![]() Now, her first words to a somewhat perplexed North were, "I've spent most of the day with you." She had looked at the tape again just before leaving home. Dot Reardon had been so thrilled by North's now-fabled congressional testimony during the Iran-contra affair that she'd bought a videotape of his best moments, which she watched over and over. The Reardons had never met North, but like much of America they had gotten to know him, or felt they had, years ago. She and her husband, Pat, had driven 50 miles on this July day, from the Richmond suburbs to the grounds of this 19th-century plantation outside Williamsburg, to shake hands with the legendary ex-Marine. North.Ī receiving line formed around North instantly, and one of those right up front was Dot Reardon. There, as starched and crisp as the entire Marine Band, stood Oliver L. Their eyes were drawn to a patch of shade beneath the big oak tree where a familiar figure was climbing out of the wagon's passenger seat. But as the rig approached the sweat-soaked crowd, a wave of recognition raised folks out of their seats and their torpor. ![]() When the horse and buggy first came in sight, nothing stirred, not even the dust on the rutted dirt road.
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