This Game Ranger Turned Artist Captures Majestic Wildlife in Bronze

Renowned conservationist and artist Bruce Little, originally from South Africa, has dedicated his life to protecting wildlife in the Bushveld, a sub-tropical woodland ecoregion of Southern Africa. Little's passion for nature led him to become a game ranger at prestigious reserves before transitioning into a successful career as an artist. He says his artwork captures the emotional essence of animals, inspiring viewers and supporting conservation initiatives worldwide.

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Meet the Dad Who Became the Internet’s Go-To Fix-It Mentor

Dean Commodore didn’t set out to become anyone’s online mentor. He was just renovating his first family home in Ipswich and figured he’d film a few clips along the way. Now he’s known to nearly half a million people as “DIY Dad,” the man who teaches you how to bleed a radiator, hang a mirror or finally attempt the job you keep putting off. At 52, he’s built something that feels surprisingly intimate for social media. His series, Dad Showed Me, grew from a simple idea. “In bygone eras, dads and uncles would show young people how things are done,” he said. “My followers say that isn't the case anymore, and that is why I am stepping in.” It’s a sentiment that explains the tone of his comments section. People aren’t just watching. They’re thanking him. They’re showing him their results. Some even tell him he’s the only one who’s ever explained these things to them. Commodore sees all of it. And he takes it seriously. He works full-time as a supervisor for a local housing association, squeezing filming and editing into evenings and weekends. Followers suggest the next set of jobs. He listens. Then he turns their requests into videos that feel less like a tutorial and more like someone standing next to you saying, “Go on, you can do this.” He didn’t grow up dreaming of power drills or content creation, but moving from east London to Ipswich nudged him toward both. The slower pace gave him space to tackle renovation projects, and those early experiences became the backbone of his online persona. The unexpected part is how connected he feels to the people on the other end of the camera. They send him photos of freshly painted walls or newly fixed doors. They update him on projects he inspired. He lights up when he talks about it. “It’s a sacred position to be someone's parent and I feel like their surrogate dad — I am their DIY dad, and that is a privilege,” he said. At home, he’s still just Dad. A single father to a son and daughter, navigating school runs, meals, and the occasional reality check about his online fame. His daughter recently gave him one of those. “My daughter asked me the other day, 'dad, why can't you be like a normal dad?', because I know the lyrics and the moves to a TikTok dance,” he said. “She can't believe that her 52 year-old dad is up-to-date with these trends.” But that’s part of the charm. Commodore’s tutorials work because they balance competence with warmth. He doesn’t talk down to people. He doesn’t pretend everything is straightforward. He shows the mistakes, the fixes, the real process. It feels less like expert instruction and more like borrowing confidence from someone who’s figured it out already. And in a digital space full of quick hacks and shortcuts, he’s offering something steadier: the sense that even small skills can make people feel more capable in their own homes. He may never meet most of the people he helps, but they keep showing up with another question, another project, another message saying thanks. For Commodore, that’s more than enough reason to keep filming after long workdays or on weekends when he could be doing anything else. The impact of it all still catches him off guard. He set out to fix up a house. Somewhere along the way, he ended up giving people something they didn’t realize they were missing — someone patient, someone encouraging, someone willing to explain the stuff they were never taught. And he seems genuinely happy to fill that role. After all, he says, if people are going to call him their DIY dad, he might as well live up to the name.

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Snowmobilers Spot a Moose in Trouble and Step In To Help

