When Stephen Gaskin took a good, hard look in the early 1970s at the San Francisco he loved, he knew he couldn't stay.
When the pilot with the jet-black hair and movie-star smile asked if anyone would care to come up and see the cockpit, he wasn't surprised that a couple of his 25 passengers readily agreed.
In late 1948, before the bulldozers came, 19-year-old photography student Don Normark stumbled upon a tranquil enclave of poor Mexican Americans in the hills above downtown Los Angeles.
If Chester Nez dared to use his Navajo language in school, punishment was swift and literally distasteful. He had to scrub his tongue with a toothbrush and wash out his mouth with bitter soap.
It was just after a January storm in 1953, and the waves were epic.
Maya Angelou was a diva of American culture: an actress, singer, dancer and film director as well as an essayist and Pulitzer-Prize-nominated poet, whose mainstream magnetism led her to write verses for Hallmark and recite one of her poems at the 1993 inauguration of President Clinton.