Block · one region of the page, as the scanner read it. It may hold a whole story, part of one, several, or an advertisement; stitching blocks into articles is the next step. Text is supplied OCR.
Page 16 · column 2 of 7 · from the scan, no model involved
A half hour later, we’d tucked half the spread under as the crowd began to squeeze onto its edges. In another half hour, we’d halved the spread again but still marked the boundary of our turf with the coolers and bags. Thirty minutes to curtain and we’d pulled our supplies into a pile. The social worker and I, the only two members of our group brave — or foolish — enough to remain on the ground, were scrinched onto a tiny square of Indian print spread, looking out into a sea of tanned legs and tennis shoes.
Even a whisper of a breeze was blocked by the press of bodies while nary a whisp of a cloud blocked the sun. But we were coping. One Thermos had been designated as a bandanna dip. We gulped ice water. Self-appointed relief crews, smiling youngsters armed with spray bottles filled with cool water, stopped regularly at our little knot of humanity, trading blasts of wet spray for a hand full of dripping ice. Several in our party joined the lines at the edges of the field waiting for a bigger blast from the water hoses manned by stadium workers. Ten,year-old Grace, the youngest in our troupe, was ensconced above the masses on the top of the giant Thermos, her shoulders draped with an ice water soaked towel.
Showtime. The crowd roared. Dylan walked to the microphone. This wasn’t the skinny, pasty white Bob Dylan in blue jeans whose acoustical guitar helped inspire pro
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