Word: porches
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...does the information from these sources always filter through the thick complexity of daily life. One evening a friend and I were sitting on the porch of our boarding house chatting with one of the neighbors. After reminiscing about her first husband, whom she married in 1915, and asking us whether the sinking of the Titanic preceded World War I or II, she wanted to know whether we thought there would be another war. We muttered and rambled for a while, until she asked us: "Who is it that's so strong now? Germany...
...small room in the house on stilts was blue with cigar smoke as the three princes and the general argued the final details. Slovenly soldiers of all three factions loitered on the porch, sometimes poked their heads curiously through the glassless windows. Below, amid mud puddles and stray dogs, newsmen scrambled for vantage points...
Minutes after 3 p.m.. the meeting broke up. Prince Souvanna Phouma strode out onto the porch, gave the railing a resounding slap. "Voila!" he cried. "Le gouvernement!" Soldiers of the three armies broke into cheers, and TV cameramen shouted for a word in English. Beaming. Souvanna replied: "I cannot speak English. I can only say-it is all O.K.'' Souvanna's enthusiasm was shared in Moscow. Nikita Khrushchev fired off a cable to President John Kennedy hailing the creation of a neutral Laotian government as "good news" in the "cause of strengthening peace in Southeast Asia...
...Priory Street is undecorated except for Sir Jacob Epstein's imposing four-ton figure of St. Michael staring down in triumph and compassion at the chained Devil. To Spence, the exterior is "like a plain jewel casket with many jewels inside." The church is entered through an open porch that connects St. Michael's ruins to the huge glass screen that forms the new cathedral's south wall. Through the glass, the new cathedral's altar is visible from the ruins. From inside, icy-white saints and angels-designed by John Hutton and delicately etched...
...Harlem's Church of the Master this week, a preacher named Oscar Brown Jr. delivered a sermon in song-an elegy for castaways between a front-porch Heaven and a sidewalk Hell. It was his debut in the pulpit-but the message was scarcely new to him. He had delivered it just the night before, downtown at Manhattan's smoky Blue Angel club. Mixing the groovy with the grave in songs that filled his life during a dozen mute years. Oscar Brown had at last found his voice. Matched with Brown's stylish skill as a performer...