I'd get to within a yard of that door you walk through and the thing would go mad. I used to carry an X-ray in my briefcase, to show them. But I had all the metal taken out.
I learned that adults were not soaring gods, but rather back-yard birds with broken wingtips. When you are thirteen, about to free-fall into the real world, discovering the broken wingtips is terrifying.
Apparently, all I do is walk my dogs. In L.A., I have more of a yard existence, and so I enjoy walking my two little dogs in New York - one's a Maltese and the other's a Shih Tzu.
It's grossly unfair to judge Walter Payton solely on the yards he gains. He is a complete football player, better than Jim Brown, better than O.J. Simpson.
The height of the pulleys from the ground was twelve yards, and consequently, when the weights had descended through that distance, they had to be wound up again in order to renew the motion of the paddle.
Audrey: I hope nobody I know drives by and sees me standing in the yard staring at the house in my pajamas. Art: If they know your dad, they won't think anything of it.
Carlito: Let me get this straight, he's gonna jump off a barge, swim a hundred yards, to a buoy? in the east river? Impossible, its too rough he is going to die.
Wheezy: What's the point of prolonging the inevitable? We're all just one stitch away from here... [points to yard sale] Wheezy: ...to there.
Leave part of the yard rough. Don't manicure everything. Small children in particular love to turn over rocks and find bugs, and give them some space to do that. Take your child fishing. Take your child on hikes.
All was well, until I reached the port of Havre. Three officers with the rank of lieutenant, whom afterwards I knew to be Scotland Yard men, came aboard and demanded to see my papers which they took away from me.
[after discovering sickos in the booths at a strip club] Connor: It's like a scumbag yard sale. Murphy: We should come down here once a week and clean house.
One day, when we were coming back from school, we saw this big cloud of smoke coming up, and all these fire-trucks in the yard. The garage was burning down. I was 14, and we'd lost everything.
When I was born, my parents and my mother's parents planted a dogwood tree in the side yard of the large white house in which we lived throughout my boyhood. This tree I learned quite early, was exactly my age - was, in a sense, me.
If it took eons to get to the edge of one's galactic yard, she could not imagine the neighbors dropping by for a casual visit, especially since the heavenly houses were uninhabitable well into the next state.
You dump trash. You dump yard waste and old ripped couches that smell like body odor and forgetfulness. You dump cigarette butts and banana peels and hazardous waste. But people?
We need only to close our eyes and we are back on the Third Line, walking up the lane, through the yard and entering the bright, warm kitchen. We are home again.
To look upon its grass grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.
The smallest snowstorm on record took place an hour ago in my back yard. It was approximately two flakes. I waited for more to fall, but that was it. The entire storm was two flakes.
One scoop of ice cream can go a long way. Not to mending friendships, but it can get up to 40 yards in the air if you lob it just right.
We come to a house and walk down the small walkway to its backyard. In the yard there are two screens and a slide projector. People are seated in lawn chairs, watching slides of trees.
But as the years passed, Ned's silence grew and grew. It pressed upon his face and his body. It leaked into the house and spread outward into the yard. His silence had weight. It had substance and presence and teeth.
