oameni Mari)
Consuelo's appearance set her apart from the others, and the nuns, sure that this was not accidental but a sign of benevolent divine will, spared no effort in cultivating her faith, in the hope she would decide to take her vows and serve the Church; al their efforts, however, came to naught before the girl's instinctive rejection. She made the attempt in good faith, but never succeeded in accepting the tyrannical god the nuns preached to her about; she preferred a more joyful, maternal, and compassionated god. "That is the Most Holy Virgin Mary," the nuns explained to her. "She is God?" "No, she is the Mother of God." "Yes, but who has the say in heaven, God or his Mama?
Isabel Allende (Eva Luna)
Amongst my sisters, I was certainly “the Russian girl”. Tatiana could have been Parisienne in her reed-thin elegance; Olga (we dare not say this) is Germanic in appearance—the protuberant forehead, milky-blue eyes and stubborn set to her squared jaw, her phlegmatic moods. Anastasia? My Shvybz is without any identity but that of an elf! Her spirit is too light for earth; she came from faeries. When we play Peter Pan at the Wendy House on our Children’s Island, Shvybz is well cast as Tinkerbelle. Alexei, of course, was always Pan. Mama, we joked, was Mrs. Darling. For all her love of Russia, Mama dresses, sounds, and decorates like an Englishwoman. Papa and I are Russians to the heart and bone. As
Laura Rose (The Passion of Marie Romanov)
Now don’t go too fast, John,” Mama said. “And be careful of the curve at the bottom of the hill. Sometimes Mr. Pettengill’s cattle get out and block the road.” “Yes, ma’am.” John cranked up the engine. The car shook and trembled and made a series of loud popping noises before it began to roll down the driveway, picking up speed as it went. “Hooray!” shouted Theo. “Hooray!” “Heavens to Betsy,” Mama cried, “slow down, John. Do you want to kill us?” Leaning over the seat, I estimated we were going all of ten or fifteen miles per hour. “It’s a good thing there aren’t more motorcars on the road,” Mama said. “If everyone drove like you, we’d never make it to town in one piece.” Hannah gave her mother an agonized look. “Mama,” she whispered, “John knows how to drive.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
Catching my eye in the mirror, Mrs. Armiger said, “Your mother tells me you’ve forgotten how to play the parlor organ, Andrew.” I began to apologize, but Mrs. Armiger hushed me. “It’s all right, dear. I understand.” She paused to adjust her hat. “In the fall, we shall begin your lessons again. We’ll get along famously this time, won’t we?” Not daring to meet Theo’s eyes, I said, “Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Armiger smiled at Mama. “I can’t believe he’s the same boy. Do you suppose some other child put that glue in my metronome after all? Surely it wasn’t this dear angel who drew a mustache on my bust of Beethoven. Nor could he have been the rascal who climbed out my window on recital day and hid in a tree.” She squeezed my shoulder just hard enough to hurt. “No, no, no--not this sweet little fellow. It must have been some naughty boy who looked just like him.” After she and Mama shared a chuckle, Mrs. Armiger hugged me. “I believe I can make a perfect gentleman out of this child.” When Theo heard hat, the laughter he’d been struggling to control exploded in a series of loud snorts. He tried to pretend he was choking on his phosphate, but he didn’t fool Mama. “Music lessons are exactly what Theodore needs,” she told Mrs. Armiger. “The discipline will do him good. Suppose I sent both boys to you every Wednesday afternoon?” While Mrs. Armiger and Mama made plans, I stirred the chocolate sauce into my ice cream, appetite gone. Beside me, Theo seethed. He was blaming everything on me--the scolding, the music lessons, Mrs. Armiger. It was all my fault. He hated me.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
In the sudden silence, Andrew grabbed my hand and shook it. “I’ll miss you, Drew. You’ve been a regular gent.” It was hard not to cry, but I was determined to show Andrew I could be as tough as he was. “I’ll miss you too,” I admitted. “And Hannah and Theo and Mama and Papa. I never had a brother or a sister or a dog of my own before.” “But you won’t miss Edward. He’ll be there waiting for you.” Andrew meant it as a joke, but neither of us laughed. Suddenly serious, I gripped his shoulders tightly and stared into his eyes. “How will I know what happens to you?” “Look in the graveyard,” Andrew said in a melancholy voice. “If you don’t see my tombstone, you’ll know I didn’t die.” He laughed to show me he was joking again, but death was even less funny than the old man in the wheelchair.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
Holding my breath, I lay as still as death and listened to Hannah walk toward the bed. She leaned over me and whispered Andrew’s name, my name, touching my skin with soft, warm fingers. She was no dream, no ghost. “Mama,” she cried, “Mama, come quick!” A door opened, and footsteps raced toward me. “His fever’s gone, Mama. He’s still alive.” Hannah’s voice shook and she burst into tears. “Praise be,” a woman whispered. “Open your eyes, Andrew, look at me.” Dumb with fear, I stared at Mrs. Tyler. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have spoken. Suppose I didn’t sound like Andrew? Suppose I said the wrong thing? Surely they’d know I was an imposter. Alarmed by my silence, Mrs. Tyler told Hannah to call Dr. Fulton. “His eyes, the way he looks at me--you’d think the boy had never seen me before.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
Adolf Hitler a ajuns cancelar al Germaniei in 1933, pe cand eu aveam de-abia un an. tata, care nu-l mai vazuse din 1914, i-a transmis cele mai calde felicitari si un cadou, pictura lui Hitler in acuarela, Biserica minorita din Viena. Hitler a fost incantat. avea amintiri placute despre tata, din cate spunea, si l-a invitat in Germania, ca oaspete personal, sa ia seama la noua ordine sociala pe care o construia, sperand ca aceasta va dura vreo mie de ani, daca nu mai mult. mama, tata si Felix, care avea noua ani pe-atunci, au plecat din Ohio in Germania, pentru 6 luni, in 1934. [..] si imediat ce s-au intors acasa, tata s-a apucat sa-si arboreze cadoul favorit de la Hitler, pe bratul orzontal al morii de vant. era un steag nazist, mare cat un cearceaf. era un lucru misterios, exuberant, si, din cate zicea mama, comunitatea era mandra si in acelasi timp invidioasa pe tata, pe ea si pe Felix. nimeni in Midland City nu intretinuse vreodata relatii de prietenie cu un sef de stat. pana si eu apar intr-o poza din ziar. una cu toata familia noasta, in strada, in fata atelierului, privind in sus catre steagul nazist. sunt in brate la Mary Hoobler, bucatareasa noastra, care, incetul cu incetul, m-a invatat tot ce stia ea despre mancaruri si prajituri. pe cand pozam toti in strada pt fotografia din ziar, tata avea 42 de ani. dupa cum spunea mama, in Germania trecuse printr-o profunda transfigurare spirituala. isi redefinise scopurile in viata. nu-i mai era de ajuns sa fie artist. avea de gand sa se faca profesor si activist politic. sa fie purtatorul de cuvant in America al noii ordini ce abia se nastea in Germania, dar care, cu timpul, urma sa devina salvarea lumii. asta a fost, evident, o greseala.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Deadeye Dick)
About 35,000 years ago came another sudden upgrade and the emergence of homo sapiens sapiens, the physical form we see today. The Sumerian Tablets name the two people involved in the creation of the slave race. They were the chief scientist called Enki, Lord of the Earth (Ki=Earth) and Ninkharsag, also known as Ninti (Lady Life) because of her expertise in medicine. She was later referred to as Mammi, from which comes mama and mother. Ninkharsag is symbolised in Mesopotamian depictions by a tool used to cut the umbilical cord. It is shaped like a horseshoe and was used in ancient times. She also became the mother goddess of a stream of religions under names like Queen Semiramis, Isis, Barati, Diana, Mary and many others, which emerged from the legends of this all over the world. She is often depicted as a pregnant woman. The texts say of the Anunnaki leadership:
David Icke (The Biggest Secret: The book that will change the World)
I looked up again at the stained glass window. There she was, the same smile on her lips. I'm sure you were totally freaked out when they told you that you were pregnant, but at least your baby's birth is now celebrated all around the world! And so many people have been saved by you, and by your child! Then again, to be eternally known as the Virgin Mother, as if that's the only thing that gave meaning to your existence... Hey did you have any hobbies of your own? Or maybe there was a singer you were really into? You must have gotten stressed out sometimes. I mean, being called the Virgin Mother, even after your son was all grown up... And then to have him crucified like that. I can't imagine how hard that must have been. I just hope you managed to live your life the way you wanted, to take naps when you felt like it, to know yourself by a name that made sense to you...
