Liz Burns #amquerying @librarylizard

🎉🇺🇸 Happy 250th , USA! 🎆🎈 Join us as we honor the rich history and vibrant future of our great nation. Let's come together to celebrate freedom, unity, and the diverse tapestry that makes America extraordinary! ❤️🤍💙 #Happy250thUSA #CelebrateAmerica #ProudToBeAmerican

I’d really like to see Ernie, Kenny, Shaq and Charles do the postgame for World Cup Games. Ratings would soar.

Years of hard work and perseverance 💪 The moment Jordan Walker found out he's heading to the All-Star Game:

'Perseverance' pays off: Jordan Walker, tearful with gratitude, chosen as Cardinals' All-Star stltoday.com/sports/profess…

On the night of July 3, 1976, a woman ran across Interstate 30 in Dallas, Texas, in the dark, weaving through headlights of oncoming trucks and cars. She was bloodied. Her face was swollen. She had 36 cents in her pocket, a Mobil gas card, and nothing else. Her name was Tina Turner. And she had just done the bravest thing of her life. She had been in a limousine on the way to the Statler Hilton Hotel when her husband Ike beat her again. By the time they arrived, the left side of her face was unrecognizable. She waited quietly until he fell asleep, tied a scarf around her head, grabbed a small bag, and walked out the door. She crossed that freeway alone. At the Ramada Inn on the other side, she walked to the front desk, bruised and barefoot. The manager recognized her immediately, not because of her fame, but because of her injuries. He gave her a room, posted a security guard outside her door, and sent up soup because she was too swollen to chew solid food. She stayed hidden for three days. What most people do not know is that Tina had been quietly preparing for this moment for years. Long before she ran, she had discovered Nichiren Buddhism, a practice of daily chanting that she credits with slowly rebuilding her inner strength. She did not find courage after she escaped. She found it first. The escape followed. When she filed for divorce, Ike fought her through two years of legal battles. To end it, she agreed to his terms. She walked away with two cars, some jewelry, her furs, and her name. No house. No royalties. No claim to the recordings. Her lawyers thought she had surrendered everything. Ike thought he had won. But Tina understood something neither of them did. The name Tina Turner was the only asset she needed. It was the one thing she could carry into the future. The years that followed were harder than most people realize. The music industry had written her off. She was approaching forty, a Black woman in a business obsessed with youth, with no label support, no hits, and no money. She performed in hotel lounges and small clubs. She appeared on game shows to pay the bills. She cleaned houses to cover her rent. She relied on food stamps to feed her children. She refused to stop. She chanted every morning. She took every small gig offered. She stayed visible even when visibility was painful. Friends from the rock world, David Bowie, Rod Stewart, the Rolling Stones, began publicly championing her. A new manager named Roger Davies believed in her completely. In May 1984, at the age of 45, Tina Turner released Private Dancer. It sold over 20 million copies worldwide. ""What's Love Got to Do with It"" reached number one on the Billboard Hot 100. She won three Grammy Awards that year including Record of the Year. She performed at Live Aid. She starred in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. She became the first Black woman on the cover of Rolling Stone. She filled stadiums on every continent. At the age when most careers quietly end, hers became the greatest comeback in the history of popular music. In 1985 she met Erwin Bach, a German music executive sixteen years younger than her. They fell in love, stayed together for nearly four decades, and married in 2013 in Switzerland. When her kidneys began failing in 2016, functioning at only 20 percent and declining, Erwin told her he wanted to give her one of his. The transplant happened in 2017. Both came through. Tina Turner died on May 24, 2023, at her home near Zurich. She was 83 years old. She left behind 12 Grammy Awards, more than 100 million records sold, and a story that keeps finding people who need it. 36 cents. A gas card. A name. And a will that could not be broken. That is how legends are born.

