Willow Park Quotes

I sit, I read, I listen to music, I go or a walk, I ride to Prospect Park and sit under the Willow Tree, I remember, I forget, I look at pictures, I do, I do, I do... or I don't, but its peaceful... only me... no worries.

I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow,” Snape went on. “That tree did more damage to us than we —” Ron blurted out. “Silence!” snapped Snape

It was in Central Park near the lake and I watched a weeping willow turn into a giant rooster and fly off. No tree remained. It glided beautifully into the sky, a big blue barnyard. My mind went with it, something all you bald head generals and wheelchair senators could never imagine.

A muddy little stream, a village grown unfamiliar with time and trees. I turn around and retrace my way up Main Street and park and have a Coke in the confectionery store. It is run by a Greek, as it used to be, but whether the same Greek or another I would not know. He does not recognize me, nor I him. Only the smell of his place is familiar, syrupy with old delights, as if the ghost of my first banana split had come close to breathe on me.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I couldn't believe Rob didn't find it odd to meet Santa out there in the park late in the evening. There were no kids there at that time.

Mary liked to arrange picnics with the kids, and we’d take them to the Willow Grove Amusement Park. I wasn’t always running. When they were smaller I used to take them out. I was very close to Peggy, but she doesn’t talk to me any more, not since Jimmy disappeared. The

But men… men sometimes take what we give them, just because it’s offered, without giving anything back in return.

I circled among the narrow, San Franciscan streets of Mt. Adams until night fell, then dropped down St. Martin's to Paradrome and up to Ida, where I parked beneath an arching willow some three houses down from Tray Leach's home. I'd bought five styrofoam cups full of coffee at a little grocery on St. Regis, and, as I sat there watching the western sky go purple and then deep blue, I flipped the plastic lid off one of them. It was bad, bitter coffee. But I was feeling numb and disoriented after Cornell Street and I had to keep alert all night long.

The Hunchback in the Park The hunchback in the park A solitary mister Propped between trees and water From the opening of the garden lock That lets the trees and water enter Until the Sunday sombre bell at dark Eating bread from a newspaper Drinking water from the chained cup That the children filled with gravel In the fountain basin where I sailed my ship Slept at night in a dog kennel But nobody chained him up. Like the park birds he came early Like the water he sat down And Mister they called Hey mister The truant boys from the town Running when he had heard them clearly On out of sound Past lake and rockery Laughing when he shook his paper Hunchbacked in mockery Through the loud zoo of the willow groves Dodging the park keeper With his stick that picked up leaves. And the old dog sleeper Alone between nurses and swans While the boys among willows Made the tigers jump out of their eyes To roar on the rockery stones And the groves were blue with sailors Made all day until bell time A woman figure without fault Straight as a young elm Straight and tall from his crooked bones That she might stand in the night After the locks and chains All night in the unmade park After the railings and shrubberies The birds the grass the trees the lake And the wild boys innocent as strawberries Had followed the hunchback To his kennel in the dark.

My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the midst of its expansive grounds — the park as beautiful now, in its wintry garb, as it could be in its summer glory; the majestic sweep, the undulating swell and fall, displayed to full advantage in that robe of dazzling purity, stainless and printless — save one long, winding track left by the trooping deer — the stately timber-trees with their heavy laden branches gleaming white against the full, grey sky; the deep, encircling woods; the broad expanse of water sleeping in frozen quiet; and the weeping ash and willow drooping their snowclad boughs above it — all presented a picture, striking, indeed, and pleasing to an unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging to me.

There were five of them. 1. Never assume a man likes you unless he both tells you and shows you. 2. Never go out of your way to encourage a man to ask you out. 3. Never trap a man in a conversation about his feelings that he doesn’t want to have. 4. Never analyze a man’s behavior or read into his motivations and intentions toward you. 5. Never, ever, ever daydream about a future unless he’s promised you a future. Those were her rules, and she was determined to keep them.

The July sun blazed in the middle of the sky and the atmosphere was gay and carefree, while in the windless air not a leaf stirred in the poplars and willows lining the banks of the river. In the distance ahead, the conspicuous bulk of Mont-Valérien loomed, rearing the ramparts of its fortifications in the glare of the sun. On the right, the gentle slopes of Louveciennes, following the curve of the river, formed a semi-circle within which could be glimpsed, through the dense and shady greenery of their spacious lawns, the white-painted walls of weekend retreats. On the land adjoining La Grenouillère strollers were sauntering under the gigantic trees which help to make this part of the island one of the most delightful parks imaginable. Busty women with peroxided hair and nipped-in waists could be seen, made up to the nines with blood red lips and black-kohled eyes. Tightly laced into their garish dresses they trailed in all their vulgar glory over the fresh green grass. They were accompanied by men whose fashion-plate accessories, light gloves, patent-leather boots, canes as slender as threads and absurd monocles made them look like complete idiots.