It started as a simple ride home for lunch in northern New Hampshire, the kind snowmobilers know by heart. Fresh snow, quiet trails and the sort of winter day where the biggest concern is getting back before the coffee gets cold. Then Mike Dion noticed something out of place in the white. A patch of fur. A head. And nothing else. “That’s all you could see, was the hair and her head,” he told WMUR-TV. “Her body was just sunk down in the snow.” The group stopped and quickly realized the young female moose wasn’t resting. She was trapped. Nearly 1.5 metres of snow had swallowed her so completely that Dion said she “was unable to move, just couldn’t move at all.” They tried calling for help, but spotty cell service meant getting through to New Hampshire Fish and Game wasn’t an option. Waiting for rescue crews, they figured, wasn’t one either. With no real plan beyond helping, they got to work. The moose didn’t fight them. She didn’t try to flee. She just stood there — calm, exhausted and stuck — while the snowmobilers dug around her with whatever they had, mostly their hands and boots. It took about 20 minutes. Enough time to realize how bad things could have turned. “I don’t know if the legs weren’t touching the ground, there was so much snow there, or what happened,” Dion said. What he did know was that leaving her wasn’t something they could do. When the last of the snow gave way, the moose finally lifted herself out. Wobbly but alert. Ready to move. And, to everyone’s relief, still gentle. “Eventually, we got her up and got her going, and she seemed to be all in good health,” Dion said. “I think she was happy. She wasn’t aggressive or too nasty with us. That’s what we were worried about at first.” Wildlife officials say stories like this often end differently. Moose can be dangerous, even when tired, and approaching them isn’t something they encourage. “They could kick you or hurt you if you were really to try to grab ahold of one,” said Becky Fuda, a deer project leader at New Hampshire Fish and Game. She added that when people encounter distressed animals, calling authorities should always be the first step. This time, Dion’s group didn’t have that option. They also didn’t have much time to spare. In that sense, everyone involved agrees the moose’s exhaustion likely kept the rescue from escalating. “It’s probably a good thing that she was exhausted,” Dion said. New Hampshire is home to an estimated 3,000 to 4,000 moose. Just across the border, Maine hosts one of the largest populations in the eastern United States with roughly 60,000 to 70,000 animals. Encounters aren’t unusual. Finding one buried in a snowbank almost entirely out of sight is. What the group saw that afternoon could have been another quiet winter scene if they hadn’t been paying attention. Instead, it became 20 minutes of digging, a few worried glances and eventually a moose trotting off into the trees as if nothing had happened. Sometimes lunch can wait.

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Family Crafts Miniature Minneapolis Using Frosting, Crackers And Candy

Larry Koch spends his career helping build real cities, the kind designed to stand for decades. Every winter, he builds a different kind of city, one that lasts just long enough to be admired before it’s tossed out with the crumbs. “This is Paris,” Larry says, pointing to a video on his laptop. The Eiffel Tower never looked more delicious, shaped from cookies, candy, crackers, and frosting. For 18 years, Larry, along with family, co workers, friends, and curious neighbors, has been recreating famous cities in astonishing edible detail. One year it was Paris. Another winter brought Rome, complete with the Vatican, the Colosseum, and the Pantheon, all sourced from the baking aisle instead of a lumberyard. Last fall, Larry decided it was time to build something closer to home. “It does kind of remind you that we have a pretty neat city,” he says, standing in his Edina home and looking over a brightly colored miniature Minneapolis. This year’s sugary skyline stretches from the Grain Belt Beer sign to the Lake Harriet Bandshell. Between them sit lovingly crafted versions of the Stone Arch Bridge, the Basilica of St. Mary, the IDS and Foshay towers, the Sculpture Garden, and other landmarks that give Minneapolis its familiar shape. All shrunk down, all edible, all made with care. “I can't even begin to guess how many hours it takes,” Larry’s wife, Kerry, says. Kerry has her own role in this winter tradition. She makes the frosting. A lot of frosting. Roughly 40 pounds each year, enough to coat buildings, glue structures together, patch cracks, and rescue countless leaning towers. She scrolls through photos on her phone showing kitchen counters covered in bowls, bags, and clouds of powdered sugar. “This is kind of the extent of what the kitchen looks like for about a week or two,” she says. She also got a special assignment this season. “I did the little Mary Tyler Moore,” Kerry says, laughing as she holds up a figure no bigger than a fingertip, tossing her tiny beret in front of the white house made famous in the 1970s sitcom set in Minneapolis. Each December, Larry assembles the pieces in the entryway of their home, building the city block by block on top of a cabinet. The goal is always the same: finish by Christmas. But by February, another ritual follows. “I pull all the lights and stuff out of it, and then we throw it away,” Larry says. “It’s part of the nature of it.” This year’s Mini Apple was inspired partly by the 100th anniversary of the Basilica. But the couple says the timing felt meaningful in other ways too. As Minneapolis found itself in the national spotlight amid ICE’s Operation Metro Surge, the diorama glowing at the Kochs’ front door offered a softer look at the city. A reminder of neighborhoods, landmarks, and the sense of place people share. “I love Minneapolis,” Kerry says. “It’s a good reminder when things are heavy, we have a lot to be very grateful for here.” And so the cycle continues. Larry builds cities that endure in his day job, and cities that melt back into memory in his living room. One lasting just long enough to lift spirits, light up a holiday and remind people why they love where they live.

