Sweater Season Quotes

It seems to me sometimes that seasons leave us in the way people do, never just gone, but degree by degree, fading like the smell on a loved one's favourite sweater, until the vanishing one day evolves into memory.

How could it be winter without snow?I appreciated every season, but winter was my favorite.I loved when it was time to pull out my thick sweaters.I loved the smell of a wood fire.I loved skiing and snow boarding and sledding, when i could find the time-although time was in a short supply when school was in session.I even enjoyed the cold, wintry weather, it was great for snuggling.

Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar. A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly, like a bantam hen; but, due to a long youthful illness, her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable—not unlike Lincoln’s, craggy like that, and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate, too, finely boned, and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. “Oh my,” she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, “it’s fruitcake weather!

How often do people start down a path and then give up on it entirely? How many treadmills, exercise bikes, and weight sets are at this very moment gathering dust in basements across the country? How many kids go out for a sport and then quit even before the season is over? How many of us vow to knit sweaters for all of our friends but only manage half a sleeve before putting down the needles? Ditto for home vegetable gardens, compost bins, and diets. How many of us start something new, full of excitement and good intentions, and then give up—permanently—when we encounter the first real obstacle, the first long plateau in progress? Many of us, it seems, quit what we start far too early and far too often. Even more than the effort a gritty person puts in on a single day, what matters is that they wake up the next day, and the next, ready to get on that treadmill and keep going.” Excerpt From: Angela Duckworth. “Grit.” iBooks.

It was a time of hope – a time to shine. The best moment of my life awaited me, with the most loved person calling me to meet her. It was spring in November – it was a blossom in desolation. It was the month of my exams – and exams led to glory. It was the last few days with the best of friends before departing to chase our own dreams. It was the season of jackets and sweaters. And those meant warmth and protection and love. And I stood, with an evening of November promising to be something truly special.

A few months ago on a school morning, as I attempted to etch a straight midline part on the back of my wiggling daughter's soon-to-be-ponytailed blond head, I reminded her that it was chilly outside and she needed to grab a sweater. "No, mama." "Excuse me?" "No, I don't want to wear that sweater, it makes me look fat." "What?!" My comb clattered to the bathroom floor. "Fat?! What do you know about fat? You're 5 years old! You are definitely not fat. God made you just right. Now get your sweater." She scampered off, and I wearily leaned against the counter and let out a long, sad sigh. It has begun. I thought I had a few more years before my twin daughters picked up the modern day f-word. I have admittedly had my own seasons of unwarranted, psychotic Slim-Fasting and have looked erroneously to the scale to give me a measurement of myself. But these departures from my character were in my 20s, before the balancing hand of motherhood met the grounding grip of running. Once I learned what it meant to push myself, I lost all taste for depriving myself. I want to grow into more of a woman, not find ways to whittle myself down to less. The way I see it, the only way to run counter to our toxic image-centric society is to literally run by example. I can't tell my daughters that beauty is an incidental side effect of living your passion rather than an adherence to socially prescribed standards. I can't tell my son how to recognize and appreciate this kind of beauty in a woman. I have to show them, over and over again, mile after mile, until they feel the power of their own legs beneath them and catch the rhythm of their own strides. Which is why my parents wake my kids early on race-day mornings. It matters to me that my children see me out there, slogging through difficult miles. I want my girls to grow up recognizing the beauty of strength, the exuberance of endurance, and the core confidence residing in a well-tended body and spirit. I want them to be more interested in what they are doing than how they look doing it. I want them to enjoy food that is delicious, feed their bodies with wisdom and intent, and give themselves the freedom to indulge. I want them to compete in healthy ways that honor the cultivation of skill, the expenditure of effort, and the courage of the attempt. Grace and Bella, will you have any idea how lovely you are when you try? Recently we ran the Chuy's Hot to Trot Kids K together as a family in Austin, and I ran the 5-K immediately afterward. Post?race, my kids asked me where my medal was. I explained that not everyone gets a medal, so they must have run really well (all kids got a medal, shhh!). As I picked up Grace, she said, "You are so sweaty Mommy, all wet." Luke smiled and said, "Mommy's sweaty 'cause she's fast. And she looks pretty. All clean." My PRs will never garner attention or generate awards. But when I run, I am 100 percent me--my strengths and weaknesses play out like a cracked-open diary, my emotions often as raw as the chafing from my jog bra. In my ultimate moments of vulnerability, I am twice the woman I was when I thought I was meant to look pretty on the sidelines. Sweaty and smiling, breathless and beautiful: Running helps us all shine. A lesson worth passing along.

I loved every bit of this season—when the air turned crisp and you could pull all the warm sweaters out of the back of your closet. It felt like the equivalent of wrapping yourself up in a warm, cozy blanket with a cup of hot apple cider in your hands.

Until they arrived, while everyone else was transitioning to winter, putting on coats and sweaters, I was going to stick with my summer dress and my usual work blazer. Dressed in the dazzling flowers of some tropical island adrift in an ocean of deep pink, there I sat, in a season and place all my own.

