Straw Bale Quotes

Fred had trocharised a bloated cow and the farmer had been so impressed by the pent up gas hissing from the abdomen that Fred had got carried away and applied his cigarette lighter to the canula. A roaring sheet of flame had swept on to some straw bales and burned the byre to the ground.

There was no Disney World then, just rows of orange trees. Millions of them. Stretching for miles And somewhere near the middle was the Citrus Tower, which the tourists climbed to see even more orange trees. Every month an eighty-year-old couple became lost in the groves, driving up and down identical rows for days until they were spotted by helicopter or another tourist on top of the Citrus Tower. They had lived on nothing but oranges and come out of the trees drilled on vitamin C and checked into the honeymoon suite at the nearest bed-and-breakfast. "The Miami Seaquarium put in a monorail and rockets started going off at Cape Canaveral, making us feel like we were on the frontier of the future. Disney bought up everything north of Lake Okeechobee, preparing to shove the future down our throats sideways. "Things evolved rapidly! Missile silos in Cuba. Bales on the beach. Alligators are almost extinct and then they aren't. Juntas hanging shingles in Boca Raton. Richard Nixon and Bebe Rebozo skinny-dipping off Key Biscayne. We atone for atrocities against the INdians by playing Bingo. Shark fetuses in formaldehyde jars, roadside gecko farms, tourists waddling around waffle houses like flocks of flightless birds. And before we know it, we have The New Florida, underplanned, overbuilt and ripe for a killer hurricane that'll knock that giant geodesic dome at Epcot down the trunpike like a golf ball, a solid one-wood by Buckminster Fuller. "I am the native and this is my home. Faded pastels, and Spanish tiles constantly slipping off roofs, shattering on the sidewalk. Dogs with mange and skateboard punks with mange roaming through yards, knocking over garbage cans. Lunatics wandering the streets at night, talking about spaceships. Bail bondsmen wake me up at three A.M. looking for the last tenant. Next door, a mail-order bride is clubbed by a smelly ma in a mechanic's shirt. Cats violently mate under my windows and rats break-dance in the drop ceiling. And I'm lying in bed with a broken air conditioner, sweating and sipping lemonade through a straw. And I'm thinking, geez, this used to be a great state. "You wanna come to Florida? You get a discount on theme-park tickets and find out you just bough a time share. Or maybe you end up at Cape Canaveral, sitting in a field for a week as a space shuttle launch is canceled six times. And suddenly vacation is over, you have to catch a plane, and you see the shuttle take off on TV at the airport. But you keep coming back, year after year, and one day you find you're eighty years old driving through an orange grove.

Poem of Thanks Years later, long single, I want to turn to his departed back, and say, What gifts we had of each other! What pleasure — confiding, open-eyed, fainting with what we were allowed to stay up late doing. And you couldn’t say, could you, that the touch you had from me was other than the touch of one who could love for life — whether we were suited or not — for life, like a sentence. And now that I consider, the touch that I had from you became not the touch of the long view, but like the tolerant willingness of one who is passing through. Colleague of sand by moonlight — and by beach noonlight, once, and of straw, salt bale in a barn, and mulch inside a garden, between the rows — once- partner of up against the wall in that tiny bathroom with the lock that fluttered like a chrome butterfly beside us, hip-height, the familiar of our innocence, which was the ignorance of what would be asked, what was required, thank you for every hour. And I accept your thanks, as if it were a gift of yours, to give them — let’s part equals, as we were in every bed, pure equals of the earth.

Those faces on Main Street shaded by wide straw hats are surrounded in my child-memory by hardware and ploughs, seed bags and bales of cotton, the smell of guano and mule lots, hot sun on sidewalks and lovely white ladies with sweet childlike voices and smooth childlike faces, and Old gardens of boxwood and camellias, and fields endlessly curving around my small world. I know now that the bitterness, the cruel sensual lips, the quick fears in hard eyes, the sashshaying buttocks of brown girls, the thin childish voices of white women, had a great deal to do with high interest at the bank and low wages in the mills and gullied fields and lynchings and Ku Klux Klan and segregation and sacred womanhood and revivals, and Prohibition. And that no part of this memory can be understood without recalling it all of it.

