Lifestyle
In the battle over identity, a centuries-old issue looms in Taiwan: hunting
Teyra Yudaw (left) and his daughter, Ciwang Teyra, are members of Taiwan’s Indigenous Truku tribe.
An Rong Xu for NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
An Rong Xu for NPR
Teyra Yudaw (left) and his daughter, Ciwang Teyra, are members of Taiwan’s Indigenous Truku tribe.
An Rong Xu for NPR
TAIWAN — Ciwang Teyra grew up in Hualien County, on the eastern edge of the island of Taiwan, where winding roads snake around the edge of mountains and the Pacific Ocean glistens down below.
She was raised in the Indigenous Truku tribe and can recall leaving Hualien County for the first time and encountering Han Chinese people who had never met an Indigenous person before. They would ask her ignorant questions like, “Did you ride a wild boar to get to school?” or refer to her by a derogatory term in Mandarin that roughly translates to “barbarian.”
When Ciwang looks back at those memories now, she can laugh. But it was this kind of discrimination that led to her work: She is a professor of social work at National Taiwan University, where she focuses on the historical trauma Indigenous people face in Taiwan.
Ciwang Teyra says her dream has always been for the island of Taiwan to be more inclusive.
An Rong Xu for NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
An Rong Xu for NPR
Ciwang Teyra says her dream has always been for the island of Taiwan to be more inclusive.
An Rong Xu for NPR
Her research has found that because of centuries of colonial oppression, Truku people suffer immense mental health consequences. Her people, she says, did not historically have substance abuse problems, increasing suicide rates or increasing incidents of domestic violence. Now, they do.
Taiwan is an island that has passed through many colonial hands over the last 400 years ago, from the Dutch to the Qing dynasty, the Japanese and, in the 1940s, the Nationalists who fled from mainland China to Taiwan.
These days, the Indigenous people of Taiwan are continuing their fight for inclusion and acceptance, in part through their struggle to regain hunting rights.
The question of identity hangs over Taiwan
Waves of colonization have inflicted centuries of violence upon Taiwan’s Indigenous people, forcing them out of their homes from near the tops of the mountains to the foothills below, and diluting their languages.
Taiwan has 16 official tribes, and while the current government has invested in protecting Indigenous languages — in contrast to language suppression and assimilation policies in place during Taiwan’s martial law era — long-standing perceptions prevail on the island.
The mountains that are part of Taroko National Park.
An Rong Xu for NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
An Rong Xu for NPR
The mountains that are part of Taroko National Park.
An Rong Xu for NPR
Ciwang’s father, Teyra Yudaw, is a prominent activist among the Truku tribe. He says, “A lot of average Taiwanese people would say to me, ‘You’re Indigenous — you’re not Taiwanese.’ I say, ‘Because I’m Indigenous, I am a real Taiwanese person.’”
Identity is on the minds of most people on this island, which is located within sight of mainland China’s eastern border. The Chinese government has been intensifying its military presence in the Taiwan Strait in recent years, threatening an invasion if it is provoked.
How a presidential candidate would handle cross-strait tensions was a top issue for many voters before the recent presidential election. Taiwanese voters made history on Jan. 13 by electing the incumbent party for a third term — a party that considers Taiwan separate from China.
Teyra Yudaw feels Taiwan’s Indigenous people have become second-class citizens.
An Rong Xu for NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
An Rong Xu for NPR
Teyra Yudaw feels Taiwan’s Indigenous people have become second-class citizens.
An Rong Xu for NPR
Today, the political leaders of this island and much of the populace seek to carve out an identity separate from mainland China. A growing majority of Taiwan’s population identifies as solely “Taiwanese” today rather than “Chinese,” according to research by the Pew Research Center.
So the questions of whom Taiwan belongs to and what it means to be Taiwanese confront the people of this island frequently — particularly the Indigenous people, who make up about 2% of the island’s population.
Teyra, who wears a near-permanent smile on his face, makes his living running a bed-and-breakfast in Hualien County these days, but his life’s work is centered on advocating for Indigenous rights and broadening education about their culture and history.
The Pacific Ocean can be seen from the foot of Taroko National Park.
An Rong Xu for NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
An Rong Xu for NPR
The Pacific Ocean can be seen from the foot of Taroko National Park.
