Author: Benjamin

The Impact Of Loss: Remembering A Childhood Best Friend For Life

BenjaminLeave a comment

A True Story By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

When I was just eight years old, death was a concept that I hadn’t fully grasped. The only time it touched my life was when my grandparents’ neighbor, a gentleman named Tom, passed away. I was only seven then, and it happened so quickly that it didn’t leave a deep mark. My grandfather had sat up with Tom the night before he passed, a tradition people followed back then—sitting with the dying. It was a tradition, and my dad would continue the practice as I grew up, sitting with many men in our small town of 750 souls. I always wondered why he was asked to do that.

That night, when Pop, my name for my grandfather, went to sit with Tom, it was just my grandmother and me alone in their big, quiet house. It felt different without him there. Early the following day, around 6:00 AM, my grandmother and I were preparing breakfast when Pop came in through the backdoor. He quietly spoke to her, and I suspected what had happened. Mom, my grandmother, suggested I open the dining room door to let the morning light in. As I did, I overheard their conversation growing louder, and when I looked outside, I saw a hearse slowly pulling up to Tom’s house. I knew Tom had passed.

A few days later, my grandmother took me to his funeral, and Pop was one of the pallbearers. It was the first time I ever saw a person in a casket, and Tom still looked like Tom. After the service, my grandmother praised me to my father, saying I behaved so well—sitting quietly and respectfully. I thought I was just being myself. In those days, grandparents didn’t need to ask permission to take their grandchildren anywhere—funerals, courthouses, doctors’ offices, or even jails. The places they took me were some of the most fascinating.

But this story isn’t about Tom. It’s about someone much closer to my heart, a man named Maynord Rider, one of my dad’s dearest friends. Maynord often accompanied us to horse sales on Friday and Saturday nights, and I thought the world of him. He lived two miles south of our farm, a farmer like many others in our area. One cold winter night, our water well froze, and my dad had to drive out over the pasture to fix it. When his headlights passed over Maynord’s bedroom windows, Maynord, instinctively knowing we were in trouble, got out of bed, climbed into his old white Chevrolet pickup, and drove to our house. He pulled up with a five-gallon water thermos and asked if our well had frozen. My mother was surprised—how could he have known? When my dad returned, he asked,

“Maynord, what are you doing here?”

They talked, and it turned out Maynord had guessed right. My dad told him there was no use in fixing it in the dark, and they’d work on it the next day. My dad promised to let Maynord help him the following morning to get him to leave.

There were many stories about Maynord, but they all ended one Thursday in September 1971.

It was the start of a four-day weekend from school due to a statewide teachers’ meeting. The day was beautiful for September in Oklahoma—warm with the usual breeze. I had been pestering my oldest sister, who was tasked with watching me and my other sister. It was just after noon, and the day felt perfect—no school, no bus to catch, just freedom. Then the phone rang. My oldest sister answered, and I could hear her voice change as she said,

“Oh no!” followed by, “I’m not telling him. You should.”

A moment later, she said,

“Mother wants to talk to you.”

I ran to the phone, stretched the cord as far as it would go, and answered.

“Yes, Mother!”

I said, but I could hear a siren approaching in the background. My mother’s voice was calm but direct,

“Benji, Maynord Rider just dropped dead.”

The words hit me like a punch, and I dropped the phone, screaming.

The news hit me like a physical blow, and I dropped the phone, screaming. The rest of the day is a blur, but I remember Ryder, the dog Maynord had given me, howling at the front door, leaning against it as if he, too, understood what had happened. None of the other dogs made a sound—just Ryder, the one I had named after Maynord’s last name.

I wouldn’t see my dad for hours, but I learned the whole story when I did. Maynord had come in from working on the farm for lunch. He ate, felt a bit of indigestion, and decided to lie down for a nap. While his wife, Bonnie, worked in the kitchen, she heard a moan, and when she went to check on him, she found him unresponsive. Panicked, she called my dad at the barbershop, where he cut hair. When he got the call, he told her to call the ambulance and that he’d be there immediately. He told the customers in his shop what had happened, leaving the man in his chair and the shop open as he rushed out.

Driving his Buick Le Sabre station wagon, my dad said the speedometer hit 120 miles per hour as he raced to Maynord’s farm, hoping to get there in time. Hearing this story comforted me, knowing that my dad did everything he could, even though we had lost one of the best men I had ever known.

That Friday night, my parents took me to see Maynord at the funeral home. It was more complicated than when I had seen Tom in his casket. The grief was overwhelming, and I couldn’t contain my tears. It felt like the worst day of my life. For years after Maynord’s death, I would look up at the sky, hoping for some way to talk to him again, but that day never came.

Eventually, I learned that, in life, there would be days harder than that one—the loss of my grandparents and my dad—, but somehow, we keep going, hoping that one day, someone will see our headlights coming over the hill and come to help us, just like Maynord did for us.

John Owsley Manier, Beloved Nashville Music Entrepreneur, Dies at 77

BenjaminLeave a comment

In Memoriam By: Benjamin H Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

John Owsley Manier, a beloved figure in the Nashville music scene and co-founder of the legendary Elliston Place nightclub, The Exit/In, passed away at his home in Dowelltown, Tennessee, on Friday, October 1. He was 77.

A native of Nashville, Owsley’s passion for music was evident from an early age. 

In the 1960s, he was a member of the rock band The Lemon Charade, but his entrepreneurial spirit left an inerasable mark on the city’s cultural landscape. 

In 1971, alongside Brugh Reynolds, he co-founded The Exit/In, a venue that would become one of Nashville’s most iconic music clubs. What began as a small listening room for local songwriters soon transformed into a celebrated 500-person capacity rock venue in the 1980s.

The Exit/In was not just a stage, but a platform for both local talent and global superstars, hosting a diverse array of artists over its 50-plus years. From The Red Hot Chili Peppers to Etta James, Johnny Cash to R.E.M., The Allman Brothers to Willie Nelson, Linda Ronstadt, and many more, the venue welcomed all, fostering a sense of inclusivity and diversity in Nashville’s music scene. 

It was also the site of numerous memorable moments, such as comedian Steve Martin leading the crowd into the streets for a parade or the venue’s feature in Robert Altman’s 1975 film Nashville.

