Hughie Stirling, 68 was kidnapped last night by Israel in international waters and he is being illegally held hostage. The Media is barely reporting it, I hope you will get the message out, and get him home from these evil terrorists.

Everything happens at the right time, in the right way...

A branch fell off your oak last fall. You've been meaning to haul it to the curb. It's been on the ground for six months. In that time, it became an apartment building. Year one: Fungi colonize the exposed wood. You can see the first brackets forming on the bark — small, shelf-like growths that are breaking down the lignin and cellulose inside. The branch is getting softer. By year two or three: Beetle larvae have tunneled into the softened wood. Their galleries — winding channels the width of a pencil lead — aerate the interior. Woodpeckers find the branch and drill into it to extract the larvae. By year five: A red-backed salamander has moved into one of the beetle galleries. She lives in the damp, rotting wood and hunts pill bugs, mites, and springtails on the surface. The branch is now a hunting ground and a shelter. By year ten: The branch is mostly soil. The fungi, the beetles, the salamander, the woodpecker — they converted a fallen limb into nutrients that are feeding the tree it fell from. 🌿 A different way to see the branch: - A fallen branch is not debris — it's a building under construction - If it's not blocking a path, leave it where it fell - The fungi that colonize it aren't disease — they're decomposers doing their job - One fallen branch can support more than thirty species over its lifetime You almost hauled it to the curb. Thirty species are using it now. 🌿 #DeadWood #Decomposition #NatureReframe #BackyardEcology #HiddenEcosystem

Australian woodchoppers at the Royal Easter Show in Sydney.

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In 1980s, Black musician Daryl Davis made it his mission to answer one question: “How can you hate me if you don’t even know me?” So he did something few would dare, he started attending Ku Klux Klan rallies and befriending its members. He joined an all-white country band, sat down with Klansmen, and listened, not to agree, but to understand. That’s how he met Roger Kelly, an Imperial Wizard of the KKK. Over years of conversations, shared meals, and unlikely friendship, something remarkable happened: Kelly began to question his beliefs. Eventually, he left the Klan, and handed Davis his robes and hood as a symbol of change. That wasn’t a one-off. To date, Daryl Davis has helped convince over 200 KKK members to walk away from hate, not with shouting or shaming, but with dialogue, patience, and humanity. He didn’t just talk people out of hate. He listened them out of it. © Reddit #drthehistories

Sir Ian McKellen at 86 expertly reciting Shakespeare last night!

To President Donald Trump Jr., This video was sent to me by the girl’s mother, who asked me to share it on my X profile. It was created by her 15-year-old daughter from Greenland 🇬🇱 as a message to you.

"I wis a bawhair away fae a hole in one"

On the morning of September 11, 2001, LeRoy Wilton Homer Jr. reported for work like he had countless times before. He was a pilot. A husband. A son. A Black man who had earned his place in a cockpit that had never been designed with him in mind. When United Flight 93 was hijacked, LeRoy didn’t disappear into fear. From inside the plane, a calm but urgent voice reached the ground. He relayed what was happening. He fought for time. He fought for lives. And when passengers rose up against terror, he was already standing in resistance. The plane never reached its intended target. It crashed into a field in Pennsylvania instead—because the people onboard, including the pilots, refused to surrender quietly. Because courage lived in that cabin. LeRoy Wilton Homer Jr. died that day at just 36 years old. His name is rarely spoken when 9/11 is remembered. His face is often missing from the narratives. And yet, his sacrifice is inseparable from the lives he helped save. Even in a moment of national mourning, his story reminds us of a painful truth: Black heroism is too often overlooked, even when it costs everything. But history does not forget forever. LeRoy Homer was a Black pilot who faced terror with resolve, who helped prevent even greater loss, and who gave his life in the fight. He deserves to be remembered—not as a footnote, but as a hero. Honor LeRoy Homer Jr.'s legacy by sharing his story and keeping his heroism alive. His courage deserves to be remembered.

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This is beautiful. The smiles! Bondi beach hero Ahmed Al-Ahmed with the doctors looking after him at the hospital in Sydney. And… The doctors are *also* Syrian! Tamer Al-Kahil from Homs. Anas Natfaji from Aleppo. *Three* heroes.