In 1997, a well-known actor was advised to hide his own son from the world. He did the exact opposite. John C. McGinley, best known for the TV series Scrubs and the films Platoon and The Rock, received advice that was supposedly meant to protect his career. When his son Max was born with Down syndrome, his agent told him: “Don't tell anyone. Keep it a secret. People will stop hiring you.” For many people, that advice might have sounded practical. Don't draw attention to it. Don't create uncomfortable conversations. Live as though nothing has happened. John did the opposite. He fired the agent. Then he started taking Max everywhere: movie premieres, television appearances, film sets, and public events. At a time when people with Down syndrome were often ignored or kept out of sight, John chose to show the world his son openly, proudly, and without apology. Over the years, it became more than just a father's love. John became one of the most prominent advocates for people with Down syndrome in the United States. He spoke at international conferences, worked to promote legislative change, and helped create more opportunities for people with disabilities to study, work, and live independently. Once, a journalist asked him: “Have you ever wished your son were ‘normal’?” His answer came immediately: “My son is normal. That question isn't.” Behind those words was a simple truth: a person's value is not determined by how closely they match someone else's idea of “normal.” Today, Max is 27 years old. He works, lives an independent life, builds relationships, and does many of the things that countless people once believed would be impossible for him. John says that his son never limited his life. Quite the opposite — he expanded it. He taught him patience. He taught him unconditional love. He taught him to see the person, not the label. There was a time when society wanted children like Max to remain invisible. For nearly 30 years, John has done everything he could to make sure the world looked Max straight in the eyes. Because true acceptance begins when we stop treating differences as flaws. Max did not need to change to find his place in the world. The world needed to change to make room for Max. ❤️

Carroll O’Connor found fame as Archie Bunker. He found love much earlier. Nancy Fields fell in love with him when he was still a young actor trying to find his place in the world. Long before television made him famous, she was already standing beside him, believing in a future that neither of them could yet see. She followed him to Ireland, married him in 1951, and spent the next fifty years proving that the most important person in Carroll O’Connor’s life was never a producer, an executive, or a fan. It was Nancy. Before America heard Archie Bunker shouting from his chair, Nancy had already listened to Carroll’s fears in quiet conversations. She knew the thoughtful man behind the strong voice. She knew the actor who dreamed of meaningful work and worried that one wrong role could define him forever. They met at the University of Montana. Carroll acted in student productions while Nancy worked behind the scenes with makeup and lighting. She wasn't falling for a celebrity. She was falling for a young man still trying to build a future. That made her faith in him even more remarkable. She saw his talent before critics praised it. She saw his humor before audiences laughed at it. And she saw his fears before fame ever exposed them. In 1951, after graduation, Nancy crossed an ocean for love. She sailed to Ireland, where Carroll was studying and chasing a future filled with uncertainty. On July 28, 1951, they married in Dublin. There was no fortune waiting. No television success. No Hollywood guarantees. Just two young people choosing each other before life became easier. Years later, Carroll was offered the role that would change everything. Archie Bunker. The character was loud, controversial, stubborn, and unlike anyone television had seen before. Carroll understood the risk immediately. He worried viewers might confuse the character with the man playing him. He hesitated. More than once. Nancy did not. She saw something different. She saw the opportunity of a lifetime. When Carroll struggled with the decision, Nancy gave him the encouragement he needed most. “Now listen here, Carroll, this is the role of a lifetime, and you are going to be brave enough to take it.” That sentence captured their entire marriage. Nancy wasn't pushing him toward fame. She was reminding him of who he already was. When All in the Family arrived in 1971, Archie Bunker became one of television's most unforgettable characters. Viewers debated him. Critics analyzed him. Awards followed. But Nancy didn't need public applause to understand Carroll's achievement. She had known his abilities long before the rest of the world noticed. Through success, pressure, and decades in the spotlight, she remained the person he trusted most. Their marriage lasted nearly fifty years. They raised their adopted son, Hugh, and built a family away from the cameras. The most beautiful part of their story is not that Carroll became famous. It is that Nancy believed in him before he did. Before Archie had America, Carroll had Nancy.