November evenings are often cold and dry. It is a season of loss and a season of despair. The world is brown and yellow and naked. The bears had hibernated and the migrants from the north had moved to the south. It was a time of no harvest – and a time of no plantation. All that the people around knew were to sit around the warmth of the bukharis and spend family time with their loved ones. It was the beginning of the spell of despondency. It was the parallel of summer and the heart the autumn-winter transitions. It was a season of sweaters and yathras and jackets. The earth around was cold and barren.

As the season changed to autumn and the air turned crisp, we took out our cosy sweaters, snuggled in warm blankets, and found comfort in the little things like warm drinks. While we watched the leaves change their colour from green to yellow, bright orange or red, we came to realize that it was also the right time for us to make a change in our life, to make a new beginning. It has been a different kind of year. Things have changed around here, the circumstances we found ourselves in were like a restless wave. A sudden storm came on, producing wind and hail, changing the rule of the game. From one day to the next, there was little room for manoeuvre left. Where was the fun in that, we wondered. Things just didn’t go well and the situation was getting harder. We could sense along the way that it was time to let go of something that no longer served us. Our instincts told us that the time has come to turn the page, to allow new things to happen and think new thoughts. At first, it was hard to admit that there was no way around it of letting go because we fell in a comfort zone and getting out of it can be uncomfortable. We didn’t want to leave a place that was so familiar to us. New beginnings can be scary. But luckily, the autumn season taught us that change can be beautiful.

Let us help." "You already did." My voice didn't betray anything. "Both of you helped plan this. You lent me this car. Aubrey put up the funds." He raised his brow. "Lending you this car doesn't count as helping. It was more like public service. If you drove your car, the noise would wake up all of Haverleau." "It's not that bad —" "Yeah, if you want to be as obvious as a rhinoceros." I gave a pointed look at his lime-green coat and bright maroon sweater. Talk about burning my retinas. "Pot calling kettle." He glanced at himself. "It's seasonal. I look Christmasy.

The term “tops” includes clothes for every season, from T-shirts and camisoles to knitted sweaters.

Thank you, Target, for depressing us by stocking your store with adorable jackets, sweaters, and boots in August even though it’s still a hundred degrees outside and won’t even dip into the seventies until November. This seasonal tragedy is not your fault, but we don’t need cute knit legwarmers in September. We still need a swimsuit section. Please download a weather app and send it to your buyers. Sincerely, Every Fall-Loving Texan Crying in Her Tank Top at Halloween.

Will appeared at Cameron’s door promptly at seven o’clock. With his coat unzipped, she could see that he’d worn a brown wool sweater over dark jeans with heavy mud-season-approved boots. He smelled of fresh air, soap and cologne so subtle she wasn’t sure it was cologne. No matter what it was, she wanted to get closer for a better sniff of the intriguing scent. His hair was damp and his face freshly shaven. That he’d gone to some trouble to prepare for their dinner pleased her.

Paint me. Put me in a sports coat with a big pattern. In silk or wool or cotton. Padded shoulders. Nipped in at the waist. A wide tie. Silk, of course. Paint me in one of my light ties on a white shirt. Make my clean, heavily starched shirt jump from the canvas. Have my good Johnson and Murphy shoes shined. Make my creases sharp. Creases count all seasons of the year. If you don’t want to paint me in spring or autumn in a sports coat, paint me in winter when I have just come in from the cold wearing a suit, with a cashmere coat in the crook of my arm. Hat still on my head. Pocket square. Tie clip. All the Ziggy details in place. Or paint me in one of my shirts that let me wear a collar bar. Remind us that that is how, once upon a time, we did it. That ours was a world of pocket squares, and tie clips—tie clips were most important, as they held a dancer’s tie in place midflight—and stick pins, and gold cigarette lighters and silver key fobs and money clips of metal or a plain rubber band, and cufflinks, and good hats, and mohair V-neck golf sweaters and fine tuxedos and Murine. Don’t paint me dropping Murine in my eyes. Or me in my boxer shorts and white cotton V-neck shirt sitting at my dressing table in my room at the Gotham, my toes tickled by the wool wall-to-wall carpet. Or maybe paint that. How and where we got ready. And we were ready. Paint our readiness.

I looked over the side of the roller coaster as it climbed to the top of the first hill with a series of loud clacks. The night was dark and cold, but the theme park was lit up with fairy lights and neon arcade games below. The nippy breeze flirted with the hems of sweaters and blew hats off the heads of unsuspecting park guests. Soon, the seasonal theme park would close, as it would be too cold to run the rides, but for now, I could enjoy the brief view of Denver from one hundred feet above the ground. Screams built around me—some scared, others excited—as the first car of the coaster crested the top of the hill. I craned my neck, savoring the liberation of the sky, even if I was strapped into a padded harness, and put my hands up. My boyfriend, Jacob, reached up and linked our fingers together

Fall is a textured season, that can hug your soul like a sweater...and put s.more spice in your night. It has a way of warming your eye life with soul soothing and savory fire dances that flickery with ambery, embered, ever-changing elemental light.