He said that death marks places like a dog marking its territory. Some people can sense it right away, while others simply start to feel uncomfortable after a time. Every stay in any place betrays the quiet ubiquitousness of the dead. As he said: ‘At first you always see what’s alive and vibrant. You’re delighted by nature, by the local church painted in different colours, by the smells and all that. But the longer you’re in a place, the more the charm of those things fades. You wonder who lived here before you came to this home and this room, whose things these are, who scratched the wall above the bed and what tree the sills were cut from. Whose hands built the elaborately decorated fireplace, paved the courtyard? And where are they now? In what form? Whose idea led to these paths around the pond and who had the idea of planting a willow out the window? All the houses, avenues, parks, gardens and streets are permeated with the deaths of others. Once you start feeling this, something starts to pull you elsewhere, you start to think it’s time to move on.’ He added that when we are in motion, there’s no time for such idle meditations. Which is why to people on trips everything seems new and clean, virginal, and, in some sense, immortal.

He bought her flowers and took her to the Timmerman Opera House down the block. He gave her a bicycle. They spent evenings riding together on the smooth macadam of Yale and Harvard streets, the picture of a happy young couple blessed with looks and money. (“White pique hats with black watered-ribbon bands and a couple of knife feathers set at the side are the latest novelty for women cyclists,” the Tribune’s society column observed.) As Emeline became more accustomed to her “wheel,” a term everyone still used even though the old and deadly huge-wheeled bicycles of the past had become thoroughly obsolete, she and Holmes took longer and longer rides and often rode along the willowed Midway to Jackson Park to watch the construction of the world’s fair, where inevitably they found themselves among thousands of other people, many of them also bicyclists

It all starts with the wolves. Wolves disappeared from Yellowstone, the world’s first national park, in the 1920s. When they left, the entire ecosystem changed. Elk herds in the park increased their numbers and began to make quite a meal of the aspens, willows, and cottonwoods that lined the streams. Vegetation declined and animals that depended on the trees left. The wolves were absent for seventy years. When they returned, the elks’ languorous browsing days were over. As the wolf packs kept the herds on the move, browsing diminished, and the trees sprang back. The roots of cottonwoods and willows once again stabilized stream banks and slowed the flow of water. This, in turn, created space for animals such as beavers to return. These industrious builders could now find the materials they needed to construct their lodges and raise their families. The animals that depended on the riparian meadows came back, as well. The wolves turned out to be better stewards of the land than people, creating conditions that allowed the trees to grow and exert their influence on the landscape. My

In 1995, the gray wolf was reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park after a seventy-year hiatus. Scientists expected an ecological ripple effect, but the size and scope of the trophic cascade took them by surprise.7 Wolves are predators that kill certain species of animals, but they indirectly give life to others. When the wolves reentered the ecological equation, it radically changed the behavioral patterns of other wildlife. As the wolves began killing coyotes, the rabbit and mouse populations increased, thereby attracting more hawks, weasels, foxes, and badgers. In the absence of predators, deer had overpopulated the park and overgrazed parts of Yellowstone. Their new traffic patterns, however, allowed the flora and fauna to regenerate. The berries on those regenerated shrubs caused a spike in the bear population. In six years’ time, the trees in overgrazed parts of the park had quintupled in height. Bare valleys were reforested with aspen, willow, and cottonwood trees. And as soon as that happened, songbirds started nesting in the trees. Then beavers started chewing them down. Beavers are ecosystem engineers, building dams that create natural habitats for otters, muskrats, and ducks, as well as fish, reptiles, and amphibians. One last ripple effect. The wolves even changed the behavior of rivers—they meandered less because of less soil erosion. The channels narrowed and pools formed as the regenerated forests stabilized the riverbanks. My point? We need wolves! When you take the wolf out of the equation, there are unintended consequences. In the absence of danger, a sheep remains a sheep. And the same is true of men. The way we play the man is by overcoming overwhelming obstacles, by meeting daunting challenges. We may fear the wolf, but we also crave it. It’s what we want. It’s what we need. Picture a cage fight between a sheep and a wolf. The sheep doesn’t stand a chance, right? Unless there is a Shepherd. And I wonder if that’s why we play it safe instead of playing the man—we don’t trust the Shepherd. Playing the man starts there! Ecologists recently coined a wonderful new word. Invented in 2011, rewilding has a multiplicity of meanings. It’s resisting the urge to control nature. It’s the restoration of wilderness. It’s the reintroduction of animals back into their natural habitat. It’s an ecological term, but rewilding has spiritual implications. As I look at the Gospels, rewilding seems to be a subplot. The Pharisees were so civilized—too civilized. Their religion was nothing more than a stage play. They were wolves in sheep’s clothing.8 But Jesus taught a very different brand of spirituality. “Foxes have dens and birds have nests,” said Jesus, “but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”9 So Jesus spent the better part of three years camping, fishing, and hiking with His disciples. It seems to me Jesus was rewilding them. Jesus didn’t just teach them how to be fishers of men. Jesus taught them how to play the man! That was my goal with the Year of Discipleship,