In May of 1965, a 28-year-old teacher walked into a fourth-grade classroom in the Roxbury neighborhood of Boston and did something that would change the course of his life — and eventually, the lives of millions. His name was Jonathan Kozol. He had graduated from Harvard with highest honors. He had studied at Oxford on a Rhodes Scholarship. He could have chosen almost any path. Instead, he chose a crumbling public school in one of Boston's poorest neighborhoods, where the textbooks were two decades old, the heating system didn't work through winter, and a new student walked out the door — or simply disappeared — almost every single week. That morning, he read his class of African-American nine-year-olds a poem by Langston Hughes. It was called The Ballad of the Landlord — a poem about a Black tenant standing up to a white landlord over an apartment falling apart at the seams, and what happened to him when he dared to speak up. It was not on the Boston Public Schools' approved reading list. The next morning, Kozol was handed a dismissal letter. The official reason: he had read material that wasn't in the approved curriculum, without permission from a superior. There had also been complaints from parents who had heard about the poem. He had been teaching for seven months. Another man might have accepted the verdict and walked away. Kozol did the opposite. He sat down and wrote. He documented everything — the broken heaters, the outdated books, the overcrowded rooms, the letter that ended his career over a poem about justice. He called the book Death at an Early Age. Houghton Mifflin published it in October of 1967. Five months later, it won the National Book Award. Over the following decades, it sold more than two million copies. But Kozol didn't stop there. He spent the next sixty years going back — back to the classrooms, back to the neighborhoods, back to the families that the system kept failing. He wrote about homeless children sleeping in welfare hotels. He wrote about the staggering gap between what wealthy school districts spent on each child and what poor ones could afford. He wrote about the Bronx, about segregation, about the America that existed just a few miles from the America most people saw. He turned 89 in September of 2025. He is still writing. All of it began on a May morning in 1965, when a young teacher decided that nine-year-olds in a cold, underfunded classroom deserved to hear a poem about what it felt like when the world wasn't fair. He read it to them. And they fired him for it. He made sure the whole world heard it anyway.

On December 30, 2021, mail carrier James pulled up to Betty White's house with a certified letter. Betty was 99 years old. Frail, slower than before, but still answering her own door. James handed her the envelope. Inside was a letter from a children's hospital. It thanked her for decades of support. The hospital told her that her donations had helped fund treatments for hundreds of children over the years. To them, she had been a quiet source of hope for families facing impossible moments. As she read the words, tears filled her eyes. James noticed immediately. He asked if she was alright. Betty looked up and gave him an honest answer. The kind that comes from someone who has lived a long life and understands time is precious. She told him she was 99 years old. She didn't believe she would reach 100. But she had lived long enough to read that letter, and for her, that meant something. It was enough. James could have finished his route and moved on. Instead, he stayed. They sat together on the porch and talked. No reporters. No cameras. No audience. Just a mail carrier and a woman reflecting on a life that was nearing its final chapter. For nearly an hour they spoke about purpose, kindness, and the people whose lives touch others without ever fully knowing it. Before leaving, James told her something simple. He said she mattered. Betty smiled. Then she answered in the gentle way people often described her. She said she hoped so. The next day, December 31, 2021, Betty White passed away. She was one day short of her 100th birthday. Later, James attended her memorial service. There, he shared the story of their conversation and the letter that had arrived at exactly the right moment. The room listened quietly. Then he said the part that stayed with everyone. After a lifetime of giving without expecting recognition, Betty White left this world knowing that hundreds of children had been helped because she cared enough to act. Sometimes a life is measured by success. And sometimes it is measured by the people who are still here because of your kindness.

Imagine Trump ever being invited to join a photo like this — not in a million years. Four presidents. Zero drama. Just smiles, respect, and a shared love of country. 🇺🇸