Emi Yagi (Diary of a Void)
Alone in the bathroom, I stared into the mirror over the sink. Who was I looking at? Andrew or Drew? The boy on the lawn had been wearing my jeans, my T-shirt, my running shoes. I was wearing his clothes. I’d whistled for his dog the way he would have. I’d called his mother “Mama” as naturally as I’d once called my mother “Mom.” If I stayed here long enough, would I sink down into Andrew’s life and forget I’d ever been anyone else? No, no, no. Splashing cold water on my face, I reminded myself I was just acting a part. When I won the marble game, the curtain would go down on the last act. I’d be Drew again and Andrew would be Andrew--for keeps. Till then, I’d call Mrs. Tyler “Mama” and Mr. Tyler “Papa,” I’d think of Hannah and Theo as my brother and sister, I’d whistle for Buster, I’d do whatever my role demanded. Outside, a horn blew and Theo yelled, “Andrew, hurry up or we’ll leave without you!” Yes--I’d even ride in a genuine Model T.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
Dragă Christian, Te-am așteptat în vacanța de Paște. Ți-am pregătit patul lângă al meu. Deasupra, am agățat niște postere cu fotbaliști. Am făcut loc în dulap ca să-ți pui hainele și mingea. Eram gata să te primesc la mine. Nu vei veni. Sunt multe lucruri pe care nu am apucat să ți le spun. De exemplu, cred că nu ți-am povestit niciodată despre Laure. E logodnica mea. Ea nu știe încă. Am plănuit să o cer în căsătorie. Foarte curând. Când va fi din nou pace. Eu și Laure ne trimitem scrisori. Scrisori care ajung cu avionul. Berze de hârtie care călătoresc între Africa și Europa. Este prima oară când mă îndrăgostesc de o fată. E o senzație tare ciudată. Ca o febră în stomac. Nu îndrăznesc să le spun prietenilor, pentru că ar râde de mine. Mi-ar spune că sunt îndrăgostit de o fantomă. Pentru că nu am văzut-o niciodată pe fata asta. Dar nu e nevoie să mă întâlnesc cu ea ca să știu că o iubesc. Îmi sunt de-ajuns scrisorile noastre. Am amânat să-ți scriu. Am încercat prea mult în timpul ăsta să rămân copil. Prietenii mă îngrijorează. Se îndepărtează de mine tot mai mult în fiecare zi. Se iau la harță pentru chestii de oameni mari, își inventează dușmani și motive de luptă. Tata avea dreptate când nu ne lăsa pe mine și pe Ana să vorbim despre politică. Tata pare obosit. Mi se pare absent. Distant. Și-a făcut o platoșă groasă de fier ca să nu-l atingă răutatea. Dar eu știu că, în inima lui, e la fel de gingaș ca pulpa unui fruct bine copt de guava. Mama nu s-a mai întors niciodată de la tine. Și-a lăsat sufletul în grădina ta. I s-a frânt inima. A înnebunit, ca lumea care te-a răpit. Am amânat să-ți scriu. Am ascultat o mulțime de voci care mi-au spus atâtea lucruri… La radio au zis că echipa Nigeriei, cu care țineai tu, a câștigat Cupa Africii pe națiuni. Străbunica mea spunea că oamenii pe care îi iubim nu mor dacă ne gândim în continuare la ei. Tatăl meu spunea că în ziua în care nu va mai fi război între oameni, va ninge la tropice. Doamna Economopoulos spunea că mai adevărate decât realitatea sunt cuvintele. Profesoara mea de biologie spunea că pământul e rotund. Prietenii mei spuneau că trebuie să alegem de ce parte a baricadei suntem. Mama spunea că dormi, cu tricoul de fotbal al echipei tale preferate. Iar tu, Christian, nu vei mai spune nimic, niciodată. Gaby
Gaël Faye (Petit pays)
It must be a shock to see us so old,” Hannah said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t climb a tree or shoot a marble if my life depended on it. Neither could Andrew, but I doubt he’ll admit it.” “If I put my mind to it,” Andrew said, “I could beat Drew with one hand tied behind my back. He was never any match for me.” Hannah raised her eyebrows. “It seems to me he outplayed you once.” “Pshaw. What’s one game?” If Aunt Blythe hadn’t come back just then, I’d have argued, maybe even challenged Andrew to a rematch, but instead, I smiled and leaned my head against Hannah’s shoulder, happy to feel her arm around me. This close, she still smelled like rose water. Turning the pages of the album, Hannah showed us pictures of Mama and Papa, Theo, herself--and Andrew. “These are my favorites.” She pointed to the photographs John had taken of us in the Model T. We were all smiling except Theo. He sat beside me, scowling into the camera, still angry about Mrs. Armiger and the music lessons. “We wanted Theo to come with us today,” Hannah said, “but he’s living down in Florida with his third wife--a lady half his age, I might add.” Andrew nudged me. “He sends his best, said he hopes to see you again someday.” I glanced at Aunt Blythe but she was staring at the photograph. “The resemblance is incredible. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was Drew.” Andrew chuckled. “Take a good look at me now. This is how the poor boy will look when he’s ninety-six.” I studied his rosy face, his white hair and mustache. His back was bent, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. Going to his side, I put my arms around him. “You’re not so bad,” I said. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you could still beat me in a game of ringer.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
You must go back to bed.” “No,” I shouted. “Not yet! I have to finish this game.” I couldn’t leave Andrew, not now, not when I was finally winning. Hannah released me so suddenly I staggered backward. “I’ll fetch Papa!” she cried. Andrew threw himself at her. “Hannah, stop, you’re ruining everything!” I grabbed his arm. “Let her go. We don’t have much time!” Casting a last terrified look at me, Hannah ran downstairs, calling for Mama and Papa. Andrew turned to me, his face streaked with tears. “Quick, Drew. Shoot four more marbles out of the ring!” Holding my breath I aimed. Click, click, click. An immie, a cat’s-eye, and a moonstone spun across the floor, but I missed the fourth. Andrew knuckled down and shot at the scattered marbles. Of the seven in the ring, he managed to hit two before he missed. Downstairs I heard Hannah pounding on Papa and Mama’s door. “One more, Drew,” Andrew whispered. It was hard to aim carefully. Papa and Mama were awake. Their voices rose as Hannah tried to explain I was in the attic acting as if I’d lost my mind. My hand shook and the first marble I hit merely clicked against another. Andrew took his turn, hit three, and missed the fourth. “Send me home, Drew,” he begged. “I don’t care if I die when I get there.” Two marbles were left--a carnelian and an immie, widely separated. Neither was close to my aggie. Even for someone as good as Andrew, it was a hard shot. Holding his breath, Andrew crossed his fingers and closed his eyes. I knuckled down and aimed for the carnelian. Click. As Papa tramped up the steps with Mama at his heels, the seventh marble rolled into the shadows. My aggie stayed in the middle of the ring. Andrew let out his breath and stared at me. I’d won--what would happen now?
