March 24: Elvis Enlists, Oil Spills, A Barrier Breaks

March 23: Explorers Return, OK Appears, A Star Dies When a continent was crossed, when two letters conquered language, and when Hollywood lost its violet-eyed queen March 23 has witnessed three moments that captured completion, creation, and loss. Explorers began their homeward journey after reaching the Pacific, having traversed a continent and proven that westward expansion was possible even if the hoped-for water route wasn't. A newspaper joke created what would become the world's most universal expression, demonstrating that language evolves through play and accident as much as through deliberate construction. And an actress whose beauty and talent defined Hollywood glamour for decades passed away, leaving a legacy that extended beyond film into groundbreaking activism. Together, these events remind us that journeys end but their impact continues, that the smallest linguistic innovations can reshape communication globally, and that true stars shine brightest when they use their fame to help others. The Homeward Journey On March 23, 1806, Lewis and Clark's Corps of Discovery departed Fort Clatsop on the Oregon coast, beginning their return journey across the continent. They had reached the Pacific Ocean the previous November, achieving the expedition's primary goal though discovering no Northwest Passage—the water route through North America that Jefferson had hoped existed. The expedition had endured unimaginable hardships: near-starvation, hostile encounters, treacherous terrain, and brutal weather. Now they faced the equally daunting task of getting home. The return journey would prove faster than the outbound trip—they reached St. Louis in September 1806, having been gone over two years and presumed dead by many. The expedition's achievements were monumental. Lewis and Clark mapped vast territories, documented hundreds of plant and animal species unknown to science, established diplomatic relations with dozens of Indigenous nations, and demonstrated that overland travel to the Pacific was feasible. Their journals provided the first detailed descriptions of the American West, fueling the imagination of a nation eager to expand. The expedition also had darker consequences: it paved the way for settlement that would displace and destroy Indigenous peoples, initiating conflicts that would continue for generations. Lewis and Clark's journey represented both Enlightenment ideals of scientific exploration and the beginning of expansionist policies that would devastate Native populations. Their departure from Fort Clatsop marked not just a homecoming but the transformation of American ambitions from theoretical to practical—the West was no longer unknown, and that knowledge would change everything. The expedition proved that Americans could cross their continent, but that achievement came with costs measured in broken treaties, stolen lands, and shattered cultures.   From the Pacific shore, Lewis and Clark began their homeward journey across the continent Two Letters That Conquered the World Thirty-three years after Lewis and Clark left Fort Clatsop, on March 23, 1839, The Boston Morning Post published what may be the first appearance of "OK" in print, using it as an abbreviation for "oll korrect"—a deliberately misspelled "all correct." The 1830s had a fad for humorous abbreviations and intentional misspellings among Boston's young intellectuals: "KY" for "know yuse" (no use), "NS" for "nuff said" (enough said). Most disappeared quickly. OK, inexplicably, survived and thrived. Within a year, OK gained political significance when Martin Van Buren, nicknamed "Old Kinderhook" after his New York birthplace, ran for reelection. His supporters formed "OK Clubs," turning the abbreviation into a campaign slogan. OK's triumph came through its versatility and economy. Two letters could express approval, agreement, or adequacy across contexts. Telegraph operators adopted it for its brevity. OK spread globally, becoming one of the few English expressions recognized virtually everywhere—more universal than "hello" or "thank you." It appears in countless languages, often unchanged. OK's success demonstrates that linguistic innovations need luck as much as logic, that the most enduring words aren't always the most elegant, and that sometimes playful experiments become permanent fixtures. A joke in a Boston newspaper became humanity's most widely understood affirmation, proving that language evolves through accident and adoption rather than planning. OK's journey from newspaper gag to global expression reminds us that the smallest innovations can have the largest impacts, that utility trumps sophistication, and that sometimes the best solutions are the simplest ones. Two letters from 1839 now appear in text messages, business emails, and conversations in virtually every language—a democratic expression that belongs to everyone precisely because it started as nobody's serious attempt at anything. In a Boston newspaper, a playful abbreviation became the world's most universal expression ❦ The Last of the Studio Queens On March 23, 2011, one hundred seventy-two years after OK first appeared, Elizabeth Taylor died at age 79 from congestive heart failure at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. Taylor had been a star since childhood, appearing in National Velvet at 12 and becoming a major actress by her teens. Her violet eyes, extraordinary beauty, and genuine talent made her one of Hollywood's biggest stars. She won two Academy Awards for Best Actress (BUtterfield 8 and Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?), commanded unprecedented salaries (becoming the first actress to earn $1 million for a single film), and lived a personal life as dramatic as any movie: eight marriages to seven men, including two to Richard Burton, with whom she had an epic, turbulent