They went into his kitchen, which was in the state his house always was—basically clean but cluttered with books, unopened mail, and grocery bags,

Jessica felt her heart thud back down to its proper location. She managed to murmur, “Never going to happen,” in a casually teasing voice and started

in her four-year-old sedan. “Something’s wrong. You can’t ignore it when something sounds off in

Her name is Bear. Not ‘the dog.’ She wanted to come, so why would I leave her by herself all evening?

Her first step toward this end was to cook dinner on Monday evening. In all of her visions of herself as a wife, she would at least sometimes make meals other than canned soup and sandwiches.

RICHARD LEMIEUX lived on the streets of Bremerton, Washington, with his dog, Willow, for a year and a half while writing Breakfast at Sally’s. They lived and slept in his Oldsmobile van. Richard wrote on a secondhand manual typewriter at picnic tables in parks around the city.

and lost her courage before she could get out the rest of her planned words. She set her plate down, even though she’d only eaten half of it.

The facility, an old farmhouse, is sheltered from outside intrusion, nestled amid oaks and willows, miles from the nearest village. A winding driveway leads to a front entrance area and continues behind the building to the staff parking lot. The lawns are groomed and maintained at a consistent length and shade of green. At the end of the drive there is an entrance gate, manned by one guard. She turns her attention back to the contours of the room. The walls

While girls and women are raised to fear strangers – to worry about being raped, murdered, or assaulted in the street or in parking garages, which are real dangers – statistically, the most dangerous men are those they know and, particularly, those they live with. So Willow Springs started as a community for battered women, with only women.

I don't mean my life sucks. It just feels like I'm always waiting, and I don't want to do that anymore.

Today was different, however. It wasn’t every day a woman popped the question to one of her best friends.

Jessica Cameron had to propose marriage in a couple of hours, and she was a little nervous about it. Trying

But you're acting like that's the end of the story, that the brokenness is the final answer. When you know very well that it's not. You've always said that at the end of the story the world will be healed, fixed, all wrongs finally righted. And that what's broken is being redeemed, little by little, even now.

She had waited so long for this. For this intimacy to be whole, complete, to unquestionably mean love.

I can't dignify all of these ideas about me with reply, but I will say that in this digital world of widespread fraud, in which elderly women from rural Michigan claim to be steroid-enhanced weightlifting experts and the like, it is useful, on occasion, to advance the cause of belief simply for the sake of belief, because if not belief in this world, then what do we have? If not the action of belief, we have only the grinding disappointments. You could go on finding weaknesses in the pattern of my online reviews when really what you should be doing, KoWojahk283 and TigerBooty! and RedDawn301, is going out into the yard and staring up at the night sky, or meeting people and looking for the good in them. And while you are doing that, I will talk about the emergency-escape plan at the Willows Motel, which advises that you should first feel the door to see if it's hot and also that if there is a fire in the room, you should leave the room immediately. The escape plan for the main floor, and there is only a main floor here, is simply to exit into the parking lot. How often this is the case! How often our only exit is into the parking lot! And how often the parking lot empties onto the county road, where there are only package stores and full-service gas stations. If KoWojahk283 were right about me, would I be here? Feeling the door, making sure it's not hot, and then exiting into the parking lot? ★★

