Nobody could agree on exactly what the lagoon was for.
Officially, the city council referred to it as:
“The Municipal Water Reclamation and Environmental Recovery Basin.”
Everyone else called it:
“The Sewer Pond.”
It sat at the very edge of town where civilization politely stopped asking questions. A murky body of water ringed by cattails, mosquitoes the size of sparrows, and an odor so powerful that passing motorists instinctively rolled up their windows and questioned their life choices.
It was said that fresh water mixed with wastewater there, diluted itself, and eventually seeped back into the earth.
That was the alleged purpose.
But beginning one spring, people started whispering about something else.
Something alive.
Something big.
The first report came from Wanda Simmons.
Wanda owned the town’s only bar, Wanda’s Last Chance Lounge, a business motto she proudly claimed applied equally to customers and marriages.
One morning just before sunrise, Wanda was returning from illegally dumping trash at an abandoned gravel pit behind the rural home of the Chevrolet dealer.
She would later insist:
“I know what I saw.”
The eastern sky was just beginning to glow.
And there…
floating just offshore…
were two eyes.
Yellow.
Reflecting the sunrise.
Beneath them, something dark.
Long.
At least ten feet.
“It was an alligator!” Wanda declared.
The town laughed.
Mostly because Wanda had been known to mistake fence posts for ex-husbands.
A month later came Report Number Two.
The town drunk, Earl “Tater” McGrew, staggered into the sheriff’s office soaking wet and smelling somehow worse than the lagoon itself.
“I nearly got et!” he shouted.
The sheriff sighed.
“Where?”
“Layers Lake.”
“Layers Lake is ten miles east.”
Tater blinked.
“Well then where’d I fall in?”
“The sewer pond.”
Tater thought about this.
“Huh.”
Then he leaned forward.
“Whatever was in there tried to eat me.”
“Or,” said the sheriff, “you fell in face first.”
Tater pointed dramatically.
“It hissed.”
The sheriff wrote in his notebook:
SUBJECT INTOXICATED. POSSIBLY ATTACKED BY CATFISH.
The third sighting was harder to dismiss.
Two hay haulers, brothers Jimmy and Dale Foster, were returning to town with an empty truck.
They stopped along the highway overlooking the lagoon.
And watched.
A group of ducks floated near shore.
Suddenly—
WHAP!
A massive tail erupted from the water.
The ducks exploded into the air.
The water boiled.
Then…
silence.
Jimmy looked at Dale.
Dale looked at Jimmy.
Jimmy said:
“That ain’t no catfish.”
Dale nodded.
“That’s a dinosaur.”
By summer the town was obsessed.
Everyone had theories.
An escaped zoo animal.
A secret government experiment.
An overgrown snapping turtle.
Someone even suggested it was the reincarnation of a corrupt city councilman.
That theory gained considerable support.
There was only one problem.
According to the wildlife department…
there were no alligators within a thousand miles.
The winters were too cold.
The lagoon was too polluted.
And no sane reptile would choose to live there.
Official statement:
"An alligator surviving in this environment is biologically impossible."
Then the photographs appeared.
Blurry.
Out of focus.
Taken through windshields.
A pair of eyes.
A ridged back.
A tail.
Something massive beneath the water.
Every image looked exactly like an alligator.
The town exploded.
Television crews arrived.
Internet monster hunters appeared carrying drones and night vision goggles.
A retired Navy man built a trap baited with chickens.
A chiropractor attempted hypnosis.
The local pastor sprinkled holy water into the lagoon.
The lagoon promptly bubbled.
Nobody was certain if that meant anything.
Months passed.
Nobody got close.
The smell kept most people back.
The creature remained elusive.
Until…
one crisp October morning.
It happened.
Twelve-year-old Emily Harper was fishing from the north bank.
Not because she expected to catch anything.
She simply liked quiet places.
The lagoon qualified.
Suddenly…
the water erupted.
A huge head rose from the surface.
Emily froze.
The creature stared back.
Not yellow eyes.
Green.
Curious.
Ancient.
It blinked.
Then slowly crawled onto shore.
The entire town, which had apparently been hiding nearby hoping for this exact moment, collectively screamed.
Because…
it wasn’t an alligator.
Not even close.
It was a giant lizard.
An enormous reptile nearly eight feet long.
Heavy-bodied.
Powerful claws.
Long muscular tail.
Dark mottled scales.
And a forked tongue flicking lazily through the air.
The creature looked prehistoric.
It waddled awkwardly.
And appeared thoroughly annoyed by the attention.
Wildlife officials were summoned.
Three universities sent biologists.
Reporters descended by the dozens.
After weeks of study they announced:
The creature was an enormous species of monitor lizard.
Possibly descended from an exotic pet released decades earlier.
Somehow…against every law of nature…it had survived.
The warm outflow from the lagoon had kept the water temperature just high enough during winter.
The constant supply of fish, frogs, raccoons, and the occasional lost lawn ornament had sustained it.
It was…astonishing.
Rare.
Perhaps unique.
The town was disappointed.
They had wanted an alligator.
But over time…they became proud.
Because while other towns had parks…or museums…or giant balls of twine…they had:
“Muddywater Mike.”
The world’s most famous sewer-lagoon monitor lizard.
A viewing platform was built.
T-shirts were printed.
Wanda Simmons immediately began selling:
“I Saw Mike First”
shirts.
Nobody believed her.
She sold hundreds anyway.
Earl “Tater” McGrew continued insisting:
“That thing almost ate me.”
Emily Harper would smile.
“No, Earl.”
She’d point to the sign beside the lagoon.
MUDDYWATER MIKESpecies: Giant Monitor LizardDisposition: Generally FriendlyFavorite Foods: Fish, Frogs, and Tourists Who Ignore Warning Signs
Earl would squint.
“Still think he hissed at me.”
And every evening…
just before sunset…
Mike would crawl onto his favorite patch of shoreline.
Stretch himself into the fading light.
And stare across the town that had spent a year hunting a monster…
By the time Oklahoma County District Judge Joe Cannon took the bench, Prohibition had been dead for decades.
“Cannon Ball Joe”
The copper stills had mostly disappeared.
The old bootleg roads had become paved highways.
But the stories remained.
Judge Cannon had spent his life around the law.
He became a lawyer, served the public, and eventually sat on the Oklahoma County bench, where he earned a reputation for being tough, thoughtful, and unwilling to forget that every case involved a human being. He would remain a judge until his retirement in 1988.
The names changed.
The crimes changed.
But now and then, someone would mention the old days.
“The bootleggers,”an attorney might say.
“The whiskey runners.”
“The fellows who hid stills out near Stella.”
And somebody would invariably ask:
“Remember J. W. Sims?”
The judge would lean back.
Not because he had known Sims.
No one was quite sure anyone alive still had.
But because Sims had become a symbol.
A man who lived in a strange time.
A time when the government outlawed what many people considered ordinary.
A time when a farmer might become a criminal overnight.
And a criminal might still be regarded as a neighbor.
Judge Cannon understood that tension.
The law had to be enforced.
But history was rarely as simple as heroes and villains.
J. W. Sims was arrested.
That much the newspapers recorded.
Yet what happened afterward?
Did he pay a fine and go home?
Did he swear off whiskey forever?
Did he build another still deeper in the woods?
No one knew.
The records grow silent.
And silence, Judge Cannon would tell young lawyers, is often where history becomes legend.
Perhaps that is why people still remember the name.
Not because J. W. Sims was the most notorious bootlegger.
Not because he made the best whiskey.
But because his story reminds us that Oklahoma was built by ordinary people living through extraordinary times.
People who bent the rules.
People who broke the rules.
And people who spent the rest of their lives deciding what those rules should have been in the first place.
Judge Joe Cannon spent his life enforcing the law.
J. W. Sims spent part of his life running from it.
And somewhere between the two lies the story of Oklahoma itself.
The Man at the Still
Epilogue: Cannon Ball Joe
By 1959, J. W. Sims would have been an old man.
If he were alive at all.
The newspapers no longer mentioned him.
The abandoned farm near Stella had long since returned to weeds and scrub oak.
The copper still was gone.
The bootleg roads had become county roads.
But whiskey?
Whiskey was still flowing.
Oklahoma had been fighting Prohibition for nearly forty years.
And now Governor J. Howard Edmondson had decided to end the charade.
Before the people could vote on repeal, he ordered the state dried up for real.
The job fell to the Commissioner of Public Safety.
Joseph R. Cannon.
Oklahomans knew him by another name.
“Cannon Ball Joe.”
The nickname fit.
He attacked bootlegging operations with enthusiasm.
Highway patrolmen raided roadhouses.
Private clubs were shut down.
Hidden liquor caches were seized.
Bootleggers who had operated for years suddenly found the law knocking on their doors.
Cannon Ball Joe intended to prove a point.
If Oklahoma wanted to remain dry, then it would actually be dry.
No more “liquor by the wink.”
No more secret bottles passed beneath counters.
No more hidden stills in the woods.
And perhaps, just perhaps, somewhere in Oklahoma an old man named J. W. Sims sat in a chair on a porch and read about it.
He may have smiled.
Because men like Sims knew something politicians eventually learned.
You could smash a still.
You could seize the whiskey.
You could arrest the bootlegger.
But you could never quite arrest the idea.
For decades, Oklahoma had fought a war against liquor.
And liquor had fought back.
Finally, in 1959, the people voted.
Prohibition ended.
The stills disappeared.
The bootleggers faded into memory.
But the stories remained.
Stories about men like J. W. Sims.
And stories about the law enforcement officers who chased them.
Men like Cannon Ball Joe.
Together, they became part of Oklahoma folklore.
One running from the law.
The other is running straight at it.
Both are leaving footprints on the same dusty road.
A note from the writer, One of the descendants of the Sims family drove my rural route school bus. Years later, as a teenager working summers cleaning floors at the school, he would tell me stories about J. W. Sims. It has taken me many years to gather the pieces of those stories and compare them with the historical record. Some parts proved true. Others were undoubtedly embellished over time. Every bit of it, however, was fascinating. The man who shared those stories with me passed away several years ago. On a recent trip back to my hometown, I visited with his relatives and asked for their blessing to tell the tales their father, uncle, and family member had entrusted to me. What you read is not just history? It is memory, folklore, and the enduring power of stories passed from one generation to the next. Benjamin H. Groff II
This story is historical fiction inspired by a brief newspaper account of an actual arrest near Stella, Oklahoma, during Prohibition.
When federal agents hauled J. W. Sims from the abandoned farm outside Stella, the newspapers made it sound simple.
The Man at The Still – Part II, The Road To Stella
Another moonshiner arrested.
Another still destroyed.
Another victory for Prohibition.
But life in rural Oklahoma was rarely that simple.
J. W. Sims had grown up in a world where whiskey was not considered a crime.
His father kept a jug in the barn.
His grandfather made peach brandy every fall.
Neighbors shared recipes as freely as they shared seeds for planting.
Then came 1920.
Congress passed the Eighteenth Amendment.
The government said alcohol was illegal.
The people of Oklahoma mostly shrugged.
Some obeyed.
Others simply moved their operations farther into the woods.
The farm near Stella had once belonged to a widow who moved to Shawnee after her husband died.
The house sat empty.
The barn sagged.
The well still produced cold water.
To a bootlegger, it was perfect.
The still itself was nothing fancy.
A copper boiler.
A warm condenser cooled by creek water.
A few barrels of corn mash.
The smell, however, was impossible to hide.
Sweet.
Sour.
Yeasty.
The scent drifted through the trees for a quarter mile.
Sims joked that if the federal agents could not find the still, they could simply follow their noses.
Harold McGilvery didn’t laugh.
Harold worried constantly.
“Somebody’s gonna talk,” he said.
“They always do.”
Business was good.
A gallon jug sold for three dollars.
Five dollars if the buyer lived in Shawnee.
Twice that if somebody wanted it shipped to Oklahoma City.
There were farmers who bought.
Oil field roughnecks bought.
Traveling salesmen bought.
Even churchgoers bought.
Especially churchgoers.
Sims found it amusing that some of his best customers lectured him on morality while handing over cash.
The first arrest came in the spring.
Not Sims.
Not Harold.
A man in Seminole County.
Then another outside Ada.
Then three more near Prague.
Federal agents had begun raiding stills throughout central Oklahoma.
The newspapers called them “revenooers.”
Most folks had other names for them.
Harold became nervous.
He wanted to quit.
Sims was less concerned.
“They can’t arrest everybody,” he said.
It was a statement history would prove incorrect.
One morning, before sunrise, dogs began barking.
Harold looked toward the road.
A pair of automobiles approached.
Dark sedans.
No county markings.
No warning.
Just dust and headlights.
“Federal men,” Harold whispered.
The two men ran.
Harold disappeared into the trees.
Sims slipped behind the barn.
For a moment, he thought he might escape.
Then came the shout.
“Federal officers!”
And the unmistakable sound of a shotgun shell being racked.
Sims raised his hands.
The newspapers would later report the facts in only a few sentences.
Federal officers raided an illicit distillery near Stella.
Harold McGilvery was arrested first.
J. W. Sims was arrested later in connection with the operation.
That was all.
No mention of the cold morning air.
No mention of the copper still cooling in the grass.
No mention of the dreams that ended beside an abandoned farmhouse.
What happened to J. W. Sims after that?
The records grow quiet.
Perhaps he paid a fine.
Perhaps he served a short sentence.
Perhaps he returned to farming.
Or perhaps he found another hidden hollow and another copper kettle.
Many did.
Because Prohibition was a peculiar war.
The government won the raids.
The bootleggers won customers.
And ordinary men like J. W. Sims lived somewhere in between.
One foot in the law.
One foot outside it.
Trying to make a living in Oklahoma during one of the strangest chapters in American history.
A note from the writer, One of the descendants of the Sims family drove my rural route school bus. Years later, as a teenager working summers cleaning floors at the school, he would tell me stories about J. W. Sims. It has taken me many years to gather the pieces of those stories and compare them with the historical record. Some parts proved true. Others were undoubtedly embellished over time. Every bit of it, however, was fascinating. The man who shared those stories with me passed away several years ago. On a recent trip back to my hometown, I visited with his relatives and asked for their blessing to tell the tales their father, uncle, and family member had entrusted to me. What you've read is not just history? It is memory, folklore, and the enduring power of stories passed from one generation to the next. Benjamin H. Groff II
The Curious Case of J. W. Sims of Stella, Oklahoma
J. W. Sims reminds us that history is not only about governors, oil barons, or outlaws whose names fill books.
In the late 1920s, federal agents traced rumors to an abandoned farm near Stella, Oklahoma.
The countryside was changing—oil derricks dotted the horizon, and automobiles were replacing horses. Amid these modern shifts, tucked away in the woods and hollows of Pottawatomie County, another, older industry quietly flourished.
Moonshine.
It was the era of Prohibition. Though the federal government had outlawed the manufacture and sale of alcohol in 1920, many Oklahomans paid little attention to Washington’s wishes. As a result, hidden stills appeared in creek bottoms and abandoned barns, allowing homemade whiskey to flow through rural communities where neighbors often knew but seldom spoke.
In the midst of this, J. W. Sims emerged.
Little is recorded about Sims. No photos, interviews, or memoirs revealing his perspective remain.
Given the sparse details about Sims, what persists instead are scattered newspaper accounts.
A Tecumseh Oil Record article notes federal agents arrested Harold McGilvery and later J. W. Sims for an illicit distillery near Stella, on an abandoned farm—prime bootlegger territory. The story held no confession or courtroom drama, just a few lines marking another Prohibition struggle in Oklahoma.
Perhaps it is this very lack of detail that makes the story so compelling.
Who was J. W. Sims?
Was he the mastermind behind the operation?
A hired hand trying to earn a living?
A local farmer tempted by quick money during difficult times?
Or was he simply in the wrong place when federal agents arrived?
We do not know.
