"From where they all sat, from the boxed in, smoke-sickened corner room on the second floor, they were all equal prisoners - all of them. They were prisoners of the neglected two-story brick behemoth that contained them all, a building aged and grandly pillared and choked with a suffocating layer of untamed ivy and dying wisteria and steadfast tradition and, to often (if you asked the right people), a small town's general inability to see the horizon beyond its own cracked and rutted streets." (p. 35).
"But for Hank, the dankness of autumn could hold a certain thunderous romance, if only for those winding drives into town, where he would find himself stealing glances in the rearview mirror to watch the glorious rooster tail of yellow and red billowing wildly behind him. Not enough people appreciated that. The turning maples and dogwoods that hovered cathedral-like over the roadway, racing down the snaking mountain highway, flanked by the breathtaking gauntlet of granite and basalt cliffs and the intermittent rush of late summer melt forcing its way down the slope toward the chugging Stillaguamish. Most times, it was the only thing that made that coming down the mountain worthwhile." (p. 83).
"The trees stood like bristles on a brush, evenly spaced with a floor almost entirely of salal. Half the mountain at this point was third growth, planted by hand like lettuce starts, regimented according to someone's master plan. These trees were living and breathing and providing homes and food for many. But they were waiting. Waiting to be felled again, to be run through the saw and cobbled into somebody's cheap furniture, or toilet paper, or the guts of the sort of matchbox houses that had begun to sprout along the lower highway like fungus." (pp. 113-114).
"The sermon had been a long one, about keeping faith in the moment of despair. The Soviet Union was already in outer space, and they were testing missiles. There was a man running for president who was unlike anyone who had run before, and for the first time in memory Lyla was excited to be able to vote. But he was so young and unproven, Lyla's parents liked to say, and on top of it all he was a Catholic, so what could be expected in the way of foresight and temperance? It seemed like every day they were predicting the end of everything, one minute begging her to hurry and find a man already (she was thirty, after all), the next minute shrugging their shoulders and lamenting, 'what's the use?'" (p. 116).
"'What happened?'
'Oh, it got so she hated the rain. I told her she was in the wrong place for that. Last I heard she went off to Texas.'
'Texas?'
'Can you believe it? You gotta hate something pretty bad to end up in Texas.'" (p. 144).
"'There's no gate keeping you or anyone else up here. All you got to do is get in your truck and drive. people walk around this town like a bunch of trapped animals, but the only ones trapping them are themselves.'" (p. 170).
"'I look at it this way,' he said. 'If it ain't the farm, it's the forest. We cut 'em down, chop 'em up, use 'em to make our houses. Use the pieces to keep us warm. You ever hear a four hundred year-old Doug Fir come down? It's like an old man. It groans and cries, and it creaks and snaps all over the place. It never feels good to take something that's lived so long and end it, just to make things better for you. But you put some more in the ground, and maybe in a hundred years, some Joe'll come along and do it all over again. And between then and then, all a fella can do is show respect and take care of em the best you can.'" (p. 228).
"A pathway opened, a possibility. Something she'd never had before, and it was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time." (p. 259).
"'I remember when it was all just trees,' she said. 'There are places all over this town that used to be trees. Things change.'
'Unfortunately, yes.'
She squinted up at him, chewing that gum she still had in her mouth. She shifted in the seat so that she faced him, propping her heels on floor edge. 'Why unfortunately?' she said. 'You think things ought to stay the same, forever?'
'I don't know,' he said. 'Some things.'
She shook her head. 'What's behind us is gone, Kelleher. It's out of our hands. The only thing any of us have control over is maybe the shit that's waiting around the next corner.'
She turned slightly, and reached back to find Toby again. She scratched at his ears, and he rolled onto his side to show his stomach, but she didn't notice. Her eyes remained on Hank's, studying him, it seemed, to see where he might be taking this conversation.
'It's just reminiscing is all,' he said. 'It's what happens when you realize there's more years behind you than are in front of you.'
She swung her leg out and tapped him against the shin. 'You aren't as old as you let on. You've got plenty of good years left ahead. Whether you live them up there on the mountain, or down here in Ash Falls, or wherever the hell you want to - just live them. Don't spend your whole life staring in the rearview mirror.'" (pp. 286-287).