An Rong Xu for NPR
He meets regularly with Taiwan’s outgoing president, Tsai Ing-wen, as part of an Indigenous advisory council, and while he acknowledges that she is the first president to have formally apologized to the Indigenous people for centuries of “pain and mistreatment,” he thinks gestures can go only so far.
“We have become second-class citizens,” he says. “Even though our feet are planted on this land, we are not allowed to manage our own affairs. We are wanderers on our own land.”
Among the affairs Teyra would like for Truku people to manage on their own: hunting. The practice is central to the traditional Truku way of life. Yet, like so many other rights the Truku hold dear, hunting has been restricted by the Taiwanese government in recent years.
How hunting rights became a flashpoint
When Teyra was a child, he went into the depths of the mountains for 42 days with Truku elders. They taught him to maintain the trails and tend to the wild bees, and they told him stories of their ancestors.
Young Teyra learned how he could help maintain the equilibrium of the ecosystem. And at the end of the journey, his elders taught him to hunt a goat. Teyra, now 70 years old, looks back on that experience and explains that for the Truku, “Hunting is not just about killing animals — it’s about protecting the land, about protecting the mountains.”
Slin Yuki (left) and Masaw Busin demonstrate their hunting routine in the Taroko area of Hualien County.
An Rong Xu for NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
An Rong Xu for NPR
Slin Yuki (left) and Masaw Busin demonstrate their hunting routine in the Taroko area of Hualien County.
An Rong Xu for NPR
For thousands of years, the Indigenous people of Taiwan hunted without interference. Then, when colonization began in the 1600s, the rights of Indigenous people to live and hunt on their ancestral land began to be stripped away, bit by bit.
Today, Teyra considers the government of the Republic of China (Taiwan) yet another colonizer taking away their rights to hunt and, ultimately, to function as an autonomous, self-governing community.
“Every colonizer is the same to us. They all came to subjugate us,” he says.
Indigenous hunters are barred from killing protected species, are required to use certain kinds of traps and guns and, until recently, were required to ask the authorities for special permission that involved reporting which kinds of animals a hunter planned to target and how many.
Truku people can now apply to undergo training that grants them licenses to hunt in certain areas, but their ancestral territory is still restricted to them because it is now a national park. Truku hunters like elder Low Shi consider such restrictions offensive.
Truku hunter Low Shi says Indigenous people have long been the caretakers of Taiwan’s land.
An Rong Xu for NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
An Rong Xu for NPR
Truku hunter Low Shi says Indigenous people have long been the caretakers of Taiwan’s land.
An Rong Xu for NPR
“We don’t need the government to regulate the way we hunt because we already regulate ourselves,” he says. “For example, we don’t hunt during mating season. We hunt in a way that preserves the balance of nature.”
Environmental activists have argued against loosening hunting restrictions, saying wildlife must be protected, but people like Low Shi point out that Indigenous people have been caretakers of Taiwan’s land for thousands of years and that their ancestral knowledge must be trusted and respected.
The road to healing
Ciwang Teyra has applied academic research to uphold what her father has been fighting for, saying that restoring hunting rights is one step toward healing.
“If we are able to practice hunting, we are allowed to follow our elders, we can see intergenerational relationship building,” she says. “If we are able to practice hunting culture without any worry about legal impact, then we can heal.”
The mountains that are part of Taroko National Park.
An Rong Xu for NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
An Rong Xu for NPR
The mountains that are part of Taroko National Park.
An Rong Xu for NPR
The road to healing from centuries of abuse is likely to be complex and long. Ciwang and her father, Teyra, are both glad to see Indigenous languages and culture being taught in some schools across Taiwan now. And they see hope in future administrations continuing to work with Indigenous people to give them back their land and the autonomy they seek.
Ciwang says her dream has always been for the island to be more inclusive. It is a great irony to her father that the people who were in Taiwan first even have to seek inclusion. But he adds: “This land belongs to people who understand its history begins with Indigenous people. As long as you love this land and you recognize that history, then you are a friend of the Indigenous people of Taiwan.”
Lifestyle
President Trump to add his own name to the Kennedy Center
President Donald Trump stands in the presidential box as he visits the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, D.C, on March 17, 2025.
Jim Watson/AFP via Getty Images
hide caption
toggle caption
Jim Watson/AFP via Getty Images
The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts will now have a new name — the “Trump-Kennedy Center.” White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt announced the news on social media Thursday, saying that the board of the center voted unanimously for the change, “Because of the unbelievable work President Trump has done over the last year in saving the building.”