Three car doors slammed in quick staccato as we got out. For a long moment we looked around at the lot, where we were just one in a massive sea of cars. Patrons who parked in the lot of the Willow Creek Faire could see the entrance when they got out of their cars: a two-dimensional castle façade that some volunteers had put together about five years ago. But not here. Our entire Faire could probably fit in this parking lot, and all we could see around us was row after row of cars. Like parking at Disney World, but without the trams or mouse ears. “Holy shit.” April wasn’t part of our Faire, but even she sounded impressed. “Where’s the entrance?” “Up that way.” I couldn’t see the gates I was pointing toward, but the stream of people told me I was indicating the right way. “A little bit of a hike, then.” April looked behind us, where the grassy lot continued to fill slowly with cars. “Holy shit,” she said again. “This isn’t a Faire. This is a town.” “Yeah.” Mitch had been here before—so had I; if you grew up around here you went to the Maryland Renaissance Festival at least once during your childhood—but even his eyes were a little wide at the vastness of it all. “This place is . . . It’s pretty big.” He paused. “That’s what she said.” I was too nervous to snicker, but April elbowed him in the ribs, and that was good enough. “Okay. We’re going in.” He reached over his head for the back of his T-shirt, pulling it off and tossing it into the back of the truck. April sighed. “All right, Kilty. Naked enough?” “Look on the bright side.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her as he stuck his keys into the sporran he wore attached to the kilt. “I’m not working this Faire. Which means I get to wear this kilt the way it’s meant to be worn.” I coughed. I didn’t want to think about what Mitch was or was not wearing under there. Which was sad, because thinking about Mitch in a kilt used to be one of my favorite hobbies. The man was born to wear that green plaid

They’re not going to let her go. She knows they won’t. Holly is terrified as she runs through the park.

I’m happy for you,” Sam says. He looks at me. “For both of you. If you need help moving into your new place, let me know.” Deacon’s brow furrows, again looking similar to Sam. “Um, yeah, actually I could use the help.” “I’ll help too,” I say. “No way,” Sam says. “You’re not lifting a finger. Not while you’re growing my niece or nephew inside of you.” Deacon looks at me in shock and shakes his head. “Thanks, Brother,” he says. When we’re in the truck, Deacon shakes his head. “Are you some kind of sorceress or something?” he asks. “What do you mean?” “Or maybe a surgeon.” I laugh. “What on earth are you talking about?” He pulls into a nice older neighborhood lined with weeping willows. It’s the kind of neighborhood one would feel safe raising a family in. Lots of sidewalks for children to run and play. To stroll along with a couple of babies. There’s a small park on the corner and bicycle trail. I’ve always dreamed of living in a neighbourhood like this. “How did you get that stick out of Sam’s ass when I’ve been trying my whole life?” Deacon says. I smile. “Sam is a good guy. He just wants a relationship with his brother and I told him I’m going to make sure he gets it.

pays, they open a bottle of gin and take turns drinking from it while they drive, screaming and cheering, back to Cocoa Beach where they park in front of Ron Jon’s surf-shop, which is also open 24/7. Yelling and visibly intoxicated, they storm inside with Billy and take the elevator to the second floor. They run through the aisles of bikinis and pull down one after another. “I always wanted yellow

No one has it all. That’s not the way life works. We decide what’s most important to us, and we pour ourselves into that.

About a mile beyond Tumbleweed he parked in a grove of willow trees beside a narrow stream. The grounds were set with many long wooden tables and benches, and overhead were strings of small electric lights. “Come on, gals,” said Tex. “We’re goin’ to put on a big feed!” He led them toward a long serving table. Four men passed by, each carrying a shovel bearing a big burlap-wrapped package. These were dumped onto the table. “There goes the meat,” said Bud. “It’s been buried in the barbecue pit since last night.” “Cookin’ nice an’ slow over hot stones,” Tex added. “When the burlap fell away, the fragrance of the steaming meat was irresistible. All the girls enjoyed generous servings, with a spicy relish and potato salad. By the time they had finished their desserts of ice cream and Nancy’s chocolate cake, the colored lights overhead came on. A stout middle-aged man mounted the dance platform in the center of the grove and announced that he was master of ceremonies. Seeing Bud’s guitar, he called on him for some cowboy songs. Bud played “I’m a Lonesome Cowboy,” and everyone joined in enthusiastically. He followed with a number of other old favorites. Finally he strummed some Gold Rush songs, including “Sweet Betsy from Pike.