Oklahoma’s late 1920s were odd times. Oil reshaped fortunes. Towns boomed and disappeared overnight. Beneath this change, illegal whiskey flourished in secrecy, and hidden stills became folklore—spoken of in barbershops and stores.
Thus, the arrest of J. W. Sims reminds us that history is more than stories of governors, oil barons, or famous outlaws.
Sometimes history is a single newspaper clipping.
A forgotten man.
A still hidden in the woods.
A federal raid.
And a mystery left for future generations to piece together.
Today, nearly a century later, J. W. Sims remains a shadow in Oklahoma history. We may never know whether he was a villain, a victim, or simply an ordinary man caught up in extraordinary times.
Near Stella, where prairie grass still bends in the wind, the story of the man at the still lingers.
Waiting for someone to remember.
A note from the writer, One of the descendants of the Sims family drove my rural route school bus. Years later, as a teenager working summers cleaning floors at the school, he would tell me stories about J. W. Sims. It has taken me many years to gather the pieces of those stories and compare them with the historical record. Some parts proved true. Others were undoubtedly embellished over time. Every bit of it, however, was fascinating. The man who shared those stories with me passed away several years ago. On a recent trip back to my hometown, I visited with his relatives and asked for their blessing to tell the tales their father, uncle, and family member had entrusted to me. What you've read and what follows in Parts Two and Three is not just history. It is memory, folklore, and the enduring power of stories passed from one generation to the next. Benjamin H. Groff II
The Town Character. Every community has one of their own…
Not a mayor. Not a banker. Not a preacher.
Someone else.
The person everybody knows.
In small towns, medium-sized towns, and even in the neighborhoods of big cities, there is always that one soul who stands apart. They dress differently. Their clothes may be worn thin from years of use. Their hair may appear to have lost an argument with a comb decades ago. Their conversations wander like a country road with too many turns.
Sometimes they are slow.
Sometimes they are eccentric.
Sometimes they simply march to music no one else can hear.
Yet everyone knows them.
And strangely enough, everyone trusts them.
More than once, I have seen these individuals carrying a ring of keys bigger than any businessman in town owned. Keys to the hardware store. Keys to the church basement. Keys to the barber shop. Keys to the old furnace room beneath the drug store.
While respectable citizens were asleep in warm beds, these town characters were already at work.
They swept sidewalks before dawn.
They shoveled snow.
They lit furnaces.
They hauled groceries.
They checked doors to make certain businesses were secure.
Nobody worried about them stealing.
Nobody worried about them lying.
Because they belonged to the town.
Jack Elam was a town character (or was it caricuture) in Support Your Local Sheriff.
And the town belonged to them.
Children might giggle when they walked by.
Teenagers sometimes rolled their eyes.
Visitors would whisper, “What’s his story?”
The locals would answer simply:
“Oh, that’s just Charlie.”
Or Oris.
Or Lester.
Or Lewis.
Or Mary.
Or J.T.
No last name needed.
Everybody knew.
They were woven into the fabric of the community as surely as the courthouse clock or the old water tower.
In a world now obsessed with wealth, influence, and appearance, I sometimes think we lost something when we stopped noticing these people.
Because they remind us that a person’s value isn’t measured by education, money, or polish.
Sometimes the most trusted person in town is the fellow whose shirt is untucked, whose shoes don’t match, and whose greatest wealth is that everybody knows his heart.
Town Characters have been found throughout history.
Every town has one.
And the lucky towns never forget them.
Keep your local figure close. They are woven into the fabric of your community. You may not realize it now, but they are preserving a piece of today that someday you will treasure as yesterday.
Keep your local figure close. They are woven into the fabric of your community. You may not realize it now, but they are preserving a piece of today that someday you will treasure as yesterday.
A reflective story inspired by a timeless patriotic verse.
Originally published November 29, 2025.
As we celebrate the Fourth of July, we wish all Americans a joyful and meaningful Independence Day. And to our friends around the world, we invite you to join us in celebrating the universal ideals of freedom, hope, and the enduring spirit of liberty.
3–5 minutes
This Is My Country
There are words that live on paper, and then there are words that settle into the bones of a people. The kind that echo from porch steps and courthouse lawns, from quiet cemeteries and loud parade routes. The kind drift through open windows on warm summer evenings. A flag whispers its slow conversation with the breeze.
“This is my country! Land of my birth!”
The old man had recited it repeatedly. The lines felt stitched into his memory. They were like a family quilt. He first heard the poem as a schoolboy in a one-room classroom. The chalk dust drifted like snow. Old Glory hung slightly worn but always proud above the blackboard. They had stood, hands pressed to hearts, small chests swelling with pride they did not yet fully understand.
And now, decades later, he stood on the same red Oklahoma soil. This was the ground that had raised him. It shaped him and anchored generations before him. He thought of his father plowing under wide skies. He remembered his mother hanging laundry that snapped sharply in the prairie wind. This was the same wind that lifted the flag into slow, flawless motion.
“This is my country! Land of my birth!”The old man had recited it so many times. The lines felt stitched into his memory like a family quilt. He first heard the poem as a schoolboy in a one-room classroom. Chalk dust drifted like snow. Old Glory hung slightly worn but always proud above the blackboard. They had stood, hands pressed to hearts, small chests swelling with pride they did not yet fully understand.And now, decades later, he stood on the same red Oklahoma soil. This ground had raised him and shaped him. It had anchored generations before him. He thought of his father plowing under wide skies. He remembered his mother hanging laundry that snapped sharply in the prairie wind. It was the same wind that lifted the flag into slow, flawless motion.
“What difference if I hail from the North or the South, the East or the West?”
He had traveled. He had met farmers in Iowa. He had met dockworkers in Louisiana. He encountered miners in West Virginia. He also met shopkeepers in Arizona who spoke with accents as varied as the landscape. They all shared an unspoken recognition. There was a quiet understanding that this vast, imperfect, beautiful land belonged to them all. Not in ownership, but in guardianship. In gratitude.
He remembered the first time he truly understood the weight of those words. It wasn’t in a classroom. He was in uniform, standing still beneath a lowering sun. He watched the flag rise slowly as taps echoed across the horizon. In that moment, the poem ceased to be something learned and became something lived.
“With hand upon heart, I thank the Lord for this, my native land…”
He whispered the words now as the breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass and distant rainfall. His soul, like the poem said, was rooted deeply in the soil on which he stood. Every memory, every loss, every joyful celebration had unfolded beneath the same sky, under the same banner.
This was not blind loyalty. This was love shaped by history — by wars survived, hardships endured, and freedoms fiercely guarded. It was a love that understood flaws. Yet it still swelled with gratitude for the promise, the struggle, and the hope that had always defined America.
As the flag unfurled above him, catching the light in crimson and gold, he spoke the final lines not as a performance, but as a vow, as millions had before him and millions would after:
“This is my country! Land of my choice! This is my country! Hear my proud voice! I pledge thee my allegiance, America, the bold — For this is my country, to have and to hold.”
In that quiet moment, the wind acted as a witness. Time stood briefly still. He knew something certain and unshakable.
This was his country. Not perfect. But deeply loved. Forever his.
On April 1, 2026, benandsteve.com published a completely fictional story claiming that Washington, D.C.’s famous cherry trees were being removed. The article was intentionally written as an April Fools’ Day story, and its closing paragraphs made that clear. It was satire—nothing more.
Or so we thought.
Only a few weeks later, we learned that cherry trees actually were being removed as part of a project to stabilize and rebuild the aging seawall surrounding the Tidal Basin. That unexpected twist prompted us to update the original blog, noting that reality had begun to resemble fiction. Seen here.
Now, on July 2, 2026, another unexpected development has surfaced. Reports indicate that plans for a major redesign of the historic East Potomac Golf Links—championed by President Donald Trump—could require the removal of Washington’s oldest grove of cherry trees to make way for a championship golf course. According to published reports, preliminary design plans appear to eliminate the century-old grove along with other public recreational features, although the proposal is already facing legal challenges and has not yet received all required approvals.
It makes one wonder if April Fools’ Day simply arrived three months early. What began as a joke has twice been followed by headlines that sounded remarkably similar. Sometimes the hardest stories to believe are the ones that eventually become real.
George Washington never cut down a cherry tree. The story says that when confronted, he told his father, “I cannot lie.”
Whether the tale is true or not, it has long symbolized the value Americans once hoped to see in their leaders: honesty.
The current occupant of the office appears to have little difficulty doing both—cutting down the proverbial cherry tree and denying it afterward—without so much as a whisper of objection from many of his political peers!
They Were The Favorite Thing To See When She Returned To Olney.
-Olney White Squirrels – An Illinois Favorite
My grandmother, Florence Lula McElroy Groff, loved visiting Olney, Illinois.
She always said there was one thing she looked forward to most:
“The white squirrels.”
She carried photographs of them and showed them to me when I was a boy. She was certain that one day my father would take me there during the annual summer exchange of family visits.
The tradition began long before I was born.
The Squirrels she had seen, were what she talked of most.
The Groffs had roots stretching from Switzerland to Illinois and eventually to Oklahoma. My great-grandfather, Benjamin Harrison Groff, was born in Illinois in 1892, the son of Ulrich L. Groff, who had emigrated from Wengen, Bern, Switzerland. Ulrich and his brother Michael helped establish the family’s roots in Illinois before later generations, including Benjamin and his brother Otis, sought opportunity on the rich farmland of Oklahoma.
By 1930, Benjamin and Florence owned their farm west of Eakly, Oklahoma, near Cobb Creek. The census records describe a family of modest means but great determination: a farm, three children, and a life built through hard work.
Yet the most valuable thing they built was not the farm.
It was the tradition.
Each summer, relatives would travel hundreds of miles to remain connected. Groffs married McElroys. Dowtys married Groffs. McLemores became family. Neighbors became family too.
I remember Delmar Groff, Laura, Darlene, Walker Groff, and his sister Cleo coming from Illinois. By the time I was old enough to appreciate the visits, my grandparents no longer made the trip north. But the Illinois folks still came.
Every year.
I didn’t realize it then, but I was witnessing something extraordinary.
A family choosing, year after year, not to drift apart.
Today, as I prepare to spend time with the Folks from Oklahoma, I think about my grandmother and those white squirrels of Olney.
I think about the roads traveled.
I think about the stories carried.
Some day, I still wish to go see the Squirrels!
And I realize that perhaps the greatest inheritance our families passed down was not land, photographs, or old census records.
It was the understanding that distance is no excuse to stop loving one another.
Some Roads Lead Home. Others Keep A Family Together.
For the next few days, I will be spending time on the road with “The Folks from Oklahoma.”
That phrase carries a special meaning in our family.
The Folks From Oklahoma – It’s A Family Tradition
Long before social media, before interstate highways, and before keeping up with relatives was as easy as a text message, my grandparents, Benjamin Harrison Groff and Florence Lula McElroy Groff, helped continue a family tradition that stretched back generations.
One summer the Oklahoma families would travel north to Olney, Illinois. The next, the Illinois families would make their way south to Oklahoma. The Groffs, McLemores, Dowtys, Littles, McElroys, and many others took part. The purpose was simple: family should remain family.
I grew up hearing stories of these visits and later experienced them myself. The Folks from Illinois arrived every summer. Their visits were anticipated all year long.
So for a few days, I will be away from the keyboard and on the road, carrying on a tradition older than I am.
[Information for portions of this report was found at LGBTQ NATION. Providing an undeniable and outstanding service to the LGBTQI+ Community!]
July is when the music has stopped, the flags are folded away, and we ask: Who carried us here?
That is where Gregory Marks comes in.
“I’ve always been out,” Gregory Marks once said. “I didn’t have a dramatic reveal or a tortured confession. I was simply a fat queer kid who knew exactly who he was.”
June has ended.
The parades have passed.
The rainbow flags that fluttered in storefront windows and along city streets are being folded and stored away until next year.
And that is exactly why I wanted to write about Gregory Marks.
Because some people do their greatest work when the crowds have gone home.
Gregory Marks spent decades singing with and alongside members of the LGBTQ community, helping people endure grief that many outside the community never witnessed. He was there when AIDS was stealing friends, lovers, brothers, and sons. He was there when funerals came too often and hope seemed in short supply. Music became his ministry. His voice became a refuge.
He was part of a generation that understood something profound:
Sometimes people cannot speak their grief.
But they can sing it.
The LGBTQ movement has always had its celebrated leaders. We know the names of activists who marched, politicians who legislated, and pioneers who challenged unjust laws.
But there are also people like Gregory Marks.
The caretakers.
The listeners.
The singers.
The ones who sat beside hospital beds.
The ones who attended memorials when families would not.
The ones who stood shoulder to shoulder with a hurting community and quietly said:
“You are not alone.”
The history of LGBTQ choirs and musical organizations is deeply intertwined with survival. Groups such as the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus became places where people could grieve together, celebrate together, and declare openly who they were in a world that often wished they would disappear. Music became protest. Music became healing. Music became hope.
That is Gregory Marks’ legacy.
Not merely the songs he sang.
But the people he helped carry through unbearable moments.
I think there is a lesson in that.
Pride Month is important.
The rainbow flag matters.
Celebration matters.
But perhaps what matters most is what happens on July 1st.
When the banners come down.
When the headlines move on.
When ordinary people continue doing extraordinary things for one another.
That is where love proves itself.
Not in the applause.
Not in the parade.
But in the quiet decision to stand beside another person and help them carry what feels too heavy to bear.
Why Pride Month, the rainbow flag, and the simple act of being seen still matter.
There are moments when people ask a sincere question:
Why is there a Pride Month? Why the rainbow flag? Why all of the celebration?
For many people, the answer is simple.
Because there are still nights when someone leaves a restaurant holding the hand of the person they love and wonders if they will make it home safely.
Recently in the small city of Caldwell, a gay couple, Juan Olvera and Eric Reed, say they were enjoying dinner at a local restaurant when they became the target of homophobic slurs from a group of men. The couple left, hoping to avoid confrontation. Instead, they say they were followed, chased through a parking lot and onto nearby railroad tracks, and assaulted. One man suffered a black eye, cuts, and bruises. The other required stitches after being struck in the face. Police arrested one suspect and filed a misdemeanor battery charge. Idaho law does not currently include sexual orientation among its hate crime protections.
The physical wounds will heal.
The fear takes longer.
Juan Olvera told reporters:
“I literally thought I was going to die.”
Think about that sentence.
Not in a war.
Not while committing a crime.
Not while threatening anyone.
But simply because he was gay.
And that is why Pride exists.
The rainbow flag is not a declaration of superiority.
It is not a political party.
It is not an attack on anyone else’s beliefs.
It is a signal.
It says:
I am here.
I have survived.
I should not have to hide.
I deserve to live openly and safely.
For some people, Pride is a parade.
For others, it is a quiet acknowledgment that they made it through years of fear, rejection, ridicule, or violence.
Many older LGBTQ Americans remember when they could lose jobs for being gay.
They remember being denied housing.
They remember police raids on bars.
They remember the terror of the AIDS epidemic.
And yes, they remember the beatings.
The rainbow became a symbol because symbols matter.
Flags matter.
They tell stories.
The American flag tells the story of a nation striving toward liberty.
The rainbow flag tells the story of people striving toward dignity.
Neither promises perfection.
Both represent hope.
This story from Idaho is not offered to inflame anger or divide people further.
It is offered as a reminder.
Behind every Pride flag is a person.
Behind every Pride Month celebration is someone who once wondered whether they would be accepted by their family, their church, their community—or even survive.
Most people, regardless of politics, agree on one thing:
No one should fear violence because of who they are.
No one should be beaten for holding the hand of the person they love.
No one should have to wonder whether tomorrow will bring acceptance or hatred.
That is not a gay issue.
That is a human issue.
And until stories like this become relics of the past rather than headlines of the present, there will continue to be Pride Month.
There will continue to be rainbow flags.
