A True Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures
Saturday nights were a ritual for my dad and me. From the time I started school—maybe even before that—every weekend, we’d find ourselves at horse auctions in nearby cities. It was our thing, a bond that felt like a gift wrapped in the familiar scent of hay, the distant sound of auctioneers’ rapid chants, and the sight of the starry night sky as we drove back home.
One particular Saturday night, a local car dealer trying to sell my dad a truck sparked the beginning of this story. My dad, a barber in a small town of about 750 souls, knew a Chevrolet dealer down the street from his shop. The dealer walked in one day, convincing him – he needed to trade his pickup for a newer model. The offer was tempting—my dad could take the truck for the weekend, drive it Saturday night and Sunday, and bring it back on Monday if he decided to make the trade. My dad, a seasoned horse trader who loved a good deal, took the bait.
As Saturday evening approached, I was all set for the auction when my dad arrived in a pickup truck I’d never seen before. “I’ll explain on the way,” he said, inviting me to join him. At nine, we had already faced a few life-altering events together. We had a bond built on trust and shared experiences, even when they led us down rough roads. This bond, forged through our shared love for horse auctions and our mutual trust, was something I cherished deeply.
The drive to the auction was about 45 minutes. The city was only 30 miles away, but this was 1972—speed limits were lower, and the highways were narrower. We took our time, even pulling over on a dirt road for a quick bladder relief break, which was as much a part of our trips as the auctions themselves.
The truck didn’t impress me much. It wasn’t flashy or powerful, and I was surprised my dad had even considered it. But he was a horse trader through and through, always on the lookout for a good deal, and I never questioned his judgment.
The truck did its job—climbing hills, passing cars, and stopping without much fuss. It got us to the auction barn, where we parked and settled in for the night. The auction barn was a lively place, filled with the sounds of horses, the chatter of traders, and the occasional shout of an auctioneer.
The auction lasted until nearly 1:00 AM, but that was nothing new for us. If it had gone on until sunrise, I would have been wide awake beside him. My dad was the envy of every father in that barn, with his young son at his side, fully immersed in horse-trading.
Finally, we made our way out to the parking lot. The truck, waiting for us like a tired old dog, started—barely. It was as if it was protesting the idea of working on a Sunday. We headed back home, north on US Highway 281, moving into the night and now with the town of Gracemont behind us.
Our adventure took an unexpected turn when the truck’s engine stopped 6 miles north of Gracemont. It didn’t sputter or struggle—it just stopped like someone had flipped a switch. My dad, a former service station owner and a man who knew his way around an engine, tried everything to revive it. But the truck had given up, and it was now 1:45 AM.
Stranded on a deserted highway without signs of life, we began walking. We knocked on doors, and my dad stood in the road, instructing me to run if I heard dogs or gunshots. But no one responded. Four houses later, and we’re still waiting.
By now, it was 4:30 AM, and we’d been walking for what felt like forever. Somehow, we covered nearly twenty miles, returning to our farm southeast of Lookeba, Oklahoma. The only break we got was from two teenage boys out drinking beer and driving dirt roads in a Mach1 Mustang. They gave us a lift for the last mile and a half, a sight to behold—my dad, an old cowboy, crammed into the backseat with a couple of rowdy teens and his nine-year-old son.
When we finally entered the house, my mother was asleep on the sofa, a table lamp casting a warm glow in the dim room.
My dad gently nudged her and whispered, –––
“Marge, we’re home.” She said, “Okay, we should all go to bed.”
benandsteve.com 