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  1. Bob Hope Presents the Chrysler Theatre
  2. Federal raids on auto union set stage for unprecedented contract talks with Ford, GM, Fiat Chrysler
  3. UAW set to strike as FCA keeps talking
  4. Growing mistrust?

Bob Hope Presents the Chrysler Theatre

What woul. Elan that lifts me above the cloud into pure space, timeless, yea ete Breath transmuted into words Transmuted back to breath in one hundred two hundred years. The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden. H The world is holy! The soul is ho Everything is holy! The typewriter is holy the poem is.

I came home and found a lion in my Rushed out on the fire escape scre Two stenographers pulled their bru I hurried home to Patterson and s Called up old Reichian analyst. On April 5, , in New York City, he died from complications of hepatitis. Written in my Dreams by W. Do the Meditation Rock. My Sad Self. An Asphodel. New Stanzas for Amazing Grace. Sunflower Sutra. Ballad of the Skeletons. Mugging I. Crossing Nation. September on Jessore Road. Kaddish, Part I. CIA Dope Calypso.

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Federal raids on auto union set stage for unprecedented contract talks with Ford, GM, Fiat Chrysler

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UAW set to strike as FCA keeps talking

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On every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a closed pot. On the broad, level land floor the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining like metal where the shares had cut. On the foothill ranches across the Salinas River, the yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the valley now in December.

The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and positive yellow leaves. It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from the southwest so that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and rain did not go together. The cattle on the higher slopes were becoming shaggy and rough-coated. Elisa Allen, working in her flower garden, looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her husband, talking to two men in business suits. The three of them stood by the tractor shed, each man with one foot on the side of the little Fordson.

They smoked cigarettes and studied the machine as they talked. Elisa watched them for a moment and then went back to her work.

She was thirty-five. Her face was lean and strong and her eyes were as clear as water. She wore heavy leather gloves to protect her hands while she worked. She looked down toward the men by the tractor shed now and then. Her face was eager and mature and handsome; even her work with the scissors was over-eager, over-powerful. The chrysanthemum stems seemed too small and easy for her energy. She brushed a cloud of hair out of her eyes with the back of her glove, and left a smudge of earth on her cheek in doing it. Behind her stood the neat white farm house with red geraniums close-banked around it as high as the windows.

It was a hard-swept looking little house, with hard-polished windows, and a clean mud-mat on the front steps. Elisa cast another glance toward the tractor shed. The strangers were getting into their Ford coupe. She took off a glove and put her strong fingers down into the forest of new green chrysanthemum sprouts that were growing around the old roots.

She spread the leaves and looked down among the close-growing stems. No aphids were there, no sowbugs or snails or cutworms. Her terrier fingers destroyed such pests before they could get started. He had come near quietly, and he leaned over the wire fence that protected her flower garden from cattle and dogs and chickens. Elisa straightened her back and pulled on the gardening glove again. Her eyes sharpened.

My mother had it. She could stick anything in the ground and make it grow. They were from the Western Meat Company. I sold those thirty head of three-year-old steers. Got nearly my own price, too. Henry put on his joking tone. Like that? She heard her husband calling Scotty down by the barn. And a little later she saw the two men ride up the pale yellow hillside in search of the steers. There was a little square sandy bed kept for rooting the chrysanthemums.

With her trowel she turned the soil over and over, and smoothed it and patted it firm. Then she dug ten parallel trenches to receive the sets. Back at the chrysanthemum bed she pulled out the little crisp shoots, trimmed off the leaves of each one with her scissors and laid it on a small orderly pile.

Growing mistrust?

A squeak of wheels and plod of hoofs came from the road. Elisa looked up.

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The country road ran along the dense bank of willows and cotton-woods that bordered the river, and up this road came a curious vehicle, curiously drawn. It was an old spring-wagon, with a round canvas top on it like the cover of a prairie schooner. It was drawn by an old bay horse and a little grey-and-white burro.

A big stubble-bearded man sat between the cover flaps and drove the crawling team. Underneath the wagon, between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel dog walked sedately.

Words were painted on the canvas in clumsy, crooked letters. The black paint had run down in little sharp points beneath each letter. Elisa, squatting on the ground, watched to see the crazy, loose-jointed wagon pass by. It turned into the farm road in front of her house, crooked old wheels skirling and squeaking. The rangy dog darted from between the wheels and ran ahead. Instantly the two ranch shepherds flew out at him.

Then all three stopped, and with stiff and quivering tails, with taut straight legs, with ambassadorial dignity, they slowly circled, sniffing daintily. Now the newcomer dog, feeling outnumbered, lowered his tail and retired under the wagon with raised hackles and bared teeth. The man caught up her laughter and echoed it heartily.

He climbed stiffly down, over the wheel. The horse and the donkey drooped like unwatered flowers. Elisa saw that he was a very big man. Although his hair and beard were graying, he did not look old.