Over the years, The Exit/In solidified its place in Nashville’s music history and became the anchor of the city’s “Rock Block” on Elliston Place. In 2023, it became listed on the National Register of Historic Places, proof of its enduring cultural significance. 

While the club has seen over 25 owners throughout its history, its influence on the local music scene has remained constant, a testament to its enduring legacy.

Owsley is survived by his son, Aaron Manier, sisters Cynthia Barbour and Helen Bryan, and niece McKeen Butler. A Celebration of Life will be held at The Exit/In on Sunday, October 13, at 3:00 PM, honoring his legacy with the music and stories that shaped his life and career. 

This event is a fitting tribute to a man who has left an indelible mark on Nashville’s music scene.

John Owsley Manier’s contributions to Nashville’s music community will not be forgotten. His enduring legacy continues to reverberate through the legends of artists and enthusiasts passing through the entrances of The Exit/In, leaving a lasting impression that commands respect and admiration.

Joseph Noyes “J.J.” Jeffrey, Beloved DJ and Broadcasting Pioneer, Passes Away at 84

BenjaminLeave a comment

In Memoriam By: Benjamin H. Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Joseph Noyes “J.J.” Jeffrey, a renowned DJ who became a respected station owner, passed away at the age of 84 following a brief battle with cancer. A native of Portland, ME, Jeffrey began his broadcasting career in his home state in the 1950s. His early career included stints at various local stations, where he honed his signature high-energy style and developed a deep passion for Top 40 radio.

Jeffrey’s career took off when he became the afternoon host at WRKO Boston, one of the nation’s premier Top 40 stations. His success in Boston led to similar roles at two of the biggest Top 40 powerhouses of the time: WFIL in Philadelphia and WLS in Chicago. Known for his vibrant personality and memorable catchphrases, Jeffrey quickly became a household name in each of these markets.

In 1975, Jeffrey transitioned from behind the mic to station ownership, partnering with Bob Fuller to launch Fuller-Jeffrey Broadcasting. Their first acquisition was 102.9 WBLM in Lewiston/Portland, ME. Over the next two decades, the company expanded its reach, owning clusters of stations across the country, including in Modesto, Sacramento, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, CA, and Des Moines, IA. Fuller-Jeffrey Broadcasting’s portfolio was sold to Citadel in 1999, forming what is now largely Townsquare Media’s clusters in Portland and Portsmouth, NH.

Not one to rest, Jeffrey and Fuller immediately launched Atlantic Coast Radio, building another prominent radio group in Portland, ME. Their stations included the Sports format “WEEI” on 95.5 WPPI Topsham and 95.9 WPEI Saco, “The Big Jab” 96.3 WJJB-FM Gray, and Conservative Talk 1310 WLOB.

J.J. Jeffrey will be remembered for his contributions to the radio industry, both as a beloved on-air talent and as a visionary station owner. He leaves behind a legacy of passion, innovation, and an enduring impact on the world of broadcasting.

What Happens When the Country is Closed for Average Americans?

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Report By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

A Shift in the Landscape of Freedom

Amid political upheaval, the everyday American—who works a regular job, pays taxes, and seeks a life of routine and stability—may question their future in an increasingly polarized society. As extreme political movements push for agendas that center around ideas of “Project 25” or the return of Trump, advocating for a strict interpretation of Christianity, suppression of women’s rights, and an aggressive nationalistic framework, the real impact may be felt most by the “regular Joe”—the one who wants to live a quiet, predictable life.

For the average person, life may close in on them in such a scenario. The country may become unrecognizable, not in a dystopian fantasy, but in subtle, pervasive ways. It might start with the suppression of individual freedoms—targeting what people can say, wear, or how they worship. Religious dogma could permeate public life, not as a choice but as a mandate, affecting schools, workplaces, and government institutions. The Bible in every building might become symbolic and a requirement, with legal frameworks promoting a particular religious view while leaving others on the margins.

Erosion of Women’s Rights

Regular Americans might witness fundamental changes in the status of women while going about their daily lives. With growing pressure from ultra-conservative elements, efforts to curtail women’s autonomy could accelerate. The reversal of women’s rights, particularly reproductive rights, is already in motion. In this new political order, women might have even fewer choices about their bodies, careers, and participation in public life. For many, this will mark a turning point when personal freedom can no longer be taken for granted.

The Fear of the Unknown

Fear might become customary for those not part of this hard-right movement. The “regular Joe” will likely feel caught between competing narratives. On one side, there is the quiet desperation of wanting to hold on to their everyday life, and on the other, the nagging sense that the world is changing in ways that might soon render them powerless. Whether one is bisexual, straight, or simply someone with no interest in pushing their identity into the political arena, they might start feeling stalked by the system—monitored, judged, and left wondering if their way of life is still valid.

A New “American Dream?”

In this environment, the American Dream could become narrow. No longer about opportunity for all, it may become a dream only accessible to those who fit the suitable mold—racially, religiously, and socially. If one does not align with the ideals of whiteness or conservative sexuality, they could find themselves increasingly ostracized, with opportunities drying up. The path to success might depend less on hard work and more on conformity to ideals driven by far-right ideologues.

The reality could become darker for the person who comes home daily, pats their dog on the head, and watches the news. The content of that evening television might change, with media outlets pushing extreme viewpoints or censorship becoming the norm. Growing anxieties about what tomorrow holds could interrupt quiet moments of relaxation.

Where Do They Go?

If the country starts closing itself to all but those who align with this rigid agenda, the regular Joe may ask, “Where do I go?” It is hard to imagine a physical place for escape in a country that feels increasingly closed off to dissent. For many, the answer might not be in leaving the country but in finding a way to resist quietly—by forming communities with others who feel left behind, advocating for empathy and open-mindedness, and holding on to the idea that the heart of America lies not in exclusion but inclusion.

The danger is not just in the policies themselves but in the erosion of what makes America a place where people of all walks of life can live freely, with differences embraced rather than punished. When that idea is under attack, the question of “Where will you go?” takes on a much deeper meaning because the honest answer is about preserving a sense of home, not just for oneself but for everyone.

