A Quote by Richard Louv

The dugout in the weeds or leaves beneath a backyard willow, the rivulet of a seasonal creek, even the ditch between the front yard and the road-all of these places are entire universes to a young child.
My father would give his dinner to any hungry kids who walked by and then go in the backyard and pick weeds from the yard to eat.
By the time I was twelve, I had started my own theater company and was doing plays in the backyard and the front yard and all over the neighborhood, so, you know, I was definitely a lifer even back when I was 10.
I don't see love as some perfect happily ever after thing like it is in books and movies. It's more like a bumpy road filled with potholes...and detours. Sometimes we even veer off into the ditch. But the places that road will take you, the things you'll experience, are worth all of the uncertainty.
I wanted a house near my family in a quiet neighborhood with a front yard and a backyard that my dog will like.
But I remember seeing a mess of leaves suddenly go skittering in the wind and into the creek, then floating rapidly down the creek towards the sea, making me feel a nameless horror even then of 'Oh my God, we're all being swept away to sea no matter what we know or say or do
My own back yard, and my mom and dad's back yard, is where I learned about tomatoes and weeds and daily maintenance.
I don't like weeds! My father made me mow weeds and cut weeds when I was a kid. I've hated weeds ever since I was 12 years old. I'll never go in the weeds! I'll never gonna take you in the weeds.
I'm no Jerry Seinfeld. I wasn't raised with some backyard with a creek and trees and all that.
In L.A., I called every scrap yard and surplus place that was listed, about 50 or 60 places, and only at one of them did the owner get intrigued and let me go around the yard to find stuff. Because the insurance regulations are such that you can't go into the places anymore.
As dew leaves the cobweb lightly Threaded with stars, Scattering jewels on the fence And the pasture bars; As dawn leaves the dry grass bright And the tangled weeds Bearing a rainbow gem On each of their seeds; So has your love, my lover, Fresh as the dawn, Made me a shining road To travel on, Set every common sight Of tree or stone Delicately alight For me alone.
Central Park is the grandiose symbol of the front yard each child in New York hasn't got.
Creative action plays with the unknown. But as the child fears the dark... the adult child will be fearful too, faced with the dark world of the unknown mind, with vast concepts looking enormous just beyond the front yard.
Codi: Gives you the willies, doesn't it? The thought of raising kids in a place where the front yard ends in a two-hundred-foot drop? [referring to cliff dwellings] Loyd: No worse than raising up kids where the front yard ends in a freeway.
A framed photo on a dusty bookshelf caught his attention; he moved closer and picked it up silently. A small girl with long blond hair was standing under a tree, her face tilted up in delight as its feathery leaves brushed across her face, framing it. A willow tree. Willow.
Even at the end of the road, read the first sentence, there is a road. Even at the end of the road, a new road stretches out, endless and open, a road that may lead anywhere. To him who will find it, there is always a road.
I've got a statue of St. Francis in my front yard, and I'm not even a practicing Catholic.
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