Morton Building Quotes

It’s very common for people coming from a broken home to want material possessions around them. They are building their own nests.

People marveled at her ability to build characters from the inside out, to submerge herself and disappear beneath the skin of another person, but there was no trick to it; she merely bothered to learn the character's secrets. Laurel knew quite a bit about keeping secrets. She also knew that was where the real people were found, hiding behind their black spots.

I thought we might even retell some of the stories she used to invent for us." "Like the one about the gate at the bottom of the garden that led to fairyland." "And the dragon eggs she found in the woods." "And the time she ran away to join the circus." "Do you remember," said Iris suddenly, "the circus we had here?" "My circus," said Daphne, beaming from behind her wineglass. "Well, yes," Iris interjected, "but only because-" "Because I'd had the horrid measles and missed the real circus when it came to town." Daphne laughed with pleasure at the memory. "She got Daddy to build a tent at the bottom of the meadow, remember, and organized all of you to be clowns. Laurel was a lion, and Mummy walked the tightrope." "She was rather good at that," said Iris. "Barely fell off the rope. She must've practiced for weeks." "Or else her story was true and she really did spend time in the circus," said Rose. "I can almost believe it of Mummy." Daphne gave a contented sigh. "We were lucky to have a mother like ours, weren't we? So playful, almost as if she hadn't fully grown up, not at all like other people's boring old mothers.

Not-withstanding the fact that cutting granite with copper chisels is an impossibility, Egyptologists have asserted that the pyramid builders predated the Bronze Age, and, therefore, were limited in their choice of metals with which to make their tools. Therefore, they say that copper was the only metal that the ancient Egyptians used to fashion the stones with which they built the Great Pyramid. They say this while evidence of prehistoric iron—proving that the ancient Egyptians had developed and used it when building the Great Pyramid—is in the keeping of the British Museum. The discoverers of this piece of iron go to great lengths to argue for and document its authenticity, as John and Morton Edgar point out in their book Great Pyramid Passages. […] Despite the [...] testimonials, because the chronology for the development of metals did not include wrought iron in the age of the pyramids, the specialists at the British Museum concluded that this wrought-iron artifact could not be genuine and must have been introduced in modern times. […] The profession as a whole has been unable to cope with the idea of a piece of wrought iron being contemporary with the Great Pyramid. Such a notion goes completely against the grain of every preconception that Egyptologists internalize throughout their careers concerning the ways in which civilizations evolve and develop. […] Egyptologists have a vested interest in continuing their teachings as they have taught them for the past century. To do otherwise would be to admit that they have been wrong. The iron plate is just a small, though significant, item in a large collection of anomalies that have been ignored or misinterpreted by many academics because they contradict their orthodox beliefs.

If I was building a tree house and Charlie Hunnam brought me some sticks, I’d use them.” “Ivo is not your dog.

Robert Gorges and his party arrived in Boston Bay in 1623, during what is now the latter part of September. They established themselves in the buildings which had been occupied by Weston’s people during the previous winter, and which had been deserted by them a few days less than six months before. The site of those buildings cannot be definitely fixed. It is supposed to have been on Phillips Creek, a small tidal inlet of the Weymouth fore-river, a short distance above the Quincy-Point bridge.

It's very common for people coming from a broken home to want material possessions around them. They are building their own nests.

He shakes his head furiously. “I won’t go to her Nell. I can’t because I don’t want her, and I haven’t for a long time. I belong to you and the only woman that I see is you, and that’s never going to change. I want you for everything that makes you mine. I want what we were building on tour but I want it for always – us together laughing, talking and making love. We were a team and we looked out for each other. At the end of the day you’ve changed me in so many ways there is no way that I can go back to the old me.” He pauses and then straightens and his voice firms. “I don’t want to go back. I want to go forward, but only with you.

Writing a book is like building a house: it takes time and effort, and you need a firm underlying structure to hold it together so that the pretty trims don’t collapse under close inspection. Give yourself the time to work out the direction in which your story needs to go.

It is a strange world that has lost children and mute lightning in it, and where two men can sit overlooking an abandoned mining town and talk in sadness and hope of building ships to whitewash far-off ocean skies.

He was like a fireman of intellectual life, rescuing frail forgotten thinkers from the burning building of time.

