Word: boys
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...Malard might stare even that specter down for a little while longer. He did as a boy in the 1930s. "The country around here is not as bad off as it was then, not yet anyway," Malard said. His dad planted seeds that never sprouted. The dust blew so much it covered a hog house on his grandfather's farm. Malard walked right over the top of it. About the only thing that dimmed the sun during the big dry of those years was the clouds of swarming grasshoppers...
Choked by thoughts of his deceased father, Strange could scarcely say what it meant to win the U.S. Open. Just beating Faldo head to head couldn't be it. He hadn't cried when he won the Houston, the Hartford or the Honda. "It means what every little boy dreams about," he said finally, "when he plays golf all by himself late in the afternoon, and he puts down three or four balls. One is Snead, one is Hogan, one is Nicklaus and maybe one is Strange." And he is entered in the British Open in two weeks...
Tommy Griscom, 38, Baker's loyal aide, came in for his share. "Tommy, did somebody press the down button on your elevator shoes?" He was another Tennessee boy who could roll with it, even at 5 ft. 6 in., and with quick wit he traveled through the Washington jungle unscathed. "You know," whispered a former White House staffer last week, "we sometimes joked that Tommy was the most powerful man in the country. He had a President who was disengaged. Baker was not an administrator. Tommy paid attention to the details...
...phone, Smith began calling elsewhere to get help, then went to visit the charred wreckage of the house. Somebody had thrown a whiskey bottle full of gasoline into the living room. Another bottle landed in the tiny bedroom where the nine-year-old girl and six-year-old boy lay sleeping with others. One of them was splashed from head to foot. "Her panties were burned into her flesh," said their aunt, Nomsameli Molefe, her own burned arm in a bandage. "The other child caught it mostly in the face...
...pastoral wanderings. A septuagenarian lay preacher named Peter Mabuza, for example, welcomes him to his tiny township house and offers Coca-Cola and cookies, along with jocular tales of his youth, when his "baas" thrashed him for sitting on the bed of the baas' son while he helped the boy with his homework. "He t'rashed me again," Mabuza goes on, "when he caught me riding his son's bicycle instead of pushing it back from the railroad station...