On the night the Titanic sank, a 21-year-old college student watched his father die. Hours later, doctors told him both of his legs would have to be amputated. Instead, he got up and started walking. His name was Richard Norris Williams. And surviving the Titanic was only the beginning of his story. In April 1912, Richard and his father, Charles Duane Williams, boarded the Titanic as first-class passengers in Cherbourg, France. They were traveling to America so Richard could continue his studies at Harvard. When the ship struck the iceberg on April 14, father and son made their way to the deck together. Then disaster struck again. As the Titanic sank, one of its massive funnels collapsed. The falling structure hit Charles Williams and killed him instantly. Richard was standing beside him. He narrowly escaped the same fate. Moments later, he was in the freezing North Atlantic. The water temperature was around 28°F (-2°C). Most people survived only minutes. Richard spent roughly six hours in the water or clinging to one of the partially submerged collapsible lifeboats before rescue arrived. When the RMS Carpathia finally picked up survivors at dawn, his condition was severe. His legs were frozen from the knees down. The ship's doctor examined him and delivered a grim verdict: Both legs would need to be amputated. In 1912, severe frostbite often meant gangrene, infection, and death. Amputation was considered the safest option. Richard refused. He reportedly told doctors that he was going to need his legs. Then he got out of bed. Against medical advice, he began walking the deck of the Carpathia every two hours. Day and night. Step after painful step. For four days. By the time the ship reached New York, his condition had improved enough that amputation was no longer necessary. He walked off the ship on his own. Most people would consider that the defining story of a lifetime. For Richard Williams, it wasn't. A few months later, he enrolled at Harvard. Then he returned to tennis. In 1914, he won the U.S. National Championship, the tournament that would later become the U.S. Open. In 1916, he won it again. Over the following years, he became one of the best tennis players in the world, winning multiple major doubles titles and representing the United States internationally. Then came World War I. Williams served in the U.S. Army and distinguished himself in combat. France awarded him both the Croix de Guerre and the Legion of Honor for his service. After the war, he returned to tennis once again. At the 1924 Paris Olympics, he badly sprained his ankle during the mixed doubles tournament and considered withdrawing. His partner, Hazel Wightman, refused to let him quit. Williams played much of the tournament barely able to move. Together, they won Olympic gold. Over the years, he became a Davis Cup captain, a respected figure in American tennis, and eventually a member of the International Tennis Hall of Fame. Yet people who knew him rarely heard him talk about any of it. Not the Titanic. Not the championships. Not the war. Not the medals. Not the Olympic gold. In fact, he disliked attention so much that later in life he had approximately 160 tennis trophies melted down into a single silver serving tray. He used it to serve drinks to guests in his Pennsylvania home. Most visitors had no idea what it was. Or what it represented. A Titanic survivor. A two-time national champion. A decorated war veteran. An Olympic gold medalist. A Hall of Famer. All hidden inside an ordinary tray sitting quietly on a side table. Richard Norris Williams died in 1968 at the age of 77. If you had met him, he probably wouldn't have told you any of this. And that may be the most remarkable thing about him.

Best fans in baseball! The Cardinals fans who caught Blaze Jordan's first MLB homer returned the ball to him after the game!

In 1954, Martin Ginsburg married Ruth Bader at a time when he was, by most measures, the stronger student — and from that moment, he made a quiet decision that would define everything that followed. He never mentioned it again. Colleagues warned him he was risking his own career. Partners offered him opportunities he could have taken. Friends called it madness — a man stepping aside for a woman’s ambitions. He didn’t hesitate. Not once. He moved cities three times to follow her opportunities, to create the space she needed to rise. He cooked every meal for 56 years because Ruth never learned how — and neither of them pretended otherwise. He handled the household, the logistics, the day-to-day that might have distracted her from her work. When her Supreme Court nomination was on the line, he campaigned personally and wrote a letter that helped change the outcome. Not for credit. Not for praise. Just because it was necessary. He died on June 27, 2010. That morning, Ruth found a note he had left on her pillow the night before — written with hands that could barely hold a pen. It read simply that she was the only person he had ever loved in every way a person can love another, and that he was proud of everything she had accomplished. The world remembers Ruth Bader Ginsburg for her historic impact on American law. Few remember Martin for his own legal work. Few need to. He could have been remembered for himself. Instead, he became the reason someone else’s work became historic. He gave her time, support, and a quiet foundation so that she could focus entirely on the work that would change the country. Some people seek recognition. Others build the stage for greatness and never step onto it themselves. Martin Ginsburg chose the latter. And through that choice, he left a legacy as enduring as the law his wife helped shape.

Released in 1975, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was an animated television special directed by legendary animator Chuck Jones and based on the classic story by Rudyard Kipling. The story follows a brave mongoose who takes on two deadly cobras to protect the family that rescued him. For a generation of kids, it was one of those rare animated films that felt genuinely intense. The stakes were real, the villains were terrifying, and you couldn't help but root for Rikki-Tikki every step of the way. More than 50 years later, it's still remembered as one of the finest animated adaptations ever put on television. Did you watch Rikki-Tikki-Tavi growing up?