There will continue to be people saying:
We are here. We are your neighbors. We are your family. And we hope one day these reminders are no longer necessary.
If you lived in Oklahoma, Colorado, Kansas, and Arizona, or you have ever worked in law enforcement and journalism, and or spent countless hours on the road—there is a very human story you have told your family. It is centered around the time you have spent on America’s highways, roads and streets.
The Roads That Built America
This is not a story about concrete. It is a story about:
The families who moved west.
The truckers who kept shelves stocked.
The police officers who worked accidents at 3 a.m.
The soldiers who came home.
The diners, motels, and gas stations that became landmarks.
And the millions of ordinary Americans who chased jobs, love, and dreams on ribbons of pavement stretching to the horizon.
The Plan: A network of roads would be built unlike anything the world had ever seen—highways stretching from coast to coast, linking farms to cities, deserts to mountains, and ordinary people to extraordinary possibilities.
The Roads That Built America
On June 29, 1956, America made a promise to itself.
It wasn’t spoken from a church pulpit.
It wasn’t etched into a monument.
It was signed into law.
A network of roads would be built unlike anything the world had ever seen—highways stretching from coast to coast, linking farms to cities, deserts to mountains, and ordinary people to extraordinary possibilities.
Seventy years later, those roads are so common we barely notice them.
But think for a moment about what they have witnessed.
Young soldiers returning home.
Loyd “Bick” Bickerstaff a former Oklahoma Highway Patrolman and Elk City Police Captain. Arrested the worst of the worst, the famous and hometown folks “driving like hell” on Route 66. Living to tell his stories to Life Magazine in 1983. He said then, “I had the front seat to best show on earth!” Click on image for “Bick’s Story!”
Families piling into station wagons for summer vacations.
Truck drivers hauling everything from oranges to automobiles.
Teenagers leaving their hometowns for the first time.
Police officers racing toward emergencies.
And people like me.
I have traveled these roads in uniform and out of it.
I have driven them in sunshine and storms.
I’ve seen tragedy beside them and joy because of them.
The interstate is more than concrete.
It is memory.
It is movement.
It is America in motion.
Somewhere tonight, a grandfather is telling his grandchildren about the days before air conditioning in cars.
Somewhere, a truck driver is crossing the desert under a blanket of stars.
Somewhere, a young couple is heading west, hoping for a better life.
The roads connect all of us.
Ike’s Highways – Click for more information.
They have for seventy years.
And long after we’re gone, they’ll continue carrying the hopes of people we will never meet.
That may be the greatest achievement of all.
Not that America built the highways.
But that the highways helped build America.
There is time to put an old myth to rest.
There is an old story that has been passed from one generation to the next.
Many Americans grew up hearing that when the Interstate Highway System was built, portions of the roads had to be constructed in straight one- or two-mile stretches so military aircraft could land in an emergency. Others remember hearing it as “one mile out of every five.”
It is a fascinating story.
And like many stories, there is a grain of truth hidden inside.
From Coast to Coast and Border to Border. Click on image.
The Interstate system was officially named the National System of Interstate and Defense Highways for a reason. President Eisenhower had seen firsthand the importance of transportation during World War II. The military wanted a road network that could rapidly move troops, equipment, and supplies across the country.
But there was never a federal requirement that highways include straight stretches for aircraft landings.
Still, the idea refuses to disappear.
Perhaps because it speaks to something larger.
America built these roads not just for vacations and commerce, but for resilience. They were conceived during the Cold War, when the nation was thinking about defense, mobility, and what might happen in a national emergency.
And while fighter jets may never have been intended to touch down on every highway, millions of Americans have landed on these roads at important moments in their lives.
Soldiers coming home.
Families moving west.
Truckers delivering the necessities of everyday life.
Young people leaving their hometowns to begin something new.
Somewhere tonight, headlights are cutting through the darkness on a road built seventy years ago… carrying someone toward a story they’ll tell for the rest of their life.
The highways became runways of another kind.
Places where ordinary people took off into the future.
In the bustling halls of NASA’s Johnson Space Center, where scientific minds collaborated to unlock the mysteries of the universe, there was a man named Dr. Richard Campbell. An experienced geologist, Dr. Campbell spent decades studying lunar samples and meteorites. His colleagues revered him for his meticulous research and unyielding skepticism—a trait that earned him both admiration and exasperation.
It all began one unassuming Wednesday morning when a rumor started circulating among the younger scientists—whispers of “moon rocks that beep” echoed through the labs, sparking excitement and curiosity. The story was that during a routine analysis, a peculiar sound echoed from one of the lunar samples hauled back to earth the Apollo missions.
Dr. Campbell dismissed these rumors as sheer nonsense. “Rocks don’t beep,” he asserted firmly whenever the topic arose. His logical mind couldn’t entertain the idea of lunar rocks emitting any sound, let alone beeping. He considered it a prank or, at best, a misinterpretation of data.
However, the buzz around the beeping moon rocks grew too loud to ignore. A young researcher named Dr. Emily Hayes, fresh out of her post-doc, approached Dr. Campbell with a determined look in her eyes. She respected his skepticism but believed there was something worth investigating. “Dr. Campbell, I’d like you to see this for yourself,” she insisted, holding a tiny sample encased in a protective glass container. Reluctantly, he agreed to examine it in the lab.
Under the laboratory’s sterile white lights, they set up the sample on the analysis table. Dr. Hayes connected it to an array of sensors and amplifiers, the same setup that had reportedly detected the beeping. Dr. Campbell watched with skepticism and curiosity, arms crossed over his chest.
As the seconds ticked by in the sterile laboratory, a faint, almost imperceptible series of beeps reverberated through the speakers. Dr. Campbell’s eyes widened in disbelief. He leaned closer, adjusted his glasses, and listened again. There it was—a clear, rhythmic beeping sound emanating from the moon rock, a sound that defied his logical understanding of lunar geology.
“How is this possible?” he muttered, more to himself than to Dr. Hayes. His mind raced with potential explanations: electrical interference, experimental error, or even a practical joke. But, anticipating his doubts, Dr. Hayes showed him the logs of previous tests, all yielding the same results.
Driven by a newfound curiosity, Dr. Campbell embarked on a meticulous investigation of the phenomenon. He conducted a series of rigorous tests, eliminating every conceivable source of error. Days turned into weeks as he and Dr. Hayes worked tirelessly, scrutinizing every detail, leaving no stone unturned in their pursuit of scientific truth.
Their breakthrough came when they discovered a minute crystalline structure within the rock that had previously been overlooked. These crystals had piezoelectric properties, meaning they could create an electrical charge in response to mechanical stress. They theorized that the beeping was a result of tiny vibrations within the lunar environment that caused these crystals to emit electrical signals, which were then picked up as sound by their sensors.
Dr. Campbell’s initial skepticism gave way to a sense of awe and excitement. The discovery of the beeping moon rocks was not just a scientific breakthrough, but a leap toward our understanding of the moon’s geology and unique properties. He and Dr. Hayes co-authored a paper detailing their findings, a paper that was not just published, but widely celebrated in scientific journals worldwide.
The story of the beeping moon rocks became legendary at NASA, a testament to the importance of curiosity, skepticism, and collaboration in scientific discovery. Dr. Campbell, once the man who didn’t believe in beeping moon rocks, became their most passionate advocate, reminding everyone that the most extraordinary discoveries sometimes come from the most unlikely sources.
Ned: A shy and timid typesetter at the Daily Weeds newspaper, who resembles Brad Pitt on a bad day. Ned is modest and unaware of his value and attractiveness.
The Cute Bartender (Alex): A charismatic and charming bartender at Lucky C who falls for Ned over their shared love of Shirley Temples.
The Daily Weeds Higher-Ups: The newspaper’s executives who take credit for Ned’s brilliant headlines.
Rival Newspaper Competitors: A scheming group aiming to kidnap and kill Ned to stop the Daily Weeds’ success.
The Gay Mafia: A secretive, protective group willing to go to great lengths to defend Ned, although he is unaware of their existence.
Plot:
Ned lived a quiet life, hidden in the shadows of the Daily Weeds’ newsroom. His days were spent crafting perfect headlines, a talent that brought his employer acclaim and success. Despite his crucial role, Ned remained unnoticed, timidly working at his typesetting desk. His self-esteem was low; he never considered himself attractive, even though he had a rugged charm that could be likened to Brad Pitt on an off day.
Ned’s life took an unexpected turn one evening when he narrowly escaped being hit by a runaway city bus. Disoriented and seeking solace, he stumbled into a bar he had never noticed—Lucky C. With its welcoming atmosphere and vibrant clientele, the bar was a stark contrast to Ned’s usually solitary existence.
At the bar, he ordered the only alcoholic drink he knew—a Shirley Temple. Alex, the cute bartender, was immediately charmed. Alex loved making Shirley Temples, a drink rarely requested by patrons. Their shared moment over this simple drink sparked a connection, and for the first time, Ned felt seen and appreciated.
As Ned began to frequent Lucky C, he started coming out of his shell. The lively environment and supportive community at the bar brought out a side of him he never knew existed. His newfound confidence began to reflect in his work, leading to even more captivating headlines that left the Daily Weeds’ competitors scrambling.
Unbeknownst to Ned, the rival newspaper had been closely monitoring the Daily Weeds’ success. Frustrated by their inability to keep up, they devised a sinister plan to kidnap and eliminate the source of their competition’s success—Ned.
They would wait until he left the Daily Weeds back office and throw a hood over his head. Then, two thugs would throw Ned into a waiting van and speed him to the outside of town near a seedy pond where he would be shot, still wearing the hood and a weight tied around his neck, and thrown into a boat. One of the thugs would take a boat and shove it away from the shore, and when it got near the center of the pond, the thugs would fill it with bullet holes and make it sink, with Ned inside, weighed down. Never to be found.
However, the rival newspaper and their hired mobsters were unaware of a secret force. The Gay Mafia, a clandestine group operating within the city, had liked Ned. They admired his quiet brilliance and were determined to protect him at all costs. They had been listening through their glitter correspondences. The glitter correspondences were a network of highly sensitive individuals who could pick up on people’s intuitions from across the room. They had been picking up vibes from the thugs at a local coffee shop for over a week. It is what caused the Gay Mafia to concentrate their attention on Ned. There was so much vibing there was almost concern they would have to call in a team from Philly to assist with the operation. With well-laid plans and assistance from the Gay Men’s Choir, a plan got hatched to pull off operation “SAVE NED” at 1700 Hours sharp! The driver, who made up the only civilian of the Gay Mafia, yelled to the rest of the non-mafia members that it was 5 PM, you guys. The rest of the Gay Mafia had belonged to the same Troop in the Middle East when serving the Country and understood military time.
The rival newspaper’s plot set off a chain of events culminating in a dramatic confrontation. As the thugs moved in on Ned, the Gay Mafia sprang into action. A chaotic collision of forces ensued—a battle that turned the usually quiet city streets into a more vibrant and exhilarating scene than any Pride Parade.
There were unusually high pitches of the singing of Hallelujah coming from the alleyway of the Daily Weeds Office area and then sudden flumes of smoke and glitter, followed by the pomp and circumstance of a Gay Mens Chorus of Lilly of The Valley. The evil thugs were tied up and left in a neat pile for the local police to find—all courtesy of the Gay Mafia.
Amid the chaos, Ned remained blissfully unaware of the true extent of his importance or the danger he was in. All he knew was that for the first time in his life, people were surrounding him who valued him, both for his talent and who he was. The experience saved his life and transformed it, making Ned realize his worth and the power of community. As he left the Daily Weed, he shut and locked the door and walked to the Lucky C, where he sat on a bar stool and asked Alex for a Shirley Temple.
Today ––– The Daily Weeds continued to thrive, thanks to Ned’s unmatched headlines. And Ned, no longer the unsung hero, became a celebrated figure in both the newsroom and the vibrant world of Lucky C. His story was a testament to life’s unexpected turns and the hidden strength within us all, yet to be discovered.
This Story Originally Appeared On November 1st, 2025. On November 26th a shooting resulted in Washington D.C. It looks as if it resulted from pressure placed on an individual. A person identified from a sect or community. You can read the story connected to that event here. then consider the contents of this story and decide for yourself. It is not difficult to have predicted. More will come.
10–16 minutes
In every generation, the United States stands at a crossroads of its own making. From the outside, our country can look unstoppable. From the inside, we often feel the push and pull of competing values. These include hopes and fears. Beneath the headlines and politics are real people—neighbors, families, workers—trying to live meaningful lives. When pressure builds in a society, it rarely announces itself with fanfare. Instead, it creeps in quietly, showing up as worry, disconnection, or a sense that something familiar is shifting. This story isn’t about sensational headlines but about those quiet pressures—economic, social, and cultural—that can change a nation’s future.
Deportation, Prejudice, and the Risk of History Repeating
When governments treat specific communities as disposable, they create wounds. These often fester into something more dangerous. Today in the United States, many Hispanic families live under the shadow of deportation. They are sometimes sent to countries that are not their place of origin. Worse still, many are denied fair hearings or meaningful access to justice before being removed.
This pattern, though uniquely American in its details, has historical echoes elsewhere.
Lessons from Israel and Its Neighbors
Globally, people are voicing similar worries. Inflation, poverty, unemployment, and corruption rank highest worldwide. Local details differ, yet the underlying pressures on ordinary families are strikingly alike from one country to another.
In the Middle East, decades of restrictive policies have shaped the relationship between Israel and its neighbors. Palestinians have endured travel restrictions, settlement expansion, home demolitions, and barriers to full participation in civic life. While not every individual responds with violence, these systemic grievances have fueled a climate where radical groups gain traction. Street shootings, bombings, and attacks on innocent civilians are, in part, the tragic outcome of exclusion and marginalization.
When justice is denied, resentment grows. History shows us what happens when exclusion takes root. Will the U.S. repeat Israel’s mistakes?
The lesson is not that oppression always leads to terrorism. Yet, when large communities feel silenced, denied justice, or stripped of dignity, it becomes easier for extremism to take root.
The American Parallel
For many Hispanic communities in the U.S., there is growing concern that the same cycle begins here. Families who have lived in this country for years are uprooted without warning. Children who know no other homeland are deported to countries where they have no ties. Legal safeguards that should guarantee fairness are often bypassed through expedited removal or administrative shortcuts.
Deportation without dignity doesn’t just break families—it risks breaking society. Lessons from abroad show what happens when whole communities are silenced.
The danger is not only humanitarian—it is practical. Alienation breeds resentment. Resentment, left unchecked, can lead to anger that is so strong it erupts in harmful ways. If citizens and residents consistently feel betrayed by the very government meant to protect them, feelings of betrayal grow. Over time, these feelings lead to instability akin to that seen in other parts of the world.
A Cautionary Reflection
The United States faces a choice. It can double down on policies that treat Hispanic people as outsiders. Alternatively, it can recognize that fairness, dignity, and due process are not luxuries—they are stabilizers. By ensuring justice and compassion, the U.S. can protect both its people and its principles.
History reminds us that exclusion never produces lasting peace. Inclusion does. If America forgets this, it risks repeating a painful lesson already written across borders far from its own.
Exclusion never creates peace. Inclusion does. The United States must choose which future it wants.
As this report was being prepared on September 10, 2025. Conservative activist Charlie Kirk was fatally shot during a speaking event at Utah Valley University in Orem, Utah. He was addressing an audience as part of his “American Comeback Tour.” When a gunman, described as wearing tactical gear, opened fire from a nearby building. The event was not just violent in its outcome. It’s now being discussed widely as an example of how political tensions, rising polarization. Public rhetoric can set the stage for tragedy. AP News+3Reuters+3People.com+3
This shooting stands as a stark reminder of what happens when communities feel threatened, unheard, or unfairly treated. When specific policies—like deportations without fair hearings, rhetoric that pits “us vs. them,” or laws that strip rights from people—are merged with public disdain, alienation can grow. As with Kirk’s death, violence doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It is often preceded by months or years of escalating division, distrust, and dehumanizing language toward some group.