His father had a merciless eye that could find one bad straw in ten bales of good intentions.

Permaculture is not just about the elements of a system; it is also about the flows and connections among those elements. You can have solar power, an organic garden, an electric car, and a straw bale house and still not live in a permaculture. A project becomes a permaculture only when special attention is paid to the relationships between each element, among the functions of those elements, and among the people who work within the system.

I regret that almost all novels ever written are much too obedient to the rules of unity of action. What I mean to say is that at their core is one single chain of causally related acts and events. These novels are like a narrow street along which someone drives his characters with a whip. Dramatic tension is the real curse of the novel, because it transforms everything, even the most beautiful pages, even the most surprising scenes and observations merely into steps leading to the final resolution, in which the meaning of everything that preceded is concentrated. The novel is consumed in the fire of its own tension like a bale of straw… Do you think that everything that is not a mad chase after a final resolution is a bore? As you eat this wonderful duck are you bored? Are you rushing towards a goal? On the contrary, you want the duck to enter into a slowly as possible and you never want its taste to end. A novel shouldn’t be like a bicycle race but a feast of many courses.

some older people who need to sit down, Barb. We can’t put chairs out. I don’t want them to get too comfy or we’ll never get rid of them.’ ‘Oh, you’re being ridiculous.’ Henry is thinking that this is a fine time to call him ridiculous. He never wanted the stupid vigil. In bed last night they had another spit-whispered row about it. We could have it at the front of the house, Barbara had said when the vicar called by. Henry had quite explicitly said he would not support anything churchy – anything that would feel like a memorial service. But the vicar had said the idea of a vigil was exactly the opposite. That the community would like to show that they have not given up. That they continue to support the family. To pray for Anna’s safe return. Barbara was delighted and it was all agreed. A small event at the house. People would walk from the village, or park on the industrial estate and walk up the drive. ‘This was your idea, Barbara.’ ‘The vicar’s, actually. People just want to show support. That is what this is about.’ ‘This is ghoulish, Barb. That’s what this is.’ He moves the tractor across the yard again, depositing two more bales of straw alongside the others. ‘There. That should be enough.’ Henry looks across at his wife and is struck by the familiar contradiction. Wondering how on earth they got here. Not just since Anna disappeared, but across the twenty-two years of their marriage. He wonders if all marriages end up like this. Or if he is simply a bad man. For as Barbara sweeps her hair behind her ear and tilts up her chin, Henry can still see the full lips, perfect teeth and high cheekbones that once made him feel so very differently. It’s a pendulum that still confuses him, makes him wish he could rewind. To go back to the Young Farmers’ ball, when she smelled so divine and everything seemed so easy and hopeful. And he is wishing, yes, that he could go back and have another run. Make a better job of it. All of it. Then he closes his eyes. The echo again of Anna’s voice next to him in the car. You disgust me, Dad. He wants the voice to stop. To be quiet. Wants to rewind yet again. To when Anna was little and loved him, collected posies on Primrose Lane. To when he was her hero and she wanted to race him back to the house for tea. Barbara is now looking across the yard to the brazier. ‘You’re going to light a fire, Henry?’ ‘It will be cold. Yes.’ ‘Thank you. I’m doing soup in mugs, too.’ A pause then. ‘You really think this is a mistake, Henry? I didn’t realise it would upset you quite so much. I’m sorry.’ ‘It’s OK, Barbara. Let’s just make the best of it now.’ He slams the tractor into reverse and moves it out of the yard and back into its position inside the barn. There, in the semi-darkness, his heartbeat finally begins to settle and he sits very still on the tractor, needing the quiet, the stillness. It was their reserve position, to have the vigil under cover in this barn, if the weather was bad. But it has been a fine day. Cold but with a clear, bright sky, so they will stay out of doors. Yes. Henry rather hopes the cold will drive everyone home sooner, soup or no soup. And now he thinks he will sit here for a while longer, actually. Yes. It’s nice here alone in the barn. He finds

Deslondes briefly escaped the initial wave of slaughter by hiding in the swamp but was quickly captured and executed. His hands were chopped off, the bones in his legs were shattered by bullets, and he was burned over a bale of straw.