How to play 'Happy Birthday' Like Beethoven, Chopin, Brahms, Bach and Mozart Piano by Nicole Pesce. Which style do you feel is suitable and the most wonderful?

In 2007 Brian May completed his PhD after a 33-year gap — and in the same year was appointed Chancellor of a British university, replacing Cherie Blair. He personally handed degrees to thousands of students across five years. He said he wished he could have attended every single ceremony. This is who Brian May really is. In 1974 — Brian May put his PhD thesis in a drawer. Queen needed him. The world tour was starting. Astrophysics would have to wait. It waited 33 years. In 2007 — Brian May finally submitted his thesis on zodiacal dust clouds to Imperial College London. He was awarded his PhD in astrophysics in May 2008 at the Royal Albert Hall. And in that same extraordinary year — something else happened. Brian May became the fourth Chancellor of Liverpool John Moores University — appointed in 2007 and officially installed at St George's Hall, Liverpool, in April 2008. He replaced Cherie Blair — wife of former Prime Minister Tony Blair — as Chancellor. Brian described the whole experience as being "ambushed in a very nice way" by then Vice-Chancellor Professor Michael Brown CBE. The appointment made perfect sense — Liverpool John Moores University has one of Britain's most acclaimed Astrophysics Research Institutes — connecting directly to Brian May's own scientific work. For five years — Brian May attended graduation ceremonies across Liverpool. Handing degrees to thousands of students. Shaking hands. Giving speeches. Being present. He said — "I wish I could have done every single ceremony actually — because I could see it had a great effect on people." He described Liverpool John Moores University as "the most student-aware academic institution I've ever encountered" — adding that it "sets a new kind of standard." When he stepped down in 2013 — he was made Chancellor Emeritus. He told students — "I love this university and I'll be very happy to stay close. You'll still see me around here." PhD completed. University Chancellor. Rock legend. Astrophysicist. Badger campaigner. All in the same five-year window. Brian May simply does not know how to live one life at a time.

Hollywood spent decades telling Kathy Bates she wasn’t pretty enough to be a leading lady. She spent those same decades becoming one of the greatest actresses alive. Then she survived cancer twice, lost 100 pounds, and at 76 landed the biggest TV role of her career. That’s the part Hollywood never saw coming. Kathy Bates was born in Memphis in 1948 and moved to New York determined to become an actress. But the entertainment industry of the 1970s had a very narrow idea of what a female star should look like. Kathy Bates didn’t fit it. She later said openly: “I’m not a stunning woman.” So instead of glamorous lead roles, she got: • supporting characters • difficult personalities • odd women • emotionally complex parts The kinds of roles that required acting more than beauty. For nearly 20 years, she quietly built a reputation as one of the best performers in America while Hollywood mostly overlooked her. Then came Misery in 1990. Stephen King’s terrifying story needed someone who could be: • warm • funny • lonely • unstable • terrifying All at once. Director Rob Reiner cast Kathy Bates as Annie Wilkes. The performance was unforgettable. She won the Academy Award for Best Actress at age 42. And the irony was impossible to miss: The industry’s refusal to cast her as a conventional leading woman had accidentally prepared her perfectly for the role that made her legendary. After that came decades of acclaimed work: • Titanic • About Schmidt • Primary Colors • American Horror Story • countless Emmy and Oscar nominations Then, in 2003, came ovarian cancer. She kept it almost entirely secret. Her own agent warned her that publicly revealing cancer could hurt her career. So she underwent surgery, returned to work almost immediately, and quietly endured months of chemotherapy while telling almost nobody. Years later, cancer came back again. Breast cancer. This time she chose a double mastectomy without hesitation. She later joked: “I like not having breasts. They were what caused all the trouble.” That’s Kathy Bates in one sentence: dark humor, honesty, survival. The treatments left her with lymphedema, a chronic swelling condition she still manages today. Instead of hiding it, she became an advocate for others living with it. Then Hollywood found a new reason to underestimate her: Age. Her legal drama Harry’s Law was canceled despite strong ratings because executives believed its audience was “too old.” Imagine surviving: • decades of rejection • ovarian cancer • breast cancer …only to be told you’re suddenly too old to matter. Kathy Bates kept going anyway. Then, in 2024, at 76 years old, she starred in CBS’s Matlock reboot as Madeline “Mattie” Matlock. The show exploded. 22.8 million viewers watched the premiere. She became the oldest woman ever nominated for Lead Actress in a Drama Series at the Emmys. And the role fit her perfectly. Because Mattie Matlock’s greatest strength is that people underestimate her. Exactly like Kathy Bates herself. For over 50 years, Hollywood looked past her because she wasn’t young enough, glamorous enough, thin enough, or “marketable” enough. Meanwhile, she quietly became one of the finest actors of her generation. Then, at 76, she got the last laugh.