If similar pressures continue—where people feel they are being denied justice. Or they will be forced into exile, or silenced—the risk is not only that isolated individuals will lash out. More of these attacks will spill into public spaces, become more common, and target more people. Charlie Kirk’s shooting is tragic and shocking. Still it also foreshadows a pattern we’ve seen before elsewhere: oppression + exclusion + inflammatory rhetoric = violence.
THE QUESTION NOW FACING THE UNITED STATES
The U.S. be trailing a path? Is government policy and public rhetoric pushing some communities to a breaking point? Exclusion and injustice be more than grievances, becoming catalysts for violence?
Israel offers a stark example. It shows what can happen when a nation attempts to dominate or control another people or region. Despite decades of military action, surveillance, imprisonment, and harsh policies, the country faces ongoing terrorist attacks. These actions occur within its own borders. History shows that no matter the tactics, attempts to subjugate or marginalize an entire population often breed resentment. Such approaches lead to cycles of violence rather than lasting security.
Recent polling reveals Americans’ top worries focus on daily life basics. These include the economy, healthcare costs, inflation, and Social Security. Economic anxiety has become the leading stress point—and understanding it is key to shaping effective public policy.
In the United States, millions of people belong to the LGBTQI community—transgender, gay, intersex, and beyond. If laws or court rulings increasingly target these groups with discriminatory restrictions or hardships, the effect won’t just be legal. It will erode their existing rights and impact them deeply on a human level. People who feel cornered, threatened, or stripped of dignity often turn to protest, activism, and self-defense. Families, friends, and allies of LGBTQI individuals will stand with them. History shows that when marginalized communities are pushed too far, their collective response grows stronger. They become more determined, whether through the courts, the ballot box, or public action.
There are case studies in why inclusion and fairness matter. Disenfranchisement can occur across many lines. These include ethnicity, religion, gender, disability, or economic status. Prevention starts with recognizing early warning signs. It involves pushing for fairness and empathy. Other groups and individuals will be targeted in this sweeping of Americans’ rights.
1. Immigrant and Refugee Communities Beyond Latin America
People from African nations, the Middle East, or Asia sometimes experience parallel challenges. They face deportation, limited due process, and suspicion tied to their nationality or religion. Policies that reduce refugee admissions, delay asylum processing, or tighten visa rules disproportionately affect them.
2. Religious Minorities
Muslims, Sikhs, Jews, and other smaller faith groups have seen spikes in harassment or targeted legislation. Surveillance, mosque or temple zoning battles, and hate crimes all increase when public rhetoric frames these groups as”others.”
3. Indigenous Peoples
Tribal communities continue to face legal battles over land, water, and sovereignty. Changes to federal protections or environmental rules can undermine their rights. This fuels deep distrust and potential standoffs (for example, Standing Rock and other pipeline protests).
4. People With Disabilities
Budget cuts or shifts in healthcare, accessibility regulations, or education funding can affect people with physical or cognitive disabilities. Without legal protections and enforcement, they risk losing access to accommodations and services they depend on.
5. Women and Reproductive Rights
If policies continue restricting reproductive healthcare and bodily autonomy, many women feel increasingly alienated. This is especially true for those in rural and low-income areas. Such feelings lead to organized protest. It also heightens tensions.
6. Workers in Precarious or Gig Jobs
With unions weakened and worker protections often rolled back, low-wage and gig-economy workers are also vulnerable to systemic neglect. Economic insecurity can create fertile ground for unrest, especially if merged with racial or immigration-related grievances.
On a hot summer’s day, if you stir any of these pots, something unhappy will happen. Similarly, if you keep someone locked out on a cold winter’s day, the outcome will be negative. It used to be the explosive reaction we referred to as Cabin-Fever when someone no longer can take the pressure. When so many groups are pushed to the point of not being capable to handle it. What happens? America already has more firearms than any country in the world. It shouldn’t take much research to realize that becoming Palestine-Israel would be easier than ever. It would also be more violent than people thought.
Exclusion never creates peace. Inclusion does. America must choose which future it wants.
There are Americans who are also to be considered part of the LGBTQI community. If laws or Supreme Court rulings turn against the transgender, Gay members, or Intersex community, these laws can cause hardships. Further restrictions can come into their lives. At some point, they and their families, friends, and supporters are going to find ways to defend themselves.
Yes — beyond the Hispanic and LGBTQI communities already discussed, there are several other groups. Experts and advocates often recognize these groups as vulnerable. These groups are often affected by shifts in policy, public sentiment, or legal rulings. Here’s a quick overview:
How Many Transgender People Have Been Mass Shooters?
This chart shows just how rare transgender or nonbinary mass shooters are in the U.S.—less than 1% of cases compared to an overwhelming majority by cisgender men. It’s a clear reminder that public narratives blaming LGBTQ+ people for mass violence are unsupported by facts.
How many trans shooters are there in real life?
Officially, the short answer: very, very few. Credible databases don’t systematically record gender identity. Still, the best available analyses show well under 1% of U.S. mass shooters have identified as transgender or nonbinary—i.e., only a handful of cases across many decades. Social Sciences and Humanities College+1
A few notes for context:
The Violence Project’s long-running database (public mass shootings, 4+ killed) shows hundreds of incidents since 1966. Researchers and fact-checks confirm that transgender perpetrators account for less than 1% of cases. This is in the low single digits in total. The Violence Project+1
News reporting that tries to tally specific incidents similarly finds just a few cases. It also cautions that many official datasets code by sex, not gender identity, which limits precision. Newsweek
Independent fact-checks conclude that claims of a “rise” in transgender mass shooters are unsupported. The vast majority of mass shooters are cisgender men. Reuters
Bottom line: Exact counts are hard to pin down because of data limitations. The evidence consistently shows that transgender people make up a vanishingly small share of U.S. mass shooters.
“Fewer than ten transgender athletes out of 510,000 NCAA players.
Yet, they’re at the center of a multi-million-dollar political storm.”
This makes sense—transgender people represent a very small part of the population, and their visibility often makes them targets. Out of more than 510,000 NCAA college athletes nationwide, it’s estimated that fewer than ten are openly transgender. Historically, families—including our grandparents and their grandparents—have coexisted with transgender individuals without controversy. Only in recent years have political attacks escalated, turning a once-private aspect of life into a public battleground. These attacks have generated hundreds of millions of dollars. Groups and politicians use transgender people as a wedge issue. They target individuals who are simply trying to live their lives.
What We Know (or Think We Know)
According to the Williams Institute at UCLA, about 300,000 youth aged 13–17 recognize as transgender in the U.S. Williams Institute
Of those, some studies suggest ~40.7% of transgender high school students play on at least one sports team. Applying that to the population estimate gives around 120,000+ transgender high school student-athletes Williams Institute
Nonetheless, when it comes to more specific breakdowns (e.g. how many play in women’s teams, or how many are in college/pro sports), the numbers are much smaller. For example, GLAAD reports that among ~510,000 NCAA college athletes, there are fewer than 10 known transgender athletesGLAAD
Key Takeaways & Limitations
Small in relative terms: Tens of thousands of transgender youth join in high school sports. Still, they are still a very tiny fraction of all athletes.
Very few at higher levels: At the college or professional levels, the known, openly transgender athletes are very rare (under 10 in the NCAA among all those athletes, per recent reports) GLAAD+1
Data gaps: Many sports associations don’t track gender identity carefully. Privacy concerns, inconsistent reporting, and changing eligibility rules make precise numbers hard to nail down.
Exclusion never creates peace. Inclusion does. The United States must choose which future it wants.
Yet even in times of strain, The United States of America greatest strength has always been its capacity to self-correct. Communities do not simply absorb pressure—they also adapt, innovate, and rise to meet challenges. We have the chance now to choose empathy over division, solutions over rhetoric, and inclusion over exclusion. If we remember that the country’s heart beats strongest when its people are treated with fairness and dignity. Then the same forces that threaten to divide us can also become the sparks that unite us. This is not just a warning—it’s an invitation to hope.
This content was originally intended to be posted on September 11, 2025. Due to unfolding events at that time, its publication was postponed until November 1, 2025. It is reposted on June 26, 2026 due to the current decisions of the United States Supreme Court. The research began weeks before events on September 10, 2025 in Utah. If additional events have occurred since then, this report reflects the level of concern. It highlights the growing sense of unease emerging across the United States.
About the Author:
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
The community of Manawan, Quebec, is mourning the loss of musician and actor Oshim Ottawa, whose work helped bring Atikamekw culture and storytelling to audiences across Canada.
Ottawa was best known for portraying Philippe Flamand in the 2023 feature film Soleils Atikamekw (Atikamekw Suns). His moving performance earned him a nomination for Best Lead Performance in a Drama Film at the 13th Canadian Screen Awards in 2025, bringing national recognition to both his talent and the film’s powerful story.
Beyond acting, Ottawa was an accomplished musician and a respected member of the Manawan community, where he was admired for sharing his culture through both music and film.
Following news of his passing, family, friends, and community members have expressed their grief and remembered him for his artistic contributions and the impact he made on those around him. A crowdfunding campaign has also been established to help support his loved ones during this difficult time.
Oshim Ottawa’s passing marks the loss of a gifted artist whose work helped shine a light on Indigenous stories and voices in Canadian cinema. At the time of publication, the cause of death has not been publicly disclosed.
Groff Media extends its sincere condolences to the family, friends, colleagues, and the entire Manawan community as they mourn his loss.
Returning home from basic training, John returned to a place he no longer knew. It was the same one he had left before going ‘to basic,’ but he was different. Between leaving and coming back, John had changed. Or had he accepted something about himself? He didn’t know.
From his perspective, his life was one in which he would have to live in double time: in his time for himself and when he was with his family in a perspective that fit their permissions. He had dated a girl before he left but had broken up with her before he returned. By letter. A ‘Dear Jane’ type of letter, letting her know she could date other guys and that he didn’t expect her to wait for him.
John wrote he would be in no condition as a datable companion if and when he returned. He included a few other words about how training had changed him, getting him ready for the fight, hoping it would get the message across and cause her to continue her life. He had been ranked and assigned to maintenance crews stateside for two years, which was the reality of his assignment.
When John arrived back in his hometown, he stepped off the bus, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and the familiar streets of his hometown unfolded before him. It was a hot summer afternoon, and the cicadas droned loudly, filling the heavy air with their constant hum. It should have felt like home, but it didn’t. Everything seemed smaller, almost claustrophobic. The neat houses, the familiar storefronts, even the people who waved at him with a mix of pride and curiosity—none of it felt right.
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and started walking, the soles of his boots crunching on the gravel. Memories of his time in basic training flooded his mind. The relentless drills, the camaraderie with his fellow soldiers, and the quiet introspection late at night had been a time of transformation, of pushing his limits and discovering parts of himself he had never confronted.
One of those parts was realizing he couldn’t keep living a lie. He’d broken up with Emily in a letter, the words blunt and final. He’d told her that basic training had changed him, but he hadn’t told her how. He hadn’t told her the real reason was that he couldn’t keep pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He’d signed the letter with a shaky hand, hoping she’d understand and move on.
Standing on his childhood street, John felt the weight of his double life pressing down on him. He had come to terms with his identity, but he knew that acceptance came with a price. His family had certain expectations and beliefs, and he didn’t fit into their neat, tidy picture. The contrast between his inner truth and their external expectations was stark, and it weighed heavily on him.
As he approached his house, he saw his mother standing on the porch, her face lighting up as she saw him. She hurried down the steps, arms outstretched, and he found himself enveloped in her warm embrace.
“Oh, it’s so good to have you home!”
– she exclaimed, looking back at him.
“You’ve grown, and you look so strong!”
He forced a smile, nodding.
“It’s good to be home, Mom.”
Inside, the house smelled freshly baked bread and flowers from the garden. His father was in his usual chair, reading the newspaper. When he saw his son, he stood and nodded in approval.
“Welcome back, son,”
The dad said gruffly.
“You did us proud.”
“Thanks, Dad,”
John replied, ignoring the tight knot in his stomach.
The next few days went by in a blur of family gatherings and catching up with old friends. Everyone wanted to hear about his experiences, basic training, and future in the maintenance crew. John told them what they wanted to hear, leaving out the parts that didn’t fit into their narrative.
One evening, he found himself alone in his room, which felt more like a museum of his past than a place of comfort. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the photos on the wall and the trophies on the shelf. It all felt so distant, so disconnected from who he had become.
He pulled out his phone and stared at Emily’s number. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say a hundred times, but now that the moment was here, he felt paralyzed.
Finally, he typed out a message:
“Hey Emily, I’m back in town. Would you like to meet up sometime? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
He hit send before he could second-guess himself, and the response came quickly.
“Sure, I’d like that. When and where?”
They agreed to meet at the local coffee shop they used to go to in high school. As John walked there, he felt a mixture of dread and relief. He knew this conversation was necessary, but he also feared the consequences.
Emily was already there when he arrived, sitting at a corner table. She looked up and smiled when she saw him, but there was a hint of uncertainty in her eyes.
“Hi,” she said as he sat down. “It’s good to see you.” “You too,” he replied, taking a deep breath. “Emily, I need to tell you something, and it’s not easy for me.”
She looked at him, her expression softening.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
He looked down at his hands, then back up at her.
“I broke up with you because I couldn’t keep lying. And I couldn’t keep lying to you. I’m gay, Emily. That’s why I ended things. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I couldn’t keep pretending.”
There was a long silence, and he felt his heart pounding. Finally, Emily reached across the table and took his hand.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said quietly. “I wish you had told me sooner, but I understand. I’m glad you’re being true to yourself.”
As they parted ways, John felt a sense of relief wash over him. The weight of his secret had been lifted, and he felt lighter, as if their visit had released a burden from his shoulders. He was grateful for Emily’s understanding and acceptance, and he felt a renewed sense of freedom and authenticity.
Returning home, John knew there were still challenges ahead—his family, community, and the double life he would have to navigate. But he also knew that he had taken the first step towards living authentically. For the first time in a long time, he felt a glimmer of hope.
When Politics Turns Deadly: What Recent Shootings Reveals About America’s Pressures
Political Violence in the U.S.: A Historical Lens Political Pressure Pots That Are Exploding
On September 10, 2025, conservative activist Charlie Kirk was fatally shot while speaking at Utah Valley University. The attack shocked audiences nationwide and revived a painful question: Is political violence becoming more common in the United States? While the details of this case continue to unfold, history offers context. The Kirk shooting is tragic, but it’s not unprecedented—political assassinations and attacks have occurred before. Understanding that history can help us prevent future violence.
Political Violence in the U.S.: Then and Now
Throughout U.S. history, public figures have been targeted for their beliefs, activism, or positions of power. These events—though rare—often show deep social, political, or cultural tensions. Below is a timeline of key moments, followed by how they compare to today.
Timeline of Notable U.S. Political Murders/Assassinations
Year / Victim / Role / Context / Motive
On April 14, 1865, Abraham Lincoln, the U.S. President, was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth, a Confederate sympathizer.
1901 William McKinley, U.S. President, was killed by anarchist Leon Czolgosz.
1935 Huey Long, U.S. Senator / LA Governor, was shot by Carl Weiss amid political turmoil in Louisiana.
1963 Medgar Evers, a Civil Rights Activist, was shot outside his home for his activism in Mississippi.
In 1963, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated while riding in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. Lee Harvey Oswald was arrested for the crime. He was shot and killed by Jack Ruby before standing trial. The official record names Oswald as the lone gunman. The motive has remained an issue of widespread debate and speculation for decades.