Shortly after the announcement, Ohio Democrat Rep. Joyce Beatty, an ex-officio member of the board, refuted the claim that it was a unanimous vote. “Each time I tried to speak, I was muted,” she said in a video posted to social media. “Participants were not allowed to voice their concern.”
When asked about the call, Roma Daravi, vice president of public relations at the Kennedy Center, sent a statement reiterating the vote was unanimous: “The new Trump Kennedy Center reflects the unequivocal bipartisan support for America’s cultural center for generations to come.”
Other Democrats in Congress who are ex-officio members of the Kennedy Center Board, including Sen. Chuck Schumer and Rep. Hakeem Jeffries issued a statement stating that the president is renaming the institution “without legal authority.”
“Federal law established the Center as a memorial to President Kennedy and prohibits changing its name without Congressional action,” the statement reads.


Earlier this year, Trump installed himself as the chairman of the center, firing former president Deborah Rutter and ousting the previous board chair David Rubenstein, along with board members appointed by President Biden. He then appointed a new board, including second lady Usha Vance, White House Chief of Staff Susie Wiles, Fox News host Laura Ingraham and more.

Trump hinted at the name change earlier this month, when he took questions before becoming the first president to host the Kennedy Center Honors. He deferred to the board when asked directly about changing the name but said “we are saving the Kennedy Center.”

The president was mostly hands off with the Kennedy Center during his first term, as most presidents have been. But he’s taking a special interest in it in his second term, touring the center and promising to weed out programming he doesn’t approve of. His “One Big Beautiful Bill” included $257 million for the building’s repairs and maintenance.
Originally, it was called The National Cultural Center. In 1964, two months after President Kennedy was assassinated, President Lyndon Johnson signed legislation authorizing funds to build what would become the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.
Lifestyle
How one L.A. immigrant’s quest spawned generations of Christmas tree sellers
It’s mid-November, a full week before Thanksgiving, and the progeny of Francisco Robles, a Mexican immigrant who peddled watermelons in East L.A., have converged in West Covina to commemorate the 76th year of the family’s seasonal business: selling fresh Christmas trees around L.A. from the forests of the Pacific Northwest.
Francisco and his wife, Lucia, left Mexico for a better life in the early 1900s, so it’s hard to imagine what they would make of their thoroughly Americanized descendants today. One of them is looking for a place to plug in her electric car; another is zipping around the large lot on a motorized scooter; and a third is carrying a large, elaborately framed photo of their mother, “the Queen of our hearts,” who died on Mother’s Day, so she can be part of the family photo commemorating the 2025 tree season.
The Robles’ 76-year-old grandson, Louis Jr., is keeping track of today’s Christmas tree delivery from a folding chair, wearing horn-rim glasses, slacks and a white, open-neck dress shirt. But most of his family — his three adult children, their spouses and a few of his grandchildren — are casually dressed in red “Robles Christmas Trees”-themed sweatshirts or holiday leggings, laughing and posing for cellphone photos under a huge red-and-white striped tent in the parking lot of the bustling Plaza West Covina mall.
Louis Robles Jr., 76, right, listens as his children go over an inventory list of Christmas trees delivered to his son Gabriel Robles’ lot at Plaza West Covina on Nov. 19. Gabriel stands at his father’s left, beside his wife Kathy Robles. His sister, Lorraine Robles-Acosta, far left, looks over paperwork about the trees that will next be delivered to her lot in Montebello.
All the pumpkin patch trimmings from October have been put away — the petting zoo, towering inflatable slides, Cyglos and other rides — and now the family is setting up Christmas decor and stands for the trees that will soon be delivered.
It’s a far cry from the dusty streets where Francisco Robles sold his watermelons from a truck more than a century ago. By the end of this day, the massive 53-foot-truck will have delivered its icy bundles of Nordmann, noble and silvertip firs — what Louis Jr. calls “the Cadillac of Christmas trees” — to all three of their lots in Eagle Rock, Plaza West Covina and the Montebello mall.
The Robles family is eager to get the Christmas tree lots going. Sales were slower than usual at their pumpkin patches this year, a slump they blame on Immigration and Customs Enforcement raid concerns among their large Latino customer base.
