Editor's note: This piece was published in our blog a few weeks ago when Peter's segment was scheduled to air. It did not appear on the broadcast as planned that night, but will tonight, so we offer Peter's piece again.
Hearing is something most of us take for granted. But what if you couldn't hear? What would it sound like to hear for the first time? In tonight's "Making a Difference" story on Nightly News, we'll show you.
Last week in Mexico, we were invited to witness that moment for dozens of people. It's powerful and moving. For the children, that first sound, amplified by hearing aids, can be terrific or terrifying. Four-year-old Hector Murillo Ozune squirmed in his seat and grimaced, trying to pull away as volunteers raised the volume in each of his ears. Standing there, I wanted to comfort him and promise it will change his life -- but how do you say that to a boy who cannot hear?
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At 6'4" and 235 pounds, Cooper Brannan is both strong and athletic. As he strode out of the San Diego Padres' clubhouse to meet our crew, he just looks like a guy who belongs in a baseball uniform. Still, it's the last uniform Cooper wore that, to this point, has defined his life and makes his experience so unique.
Corporal Cooper Brannan of the U.S. Marine Corps is just sixteen months removed from two tours in Iraq. On the front lines in Fallujah, he survived a series of firefights with insurgents. Many of his friends were hurt or killed. "It's pretty scary out there," he told me. "Anyone who says it's not is lying." At times, Cooper gets uncomfortable speaking about his experiences in combat. He still has both emotional and physical scars from his service. In November 2005, a flash bang grenade, used to stun enemy fighters, exploded in his left hand as he reached into his flak jacket to grab it. Three operations later, his hand survived, but he lost his little finger.
Still, Cooper has a great sense of humor about it: "I was diagnosed with a little bit of short-term memory loss since my accident, so [the coaches] keep telling me, 'you're the greatest pitcher. To forget something that just happened (say, a home run) is awesome.'" We both laughed.
Peter Alexander sits down to interview Cooper Brannan.
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The sign along County Road 17 in Redfield, N.Y., reads "FREE SNOW," but I bet if you asked they might consider paying you to take some.
In the last six days, this remote town on the Tug Hill Plateau alongside Lake Ontario has been blanketed with enough lake effect snow to reach a basketball hoop. By some accounts, 122 inches since Sunday.
But at the Country Home Restaurant, Michael Brown is unphased. "It's a wonderful day," he says, staring out the front window while serving lunch to the assembled visiting news crews. (This reporter's recommendation: the 12 oz. cheeseburger.)
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Editor's note: If you missed Peter's report on Saturday's broadcast, click here to watch.
"That just can't be right!" The digital temperature gauge in our rental car was frozen at -18. Eighteen degrees below zero. I had experienced cold before, but nothing like what we were driving through at Alaska's Denali National Park.
Our destination: the Husky Homestead where four-time Iditarod champion Jeff King lives with his family and close to 100 Alaskan huskies -- some of the world's greatest athletes. The dogs are surprisingly thin and small -- nothing like the familiar, fluffy "Huskies" that serve as the mascots for the University of Washington and Connecticut. Jeff calls those huskies the "Victoria Secret" models.
Growing up, I had enough trouble identifying who was who among my family's three golden retrievers: Cubbie, Star and Renner, so I liked Jeff's naming strategy. (You try keeping track of 100 pets.) Each litter has a theme. There are the Top Gun characters (Maverick, Viper and Jester); Cheeses (Cheddar, Colby and Whiz); even network news anchors (Brokaw, Cronkite and Jennings). My favorites were the newest additions: the Muppets (Beaker, Fozzie and Animal).
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It is the first stop for dozens of Israeli soldiers and civilians wounded by Hezbollah attacks. But even Rambam Medical Center in Haifa, the largest hospital in northern Israel, cannot escape the daily threat of rockets. Built between two popular Hezbollah targets (an Israeli naval base and the port of Haifa), Rambam has narrowly missed becoming a victim of the violence as well. Three Katyusha rockets landed on its coastal campus in a single day this week. No one was seriously hurt.
As we approached the hospital to visit with wounded soldiers, I warned my colleagues, photographer Brad Houston and soundman Michael Huntting, that we needed to keep our wits about us, listening closely for rocket warning sirens. It didn't take long. Just as soon as we parked, the blaring began. Doctors, nurses and staff members rushed through the front doors seeking shelter. Left behind, a dozen stretchers parked in front of the hospital in anticipation of the next round of victims.
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