Word: goldings
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...March Against Death. Her husband, a Navy officer, died in Viet Nam last spring. "I have come to Washington to cry out for liberty, for freedom, for peace," she said. The New Mobe organizers had recruited others who had lost loved ones in the war, but some gold-star families wanted none of it. In Philadelphia and Dallas, groups of mothers and widows of G.I.s killed in combat obtained court orders to bar use of the men's names by the protesters...
...that the Western nations have surmounted their currency crises and, largely as a result of the French devaluation and German revaluation, entered a new period of monetary tranquillity. The world's confidence in the value of paper money is measured by the volatile free-market price of gold: the higher the price, the greater the doubts among investors as to the worth of currencies. Since, last month's upward revaluation of the West German mark, gold has dropped abruptly. From an early October level of $41.20 an oz., the price in London sank last week...
Hoarders have been unloading their accumulated holdings, and there are reports among bankers that the Soviets are selling gold in the West. For the first time in years, there is no significant speculation against any important European currency or the U.S. dollar...
...audience of today, these characters seem like a commune of dropouts, and Saroyan qualifies as the first articulate hippie. They are deliberate outcasts in search of saintly goodness, and their symbol, Kitty Duval (Susan Tyrrell), the stock prostitute with the heart of gold, has a luminous inner purity. When cops enter the bar and beat the black jazz pianist bloody, the scene has a truncheon-like impact that was totally lacking in 1939, when such events seemed isolated from any social context with which the audience was familiar. In those days, Saroyan was known as the "crazy...
FIRST DAY. As dawn streaked across the amber and gold foliage on a heroic fall day, Fred was already prowling the beach, studying the heart-shaped tracks. "They're here," he whispered. A rangy, rawboned man with the weathered look of a backwoods sage, he was wearing his favorite old camouflage jacket and a battered gray fedora. As he explored the island, half a dozen deer bolted from distant thickets, their upturned tails waving like white flags. Later, sipping black coffee out of a tin can, he smiled: "Looks like this is going to be too easy...