The last wolves in the Yellowstone area were killed in 1926, and the park remained without them until scientists reintroduced the species in 1995. The resulting changes that the predators caused in the ecosystem shocked everyone. For decades, the elk herds had overpopulated and overgrazed the riversides, munching the aspen, willow, and other tree saplings before they could mature. With the reintroduction of wolves, the elk numbers fell by half, and their behavior changed—they move more often now, because even when the wolves aren’t around, the elk are on guard. With the elk moving often and in fewer numbers, new trees are able to grow, for the first time in almost a century. The rich new foliage allowed beaver numbers to increase, which in turn had positive impacts on the fish population. Coyote numbers also fell sharply under the rule of wolves, allowing more rodents, rabbits, and small mammal life to flourish—this, combined with the increased fish stocks, benefited raptors like the bald eagle. With wolves culling coyotes, there are more red foxes; with willow trees growing, there is a greater diversity and abundance of songbirds.

Above all, he loved the desert rivers. Brower’s favorite place in the Colorado Basin was Echo Park. Near the confluence of the Green and the Yampa rivers, Echo Park was a pure indulgence in the most austere of deserts. In autumn, its groves of cottonwood and yellowing willow gave it a New England air. In the spring, the swollen Green would flood the canyon bottom and leave lush meadows as it went. Echo Park was probably the most beautiful canyon flat in all of Utah, part of Dinosaur National Monument. It was also an ideal site for a dam.

Guess you’re wondering why I wanted to see you,” the lieutenant said. “A little, yeah.” Linc didn’t bother to ask how Warren had gotten his address. “I realized last time we talked that I didn’t know your last name.” “That would be because I never mentioned it.” The other man chuckled. “Right. And I didn’t want to ask the Corellis. So, I, uh, ran your plates.” That was why he’d walked them to the hospital parking lot. “I was curious. No offense, but in this type of case you cover all your bases.” Linc knew what was coming. He folded his arms over his chest, listening more to the birds in the willow tree than to the lieutenant. “I got the basic screen. Full name, address, date of birth. You’re an organ donor. After that, nada. Level Five block. Access to subject information restricted.” Linc sighed. “That’s federal, isn’t it?” The lieutenant looked over at him. “But not the FBI. Those guys comb their hair. You with the agency? The army?” “Want me to lie?” “No, of course not.” Mike Warren seemed awfully pleased with himself. “I did get your last name. Nice to meet a real Bannon.” Linc braced himself, prepared to field irrelevant questions about his brother RJ and the Montgomery case, but the lieutenant seemed inclined to stop while he was ahead. “Look, I know your connection to Kenzie is personal. But that doesn’t mean you have nothing to contribute. Going forward, if you can help, it would be just between you and me. Totally off the record.” Linc knew what Mike Warren was getting at. Different databases, different protocols. Not a lot of sharing. The lieutenant was way out of his league, but he had the guts to ask. Linc respected that. “Happy to,” he replied. “But there are limits.” “I understand.” Mike Warren got up and looked toward Linc’s car. “Okay. I have to get back to the station. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.” “Sorting socks.” The lieutenant grinned. “My apologies for the interruption.

When they left, the entire ecosystem changed. Elk herds in the park increased their numbers and began to make quite a meal of the aspens, willows, and cottonwoods that lined the streams. Vegetation declined and animals that depended on the trees left. The wolves were absent for seventy years. When they returned, the elks’ languorous browsing days were over. As the wolf packs kept the herds on the move, browsing diminished, and the trees sprang back. The roots of cottonwoods and willows once again stabilized stream banks and slowed the flow of water. This, in turn, created space for animals such as beavers to return.

Nor did Yellowstone’s early managers understand what would happen to an ecosystem without predators. Once the wolves were gone, the ungulate population in the park exploded, and the quality of the range quickly began to deteriorate. Overgrazed hillsides eroded, and stream banks denuded of woody shrubs began to crumble, damaging prime trout habitat. Elk browsing at their leisure, undisturbed by predators, decimated stands of young aspen and willow. Too many animals on the landscape brought starvation and disease, and the elk population followed a boom-and-bust cycle. By the 1930s, Yellowstone officials had no choice but to do what they had done with the wolves. They started quietly culling the park’s enormous elk herds, shooting thousands of animals in an average year (usually in the winter, when few visitors were around to see the carnage). This continued until the 1960s, when hunters in areas adjacent to the park pressured their elected officials to intervene. Fewer elk in Yellowstone, they knew, meant fewer elk migrating out of the park in winter, which in turn meant fewer hunting opportunities. The elk population was once again allowed to grow untrammeled.