Welcome to the new & improved On Bunker Hill!

Welcome to On Bunker Hill

<p>On Bunker Hill is the <a href="http://www.1947project.com">1947project</a> in its fourth incarnation. Previously our little band of social historians devoted itself to time travel L.A. crime blogging. In our first year, we blogged a crime a day for 1947, then 1907, and the 1927 work has just been finished. For the next year, we will be exploring the lost neighborhood of Bunker Hill in all its permutations. Yes, we'll be reporting on the crimes upon the hill, but we'll also look at architecture, social life, notable residents, transportation, redevelopment, its mysteries and what small survivors remain from the glory days. With this project, we intend to shine a light on a community that was displaced by a well intentioned but misguided slum clearance plan that tore the heart out of L.A.'s downtown, a blow the city still staggers from. As downtown struggles to be reborn as a city center, we need a history more than ever before. Visit On Bunker Hill this year and share in our discoveries, or <a href="http://bunkerhill.hiddenhistoryblogs.com/contact-us">join us</a> and contribute your own.</p>

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Welcome to My Bunker Hill

<p>Come walk with me on Bunker Hill. I don’t mean now, for we won’t pass California Plaza or Wells Fargo Center. We won’t see MOCA or Disney Hall. We will see Angels Flight, but it will be on the corner of 3rd Street and Hill next to the tunnel, and it will be running, so we can take a ride. I mean come with me to my Bunker Hill, the old Bunker Hill, the one where I lived in the 1940’s, 50’s, and 60’s… <a href="http://bunkerhill.hiddenhistoryblogs.com/my-bunker-hill/">more</a></p>

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Farewell, Bunker Hill

<p>I used to live on Bunker Hill. It was my first home in this incredible city. That was in 1932, a time of dreams for me, and of poverty. I had a typewriter and a stack of white paper, and I had my room in a hotel on Bunker Hill.</p>

It cost me $3 a week, that little room, a fabulous sum in those lean days, but I wish I might do it over again, sit in my lilttle room with its worn green carpet, sit there in the high, old-fashioned rocker, eating an orange, my feet on the window, feasting my eyes on the city below. Such dreams for a man!… more

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