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
As Mrs. Armiger drew near, the fountain clerk put my sundae in front of me. “Here you are,” he said. “I made this one especially for you, Andrew. Plenty of chocolate sauce and whipped cream--just the way you like it.” Glad Andrew and I had at least one thing in common, I scooped up a big spoonful of ice cream. My mouth was watering for chocolate, but before I had a chance to taste it, Mrs. Armiger pounced on me. “How wonderful to see you up and about, dear boy. I was just plain worried to death when I heard you’d come down with diphtheria.” Her perfume hung around me in a cloud so dense I could hardly breathe. “Yes, ma’am,” I stammered, trying hard not to cough. “Thank you, ma’am.” Laying a plump hand on my shoulder, Mrs. Armiger smiled. “Why, Andrew, I believe a touch of the dark angel’s wings has improved your manners.” Theo gave me one of the sharp little kicks he specialized in. Blowing through his straw, he made loud bubbling sounds in his drink. He expected me to do something outrageous too. They all did--the whole family was watching, waiting for me to mortify them. I could almost hear Mama holding her breath. I knew Andrew would never have sat as still as a stone, ears burning with embarrassment, but, unlike him, I couldn’t think what to do or say. “That’s a very rude noise, Theodore,” Mrs. Armiger said. Mama snatched Theo’s glass. “If you want to finish your phosphate, apologize to Mrs. Armiger.” Without looking at anyone, Theo mumbled, “I’m sorry.” Mama wasn’t satisfied. “Sorry for what, Theodore Aloysius?” Theo kept his head down. Trying not to giggle, he said, “I’m sorry for making a rude noise, Mrs. Armiger.” Mama gave him his phosphate. “That’s better.” Theo kicked me again, harder this time. From the way he was scowling, I guessed he was mad that he’d gotten into trouble and I hadn’t.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
In Riverview, we stopped at Larkin’s Drugstore for a cold drink. Leaving the rest of us to scramble out unaided, John offered Hannah his hand. Although I’d just seen her leap out of a tree as fearless as a cat, she let him help her. At the soda fountain, Hannah took a seat beside John. In her white dress, she was as prim and proper as any lady you ever saw. Quite frankly, I liked her better the other way. I grabbed the stool on the other side of Hannah and spun around on it a couple of times, hoping to get her to spin with me, but the only person who noticed was Mama. She told me to sit still and behave myself. “You act like you have ants in your pants,” she said, embarrassing me and making Theo laugh. While I was sitting there scowling at Theo in the mirror, John leaned around Hannah and grinned at me. “To celebrate your recovery, Andrew, I’m treating everyone to a lemon phosphate--everyone, that is, except you.” He paused dramatically, and Hannah gave him a smile so radiant it gave me heartburn. She was going to marry John someday, I knew that. But while I was here, I wanted her all to myself, just Hannah and me playing marbles in the grove, talking, sharing secrets, climbing trees. She had the rest of her life to spend with stupid John Larkin. “As the guest of honor,” John went on, “you may pick anything your heart desires.” Slightly placated by his generosity, I stared at the menu. It was amazing what you could buy for a nickel or a dime in 1910. “Choose a sundae,” Theo whispered. “It costs the most.” “How about a root beer float?” Hannah suggested. “Egg milk chocolate,” Mama said. “It would be good for you, Andrew.” “Tonic water would be even better,” John said, “or, best of all, a delicious dose of cod-liver oil.” When Hannah gave him a sharp poke in the ribs, John laughed. “Andrew knows I’m teasing. Come on, what will it be, sir?” Taking Theo’s advice, I asked for a chocolate sundae. “Good choice,” John said. “You’d have to go all the way to St. Louis to find better ice cream.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
What’s the meaning of this?” Papa strode toward us. “You’ve disturbed the entire household, Andrew.” Mama gripped his arm. “For goodness sake, Henry, don’t frighten the child. Haven’t you done enough damage? I told you not to whip him!” Papa made an effort to calm down. Taking a deep breath, he squatted in front of me. “What’s troubling you, son?” he asked. “Surely a spanking didn’t cause this.” Aching with sadness, I put my arms around his neck. I’d won, I’d finally beaten Andrew. I’d thought I’d be happy, but I wasn’t. “I don’t want to leave you and Mama,” I sobbed. Papa held me tight. “Now, now,” he said. “Where did you get such a silly notion? You aren’t going anywhere.” While Papa comforted me, Andrew climbed onto his father’s shoulders, piggyback style. No one saw him but me. No one heard him say, “Hush Drew, you’re shaming me in front of everyone.” Ignorant of Andrew’s presence, Papa shivered. “Fall’s coming. Feel the nip in the air?” Hannah and Theo were waiting for us at the bottom of the steps. “Mama,” Theo whispered, “is Andrew sick again?” Mama shook her head, but Theo looked unconvinced. Slipping his hand in Hannah’s, he watched Papa lay me on my bed. On the other side of the room, Andrew took a seat in the rocking chair. It was obvious he didn’t enjoy being invisible. Staring at Hannah and Theo, he rocked the chair vigorously. When that didn’t get their attention, he sang “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” at the top of his lungs. But no matter what he said or did, he couldn’t make his sister or his brother see or hear him. I knew Andrew was sad, but I was even sadder. When Mama leaned over to kiss me, I hugged her so tight she could hardly breathe. “I’ll never forget you,” I whispered. Mama drew back. “What did you say?” “Nothing,” I mumbled. “I love you, Mama.” She smiled. “Well, for goodness sake, you little jackanapes, I love you too.” Smoothing the quilt over me, she turned to the others. “What Andrew needs is a good night’s sleep. In the morning, he’ll be himself again, just wait and see.” “I hope so,” Andrew said.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