Bread will win the war. Work will win, sugar will win, peach pits will win the war. Nonsense. Not nonsense, I tell you, there's some kind of valuable high explosive to be got out of peach pits. So all the happy housewives hurry during the canning season to lay their baskets of peach pits on the altar of their country. It keeps them busy and makes them feel useful, and all these women running wild with the men away are dangerous, if they aren't given something to keep their little minds out of mischief. So rows of young girls, the intact cradles of the future, with their pure serious faces framed becomingly in Red Cross wimples, roll cock-eyed bandages that will never reach a base hospital, and knit sweaters that will never warm a manly chest, their minds dwelling lovingly on all the blood and mud and the next dance at the Acanthus Club for the officers of the flying corps. Keeping still and quiet will win the war.

I loved every bit of this season—when the air turned crisp and you could pull all the warm sweaters out of the back of your closet. It felt like the equivalent of wrapping yourself up in a warm, cozy blanket with a cup of hot apple cider in your hands. 

Fall had always been my favorite season. New beginnings. Pretty girls in soft sweaters. Football season. Homecoming. Cold nights made warmer with bourbon and bonfires.

I sputter a laugh as I unfurl a sweater with the words “Get Lit!” splashed across the front. There’s a huge Christmas tree, complete with actual flashing lights, underneath. Maddie grins wickedly. “In commemoration of our very lit wedding.

ONLY INCLUDE SEASONALLY APPROPRIATE CLOTHES. There’s no need to sort through your sweaters to get to your sundresses in summer, or to search for your winter boots in a pile of sandals. Get the stuff you aren’t wearing out of sight so you don’t even have to think about it until you’re actually going to wear it.

Here in Wilkes-Barre, even though training camp was a formality when it came to him being named to the roster, he stuck to his rule, refusing even to sign a miniature sweater sized for a teddy bear.

Like all terrible golfers, Dr. Remond Courtney believed that nothing was too extravagant for his game. He wore Arnold Palmer sweaters and Tom Watson spikes, and carried a full set of Jack Nicklaus MacGregors, including a six-wood that the Golden Bear himself couldn’t hit if his life depended on it.

How often do people start down a path and then give up on it entirely? How many treadmills, exercise bikes, and weight sets are at this very moment gathering dust in basements across the country? How many kids go out for a sport and then quit even before the season is over? How many of us vow to knit sweaters for all of our friends but only manage half a sleeve before putting down the needles? Ditto for home vegetable gardens, compost bins, and diets. How many of us start something new, full of excitement and good intentions, and then give up—permanently—when we encounter the first real obstacle, the first long plateau in progress? Many of us, it seems, quit what we start far too early and far too often. Even more than the effort a gritty person puts in on a single day, what matters is that they wake up the next day, and the next, ready to get on that treadmill and keep going

By the time this winter had stiffened itself into a hateful knot that nothing could loosen, something did loosen it, or rather someone. A someone who splintered the knot into silver threads that tangled us, netted us, made us long for the dull chafe of the previous boredom. This disrupter of seasons was a new girl in school named Maureen Peal. A high-yellow dream child with long brown hair braided into two lynch ropes that hung down her back. She was rich, at least by our standards, as rich as the richest of the white girls, swaddled in comfort and care. The quality of her clothes threatened to derange Frieda and me. Patent-leather shoes with buckles, a cheaper version of which we got only at Easter and which had disintegrated by the end of May. Fluffy sweaters the color of lemon drops tucked into skirts with pleats so orderly they astounded us.

These are the 57 PIECES FOR THE INITIAL BASIC WARDROBE IN TRANS-SEASONAL FABRIC (best if KNITTED with stretch) See the List below in linear order with Cycles. The 27 for Cycle 2 are starred [*] with details listed for each. Later you can add 2 more seasons to this INITIAL WARDROBE FOR YOUR WORK & FULL LIFESTYLE. 6 - (3 SETS) UNDER SHAPERS of stretch to hold the body tight. (Cycle 1) *2 - JACKET LONG AND LEAN, 2 for each season, plus Holiday and Resort. (Cycle 1 & 2) *2 - TROUSERS (easy fit) flattering on your shape either:fitted, flared or straight. 2 for each season plus Holiday and Resort (Cycles 1 & 2) *1 - PENCIL SKIRT or a fitted, flared, or stitched-down-pleats, flattering Silhouette. (Cycle 1 & 2) *1 - JEAN, dark navy denim or black knit, both with stretch. (Cycle 1 & 2) 7 - TANKS, for the bottom necessary layer (Cycle 1) *3 - TOPS/BLOUSES/SHIRTS (Cycle 1 & 2) *1 - DAY-DRESS (Cycle 1 & 2) 1 – L.B.D. (Cycle 1, then as needed) 1 - EVENING BLACK JERSEY GOWN (Cycle 1, then as needed) 2 - RAINCOAT WITH ZIP OUT LINING AND AN UMBRELLA THAT IS FOLDABLE (Cycle 1 = 2) then, a WINTER COAT (Cycle 2 = 1, other Cycles select a jacket/sweater coat/art piece coat)

There is nothing better than fall, the way in which the earth seems to hug us, cocooning us in its cozy grip. Fall is the season for reading. Fall is the season for pumpkin-spiced drinks. Fall is the season for sweaters. Fall is my definition of peace, the utter epitome of relaxation.