Yerba Buena Quotes

She'd been a flower. Snipped from the root, quick to wilt, temporary. She'd existed to be lovely and to be chosen. No one had expected her to last.

I lost nearly everything, and then I built something better.

So this was how it felt- to be dealt a blow, to pause, to keep going in spite of it. Not to start over but to continue.

And Emilie opened the door.

Here was the taste of it — a little bitter, a little sweet, some citrus brightness, maybe honey. And here was meaning. A home, hers alone.

She hadn't cried in ten years. Now: a thunderstorm.

It's stunning," she said. "It's like...the best posisble thing art can do. It's about you, but I see myself in it. I imagine everyone here does.

There was only so much grieving allowed when it was over someone who was never really hers.

But that's the way it goes. I lost nearly everything, and then I built something better

My favorite thing about my home is sharing it with the people I love.

It was subtle and sweet and just the faintest bit bitter.

It's stunning," she said. "It's like...the best possible thing art can do. It's about you, but I see myself in it. I imagine everyone here does.

Alice moved through the world noticing beautiful things.

Most people go to college for a degree. She told herself she went for an education.

She never spent money this way, always thought she'd wait until she had a real apartment, a reason to have nice things, but it struck her, standing in the store: Maybe this was it. Reason enough. Maybe she was in the middle of it already and just hadn't realized.

There was an intimacy to the moment, not a loneliness

It's just- you do look happy. You look...satisfied." "I guess I didn't used to look that way." "Not quite,

How special it was, that first sip, and each sip that came after. How it had settled and warmed her, made her feel that she was welcome. That's what Sara did.

Most people go to college for a degree, she told herself. She went for an education.

And yet it frightened her when it was over. No emptiness this time. It frightened her, how open her heart was.

Tell us,” Alice said. “I love big. I love impossible.” So even though Emilie felt foolish, she told them.

She’d long known the pleasures of noticing her friends’ favorite drinks and snacks, offering them when the moment was right.

The sun porch where they’d spent their evenings: wicker furniture, fireflies hurling themselves at the windows, sliver of moon, and John Denver on the radio.

Go on from here, Ada, please. (She). Billions of boys. Take one fairly decent decade. A billion of Bills, good, gifted, tender and passionate, not only spiritually but physically well-meaning Billions, have bared the jillions of their no less tender and brilliant Jills during that decade, at stations and under conditions that have to be controlled and specified by the worker, lest the entire report be choked up by the weeds of statistics and waist-high generalizations. No point would there be, if we left out, for example, the little matter of prodigious individual awareness and young genius, which makes, in some cases, of this or that particular gasp an unprecedented and unrepeatable event in the continuum of life or at least a thematic anthemia of such events in a work of art, or a denouncer’s article. The details that shine through or shade through: the local leaf through the hyaline skin, the green sun in the brown humid eye, tout ceci, vsyo eto, in tit and toto, must be taken into account, now prepare to take over (no, Ada, go on, ya zaslushalsya: I’m all enchantment and ears), if we wish to convey the fact, the fact, the fact—that among those billions of brilliant couples in one cross section of what you will allow me to call spacetime (for the convenience of reasoning), one couple is a unique super-imperial couple, sverhimperator-skaya cheta, in consequence of which (to be inquired into, to be painted, to be denounced, to be put to music, or to the question and death, if the decade has a scorpion tail after all), the particularities of their love-making influence in a special unique way two long lives and a few readers, those pensive reeds, and their pens and mental paintbrushes. Natural history indeed! Unnatural history—because that precision of senses and sense must seem unpleasantly peculiar to peasants, and because the detail is all: The song of a Tuscan Firecrest or a Sitka Kinglet in a cemetery cypress; a minty whiff of Summer Savory or Yerba Buena on a coastal slope; the dancing flitter of a Holly Blue or an Echo Azure—combined with other birds, flowers and butterflies: that has to be heard, smelled and seen through the transparency of death and ardent beauty. And the most difficult: beauty itself as perceived through the there and then. The males of the firefly (now it’s really your turn, Van).