Reaching out, Andrew crooked his little finger with mine. “If I live, I’ll find a way to let you know, Drew,” he promised. “I owe you that much--and a whole lot more.” After a little silence, Andrew’s face brightened. “You don’t suppose you could stay, do you? Just think of the fun we’d have playing tricks on Edward and Mrs. Armiger.” He laughed at his own thoughts. “Why, we’d make their heads spin, Drew. They wouldn’t know one of us from the other.” For a moment, it seemed possible. My mother and father were away, they wouldn’t miss me. As for Aunt Blythe--well, we’d think of some way to let her know I was all right. We were bouncing on the bed, singing “Yip-I-Addy-I-Ay,” when the door opened and Mama appeared. It was Andrew she looked at, not me. “Why are you still awake?” she asked. “I told you to go to sleep.” As Mama approached the bed, Andrew flung his arms around her. “You can see me, Mama,” he cried. “Oh, thank the Lord! It’s me, your own true son, back again for keeps.” She stared at him, perplexed. “What nonsense is this? Of course I can see you. Of course it’s you. Who else would it be, you silly goose?” I slid off the bed and ran to her side. “Me,” I shouted, “it could be me.” When Mama didn’t even blink, I tugged at her nightgown. “Look at me,” I begged. “I’m here too, we both are. Andrew and me. Can’t you see us both?” I hugged her, but all she did was shiver. “No wonder this room is so drafty,” she murmured. “The attic door is wide open.” Andrew and I stared at each other, his face reflecting my disappointment. He was visible, I was invisible. Like the design on his quilt, the pattern had reversed. Sadly I released Mama. As I turned away, Andrew whispered, “We’ll meet again, Drew. I swear it.” Mama looked at him. “What did you say?” “Oh, nothing.” Hiding his face from his mother, Andrew winked at me and said, “I was just talking to myself, Mama.” I took one long last look at Andrew. Much as I wanted to stay, it was time to leave. When Mama reached out to close the attic door, I slipped through it like a ghost. The door shut behind me. I was alone at the bottom of the dark stairs with nowhere to go but home.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
After a while, Hannah said, “I heard Papa and Mama talking last night. Mama told Papa she thinks John Larkin is fond of me.” To my annoyance, a little smile danced across her face. “I’m fond of John too,” she admitted, “but Papa--” Hannah bit her lip and frowned. “Papa said a girl with my notions will never find a husband. He told Mama I’d end up an old-maid suffragette. Those were his very words, Andrew.” Forgetting everything except making her happy, I said, “No matter what Papa thinks, you’ll marry John. What’s more, women will get the vote and drive cars and do everything men do, even wear trousers and run for president.” Hannah sucked in her breath. “The way you talk, Andrew. I could swear you’ve been looking in a crystal ball.” Clapping my hand over my mouth, I stared at her. Whatever had made me say so much? I didn’t even want to think about her marrying John, and here I’d gone and told her she would, as well as revealing a bunch of other stuff she shouldn’t know. “Do you see anything else in my future?” Hannah was leaning toward me, her face inches from mine, gazing into my eyes, her lips slightly parted. “Will John and I be happy? Will we have lots of children? Will we live a long, long time?” I tightened my grip on the branch. I was drowning, losing my identity, speaking words that made no sense. “You’ll be old when I’m young,” I whispered, “but I’ll remember, I’ll never forget, I’ll always love--” “What are you talking about?” Hannah reached out and grabbed my shoulders. “Are you all right?” For a moment, I was too dizzy to answer. I wasn’t sure who I was or where I was or what we’d been talking about. Feeling sick, I clung to the tree. Gradually, things came back into focus, the world steadied. Birds sang, leaves rustled, the branches swayed slightly. The strength in Hannah’s hands calmed me. I took a few deep breaths and managed to smile. Hannah relaxed, but she was obviously still worried. “Will you ever be yourself again, Andrew?” “I hope so.” I said it so fervently Hannah looked at me oddly. If only I could tell her the truth. She’d understand everything then. But would she believe me? Hannah sighed and wiped the sweat off her face with the back of her hand. “I reckon the heat’s enough to give anybody the fantods.” She smiled at me. “Come on, Andrew, I’ll race you to the pump for a drink.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
You aren’t worried about tomorrow, are you?” “What do you think?” He propped himself up on his elbows and studied my face. “You told me last spring it was the easiest thing in the whole wide world. You could hardly wait to jump. Why, even when you got sick you worried you’d die without having a chance to do it.” “I must have been a raving lunatic,” I muttered. Theo scowled, but the sound of a Model T chugging up the driveway stopped him from saying more. Its headlamps lit the trees and washed across the house. “It’s John again,” Theo said. “Papa will start charging him room and board soon.” Hidden in the shadows, we watched John jump out of the car and run up the porch steps. Hannah met him at the door. From inside the house, their laughter floated toward us as silvery as moonlight, cutting into my heart like a knife. “Hannah has a beau.” Theo sounded as if he were trying out a new word, testing it for rightness. He giggled. “Do you think she lets him kiss her?” I spat in the grass, a trick I’d learned from Edward. “Don’t be silly.” “What’s silly about smooching? When I’m old enough, I plan to kiss Marie Jenkins till our lips melt.” Making loud smacking sounds with his mouth, Theo demonstrated. Pushing him away, I wrestled him to the ground and started tickling him. As he pleaded for mercy, we heard the screen door open. Thinking Mama was about to call us inside, we broke apart and lay still. It was Hannah and John. “They’re sitting in the swing,” Theo whispered. “Come on, let’s spy on them. I bet a million zillion dollars they start spooning.” Stuffing his jar of fireflies into his shirt, Theo dropped to his knees and crawled across the lawn toward the house. I followed him, sure he was wrong. Hannah wasn’t old enough for kissing. Or silly enough. We reached the bushes beside the porch without being seen. Crouched in the dirt, we were so close I could have reached up and grabbed Hannah’s ankle. To keep from giggling, Theo pressed his hands over his mouth. Sick with jealousy, I watched John put his arm around Hannah and draw her close. As his lips met hers, I felt Theo jab my side. I teetered and lost my balance. The bushes swayed, the leaves rustled, a twig snapped under my feet. “Be quiet,” Theo hissed in my ear. “Do you want to get us killed?” We backed out of the bushes, hoping to escape, but it was too late. Leaving John in the swing, Hannah strode down the porch steps, grabbed us each by an ear, and shook us like rats. “Can’t a body have a second of privacy?
