Word: cob
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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Florence Phillips, 46, is a professional Florence Phillips, 46, is a professional actress with a very special audience: the students in the Cos Cob School in Connecticut. As the school's artist-in-residence, she flies through fairy tales, acts out scenes from Shakespeare and introduces the youngsters to the poetry of Whitman, Shelley and Tennyson. From parents she gets a standing ovation. Last month the Cos Cob PTA held a fund-raising party with 1,000 guests paying $1 a head. Reason: the local school budget does not cover her salary, and the PTA must raise...
...Carson, CA 36 Chris Ridout FB 6-0 210 Se. Rolling Hills, CA 91 Bill Ross DE 6-4 210 Se. New Sanyrna Bch., FL 71 Joe Rayan OT 6-2 265 Se. Bresklyn, NY 37 Will Salesby RB 5-11 175 Sr. Cos Cob, CT 44 Paul Sharon FB 5-11 195 Sr. Marlboro, MA 20 Chunk Sharon SE 5-11 160 Se. Waterlee, IA 18 K.C. Smith ADJ 6-2 196 Se. Doorfield, MA 8 Rob Steimberg P-PK 5-10 175 Se. Los Angeles, CA 25 Ken Tarcry CB 6-0 175 Se. Mercer...
...elsewhere, the harvest intruded on that lush prairie silence. Sitting in a cab 9 ft. above ground, Steffen steered his rumbling 1970 John Deere combine up and down the quarter-mile-long rows. Each ear of corn was picked, shucked and stripped of its hard kernels, and its denuded cob spat back into the field. Steffen, whose 420-acre farm is near Cropsey (pop. 90), thinks he is harvesting his best crops ever: perhaps 25,000 bu. of corn, 9,000 of soybeans. But that is not really good news. "If it goes another couple of years this...
...young officers circle White at a lunch of steak, corn on the cob and strawberry shortcake. They have an intense curiosity about the White House and Presidents, about the center of a power structure that binds them and shapes their lives but that most will never personally hear or see. As nuclear engines throb quietly below the waves, they ask questions about the actions of Kennedy, Nixon and Carter. Perhaps they are too polite, or too young, to wonder out loud if Ronald Reagan knows what he is doing in this dangerous world...
Never mind gin and tonic -well, perhaps a short one -and forget the return of baseball's prodigal sons. We are dealing here with primal matters, with a current in the national psyche far deeper and more powerful than our tropism toward corn on the cob and Japanese cars. Ice cream is our drug of choice, and butterfat-the word itself is dizzyingly lovely and globulous-is the occasion of our guiltiest and most delicious sin. Fourteen percent butterfat. Eighteen percent. Four hundred percent butterfat, some dreamer with glazed-over eyes says and actually seems to believe. The great...