In this potential future, where does the regular Joe go? Perhaps they remain right where they are, standing in quiet defiance, continuing to pay their taxes, pat their dog, and live with the hope that balance will one day return to a nation at risk of losing itself.

Meeting Mendez

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Ralph and Kevin had been friends for over twenty years, sharing a modest two-bedroom apartment in a cozy part of the city. Both were in their fifties and lived parallel lives, working different jobs—Ralph as a graphic designer and Kevin as a financial advisor—but always finding time for each other. They joked about finding “the one” someday, but their hope had always been tinged with sarcasm. At their age, they felt the ideal guy might never show up.

But then something shifted.

It started on an ordinary Monday morning. They sat at the kitchen table, sipping their coffees, when Kevin casually mentioned he had met someone the night before. “His name is Mendez,” he said, a sly smile across his face. “And Ralph, he’s… everything.”

Ralph’s stomach did a somersault. He had indeed met someone, too. Just last night, after his art gallery event, he found himself in a dimly lit bar, the kind that seemed to exist in a world of its own. And there, perched at the corner of the bar, was Mendez—a man who could only be described as strikingly handsome, with dark eyes that seemed to hold a universe of secrets, a soft-spoken charm that was as disarming as it was alluring, and a smile that could light up the darkest of rooms.

“Funny you say that,” Ralph replied. “I met someone, too. His name’s also Mendez. We hit it off.”

Kevin chuckled, taking a long sip from his coffee. “What are the odds?”

Their conversations in the following days were filled with similar stories of their encounters with Mendez. Kevin would describe how they had shared a romantic evening stroll by the river, and Ralph would excitedly mention how they had gone dancing the same night. Their descriptions of this enigmatic Mendez were eerily similar—his chiseled jawline, his gentle laugh, the way he seemed to know exactly what to say to make them feel like the only person in the room. Yet neither of them suspected anything was off. After all, Mendez was a common enough last name, right?

But as the weeks passed, their mutual friends noticed something strange. At morning coffee with their usual crowd, Ralph and Kevin would each gush about their dates from the night before. They discussed romantic dinners, late-night jazz clubs, and private rooftop moments. Their stories mirrored one another so closely that their friends couldn’t help but wonder—were they seeing the same man?

“Wait a minute,” said Lisa, a close friend, during one of their coffee meetups. “You both met this guy named Mendez? And you’re telling me he took you both to the same jazz club on different nights?”

The group laughed, but the tension between Ralph and Kevin grew. Were they falling for the same guy? They started to second-guess every detail—his favorite wine, his weekend plans, the way he called them “his secret muse.”

Still, neither wanted to believe it. Kevin would ask, “Did your Mendez talk about his job?”

Ralph would reply, “Yeah, he mentioned something about being in real estate.”

“Same here. But, come on, we’re seeing different guys. That’s impossible.”

Finally, the tension reached a breaking point. One Saturday night, the two friends finally agreed to go out together to introduce themselves to their respective Mendez. They picked a lively nightclub known for its cool vibe and easy conversation. Ralph’s heart raced as he considered the possibility of confronting the truth.

When they arrived, they scanned the crowd, both eager and nervous. And then, there he was—Mendez, standing by the bar, smiling warmly at them.

Only to their utter surprise, there were two of them.

Ralph and Kevin exchanged bewildered glances as the two men, identical except for subtle differences, made their way over. The Mendez brothers—Marco and Luis—stood side by side, charming as ever.

Kevin burst into laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he exclaimed, his amusement contagious.

Ralph shook his head, grinning in disbelief. “Twins? Really?”

The four sat down, exchanging stories and laughing about the coincidence. As it turned out, Marco had met Kevin at one bar, and Luis had met Ralph at another. They had no idea their new romantic interests were roommates.

It wasn’t the love triangle they had feared—it was something far better, a delightful twist that brought them closer.

And just like that, Ralph and Kevin realized that sometimes, the universe works in mysterious—and surprisingly humorous—ways, leaving them and their friends in fits of laughter.

Here Comes Hurricane Milton But Not Before CNN and FOX Can Mull It Over

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Review By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

As tropical activity in the Atlantic Ocean quiets down, meteorologists are turning their focus to the Caribbean and Gulf of Mexico, where conditions appear increasingly favorable for the development of the next named storm, possibly forming as early as next week. The National Hurricane Center (NHC) has officially begun monitoring this area, giving it medium odds for tropical development over the next seven days. Beyond that timeframe, forecasters from the FOX Forecast Center suggest that the potential for further intensification exists.

The outlook, however, varies across networks. FOX Weather’s Bryan Norcross reported that while the storm’s primary threat zone stretches from Panama City around the Big Bend of Florida to Sarasota, the possibility of dangerous storm surges could extend even further, particularly into Southwest Florida. Norcross emphasized that while the storm has followed predictions so far, the forecast cone might shift more than usual, leaving some uncertainty. “Nobody should be surprised by sudden changes,” he noted, highlighting the importance of staying prepared.

Meanwhile, CNN’s coverage presented a more urgent scenario, especially concerning a separate storm, Hurricane Helene, which recently prompted evacuations in Florida. Helene’s accelerated approach forced residents to brace for high winds, torrential rainfall, and potentially life-threatening storm surges. With shifts in the storm’s track possible, officials stressed the importance of preparation across the Southeast. Mandatory evacuations were ordered in several coastal counties, including Pinellas, Hernando, and Sarasota, as officials anticipated widespread impacts, including power outages and tornado threats.

While both networks offer different perspectives, the consensus is clear: residents in the affected regions must remain vigilant and ready for the worst, even if the forecast models evolve over time.