Antonio Villatoro, left, closes a hatch after moving trees, while Javier Vasquez, looks on at Robles Christmas Trees run by Gabriel Robles at Plaza West Covina.
The Robles family adds festive decor and places for photos to their Christmas tree lots such as this wall at Gabriel Robles’ business at Plaza West Covina.
Members of the Robles family talk carefully about ICE and immigration. They are business people and deeply religious — Louis Jr. is an assistant pastor at the Living Word Apostalic Church in El Monte, where they attended as a family for years — and they want to keep their politics private.
“But we are not fearful,” said Gabriel Robles. “We’ve lived here all our lives, born and raised here, and we’ve been through so much. I believe this ICE issue is another moment in time. It will pass like COVID happened and passed, and we can stand whatever they throw at us. Los Angeles is a melting pot of immigrants. We’re all unified together, no matter who is in office, and you can’t get rid of us. We are the fabric of L.A.”
Getting the family together in mid-November is unusual because, from October through December, the Robleses are juggling the family business with their other jobs: Gabriel Robles, operator of the Robles Pumpkin Festival and Christmas Trees in West Covina, is an insurance broker; his wife, Kathy, is a homemaker who manages their books. Gabriel’s older sister, Lisa Nassar, operator of Cougar Mountain Pumpkin and Christmas Trees in Eagle Rock, does security screenings at Disneyland (“I keep Tinker Bell safe,” she says, laughing). Her husband, Sam Nassar, is a counselor at Mt. San Antonio College. Lorraine Robles-Acosta is a massage therapist who does lots of work for her church; her husband, Joseph Acosta, is a drug and alcohol counselor. Together, they run the Robles Pumpkin Patch and Christmas Tree Farm in Montebello.
It’s a grueling schedule, but they cling to Louis Jr.’s motto — “We’ll sleep in January” — because this business is in their blood. Not all of the younger generation of Robleses is as gung-ho about the family business as their parents are. But Gabriel and Kathy’s sons, Roman, 21, and Mason, 19, are already devising plans to improve the family’s presence on social media, and the couple’s art-loving daughter Loren, 15, set up the acrylic paints for pumpkin painting.
The Robles family’s late matriarch, Madalene Robles, smiles from a portrait held by her husband, Louis Jr., so she can be part of the family photos commemorating the start of the 2025 Christmas tree season on Nov. 19 at their son, Gabriel Robles’ lot in West Covina. Madalene Robles died on her birthday, May 11, which also happened to be Mother’s Day, her favorite holiday.
Louis Jr.’s children, Lisa, Stephen, Gabriel and Lorraine, played among the trees in their father’s tree lots, first in Monrovia in 1973, Louis Jr. says, then in Rosemead and Pico Rivera. Louis Jr. purchased a small trailer with a tiny space heater to sit on the lot so the kids could eat and rest there while he and his wife sold trees.
“That trailer was so cold at night,” said Lisa, shivering with the memory.
In those early years, when Louis Jr. worked all day at a produce warehouse with his dad before spending his evenings at his Christmas tree lot, he and Madalene used the tree money to create magical Christmases for their children.
“I remember waking up to mountains of presents under the Robles’ tree,” Lorraine said dreamily, “and Mom wrapped every single gift.”
When they were older, Lorraine and her siblings helped set up and sell the trees. They’d chase after the few scalawags who tried to steal them, and ultimately they lobbied Louis Jr. to let them have their own lots, which over time expanded from selling a few pumpkins on straw before Halloween to big pumpkin patch extravaganzas with petting zoos, art activities, inflatables and rides. (Stephen, who lives in San Diego, stepped away from the seasonal business.)
The Robles family considers silvertip firs, with their sturdy open branches and graceful form, to be the Cadillac of Christmas trees, said Gabriel Robles. They used to be plentiful, but they’re harder to find these days, he said, because they require altitude and cold to thrive.
Inflatables like bounce houses and giant slides were Gabriel’s innovation, and so popular he insisted on adding them to his Christmas tree lot too. His dad warned against the idea, but Gabriel said he was determined. He set them up at his lot and they did well for a few days. But then it rained, and his father’s logic became apparent. The inflatables never dried, Gabriel said, and the cold and mud made them even less appealing to visitors. “I still have customers to this day who say, ‘Please put the inflatables out again,’ but they don’t understand they take forever to dry.”