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Movers Offer Free Moving Services to Domestic Violence Survivors, Expands Nationwide Initiative

For many people leaving an abusive partner, the most dangerous moment is the moment they try to walk out the door. The logistics alone can stop someone in their tracks. Boxes, trucks, timing, safety. It can feel impossible. That is why a California moving company has spent the past 25 years turning its business into a lifeline. Meathead Movers, the state’s largest independently owned moving company, has been offering free moving services to domestic violence survivors for decades. The company’s founders, brothers Aaron and Evan Steed, started helping survivors long before the idea became a national model. They were young, running a growing business, and seeing firsthand how desperate the need was. “These moves became very personal to us,” Aaron told GNN in 2015. “They made all the employees so proud, and became part of our mission statement.” Their work resonated far beyond California. In 2015, Meathead Movers launched a coalition called #MoveToEndDV, inviting other companies to do the same. Eight moving companies across the country joined, and more than 200 businesses pledged free services of their own. The network now includes self storage companies, cleaners, and even security firms in three California cities that will send a guard during a survivor’s move. Last year alone, Meathead Movers completed 106 domestic violence-related moves for free, including eight emergency relocations in San Luis Obispo, Ventura County, Orange County, Fresno and Bakersfield. The idea has sparked ripple effects. After reading about the program, a moving company owner in Fort Worth, Texas reached out to ask how they could participate despite not having the budget. Aaron suggested dedicating one day a month, with employees volunteering their labor. Nearly the entire staff agreed, and today that company, Veterans Moving America, works with shelters to support local survivors. They are not alone. Other companies that have joined #MoveToEndDV include Helping Hands Moving and Maids in Salt Lake City, We Help! Cincinnati Movers in Ohio, Elite Moving Services in Des Moines, Gentle Giant in Boston, Parks Moving and Storage in Pennsylvania, Always Professional Moving in Phoenix, and Brown Box Movers in Dallas. The process is structured for safety. Shelters screen each request before movers arrive. It protects the survivor and the moving crew. “What’s good about that is, they can be vetting the requests for help, supporting the women with counseling, and making sure when we went in, the proper restraining orders were in place, or police were on hand if necessary,” Aaron explained. In 2020, the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence took over facilitation of #MoveToEndDV. With more resources and access to shelters nationwide, the partnership has expanded the reach of a program built on something simple: take your skills and use them to help someone rebuild. Employees say the work changes them too. It is hard to forget the moment a family steps into a truck with nothing but a chance at a safer life. The sense of purpose spreads quickly through a team, and often through a community. “These women are completely abandoning their life as they know it and trying to rebuild from scratch, and businesses are rallying together for them,” Aaron said. “We want them to know that people in the community have their back. We want to do this in communities all over the country.” For survivors, that support can mean the difference between staying and getting out. For the companies involved, it has become proof that an ordinary service can carry an extraordinary impact.

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Royal Family Welcomes New Member As Prince And Princess Announce Birth Of Baby Girl

