Word: bus
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...would tire of the timeless hills and mountain brooks and would eventually wring the neck of a rooster that woke me on a sleepy Sunday. Summer camping never managed to accustom me to outhouses; I will never adjust to life without steaming baths. But when we drove to the bus stop, in a cranky Vega smelling strongly of Bessie, I had a little more faith in naive dreams and images of Paradise...
...bus pulls into a Holiday Inn in Battle Creek, Mich. It has been traveling all night from Peoria, 111. Several band members drag themselves into the clean sheets of the hotel. Dolly sleeps on the bus until 2:30 p.m. She appears in the hotel dining room looking perfect and is promptly mobbed. A woman named Ruby asks for Dolly's autograph. Dolly signs. An hour and many autographs later, Ruby gets up to leave. Dolly yells, "Bye, Ruby. Have a nice day." Ruby is radiant...
Back in the dressing room, Dolly eagerly signs autographs. A woman asks her where she got such great fingernails. "It's easy," laughs Dolly. "Thirty-five dollars a set." Then it's back to the bus for the long trip home to Nashville. Dolly settles into her quarters and a long night's talk. "It's a gimmick," she says, pointing to her huge wig. "It takes pure gall to go around under this. I always had a big hairdo. When the style went out, I still loved it. Wigs are great. I can get ready...
...bus pulls into Nashville, Dolly gets excited. Soon she will be with her husband Carl on their 70-acre farm. Carl Dean, who Dolly says has never seen her perform, owns an asphalt-paving company and has built their 23-room house. Dolly does not spend much time there, but when she does she just likes to walk around and play a little tennis. She does not hang out with other country-music folks. When at home, she invites her family and close friends over. Says she: "I ain't no housewife, but I cook real good country food...
...Falls admits in this bright, anecdotal history, dozens of 26-mile races. But there is only one Boston Marathon. The rewards for running in this unique race are nugatory. The win ner receives a laurel wreath; other top finishers get medals worth little more than the cost of the bus ride they have just avoided; all finishers are granted a bowl of generally inedible beef stew. Yet since 1897, the marathon has drawn an ever widening group of manic adherents...