The Robles family is dismissive about big-box competitors (“They’ll never replace the tradition and environment you get at our lots,” said Lisa), and they collectively hiss at the mention of artificial trees.
“My dad has been worried that artificial trees get nicer and nicer, but it hasn’t really changed our sales,” Gabriel said. “The No. 1 reason people come to our lots is the fragrance. They want that fresh pine smell throughout their home, and fake sprays don’t cut it.”
Worker Jonathan Tovar, foreground, who helps with general operations, and Roman Robles, 21, background, whose father Gabriel Robles runs the lot, arrange trees while inventory is being unloaded.
The Robles family hand-select their trees every year from the farms in the Pacific Northwest. (The names of the farms are secret to keep competitors away, Gabriel said.) After the trees are delivered, the family sprays them with water every night and keeps them shaded from the sun so they don’t dry out. “That’s the secret of our success,” Gabriel said.
Louis Jr. said the biggest part of his family’s success has been adding fresh ideas to expand the business that come from each passing generation, starting with his dad, Louis.
Francisco and Lucia Robles and their five L.A.-born children lived on Brooklyn Avenue in East L.A. All three of their sons went to war for the United States, and two never came home, one lost in World War II and the other in the Korean War. Their third son, Louis Robles, served in WWII, right out of high school. He entered the Army’s 101st Airborne Division and earned a Purple Heart as one of the paratroopers who, at age 20, dropped into German-occupied France on D-day, June 6, 1944.
Paratrooper and produce wholesaler Louis Robles Sr. supplemented his income in 1949 by selling Christmas trees in L.A. In this family photo from 1955, Robles, then 31, pauses by his Robles Produce truck preparing to drive a load of fir trees from snowy Washington to his lot in Lincoln Heights. The boy at left is unindentified.
When he returned from the war, Louis joined his father selling produce, but he had bigger ideas, Louis Jr. said of his dad. He didn’t want to sell from a truck; instead, he went into the wholesale business, selling watermelons and oranges from a stall at the old Central Wholesale Produce Market at 8th Street and Central Avenue in downtown L.A. He married Elena Ramirez, who helped at the warehouse, keeping the books, and they had four children: three girls — Gail, Priscilla, Denise — and a boy, Louis Jr.
Then, in 1949, the same year his son was born, Louis Robles had another idea: Watermelon sales slowed in the winter. Oranges were plentiful year-round, but he needed another crop that could fill the income gap. He noticed how people went to the railyard in December and bought Christmas trees off boxcars, so fresh they still had ice clinging to their branches. Packing them in snow was how trees were kept fresh during transport from the Pacific Northwest.
Inspired by this, Louis Sr. found a vacant lot in Lincoln Heights and started selling Christmas trees. Being the innovator he was, he didn’t want to rely on other people’s choices for his trees. So he researched tree farms in the Pacific Northwest and visited them himself, selecting his own trees and, for a while, even driving his warehouse’s Robles Produce truck up north to transport them himself.
Lisa Nassar helps unload small Christmas trees at her brother Gabriel Robles’ Christmas tree lot at Plaza West Covina on Nov. 19. The 53-foot-long truck filled with trees from the Pacific Northwest stopped at Nassar’s lot first in Eagle Rock that morning, and would continue on to their sister Lorraine Robles-Acosta’s lot in Montebello.
Eventually, Louis Sr. bought his own produce warehouse, and Louis Jr., always a helper after school and on weekends, joined the business right after graduation. The younger Robles married his high school sweetheart, Madalene Maldonado on Jan. 4, 1969 — after the busy holiday season, of course — and they immediately started a family. Although she helped at the warehouse, Madalene’s main interest “was being a homemaker; raising her children and being a good wife,” Louis Jr. said.
Louis Sr. was considered by his family to be a taskmaster. He was generous about giving out jobs, but he didn’t tolerate people standing around at work. Laughing, Lisa said anytime you saw him coming, you grabbed a broom and started sweeping. “I still carry that mentality — there’s always something to do, even if it’s just pushing a broom,” she said.
Louis Sr. instilled that work ethic in all of his family growing up. “Grandfather was the first one out on the floor, always working and moving, and he took people up with him,” Gabriel said. “He really believed if he succeeded, you were going to succeed. It wasn’t about a handout, it was a hand up.”
Workers unloaded trees at Robles Christmas Trees run by Gabriel Robles.
