Word: towns
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...town dump is just a nice place for people to meet, leave trash, vow eternal friendship and go their ways." So spoke Northeastern University's Professor Everett Marston of Duxbury, Mass, one day last week. Duxbury (pop. 4,280), like many upper-middle-income bedroom communities that sprawl around Boston, is the scene of a new form of social phenomenon-somewhat like the old town pump-that is coming to full flower in New England. In Duxbury's town dump, as in Lincoln's, Hingham's and Wayland's, local citizens who can well afford...
...even the town dump can make for complexities. "Like everything else in this Atomic Age," muses Professor Marston, "our dump is getting organized and is not as informal as it once was. The privilege of taking things has gone." It may not be long before some cheerful martini-toting group, decked out in Sunday-go-to-dumping clothes, will be confronted by the ultimate of barriers: a sign reading NO DUMPING...
Windows in a car and a bus were smashed before town police showed up, roughly packed the hooting collegians back into their dormitories-then, in an uncommon breach of the Geneva Convention for such affairs, followed the students inside and broke down a door to arrest undergraduate wrongdoers. Police bag: 24 wet-handed scholars...
Damned Strange. Hodgson settled in Minerva for no particular reason: "The birds seemed just as interesting as in England, and I'd never seen a hummingbird. It took my mind." As for the town, six miles from his house, no more than a score of people have set eyes on Hodgson over the years. His only real contact with the world is his mid-fiftyish, cheerful, Ohio-born wife Aurelia, who works as a clerk in the local wax-paper factory. Hodgson did not even come to town some years ago when he had the local newspaper editor privately...
...Most poets seem to agree. John Crowe Ransom calls Hodgson's Eve and The Bull "great, wonderful poems that will live forever." But the convincing voice itself speaks alone at the end of a muddy road, where few care to journey. Says the Minerva postmaster, summing up the town's spooky presentiment about its mysterious poet: "Oh, he's a brilliant man all right. But such a funny fella. He just sits out there and writes and writes...