TODAY There is an Urgent Alert Out For FLORIDA And Hurricane MILTON A CATAGORY 5

CLICK ON THE IMAGE TO VISIT NATIONAL OCEANIC AND ATMOSPHERIC ADMINISTRATION
  1. Damaging hurricane-force winds and a life-threatening storm surge with destructive waves are expected across portions of the
  2. northern coast of the Yucatan Peninsula through tonight.
  3. Milton is expected to grow in size and remain an extremely dangerous hurricane when it approaches the west coast of Florida on Wednesday. A large area of destructive storm surge will occur along parts of the west coast of Florida on Wednesday. This is an extremely life-threatening situation and residents in those areas should follow advice given by local officials and evacuate
  4. immediately if told to do so.
  5. Potentially devastating hurricane-force winds are expected along portions of the west coast of Florida where a Hurricane Warning is in effect. Milton is forecast to remain a hurricane as it crosses the Florida Peninsula and life-threatening hurricane-force winds, especially in gusts, are expected to spread inland across a portion of the entire Florida Peninsula.

Preparations to protect life and property in the warning areas should be complete by Tuesday night since tropical storm conditions are expected to begin within this area early

Wednesday.

4. Areas of heavy rainfall will impact portions of Florida today well ahead of Milton, with heavy rainfall more directly related to the system expected later on Tuesday through Wednesday night.

This rainfall will bring the risk of considerable flash, urban, and areal flooding, along with the potential for moderate to

major river flooding

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VISIT NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER

Ifigenia Martínez y Hernández, 99, Mexican politician and diplomat, senator (1988–1991, 2018–2024), president (since 2024) and four-time member of the chamber of deputies

BenjaminLeave a comment

Ifigenia Martha Martínez y Hernández
(16 June 1925 – 5 October 2024)

Ifigenia Martha Martínez y Hernández, a distinguished Mexican economist, diplomat, and politician, passed away on 5 October 2024 at the age of 99. Throughout her life, she was a pillar of Mexican political and economic thought, serving her country with dedication and vision.

Born on 16 June 1925, Martínez completed her undergraduate studies in economics at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM) and pursued further education, earning a master’s degree in economics from Harvard University. Her passion for academia and public service led her to become the head of the Faculty of Economics at UNAM, a position she held from 1966 to 1970. Her influence extended beyond the classroom, shaping the next generation of Mexican economists.

Martínez was not only a scholar but also a trailblazing politician. Over her illustrious career, she was affiliated with several prominent political parties, including the Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI), the Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD), which she co-founded with Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas and Porfirio Muñoz Ledo, and the National Regeneration Movement (Morena). Her commitment to Mexico’s development and progress led her to serve multiple terms in the Chamber of Deputies, first elected in 1976, and later in 1994, 2009, and 2024. She also held a seat in the Senate, representing the Federal District in 1988 and serving again in 2018 through proportional representation.

One of the crowning moments of her political career occurred just days before her passing, when she presided over the inauguration of Claudia Sheinbaum as President of Mexico on 1 October 2024. In a historic ceremony, she had the honor of handing Sheinbaum the presidential sash, symbolizing a peaceful and democratic transfer of power.

Ifigenia Martínez’s legacy will live on through her immense contributions to Mexican politics, her advocacy for social justice, and her unwavering commitment to her nation’s well-being. She leaves behind a lasting imprint on Mexico’s political landscape and will be remembered for her intellect, leadership, and grace.

She is survived by a grateful nation, which honors her profound impact on its history.

Japan’s Culinary Expert Yukio Hattori Dies 1945 – 2024

BenjaminLeave a comment

This Information Provided By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Obituary: Yukio Hattori (1945 – 2024)

Yukio Hattori, beloved television personality, culinary expert, and educator, passed away on October 4, 2024, in Tokyo, Japan, at the age of 78. Best known as the insightful commentator on the popular Japanese cooking show Iron Chef, Hattori’s contributions to the world of food, nutrition, and culinary arts left an indelible mark on Japanese culture and beyond.

Born on December 16, 1945, in Tokyo, Hattori grew up in a family deeply rooted in the culinary tradition. He was inspired by his father’s work to pursue his passion for food and nutrition, eventually earning a PhD from Showa University. His profound understanding of both cooking and the science of nutrition shaped his career, which would extend far beyond the kitchen.

Hattori became the fifth president of Hattori Nutrition College, a prestigious institution founded by his father, known for its unique blend of culinary excellence and nutritional education. Under his leadership, the college trained thousands of chefs, nutritionists, and food critics, shaping the next generation of culinary professionals. His commitment to culinary education made him a pivotal figure in elevating the standards of both food preparation and healthy eating habits in Japan.

While his educational work was vital, Hattori was perhaps most recognizable for his television career. As a competitor, judge, and commentator on Iron Chef, Hattori’s sharp palate, deep culinary knowledge, and entertaining commentary endeared him to audiences across Japan and worldwide. His presence on the show not only lent credibility but also helped popularize Japanese cuisine internationally.

In addition to his work on television, Hattori appeared in films such as Aji ichi Monme (2011) and Mibu, and he continued to influence Japanese cuisine and public health through his numerous cookbooks, radio shows, and public health campaigns. He was a firm believer that good food should nourish both body and soul, a philosophy he called “Well Taste,” where flavor and health go hand in hand.

Yukio Hattori’s legacy will continue through his extensive contributions to culinary education, his influence on Japanese cuisine, and the students he mentored at Hattori Nutrition College. He is survived by his family, colleagues, and countless admirers who were inspired by his passion for food and nutrition.

Yukio Hattori’s memory will forever be cherished as one of the most prominent voices in Japan’s culinary world, whose life’s work brought taste and health together for the benefit of all.

A Special Note Of Thanks!

BenjaminLeave a comment

A huge thank you to everyone who visited benandsteve.com and helped us surpass the incredible milestone of 5,000 visitors on Friday! We’re thrilled to see so many of you checking in, exploring what’s new, and sharing your support. Your enthusiasm and continued engagement mean the world to us, and we can’t wait to keep bringing you more exciting content.

There Once Was A Clown Named Ho Ho!

BenjaminLeave a comment

A True Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Ho-Ho the Clown, known to Oklahoma City children from the 1960s to the 1980s, was more than a TV character. Born Edward Birchall on July 16, 1923, in Colchester, Connecticut, he carried a heart of gold beneath his red nose and clown makeup. After serving in the Army Air Forces during WWII, Ed pursued his love of entertainment, eventually becoming the beloved Ho-Ho on KOCO-TV.