1965 Malcolm X, a Civil Rights Leader, was killed during a public speech in Harlem.
1968 Robert F. Kennedy, the Presidential Candidate, was shot after a campaign rally in Los Angeles.
On April 4, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.—American Baptist minister, civil rights leader, and Nobel Peace Prize laureate—was assassinated. He was standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee when it happened. James Earl Ray, an escaped convict, was arrested for the murder two months later and later pleaded guilty. Ray claimed he was part of a larger conspiracy. He later tried to recant his confession. Nonetheless, the official record names him as the assassin. The motive remains the topic of debate. King led the civil rights movement. He opposed systemic racism. These actions made him a frequent target of threats and hostility.
1969–70s Various bombings & shootings Political & protest-related Weather Underground, far-right and far-left extremist groups.
2011 Gabrielle Giffords (survived), U.S. Representative, was shot at a constituent event in Arizona; six others were killed.
High profile, targeted instances of political violence
Charlie Kirk shooting*
Killed
Orem, Utah
Kirk was shot and killed while speaking at an event on the campus of Utah Valley University. Kirk was a well-known conservative activist who founded Turning Point USA.
Sept. 2025
*Officials have not confirmed that the shooting was politically motivated.
*Officials have not confirmed that the shooting was politically motivated.
Minnesota lawmaker shootings
2 killed, 2 injured
Minneapolis, Minnesota
A gunman targeted several Minnesota election officials. He killed Minnesota House of Representatives member Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark Hortman in their home. State Sen. John Hoffman and his wife Yvette Hoffman were shot and injured in their home.
June 2025
Minnesota lawmaker shootings
Two killed, two injured
Minneapolis, Minnesota
A gunman targeted several Minnesota election officials. He killed Minnesota House of Representatives member Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark Hortman in their home. State Senator John Hoffman and his wife Yvette Hoffman were shot and injured in their home.
June 2025
Minnesota lawmaker shootings
Two killed, two injured
Minneapolis, Minnesota
A gunman targeted several Minnesota election officials. He killed Minnesota House of Representatives member Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark Hortman in their home. State Senator John Hoffman and his wife Yvette Hoffman were shot and injured in their home.
June 2025
Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro’s home arson
No injuries
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
The Pennsylvania Governor’s Residence was set on fire while Shapiro and his family slept inside.
April 2025
Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro’s home arson
No injuries
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
The Pennsylvania Governor’s Residence was set on fire while Shapiro and his family slept inside.
2025 Charlie Kirk, Conservative Activist, was shot while speaking at Utah Valley University; investigation ongoing.
Timeline of Notable Political Murders And Attacks In The U.S.(1865-2025)
Patterns and Parallels
Public Rhetoric Matters: In nearly every case, rhetoric and polarization preceded the violence.
Violence Rarely Comes From Nowhere: These events are almost always linked to broader grievances, social tensions, or extremist ideologies.
Modern Amplifiers: Today’s social media, 24/7 news, and intense partisanship can supercharge grievances faster than in past eras.
Lessons for Today
The Kirk shooting reflects how quickly divisions can escalate. This happens when marginalized or politically active groups feel threatened. It also occurs when public discourse frames opponents as existential enemies. Left unchecked, the result can spill over from online posts and protests into public spaces and deadly attacks.
History shows that violence rarely ends the debate—it deepens it. The antidote is not silence but inclusion, dialogue, and guardrails on how we treat one another, even when we disagree.
Closing Thoughts
The U.S. is not doomed to repeat its worst moments, but it does need to recognize them. Political violence grows where alienation and fear fester. The Charlie Kirk tragedy, like earlier assassinations, should not only shock but also instruct. By confronting polarization and reinforcing democratic norms, communities can prevent these cycles from repeating.
About the Author:
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
Basil Harry Losten (May 11, 1930 – September 15, 2024)
Bishop Basil Harry Losten, a revered figure in the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church, passed away peacefully on September 15, 2024, in Stamford, Connecticut, after a brief illness. He was 94 years old. At the time of his passing, he was Bishop Emeritus of the Ukrainian Catholic Diocese of Stamford, a role he held with grace and devotion until his final days. Bishop Paul Patrick Chomnycky succeeds him.
Born in Chesapeake City, Maryland, on May 11, 1930, Basil Losten embarked on a life of faith and service that began with his early education at St. Basil School in Philadelphia. His journey into the priesthood was marked by years of dedicated study, first at the Ukrainian Catholic Seminary in Stamford and later at St. Basil College, where he earned a bachelor of arts in philosophy. His theological education culminated in a graduate degree from the Catholic University of America in 1957.
Basil Losten was ordained to the priesthood on June 10, 1957, by Bishop Constantine Bohachevsky. His initial assignments saw him serve the Philadelphia Archdiocese as chancery secretary and in various parishes across the city. In 1962, his leadership and loyalty were acknowledged when he was appointed personal secretary to Archbishop-Metropolitan Ambrose Senyshyn.
In 1968, Pope Paul VI recognized his contributions by elevating him to the rank of papal chamberlain. On March 23, 1971, he was nominated to the episcopacy, and on May 25 of that year, he was consecrated as auxiliary bishop of the Ukrainian Archdiocese of Philadelphia. He continued to serve with distinction, later being appointed apostolic administrator of the diocese in 1976 during the declining health of Archbishop-Metropolitan Senyshyn.
Bishop Losten was admired throughout his career for his unwavering dedication to his faith, leadership, and tireless service to the Ukrainian Catholic community. Losten’s impact on clergy and laity alike will be remembered for generations.
Bishop Losten is being mourned by his many parishioners, colleagues, and the communities he served. Funeral services will be held at Stamford’s Ukrainian Catholic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. May his memory be eternal.
Marshal Chester Finch squinted over the handlebars of his cherry-red moped.
“George,” he said.
George Jones wagged his tail.
“I don’t trust it.”
George barked once.
Neither did he.
For nearly three weeks, Gotebo had been under siege by the infamous Spence Gang.
Six hundred goats.
Led by the legendary Old Pete.
A billy goat so ancient his beard dragged the ground and whose horns had been carved over generations with mysterious symbols, tally marks, and what appeared to be a recipe for peach cobbler.
Some said Old Pete was descended from the outlaw Pete Spence.
Folklore a digital AI group, had created a drawing of Spence the Goatman. Half Goat, half man. No one had ever seen him. Not even George Jones!
Others claimed he was Pete Spence.
Reincarnated.
With hooves.
Marshal Finch refused to take an official position.
Mostly because there wasn’t a checkbox for that in the regulation handbook.
Then, at precisely 8:17 a.m., Old Pete walked into town.
Alone.
No army.
No fanfare.
No smell.
This last fact caused Powder Puff to faint.
“Impossible!” cried Powder Puff.
The self-proclaimed most handsome goat in Oklahoma collapsed dramatically into a horse trough.
The townsfolk rushed to Old Pete.
The old goat climbed atop a feed barrel.
Cleared his throat.
And gave one final speech.
It consisted of:
“Maaaa.”
A pause.
“Maaaaaa.”
Then a longer pause.
“Maaa.”
No one understood.
Except Mrs. Hargrove, retired schoolteacher.
She dabbed her eyes.
“He says,” she whispered,
“The goats are tired.”
Everyone stared.
“He says they fought because they were afraid.”
More tears.
“He says perhaps descendants of outlaws don’t have to live like outlaws forever.”
Marshal Finch removed his hat.
George whimpered softly.
Even Powder Puff stopped admiring his reflection.
For nearly thirty seconds.
A personal record.
Old Pete slowly climbed down.
He approached Chester.
Looked him directly in the eyes.
Then nudged something toward him.
A tiny object.
Wrapped in cloth.
Inside was an old silver pocket watch.
The cover was engraved:
P.S. 1881.
Alongside it was a note.
Written in surprisingly neat handwriting.
It read:
EVERY GANG NEEDS A MAN WHO SHOWS UP.
EVEN IF HE RIDES A MOPED.
TAKE CARE OF THEM.
— OLD PETE
Marshal Finch looked up.
Old Pete had already begun walking west.
Toward the hills.
Toward the setting sun.
Toward whatever waits for outlaw goats at the end of the trail.
No one ever saw him again.
There were rumors.
A rancher claimed he saw a huge billy goat silhouetted on a ridge during a thunderstorm.
A trucker swore a goat with magnificent horns helped him change a tire near Tombstone.
Someone in Arizona insisted Old Pete stole a bag of oranges and paid for them with a silver dollar minted in 1880.
No one could prove any of it.
But nobody could prove it didn’t happen either.
As for the Spence Gang?
They disbanded.
Most retired.
Some took up lawn care.
Others became therapy goats.
Powder Puff began charging admission to smell him.
It failed.
Spectacularly.
Marshal Finch mounted his moped.
George climbed into the side basket.
The marshal tucked Old Pete’s watch into his shirt pocket.
He looked back one last time at Gotebo.
“George.”
George barked.
“I think we’ve finally solved one.”
George tilted his head.
“Or at least survived it.”
That counted too.
The moped sputtered.
Coughed.
Backfired loudly enough to scare three chickens in the next county.
And Marshal Chester Finch rode off toward whatever ridiculous crisis awaited him next.
Because somewhere…
there was always another telegram.
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time. Where the Sun is High. The Desert is Hot. And the Time Never Changes!
That should have been Chester Finch’s first warning.
His cherry-red moped sputtered along at a heroic twenty-two miles per hour, its emergency beacon lazily rotating while a cloud of dust followed behind. Beside him trotted George Jones, his loyal hound, who was already regretting every life decision that had led him to western Oklahoma.
The Legend of Old Pete Finds Its Way To Gotebo
Ahead, the hills moved.
Not metaphorically.
Actually moved.
Chester slowed his moped.
The hills stopped.
He adjusted his spectacles.
The hills blinked.
“Oh, George,”
Chester whispered.
George whimpered.
Because the hills were goats.
Hundreds of them.
Standing perfectly still on the ridges overlooking town.
Watching.
Waiting.
And somehow managing to look judgmental.
The town square was deserted except for the members of the Gotebo Goat Ropers, who huddled behind overturned wagons.
JD pointed toward the hills.
“They’ve been up there all morning.”
“They move?” Chester asked.
“No.”
“They attack?”
“No.”
“They eat anything?”
“Everything.”
Chester nodded.
“That’s generally what goats do.”
JD leaned closer.
“These are different.”
He pointed toward the center ridge.
There, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, stood the largest billy goat Chester Finch had ever seen.
The creature was massive.
His beard blew dramatically in the wind despite there being no wind.
One horn appeared chipped.
The other looked polished.
And hanging around his neck was something that looked suspiciously like an old silver pocket watch.
The townspeople removed their hats.
“That’s Old Pete.”
Chester squinted.
“You named him?”
“We didn’t.”
“He named himself.”
Chester blinked.
“Goats can’t do that.”
Nobody answered.
Because at that moment Old Pete stamped one hoof.
A smaller goat trotted down the hill carrying a piece of cardboard in its mouth.
The goat dropped it at Chester’s feet.
Written in surprisingly neat lettering:
SURRENDER TOWN.
RETURN ALL TOMATOES.
MORE SALT LICKS.
SIGNED, OLD PETE
Chester read the note twice.
Then three times.
Then turned it upside down.
George Jones sniffed it.
“George,”Chester said.
George sneezed.
“I don’t suppose you can explain this?”
George looked away.
Which Chester interpreted as a no.
That evening the townspeople gathered in the church basement.
Old Mrs. Crenshaw stood.
“My grandfather swore these goats descended from the herd of outlaw Pete Spence.”
“Impossible,” Chester said.
“The old ranch was in Arizona.”
Mrs. Crenshaw nodded.
“Some say Old Pete is his descendant.”
Another man stood.
“Some say he’s the reincarnation of Pete Spence.”
A third man adjusted his overalls.
“My cousin Earl says Pete Spence never died at all.”
“He became a goat.”
Chester slowly removed his glasses.
Cleaned them.
Put them back on.
“I have arrested thieves.”
Everyone nodded.
“I have arrested kidnappers.”
More nodding.
“I once arrested a man who claimed he was married to a weather vane.”
Murmurs of appreciation.
“But I have never…”
He paused.
“…investigated the possibility that an outlaw from Tombstone returned as livestock.”
The room fell silent.
George Jones barked.
Everyone looked at him.
“I think George agrees with me,” Chester said.
George barked again.
“No?”
Later that night Chester camped outside town.
At exactly midnight he awoke.
Something was standing over him.
He opened one eye.
Old Pete.
The giant billy goat stared down at him.
Neither moved.
Neither blinked.
Finally Chester sat up.
“You know,”he said, “I’ve been thinking.”
Old Pete chewed something thoughtfully.
“If you really are Pete Spence…”
The goat snorted.
“…then you’re awfully hairy.”
Old Pete snorted louder.
Then—
to Chester’s horror—
the goat turned.
Walked away.
And with one hoof scratched something into the dirt.
Chester hurried over with his lantern.
There in the moonlight were four words:
I KNOW WHERE MORGAN HID IT
Chester stared.
Morgan.
As in Morgan Earp.
He slowly looked up.
Old Pete was gone.
Only hoofprints remained.
And one silver pocket watch.
Ticking.
Chester picked it up.
Inside the lid was an inscription:
TOMBSTONE 1882
Chester swallowed hard.
George Jones growled.
Far away on the ridge, hundreds of goat eyes glimmered in the darkness.
And somewhere among them, Old Pete laughed.
Or coughed.
With goats, it was difficult to tell.
Next Chapter:Marshal Finch and the Secret of the Silver Pocket Watch
Will Old Pete reveal a century-old mystery?
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time. Where the Sun is High. The Desert is Hot. And the Time Never Changes!
Did Morgan Earp hide something before his death?
And why have the goats begun digging holes all over Gotebo?
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes!
The pony stood approximately the same height as George Jones.
The crowd watched silently.
“Marshal,” the mayor said carefully.
“Is that the horse they sent you?”
Chester climbed aboard.
The pony sighed heavily.
“It’ll do.”
The tiny horse carried him forward at a speed slightly faster than walking.
George Jones trotted beside them.
His collar speaker began playing.
“Have you seen my chicken…”
And with that, Dustbucket Junction watched its hero disappear toward another impossible assignment.
Ahead lay angry goats.
Six hundred of them.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, the Gotebo Goat Ropers were saddling up.
The goats had no idea what was coming.
Unfortunately, neither did Chester.
The Leader of The Goats learned that Chester was in enroute and sent him this message…
Unfortunately…there was not an interpreter available to tell Chester what the Goat was saying. We will learn more about in our next episode!
Out in the Oklahoma Hills, where the oak and blackjack trees kiss the playful prairie breeze, and where the black oil rolls and flows while the snow-white cotton grows, Marshal Chester Finch is beginning to suspect that every town in the state has a livestock problem.
First chickens.
Now goats.
As he rides toward Gotebo atop a Shetland pony, Chester can’t help but wonder:
“Is Oklahoma really where I want to be, or am I just too stubborn to leave?”
The pony stood approximately the same height as George Jones.
The crowd watched silently.
“Marshal,” the mayor said carefully.
“Is that the horse they sent you?”
Chester climbed aboard.
The pony sighed heavily.
“It’ll do.”
The tiny horse carried him forward at a speed slightly faster than walking.
George Jones trotted beside them.
His collar speaker began playing.
“Have you seen my chicken…”
And with that, Dustbucket Junction watched its hero disappear toward another impossible assignment.
Ahead lay angry goats.
Six hundred of them.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, the Gotebo Goat Ropers were saddling up.
The goats had no idea what was coming.
Unfortunately, neither did Chester.
The Leader of The Goats learned that Chester was in enroute and sent him this message…
Unfortunately…there was not an interpreter available to tell Chester what the Goat was saying. We will learn more about in our next episode!
Out in the Oklahoma Hills, where the oak and blackjack trees kiss the playful prairie breeze, and where the black oil rolls and flows while the snow-white cotton grows, Marshal Chester Finch is beginning to suspect that every town in the state has a livestock problem.
First chickens.
Now goats.
