Towns

Ed Tranby has seen a lot during his 80 years living in Blabon. On Friday, he saw it die when he moved out. Tranby, 90, had been the only person living there for about two years. Once a railroad town of nearly 200 people, Blabon is now home mostly to pheasants and deer. After last winter, when blizzards shut off the power for three days, Tranby and his children agreed he should move to an apartment in nearby Cooperstown. Tranby convinced his son, Garry, who came from Portland, Ore.

More than 70 years after a racist rampage left a small black community in flames and its terrified residents scattered, Florida acknowledged its responsibility Wednesday and agreed to pay $2.1 million in compensation. Seven survivors looked on as Gov. Lawton Chiles approved legislation that will pay up to $150,000 to anyone who proves he or she was forced to flee from the violence that wiped out Rosewood in January, 1923.

I'm inching through the crowds for a front-row view of the frothy, chocolate-colored River Thames, near London's handsome old Hammersmith Bridge. With takeout beer and wine flowing freely, there's a party atmosphere despite the wind-whipped chill. The stretch of riverbank, which rarely sees more than a few dog walkers, today is filled with spectators decked out in light and dark blue scarves representing a centuries-old rivalry.

On a Monday in September 2007, Teddy Johnson went to his son's apartment. Adam Johnson, 22, was in his first year at Marshall University in Huntington. A history major, he played guitar, drums and bass, loved glam bands like the New York Dolls and hosted "The Oscillating Zoo," an eclectic rock show on the university radio station. Teddy hadn't heard from his son in three days. Letting himself into the apartment, he found Adam lying lifeless on his bed, in the same shirt he'd seen him wearing three days earlier.

Get to know your neighbors in rural America. A new app created by the Museum on Main Street within the Smithsonian Institution Travel Exhibition Service builds a dialogue with interactive oral history. Name: Stories From Main Street Available for: iPhone, iPod touch, iPad What it does: Shares the voices and stories of small-town America. Cost: Free What's hot: Oral histories are underrated and a valuable tool for connecting generations.

Shop owner Hideo Sakamoto knows this sad truth about his dying town: When he retires, no one will be left to take the reins of his tiny business selling eyeglasses and clocks. His two children have fled to big cities and his mother is bedridden. "It's a sad story," says the 57-year-old, "because I will not be passing down my business to my children." And not just that, he says. He and his wife, Mariko, are "so lonely." Almost every day, this Japanese town surrounded by streams and mountains is eerily quiet, with only a few elderly people walking down its narrow streets.

It's a small world after all, Kin Sau Kwok discovered when she came to America. A small town, at least. No wonder the 18-year-old suffered a case of culture shock when she traveled from Hong Kong (population 7 million) to spend a year studying in Myrtle Point, Ore. (population 2,300). "I was thinking I would end up in New York or Los Angeles when I first heard I was coming," she said with a shrug.

It prospered mightily during the roaring '80s. Then when the economy went bust with the coming of the '90s, jobs and people left in droves. Finally, an earthquake knocked it off the map. A doomsayer's prediction of Southern California's future? No, that is the true tale of Fairview, a once-was Orange County town born more than a century ago. Today, Orange Coast College in Costa Mesa sits on the land, and Fairview's only known remnant is the street that bears it name.

The metamorphosis is complete. Normally quiet streets are buzzing with traffic. Vacancy signs have been replaced with no-vacancy signs. Cash registers, primarily those at local tackle stores, are ringing to the tune of trout madness. Bishop, and all the little towns along Interstate 395 from here to Bridgeport, have been transformed into bustling centers of tourism for anglers.

They blew in on the gust of a wintry storm only to find it was standing room only in the Mar T Cafe. Old men in parkas and work boots, British travel agents in tweed coats, teen-agers in leather jackets, sneakers and T-shirts--all of them waving off menus because they knew exactly what they wanted. "Cup of joe and cherry pie, please," they chirped to a busy team of waitresses who knew that already. "We call 'em 'Peakers,' " said waitress Susie Graves, 34.