Behind the character, Ed Birchall was a regular dad raising six kids in Bethany, Oklahoma, with his wife, Beebe. Regina, one of his daughters, recalls him coming home with clown makeup smeared after a long day, trying to balance the unusual demands of being a full-time clown and father. His work often kept him away from family, but they later realized the personal sacrifices he made and how many lives he touched, instilling a deep sense of gratitude and respect.

For 29 years, Ho-Ho brought joy to children with shows like Lunch with Ho-Ho and Ho-Ho’s Showplace. His bright personality and whimsical sidekick, Pokey the Puppet, lit up local TV screens, helping him become a household name. Yet his role as an entertainer extended beyond the studio—Ed frequently visited children’s hospital wards, delighting patients with his warmth and humor. It wasn’t just his clowning that touched people; his kindness, dedication, and how he made every child feel seen.

When Ed passed in 1988, his funeral was a testament to his impact. It took three services to accommodate the thousands of well-wishers, including an honor guard of clowns. Ed Birchall’s legacy, carried on by his children and remembered by the community, continues to bring smiles to those who grew up with Ho-Ho’s charm, fostering a sense of belonging and shared memory among us all.

The Puppeteer Bill Howard Passed away On January 9th, 2013. Bill Howard, who entertained children as “Pokey the Puppet” on the Ho Ho the Clown show on KOCO in Oklahoma City, has died.

2024 Hand-Counting Election: A Tale of Two Residents counting the nations ballots

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

In the heart of the dusty plains, where tumbleweeds rolled lazily across the horizon, sat the humble town of Booterville. A place so small it didn’t even appear on most maps. Known for little more than its annual chili cook-off and the town’s general store, Booterville got entrusted with one of the most critical tasks in the 2024 election: hand-counting every vote nationwide.

Rumor had it that some miscommunication at a high level led to Booterville’s selection. The plan had been simple: With all the national turmoil surrounding electronic voting machines, distrust of mail-in ballots, and other voting controversies, someone high up had the idea to return to a “simpler” method—hand counting. Unfortunately, the job landed in the laps of Booterville’s only two permanent residents qualified to take on the task: Earl and Maude Jenkins.

Earl and Maude, both pushing 80, had stayed in Booterville for decades. Earl was a retired mailman with a sharp eye for sorting, while Maude was known for her days as the town librarian, meticulous in her record-keeping, and famous for knitting scarves with perfect symmetry. Together, they formed what the nation had come to call the “Election Duo.”

As election night approached, the rest of the country anxiously prepared for the returns. Cable news channels buzzed with frantic energy. Experts spoke confidently about the “return to integrity” with hand-counted ballots. However, they could only explain how it was physically possible for two people to count hundreds of millions of votes promptly. Analysts debated whether the results would come in within hours, days, or—worst case—months.

Booterville, meanwhile, was calm, as always. Earl and Maude sat on their front porch, sipping sweet tea, staring at the horizon where, in just a few hours, trucks would arrive carrying boxes upon boxes of ballots from all over the country.

Election night finally arrived, and the nightmare began.

The first truck pulled up right on time—around 9 p.m.—loaded with crates of ballots from California. Earl scratched his head and squinted at the car, which stretched longer than the main street of Booterville itself.

“Well, I reckon we best get started,”

He muttered.

As Maude gingerly opened the first crate, the magnitude of the task became apparent. Inside were hundreds of thousands of paper ballots, each needing to be verified, double-checked, and counted by hand. Earl retrieved an abacus from their parlor, confident that the ancient method would sufficiently tally the votes.

Across the nation, voters stared at their television screens.

“Booterville still hasn’t reported any results,”

Frustrated news anchors from CNOX and FONN NEWS networks chimed in, saying in general –––

“Our experts say we should have heard from at least the smaller states by now.”

Booterville, however, wasn’t so much concerned with the rush. Ever the perfectionist, Earl spent twenty minutes on each ballot, inspecting signatures, verifying dates, and ensuring no Chad hung loosely from the corners.

Maude cross-referenced each voter’s name with meticulously kept records from her days as a librarian. She spent additional time knitting if any name seemed unfamiliar while contemplating its legitimacy.

By midnight, the panic had spread. Election officials from every state began ringing Booterville’s single landline, asking for updates. But halfway through her evening tea, Maude had turned off the ringer to avoid distractions. Earl had managed to count precisely 72 ballots.

By morning, networks were abuzz with speculation. Some suggested Earl and Maude were holding the election hostage, while others theorized a deep conspiracy in which Booterville’s hand-counting was a covert means of election tampering. In truth, Earl and Maude were simply slow workers.

As the days dragged on, Earl and Maude remained unphased. They didn’t own a television, and Maude had never been a radio fan. They were blissfully unaware that the world was falling apart outside of Booterville. Mass protests erupted in cities, with demands for transparency. Accusations flew between political parties.

In some corners of the internet, Booterville became a symbol of resilience; in others, it became a meme, representing all that was wrong with the electoral process.

Two weeks later, the National Guard arrived. They politely knocked on Earl and Maude’s door, requesting an update on the election. Maude, unperturbed, invited them in for tea and showed them the ballots neatly stacked in her living room. The guards, bewildered, nodded and promised to relay their findings back to the capital.

Finally, in mid-December, a breakthrough occurred. After endless negotiations, Booterville agreed to let nearby towns assist in the counting process. Volunteers, election experts, and even some former contestants from the chili cook-off converged on Booterville to save the election.

But even with the new help, it took another month before all the votes got tallied.

As Earl and Maude sat together on New Year’s Eve, looking out at the winter stars, Earl leaned back in his chair and said,

“You know, Maude, I think we’ve done a fine job. Every vote, fair and square.”

Maude, knitting a scarf with perfect stitches, smiled and nodded. They never knew their efforts had plunged the nation into one of the most prolonged and chaotic elections in history. But to them, it was just another quiet day in Booterville.

Earl did ask Maude,

“You know, in this day and age, you’d think they’d have computerized machines that could count these voting ballots in a much more accurate manner than the one everyone just went through. It might take a week or so, but they could tally all the votes with computers if everyone in the nation were to vote. Has anyone ever thought of that?”

Maude said,

“No, and if they did, some idiot would try to say they were stealing the election or something.”

