Most male citizens wore cowboy hats and there were hitching posts that were used regularly in front of the grocery store, cafe, dry goods store, tavern and post office. The commercial center of town was limited to the east side of Highway 30. The speed limit, which few drivers acknowledged, was thirty-five on the two-lane highway that bisected the town without so much as a stoplight. Haines had no mail delivery so we walked, drove, or rode a horse or a bicycle to the post office to get our mail from a little box with a window and a combination lock dial on its face. There were dozens of these little boxes on one wall of the post office lobby, the wall that split the building down the middle. There was also a window with an ornate cast bronze …show more content…
In the summer of '62, Steve Polimeni, my best friend in all the world, closer than a brother since we were four years old, came from Portland for a visit. Eight years earlier, Steve and I were five-year-olds, attached at the hip, growing up in the suburban jungle of expanding Portland. Although we lived in a big city, we were no strangers to wild adventure. The neighborhoods were expanding at breakneck speed in an effort to keep up with the post-war baby boom. The suburbs were rolling over the former hayfields and forests of northeast Portland. Pockets of wild forest still remained to be explored and the construction sites with half-finished homes provided endless opportunity for curious minds. We slipped like a pair of miniature ghosts in and out of locked gates and fences designed to stop adults and were seldom slowed down by anything. We got a rude surprise one day while traversing a familiar landscape subtly changed by a recent heavy rain. The firm brown earth of the previous day was still brown but not so firm. We ran lightly over the brown surface until its unfamiliar sticky quality brought us to an unwilling stop. Like that, we were stuck, bogged down to the top of our rubber boots. All we could do was stand at the center of that ocean of mud and hope for
The soil was dry and rough. Austin’s bare feet scraped along the ground as he continued his tedious chore of harvesting crops. He had become so accustomed to this task that he toiled on without even having to watch where he was going. This usually made his work much more efficient, but today, the terrain had changed because of the tasks of the other workers.
In No Way Out, Waverly Duck examines an urban neighborhood referred to as Bristol Hill, where the drug trade is prevalent among the residents. Duck challenges the popular misconception that these communities characterized by the drug trade, crime, and violence are tumultuous areas with no social order. Duck argues that the residents of this community have created an interaction order that is a complex social organization that allows for survival in such dangerous conditions. For seven years, Duck lived on Lyford Street in Bristol Hill, and his theory is built on his personal experiences and information gathered from residents in this community. Through residents’ personal narratives of their experiences and detailed observations, Duck validates his theory and shows how social order exists in these communities.
Brock looked up in the sky, the sun seemed an odd color, a little more reddish than he was used to. It was also later in the day here than it had been on Earth, judging by the position of the sun it was close to noon here. They were in a large clearing in a forested area, some of the trees looked familiar, but there were many that did not, some of them were very alien colors, with strangely shaped leaves, odd barks and impossibly twisted branches and trunks. At first no sounds came from the forest, the animal life no doubt shocked into silence by the whump and the concussion blast when the two worlds parted ways after their brief interspersion. Slowly the living creatures resumed their normal existence and eerie sounds never heard on the Earth
In the documentary “The ten Town That Changed America” Geoffrey Baer illustrates the evolution of ten popular cities of the 21st century America. Done in chronological order, the documentary explores how these US cities were developed by visionary citizens who combined, urban planning, design, and architecture to change the way people lived. According to the documentary, these planners had passion and great insights for urban development, although driven by different inspirations and motivations. But one thing was central to these people: to build an environment that would change the way people live in America.
Far birds' cries blew on a wind, and the smell of tar and an old salt sea, moist grasses, and flowers the color of blood. “, while Plumwood is on a present-day marsh. In “A Sound of Thunder”, the hunters have to stand on this path or they can change the future. "’ And that,’ he said, ‘is the Path, laid by Time Safari for your use, It floats six inches above the earth. Doesn't touch so much as one grass blade, flower, or tree.