Most of the Science Crapp was still packed in the crates, barrels, bundles, and bales in which it had been carted hither. Each of these containers was an impediment to the casual investigator. Daniel spied a crate, not far below the rafters, with its lid slightly askew. The only thing atop it was a glass bell jar covering a dessicated owl. Daniel set the bird to one side, drew out the crate, and pulled off the lid. It was the old Archbishop of York’s beetle collection, lovingly packed in straw. This, and the owl, told all. It was as he had feared. Birds and bugs, top to bottom, front to back. All salvaged, not because they had innate value, but because they’d been given to the Royal Society by important people. They’d been kept here just as a young couple keeps the ugly wedding present from the rich aunt.

We live on a cursed earth in a cursed universe. Both are under the baleful influence of Satan, who is both “the god of this world” (2 Cor. 4:4), and “the prince of the power of the air” (Eph. 2:2). The devastating effects of the curse and satanic influence will reach a terrifying climax in the events of the Tribulation. Some of the various bowl, trumpet, and seal judgments are demonic, others represent natural phenomena gone wild as God lets loose His wrath. At the culmination of that time of destruction and chaos, Christ returns and sets up His kingdom. During His millennial reign, the effects of the curse will begin to be reversed. The Bible gives us a glimpse of what the restored creation will be like. There will be dramatic changes in the animal world. In Isaiah we learn that The wolf will dwell with the lamb, and the leopard will lie down with the kid, and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little boy will lead them. Also the cow and the bear will graze; their young will lie down together; and the lion will eat straw like the ox. And the nursing child will play by the hole of the cobra, and the weaned child will put his hand on the viper’s den. They will not hurt or destroy in all My holy mountain. (Isa. 11:6-9) “The wolf and the lamb shall graze together, and the lion shall eat straw like the ox; and dust shall be the serpent’s food. They shall do no evil or harm in all My holy mountain,” says the Lord. (Isa. 65:25) The changes in the animal world will be paralleled by changes in the earth and the solar system: Then the moon will be abashed and the sun ashamed, for the Lord of hosts will reign on Mount Zion and in Jerusalem, and His glory will be before His elders. (Isa. 24:23) The light of the moon will be as the light of the sun, and the light of the sun will be seven times brighter, like the light of seven days, on the day the Lord binds up the fracture of His people and heals the bruise He has inflicted. (Isa. 30:26) No longer will you have the sun for light by day, nor for brightness will the moon give you light; but you will have the Lord for an everlasting light, and your God for your glory. Your sun will set no more, neither will your moon wane; for you will have the Lord for an everlasting light. (Isa. 60:19-20)

he slings me up to Yozzy’s back. I ease gently down onto her. After all, it is her back. Not a motorcycle seat, or a bale of straw, but the fine vertebrae of a sentient being.

