Word: tinning
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...medicine to move; others grumbled that the wind wouldn't blow right for drying their fish. As for sanitary conditions, Red Cloud Towner grumped: "They are not so bad when we observe your city streets . . . littered with popcorn, gum, all sorts of papers . . . The country, with all the tin cans, refuse, offal in general and potent spirit bottles are a sore eye to us, too. We never complain about our white brothers' backyards; why should he take offense at our meager mode of life...
...walked across the Square--colored lights, and old rummies with tin pails asking for dimes and quarters, and all the stores leering out in the darkness, bright windows like dragons' jaws to eat money; money, money and that's Xmas. There's no such thing as Christmas. Into the Yard; lights here meant that guyes were going on studying or drinking or talking, whether it was Christmas or Mother...
...system was simple. He erected a corrugated-tin "clubhouse" on land (which he leased but did not own) in the oak-shaded canyon bottom. Then he lured aging citizens 34 miles from Los Angeles by offering free bus rides and free lunches. From the clubhouse he allowed them to catch sight of four broken-down old oil derricks which stood near by. Before they left, most of his prospects were convinced that 1) Yant's land was in the grassy canyon bottom and 2) an ocean of oil gurgled just below the surface...
Antenor No. 2. Cristina's Antenor is the son of the late Bolivian Tin King Simón Patiño. Though the Patino holdings have been estimated at a comfortable $1 billion, Antenor has never been profligate (he once put in several tax-exempt years as Bolivia's ambassador to London). Cristina managed, however, to separate him from an even half-million dollars after a 1944 separation, won a court judgment for another $500,000 by proving some indiscretions with a brunette model named Francesca Simms in 1945. This irritated Antenor to the point of trying...
...corner of his 286-acre farm, Joe joined a crowd of several hundred oil scouts, brokers, geologists and gawking neighbors around the tin-hatted crew working the rig on a 128-ft. oil derrick. As Joe and they watched, there was a cough and a sputter; then a stream of oil shot out 30 ft. and poured into the mud sump pit. Joe York rubbed his hands in the oil, smelled it and smiled. "I guess I won't have to go back to milking those Jersey cows," he said. The oil scouts took but one look...