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
When Mama leaned over to kiss me, I hugged her so tight she could hardly breathe. “I’ll never forget you,” I whispered. Mama drew back. “What did you say?” “Nothing,” I mumbled. “I love you, Mama.” She smiled. “Well, for goodness sake, you little jackanapes, I love you too.” Smoothing the quilt over me, she turned to the others. “What Andrew needs is a good night’s sleep. In the morning, he’ll be himself again, just wait and see.” “I hope so,” Andrew said. Papa frowned. “No one will get any sleep, good or bad, with Buster making such a racket. I don’t know what ails that animal.” While we’d been talking, Andrew had gone to the window and whistled for the dog. Though the Tylers hadn’t heard the loud two-fingered blast, Buster definitely had. His howls made the hair on my neck prickle. Even Andrew looked frightened. He backed away from the window and sat quietly in the rocker. “Edward told me a dog howls when somebody in the family is about to die,” Theo said uneasily. Papa shook his head. “That’s superstitious nonsense, Theodore. Surely you know better than to believe someone as well known for mendacity as your cousin.” Muttering to himself, Papa left the room. Taking Theo with her, Mama followed, but Hannah lingered by the bed. I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Don’t leave yet,” I begged. “Stay a while.” Hannah hesitated for a moment, her face solemn, her eyes worried. “Mama’s right, Andrew,” she said softly. “You need to rest, you’ve overexcited yourself again. We’ve got all day tomorrow to sit in the tree and talk.” When Hannah reached up to turn off the gas jet, I glanced at Andrew. He was watching his sister from the rocker, his eyes fixed longingly on her face. A little wave of jealousy swept over me. He’d get to be with her for years, but all I had were a few more minutes. In the darkness, Hannah smiled down at me. “Close your eyes,” she said. “Go to sleep.” “But I’ll never see you again.” Hannah’s smile vanished. “Don’t talk nonsense,” she whispered. “You’ll see me tomorrow and every day after that.” In the corner, Andrew stared at his sister and rocked the chair harder. In the silent room I heard it creak, saw it move back and forth. Startled by the sound, Hannah glanced at the rocker and drew in her breath. Turning to me, she said, “Lord, the moon’s making me as fanciful as you. I thought I saw--” She shook her head. “I must need a good night’s sleep myself.” Kissing me lightly on the nose, Hannah left the room without looking at the rocking chair again.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
remembered Stuart did when she wore it. “Think I can wear this one?” “Is too big. I ‘spect Stuart gonna be fighting with ya mama ‘bout wearing
Mary Morony (Apron Strings)
Looking backward should never divert our path to one of hatred and bitterness, for those steps lead nowhere but to destruction. To live in hatred is to miss the point of living.
Mari Serebrov (Mama Namibia)
A girl,” Red whispered. “She’ll be as beautiful and ornery as her mama.
Mary Connealy (Montana Rose (Montana Marriages #1))
Îndreptarul pentru spovedanie era o cărțulie mică și cu paginile roase pe la margini. Se vedea că fusese folosită mult. Conținea, de fapt, o listă cu vreo două sute de păcate descrise pe scurt și instrucțiuni utile pentru cel care se pregătea de spovedanie. Având în față această listă de păcate, ne putem face un amănunțit examen de conștiință. Astfel putem descoperi mai ales păcatele ascunse pe care le-am făcut și nu știam că sunt păcate sau nu ne-am dat seama că păcătuim, scria pe prima pagină, după care urmau câteva sfaturi practice. Cel mai simplu și mai sigur este să luați ceva de scris și o hârtie și, pe măsură ce citiți păcatele, notați pe hârtie pe cele pe care le-ați făcut. Apoi i se explica cititorului că păcatele nu trebuie prezentate preotului pe larg, ci cât mai scurt, fără să se insiste asupra împrejurărilor în care s-au petrecut. — Am deznădăjduit în ajutorul și mila lui Dumnezeu, începu Anastasia cu păcatul numărul 1. Îi explicase Irinei în ce consta pregătirea pentru spovedanie. Stăteau amândouă în pridvorul bisericii, pe o băncuță de lemn, și Anastasia se oferise să bifeze ea păcatele pe o foaie de hârtie, pentru ca Irina să se poată concentra cât mai bine asupra răspunsurilor. — Am deznădăjduit…, repetă Irina. Nu se gândise niciodată că era mare păcat să deznădăjduiești. Anastasia o privi ca să-și dea seama dacă înțelegea despre ce era vorba. Părea să înțeleagă. Puse o liniuță în dreptul păcatului numărul 1. — Am zis că nu mă mai iartă Dumnezeu, că sunt prea păcătoasă și tot în iad voi merge, continuă călugărița cu păcatul al doilea. Irina rămase pe gânduri: deci era păcat să crezi că vei merge în iad! Ea chiar crezuse că fusese în iad. Dar era păcat să nu crezi în iertarea lui Dumnezeu. O privi pe Anastasia și dădu din cap. Da, se îndoise de iertarea lui Dumnezeu. Călugărița trase o liniuță în dreptul păcatului cu numărul 2. Irina se mai învioră. Deci Dumnezeu te iartă. Începea să-i placă trecerea asta în revistă a păcatelor. Parcă era un joc la care câștiga cine făcea mai multe liniuțe. Pe de altă parte, auzind ce păcate mai erau, își dădea seama că pe multe ea nu le făcuse și asta era așa, un fel de ușurare. Am asuprit pe slugi, pe săraci, pe orfani, pe văduve, pe neputincioși. I-am batjocorit. Nu, nu făcuse niciodată păcatul cu numărul 13. Și nici pe numărul 24: Am păgubit sufletește și trupește pe aproapele meu. Nu făcuse nici păcatul cu numărul 35: Am crezut că sufletul, după ce iese din om, trece în diferite animale. Și nici păcatul vrăjitoriei. Nu mutase hotarul ca să ia din terenul vecinului, nu ascunsese în casa ei lucruri străine, nu stricase averea nimănui, nu înșelase statul, nu luase pastile anticoncepționale, nu folosise sterilet, nu făcuse avort, nu preacurvise cu rudă, fin, naș, văr, frate, fiu, fiică, nepot, nu trăise necununată, nu mâncase spurcăciuni, nu făcuse glume despre cele sfinte, nu se împărtășise când fusese la ciclu, nu citise cărți sectare, nu ucisese, cu voie sau fără voie, nu intrase în Sfântul altar, nu dăduse anafură pe jos, nu se căsătorise cu evreu, turc, catolic, sectant…, nu pârâse pe cineva cu scopul de a-i face rău, nu trăsese pe nimeni la judecată. La păcatele 82, 83 și 84 trebui să recunoască: nu se rugase în fiecare dimineață și seară și la fiecare masă, mai mâncase de dulce miercurea și vinerea și nu ținuse cele patru posturi de peste an în întregime. În Germania era altfel, se ținea doar post de carne, dar ouă, lapte și brânză aveai voie. Pe urmă, mama Neli și moșu’, de la Cuptoare, tăiau cinci-șase porci pe an, viței, păsări și întindeau mese mari de sărbători, dar nu se omorau prea tare să postească. În plus, da, mai făcuse și alte păcate: vorbise cu mai multe înțelesuri, mințise,
Anonymous
His mama put down the bag and headed for the door, her mouth a thin line. “Wait! What are you doing? Don’t go over there and yell at her.” Paul jumped off the stool and tried to beat her to the door. “Oh, honey, I would never do that.” His mama stepped into the hallway. “I’m fixin’ to invite her for dinner.