romance. But Taylor's greatest legacy may be her activism. When AIDS emerged in the 1980s and most celebrities avoided association with the disease, Taylor became its most prominent advocate. She co-founded the American Foundation for AIDS Research (amfAR) in 1985 and the Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation in 1991, raising millions for research and care at a time when stigma prevented others from helping. She used her fame to demand government action, testified before Congress, and personally cared for friends dying of AIDS when hospitals turned them away. Taylor demonstrated that celebrity could be weaponized for good, that using one's platform for advocacy required courage when the cause was unpopular, and that beauty and glamour didn't preclude substance and compassion. Her death marked the end of Hollywood's golden age—she was among the last survivors of the studio system that created larger-than-life stars. While Lewis and Clark explored physical frontiers and OK conquered linguistic territory, Taylor showed that fame's greatest achievement is using it to help those without power or voice. She was beautiful, talented, and troubled, but in the AIDS crisis, she was also brave, compassionate, and effective—qualities that may outlast even her legendary films.   Hollywood lost its violet-eyed queen—a star who used fame to fight for those dying in shadows

March 23: When the Runway Becomes the Danger Late Sunday night, an Air Canada regional jet struck a Port Authority fire truck on a runway at New York's LaGuardia Airport, killing both pilots. The collision — set in motion by a chain of miscommunications eerily familiar to aviation historians — closed one of America's busiest airports and reopened a century-old question: how do tragedies on the ground still happen? At 11:40 p.m. on March 22, 2026, Air Canada Flight 8646 — a Bombardier CRJ-900 operated by Jazz Aviation, carrying 72 passengers and four crew members from Montreal — touched down on Runway 4 at LaGuardia Airport. At that same moment, a Port Authority Aircraft Rescue and Firefighting truck was crossing the runway, responding to a separate emergency on the other side of the airport: a United Airlines flight whose crew had reported an odor in the cockpit and declared an emergency. Air traffic control recordings capture the frantic final seconds — a controller clearing the truck to cross, then ordering it to stop: "Truck One, stop, stop, stop!" — before confirming what had already happened: "JAZZ 646, I see you collided with the vehicle." The plane was traveling approximately 130 miles per hour just before impact. The collision crushed the nose of the aircraft. Both pilots were killed. Forty-one passengers and crew were hospitalized, nine with serious injuries. LaGuardia was closed and the NTSB dispatched a go-team to the scene. The Ghosts of Tenerife Aviation safety professionals have a name for what happened at LaGuardia: a runway incursion — an unauthorized or unplanned presence of an aircraft, vehicle, or person on a protected runway. They have studied the phenomenon for decades, and the most defining lesson in that study came not from a busy American hub but from a small airport on a fog-shrouded Spanish island nearly fifty years ago. On March 27, 1977 — four days from now — two Boeing 747s collided on the runway at Los Rodeos Airport in Tenerife, in the Canary Islands. KLM Flight 4805, piloted by one of the airline's most experienced captains, began its takeoff roll while Pan Am Flight 1736 was still taxiing on the same runway. Dense fog, non-standard radio phraseology, and a cascade of small miscommunications produced the deadliest accident in aviation history: 583 people killed. No mechanical failure. No terrorist attack. Just a sequence of human errors that, individually, seemed manageable — and together, proved catastrophic. What Tenerife gave the world was a transformed approach to aviation safety. The disaster led directly to standardized global radio phraseology — the word "takeoff" can now only be used by controllers when issuing an actual takeoff clearance, eliminating the ambiguity that proved fatal in 1977. It spurred the development of ground radar systems at airports around the world, mandatory taxiway markings, and the now-universal practice of Crew Resource Management, which trains cockpit crews to challenge authority and speak up under pressure. Modern aviation is measurably safer because of Tenerife. And yet, as LaGuardia demonstrated Sunday night, the runway itself — the place where the ground and the sky meet — remains the most dangerous real estate in air travel. A controller apparently cleared a fire truck to cross an active runway while a passenger jet was landing on it. An air traffic controller can be heard on recordings saying simply: "I messed up."   The runway — where the ground and the sky meet — remains the most dangerous real estate in aviation, a place where seconds and centimeters separate routine from catastrophe. The investigation now falls to the National Transportation Safety Board, which will reconstruct Sunday night's chain of events with the painstaking care that has made the NTSB one of the most respected investigative bodies in the world — a body whose very existence owes something to the lessons of past disasters. Investigators will want to know whether the air traffic controller was working alone, why the fire truck was cleared to cross an active runway, and what, if anything, could have stopped the sequence once it began. Those answers will take months to emerge. What is already clear is that the two Canadian pilots who flew a routine overnight flight from Montreal to New York will not be flying home. Aviation has made enormous strides since the dark fields of Tenerife in 1977. Sunday night at LaGuardia was a reminder that the margin between the ordinary and the catastrophic has never fully closed.