Zachariah Fike has an unusual hobby. He finds old military（军队的）medals for sale in antique stores and on the Internet. But unlike most collectors, Zac tracks down the medals' rightful owners, and returns them.
His effort to reunite families with lost medals began with a Christmas gift from his mother, a Purple Heart with the name Corrado A. G. Piccoli, found in an antique shop. Zac knows the meaning of a Purple Heart-he earned one himself in a war as a soldier. So when his mother gave him the medal, he knew right away what he had to do.
Through the Internet, Zac tracked down Corrado's sister Adeline Rockko. But when he finally reached her, the woman flooded him with questions: "Who are you？What antique shop?" However, when she hung up, she regretted the way she had handled the call. So she called Zac back and apologized. Soon she drove to meet Zac in Watertown, N.Y. "At that point, I knew she meant business," Zac says. "To drive eight hours to come to see me."
The Piccolis grew up the children of Italian immigrants in Watertown. Corrado, a translator for the Army during WWII, was killed in action in Europe.
Before hearing from Zac, Adeline hadn't realized the medal was missing. Like many military medals, the one Zac's mother had found was a family treasure." This medal was very precious to my parents. Only on special occasions（场合）would they take it out and let us hold it in our hands," Adeline says.
As a child, Adeline couldn't understand why the medal was so significant. “But as I grew older,” Adeline says, "and missed my brother more and more, I realized that was the only thing we had left." Corrado Piccoli's Purple Heart medal now hangs at the Italian American Civic Association in Watertown.
Zac recently returned another lost medal to a family in Alabama. Since he first reunited Corrado's medal, Zac says his record is now 5 for 5.
Money with no strings attached. It's not something you see every day. But at Union Station in Los Angeles last month, a board went up with dollar bills attached to it with pins and a sign that read, "Give What You Can, Take What You Need."
People quickly caught on. And while many took dollars, many others pinned their own cash to the board. “People of all ages, races, and socio-economic（社会经济的）backgrounds gave and took, "said Tyler Bridges of The Toolbox, which created the project. "We even had a bride in her wedding dress come up to the board and take a few dollars." Most of the bills on the board were singles, but a few people left fives, tens and even twenties. The video clip（片段）shows one man who had found a $ 20 bill pinning it to the board.
"What I can say for the folks that gave the most, is that they were full of smiles," Bridges said. "There's a certain feeling that giving can do for you and that was apparent in those that gave the most." Most people who took dollars took only a few, but Bridges said a very small number took as much as they could.
While the clip might look like part of a new ad campaign, Bridges said the only goal was to show generosity and sympathy. He added that he hopes people in other cities might try similar projects and post their own videos on the Internet.
"After all, everyone has bad days and good days," he said. "Some days you need a helping hand and some days you can be the one giving the helping hand.”
Alice Moore is a teenager entrepreneur (创业者), who in May 2015 set up her business AilieCandy. By the time she was 13, her company was worth millions of dollars with the invention of a super-sweet treat that could save kids' teeth, instead of destroying them.
It all began when Moore visited a bank with her dad. On the outing, she was offered a candy bar. However, her dad reminded her that sugary treats were bad for her teeth. But Moore was sick of missing out on candies. So she desired to get round the warning, "Why can't I make a healthy candy that's good for my teeth so that my parents can't say no to it?" With that in mind, Moore asked her dad if she could start her own candy company. He recommended that she do some research and talk to dentists about what a healthier candy would contain.
With her dad's permission, she spent the next two years researching online and conducting trials to get a recipe that was both tasty and tooth-friendly. She also approached dentists to learn more about teeth cleaning. Consequently, she succeeded in making a kind of candy only using natural sweeteners, which can reduce oral bacteria.
Moore then used her savings to get her business of the ground. Afterwards, she and her father secured their first business meeting with a supermarket owner, who finally agreed to sell Moore's product-Cancandy.