As he rides toward Gotebo atop a Shetland pony, Chester can’t help but wonder:
“Is Oklahoma really where I want to be, or am I just too stubborn to leave?”
The people of Dustbucket Junction had decided that Marshal Chester Finch deserved recognition.
Chester’s Farewell! The Hero’s Celebration!
Not because he had actually defeated the chickens.
But because he had somehow survived them.
The town council voted unanimously to establish “Chester Finch Day,” a holiday that would be celebrated every year on the second Tuesday after the first Monday following whichever month seemed most convenient.
No one understood the schedule, but everyone agreed it sounded official.
By this point, Chester had developed a troubling habit.
He consumed breath mints at an alarming rate.
One container every day.
Sometimes two during periods of extreme poultry-related stress.
“Calms my nerves,” Chester explained.
Unfortunately, nobody listened anymore.
The only creature willing to hear his theories was a stray dog he had adopted after its owner abandoned town during the Great Chicken Takeover.
The dog’s full name was George Jones. Around town, everyone simply called him George. Attached to his collar, Chester had fastened a small digital audio player that endlessly played “Have You Seen My Chicken?” by the real George Jones whenever the dog trotted through town. Before long, residents could identify George’s whereabouts without ever seeing him. They merely listened for the distant twang of country music drifting down the street, followed by a dog that appeared to be conducting an active search for missing poultry. Chester thought the song being fastened to the dog was a great tactical advantage.
Nobody knew why.
The dog certainly didn’t.
Yet every morning Chester sat on the courthouse steps, shaking mints into his hand while George Jones listened patiently. Chester, would pet George and play the song from the front steps hoping if there were any chickens left in town people would report where they were seen.
“You know, George,” Chester said, crunching his eighteenth mint before breakfast, “these chickens were organized. I think they had committees.”
George scratched an ear.
“Exactly,”Chester nodded. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
The holiday celebration arrived under a blazing desert sun.
Children waved miniature moped flags.
Lou Anne sold commemorative burgers.
The mayor delivered a speech that lasted forty-seven minutes despite containing only six minutes of actual information. It had been interupted twelve times by George Jones who activated “Have You Seen My Chicken?” when he began scratching his neck and clipped the player on his collar.
Then came the unveiling of Chester’s statue.
A giant canvas covering was pulled away.
The crowd fell silent.
Chester stared.
George Jones tilted his head.
The sculptor slowly began backing toward his truck.
There, cast forever in bronze, was Chester Finch.
Only something wasn’t quite right.
Instead of riding his beloved moped, the statue showed Chester heroically astride a giant chicken.
The chicken stood twelve feet tall.
Its wings spread dramatically.
One claw rested atop a defeated rooster.
The bronze Chester held a bag of breath mints high above his head like a conquering warrior.
The resemblance was questionable.
The chicken, however, looked remarkably accurate.
“Well,”the mayor finally said, “that’s unfortunate.”
The sculptor cleared his throat.
“In my defense, all the photographs I found involved chickens.”
“Why am I holding mints?” Chester asked.
“Artistic interpretation.”
The crowd examined the monument.
A few people began laughing.
Then more joined in.
Soon the entire town was roaring with laughter.
Even Chester smiled.
George Jones barked approvingly.
For the first time since the Great Chicken Takeover began, nobody was worried.
Nobody was frightened.
Nobody was being chased by poultry.
They were simply laughing together.
As the sun began to set over Dustbucket Junction, Chester stood beside his accidental monument.
He popped another breath mint into his mouth.
George Jones sat beside him.
The giant bronze chicken cast a shadow across the town square.
And somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed.
The sound made Chester nervous.
He immediately ate three more mints.
Just to be safe.
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time.
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes!
Several chickens immediately fled through open windows.
Others escaped through the chimney.
One reportedly tunneled through a wall.
Within seconds the farmhouse was completely cleared.
The Dinklages erupted into cheers.
General Clawford dove out a window and vanished into the darkness.
The hostage crisis was over.
Or so it seemed.
At that exact moment, the fleeing chickens crashed into a group of outlaw chicken smugglers hiding behind the barn.
The smugglers panicked.
They ran into the county livestock inspector.
Who panicked.
He backed into a manure wagon.
Which rolled downhill.
Into the smugglers’ truck.
Which crashed into a fence.
Which released three angry goats.
The goats chased everyone into the sheriff’s office.
Where they accidentally confessed to every crime they had committed over the previous five years.
Marshal Finch arrived just in time to witness the arrests.
The sheriff shook his head.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Neither have I,” Finch admitted.
The sheriff looked at him.
“So what exactly did you do?”
Finch thought about it.
“Mostly I turned on the siren.”
The sheriff nodded.
“Fair enough.”
The next morning the town held a celebration.
Mayor Buckley presented Finch with a plaque.
It read:
FOR OUTSTANDING SERVICE IN A SITUATION THAT RESOLVED ITSELF
Finch proudly accepted.
Then he spent six hours writing the official report.
The report was 127 pages long.
Most of it consisted of diagrams showing chicken movements.
The final sentence read:
‘Marshal Finch successfully arrived after events had already begun resolving themselves.’
To this day it remains the most honest law enforcement report in Clucker’s Gap history.
As sunset painted the sky orange, Finch climbed aboard his faithful moped.
His beacon flashed.
His siren chirped.
A distant rooster crowed.
And somewhere beyond the town limits, General Clawford was undoubtedly planning something foolish.
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time. Where the Sun is High. The Desert is Hot. And the Time Never Changes!
Marshal Finch sighed.
Trouble never rested.
And neither, apparently, did chickens.
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes! 🐔🏍️🚨
The Town Has A June 15th Fireworks Show – No Thanks To The Chickens!
The people of Clucker’s Gap believed they had finally solved their chicken problem.
This would prove to be incorrect.
The town’s Fourth of July fireworks had been secretly hidden inside the county fairgrounds agriculture barn.
“Chickens never go into barns,” declared Mayor Buckley.
Several farmers attempted to object.
Unfortunately, they were ignored.
To make matters worse, someone had been scattering nitrogen-enhanced chicken feed all over town.
The feed had been developed by Professor Cornelius Peabody, who claimed it would increase egg production.
It certainly increased something.
The chickens had become larger.
Faster.
And considerably more opinionated.
No one knew who was distributing the feed.
No one knew where it was stored.
And no one knew why every chicken seemed capable of jumping fences they previously respected.
Standing above it all was the county barn’s famous cupola.
Inside hung the Eternal Lantern.
For fifty years the lantern had burned day and night.
No one knew who filled it.
No one knew where the fuel came from.
And no one could remember a time when it had ever gone out.
Naturally, no one questioned it.
That was mistake number one.
The evening of June 15th arrived warm and still.
Marshal Chester Finch was conducting his weekly Moped Safety Awareness Patrol.
His red beacon flashed.
His siren occasionally squeaked.
Children waved.
Finch accidentally threw hard candy at a mailbox.
The mailbox surrendered.
Everything appeared normal.
Then came the first sign of trouble.
A chicken landed on the roof of the agriculture barn.
Then another.
Then twenty.
Then approximately four hundred and sixty-seven more.
Farmer Jenkins pointed upward.
“Why are they all gathering there?”
No one knew.
The chickens began pecking furiously at the cupola.
The old wood rattled.
The Eternal Lantern swayed.
A single spark drifted downward.
Right into a hay bale.
Nothing happened.
For three whole seconds.
Then…
WHOOOMPH!
The hay erupted.
The hidden fireworks ignited.
Rockets blasted through the barn walls.
Roman candles shot across the fairgrounds.
Bottle rockets chased the mayor.
Catherine wheels attached themselves to two tractors.
Someone’s prize pig briefly achieved flight.
Then came the second explosion.
The mysterious nitrogen-enhanced chicken feed.
Two thousand pounds of it.
The blast launched a mushroom cloud of feed, feathers, and confusion three hundred feet into the air.
The shockwave lifted townspeople off their feet.
The sheriff landed in a watermelon patch.
The mayor landed in the county pond.
The town band landed in perfect formation and continued playing.
Marshal Finch and his moped achieved temporary aviation.
Witnesses later estimated they traveled nearly seventy-five yards before splashdown.
The giant plume drifted over the county.
For several moments it resembled a chicken.
No one found that comforting.
As the dust settled, the entire town emerged from the pond covered in feathers and fish.
Mayor Buckley stood waist-deep in water.
His hat floated past.
“I suppose,” he said, “we should have hidden the fireworks somewhere else.”
Finch removed a catfish from his boot.
According to regulation manual Section 27, Paragraph 9, he informed the crowd:
“Any fireworks storage plan that ends with livestock becoming airborne is officially discouraged.”
The crowd nodded.
That seemed reasonable.
Then everyone froze.
From the far side of the pond came a familiar sound.
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOO!
General Clawford stood atop the water tower.
Beside him sat a wooden crate.
Stamped across the side were the words:
“PROPERTY OF THE CHICKEN KING.”
Marshal Finch slowly adjusted his hat.
“I thought we settled this.”
General Clawford merely smiled.
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time.
Or at least it looked like a smile.
And somewhere in the darkness, another lantern flickered to life.
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes! 🐔🏍️💥🧨.
James Talarico is a Presbyterian seminarian running for the U.S. Senate in Texas, and his comments about Christianity have ignited a fierce debate.
James Talarico is a Presbyterian seminarian running for the U.S. Senate in Texas
The controversy began after Talarico told comedian and host Stephen Colbert that Jesus never explicitly mentioned abortion or same-sex marriage in the Gospels. The reaction from some conservative commentators was immediate and intense.
Podcaster Benny Johnson accused him of distorting Christianity. A host on Newsmax questioned his interpretation of scripture. Even Riley Moore suggested on a political program that Talarico’s views were spiritually dangerous.
Yet the passages Talarico cites are among the most familiar in the Bible.
In Matthew 22, Jesus summarizes the law with two commands: love God and love your neighbor. In Matthew 25, he speaks of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, welcoming strangers, caring for the sick, and visiting prisoners.
These are not obscure verses tucked away in scripture. They are central teachings, repeated in sermons, printed on church walls, and taught to generations of Christians.
For Talarico, these passages point toward a simple but profound idea: that society is measured by how it treats those who are vulnerable—the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, and the outsider.
Others disagree with his political conclusions or argue that Christian teachings encompass a broader set of moral issues. That disagreement is not new. American politics has long wrestled with competing interpretations of faith and public life.
What makes this moment notable is how intensely the argument has become personal.
Critics accuse Talarico of misrepresenting Christianity. Supporters argue he is reminding people of teachings they believe have been overshadowed by political battles.
Whatever side one takes, the underlying questions remain:
Who gets to define the role of faith in public life?
What teachings deserve the greatest emphasis?
And can political movements built around religious identity tolerate interpretations that challenge their assumptions?
These are not questions that will be settled in a television interview, a podcast, or a campaign speech.
But they are questions Americans continue to ask.
And the verses themselves remain where they have always been—waiting in the pages of scripture, inviting each reader to decide what they mean and how they should be lived.
Meanwhile –
Ted Cruz said James Talarico isn’t “masculine,” and Talarico answered with a list of what real men never do. The smear came Monday on Fox News, where Cruz declared that if you were making a list of 1,000 adjectives to describe the Texas Democrat, “masculine” would not be one of them, then added that a stiff breeze would blow him over like a feather.
The attack was not a one-off. Since Talarico won the Democratic nomination and pulled ahead of Ken Paxton in the polls, the Republican machine has gone all in on manhood.
Paxton called him “too low-T for Texas.” White House aide Stephen Miller falsely claimed Democrats had nominated “their first transgender senate candidate,” a lie about a man who is neither transgender nor, for the record, the vegan they also keep insisting he is.
None of it touches his actual record. That is the point.
On MS NOW with Jen Psaki on Thursday, Talarico took the question head on, and he answered it with a lawn mower.
He told the story of Mark Talarico, the adoptive father who gave him his last name.
Every Saturday morning, rain or shine, whether he wanted to or not, his dad mowed the family’s lawn. Then, without anyone asking, he walked next door and mowed the lawn of their neighbor, an elderly widow.
He never talked about it. He just did it.
That, Talarico said, is what a man does.
A man takes responsibility. A man upholds his commitments to his family and his neighbors. A man does what’s right even when no one is watching.
Then came the other half. “They don’t lie and cheat their way through life. They don’t sell their soul to the highest bidder. They don’t steal from other people in order to enrich themselves.”
Real men serve others, he said. Weak men serve themselves. And he closed the door on his way out: he doesn’t think Ken Paxton or Ted Cruz are in a position to tell anybody what a real man is.
The list reads differently considering who it was aimed at.
Cruz spent 2016 watching Donald Trump publicly mock his wife’s appearance, then endorsed him and became one of his most loyal soldiers.
When a deadly winter storm froze Texas in 2021, Cruz boarded a flight to Cancun.
Paxton was impeached on bribery and corruption charges by his own Republican colleagues in the Texas House, and his wife filed for divorce last year citing adultery.
Mark Talarico never talked about the widow’s lawn. He just mowed it. Some men do what’s right when no one is watching.
Chester Finch brings person of interest to town meeting.
The town square was packed.
Five hundred chickens perched on rooftops, wagon wheels, fence posts, and one very nervous barber pole. The townsfolk stood shoulder to shoulder waiting for Marshal Chester Finch to reveal the identity of the mysterious Chicken King.
The Marshal slowly climbed onto a wooden crate.
His moped sputtered beside him.
The emergency beacon spun lazily.
A chicken pecked the siren button.
“WEE-OOO! WEE-OOO!”
The crowd gasped.
Mayor Buckley adjusted his neck brace, still recovering from being chased into the water tower three weeks earlier.
“Marshal Finch,”he shouted.
“Tell us who is behind this poultry madness!”
Finch removed a folded sheet of paper from his regulation handbook.
He cleared his throat.
Then he accidentally dropped the paper.
A chicken picked it up and ran.
After a brief chase involving three deputies, a garden rake, and a wheelbarrow, the Marshal recovered the document.
He unfolded it dramatically.
“The mastermind,”
Finch announced,
“is neither outlaw nor criminal.”
The crowd murmured.
“It is…”
Horace Wimple exposed!
A gust of wind blew his hat off.
Another chicken stole it.
After recovering both hat and dignity, Finch continued.
“It is retired schoolteacher, Mr. Horace Wimple.”
The crowd erupted.
“MR. WIMPLE?”
The old teacher stepped forward carrying a piece of chalk and looking mildly embarrassed.
“Now hold on,”said Finch.
“Hear the man out.”
Mr. Wimple adjusted his spectacles.
“Well,”
he began,
“I was tired of everyone arguing.”
The crowd looked confused.
“You fought over parking spots.”
The crowd nodded.
“You argued about whose pie won the county fair.”
Several bakers glared at each other.
“You couldn’t even agree on the color of the new water tower.”
The mayor lowered his eyes.
Wimple continued,
“I decided the town needed a common problem.”
“A common problem?”
shouted someone.
“Yes.”
The teacher pointed toward the sea of chickens.
“If everyone was busy dealing with chickens, they wouldn’t be busy fighting each other.”
The crowd fell silent.
Several people slowly looked around.
For the first time in months they noticed something.
The blacksmith was standing beside the baker.
The banker was talking with the mechanic.
The mayor and sheriff were sharing a lemonade.
Even the town’s two most stubborn brothers were helping remove chickens from a church steeple.
Mr. Wimple smiled.
“For the first time in years, everyone worked together.”
The crowd didn’t know whether to applaud or demand a refund.
Marshal Finch scratched his chin.
“Well,”
he finally said,
“that is certainly the strangest civic improvement plan I’ve ever encountered.”
The retired teacher nodded proudly.
“I was aiming for unusual.”
“You succeeded.”
Just then a tremendous crowing erupted from the center of town.
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOO!
The enormous fighting rooster known as General Clawford strutted into the square.
His polished spurs gleamed in the sunlight.