On the day John Ratzenberger walked into an audition room in 1982, he had a plane to catch. He had been living in London for nearly a decade — acting, writing, performing improv comedy across Europe with a two-man theatre group that had played to standing-room-only audiences for 634 consecutive shows. He had appeared in small roles in some of the biggest films of the era: *Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back*, *Superman*, *Gandhi*, *A Bridge Too Far* He was a working actor, but nobody's idea of a household name. That day, he was in Los Angeles on a writing assignment, and his ticket back to London was already booked. He had one audition before he left. A new sitcom about a bar in Boston. Both Ratzenberger and another actor, George Wendt, were reading for the same role — a minor patron named George who had a single line: "Beer!" It was barely a part at all. But Ratzenberger wanted the work, so he went in, and the moment director Jimmy Burrows told him he was there to audition, not have a conversation, he felt the energy in the room go cold. By his own account, all the blood rushed out of his body. He delivered a forgettable read. The casting director thanked him on the way out — the polite, final kind of thank you that everyone in show business learns to recognize. He was almost through the door when something stopped him. Not calculation. Not strategy. Just the instinct of a man who had spent a decade doing improv and knew that the moment before you leave a room is sometimes the best moment you'll ever have. He turned around. "Do you have a bar know-it-all?" The producers didn't know what he was talking about. So he told them. Every bar in New England, he explained, has one — some guy who acts like he has the knowledge of all mankind stored between his ears and is not even slightly shy about sharing it. He had grown up around exactly this type: a man named Sarge at his father's regular bar, who could answer any question with absolute confidence whether he actually knew the answer or not. The room would ask Sarge the length of a whale's intestine and Sarge would shoot back: "Baleen or blue?" And somehow, everyone deferred to him anyway. Ratzenberger launched into an improvisation right there — the Boston accent, the lean against an imaginary bar, the slightly too-long explanations of facts nobody had asked for. The producers watched. Then they laughed. Then they asked him to do more. George Wendt got the role of the bar regular, renamed Norm Peterson. And the producers, convinced by five minutes of improv from a man on his way out the door, wrote an entirely new character into the show. His name was Clifford Clavin. United States Postal Service. Cheers debuted on NBC on September 30, 1982, to nearly catastrophic ratings — finishing 77th out of 100 shows that week. The network came close to canceling it in the first season. But the show found its audience, and then it found a much bigger one, and then it became one of the most beloved television series ever made. It ran for 11 seasons. Ratzenberger appeared in 273 of 275 episodes. Cliff became the man at the end of the bar with the white socks and the questionable facts and the magnificent certainty — the guy everyone tolerated and secretly enjoyed, the kind of person every room has and everyone pretends to find annoying and would immediately miss if he disappeared. Ratzenberger was nominated for Emmy Awards in 1985 and 1986. By the time the show ended in 1993, Cliff Clavin was embedded in American culture as one of the great comic characters in the history of the medium. Cheers! 🍻

June 10th! Ballpoint Pen Day! Writing (and drawing) by hand is good for the brain and good for the soul. To celebrate the day, you could gift a ballpoint & a stack of good copy paper to your three favorite people, of any age. #ballpointpen

JJ Wetherholt and Michael McGreevy in the MLB studio talking about the "Tarps Off" section at Busch Stadium. #stlcards