Tobacco Tin Quotes

He would keep the rest where it belonged: in that tobacco tin buried in his chest where a red heart used to be.

These are not sentimental keepsakes. She never looks at them, and often forgets what she has there. They are not booty, they don't have ritualistic significance. She does not take something every time she goes to Gordon's house, or every time she stays over, or to mark what she might call memorable visits. She doesn't do it in a daze and she doesn't seem to be under a compulsion. She just takes something, every now and then, and puts it away in the dark of the old tobacco tin, and more or less forgets about it.

NAMBLA's infiltrated First Recon,' Person continues after bringing the vehicle to a stop. 'There's a guy in Third Platoon, hes going to be collecting photographs of all the children and sending them back to NAMBLA HQ. Back at Pendleton he volunteers at the daycare center. He goes around collecting all the turds from the five-year-olds and puts them into Copenhagen tins. Out there everyone thinks he's dipping, but it's not tobacco. It's dookie from five-year-olds.

Saying more might push them both to a place they couldn’t get back from. He would keep the rest where it belonged: in that tobacco tin buried in his chest where a red heart used to be. Its lid rusted shut.

Mister was allowed to be and stay what he was. But I wasn’t allowed to be and stay what I was. Even if you cooked him you’d be cooking a rooster named Mister. But wasn’t no way I’d ever be Paul D again, living or dead. Schoolteacher changed me. I was something else and that something was less than a chicken sitting in the sun on a tub.” Sethe put her hand on his knee and rubbed. Paul D had only begun, what he was telling her was only the beginning when her fingers on his knee, soft and reassuring, stopped him. Just as well. Just as well. Saying more might push them both to a place they couldn’t get back from. He would keep the rest where it belonged: in that tobacco tin buried in his chest where a red heart used to be. Its lid rusted shut. He would not pry it loose now in front of this sweet sturdy woman, for if she got a whiff of the contents it would shame him. And it would hurt her to know that there was no red heart bright as Mister’s comb beating in him.

Laura wanted Pa and Ma in the house. They seemed so far away outside. Mary and Laura were good and lay still, but Carrie sat up and played by herself in the dark. In the dark Pa’s arm came from behind the quilt in the doorway and quietly took away his gun. Out by the camp fire the tin plates rattled. Then a knife scraped the spider. Ma and Pa were talking together and Laura smelled tobacco smoke. The house was safe, but it did not feel safe because Pa’s gun was not over the door and there was no door; there was only the quilt.

Passengers drank and smoked. Both; a lot. This was a significant source of profit for Cunard. The company laid in a supply of 150 cases of Black & White Whiskey, 50 cases of Canadian Club Whiskey, and 50 of Plymouth Gin; also, 15 cases each of an eleven-year-old French red wine, a Chambertin, and an eleven-year-old French white, a Chablis, and twelve barrels of stout and ten of ale. Cunard stockpiled thirty thousand “Three Castles” cigarettes and ten thousand Manila cigars. The ship also sold cigars from Havana and American cigarettes made by Phillip Morris. For the many passengers who brought pipes, Cunard acquired 560 pounds of loose Capstan tobacco—“navy cut”—and 200 pounds of Lord Nelson Flake, both in 4-ounce tins. Passengers also brought their own. Michael Byrne, a retired New York merchant and former deputy sheriff traveling in first class, apparently planned to spend a good deal of the voyage smoking. He packed 11 pounds of Old Rover Tobacco and three hundred cigars. During the voyage, the scent of combusted tobacco was ever present, especially after dinner.

Saying more might push them both to a place they couldn’t get back from. He would keep the rest where it belonged: in that tobacco tin buried in his chest where a red heart used to be. Its lid rusted shut. He would not pry it loose now in front of this sweet sturdy woman, for if she got a whiff of the contents it would shame him. And it would hurt her to know that there was no red heart bright as Mister’s comb beating in him.

The owner as he crosses the board floor, moving between shelves, past stacked crates and burlap sacks bulging with sugar and flour. “Jessup? It’s Brady! You in back?” The twelve burros crane their scrawny necks in his direction when Brady emerges from the merc. He reaches into his greatcoat, pulls out a tin of Star Navy tobacco, and shoves a chaw between lips and gums gone blackish purple in the last year. “What the hell?” he whispers. When he delivered supplies two weeks ago, this little mining town was bustling. Now Abandon looms listless before him in the gloom of late afternoon, streets empty, snow banked high against the unshoveled plank sidewalks, no tracks as far as he can see. The cabins scattered across the lower slopes lie buried to their chimneys, and with not a one of them smoking, the air smells too clean. Brady is a man at home in solitude, often spending days on the trail, alone in wild, quiet places, but this silence is all wrong—a lie. He feels menaced by it, and with each passing moment, more certain that something.

wander down the hallway to our old bedroom off the kitchen. It is exactly as it has always been: our twin beds made, our favorite children’s books still on the shelf, a red tobacco tin filled with crayon stubs. I know if I go into the guest bathroom and reach up blindly onto the top shelf above the toilet I will find a pack of menthol cigarettes, hidden where she thinks no one will find them. The most wonderful thing about my grandmother, among many wonderful things, is that everything is always the same. The lovely lemon-wood smell of the house, the little bottles of ginger ale pushed to the back of the icebox for hot days. The silver thimble her mother gave her when she was a girl, nestled in a lavender box on her bureau.