E. Royce Williams spent more than half a century unable to talk about the most defining 35 minutes of his life. Now, at 100 years old, the retired Navy captain is finally set to receive the United States' highest military honor for it. On Feb. 4, President Trump called Williams to personally tell him he will be awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, according to a statement from California Rep. Darrell Issa. The announcement follows the passage of the 2026 National Defense Authorization Act, which included Issa’s legislation making Williams eligible for the award. Issa has been one of Williams’ most vocal champions. In December, he described the veteran as “a Top Gun pilot like no other and an American hero for all time.” His push stemmed from a dogfight Williams fought on Nov. 18, 1952, during the Korean War, a battle that remained buried in classified files for decades. That day, Williams launched in his F9F 5 Panther from the USS Oriskany and soon found himself alone against seven Soviet MiG 15s. He shot down four of them while taking a 37 millimeter hit to his fuselage, a strike so precise that “six inches to the right or left would have meant certain death.” Somehow, despite the damage, Williams managed what Issa called a “near perfect” landing back on the carrier floating in the Sea of Japan. His aircraft was later found to have 263 bullet holes. Issa said the actions Williams took in that encounter “saved the lives of his fellow pilots, shipmates and crew.” He called the story “one for the ages,” and said the Medal of Honor finally gives it “its rightful chapter.” At the time, Williams was ordered not to speak about what happened. He followed that instruction for more than 50 years. It was not until Soviet records were released in 1992 that the scale of his achievement became fully documented. The Navy awarded him a Silver Star, later upgraded to the Navy Cross in 2023 after a long campaign by Issa and others. “What Royce did is, still to this day, the most unique U.S.-Soviet aerial combat dogfight in the history of the Cold War,” Issa said. “It is my honor to have fought all these years for Royce to gain a recognition that he has not sought, but so richly deserves.” For Williams, the recognition felt surreal. “Oh, I put it out of my mind because, can't talk about it. I thought that was forever,” he told local outlet KGTV. The secrecy had been so ingrained that even after the mission was declassified in 2002, he had to relearn how to talk about what he had done. He recalled the moment the MiGs appeared. “I could see clearly because of their contrails that there were seven, and as they flew over me, I could see that they were MiG 15s. A superior fighter airplane.” A malfunction forced the rest of his flight to turn back, leaving him alone to face them. But Williams said he felt prepared and oddly calm. “I was ready to fight in all aspects,” he said. “I had a chance to shoot. And I was pretty good at it.” The dogfight stretched to roughly 35 minutes, a lifetime in aerial combat. After returning to the ship, Williams later told his wife about the day’s events. Her response, he said, was a simple, gently scolding, “Oh, Royce.” Williams said his phone call was direct. “He said I'm getting the Medal of Honor.” The date of the ceremony has not yet been announced. For decades, Williams’ story lived only on paper in locked government files. Soon, it will be read aloud before a room filled with people who finally get to celebrate it.

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Yoga Classes are Bringing Moments Of Peace To Gaza's Traumatised Children

Gaza City has no shortage of noise these days, so the quiet inside one small tent feels almost out of place. A handful of kids sit cross legged on a mat, eyes closed, doing their best to focus while the rest of the world rumbles outside. Some take it seriously. Others crack a shy smile and peek to see if anyone else looks as unsure as they feel. It is not a typical scene in northern Gaza, but that is the point. The tent belongs to Palestinian teacher Hadeel al Gharbawi, who decided that if she could not shield children from the conflict, she could at least give them a few minutes that feel different. She has been experimenting with activities that help kids manage trauma. Eventually she landed on yoga, something she had only seen online. “I wanted to expand the activities I do with children beyond drawing and colouring. I searched online and discovered that yoga can help children recover from trauma,” al Gharbawi told Al Jazeera. She said she realized no one was offering it in Gaza City, so she taught herself and then started adapting it for kids living through constant stress. “Through yoga, they can release stress and cope with the difficult life around them.” The need is clear. Children in Gaza have lived with repeated shocks for years. A report by the World Health Organization says cycles of violence and instability have left young people facing emotional distress, social withdrawal, grief and an array of physical and psychological symptoms. Constant bombing, repeated displacement and the loss of family members shape almost every part of their lives. International agencies have been warning that the effects will last long after the fighting stops. Earlier this month, the UNICEF said “all children in Gaza require mental health, and psychosocial support services after two years of horrific war, displacement, and exposure to traumatic events.” Inside al Gharbawi’s tent, the goal is simple. For the length of a class, she wants children to feel calm and even a little in control. The kids follow breathing exercises, stretch in ways that feel new to them, and try to let their shoulders drop just a bit. They are not here to perfect a pose. They are here to feel human again. Suwar, one of the displaced students who attends the sessions, said the classes help soften the weight of daily life. “We come here to do yoga, to learn and to do art,” she told Al Jazeera. “These activities allow us to forget, even for a short time, the war, the harsh weather and the queues for water. Yoga, in particular, gives us a moment of calm and helps us feel safe and happy.” Al Gharbawi has layered the yoga sessions with educational and recreational programs. She runs drawing activities, small lessons, and group games that give kids a chance to use their imagination, something she said many have lost the space to do. “Combining learning with playful and therapeutic activities helps the children deal with trauma and regain a sense of normalcy,” she said. Normalcy can mean something as small as laughing with a classmate or finishing an exercise without interruption. It can mean having one part of the day that does not revolve around survival. In Gaza, that counts for a lot. The tent itself is modest. The mat is thick enough to cushion the ground and soft enough to feel welcoming. Kids shuffle in wearing layers to fight the cold and carry the tired look of children who have seen too much. The space fills quickly, and for many, these few minutes are the only time they are not expected to be alert. Even the simple act of closing their eyes carries weight. It signals trust, if only briefly, in a place where trust has become a luxury. Al Gharbawi knows yoga will not erase fear or grief, but she sees the small changes. A deeper breath. A steadier posture. The moment when a child decides to try again rather than give up. The sessions are not a solution to the war. They are not meant to be. They are a small effort to help children hold on to pieces of themselves that might otherwise be lost. For now, that is what al Gharbawi can offer, and for many families, it is more than enough. In a corner of Gaza City, in a tent with a mat and a teacher who refused to give up on the idea of calm, a group of children keeps gathering. The world outside has not changed, but inside the tent, for a little while, something does.