Mary Jane Hathaway (The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River, #1))
And how many boyfriends have you had, Alice?” “Mama,” Paul growled under his breath. “Let the girl eat.” “Can you pass the biscuits?” Andy said. “These are great. So tasty. Fluffy. Just the right amount of…” He frowned at the one in his hand, “…dough.” “It’s okay,” Alice said. She loved those two for trying to run interference, but she knew Creole mamas. They found out the truth, whether you wanted them to or not.
Mary Jane Hathaway (The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River, #1))
. “Don’t be a stranger. And pray about that petition you filed.” “Mama,” Paul groaned. That was the Christian way of saying “I know you’re wrong but you won’t take my word for it, so God will have to explain it to you.
Mary Jane Hathaway (The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River, #1))
You don’t have to walk me back. I live down the hall.” She smiled up at him. “My mama didn’t raise me like that,” Paul said, opening the door. “Actually, your mama has some sense, and would say, ‘She lives twenty feet away,’ but suit yourself,” Mrs. Olivier said.
Mary Jane Hathaway (The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River, #1))
Lucy paused, hands full of green beans, her memory flashing back to the giant pots of crawfish on the stove. Her Mama’s green eyes would squint into the steam, hair pulled back, a frown of concentration on her face. The salted water was flavored and ready to receive the “mudbugs” out of their burlap sacks. Other than an onion or maybe an ear of corn, if it wasn’t alive when you threw it in, then it shouldn’t be in the pot, she’d say. Did her Mama mind that Lucy didn’t cook those old family recipes? Was she turning her back on her culinary heritage as surely as Paulette was? She snapped the ends of the beans faster, glancing at the clock. This whole dinner was breaking her Mama’s cardinal rule: don’t hurry. She thought if a cook was in a hurry, you might as well just make a sandwich and go on your way.
Mary Jane Hathaway (Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread (Jane Austen Takes the South, #3))
Going home in the trolley, Francie held the shoebox in her lap because mama had no lap now. Francie thought deep thoughts during the ride. "If what granma Mary Rommely said is true, then it must be that no one ever dies, really. Papa is gone, but he's still here in many ways. He's here in Neeley who looks just like him and in mama who knew him so long. He's here in his mother who began him and who is still living. Maybe I will have a boy some day who looks like papa and has all of papa's good without the drinking. And that boy will have a boy. And that boy will have a boy. It might be there is no real death.
Anonymous
It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sheffield,” he said politely. “I do hope you will favor me with one of your dances this evening.” “I— Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I would be honored.” “Kate,” Mary said, nudging her softly, “show him your dance card.” “Oh! Yes, of course.” Kate fumbled for her dance card, which was tied prettily to her wrist with a green ribbon. That she had to fumble for anything actually tied to her body was a bit alarming, but Kate decided to blame her lack of composure on the sudden and unexpected appearance of a heretofore unknown Bridgerton brother. That, and the unfortunate fact that even under the best of circumstances she was never the most graceful girl in the room. Colin filled his name in for one of the dances later that evening, then asked if she might like to walk with him to the lemonade table. “Go, go,” Mary said, before Kate could reply. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine without you.” “I can bring you back a glass,” Kate offered, trying to figure out if it was possible to glare at her stepmother without Mr. Bridgerton noticing. “Not necessary. I really should get back to my position with all the other chaperones and mamas.” Mary whipped her head around frantically until she spied a familiar face. “Oh, look, there is Mrs. Featherington. I must be off. Portia! Portia!” Kate watched her stepmother’s rapidly retreating form for a moment before turning back to Mr. Bridgerton. “I think,” she said dryly, “that she doesn’t want any lemonade.” A sparkle of humor glinted in his emerald green eyes. “Either that or she’s planning to run all the way to Spain to pick the lemons herself.” -Colin, Kate, & Mary
Julia Quinn (The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2))
In youth we learn; in age we understand.” ~Marie Ebner-Eschenbach
Betsy McKee Henry (How To Be A Zen Mama, 13 Ways To Let Go, Stop Worrying and Be Closer to Your Kids)
Mama, what kept you moving forward through droughts, wild animals, loneliness? We had no choice. Sadness was as dangerous as panthers and bears. The wilderness needs your whole attention.
Jeannine Atkins (Borrowed Names: Poems About Laura Ingalls Wilder, Madam C.J. Walker, Marie Curie, and Their Daughters)
this poem is for zora, coretta, angela, mary, mama stone kathleen, rosa vivian, irene, virginia, mama lovelady and every child born girl today.
Jessica Care Moore (God Is Not an American (3))
Mama told me not to lie, but I never dreamed the biggest lie of all would turn out to be that science has it wrong on Covid-19.