"My name's Raymond. I'm 73. I work the parking lot at St. Joseph's Hospital. Minimum wage, orange vest, a whistle I barely use. Most people don't even look at me. I'm just the old man waving cars into spaces. But I see everything. Like the black sedan that circled the lot every morning at 6 a.m. for three weeks. Young man driving, grandmother in the passenger seat. Chemotherapy, I figured. He'd drop her at the entrance, then spend 20 minutes hunting for parking, missing her appointments. One morning, I stopped him. "What time tomorrow?" "6:15," he said, confused. "Space A-7 will be empty. I'll save it." He blinked. "You... you can do that?" "I can now," I said. Next morning, I stood in A-7, holding my ground as cars circled angrily. When his sedan pulled up, I moved. He rolled down his window, speechless. "Why?" "Because she needs you in there with her," I said. "Not out here stressing." He cried. Right there in the parking lot. Word spread quietly. A father with a sick baby asked if I could help. A woman visiting her dying husband. I started arriving at 5 a.m., notebook in hand, tracking who needed what. Saved spots became sacred. People stopped honking. They waited. Because they knew someone else was fighting something bigger than traffic. But here's what changed everything, A businessman in a Mercedes screamed at me one morning. "I'm not sick! I need that spot for a meeting!" "Then walk," I said calmly. "That space is for someone whose hands are shaking too hard to grip a steering wheel." He sped off, furious. But a woman behind him got out of her car and hugged me. "My son has leukemia," she sobbed. "Thank you for seeing us." The hospital tried to stop me. "Liability issues," they said. But then families started writing letters. Dozens. "Raymond made the worst days bearable." "He gave us one less thing to break over." Last month, they made it official. "Reserved Parking for Families in Crisis." Ten spots, marked with blue signs. And they asked me to manage it. But the best part? A man I'd helped two years ago, his mother survived, came back. He's a carpenter. Built a small wooden box, mounted it by the reserved spaces. Inside? Prayer cards, tissues, breath mints, and a note, "Take what you need. You're not alone. -Raymond & Friends" People leave things now. Granola bars. Phone chargers. Yesterday, someone left a hand-knitted blanket. I'm 73. I direct traffic in a hospital parking lot. But I've learned this: Healing doesn't just happen in operating rooms. Sometimes it starts in a parking space. When someone says, "I see your crisis. Let me carry this one small piece." So pay attention. At the grocery checkout, the coffee line, wherever you are. Someone's drowning in the little things while fighting the big ones. Hold a door. Save a spot. Carry the weight no one else sees. It's not glamorous. But it's everything." Let this story reach more hearts.... Credit: Mary Nelson

Wise words “My name’s Frank. I’m 64, a retired electrician. Forty-two years I spent running wires through houses, fixing breakers, making sure people had light in their kitchens and heat in their winters. Never once did anyone ask me where I went to college. Mostly, they just wanted to know if I could get the power back on before their ice cream melted. Last May, I was at my granddaughter Emily’s school career day. You know the drill — doctors, lawyers, a software guy in a slick suit talking about “scaling startups.” I was the only one there with a tool belt and work boots. When it was my turn, I told the kids, “I don’t have a degree. I’ve never sat in a lecture hall. But I’ve wired schools, hospitals, and your principal’s house. And when the hospital generator failed during a snowstorm in ’98, I was the one in the basement with a flashlight, keeping the lights on for newborn babies upstairs.” The kids leaned forward. They had questions — real ones. “How do you fix stuff in the dark?” “Do you make a lot of money?” “Do you ever get zapped?” (Yes, once, and it’ll curl your hair.) When the bell rang, one boy hung back. Small kid, freckles, hoodie too big for him. He mumbled, “My uncle’s a plumber. People laugh at him ’cause he didn’t finish high school. But… he’s the only one in the family who can fix anything.” I looked that boy in the eye and said, “Kid, your uncle’s a hero. When your toilet overflows at midnight, Harvard ain’t sending anyone. A plumber is.” Here’s the thing nobody told me when I was young — the world doesn’t run without tradespeople. You can have all the engineers you want, but if nobody builds the house, wires the power, or lays the pipes, those blueprints just sit in a drawer. We’ve made it sound like trades are what you do if you can’t go to college, instead of a path you choose because you like working with your hands, solving problems, and seeing your work stand solid for decades. Four years after high school, some kids walk away with diplomas. Others walk away with zero debt, a union card, and a skill they can take anywhere in the world. And guess what? When your furnace dies in January, it’s not the diploma that saves you. A few weeks ago, that same freckled kid’s mom stopped me at the grocery store. She said, “You probably don’t remember, but you told my son trades are important. He’s shadowing his uncle this summer. First time I’ve seen him excited about anything in years.” That’s the part we forget — for some kids, knowing their path is respected changes everything. It’s not about “just” fixing wires or pipes. It’s about pride. Purpose. The kind that sticks with you long after the job’s done. So next time you meet a teenager, don’t just ask, “Where are you going to college?” Ask, “What’s your plan?” And if they say, “I’m learning to weld,” or “I’m starting an apprenticeship,” smile big and say, “That’s fantastic. We’re going to need you.” Because we will. More than ever. And when the lights go out, you’ll be glad they showed up.”