March 4 The Salt of the Earth Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.—Colossians 4:6 I grew up out in the country of east Tennessee, and our neighbors were dairy farmers. I remember the cows gathering around the salt-lick, a huge block of salt hung on a post about as high as the cattle’s mouth. They not only craved the salt, they needed it. All of us need a certain amount of salt in our bodies. This verse reminds me of a salt-lick. Just as all creatures crave salt, all people crave words of blessing and encouragement. Salt adds flavor. As Christians, our conversation should be flavored with words that bless the lives of others —words that compliment, build up, comfort, express kindness. Salt also preserves against corruption. The things we do and say can be a witness to others to bring them to the Lord; perhaps to bring them back to Him and help them remain faithful. In Matthew 5:13, Jesus tells his disciples that they are the salt of the earth, but warns them that if the salt loses its flavor, it is of no good to anyone. In Bible time, the salt they used was sea salt which was mixed with impurities. Those impurities caused the salt to lose its flavor. I have a friend who works for Morton Salt Company. He says their salt is 100% sodium chloride. It will never lose its flavor, because it is pure. You are the salt of the earth. Don’t let the impurities of the world cause you to lose your flavor!

When I think of you, I don’t think of chains. I think of laughter in the dark and the sweet smell of all your bloody candles which means that we’ll never be caught short by a power cut. I think of the man who builds dangerous book towers on his bedside table that threaten life and limb, and who makes my house a real home by making me buy fucking orange sofas. The man who makes me face the prospect that I’m going to have to continue buying bookshelves until one day either our floors collapse or we give up and buy a new house. I think of being in love with my best friend and staying that way.

Frank and Joe were mystified as they drove away from the Haley Building. Both boys would have liked to go out in their boat to sift through their thoughts in the fresh salt air and sunshine. Since the Sleuth was not yet repaired, they settled for a drive to the harbor. The Napoli was moored at the dock. Tony was touching up worn spots with varnish, while Chet Morton lolled on a thwart, practicing knots. Frank and Joe strolled out to chat with them.

have been known to fall in love with buildings, but my true home—my still point in the turning world—is my family.

People who grow up in old houses come to understand that buildings have characters. That they have memories and secrets to tell. One must merely learn to listen, and then to comprehend, as with any language.

My grandfather built Darling House five years after he'd arrived from Scotland. He knew by then that the climate was going to require something different from what he'd been used to as a boy." "She's a grand old lady," Matt said of the house. "Dressed up in an iron-lace shawl, looking out over her harbor." Nora smiled. "That's exactly what she is. It's the reason she and I get on so well together. We're two of a kind." Nora had lived in Darling House all her life and was as much a part of the building as the pair of lions guarding its entrance gate and the brick chimneys punctuating the sparkling blue sky. It was almost impossible to imagine her anywhere else. Jess had only to close her eyes now to invoke a vivid picture of her grandmother standing on the wide concrete steps that led to the front door, both arms lifted in welcome.

When she was starting out as an actress, a well-known director had leaned over his script, straightened his Coke-bottle glasses, and told Laurel she hadn't the looks to play leading roles. The advice had stung, and she'd wailed and railed, and then spent hours catching herself accidentally on purpose in the mirror before hacking her long hair short in the grip of drunken bravura. But it had proven a "moment" in her career. She was a character actress. The director cast her as the leading lady's sister, and she garnered her first rave reviews. People marveled at her ability to build characters from the inside out, to submerge herself and disappear beneath the skin of another person, but there was no trick to it; she merely bothered to learn the character's secrets. Laurel knew quite a bit about keeping secrets. She also knew that was where the real people were found, hiding behind their black spots.

Spices from the Far East- clove and sandalwood and saffron- had drifted through the building's veins from the perfumery next door, infusing the satchel with a hint of faraway places. Open me... The woman in the white gloves unlatched the dull silver buckle and the satchel held its breath. Open me, open me, open me... She pushed back its leather strap and for the first time in over a century light swept into the satchel's dark corners. An onslaught of memories- fragmented, confused- arrived with it: a bell tinkling above the door at W. Simms & Son; the swish of a young woman's skirts; the thud of horses' hooves; the smell of fresh paint and turpentine; heat, lust, whispering. Gaslight in railway stations; a long, winding river; the wheat fragrance of summer-

And just wait until you see how soft and green the countryside is in summer! How gentle and floral, filled with honeysuckles and primroses, narrow laneways and hedgerows... These foreign words, spoken with a romantic longing that Ada could not understand and did not trust, she had turned over with the dispassionate interest of an archaeologist building a picture of a distant civilization. She had been born in Bombay, and India was as much a part of her as the nose on her face and the freckles that covered it. She didn't recognize words like "soft" and "gentle" and "narrow": her world was vast and sudden and blazing. It was a place of unspeakable beauty- of brilliant flowers on the terrace and sweet swooning fragrance in the dead of night- but also of mercurial cruelty. It was her home.

People , by and large, are fearful of old buildings, just as they fear the elderly themselves.