She paused for a moment and her ears went back as the ground begin to shake beneath her. She nearly fell trying to get away from the moving ground beneath her, but as quick as it began, it stopped. The cat stared intently at the ground, the stillness of the air and the silence was eerie to her after the ground shook, and she was suspicious of it. Suddenly breaking through the silence sprouted seeds broke through the dirt and were growing at an alarming rate. The seedlings grew into sapling trees and as the saplings filled the area the forest began to take
“Darn, surrounded by all of these nice homes and communities, this High School should be really nice,” is what I thought once I got to the North Druid Hills Rd and North Cliff Valley Way intersection. In front of me all that I could see was vibrant communities that displayed their affiliation with the Lenox area, which is a very rich area. Making a left onto North Druid Hills Road, I continued to see beautiful homes on my right and my left I began to see the campus of Cross Keys High School. Due to the tons of leaves that had fallen, the bare trees that occupied the front of the campus, and the splotchy patches of grass, viewing the Cross Keys campus was not as striking to the eye as was the view of the surrounding homes. Having such a bare
A foreign visitor to the United States might be intrigued by the different look of the American landscape as compared to those of Europe, Asia, or South America. With their works, Kenneth T. Jackson and Dolores Hayden both shed clarity on the look of American tracts, malls, and highways with Crabgrass Frontier and Building Suburbia, respectively. Kenneth T. Jackson write’s Crabgrass Frontier: The Suburbanization of the United States to answer the question: Why are American suburbs different from those in other countries? He investigates the dynamics of land use, process of city growth through history, and the ways in which Americans coming taught in metropolitan areas have arranged their activities.
The nature has reclaimed the trail for its own trees and roots sprout out from the trial there are low overhanging limbs that makes it harder to walk without ducking and dodging. The blue hydrangeas that used to bloom here now bloom black and nameless. I would usually recognize the shrubs that used to bloom here ,but know one has taken a hand to them in years . Now those are just parasites The gnarled roots that grow out from the sidewalk look like skeletons claws. Shadows seemed to be following my every move as i walked down.
A measly twenty-five miles from Tufts, I have grown up in the town of Natick. My parents chose Natick for numerous reasons, but what I love about my hometown is its welcoming sense of community. Every year when I participate in Natick’s Fourth of July parade, I easily identify my friends, teammates and co-workers amongst the crowds cheering me on. When I help at the library, I work alongside the same librarians who read Cat in the Hat to me almost a decade earlier.
When I was a child the world never seemed to stretch beyond my home town Tallahassee Florida. Through my young eyes it was so massive and expansive that I couldn’t fathom the concept of their possibly being areas existing outside of it. Out of all of the areas of Tallahassee I was familiar with, I was familiar with my neighborhood the most. I lived in a reddish-brown brick house that had a dark Oakwood colored roof on it. Up until the mid-2000’s the house was very dark to the presence of dark colored paint on the house and was often covered by spiders.
“Ten years ago the roofs were falling off the houses in this area, firms were going bankrupt and people started to relocate themselves. With the discovery of fracking and thousands of active wells in this area, new houses are being built, new firms are opening and the landscape is
In every culture there is a true story of myth, madness, and greed. In Canada, The Golden Spruce by John Vaillant recounts this story. In 1997, a unique sitka spruce is laid to waste by a logger by the name of Grant Hadwin. The senseless killing of this sacred tree horrifies the Haida people and shocks local loggers. Shortly after, Hadwin disappears.
There was no chattering or chirping of birds; no growling of bears and no chuckling of contented otters; instead, the clearing lay desolate and still, as though it never wished to be turned into day. The only occupants were rodents and spiders who had set their home in the dank, forgotten shack. From its base, dead, brown grass reached out, all the way to the edge of the tree-line, unable to survive in the perished, infertile soil that made up the foundations of the house. Bird houses and feeders swung still from the once growing apple trees, in the back garden, consigned to a life of
The cool, upland air, flooding through the everlasting branches of the lively tree, as it casts a vague shadow onto the grasses ' fine green. Fresh sunlight penetrates through the branches of the tree, illuminating perfect spheres of water upon its green wands. My numb and almost transparent feet are blanketed by the sweetness of the scene, as the sunlight paints my lips red, my hair ebony, and my eyes honey-like. The noon sunlight acts as a HD camera, telling no lies, in the world in which shadows of truth are the harshest, revealing every flaw in the sight, like a toddler carrying his very first camera, taking pictures of whatever he sees. My head looks down at the sight of my cold and lifeless feet, before making its way up to the reaching arms of an infatuating tree, glowing brightly virescent at the edges of the trunk, inviting a soothing, tingling sensation to my soul.