Word: writing
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...given all three of his brothers faint vision. While playing tag in the framework of an unfinished house at age 9, he fell two stories to the concrete foundation, suffered nothing worse than a fractured and permanently stiffened left elbow. A natural southpaw, he had to learn to write with his right hand; but he played left-handed tennis well enough to star on his high school team and make the varsity at Yale. Despite his damaged arm, he enlisted in the Army in 1918, lying about his age to get in, won a field-artillery commission...
...into Italy, drove across Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey and Lebanon, and finally put their cars aboard a boat bound for Port Said. On July 24, Donald sent his sister a letter from Isna, Egypt, saying that he and his companions were ready to cross the Nubian Desert, and adding confidently "Write me in Johannesburg." In Aswan next day, John Armstrong wrote his mother a postcard that said he would soon be in the Sudanese border town of Wadi Haifa. The four bought food and water to last three days and hired a Nubian boy to guide them through the desert...
...fourth was a mysterious "N" who claimed to be his long-lost wife, described how Walter wooed her ("an inexperienced girl") with talk of "capitalist chains" and "bloodthirsty exploiters." After eight months of marriage, said she, "he said 'I am going to America.' He promised to write me but I knew it was a lie. He was a scoundrel." Without a smile, Reuther denied the whole thing...
...policy and attitude." Bad Timing. Castro's President dismissed the U.S. charges as "unfounded," leaving relations as bad as ever, and at a dangerous time for Cuba. As the State Department is anxiously aware, anti-Castro sentiment is growing in Congress, which early in the next session must write a new Sugar Act allocating the 4,500,000 tons of foreign sugar that the U.S. imports at the premium price of 6? a lb. (double the world price). Cuba currently has the lion's share, 3,200,000 tons...
...sluttish earth-mother figure and the doomed, self-destructive wastrel have appeared before in Eugene O'Neill's plays; some day--if it has not happened already--a Freudian scholar will write a book confirming our suspicions as to what these figures meant to their creator. Meanwhile, here they are again, livid with agony, struggling to find more than a painful, temporary peace in one another's arms...