At-a-glance Conditioning summary chart *All volumes and quantities are per bale DAY IN PROCESS Day 1 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER 1/2 cup ORGANIC FERTILIZER 3 cups WATER Water to saturation DAY IN PROCESS Day 2 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER Skip ORGANIC FERTILIZER Skip WATER Water to saturation DAY IN PROCESS Day 3 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER 1/2 cup ORGANIC FERTILIZER 3 cups WATER Water to wash in fertilizer DAY IN PROCESS Day 4 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER Skip ORGANIC FERTILIZER Skip WATER Water to saturation DAY IN PROCESS Day 5 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER 1/2 cup ORGANIC FERTILIZER 3 cups WATER Water, warm is best DAY IN PROCESS Day 6 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER Skip ORGANIC FERTILIZER Skip WATER Water, warm is best DAY IN PROCESS Day 7 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER 1/4 cup ORGANIC FERTILIZER 1 1/2 cups WATER Water, warm is best DAY IN PROCESS Day 8 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER 1/4 cup ORGANIC FERTILIZER 1 1/2 cups WATER Water, warm is best DAY IN PROCESS Day 9 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER 1/4 cup ORGANIC FERTILIZER 1 1/2 cups WATER Water, warm is best DAY IN PROCESS Day 10 TRADITIONAL FERTILIZER 1 cup 10-10-10 ORGANIC FERTILIZER 3 cups with P and K WATER Water to wash in fertilizer

bales

One block was trialed replacing plastic with barley straw. Rolling out small bales between the rows, saved the need for irrigation, plastic and paint. Soils could now breathe and even with the cost of labour and straw, the barley came out on top financially and environmentally. No need to dispose of the thousands of meters of irrigation tape or plastic either. The only downside in the first year, was that the barley seed sprouted, and a fungus was found growing up the trunks. As a result, the straw is now steam sterilized when it arrives.

Seating himself crosslegged on a bale of straw, he formed the image of a flame in his mind and fed emotion into it, hate, fear, everything, every scrap, until it seemed that he floated in emptiness. After years of practice, achieving ko'di, the oneness, needed less than a heartbeat. Thought and even his own body seemed distant, but in this state he was more aware than usual, becoming one with the bale beneath him, the stable, the scabbarded sword folded behind him. He could 'feel' the horses, cropping at their mangers, and flies buzzing in the corners. They were all part of him. Especially the sword. This time, though, it was only the emotionless void that he sought.

Barn Owl" High in the chaffy, taffy-colored haze of the hayloft, up under the starry nail-hole twinkle of the old tin roof, there in a nest of straw and baling twine I have hidden my valentine for you: a white heart woven of snowy feathers in which wide eyes of welcome open to you as you climb the rickety ladder into my love. Behind those eyes lies a boudoir of intimate darkness, darling, the silks of oblivion. And set like a jewel dead center in the heart is a golden hook the size of a finger ring, to hold you always, plumpest sweetheart mouse of mine.

THE PORT OF the main island of Iejima, despite or because of its lack of tourist recommendations, is instantly attractive. Houses tumble down the hillsides, fall over each other, and all but end in the water. Their gray-tile roofs almost touch, and small and narrow alleys swarm in all directions. The mud walls, straw showing through, are so close that it would seem the inhabitants move crab-fashion. The port is filled with fishing boats, strange, junklike ships with high prows and raked sails, and around them, on the docks, are bales and coils and baskets and boxes. On all sides there is the most glorious confusion. In

As he and Avi compared notes on all that had transpired, Jacob found that though they grieved, they did not cry. They had lost everyone dear to them except each other. But fear was a tonic that somehow calmed their nerves and focused their minds. Soon they were deep inside Belgium and holed up in a barn behind a farmhouse, hiding in a loft under bales of hay. “So where exactly are we?” Jacob whispered as the sun began to rise. “Zellik,” Avi whispered back. “Where?” “A little village northwest of Brussels.” “How little?” “Don’t know—too small for us to go wandering around in daylight, that’s for certain.” “You know anybody here?” “One guy.” “Who?” “You’re about to find out. Come on. It’s time.” Avi climbed out of their hiding place and brushed himself off, then brushed pieces of straw off Jacob. Moving quickly and quietly, they sneaked to the side door of the barn, made sure the coast was clear, then sprinted for the farmhouse. When they reached a cellar door, Avi began knocking with some sort of a code.

stakes which supported the ropes of the bowling-for-the-pig site. Mr Roberts was busy building a sturdy wall of straw bales near him.