Sunday Gazette-Mail from Charleston, West Virginia on July 4, 1976 · Page 102
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Sunday Gazette-Mail from Charleston, West Virginia · Page 102

Charleston, West Virginia
Issue Date:
Sunday, July 4, 1976
Page 102
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.···CUP AND SEND THI1 ftr ·· = 126 AND -110 12-EXP 1 CARTRIDGES Pnnteri on d e l u x e bor der!ps, Koddk silk f i n i s h 20 EXP. «2.2S ADD 25C POSTAGE S K R l 1)1 AM) I II M s F K V l } PATTERNS by pAUliME b-Tll ThE sofr Choose the lovely two- piece with cinched-in waist- :4ine or the flowing pantsuit. A soft summer-silk or cotton for the dress, a cool, lightweight denim for the pantsuit ...again, the choice is yours. You will find both so very nice to wear! Pattern B-118 with Photo- Guide is available in sizes 10 to 18. Size 10, 32Vj-inch bust, uses 3 3 /4 yards of 45-inch fabric for the dress, 4 5 /» yards for the pantsuit. Send $2.00 (includes postage and handling) to PARADE, Dept E, Box 475, Radio City Station, New York, N.Y. 10019. Print name, address, zip, pattern number and size. Include an extra 751 plus 251 for postage and handling to get PARADFS PATTERN BOOK. Please allow three weeks for delivery. [GENERAL OFFICES: 1150 AVE. OF THE AMERICAS, NEW YORK, N.Y. 10036.] Deindorfer snares a big one in an English stream. The fish were both succulent and abundant, but all the same, he's heading back for American waters. CONTINUED miliar sights and sounds ever since. It's perfectly true that some of the things I miss expose basic warps of my own. I miss waffles, frosted mugs of root beer, bullyboy pro football, jumbo copies of the daily papers, the sun melting down over a particular fold of hills in New York's Neversink Valley. Every time I manage to tune in some idiomatic- American small talk I ache to hear more. One recent afternoon, I rose out of my chair when several audible Texas accents strolled past the front windows of our cottage. A leathery Texas twang is almost as alien to a longtime New York eardrum as an upper British accent, but that was American,.real live American, the visitors were talking. The rambling dialogue I promptly struck up proved so evocative that I prolonged it by wheedling them in for a drink. If s presence, not absence, that makes the heart grow fonder. Memories linger At a distance of 3000 miles even episodes I used to consider major irritants now linger wistfully in the back streets of my mind. So help me, I actually look forward to traffic snarls, the crapshoot mail service, the "hot enough for you?"humidity, the three locks on the door of our apartment, the fact that practically everything except my income is going up, up, up. Bot what my wife and I miss most of all are the copyright strengths of the land we were born to--the easy candor, the generous neighborly spirit, the bigness, the lack of pretense, the overpowering physical beauty, the cheery informality, the air of optimism no matter what--which together strike me as the very essence of America. "Sometimes I get homesick for that old bounce," Joan remarked several weeks ago. "You know what I mean?" I knew exactly what she meant. There's a thrumming beat to life back home, a gritty drive, a boisterous rhythm peculiar to our people. Basic downhome landscape grown Farewell to all this: The Deindorfers will miss their English friends but are looking forward to rediscovering "the generous neighborly spirit" of America. dim.with distance now often partially blots out whatever it is I'm doing. One morning I was cashing in an old ambition by fishing--or, because I hadn't bothered arranging to lease any water beforehand, actually poaching--salmon on the famous River, Tay washing through the highlands of Scotland, which ought to have been sufficient Yet my memory filled with a misty vision of the friends, the good times, the associations along an Arkansas stream where the fish aren't nearly so big or abundant If that suggests a bone- deep love for America, well, so be it This is not to say that we applaud the whole of our national lifeway. We don't America isn't altogether a land of milk and honey, far from it, even in this eventful year of our Bicentennial. Unless things have changed considerably since we left, for example, our official reentry might well serve as a case in point I still recall returning to America many years ago with my father- after a potluck trip through Europe. An especially gung-ho U.S. Customs agent --perhaps he had to meet a daily quota, like traffic cops in Riverside, III., used to --not only insisted on opening every piece of luggage we had but also suspiciously rummaged through the contents. "Blank blank, boy, next time I'm going to fill a bag with live Gaboon vipers," my redheaded father sputtered. We expect to encounter other moments of frustration boiling into occasional rage, the same as we always have. That's the way things are. But so long as America dreams the proper dreams and doesn't stop to listen to the ap- plause.we have no fears for the future. All three of us ache to get back home, even our son, who genuinely enjoys England. One evening not long ago, his eyes filled with tears as The Star- Spangled Banner played on the television screen. "I'm not really crying," he said, "but that song makes me proud--and it reminds me of everything." Shared emotion In case he hadn't noticed, at least one graduate member of the family was blinking some, too. Undeniably, England has been a wonderfully pleasant experience. But every . so often sticky British manners, clenched British accents, sausage rolls, drab, rainy days, national newspapers no bigger than the smalltown Missouri paper on which I cut my teeth, left-handed traffic and pubs forever named The Kings Arms, The White Swan or The Duke of Wellington can and do become scream- ingly oppressive. So ... I don't know what you'll be doing today, but we'll be packing to go home!

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