When the Metropolitan Museum of Art reached out to Ernest Hershberger with an opportunity to collaborate, the Amish furniture maker was stunned.
“You know, I knew about them,” Hershberger said. “But I did say, ‘Well, who's the Met?’ And I still get made fun of for that.”
When the Metropolitan Museum of Art reached out to Ernest Hershberger with an opportunity to collaborate, the Amish furniture maker was stunned.
“You know, I knew about them,” Hershberger said. “But I did say, ‘Well, who's the Met?’ And I still get made fun of for that.”
When the Metropolitan Museum of Art reached out to Ernest Hershberger with an opportunity to collaborate, the Amish furniture maker was stunned.
“You know, I knew about them,” Hershberger said. “But I did say, ‘Well, who's the Met?’ And I still get made fun of for that.”
When the Metropolitan Museum of Art reached out to Ernest Hershberger with an opportunity to collaborate, the Amish furniture maker was stunned.
“You know, I knew about them,” Hershberger said. “But I did say, ‘Well, who's the Met?’ And I still get made fun of for that.”
When the Metropolitan Museum of Art reached out to Ernest Hershberger with an opportunity to collaborate, the Amish furniture maker was stunned.
“You know, I knew about them,” Hershberger said. “But I did say, ‘Well, who's the Met?’ And I still get made fun of for that.”
Most of the people at Stanley Galaszewski’s burial ceremony never knew him.
He died more than 80 years ago.
Still, the crowd on the crisp November afternoon swelled with extended family, leather-jacketed Patriot Guard Riders, a group of quiet school children.
Together, they bowed their heads in prayer to honor the fallen World War II sailor.
Dupont Chemicals, and two other chemical companies, reached a settlement with the state of Ohio last week.
The water running through Sunday Creek rambles without a hint of wildlife. There are no fish darting or crayfish to ensnare. Still, it catches the eye. The stream is a deep orange color.
Michelle Shively MacIver, of the local nonprofit Rural Action, pointed to the sludge-filled stream.
At this small bookstore in southwest Ohio, there’s a cabinet lined with caution tape. Swing open the doors, and you're met with familiar titles: "Fahrenheit 451," the "Harry Potter" series, "The Great Gatsby," a creased copy of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."
They might seem harmless, but their place on this shelf means someone once thought they were too dangerous to be read.
From the outside, Castle Noel looks like a typical church in small-town Ohio. But walk through the entryway and shout “Merry Christmas,” and the doors open to a whole other world.