Earl replied,

“Surely no one would believe something like that.”

Maude, rocking back and forth in her rocker, replied ––

“Well, they expected us to count every national vote by hand overnight, so that should tell you something about the people we are talking about.”

Earl just grumbled.

The End.

The Intestate Legacy of John Ellis, Esq.

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Glimpsing Report By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

The name John Ellis, Esq. still echoes in the rolling hills and creeks of Deep River, North Carolina. To those who knew him, he was a stern yet fair Justice of the Peace, ruling his township with a measured hand, holding court in his modest home, and settling disputes with the wisdom of a man who had seen both war and peace. However, there was one mystery about John Ellis that no one could quite explain. For all his legal prowess and the order he brought to his community, John Ellis died without leaving a will—a fact unsettled his descendants for years to come and continues to intrigue history enthusiasts and those interested in legal history.

The year was 1812, and a biting winter frost clung to the edges of the Ellis estate, an imposing tract of land the Earl of Granville granted to John fifty years earlier. John’s death cast a long shadow on the west side of Deep River, where his 520 acres stretch over the rugged terrain. His wife, Mary Quinn Ellis, now widowed and frail, remained in their home in Fort Mill, York County, South Carolina, surrounded by memories of their eleven children and the life they had built together. John’spassing was not unexpected—he was 83—but the silence he left behind was.

It wasn’t just his absence that haunted those around him. It was the absence of something else—his final words, his will. John had settled countless estates during his time as Justice of the Peace, ensuring families were provided for, debts were settled, and the land was distributed correctly. And yet, he left no such document for his own family. Eighteen years would pass before his estate got probated in 1831, long after his burial in the family cemetery at Jumping Branch Creek. The delay gnawed at the Ellis children, especially William Quinn, the eldest son, who should have inherited the bulk of the estate. But the land was silent, locked in bureaucratic limbo.

In the years following John’s death, whispers swelled through the small towns of North Carolina and South Carolina, where his family had deep roots. The family cemetery where John and Mary would get buried became a place of whispered tales. Some said that John had left instructions hidden somewhere on his land—perhaps in a letter or beneath a cornerstone in his house. His children, it was said, spent months after his death combing through every inch of the property but found nothing. These rumors and folklore added a layer of fascination to the mystery of John Ellis’s intestate legacy.

The most curious rumor concerned the woods that bordered the Ellis estate. Hunters and travelers passing through Rowan and Tryon Counties spoke of a strange figure—an older man who resembled John Ellis, seen walking among the trees, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn. This figure, they claimed, seemed to be searching for something, bending low to inspect the ground or pausing by the river as if lost in thought. Others said the older man appeared near the family cemetery, wandering among the graves silently.

By 1831, when the estate was finally resolved and divided among the children, most of these tales had faded into local folklore. But there was one final piece of the story that remained unexplained. One autumn afternoon, shortly after the estate gets settled, a group of workers clearing trees from the property stumbled upon a small, hidden clearing by the river. There, beneath a heavy stone, they found a weathered leather-bound book half-buried in the soil. This discovery added a new chapter to the mystery of John Ellis’s intestate legacy, sparking curiosity and speculation.

“To those who come after, let the land be their guide. All answers will be revealed in the river’s flow and the earth’s turning. I leave my legacy to the water, where I once made peace.”

No one knew what John had meant, but the discovery only deepened the mystery surrounding his death. Had John left his will in the elements, knowing it would be lost to time? Or had he chosen, in his final years, to let go of the very legal structures he had spent his life upholding?

The land remained, of course, just as the family stayed. However, the legend of John Ellis, Esq. grew with each passing year. And those who ventured near Deep River, when the mist was thick and the air still, would sometimes swear they heard a voice, carried on the wind, speaking words too faint to be understood.

Perhaps, they said, John Ellis had finally found his will—hidden somewhere between the river and the earth, waiting for those brave enough to listen.
 

The End.

Fight Today For A Better Tomorrow – Saving America – Coming Home

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Report By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

A Nation’s Call

It was the fall of 2024, and the country had never seemed more divided. Political upheaval had peaked, with protests echoing through city streets, harsh words hurled in homes, and debates erupting at family dinner tables. The election season had become more than just a contest of policies; it had morphed into a battle over the nation’s soul, pitting neighbor against neighbor.

At the heart of this turmoil was a young senator named Jacob Randall. A man of few words but deep conviction, he had saw firsthand the devastating effects of division. Randall had grown up in a small town where his mother and father, though from opposite sides of the political spectrum, had found common ground in their love for family, faith, and community. That shared foundation had always given him hope that unity was possible.

However, as he stood before Congress, he wondered if that hope had been misplaced. The chamber was restless, with representatives glaring at one another across the aisle, the tension palpable. Randall chose to speak at what many called a last-ditch effort—a desperate attempt to heal the nation before it tore apart.

Taking a deep breath, he began.

“Fellow citizens, colleagues, I stand before you not as a Democrat or a Republican but as an American. Our great nation is facing a challenge unlike any other. We have become so entrenched in our political camps that we no longer see each other as fellow countrymen. We see enemies where once we saw neighbors. And that division is killing the very fabric of our society.

“My parents did not always agree on politics. Mother was a staunch conservative, Father a proud progressive. But they understood something we have forgotten: that compromise is not a weakness but the cornerstone of democracy. They believed that every person, no matter how much they disagreed, had something valuable to contribute to the conversation.”

Randall’s words caught the attention of some. A few heads began to nod slowly. He pressed on, feeling the weight of the moment.

“Our founders, too, were divided. They had different visions for this country and ideas about what liberty and justice should look. Nevertheless, they knew that to create something lasting, they had to pull together to find common ground. And they did. That is the spirit that created America. Moreover, that is the spirit we need to rediscover today.”

As Randall continued, he saw a shift in the faces before him. Some were hard, unmoving, but others softened, listening with new ears. He was not offering easy solutions but calling for something more complicated: humility.

“When we look across the aisle, we must not see enemies but partners in this great American experiment. We have different ideas about achieving a better future, but we all want a better one. And if we cannot even agree on that, we have already lost.”

He paused, letting the gravity of his words settle in the room.

