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The "pot-hunting" culture of the Southwest dates back to the 1800s, when a Colorado ranching family began exploring and excavating the ruined cliff dwellings of the Anasazi, an ancient civilization that flourished centuries ago.
High above the spiky sandstone spine known as Comb Ridge that snakes for 120 miles through the desert, archaeologist Winston Hurst treads carefully through a cave of ruins.
He was born on the Fourth of July, an irony he would only appreciate later, during the dark period of his life, when liberty and freedom became far more than mere words in his high school history book.
He was born on the Fourth of July, an irony he would only appreciate later, during the dark period of his life, when liberty and freedom became far more than mere words in his high school history book.
The auto plants and steel mills, once the lifeblood of Warren, are ghosts of their former selves. Plants lie idle, shifts have been cut, and the huge parking lot outside the Lordstown General Motors factory is nearly empty. The Golden Gate restaurant and Mary M's, fixtures for years, are shuttered. Houses are boarded up. Businesses have given up on downtown.
An hour before the curtain rises, the choreographer stands alone on stage, nervously gazing at the rows of empty seats.
Elwin Hope Wilson leans back in his recliner, a sad, sickly man haunted by time.
"H-26," the guard yelled. "You have a visitor."
"Listen," John Yancey says, leaning against his truck in a field outside his home.
He thinks of her every time he gazes at the painting — a blazing orange sun she drew a few years after the tragedy. It is the only splash of color in his tiny K Street office and it gives him great joy, and a stab of sorrow.
The dining room at Alinea is a rare and special place where waiters in dark designer suits glide past tables, carrying trays laden with fantastical creations:
Four days a week Todd Matthews earns $11.50 an hour working for an automotive parts supplier. He punches in at 4:15 a.m., punches out nearly 11 hours later, then drives half a mile to his little beige house on a hill where, in the distance, he can glimpse the Appalachian mountains.
A young, ambitious immigrant from Guatemala who dreamed of becoming an architect. A Nigerian medic. A soldier from China who boasted he would one day become an American general. An Indian native whose headstone displays the first Khanda, emblem of the Sikh faith, to appear in Arlington National Cemetery.
The Rev. Hamilton Coe Throckmorton shivered with anticipation as he gazed at the loot — wads of $50 bills piled high beside boxes of crayons in a Sunday school classroom.
They called him Iron Man, a hulking teenage football player with a baby face and winsome smile who lived with his parents in a small ranch house in the Buttonwoods section of town.
On the eastern shores of Cayuga Lake lies a tiny village of enchanting beauty and charm. Early settlers called it the village of constant dawn and it evokes that feeling today — historic, lakeside mansions dusted in a kind of timeless glow, a red-brick inn with gleaming white porches, ivy-clad buildings rising from the stately lawns of Wells College.
The killer returned to brandish his weapons one more time and speak, surreally, from the grave.
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