As CanCandy's success grows, so does Moore's credibility as a young entrepreneur. Moore is enthusiastic about the candy she created, and she's also positive about what the future might bring. She hopes that every kid can have a clean mouth and a broad smile.
Meanwhile, with her parents' help, Moore is generally able to live a normal teenage life. Although she founded her company early on in life, she wasn't driven primarily by profit. Moore wants to use her unique talent to help others find their smiles. She donates 10% of AilicCandy's profits to Big Smiles. With her talent and determination, it appears that the sky could be the limit for Alice Moore.
The 65-year-old Steve Goodwin was found suffering from early Alzheimer's (阿尔楚海默症). He was losing his memory.
A software engineer by profession, Steve was a keen lover of the piano, and the only musician in his family. Music was his true passion, though he had never performed outside the family.
Melissa, his daughter, felt it more than worthwhile to save his music, to which she fell asleep catch night when she was young. She thought about hiring a professional pianist to work with her father.
Naomi, Melissa's best friend and a talented pianist, got to know about this and showed willingness to help.
"Why do this?" Steve wondered.
"Because she cares." Melissa said.
Steve nodded, tears in eye.
Naomi drove to the Goodwin home. She told Steve she'd love to hear him play. Steve moved to the piano and sat at the bench, hands trembling as he gently placed his fingers on the keys.
Naomi put a small recorder near the piano, Starts and stops and mistakes. Long pauses, heart sinking. But Steve pressed on, playing for the first time in his life for a stranger.
"It was beautiful." Naomi said after listening to the recording. "The music was worth saving."
Her responsibility, her privilege, would be to rescue it. The music was sill in Steve Goodwin. It was bidden in rooms with doors about to be locked.
Naomi and Steve met every other week and spent hours together. He'd move his fingers clumsily on the piano, and then she'd take his place. He struggled to explain what he heard in his head. He stood by the piano, eyes closed, listening for the first time to his own work being played by someone else.
Steve and Naomi spoke in musical code lines, beats, intervals, moving from the root to end a song in a new key. Steve heard it. All of it. He just couldn't play it.
Working with Naomi did wonders for Steve. It had excited within him the belief he could write one last song. One day, Naomi received an email. Attached was a recording, a recording of loss and love, of the fight. Steve called it "Melancholy Flower".
Naomi heard multiple stops and starts, Steve struggling, searching while his wife Joni called him "honey" and encouraged him. The task was so hard, and Steve, angry and upset, said he was quitting. Joni praised him, telling her husband this could be his signature piece.
Naomi managed to figure out 16 of Steve's favorite, and most personal songs. With Naomi's help, the Goodwin family found a sound engineer to record Naomi playing Steve's songs. Joni thought that would be the end. But it wasn't.
In the months leading up to the 2016 Oregon Repertory Singers Christmas concert, Naomi told the director she had a special one in mind: "Melancholy Flower"
She told the director about her project with Steve. The director agreed to add it to the playing list. But Naomi would have to ask Steve's permission. He considered it an honor.
After the concert, Naomi told the family that Steve's music was beautiful and professional. It needed to be shared in public.
The family rented a former church in downtown Portland and scheduled a concert. By the day of the show, more than 300 people had said they would attend.
By then, Steve was having a hard time remembering the names of some of his friends. He knew the path his life was now taking. He told his family he was at peace.
Steve arrived and sat in the front row, surrounded by his family. The house lights faded. Naomi took the stage. Her fingers. His heart.
In the 1960s, while studying the volcanic history of Yellowstone National Park, Bob Christiansen became puzzled about something that, oddly, had not troubled anyone before: he couldn't find the park's volcano. It had been known for a long time that Yellowstone was volcanic in nature—that's what accounted for all its hot springs and other steamy features. But Christiansen couldn't find the Yellowstone volcano anywhere.