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Coastguard Rescues Lost Labrador After Two-Hour Search on Dorset's Jurassic Coast

Thick fog, a frightened dog and a race against the clock turned into an unexpected rescue story along the Jurassic Coast. Uska, a Labrador visiting from Belgium with her owners, disappeared while being walked near Dancing Ledge just before 18:00 GMT on Saturday. Visibility dropped fast. The dog had dashed off after deer and vanished in the murk. Darkness settled in, turning the cliffs and muddy paths into difficult terrain. Two HM Coastguard teams, from Swanage Coastguard and St Albans Coastguard, combed the area despite the conditions. For two hours, there was no sign of her. Then the dog’s tracker, which had temporarily stopped transmitting, flickered back to life. The renewed signal led rescuers to her, tired but safe. She was reunited with her owners soon after, ending the night with relief and a few overwhelmed tears instead of a missing pet report.

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Restorative Justice Program In Fort McMurray Sees Remarkable Drop In Re Offending

A small northern city is seeing big results after rethinking what justice can look like. In Fort McMurray, a restorative justice program that began with youth in 2022 has now expanded to adults, and the early numbers have become hard to ignore. Out of 115 people who have gone through the program, only one has reoffended. For a community of about 68,000 people, that matters. Sending someone to prison or juvenile detention can ripple through neighbourhoods, workplaces and families. The program offers something different, a system built on accountability, dialogue and a path forward instead of a record that follows someone for life. One of the clearest examples is a local teenager who the program calls Sam, not his real name. The incident that brought him into the system was sudden and serious. After being “irked” by a remark from his brother, he picked up a kitchen knife and swung. His brother managed to disarm him. Their mother called police. Sam was arrested for aggravated assault. It was the kind of case that usually ends with a conviction and years of consequences. Instead, he was offered another route. To participate, the offender must admit responsibility, and the victim must agree to be present for that conversation. It is not an easy process. It demands honesty and emotion in a way that courtrooms rarely do. While in the program, Sam got his driver’s license. He found a job. And somehow, the relationship with his brother that had broken in such a frightening moment began to repair. Today, the two still live together in their logging town and are rebuilding with a steadiness that surprises even some of the program’s early skeptics. Nicole Chouinard, who manages victim services and restorative justice programs for the region through the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, says it changed her own thinking. “It has changed my view on how things could be done and how it actually heals the community as a whole,” she told CBC. She admitted she once assumed the approach was too “soft.” Support inside RCMP leadership has been strong. Chief Superintendent Mark Hancock pushed to expand the program across the Wood Buffalo region after seeing what it accomplished in Labrador. “You have to face the person you’ve done the harm to, you have to hear how it affected them and how it affected their supporters as well,” he said. He recalled one participant saying the experience would be harder than simply going to court. Alberta’s broader data backs up their instincts. Across the province, 21 organizations in 11 communities now run restorative justice programs. Many were created with the same goal that Fort McMurray had: to keep people out of the criminal justice system when possible and to address harm in a way that strengthens communities instead of fracturing them. The approach is not universal and not designed for every case. But the outcomes so far show what can happen when a small city looks differently at accountability. In Fort McMurray, the math is simple. One re offender out of 115 participants. A long list of repaired relationships. A growing belief that responsibility and forgiveness can, in the right setting, work better than punishment alone. In a northern community where everyone seems to know everyone, that shift is already being felt.