Louis Sr. was well-respected by his creditors and so beloved by his employees that they insisted on filling his grave themselves after his sudden death in 1984. But the senior Robles never attended any of his son’s games in high school, Louis Jr. said, and he missed many family activities because of work.
“That was his blind spot. He always put business first,” Louis Jr. said. “I decided I wanted a balance — I would take care of business but I would also take time to go to my children’s games.”
Louis Sr. was such a force of nature, no one was prepared when he fell in December 1984. Because this was the family’s busy season, he insisted on working despite a bad cold that turned into walking pneumonia, Louis Jr. said. He told his family he would rest in January.
He almost made it. Shortly before Christmas Louis Robles had a stroke, then a heart attack and, on Dec. 27, at age 60, he died.
Gabriel Robles, right, consults with his father, Louis Robles Jr., while Gabriel’s son Mason, left, checks his phone during the first delivery of this year’s Christmas trees at his West Covina lot.
Louis Sr.’s death, so unexpected, required Louis Jr. to take over the business himself, but it also cemented his vow to put God and family first. “I remember playing in the all-stars game in baseball and looking for my dad, and he wasn’t there, and I thought, ‘I’m not going to do that to my kids,’” he said.
Gabriel laughed, saying: “My dad was so much into my basketball games, I got kind of embarrassed.”
Eventually, the watermelon and produce business became too competitive, and Louis Jr. sold the warehouse around 2012. By then, Robles Produce was debt-free, he said. His children were working, getting married and established in their own homes, and he’d been ordained as a pastor in 1999 and was deeply involved in his church. But the family pumpkin patch and Christmas tree business remained a constant.
“It does get in your blood,” said Lorraine’s husband, Joseph, with a laugh. “I got my blood transfusion when I married my wife.”
Today, Louis Jr. acts as an advisor and consultant to his children’s three pumpkin patches and Christmas tree lots. They meet to discuss pricing and inventory, but the siblings run their own lots with each a little different from the other. There are disagreements, of course, Gabriel said, “but in the end, the thing that makes us so successful is we’re united — if someone goes against us, we’re a united front.”
Louis Robles, 76, center, of El Monte, poses with three generations of his family: son Gabriel Robles, of Fontana, far left, with his daughter Loren, 15, wife Kathy, and two sons sitting up top, Mason 19, left, and Roman, 21, Louis’ daughters Lisa Nassar, of Upland, right, Lorraine Robles-Acosta, of Pomona, and Lorraine’s husband Joseph Acosta, far right, at Robles Christmas Trees in West Covina. Gabriel’s sons say they are eager to continue the family business. “I’ve been bitten by the bug,” said Mason.
It’s not clear how many of Louis Sr.’s seven great-grandchildren will continue the family business, but Gabriel’s sons, Roman and Mason, say they’re on board. Both have opted to skip college for a hands-on business course, soaking up whatever they can from their father and grandfather.
“Our great-great-grandfather started with nothing, and now we have this. And every generation we’ve built it higher,” Mason said.
“Not many kids my age are blessed to have a family business to learn from,” said Roman. “I want to do something more with my life than just showing up.”
Lifestyle
Kumail Nanjiani opens up on his regrets, critical failures and embracing fear : Wild Card with Rachel Martin
A note from Wild Card host Rachel Martin: Here’s my theory about Kumail Nanjiani: He is not a person who is afraid of his feelings. I think he’s the opposite of that kind of person.
Kumail has made his emotional life part of his comedy – whether it’s his deep and abiding love for his wife (as told in the hit movie, “The Big Sick”), his obsession with his cat or the anxiety that grips him in the middle of the night – Kumail’s brand of comedy is often about how we feel our way through living.
His new standup special is on Hulu and it’s called “Night Thoughts.”
-
Iowa4 days agoAddy Brown motivated to step up in Audi Crooks’ absence vs. UNI
-
Washington1 week agoLIVE UPDATES: Mudslide, road closures across Western Washington
-
Iowa6 days agoHow much snow did Iowa get? See Iowa’s latest snowfall totals
-
Maine3 days agoElementary-aged student killed in school bus crash in southern Maine
-
Maryland4 days agoFrigid temperatures to start the week in Maryland
-
Technology1 week agoThe Game Awards are losing their luster
-
South Dakota5 days agoNature: Snow in South Dakota
-
Culture1 week agoCan You Identify Where the Winter Scenes in These Novels Took Place?