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SUBJECT: BABE AND GEORGE ZAHARIAS
Joan Flynn Dreyspool
May 14, 1956
In a home hushed by illness, an ex-wrestler cares tenderly for the wife he adores, and reminisces with her about the great moments they have shared
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May 14, 1956

Subject: Babe And George Zaharias

In a home hushed by illness, an ex-wrestler cares tenderly for the wife he adores, and reminisces with her about the great moments they have shared

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The intercom buzzed again.

"Honey," the lady of the house said cheerily, "send Joan in here. I'd like to meet her."

Two double beds dominated the room and Babe Didrikson Zaharias was in the far one.

Twenty-two years had passed since her portrait had been painted, but her pillowed head looked much the same. Her brown hair was longer, softer. Time and laughter had etched lines around her eyes, but the same spark, the intensity and alertness burned in them still.

Only her body, thinner, frailer, was more dormant.

At our entrance, Bebe, the poodle, jumped on the bed, a black fluff snuggled protectively against her mistress' red silk pajamas.

"That little rascal plays right here all the time," Babe Zaharias said. She raised her knees under the coverlet, providing a back brace for the dog and propped her in front of her like a live doll.

"She'll sit up there and chew a bone, but she'll hold it in her paws so dainty-like," she praised. Then apologetically, "I'm sorry I slept so late, but I had a rough night."

She spoke matter-of-factly, quickly, crisply.

"Five days were a lot, going to the women's tournament. My legs ache. They don't hurt, but they ache."

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