Word: stewarding
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Tommy's domain at Winter Haven is the kitchen in the clubhouse, just off the pressroom. His title is press steward. He recalls in loving detail when the Red Sox train, with reporters and maybe 40 Old Boys aboard, would leave Boston's Back Bay Station in the years after World War II. Tommy was not allowed to serve drinks in the station. But once the train started rolling, at 8 a.m. sharp, Tommy started pouring. It was a happy crowd that stepped off into the Florida sunshine at 3 o'clock the following afternoon. Spring training...
Last week a team of astronomers, led by Marc Aaronson of the University of Arizona's Steward Observatory, detonated something of a minibang. Using new data obtained by observing the movements of a family of galaxies in the vicinity of the Virgo cluster, they assigned a new age to the universe. The universe, it now seems, is closer to 10 billion years...
...couldn't wait to get off the plane. He bounded down the gangway, dragging Charles behind like a tin can. Then there was Anne's retriever. He took one look at the steep gangway and cowered in the plane's doorway. While a shirt-sleeved steward grabbed the dog, Princess Anne, with a stiff upper lip and fairly rigid upper arm, pulled on the dog's lead. The retriever lost. And Diana? Well, she just got a new cassette recorder and at times has seemed oblivious to the domestic turmoil around her. As the Queen reportedly...
...head of the table, Deaver on his right, Meese on his left. But no one presides; they just talk. TIME White House Correspondent Laurence I. Barrett, attending a breakfast last week, observed that they began exchanging papers and ticking off items on the day's schedule even before a steward served the first course (cantaloupe for Meese and Baker, grapefruit for Deaver). Early though it was, all three had read the White House daily news summary. Deaver and Baker expressed concern about attacks on the Administration's prospective new budget cuts at a meeting in Detroit of municipal officials...
Meantime, Air Force Lieut. Colonel Monty Stokes, 26000's pilot, glanced over his gleaming ship. It had been plied with Turtle Wax, polished, cleaned, fueled and stocked. Terry Yamada, the chief steward, remembered that Ford liked butter-pecan ice cream, and he requisitioned a couple of quarts. He added some Don Diego cigars for Nixon, a secret indulgence. Yamada made certain that he had enough footies and eye masks for the 23-hr. 35-min. round-trip journey...