I love you.” The words come out almost in a panic, as if there’s no time. As if he’s about to walk into Eden again, and I’ve got to say it before he disappears behind the door. “I love you too.” Jimmy’ response startles me back to the room, the tobacco tin forgotten in my hand. I close it and set it on the counter, afraid of whatever drug it is inside that has me hallucinating. “I must be losing my mind,” I say, shaking my head. “I thought I just heard you say that you loved me.” “I did,” Jimmy replies. “You did?” “Of course. You said it to me first. It woulda been rude to leave ya hangin’ there, wouldn’t it?

The twelve burros crane their scrawny necks in his direction when Brady emerges from the merc. He reaches into his greatcoat, pulls out a tin of Star Navy tobacco, and shoves a chaw between lips and gums gone blackish purple in the last year. “What the hell?” he whispers. When he delivered supplies two weeks ago, this little mining town was bustling. Now Abandon looms listless before him in the gloom of late afternoon, streets empty, snow banked high against the unshoveled plank sidewalks, no tracks as far as he can see. The cabins scattered across the lower slopes lie buried to their chimneys, and with not a one of them smoking, the air smells too clean. Brady is a man at home in solitude, often spending days on the trail, alone in wild, quiet places, but this silence is all wrong—a lie. He feels menaced by it, and with each passing moment, more certain that something has happened here. A wall of dark clouds scrapes over the peaks, and snowflakes begin to speck the sleeves of his slicker. Here comes the wind. Chimes clang together over the doorway of the merc. It will be night soon.

We got your name from a pawnbroker. Mitch Clinton. You know him?” “Unfortunately. And before you go any further, I’m retired.” He looks at the old man. “Why didn’t you tell ‘em that, Zack?” The other man shrugs and lowers himself onto a scuffed wooden stool. He pulls out a tobacco tin and shoves a wad in his mouth before answering. “I’m not your secretary.” Kellen rolls his eyes. “You haven’t heard our offer yet,” Darrius adds. “Don’t need to. People don’t go see Mitch to pawn their old stereos. You’re looking for a hunter.” Darrius shrugs. “Yes and no. We’re not looking to hunt someone so much as retrieve them.” Kellen drains the Nehi and tucks the empty bottle into the wooden crate next to the machine. “Either way, I don’t do it anymore. But just out of curiosity, since you came all this way…” this last he adds with a smirk, “who is it you’re looking to retrieve?” I grin to myself, vowing to keep my mouth shut. Let’s see if Darrius can reel this one in alone. “My brother. He was…abducted.” “Abducted, huh? Not really my thing, even if I was interested, which I’m not.” “Because you’re retired.” Kellen nods approvingly. “You catch on quick.

I would sit up on top of the woodpile playing and singing at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I would take a tobacco stake and stick it in the cracks between the boards on the front porch. A tin can on top of the tobacco stake turned it into a microphone, and the porch became my stage. I used to perform for anybody or anything I could get to watch. The younger kids left in my care would become the unwilling audience for my latest show. A two-year-old’s attention span is not very long. So there I would be in the middle of my act, thinking I was really something, and my audience would start crawling away. I was so desperate to perform that on more than one occasion I sang for the chickens and the pigs and ducks. They didn’t applaud much, but with the aid of a little corn, they could be counted on to hang around for a while.

It was some time before he could put Alfred, Georgia, Sixo, Schoolteacher, Halle, his brothers, Sethe, Mister, the taste of iron, the sight of butter, the smell of hickory, notebook paper, one by one, into the tobacco tin lodged in his chest. By the time he got to 124 nothing in this world could pry it open.

His tobacco tin, blown open, spilled contents that floated freely and him their play and prey

His tobacco tin, blown open, spilled contents that floated freely and made him their play and prey

The organization needed an outside game, an infestation of climate in every facet of public life, but it also needed a better inside game, a creature of the swamp with sharp elbows. Foul-mouthed, funny, and occasionally a vitriolic asshole, Tom Levine chomped through a tin of tobacco a day, kept whiskey in his desk, and always seemed to have cocaine on him. He was also a damn smart guy who hated every faction in American politics. This included the entire wingnut Republican establishment and spineless Third Way Democrats, but he reserved his most vicious rancor for the self-righteous progressives he’d spent his career working for.