Word: southwester
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...minute past noon, after 100 miles, the crowd stood up as Holland's blue racer got into a traffic jam streaking into the southwest turn. Young Bill cut sharply to the inside and off the track, dug a deep track in the grass and shot back on to the brick. Behind him a bright orange racer spun out of control, turned two circles and crashed into the outside retaining wall. Oil from its wounded motor oozed downward across the speedway but there was no pace slackening; other cars splashed through the puddle. Within a few minutes, the loudspeakers announced...
Every summer for more than half a century, artists-professional and amateur-from all over North America have come down the winding, bumpy, narrow road to Peggy's Cove, 35 miles southwest of Halifax, on Nova Scotia's granite coast. From dawn to dusk they have painted the surf smashing against the rocks and the jumble of houses, tumbledown fishing shacks, crooked wharves, dories, fish barrels and lobster pots that line the coast. Many go away at summer's end in agreement with Halifax Artist William E. Degarthe, who says: "A person who doesn't feel...
...clock the two fleet mares were ridden out onto the dusty alkali-white track. It was Texas' biggest quarter-horse, or "short," race in years: a match race between the two best short racers in the Southwest. In a box by the rail sat the three Hepler brothers of Carlsbad, N.Mex. They own Shue Fly, a true quarter horse-chunky, big-muscled, able to travel short distances (a quarter of a mile) with blinding speed. They had put up a $15,000 side bet, and most of the oldtimers went with them on Shue...
Tall, gimlet-eyed, Alabama-born J.Frank Norris, 69, rejoices in his ecclesiastical reputation as the "stormy petrel of the Southwest," and sees to it that the description keeps up-to-date. In his church study at Fort Worth in 1926, the Rev. Mr. Norris killed an unarmed political enemy by shooting him four times in the belly and was acquitted on grounds of self-defense...
...jungle valleys, back from the southwest shore of Lake Maracaibo, Venezuela, live the world's most determined isolationists: the celebrated Motilon Indians. They are naked, few in number and disunited. Airplanes fly over their territory; the modern machines of U.S. and British oil companies clank around their borders. But the Motilones, not budging an inch, go right on in the old ways: slipping through the tangled jungle, invisible as the wind, silent as their heavy arrows that can slam through a grown man's chest and out the other side...