Word: placide
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...small, quiet funeral took place four days later in the placid village cemetery of Ketchum. To the north, the peaks of the rugged Sawtooth Mountains were still capped with snow. To the east lay the lavish summer greenery of the Wood River Valley. Around the rose-covered coffin gathered only about 50 people, mostly Idaho neighbors and some of Hemingway's always-varied circle of friends-a doctor, a rancher, a hotel man, a onetime operator of a gymnasium. "O Lord," prayed Father Robert Waldmann, pastor of Our Lady of the Snows Catholic Church, "grant to thy servant Ernest...
...come with a rush. On the biggest holiday weekend of the season, highways were blue with the vapor trails of traffic. Eastern beaches were alive with humanity; campers struggled up the slopes of the Rockies, the Smokies and the high Sierra. On Midwestern lakes, motorboats roared over the placid water, pulling skiers like dragonflies behind. The U.S. seemed relaxed, and in regard to the people's personal affairs, it was. But beneath the suntanned surface, when U.S. citizens thought of their country there was uneasiness and discontent...
...drip-dry warp knit, $29.95 each; and countless, nameless nylon shifts, $10 and up. The knits follow closely on Pucci's stretchy heels: Kimberly's wool dresses with jackets ($59.95), three-piece suits ($59.95 and $69.95) and plain dresses ($49.95 and $59.95), all in solid, placid colors with an occasional border contrast, are also relatively light and packable...
...field of nine thoroughbreds paraded onto Belmont's 1½-mi. track, playful Carry Back seemed unnaturally placid. But the crowd sensed nothing amiss. At one time or another. Carry Back had trounced every other horse in the race. "The only thing that can beat him," crowed Owner Jack Price, "is bad racing luck." By post time, Carry Back was a prohibitive 2-to-5 favorite-every other entry was a long shot. Longest shot of all was a dark bay colt named Sherluck, who had won only one stakes race in two years. The odds on Sherluck...
When Painter Joan Miró, 68 - short, round-faced and seemingly as placid as a Buddha-withdrew from France to his studio home on Majorca five years ago, an uneasy lethargy settled over him. He imposed "a silence on myself. A fast." Instead of painting, he sat and thought. Then, two years ago, catastrophe." Systematically he tore up scores of paintings that he had done on cardboard, obliterated nearly a hundred done on canvas-an act roughly equivalent to burning up $3,000,000. "The paintings uttered soft cries when they saw I was destroying them," sighs...