Word: asleep
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...tell it, Lyndon Johnson has turned into just another hill-country rancher. He helps lay irrigation pipe, frets about his cattle and the weather, works on his memoirs and papers, entertains a few close friends, watches an occasional movie in a converted hangar at the ranch (he invariably falls asleep). Sundays, he usually goes to one of the churches around Johnson City-Baptist or Catholic or Lutheran, it hardly seems to matter, as though he were facing God as an equal and the intermediaries were supernumerary. He is fit and tanned, relaxed and happy...
...Easter holiday cruise aboard the Onassis yacht Christina. The voyage had barely begun when the Mediterranean weather turned bad; Mrs. Kennedy retired to her cabin and stayed there. Several times in the next few days, a solicitous Onassis looked in on her, but always found her asleep. Finally, on the fourth day out, she emerged on deck, still looking a bit queasy. "I hope you're feeling better," said Onassis; then he mentioned that he had checked on her a couple of times. The Kennedy eyebrows arched. "You mean you actually came into my stateroom?" He nodded. This time...
Wistfully I stared out the window at the stretch of grass and few bushes that bridged the space between buildings. Never ad I so longed for fresh air and freedom. Slowly drained of energy I feared more than anything that maybe I, too, would fall asleep, stretched out ignobly on the floor. From this kind of stupor my body was jerked to attention. From the middle of the room came a horrible bonechilling...
...lunch I was allowed to go with the other patients to the cafeteria. Like a child who has been cooped up in school all day I charged outside--much to the amusement of the hospital staff. Phoebe, who had been asleep only a moment before, ran to catch up, and both of us, celebrating sunshine and fresh air, jumped over a hedge...
...then, asleep in Winthorp House. At two a.m., I had left those best and most creative people walked guilty down the stairs between their files of eyes, walked across that dark yard past the reasonable student government people who had stayed up to argue and to observe, walked more guiltily yet past the friendly University policeman on Quincy Street, walked home in the cold, past the House where slept the Great Uncommitted with whom I felt I had less in common than with those romantics, or even those radicals...