Mary Lanza
These were the places I felt God, not in the pews of Mama’s churches or in their cemeteries.
Marie Benedict (The Other Einstein)
She knew what they thought was happening. She knew what they thought. But here’s what she saw. Once upon a time, there was a girlchild. A brand new girlchild, smiling. So innocent, so new. Her mama held her tightly, and she was safe. The end. After all, Jesus rose again, didn’t he? And his mama must have held him. Mother Mary in a teal robe, clinging to her child—Pietà turned beautiful. Restored to babe in arms. Bianca’s daughter had returned. Her Jubilee. And she wouldn’t let her go.
Jennifer Givhan (Jubilee)
God not da faddah, he just the spoiled moody child, but you got to go t'rough him to get to da real power, his mama, Mot'er God. She da real Almighty! She run da heavens alone. Original single parent. When somethin' bad happen, usually mean she let God try his hand, and he screw up plenny. You need something important, you go directly Mot'er God. Jesus, Mary, Joseph? Dey just small potatoes, part of the chorus, neh?
Kiana Davenport (Shark Dialogues)
And Mama and Papa did have ten children.... It was all exceedingly embarrassing. Mary
Sally MacKenzie (What to Do with a Duke (Spinster House, #1))
them already packed and waiting.
Marie Ferrarella (Wish Upon a Matchmaker (Matchmaking Mamas #11))
I think the biggest legacy we are going to leave," says Mary Kay Ash, "is a whole community of children who believe they can do anything in this world because they watched their mamas do it.
Bruce J. Avolio (Developing Potential Across a Full Range of Leadership: Cases on Transactional and Transformational Leadership)
She could remember him at church, sitting with his family in the second pew, behind her and her mother. She had worn her hair in long braids as a child, and she had liked to toss the braids over the back of the seat, where they would not dig into her back. One Sunday morning she had been forced to sit through most of her father’s lengthy sermon with her head tilted back at an unnatural angle while Christopher’s knee had kept her braid held firmly against the back of the pew. She had been released finally, she remembered, a moment after hearing the sound of a swift slap immediately behind her. And then there had been the time when Mrs. Sinclair had been visiting at the parsonage and the children had wandered outside. She remembered sitting on a tombstone in the churchyard, finally too terrified either to get down or to turn her head as Christopher stood in front of her, very seriously and sincerely describing the ghosts that came out of the graves at midnight. For many nights after that she had awoken Mama with her screams as she struggled out of some nightmare. Rebecca was very thankful to peel off her remaining clothes when the water finally arrived and to climb into the bathtub and soak in the lukewarm suds. It had been just such a day when she had finally realized that both she and Christopher were
Mary Balogh (The Constant Heart)
His supermarket rarely carried what he wanted anymore, so Cecil had gone to the butcher store around the block from the housing project where the owner was now in the habit of saving chicken feet for him. When he got home, Cecil set a pot of water on the stove. As soon as it boiled, he dropped in the four-pronged feet. After five minutes he took them out and rolled off the skin. Next Cecil pulled out the old black cast-iron skillet that had been his mama's, poured in some oil, and added the feet, frying them up until they were a golden brown. Throwing in some chopped onion and garlic and cooking them until he could see through the onions, Cecil added rice and covered the whole shebang with water. Some salt and pepper, bring to a boil again, put on a lid, and wait till the rice was fluffy and the chicken feet were tender.
Mary Jane Clark (That Old Black Magic (Wedding Cake Mystery, #4))
Her tending to me may not resemble what she does for my siblings, but it is caretaking nonetheless. I know Mama really does still see me as her daughter.
Marie Benedict (The Personal Librarian)
Andrew continues, “The sailor in the New Haven tavern explained to me that there are a large number of deaf and dumb in your town. I can see for myself that is true.” “It has always been that way,” Nancy blurts out, expressing what I’m thinking. “At least, since Mary’s great-great-grandfather Jonathan Lambert arrived on the island.” Andrew glances at Nancy in a way that makes me realize he is the kind of person who thinks children should be seen rather than heard. Mama has commented on Nancy’s poor manners in the past, but now looks at her more sympathetically. “It is true,” Mama signs. “It is nothing unusual.
Ann Clare LeZotte (Show Me a Sign (Show Me a Sign #1))
When explaining why her mother made her learn how to quilt, Lucy Marie Mingo, now eighty-four years old, said, “Mama told me this, and she told the truth. ‘You need to learn how to quilt because when you get married, you don’t know how many children you’re going to have. So if you know how to make your own quilts, you won’t have to buy everything.
Ingrid Fetell Lee (Joyful: The Surprising Power of Ordinary Things to Create Extraordinary Happiness)
While segregation is the law of the South, the tentacles of Jim Crow have stretched into New York, too. So many policies reinforce discrimination and relegate the colored to the worst neighborhoods and to employment with the lowest pay and station. Since Papa left, we have been living on the edge, but as whites, we surely have lived a better existence than if we’d lived the truth—and that is because of Mama.
Marie Benedict (The Personal Librarian)
I'm the first of us to go. Don't you dare argue with me. ~ Nana Mama
James Patterson (Mary, Mary (Alex Cross, #11))
My mama would like to go to the new church too, but Daddy won’t agree.  Somehow I can’t see Mama jumping up and down, clapping, hollering ‘Praise Jesus’ and all that stuff.  I don’t know why she thinks she would enjoy that kind of church except that her daddy is the preacher.
Mary Jane Salyers (Appalachian Daughter)
We need to get home or Mama’ll scold us for dilly dallying.
Mary Jane Salyers (Appalachian Daughter)
Corie Mae knelt beside him to get a good look. “Oh lordy, looks like you got the chickenpox.” Maggie nodded. “You know, Mama, Charlie Haskins got chickenpox during Bible School, and Johnny Ray sat by him on the church bus. I guess that’s where he got them.” “This explains why you complained of feeling poorly the last couple days. Do you feel like eating some breakfast?” Johnny Ray nodded and took his usual place on the bench at the back side of the table. “Now I guess Jay and Junior’ll get them too.  I’m glad the rest of you kids done had chicken pox.
Mary Jane Salyers (Appalachian Daughter)
Maggie looked around. “Where’s Mama? Isn’t she even going to tell me goodbye?” “Nah, she’s hoeing in the garden,” Stuart said as he handed Maggie a little wooden whistle he had made.
Mary Jane Salyers (Appalachian Daughter)
Acting had been a ward against childhood loneliness, a way to fill my quiet existence with people beyond the ever-present nanny and tutor but the ever-absent Mama and Papa. It started as the simple creation of characters and stories for my many dolls on an impromptu stage created under the huge desk in Papa’s study, but then, unexpectedly, role-playing became much, much more. When I went to school—and suddenly became introduced to a wide, dizzying array of people—acting became my way of moving through the world, a sort of currency upon which I could draw whenever I needed. I could become whatever those around me secretly longed for, and I, in turn, got whatever I wanted from them.
