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Word: timing (lookup in dictionary) (lookup stats)
Dates: during 1960-1969
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Usage:

...train station benches but no one dared to wake him: no train could be more important than a few hours' sleep if you were tired enough to fall asleep on a hard wooden bench in a cold waiting room. Travelling the slow ways taught one that time was inconsequential. Getting there would take a long time, so you found value in what happened...

Author: By Richard Bock, | Title: The Aviator Getting There | 12/18/1969 | See Source »

...took hold of my imagination. But when I looked around to see what was really there, I had to admit that airplanes were dull: businessmen stewardesses, students, all sealed in a cylinder, impatient to be rid of one another. The flights were so fast there wasn't the time to meet a girl and write down her telephone number between cities...

Author: By Richard Bock, | Title: The Aviator Getting There | 12/18/1969 | See Source »

...greeted me with its spacious empty comfort. The plane was connected to the terminal by an umbilical apparatus and I didn't even feel the runway wind. I would be inside for an hour. I would sleep for awhile and watch the East Coast the rest of the time...

Author: By Richard Bock, | Title: The Aviator Getting There | 12/18/1969 | See Source »

Just about the time I had him rising from his seat on the way to the cockpit, the no smoking - seat belt sign started flashing and a bell chimed. I held my breath as the engine slowed and the pilot came on the P. A. system to announce that we would be landing shortly in Philadelphia, Philadelphia? Who the hell did the pilot think he was landing in Philadelphia? What about the man with the black briefcase? What were the airlines doing making such suggestive announcements when they couldn't deliver the goods? Just another gimmick, I told myself. They...

Author: By Richard Bock, | Title: The Aviator Getting There | 12/18/1969 | See Source »

...standing underneath one of those towering gas station signs you see by the highway all the time, at the eastern edge of Gallup, New Mexico, when the girl picked me up. It was about nine o'clock. Thursday morning, August 14. The girl driving the car looked about five feet tall, and she wore a leather jacket over a maroon-and-blue striped knit T-shirt, and a hemless mini-skirt made from cut-off corduroy jeans. She had a sharp face-rather pronounced cheekbones, triangular eyes, and a smail, sharp nose. Her blondish hair was uniformly short except...

Author: NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED | Title: The Road from Gallup to Albuquerque: | 12/18/1969 | See Source »

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