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In most states, it is illegal to sell or give tobacco products to someone who is 18 years old or younger.But many are increasing the legal age to 21 years old.Cincinnati, Ohio just became the 16th city in that state to do so. The state's minimum age is 18. (There is no minimum age at which someone in Ohio may legally use tobacco products.)Minimum ages for purchasing tobacco have been set at the state level dating all the way back to the late 1800s.Increasing the legal age is an effort to reduce habitual smoking among young people.The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention says most long-term tobacco use begins when a smoker is an adolescent, and nearly 90 percent of smokers have their first cigarette by age 18. 742

It turns out that wireless internet home surveillance systems aren't just about security - they're also about selling homes at the highest price.A new scientific poll from NerdWallet says 15 percent of homeowners use their home security systems to view people looking at their homes. And about half of those surveyed say monitoring how people react to their homes could be useful information when it comes to negotiations."If your client's excited about the property you don't want them to say, 'this is the one, we'll take it no matter what,'" said San Diego realtor Gary Kent. "It's not going to be good for their negotiating position."Kent says he personally does not use the cameras when selling homes, but has warned his agents that they could be on camera when showing homes. That way they know to advise their clients to keep any emotional reaction under wraps - so they can keep the leverage they do have in San Diego's tight real-estate market. Still, the idea of using the surveillance system - namely audio without someone knowing - raises legal and ethical questions. The California Department of Real Estate says this could be considered a dishonest dealing and could be grounds for discipline. For it to be legal, the sellers agent would need to get permission from these being taped, or put up signs informing them of the surveillance.  1369

It was a tough few months for the Cincinnati Zoo's beloved behemoth: Henry the Hippo had lost his appetite, only to regain it and lose it again; fought off a serious infection; and his kidneys appeared to be shutting down.The 36-year-old hippo — father to Fiona, whose underweight birth made her famous on social media — died today.Veterinarians and care staff had been trying to bring him back to health, but he continued to slide in recent weeks."We're doing everything we can to keep him comfortable," the zoo said in a recent blog post.According to the zoo, the median life expectancy for a Nile hippo is 35. He came to Cincinnati from Dickerson Park Zoo in Springfield, Missouri.His declining condition came near the tail-end of a pretty joyous year for hippo staff: They nurtured Fiona into childhood after she born six weeks early and half a calf's normal birth weight. The entire hippo bloat -- Henry, Fiona and mother Bibi -- were all reunited just a few months ago. 1013

It’s August and Dunkin’ Donuts is perking up the summer with free coffee on Mondays and free donuts on Fridays.The offers are available to DD Perks members, the chain’s loyalty program.On August 3, 10 and 17, DD Perks members get a free medium cup of hot or iced coffee with the purchase of a food item.End the week on a sweet note by grabbing a free donut on August 7, 14 and 21 with the purchase of any beverage.“Whether they need a little extra boost to kickstart their week or a sweet treat to celebrate the end of the week, we want our loyal guests to know we’ve got their backs when they may need it most,” said Stephanie Meltzer-Paul, Senior Vice President, Dunkin’ U.S. Digital Marketing. 704

In many rural communities, entire cities often rely on one business to support the economy, and when those businesses leave, it leaves the community devastated.For the town of Luke, Maryland, its paper mill went out of business last summer, and the deep financial impact is being felt by families and businesses throughout the region.“I could hear that mill day and night, sitting right here. You knew everything was alright. Listen up there now,” said former mill worker Paul Coleman, while looking out the window towards what used to be the noisy mill. “Pretty quiet, isn’t it? Pretty quiet. That’s eerie."Yet, it’s the silence that now haunts Coleman every day. “I had no sights, no goals on retiring. I would’ve kept on working as long as I could,” said the father of four daughters.For nearly 30 years, he worked alongside hundreds of people inside the Luke Paper Mill. He did several jobs over the years, but much of his time was spent as an electrician.“All my family has worked in there,” said Coleman. “The mill was the lifeblood of the community."The mill is nestled into the hills on the Maryland-West Virginia border. For the small towns around it, this big business was really the only business.“Everything was centered around that paper mill,” said Coleman.But last summer, this electrician got the news he couldn’t believe.“He said, ‘The mill’s closing.’ I thought he was kidding,” Coleman recalled. The closure was real, and almost immediately, his unemployment benefits fell short, and eventually, they stopped.“I thank God I had my 401K, which I had to dip into, so we’ve had to live off of that,” he said.Still, the bills piled up, especially the health insurance bills. “Reality is what it is. I know no one is going to want to hire a 62-year-old electrician,” said Coleman.On his fridge are several magnets from the Caribbean islands the family vacationed to over the years. We asked him about those trips, to which he replied, “Anything like that—it’s out of the question. You have to live within your means."The most painful adjustment to Coleman is not having what he needs for his daughter, who is disabled.The family was just able to fix their handicapped van, so they could bring his 21-year-old daughter home from weeks in the hospital. But now, more problems for this dedicated father.“My chairlift is broken down,” said Coleman. "That’s the chair lift we use to get her up and down the steps. I called the guy today and it’ll be ,000 to put a new one in. Where am I gonna get that?”So, each day, he gets to work, fixing what he can.“I don’t claim to be the best of anything,” said Coleman. “I’m not the best electrician, but you don’t have to be, you just have to keep moving regardless of what you’re dealt.”At the height of its operation, the mill employed more than 2,000 people. As technology increased and production decreased, fewer people were needed inside the mill, but even still, when the mill shut its doors, 700 people were left without jobs. That loss extended far past the mill—the entire community felt the pain of this closure.“It went from seven days a week to not really knowing what you’re doing tomorrow,” said Richard Moran, a man born and raised in Allegany County and who supplied coal to the mill for decades. “Lucky to get a 40 hour week now."Moran was forced to lay off dozens of workers when the mill shut down. Months later, his family’s legacy is hanging on by a thread.“Right now, we’re doing odd jobs basically, whatever we can pick up on the side,” he said.He’s not only lost income, he’s lost the future he dreamed of. “I know my kids won’t stick around here," he said. "There’s nothing for them here.”Coleman is worried for the future, too. “I think there’s just an attitude of hopelessness and helplessness that’s here,” he said.Both men agree that attitude is easily fueled by no new jobs and no way to relocate for most living in this rural community.“That’s not an option for me. This is my home, my entire family’s here,” said Coleman, as his granddaughter and two of his daughters all sat in the next room over.The United Steel Workers Local Union President Gregory Harvey said these struggles are only the beginning.“Unemployment ran out, insurance ran out, so now it impacts the area," he said. "Now, there’s people not spending money like they were spending money before."He’s working to get as many of his members and neighbors employed as he can, but the jobs in town are low-paying.“These guys were used to making ,000 a year, and now they’re making ,000. That’s a hit,” said Harvey, a third-generation paper maker himself.Still, the community holds onto hope that this closure isn’t the end. “My hope is that somebody buys this mill and reopens it back up, and if I get the opportunity to go back and work in a heartbeat, do I have to be an electrician? No. I’d go back and shovel a ditch or anything, whatever it took,” said Coleman about wanting to continue providing for his family.His plea like so many of his neighbors: a call to someone—to anyone—to rescue this town and these families.“You’re not investing in concrete. You’re not investing in these buildings. You’re investing in a workforce like no other,” said Harvey. 5223