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El Salvador Celebrates World's Tallest Recycled Mural With Over 100,000 Plastic Lids

Building 88 in the Zacamil sector of San Salvador has a new landmark, and it is impossible to miss. A 13 metre tall portrait built entirely from recycled plastic lids now covers the side of the building, created by Venezuelan artist Óscar Olivares. He announced the completion of the mural on 20 February, closing out several days of work involving waste pickers, volunteers and neighbourhood groups. More than 100,000 lids went into the piece. None were painted. Olivares kept every colour as he found it, which meant the sorting process became part of the art itself. Residents of Zacamil collected the lids, joined by recyclers from the National Association of Collectors and Recyclers of El Salvador, known locally as ASONARES. The Custom Made Stories Foundation and the company Full Painting also backed the project. The central figure may look familiar at first glance. It is a reimagined Mona Lisa, but not the one by Leonardo da Vinci. Olivares turned her into a woman with dark skin, curly hair and wide, expressive eyes. She wears the colours of the Salvadoran flag. He calls her the Salvadoran Mona Lisa, though he stresses that she is not based on any real person. For him, she represents the everyday citizen. He says the renaissance of El Salvador and Latin America is already happening in ordinary people. The Zacamil mural is the largest plastic lid piece he has ever created, but it is far from his first. His work with reused plastics began gaining attention in 2020 with the Oko Mural in El Hatillo, Caracas. Since then he has brought similar projects to at least six countries, from Italy to Mexico and Panama. His broader body of work spans nearly 22 countries and has appeared at events such as ArtExpo New York. Along the way he has collected recognition including the Ibero American Award for Online Entrepreneurship in 2015 and the Golden Mara Award in 2017. For Olivares, Zacamil is not just a location. He sees it as a future open air museum. The collaboration with residents, he says, is central to that vision. Community members helped at every stage, which he describes as part of his method rather than a symbolic gesture. The mural’s size might be the headline feature, but its roots are in the people who gathered, sorted and carried the pieces that now make up a towering face above their neighbourhood. The finished portrait looks down over the area with quiet confidence. It arrived through recycled materials, patient work and a lot of hands pitching in. That mix, Olivares says, is exactly the point.

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This RNLI Volunteer Has Saved 100 Lives After 40 Years Of Service

An RNLI volunteer who has spent four decades answering emergency calls along the Essex coast has now saved more than 100 lives. Tony Bonham, 59, has logged 101 lives saved and 953 people assisted since Southend-on-Sea station began keeping detailed records in 1996, ten years after he joined. The true total, he says, is likely higher. Bonham began volunteering as a lifeguard at Shoebury West beach at age 15, later joining the lifeboat crew at 19. "We don't look at ourselves as heroes. I've been, I've done a job, I'm getting on with work now... we never look for recognition," he said. Under RNLI definitions, a “life saved” means the person would have drowned without intervention; all other rescues are counted as assists. “There's 100 families plus that have still got their loved ones with them,” Bonham added. The commitment is demanding and often unpredictable. “You can be out days, nights, anniversaries, Christmas Day. If you're on duty and you get a call, you've got to go,” he said. “We could be out at two in the morning... we do the job, we put everything back, make sure it's all ready. We go home to our families and carry on the next day. You might read about it in the paper; you might not." Bonham is also seeing the tradition continue in his family. His son Tyler will soon begin as a commander at the RNLI station in Gravesend, Kent, and Bonham says Tyler’s six-year-old son already enjoys spending time at the lifeboat station — “He enjoys the cookies,” he joked. He recently experienced a full-circle moment when he and Tyler were called out together for the first time. “He was my helm, I was his crew and it was really, really funny him being in charge,” he said. “But I still got dressed quicker and was out before him." Bonham says he never turns his pager off and plans to continue serving. “I still feel young. I am young — I'm 59 — got many years in me to go yet,” he said, returning to duty immediately after his interview.

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