At points throughout the day, she found herself wondering if she could have had this, with him, all along. Had he always been willing to spend hours and days with her? Was he only waiting for the right project or reason?

I was a vase. The thought struck her as she gazed at the wall of them. She had been a vessel; it was true. She'd stepped into this shop, introduced herself, asked for a job, hoped it would fill her. And then, sitting with Jacob at the community table, she'd been a flower. Snipped from the root, quick to wilt, temporary. She'd existed to be lovely and to be chosen. No one had expected her to last. But she hadn't been a flower when she'd gone to live with Claire, had she? Emilie traveled deeper into the shop. She was in the addition now, its ceiling higher, its rows of tables laden with houseplants. Water, she decided. That's what she'd been with Claire. Shapeless, colorless, but necessary. She'd done what she had to. She had been there for her grandmother. She'd kept her family afloat. But what was she now?

— A buena fe, señor —respondió Sancho—, que no hay que fiar en la descarnada, digo, en la muerte, la cual también come cordero como carnero; y a nuestro cura he oído decir que con igual pie pisaba las altas torres de los reyes como las humildes chozas de los pobres. Tiene esta señora más de poder que de melindre: no es nada asquerosa, de todo come y a todo hace, y de toda suerte de gentes, edades y preeminencias hinche sus alforjas. No es segador que duerme las siestas, que a todas horas siega, y corta así la seca como la verde yerba; y no parece que masca, sino que engulle y traga cuanto se le pone delante, porque tiene hambre canina, que nunca se harta; y, aunque no tiene barriga, da a entender que está hidrópica y sedienta de beber solas las vidas de cuantos viven, como quien se bebe un jarro de agua fría.

Chester William Nimitz, Sr. was the last surviving officer to serve as a five star admiral in the Unites States Navy, holding the rank of Fleet Admiral. His career started as a midshipman at the United States Naval Academy where he graduated with honors on January 30, 1905. Becoming a submarine officer, Nimitz was responsible of the construction of the USS Nautilus, the first nuclear powered submarine. During World War II he was appointed the Commander in Chief of the Unites States Pacific Fleet known as CinCPa. His promotions led to his becoming the Chief of Naval Operations, a post he held until 1947. The rank of Fleet Admiral in the U.S. Navy is a lifetime appointment, so he never retired and remained on active duty as the special assistant to the Secretary of the Navy for the Western Sea Frontier. He held this position for the rest of his life, with full pay and benefits. In January 1966 Nimitz suffered a severe stroke, complicated by pneumonia. On February 20, 1966, at 80 years of age, he died at his quarters on Yerba Buena Island in San Francisco Bay. Chester William Nimitz, Sr. was buried with full military honors and lies alongside his wife and some military friends at the Golden Gate National Cemetery in San Bruno, California.

This was encouraging to the refugees, but what lay beyond was even more so. At Mule Springs they would find supplies and horses and there, if not sooner, they would meet Mr. Woodworth and old Caleb Greenwood with their men. Beyond Woodworth was Captain Kern who had moved up from the Fort to establish a relay camp. Beyond Kern was Johnson’s ranch and beyond Johnson’s was Sutter’s where Sutter, Sinclair and McKinstry were forwarding supplies. Finally, beyond Sutter’s was Yerba Buena where Alcalde Bartlett and Governor Hull were backing up the relief work with money and necessaries. There was something heart-moving in the way that California, war-harried and thinly peopled, had rallied to the cause of humanity. It was as if a strong chain were extending itself link by link across the mountains, finally to reach the camps and draw out the sufferers. The seven had merely gone ahead in the strength of their own stout bodies and stouter hearts, but the next relief would have the organized strength of many men behind it. . . .

westbound lanes of the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge. Two hundred feet above the frigid waters off Yerba Buena Island, the car horns, bangs, and skids of a chain-reaction

Many naval officers had also invested, and Captain Folsom advised me to buy some, but I felt actually insulted that he should think me such a fool as to pay money for property in such a horrid place as Yerba Buena, especially ridiculing his quarter of the city, then called Happy Valley.