Every chicken immediately fell silent.
The giant rooster stared directly at Marshal Finch.
Finch stared back.
The townspeople held their breath.
Then General Clawford slowly walked forward.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Until he stopped beside Finch.
The rooster bowed.
The crowd gasped.
Marshal Finch looked down.
General Clawford dropped a small wooden sign at his feet.
Painted across it were the words:
“THANK YOU FOR THE ENTERTAINMENT.”
The rooster turned.
Every chicken in town followed him.
Within minutes the entire flock marched out of town like a feathery army.
The townspeople stood speechless.
The mayor blinked.
“Did… did the chickens just leave?”
“They did,“ said Finch.
“Why?”
Finch shrugged.
“According to regulation manual section 14, paragraph 6…”
He opened his book.
The page was blank.
“Huh.”
The crowd waited.
Finch closed the book.
“I got nothing.”
That evening the town held the largest picnic in its history.
Old arguments were forgotten.
Friendships were renewed.
If for no other reason a town meeting is great for creating slogans
And retired schoolteacher Horace Wimple was officially prohibited from solving future civic problems without written permission.
As the sun set over the town, Marshal Chester Finch climbed onto his faithful moped.
The beacon flashed.
The siren chirped.
A chicken feather drifted past on the breeze.
Finch smiled.
Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard one final crow.
Or perhaps it was merely a warning.
For trouble, as Finch knew well, never stays gone for long.
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes! 🐔🏍️☀️.
The townspeople of Finchfield had survived the Great Egg Fight.
Chester Meets General Drumstick And Feathers Fly!
Barely.
The streets still smelled faintly of breakfast.
Eggshells covered the boardwalks.
The mayor had spent two days trying to remove dried yolk from his hat.
And Marshal Chester Finch had completed a forty-three-page report entitled:
“Municipal Egg-Related Disturbances and Associated Hazards.”
It was considered his finest work.
Unfortunately, trouble was once again approaching town.
And this time it arrived on a train.
The locomotive hissed to a stop.
The passengers stepped off.
The conductor stepped off.
Then everyone stepped back on.
Because the final crate being unloaded contained something terrifying.
Something dangerous.
Something mean.
Painted on the side were the words:
WARNING PROPERTY OF THE FEATHERED BROTHERHOOD DO NOT ANNOY
The crate suddenly shook.
A loud THUMP echoed from inside.
Then another.
The workers immediately abandoned the crate.
One resigned.
Another changed professions.
A third moved to New Mexico.
The crate burst open.
Out stepped the largest rooster anyone had ever seen.
He stood nearly waist-high.
His feathers were black as midnight.
His eyes burned with mischief.
And attached to his legs were polished fighting spurs that gleamed in the Arizona sun.
The crowd gasped.
The rooster slowly surveyed the town.
Then crowed.
Windows rattled.
Dogs hid.
Several chickens fainted.
The rooster’s name was known throughout the territory.
General Drumstick.
The undisputed champion of outlaw rooster fighting.
The terror of chicken coops.
The undefeated ruler of barnyards from Texas to California.
Legend claimed he once stared down a coyote.
The coyote apologized.
The Feathered Brotherhood smiled.
At last they possessed a weapon powerful enough to challenge Marshal Finch.
That afternoon General Drumstick marched through town.
Regular chickens followed behind him.
They admired him.
They feared him.
Some took notes.
The rooster strutted directly into the town square and kicked over a barrel.
Then another.
Then a third just because he enjoyed it.
Marshal Finch arrived moments later aboard his faithful moped.
The safety beacon spun.
The siren chirped.
The engine coughed twice and stalled.
Finch looked at the rooster.
The rooster looked at Finch.
The entire town held its breath.
A tumbleweed rolled past.
The rooster lowered his head.
Finch opened his regulation handbook.
The rooster scraped one fighting spur across the dirt.
Finch turned a page.
The rooster took a step forward.
Finch adjusted his glasses.
The rooster took another step.
Finally Finch found what he was looking for.
He cleared his throat.
“According to Municipal Poultry Ordinance 7-B…”
The rooster charged.
The Marshal leaped onto his moped.
The moped sputtered to life.
And for the next fifteen minutes the citizens of Finchfield witnessed the fastest pursuit in town history.
A giant fighting rooster chasing a lawman around the town square.
Past the barber shop.
Past the feed store.
Through the mayor’s rose garden.
Around the water tower.
Twice.
The chase ended only when General Drumstick became distracted by his own reflection in a store window.
The rooster attacked the glass.
The glass won.
Marshal Finch escaped.
For now.
But as the sun set over Finchfield, everyone understood a terrible truth.
The chickens had found a leader.
A dangerous one.
And somewhere inside Peterson’s Feed & Grain, the Feathered Brotherhood was planning its next move.
A move that could finally put the town under chicken control forever.
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes! 🐔🛵🌵
Election equipment is not supposed to become the story.
AI-generated illustrative image (synthography). Individuals, equipment, vehicles, and activities shown are artistic representations intended to accompany reporting on the event and do not depict actual footage, photographs, or verified scenes from the incident.
The votes are supposed to be the story.
The candidates are supposed to be the story.
The voters are supposed to be the story.
Yet in Maricopa County this week, attention turned to a ballot scanner and the questions surrounding its movement during an election process.
According to reports, county officials are investigating an incident involving a pre-tabulation ballot scanner that was allegedly removed from an election facility, transported to another location, and later returned. County officials have described security footage showing the movement of the equipment, while representatives of the Recorder’s Office argue their employees were acting within their responsibilities. Investigations and court actions are now underway to determine what occurred and whether any policies were violated.
The facts will ultimately be sorted out by investigators and the courts.
But there is a larger issue worth discussing.
Public confidence.
In modern America, elections are no longer judged solely by whether they are conducted properly. They are judged by whether voters believe they were conducted properly.
That may not seem fair to election officials, but it is reality.
The public expects election equipment to remain secure.
The public expects ballots to remain secure.
The public expects clear procedures, documented chains of custody, and transparent explanations when questions arise.
Even actions that may ultimately prove harmless can create suspicion when voters do not fully understand what occurred.
Trust works much the same way.
It takes years to build and only moments to damage.
Maricopa County has spent years at the center of election controversies, investigations, audits, lawsuits, accusations, and political disagreements. Whether justified or not, many voters already approach election news with heightened concern.
That is why every election official, every supervisor, every recorder, and every election worker carries a special responsibility.
Not only must elections be secure.
They must appear secure.
Not only must procedures be followed.
The public must be able to see that procedures are being followed.
Americans do not all agree on politics.
They never have.
But they should be able to agree on one thing:
Every eligible voter deserves confidence that their ballot is handled properly from beginning to end.
The investigation will eventually determine what happened with the scanner.
The larger challenge may be restoring something even more valuable.
Trust.
Because once confidence in the process disappears, every election becomes harder to accept, regardless of who wins.
And that may be the greatest challenge facing American elections today.
If we lose TRUST. And everyones vote is no longer handled in the same manner. So the votes all count as they should. It is important to consider the powers who have swooped into electorial offices, state houses, and federal offices. If they have violated that trust, they do not belong in those positions. They have failed to uphold the most basic of citizen’s right. The right to have their voice be heard, counted, and measured in the same balance as the next citizen.
During the weeks Marshal Finch was occupied battling chickens, the chickens secretly organized.Led by a radical rooster faction known as the United Poultry Front, they held an unauthorized election behind Peterson's Feed & Grain.The vote was conducted under questionable circumstances.Only chickens were allowed to vote.The ballot contained one question:Should Finchfield be renamed Clucksville?
Yes
Absolutely Yes
More Corn
The measure passed overwhelmingly.The chickens immediately erected new signs around town.Unfortunately, no human noticed because everyone was busy avoiding peckings.The town remained legally Finchfield. But, the signs said otherwise.
The Chickens had grown very bold.
So bold, in fact, they had secretly held an election.
Marshal Finch A Good Day For A Egg Fight In Cluckville
Nobody knew about it.
Nobody attended it.
Nobody was invited. Except for those Foul – Birds!
And somehow the chickens voted unanimously to rename Finchfield.
Overnight new signs appeared reading:
WELCOME TO CLUCKSVILLE
C-L-U-C-K-S-V-I-L-L-E
The town charter stated animals can’t vote.
The chickens simply ignored that fact.
Overnight new signs appeared reading: WELCOME TO CLUCKSVILLE
Marshal Chester Finch discovered one of the signs and ballots while riding his moped to work.
He studied the sign carefully.Then consulted the town charter.Then consulted the county charter.
Then consulted three separate books regarding poultry authority.
Finally he announced: "I am reasonably certain chickens cannot rename a municipality.""The chickens disagreed."
The citizens of Cluckville awoke to an unusual sight.
For the first time in weeks, the chickens appeared calm.
No one had been chased into a tree.
No wagons had been overturned.
No mail carriers had been forced to seek refuge atop water towers.
In fact, the chickens seemed… content.
Marshal Chester Finch parked his sputtering moped near the town square and studied the situation carefully.
He adjusted his safety helmet.
Reviewed three pages of poultry regulations.
Then peered through a pair of borrowed binoculars.
The chickens were everywhere.
Perched on rooftops.
Sitting on fences.
Gathered around feed barrels.
And nearly every one of them appeared to be laying eggs.
Finch lowered the binoculars.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “it could be a good day for egg laying.”
The townspeople gathered around.
No one knew exactly what that meant.
But everyone agreed it sounded official.
Within hours, baskets of eggs began appearing throughout town.
Hundreds of them.
Then thousands.
The local grocer ran out of storage.
The feed store filled completely.
One farmer reported his barn looked like a giant omelet waiting to happen.
By noon, the town faced a new crisis.
Too many eggs.
Nobody knew what to do with them.
Then old Mrs. Weatherby offered a suggestion.
“What if we throw them at each other?”
There was a moment of silence.
Then enthusiastic cheering.
By one o’clock, Cluckville’s First Annual Emergency Egg Festival was underway.
Rules were established.
Mostly.
Children formed teams.
Adults formed teams.
Even several chickens appeared to organize into teams.
Marshal Finch was appointed Official Referee because no one else wanted the responsibility.
The first egg sailed through the air.
It struck the town banker squarely on the forehead.
The crowd erupted.
The battle had begun.
Eggs flew from every direction.
Neighbors attacked neighbors.
Children ambushed adults.
The mayor accidentally hit himself while attempting an underhand toss.
The town doctor declared it the healthiest civic activity he had witnessed all year.
For nearly three glorious hours, Cluckville forgot about its troubles.
People laughed.
People cheered.
People slipped repeatedly. Some egg fights went off better than others. Some people, didn’t take it well.
Egg yolk covered nearly every building in town.
Even the chickens appeared entertained.
Then everything changed.
A rider arrived from the northern road.
His horse was exhausted.
His hat was crooked.
And his expression was one of pure alarm.
He galloped directly into the town square.
The egg fight stopped instantly.
An egg bounced harmlessly off the horse’s saddle.
The rider pointed toward the hills.
“The Feathered Brotherhood!”
The crowd gasped.
Marshal Finch removed a piece of eggshell from his shoulder.
“What about them?”
The rider swallowed hard.
“They’ve collected enough protection money to hire reinforcements.”
The town grew silent.
“What kind of reinforcements?”asked Finch.
The rider hesitated.
“You aren’t going to like this.”
“No one ever says that before good news.”
The rider nodded.
“They’re bringing in trained chickens.”
The townspeople stared.
The chickens stared.
Even the horse appeared concerned.
Marshal Finch slowly closed his notebook.
This was becoming serious.
Very serious.
Because regular chickens were difficult enough.
But trained chickens?
That was an entirely different level of poultry-related emergency.
Finch climbed onto his moped.
The engine coughed.
The siren chirped.
The safety beacon spun.
And somewhere in the distance came the unmistakable sound of hundreds of chickens marching in formation.
The battle for Cluckville was about to enter a dangerous new chapter.
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes!
What if the biggest force in American politics isn’t ideology, but exhaustion?
“Do They Expect Me To Believe This?”
Every election cycle seems to arrive with the promise that this one will finally settle things.
It never does.
The arguments continue. The accusations continue. The campaigns never seem to end.
And yet, beneath the daily headlines, another possibility may be emerging.
What if the next major political movement in America isn’t driven by the far left or the far right?
What if it is driven by people who are simply tired?
Tired of being angry.
Tired of being told to hate neighbors who vote differently.
“God, he’s doing it again!”
Tired of waking up every morning to discover another crisis demanding immediate outrage.
For nearly a decade, American politics has been fueled by conflict. Political strategists understand something that television networks and social media platforms have learned as well: outrage captures attention.
Anger keeps viewers watching.
Fear keeps voters engaged.
Conflict generates clicks.
But there is evidence that many Americans may be reaching a saturation point.
“Again, with that?”
Poll after poll has shown declining trust in institutions, political parties, media organizations, and government itself. Yet beneath that distrust may be something more important: a desire for normalcy.
History suggests that political pendulums rarely stop at the extremes.
Eventually voters begin looking for stability.
Not excitement.
“AHH! No more pop up political ads!”
Not revolution.
Not constant crisis.
Just stability.
The nation has seen similar periods before. Following years of upheaval, Americans have often sought leaders who promised calm rather than confrontation. Sometimes those leaders succeeded. Sometimes they did not. But the desire itself repeatedly emerged.
Could that happen again?
No one knows.
It just never ends…
Political forecasting has become a risky business. Recent elections have repeatedly surprised experts from every perspective.
But one possibility seems worth considering.
The next political shift may not be a movement toward one party or another.
It may be a movement away from perpetual conflict.
Americans may begin rewarding candidates who spend less time attacking opponents and more time discussing solutions.
They may become less interested in political celebrities and more interested in competent managers.
They may become less concerned with winning arguments and more concerned with lowering costs, improving schools, strengthening infrastructure, and maintaining public safety.
If that happens, the political landscape could change rapidly.
Not because voters changed their beliefs.
But because they changed their priorities.
Perhaps the most important question facing the nation is not whether America will become more conservative or more progressive.
“Please just let me drive to work in peace”
It may be whether Americans decide they are simply exhausted by the constant fight.
And if enough people reach that point, the next great political movement could be something surprisingly rare in modern politics:
A movement toward peace, practicality, and common ground.
The future remains uncertain.
But if history teaches anything, it is that voters eventually tire of turmoil.
The question is whether that moment is approaching once again.
The sheriff had not only resigned, but had moved three counties away and opened a curtain shop under an assumed name.
And Marshal Chester Finch?
He was busy reading municipal poultry ordinances by lantern light and making careful notes in a small notebook titled “Chicken-Related Emergencies, Revised Edition.”
Unfortunately, trouble was about to get worse.
Much worse.
Because somewhere beyond town limits, three former outlaws sat around a campfire discussing a business opportunity.
It was difficult to ignore.
The chickens had become the most feared force in the territory.
Nobody could stop them.
Nobody could control them.
And terrified citizens were willing to pay almost anything for protection.
The largest outlaw, Buck “Two-Toes” Hanley, slapped his knee.
“Gentlemen,”
he announced,
“we are looking at the future.”
The others stared.
“The future of what?”
“Crime.”
The men nodded thoughtfully.
Crime was something they understood.
Within days they had formed a new organization.
A secret criminal empire.
A shadowy syndicate.
A feather-powered protection racket.
They called themselves:
The Feathered Brotherhood.
Their advertisements appeared overnight.
PROTECTION FROM CHICKENS!
LOW WEEKLY RATES!
NO REFUNDS IF PECKED!
Business was booming before breakfast.
What the townspeople didn’t know was that the Brotherhood had established its headquarters right in the middle of town.
Hidden inside Peterson’s Feed & Grain Store.
The perfect disguise.
After all, no one would suspect criminals operating from a building already filled with chicken feed, feathers, and suspicious noises.
Behind a false wall in the grain warehouse sat their secret meeting room.
