Word: papas
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...tells how the hero buys his guitar, learns to play, and leaves home for the big city (Memphis) after an altercation with his papa ("He was a square--he just didn't dig me at all"). Then he continues...
Last week, as the wedding guests drained 40 cases of bubbly hard cider provided by Papa Espin, a Bacardi distillery official, a chorus of little girls insisted: "A kiss, a kiss." Bashful Raúl leaned over, gave Vilma a peck; then the couple drove off for a one-night honeymoon, guarded by rebel gunners. Among the guests at the wedding were four of the U.S. mining technicians who had been kidnaped by Raul and Vilma. They chipped in for a silver ice-bucket and gave it to the newlyweds with a good-luck card...
Braving the wrath of a doting papa, heavyweight Wagnerian Diva Helen Traubel had some grim memories (in the Ladies' Home Journal) about her three years (1948-51) as teacher to semi-retired Soprano Margaret Truman. Not only was [Margaret's] voice "inexperienced and rather bad," said Traubel, but her own stature in the musical world went heavily down "for ever having my name connected with such a musical aspirant. My first, greatest and unconquerable difficulty with Margaret's voice was simply keeping her on key. There simply was not enough of everything-or of anything to make...
...does Papa Suzuki entirely approve of his daughter's Flower Drum role. He does not like to think Pat has drifted so far from ancestral tradition. Especially he dislikes the striptease with which she stops the show. "I don't like it when she start taking off like this." He tries a tentative little laugh and begins to peel off his coat. "We see show in Boston and makes Mama to sweat. In Boston, more strip and very small pants. I'm little scared as I think accidentally come off her pants." Says Pat reassuringly...
...Papa Pasternak rented a dacha outside Moscow, next to the home of the composer Scriabin. The day the Pasternaks moved, the future poet fled the bustle and ran into the surrounding woods. He recalls in an autobiographical sketch: "Oh Lord! That forest was full of everything that morning! The sun was piercing it in all directions . . . And like the light and shadows shimmering in the forest, like the singing birds flitting from branch to branch, sections of Scriabin's Third Symphony or Divine Poem, which was being composed at the piano in the neighboring house, spread and echoed under...