Most of us, when we talk about volcanoes, think of the classic cone (圆锥体) shapes of a Fuji or Kilimanjaro, which are created when erupting magma (岩浆) piles up. These can form remarkably quickly. In 1943, a Mexican farmer was surprised to see smoke rising from a small part of his land. In one week he was the confused owner of a cone five hundred feet high. Within two years it had topped out at almost fourteen hundred feet and was more than half a mile across. Altogether there are some ten thousand of these volcanoes on Earth, all but a few hundred of them extinct. There is, however, a second les known type of volcano that doesn't involve mountain building. These are volcanoes so explosive that they burst open in a single big crack, leaving behind a vast hole, the caldera. Yellowstone obviously was of this second type, but Christiansen couldn't find the caldera anywhere.
Just at this time NASA decided to test some new high-altitude cameras by taking photographs of Yellowstone. A thoughtful official passed on some of the copies to the park authorities on the assumption that they might make a nice blow-up for one of the visitors' centers. As soon as Christiansen saw the photos, he realized why he had failed to spot the caldera; almost the whole park-2.2 million acres—was caldera. The explosion had left a hole more than forty miles across—much too huge to be seen from anywhere at ground level. At some time in the past Yellowstone must have blown up with a violence far beyond the scale of anything known to humans.
Bacteria are an annoying problem for astronauts. The microorganisms（微生物） from our bodies grow uncontrollably on surfaces of the International Space Station, so astronauts spend hours cleaning them up each week. How is NASA overcoming this very tiny big problem? It's turning to a bunch of high school kids. But not just any kids. It depending on NASA HUNCH high school class, like the one science teachers Gene Gordon and Donna Himmelberg lead at Fairport High School in Fairport, New York.
HUNCH is designed to connect high school classrooms with NASA engineers. For the past two years, Gordon's students have been studying ways to kill bacteria in zero gravity, and they think they're close to a solution（解决方案）. "We don't give the students any breaks. They have to do it just like NASA engineers," says Florence Gold, a project manager.
"There are no tests," Gordon says. "There is no graded homework. There almost are no grades, other than'Are you working towards your goal?' Basically, it's 'I've got to produce this product and then, at the end of year, present it to NASA.' Engineers come and really do an in-person review, and…it's not a very nice thing at time. It's a hard business review of your product."
Gordon says the HUNCH program has an impact（影响） on college admissions and practical life skills. "These kids are so absorbed in their studies that I just sit back. I don't teach." And that annoying bacteria? Gordon says his students are emailing daily with NASA engineers about the problem, readying a workable solution to test in space.
For Canaan Elementary's second grade in Patchogue, N.Y., today is speech day, and right now it's Chris Palaez's turn. The 8-year-old is the joker of the class. With shining dark eyes, he seems like the kind of kid who would enjoy public speaking.
But he's, nervous. "I'm here to tell you today why you should … should…"Chris trips on the "-ld," a pronunciation difficulty for many non-native English speakers. His teacher, Thomas Whaley, is next to him, whispering support."…Vote for …me …"Except for some stumbles, Chris is doing amazingly well. When he brings his speech to a nice conclusion, Whaley invites the rest of the class to praise him.
A son of immigrants, Chris stared learning English a little over three years ago. Whaley recalls(回想起)how at the beginning of the year, when called upon to read, Chris would excuse himself to go to the bathroom.
Learning English as a second language can be a painful experience. What you need is a great teacher who lets you make mistakes. "It takes a lot for any student," Whaley explains, "especially for a student who is learning English as their new language, to feel confident enough to say, 'I don't know, but I want to know.'"
Whaley got the idea of this second-grade presidential campaign project when he asked the children one day to raise their hands if they thought they could never be a president. The answer broke his heart. Whaley says the project is about more than just learning to read and speak in public. He wants these kids to learn to boast(夸耀)about themselves.
"Boasting about yourself, and your best qualities," Whaley says, "is very difficult for a child who came into the classroom not feeling confident."