Maps covered the walls.
Chicken movement reports were pinned to bulletin boards.
A large chalkboard listed criminal objectives:
Collect protection money.
Avoid chickens.
Collect more protection money.
Continue avoiding chickens.
The plan was flawless.
Or so they thought.
Because nothing escaped the attention of Marshal Chester Finch.
Well…
Almost nothing.
Finch had actually visited the feed store twice that week.
Once to purchase emergency moped fuel.
And once because he thought they sold sandwiches.
Still, a clue finally appeared.
A frightened farmer reported seeing several outlaws carrying sacks labeled:
“Definitely Not Secret Criminal Supplies.”
Finch immediately became suspicious.
Years of law enforcement experience had taught him one important lesson.
Anyone carrying a sack labeled “Definitely Not Secret Criminal Supplies”was almost certainly carrying secret criminal supplies.
The Marshal climbed aboard his sputtering moped.
He adjusted his safety beacon.
Checked his siren.
Reviewed three pages of regulations concerning poultry-related organized crime.
Then slowly rolled toward town.
The chickens watched from rooftops.
The Feathered Brotherhood watched from behind feed sacks.
The townspeople peeked nervously through windows.
Something big was coming.
And for the first time since the chicken uprising began, the outlaws were no longer afraid of the birds.
They were afraid of Chester Finch.
Which was fortunate.
Because the chickens weren’t.
AZ Time Never Changes
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes! 🐔🏜️🛵
Why the Future of Democracy Belongs to People, Not Boundaries
~~~~ ### ~~~~
Politicians have spent generations arguing over maps.
I Want You To Vote In This Election!
Every decade, after the national census is completed, district lines are redrawn across America. Lawsuits follow. Editorials are written. Citizens attend hearings. Political parties accuse one another of manipulating boundaries for advantage.
The debate is as old as the nation itself.
Yet amid all the arguments over lines, colors, and voting precincts, one reality is often overlooked:
Maps are temporary. People are not.
Throughout American history, those who sought to shape political power frequently focused on geography. But the forces that have transformed America have rarely originated from a mapmaker’s desk.
They came from ordinary people moving toward opportunity.
When millions of Americans headed west in the nineteenth century, the political balance of the nation changed.
When African Americans left the South during the Great Migration and settled in northern and western cities, political power shifted.
Photo by Edmond Dantu
When industries rose and fell, populations followed jobs. When housing boomed, communities expanded. When retirees sought warmer climates, entire states gained influence in Congress.
None of those transformations were directed by district boundaries. They were driven by human decisions. The lesson remains relevant today.
Political maps may influence elections for a period of time. They can affect which candidates run, how campaigns are conducted, and which communities are grouped together. Courts have recognized that district boundaries matter because representation matters.
Yet history repeatedly demonstrates that no map remains powerful forever.
A Current Example
The principle can be seen even in recent voter registration data.
According to figures released by the Maricopa County Arizona Elections Office, during the month of May, registered Democrats in Maricopa County increased by 516 voters, while registered Republicans declined by 1,772 voters.
Whether those numbers represent a temporary fluctuation or the beginning of a longer trend remains to be seen. Political fortunes often rise and fall from one election cycle to the next.
What the figures do demonstrate, however, is that political landscapes are never frozen in place.
Photo by Sora Shimazaki
Every month, people move into communities. Others move away. Some voters change their party affiliation. Young citizens register for the first time. Others choose to become independents. The electorate is constantly evolving.
That reality reinforces a lesson that history has repeatedly taught: no political map remains static because the people living within those boundaries do not remain static.
The balance of political influence can change not only because district lines are redrawn, but because citizens themselves continue to reshape the communities in which they live.
New families move in.
Young people reach voting age.
Businesses open and close.
The reality is that political change does not always come from manipulation, conspiracy, or wrongdoing. More often, it comes from the natural ebb and flow of society itself.
Neighborhoods change.
Communities grow.
And eventually, political assumptions that once seemed permanent begin to disappear.
America’s political history is filled with examples of districts, counties, and states that once voted overwhelmingly one way before shifting in entirely different directions a generation later.
The reason is simple.
Maps may define where votes are counted.
People determine how those votes are cast.
That distinction is important because it reminds us where the true power of democracy resides.
Not in the pen of a mapmaker.
Not in a legislative chamber.
Not even in a courtroom.
Ultimately, democracy survives because citizens continue to participate.
A district line may influence a contest.
A voter influences the outcome.
One line exists on paper.
The other exists in reality.
Closing Thought
Photo by Rosemary Ketchum
The history of America suggests that every political map comes with an expiration date.
Population growth, migration, economic opportunity, and generational change eventually reshape communities in ways no cartographer can fully predict.
Political boundaries may guide representation for a time.
But the future has always belonged to the people who live within them.The reality is that political change does not always come from manipulation, conspiracy, or wrongdoing. More often, it comes from the natural ebb and flow of society itself.
Political maps may define where votes are counted. But people determine how those votes are cast. And as Maricopa County’s own voter registration figures demonstrate, the makeup of the electorate is changing every day—regardless of where the lines on the map happen to fall. And that may be the most democratic truth of all.
Your Right To Vote Is An Opportunity Others Never Get!
People move. Communities grow. Generations change. New voters enter the system while others leave it behind. These tides of change have shaped American politics since the nation’s founding.
Not everyone accepts the outcome when elections produce results they did not expect. In fact, disputes over election results are nothing new. Since the closely contested 2000 presidential election between George W. Bush and Al Gore, which ultimately required intervention by the Supreme Court, questions, challenges, and objections have become a recurring feature of national political life regardless of which party prevailed.
Yet the strength of democracy has never rested on unanimous agreement. It rests on the willingness of citizens to participate, to make their voices heard, and to continue engaging in the process even when the outcome is not the one they hoped for.
Maps can be redrawn. Political fortunes can rise and fall. But democracy endures because the people themselves continue to shape its future
According to comments posted by citizens following his passing, concerns have been raised that local Oklahoma news media largely overlooked the public service of former Oklahoma City Council member and Acting Mayor Guy Liebmann.
Groff Media reviewed coverage from Oklahoma City’s three major television news outlets—News 9, KOCO 5, and KFOR—as well as Oklahoma’s largest newspaper, The Oklahoman. Aside from a death notice appearing in paid obituary advertising space, we found little or no reporting recognizing Liebmann’s years of service to Oklahoma City and the State of Oklahoma.
Whether this reflects changing news priorities or simply an oversight, it has prompted some residents to question why a public servant who devoted decades to civic leadership received so little attention from the institutions that regularly document the history of the community he served.
Unlike that situation. Groff Media will recognize the individual.
Liebmann died on June 8, 2026, leaving behind a legacy of public service that stretched from the Oklahoma City Council to the Oklahoma House of Representatives and included a brief but significant period as Oklahoma City’s acting mayor.
Born in Shawnee on April 27, 1936, Liebmann graduated from Oklahoma City’s Classen High School before earning a degree in business management from the University of Oklahoma. He later served as an officer in the United States Marine Corps before entering a successful career in real estate and investments.
Many Oklahomans may remember Liebmann best for his service on the Oklahoma City Council representing Ward 8. In November 2003, following the resignation of Mayor Kirk Humphreys, Liebmann was appointed acting mayor and guided the city until voters elected Mick Cornett in March 2004.
Though his time as mayor lasted only a few months, it came during an important chapter in Oklahoma City’s development. The city was continuing its transformation into a nationally recognized metropolitan area, and Liebmann helped provide stability during a period of leadership transition.
During his service on the council and as acting mayor, Liebmann worked with several important city organizations, including the Oklahoma City Water Trust, the Convention and Visitors Bureau, and the Oklahoma City Fairgrounds Trust.
After leaving City Hall, Liebmann continued his public service by representing House District 82 in the Oklahoma House of Representatives from 2005 through 2013.
His public career reflected a belief that local government matters. While many political careers are measured by headlines and controversy, Liebmann’s legacy was built largely through committee work, civic involvement, and a willingness to serve when called upon.
Today, Oklahoma City residents drive roads, utilize services, and enjoy civic improvements that were influenced by the efforts of countless local officials whose names rarely appear in history books. Guy Liebmann was one of those individuals.
As news of his passing spreads, Oklahomans have an opportunity to remember a generation of civic leaders who dedicated years of their lives to public service, often with little recognition beyond the communities they served.
Funeral arrangements have been entrusted to Smith & Kernke Funeral Directors in Oklahoma City. At the time of publication, the funeral home reported that memorial service details were still pending and would be announced when finalized.
There were so many chickens taking over the town, it took two posts to tell the events of Chapter Two!
The situation in town had gone from bad to worse.
The Colonels is Coming To Town!
The escaped chickens now controlled Main Street.
They strutted through intersections without looking both ways.
They occupied porches.
They stole sandwiches.
One particularly aggressive rooster had taken possession of the barber shop and refused to leave.
Nobody knew what to do.
Nobody except Marshal Chester Finch.
Or at least that was the rumor.
The truth was that Finch was sitting on the edge of his sputtering moped reading a poultry handbook he had purchased from a traveling salesman.
Unfortunately, the handbook’s most useful advice was:
“Avoid angry chickens.”
The Marshal needed something better.
Much better.
Then inspiration struck.
It arrived in the form of a grease-stained advertisement blowing down the street.
Finch snatched it from the air.
His eyes widened.
“Of course,”
he whispered.
“If chickens fear anything…”
He paused.
“…it might be Colonel Sanders.”
The plan was ridiculous.
Which made it perfect.
Within hours, Finch had assembled a group of volunteer actors from neighboring towns.
Several retired theater performers.
A traveling country singer who strongly resembled Reba McEntire from a distance.
A retired school principal.
A dentist.
And one confused accordion player who thought he was attending a church social.
Finch handed each of them a white suit.
A black string tie.
And a fake goatee.
The operation was named:
ProjectColonel Thunder.
The next morning, a wagon rolled into town carrying twelve imitation Colonel Sanders figures.
The actors climbed down dramatically.
The townspeople cheered.
The chickens stared suspiciously.
One brave actor stepped forward.
He adjusted his spectacles.
Pointed dramatically toward a flock.
And shouted:
“Return to your coop!”
The chickens looked at him.
The chickens blinked.
The chickens charged.
Project Colonel Thunder lasted approximately eleven seconds.
The actors fled in every direction.
One climbed onto a roof.
Two hid in a water trough.
The accordion player disappeared completely and was later discovered selling lemonade twenty miles away.
The Reba look-alike escaped by riding backward on a mule.
The chickens celebrated their victory with loud, triumphant clucking that could be heard across town.
It was a complete disaster.
Or so everyone thought.
Because while the chickens had defeated the fake Colonels…
They had become distracted.
For nearly an entire afternoon.
And during that precious time, citizens safely moved supplies, repaired fences, and rescued several residents who had become trapped inside the general store.
Marshal Finch studied the results carefully.
The plan had failed.
Yet somehow succeeded.
Which was the sort of outcome that seemed to follow Chester Finch wherever he went.
That evening he parked his moped outside town.
The sun disappeared behind the horizon.
The chickens settled in for the night.
Finch opened his notebook and wrote:
“Conclusion: Chickens are not afraid of Colonels.”
Then he added another note.
“However, they are extremely curious about them.”
What Finch didn’t know was that several former outlaws had been watching everything from a nearby ridge.
And they had just discovered a way to profit from the town’s misery.
A very profitable way.
The kind of way that would soon bring a new threat to town.
A threat called…
The Feathered Brotherhood.
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
High Noon in Arizona – Where Time Never Changes!
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes! 🐔🏜️🛵
Pre-Trip Medical Evaluation For Politicians Over 70
Prepping Him For The Road Trip
Many physicians recommend a comprehensive health assessment before an extended speaking tour, especially if it involves frequent travel, time zone changes, or multiple appearances.
This might include:
Cardiovascular evaluation
Medication review
Blood work
Sleep assessment
Mobility and fall-risk evaluation
Vaccinations if international travel is involved
Hydration and Nutritional Support
Some physicians may recommend:
Intravenous (IV) hydration before travel if a person is prone to dehydration
Nutritional supplementation if deficiencies are present
Vitamin B12 injections for individuals who are deficient
It’s important to note that “wellness IVs” marketed for energy have limited scientific evidence unless treating a specific deficiency or dehydration.
Voice and Speaking Preparation
For public speakers, clergy, politicians, and entertainers:
Evaluation by an ear, nose, and throat specialist
Voice therapy with a speech-language pathologist
Treatment of acid reflux, which often affects vocal quality
Management of allergies or post-nasal drip
Sleep and Fatigue Management
A physician might:
Screen for sleep apnea
Adjust medications that cause fatigue
Recommend strategies for jet lag and circadian adjustment
Physical Conditioning Programs
Many older speakers benefit from:
Physical therapy
Balance training
Walking and endurance programs
Pulmonary rehabilitation if lung issues exist
Cognitive and Mental Performance
Some individuals undergo:
Cognitive screening
Memory assessments
Stress management training
Performance coaching for public speaking
What Most Public Figures Actually Do
Many older politicians, authors, ministers, professors, and entertainers who travel extensively often receive:
Regular physician monitoring
Scheduled rest days
Physical therapy or exercise coaching
Nutritional guidance
Voice coaching
Strategic scheduling to avoid exhaustion
If You’re Thinking About Someone Around 80 Like A President…And Perhaps Drugs?
If you’re thinking about a public figure in their late 70s or 80s preparing for a speaking circuit, or appearing in public at social events, the most common medical preparation would usually be a thorough physical examination and clearance from their physician, combined with careful management of sleep, hydration, medications, and travel schedules rather than a single special procedure
There are medications that can improve alertness, stamina, concentration, and wakefulness, and some public figures, executives, entertainers, and speakers have used them under medical supervision. However, they are not magic solutions, and for older adults the risks can become significant.
Some examples include:
Modafinil (Provigil) and Armodafinil (Nuvigil) — prescription “wakefulness-promoting” medications originally developed for narcolepsy and other sleep disorders. They can help reduce fatigue and improve alertness.
Traditional stimulants such as amphetamine-based medications and methylphenidate can increase energy and focus but carry greater risks involving blood pressure, heart rate, dependence, and cardiovascular events.
Some physicians may prescribe medications to address underlying causes of fatigue, such as depression, sleep disorders, anemia, hormone deficiencies, or vitamin deficiencies rather than prescribing stimulants directly.
For someone in their late 70s or 80s preparing for a national speaking tour, physicians are often more interested in:
Sleep quality
Hydration
Nutrition
Cardiac health
Medication interactions
Managing jet lag and travel fatigue
Rather than simply giving a stimulant. A healthy 80-year-old can often maintain a surprisingly active schedule with careful medical management and scheduling. That is, if they lay off the Big Macs and KFC deep fried chicken legs.
Historically, there have also been legends and reports about politicians, presidents, candidates, entertainers, and television personalities using various stimulants or wakefulness-promoting medications to keep up with demanding schedules. Unless the person or their physician discloses it, however, there is usually no reliable public evidence of what medications an individual is taking. As in the case of Michael Jackson. Occassionally someone will try to set up someone with planted illegal drugs, especially if there is a grudge of some sort involved.
If you’re wondering how an 80-year-old politician or public figure could maintain a grueling travel and speaking schedule, the answer is usually a combination of:
Medications are used,
Strategic scheduling and rest are monitored through IV applications similar to Jacksons.
Nutrition and hydration is usually abandoned and the person will fall asleep in public.
Exercise and conditioning in some cases are attempted or it has ended a long time ago.
Sometimes medications that improve wakefulness or treat underlying fatigue-causing conditions are used or has been attempted but no longer work.
A healthy 80-year-old can often perform far beyond what many people expect, particularly if they have access to excellent medical care and a carefully managed schedule. If that is not the case. Then there is little hope the individual will be successful in managing their own home little alone the affairs of others.
