Word: pile
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Kendall doesn't know what secrets the temple will yield when he finally breaks through the pile of rubble separating him from the interior. Will he find cult goddesses? Jeweled crowns? Kingly scepters? Or perhaps the remains of a priest or two, trapped for 18 centuries by that earthquake? Alas, there will be no answers until the next digging season begins in January. It's still summer in Sudan, and much too hot for archaeology...
...thrown on the trash pile 18 years ago not because I couldn't do the work at my job but because I was considered old. I had to grin at the man who made the decision to get rid of me. I thought at the time, "You are going to be paying me while I play." And so he has, and his children and grandchildren also will be doing so because I expect to be hanging in there 18 more years. ELLEN M. GREER Kissimmee...
...clients are paying for. It's his numbers. Cramer runs a hedge fund, a Wall Street investment vehicle for superrich investors looking for hyperterrific returns in all sorts of economic weather. While most investors bet on the broader market or particular stocks, wealthy clients want to protect their pile by "hedging" their risk with funds that adjust to economic conditions as fast as the market changes. With stocks teetering at record highs, demand for that sort of insurance is blossoming. The best hedge funds have become as exclusive as Augusta National, and hot managers are the rock stars...
Burning Man almost did not rise from its last pile of ashes. Two of the key organizers quit last year after one young man died in the chaos and dust storm churned up by thousands of vehicles driving every which way on the roadless flats of Black Rock Desert. The karma of mayoring such a bohemian city was more than they bargained for. But Larry Harvey, a visionary in the classic sense of the word, is undaunted. "They told us it would fall apart at 1,000 people," he says. "Then at 5,000. But we could have a million...
...things behind when they move out, me included. This past spring, I wrote my name and class year on the underside of the mantle in my old room in Eliot. Today, that room might very well be occupied by summer school students making up stories about me, attributing the pile of trash in the fireplace to my personal slovenliness, ripping off the doorknobs and throwing my bed out the window...