Word: flower
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Last month Dr. Guanche's million-dollar new Reclusorio Nacional de Mujeres was ready for occupants. The prisoners who were moved there found it a spacious, sunlit, flower-hedged cluster of white buildings 27 miles west of Havana. For each inmate there was an airy, pastel-tinted cell, with toilet and hot & cold running water. Dinner was eaten, tearoom fashion, at small, flower-decorated tables. Reclusorio has a nursery and playground for children of prisoners, and a basketball court. For trusties, there is even a beauty parlor...
Between spiritual and material progress the Times saw mutual support. It observed: "The finest flower that grows must strike its roots in material earth . . . The noble products of civilization spring from organized and intelligently directed industry. When men lived in caves and every head of a family had to kill his own bear or go without meat, there were no Doric temples, no Trajan columns, or Dewey arches, and no poets reciting their verses of a Summer evening...
...things that set him thinking. Once he tried to stop some youngsters who were robbing his backyard peach tree, and got a sassy, truthful reply: "Our teacher says that everything in Richland belongs to the Government." A neighbor came home from work one evening to find his carefully nurtured flower bed torn up; that was where the Master Plan decreed that a Government tree should grow. After five months as head of Rich-land's frustrated, ineffectual city council, McDonald discovered that there was no government in Richland except the Atomic Energy Commission, and its contractor,, the General Electric...
...spent money like a sailor just ashore. With an expense account of about $100,000 a year, he was the town's most avid check-snatcher and tipper, its most unflagging patron of flower shops and buyer of sparkling burgundy (which he called "bubble ink"). His pinkish-blond hair was as much a trademark as his open-throat shirt, his fetish against wearing hats, ties or overcoats. "I'm a publicity hound," he told Cleveland sportwriters when he took over the Indians. And ex-Marine Bill Veeck, who had lost a leg as a result of combat injuries...
...personally banged up dozens of them with a sledge hammer while photographers recorded his prowess. He also called fellow Italian and longtime admirer Frank Costello a bum, a tinhorn gambler, and a punk. That was the end of Tru-Mint and of Costello's regard for the Little Flower...