Marie Benedict (The Only Woman in the Room)
I am responsible to many more than just Mama and my siblings. The world I inhabit may not know that I am colored, but there will be some, like this woman, who will discover my secret, and I wish that, in some small way, my achievements will give them hope.
Marie Benedict (The Personal Librarian)
Mama bears and strong fathers know that the health and safety of our children is more important than “fitting in” or living without conflict.
Jessica Marie Baumgartner
tensions have escalated throughout the nation. Lynchings by the Ku Klux Klan are continuing, as are race wars and massacres of colored people in cities like Tulsa, Oklahoma; Rosewood, Florida; and even my beloved Washington, DC, as Mama predicted long ago. The most terrifying part of all of this is that the federal and state governments have endorsed these mounting racist sentiments by rejecting anti-lynching bills like the Dyer Act, despite President Harding’s support, and by adopting despicable legislation like Virginia’s Racial Integrity Act, which prohibits interracial marriage and defines “white” as one with no trace of blood other than Caucasian. No, in this environment, I can take no unnecessary risks.
Marie Benedict (The Personal Librarian)
never listen and mama's gonna be more mad at you!
Mary Sue (Lucky The Lion Cubs Quest)
Each flower must emerge from the darkness to bathe in the light." Mary recalled her mother's words, as well as the emotional inflection she had used to express them. Mama had always sounded as if she were singing. If her voice had been a season, it would have been spring, for there had been such hope in Mama's words.
Mary Calvi (Dear George, Dear Mary: A Novel of George Washington's First Love)
You know what I’m gonna do? A lot of obscene and illegal stuff, I’d wager. He said, I’m gonna fix this Lincoln up and drive it back to Leechfield. My senior year ride. No more Mama’s Torino. Like you will, I said. Like I won’t. My brain was starting to melt and soften again around an old image of Daddy from childhood. How he’d come home at dawn in his denim shirt, and I’d be the only one up, peering out the back drapes till he walked across the patio. Lots of times, he’d come in and lie on his stomach on the bare boards of our yet-to-be-carpeted floor, and I’d walk barefoot along his spine. I’d have to hold on to the bookcase to keep from sliding off the sloping muscles of his back, but I’d work my toes under his scapular bones, and he’d ask, You feel my wings growing under there, Pokey? And I’d allege that I did. He claimed it always helped him get to sleep in the daylight. It was maybe the only time I felt like a contributor to the household, somehow useful in our small economy.
Mary Karr (Lit)
The marchioness destroyed more than just her own life. She permanently scarred the life of her fourteen-year-old son. It was really no excuse that she did not know he was aware of the truth. Our father, who perhaps assumed that what he did during the spring months here in London while he was away from Mama and all of us would do us no harm, was actually wreaking future havoc upon all of us.
Mary Balogh (Remember Me (Ravenswood, #2))
I want to make the world and life perfect for all of you. Including Mama. But that is not within my power, is it?” “No.” She shook her head. “It is enough that you love us all, Dev.
Mary Balogh (Remember Me (Ravenswood, #2))
Acting had been a ward against childhood loneliness, a way to fill my quiet existence with people beyond the ever-present nanny and tutor but the ever-absent Mama and Papa. It started as the simple creation of characters and stories for my many dolls on an impromptu stage created under the huge desk in Papa’s study, but then, unexpectedly, role-playing became much, much more. When I went to school—and suddenly became introduced to a wide, dizzying array of people—acting became my way of moving through the world, a sort of currency upon which I could draw whenever I needed. I could become whatever those around me secretly longed for, and I, in turn, got whatever I wanted from them. It wasn’t until I stepped on my first stage, however, that I comprehended the breadth of my gift. I could bury myself and assume the mask of an entirely different person, one crafted by a director or a writer. I could turn my gaze on the audience and wield my capacity to influence them.
Marie Benedict (The Only Woman in the Room)
If Eve and Ruth and Rachel and Elizabeth and Mary and millions more in between were able to muddle through this mess of motherhood by God’s grace, then so can we.
Abbie Halberstadt (M Is for Mama: A Rebellion Against Mediocre Motherhood)
She's Rahtan. They can't be trusted." "I wish you rest, Mama.
Mary E. Pearson (Dance of Thieves & Vow of Thieves)
Sit down! You’ll do what I tell you.” Corie Mae shook her finger in Betty Lou’s face. “Just because you’re learning music, you ain’t too good to mind your mama. Now sit down, right now!
Mary Jane Salyers (Appalachian Daughter)
When Corie Mae came back inside, Maggie handed her the ten-dollar bill Mrs. Lewis had given her.  “Here, Mama, maybe this will pay some on the bills.  I wish I had some way to make more money, but at least I can do this much.” Corie Mae put the money in her apron pocket and walked into the front room without saying anything.  Maggie stared into the darkness outside the kitchen window and listened to the wind whipping through the bare trees.  I thought she’d at least say “thank you.
Mary Jane Salyers (Appalachian Daughter)
Annie Marie’s jeans, which reached only a few inches below her knees.  If Mama saw me like this, she’d give me the thrashing of my life.
Mary Jane Salyers (Appalachian Daughter)
Maggie gathered up his books and put them into the wagon beside him. “Now, Stuart, be careful.” “You’re getting as bad as Mama. Just because he’s got a bad heart don’t mean he can’t never have no fun!
Mary Jane Salyers (Appalachian Daughter)
PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY The Old North bell tolls the hour, and I realize that I’ll be late. I long to break into a sprint, my voluminous skirts lifted, my legs flying along the Princeton University pathways. But just as I gather the heavy material, I hear Mama’s voice: Belle, be a lady at all times. I sigh; a lady would never run
Marie Benedict (The Personal Librarian)
Mary and I are about as unalike as two sisters can be. Our stories are similar in many ways, but we told them to ourselves so differently. We tried to get along, but mostly we only pretended to. Now, at the end of our time together, as she asks me to make the same promise to her that she made to her mama, we won’t even be able to pretend. “I promise I’ll do what I believe is best.” Mary turns toward the dim glow of the curtained window. “Mother was right. You Powell women never could be trusted.
Jeannette Walls (Hang the Moon)
She would just tell us what she wanted,” recalled Elvis’s cook, Mary Jenkins. “One time she said, ‘I want a different cake every day of the week, but don’t tell Mama—she’ll put me on a diet.
Suzanne Finstad (Child Bride: The Untold Story of Priscilla Beaulieu Presley)