“In every crisis, there is opportunity, an opportunity to rise above the noise, the hatred, and the division. It is an opportunity to remember that we are bound together not just by the laws of this land but by the ideals it represents. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—for everyone. Not just for those who agree with us.”

Randall stepped away from the podium and glanced up at the gallery above. It was filled with citizens from across the country, watching with anxious eyes, waiting for anyone to bring clarity to the chaos. He saw young activists clutching signs, older veterans with tears in their eyes, and families holding hands.

“I am not asking you to abandon your beliefs. Listen to those who see the world differently. Not to argue but to understand a call for uniformity, but for unity because we cannot get found without uniting.”

The silence in the chamber was deafening. No one was shouting for the first time in what seemed like years. No one was trying to outdo the other with statistics or soundbites. They were listening.

Randall’s speech ended with a simple message: “America is not a perfect nation, but it is a nation built on the belief that we can pursue perfection together. Let us, as a people, return to that pursuit—not as adversaries, but as Americans.”

As he stepped away from the podium, the room erupted—not in protest, but in applause. Representatives stood on both sides of the aisle, clapping not just for Randall’s words but for what those words represented: a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, the country could pull itself back from the brink.

It would take work. It would not happen overnight. But in that moment, something had shifted. For the first time in a long time, there was a shared sense of purpose— a belief that even in the darkest of times, unity was possible—and that together, the nation could find its way back to the light.

Remembering Kris Kristofferson: A Personal Tribute

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Tribute to Kris Kristofferson by Marion Toehay Jr., Friend and Former Chief of Police

Marion Toehay JR. (Left)
Benjamin Groff (Right)

Marion Toehay Jr., a close friend of Benjamin Groff II, who typically authors this page, shares his heartfelt memories today as the world mourns the passing of Kris Kristofferson. The legendary singer-songwriter passed away on Saturday at age 88 in Hawaii. Marion met Kris in the summer of 1968, during the early days of Kristofferson’s career, at the Silver Dollar Saloon in Phoenix, Arizona.

In 1980, Marion became Benjamin’s first Chief of Police in Oklahoma, and today, he reflects on the unforgettable encounter he had with Kris all those years ago:

Kris Kristofferson was one of a kind. I had the chance to meet him when I was just 13 years old, working with my stepdad during the summer of 1968. We were selling produce to bars around Phoenix, Tucson, and the mining towns in the White Mountains. On our last stop in Phoenix, at a place called the Silver Dollar Saloon in what was known as Cowtown, we went inside—and there he was.

I remember seeing Kris Kristofferson stand up from a table and walk right over to us. He greeted my stepdad like an old friend, saying, “Y’all come sit down and have a beer.” At the table with him were none other than Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings.

My stepdad had always told me he knew Kristofferson, Cash, and Jennings, but up until then, I hadn’t met them myself. Every time we passed through, they just weren’t there. I was starting to think I’d never get the chance to meet them. But that evening, out of nowhere, they were larger than life. It was like a dream come true for me—a 14-year-old kid with a love for country life.

We spent the evening laughing, sharing stories, and, yes, drinking some beer. When we finally headed home, my mom awaited us, wondering why it had taken so long. I told her about meeting Kris, Johnny, and Waylon, and she just smiled and said, “Oh, okay,” as if it was no big deal. She’d met them before, too, thanks to my stepdad. But for me, it was the highlight of the summer—and a memory I’ll never forget.

Hearing about Kris Kristofferson’s passing is sad for everyone who admires him. My family and I send our deepest condolences and hope he rests in peace.

In The Heat Of A Phoenix Stakeout, Two Police Officers Survive The Night By Having Each Other’s Back!

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures -“Heat of the Night”

The sweltering summer heat of Phoenix had already claimed its territory, with temperatures still hanging in the triple digits long after the sun had sunk below the horizon. Officers Danny Vega and Clyde “CJ” Johnson sat in their aging, air-conditioner-less police unit parked under a flickering streetlight in a worn-out neighborhood. Their mission was to monitor the run-down house across the street, where they suspected a group of outlaws—wanted for heinous crimes from murder to rape and child abuse—were holed up.

Vega, a seasoned officer in his mid-thirties, wiped the sweat off his brow and leaned back in his seat.

“Man, it feels like we are cooking in here,”

he muttered, glancing at his partner, who sat silently. CJ, a younger officer relatively new to the force, looked straight ahead, his face a mask of concentration.

The silence between them was thick, palpable, as though the heat had baked it into something more solid than discomfort. Danny had been paired with CJ only a few months ago, and though they worked well enough together, there was a distance, an unspoken tension. Vega was a no-nonsense, street-smart officer who had grown up in Phoenix, and he was not sure what to make of the rookie—an out-of-towner who seemed too clean, too by the book for the brutal reality of their work.

CJ shifted in his seat, his uniform sticking to his skin. He glanced sideways at Vega.

“Think they are really in there?”

CJ’s voice was steady, but the doubt lingered.

Vega shrugged, his gaze never leaving the house.

“I would not be surprised. The word is out on them. They have no place else to hide. This neighborhood – it is the perfect cover. No one asks questions here.”

The hours passed slowly, sweat dripping from their faces and soaking through their uniforms. The house across the street remained dark and silent. The only noise came from the occasional shout in the distance or the hum of insects in the oppressive night air.

At some point, Vega pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket. He held it momentarily as if debating whether to light it.

“You smoke?”

he asked CJ.

CJ shook his head.

“Quit a couple of years back. My old man, well, it killed him, so I figured I would try to live a bit longer.”

Vega raised an eyebrow.

“Good for you.”

He tossed the cigarette out the window, respecting the sentiment. It was the most they had spoken since starting the stakeout, but Vega was not about to get personal.

Still, the night stretched on, and there was nothing but the two of them and the quiet of the deserted street. CJ finally broke the silence.

“You ever wonder if this is it? Like sitting here, baking alive, waiting for something to happen?”

Vega snorted.

“All the time. However, it is the job. It is what we signed up for.”

CJ leaned forward, resting his forearms on the steering wheel.

“Yeah, but I did not sign up to just sit and watch while guys like those,” he nodded toward the house, “hurt people and get away with it.”

Vega studied him for a moment, something clicking into place.

“You think I do not feel the same?”

CJ did not respond right away, and Vega continued.

“Look, kid, I have been doing this a while. It eats at one, they know. But rushing in and losing one’s head is how one makes mistakes. And mistakes? One will cost them or someone else their life.”

CJ turned to face him, eyes intense.

“So we just wait?”

Vega’s jaw tightened.

“Yeah. We wait. We stay smart. We stay sharp.”

A crackle of the radio interrupted them. The dispatcher’s voice was hushed but urgent.

“Unit 12, suspects confirmed inside the target location. SWAT en route. Hold position.”

Vega nodded to CJ, who picked up the receiver.

“Copy that. Holding position.”

The tension ramped up as the house finally stirred with movement. Shadows flitted past the windows. The outlaws were inside, and the knowledge settled like a weight between the two officers.

The time they crawled—minutes that stretched into an hour—SWAT was not coming fast enough. Vega kept his eyes trained on the house while CJ’s fingers drummed on the wheel, nerves on edge.

Suddenly, a door to the house slammed open. A figure darted out—one of the suspects, carrying a duffel bag. Without thinking, CJ moved, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait!”

Vega hissed, grabbing his arm.

“Let him go. SWAT will be here any minute.”

However, CJ’s body was coiled, ready to spring.

“He is getting away.”

Vega tightened his grip.

“No, he is not. He will circle back. Trust me.”

CJ’s jaw clenched, but he held back, fighting the urge to act. It took everything in him to stay in the car. Seconds later, the figure disappeared into the shadows of the alley.

Vega let out a slow breath.

“Good call, staying put.”

CJ glanced at him, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Good call? He has gone!”

“No,”

Vega said, his voice calm.

“He is not.”

A low rumble filled the air, and CJ turned to see SWAT units pulling into the street, lights flashing, breaking the stillness. Vega gave him a tight smile.

“See? Patience.”

The raid unfolded quickly after that, with the SWAT team storming the house and bringing out the suspects in cuffs. CJ and Vega watched from the sidelines, the rookie still coming to grips with how close he had been to jumping the gun.

When it was over, they sat back in their sweat-soaked seats, exhausted but relieved.

CJ broke the silence again.

“You were right back there. About not rushing in.”

Vega chuckled.

“Guess the old-timer knows a thing or two.”

CJ smiled, the first real smile Vega had seen from him.

“Thanks, man. For having my back.”

Vega nodded.

“You would do the same for me.”

As the sun rose, casting long shadows over the empty street, the two men sat in the heat of the Phoenix dawn, no longer just partners but something more—a bond forged in sweat, silence, and survival.

Moreover, in that shared quiet, they realized that they had each other’s back no matter what came next.

The Legend Of Earl and Maynard And Boy Scout Troop 159 – High Atop Mount Sopris!

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Story By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

The wind howled through the pines as Boy Scout Troop 159 huddled together, trying to keep warm. Their campfire flickered weakly in the clearing, barely enough to fight the growing cold. The storm was coming, the first winter blast of the season. It had crept in on them like an ambush, driven by the low-pressure system spinning in from California’s Baja Peninsula.

Scoutmaster Pearson sat by the fire, pale and shivering. He’d confidently led them into the wilds of Mount Sopris, but now he looked lost, his breaths shallow. His assistant, Mr. Haines, leaned against a tree, coughing into a handkerchief. The boys had whispered that it could be Covid-19, but no one wanted to say it aloud.

“We sleep here,” Pearson rasped, his voice barely louder than the crackling fire. The boys exchanged worried glances, unsure of what to do.

“Shouldn’t we move, sir?” asked Danny, the oldest scout, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. “Get lower before the snow hits?”

Pearson shook his head weakly. “Too far… it’s… it’s better to stay.”

They had marched for hours, though the cold terrain made it feel like days. Each step felt heavier as they passed by the marker where it was said John Denver had written “Rocky Mountain High.” The mountains loomed like sentinels in the fading light, watching the troops struggle.

But it wasn’t the storm that haunted their thoughts. It was the legend.

As they had set out that morning, Mr. Haines had told stories of Earl and Maynard, the two mysterious backwoodsmen who supposedly lived on the mountain. Most people thought they were fictional characters, spun from the drunken memories of old-timers in Carbondale’s pubs, but the boys had listened with wide eyes as Haines spoke, their imaginations running wild with the possibilities.

“No one ever sees ’em,” Haines had said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “But those who’ve been lost on this mountain and lived to tell the tale always say they felt… something. It’s like someone was watching. Some even claim Earl and Maynard saved them.”

With the snow already beginning to fall, Danny thought back to that tale. His gut twisted with uncertainty. Was there any truth to it?

“Come on, guys, get your sleeping bags out,” Danny urged, trying to sound calm despite his racing heart. The sky had darkened, and the storm clouds were heavy with snow. The wind snapped through the clearing like the mountain was breathing down on them. Fear and uncertainty hung in the air, thick and palpable.

Something rustled in the trees as the boys settled in for the night. Danny jerked his head up, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the fire. He strained to listen, but the wind masked everything.

“Did you hear that?” one of the younger boys, Jacob, whispered.

Danny shook his head, not wanting to frighten the others, but deep down, he had heard it too. Something—or someone—was out there.

Hours passed, and the storm hit hard. Snow piled up quickly, covering their small camp in a thick, white blanket. The fire had gone out, and the temperature dropped below freezing. Danny shivered uncontrollably in his sleeping bag, his mind racing through every possible scenario. They were lost. They had sick leaders. And the storm was only getting worse.

Then, something changed.

In the middle of the night, Danny sat up when the wind howled loudest. The air felt different—calmer, almost still. He blinked in the dim light and noticed something strange. Just beyond the edge of their clearing, the snow had been disturbed. Large footprints—deep, wide, and unmistakable—led from the forest to the edge of their camp.

His heart pounded as he nudged Jacob awake. “Look at that,” Danny whispered, pointing to the unmistakable footprints. Jacob’s eyes widened in shock and disbelief. “Who-what is that? No one’s been out here!” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of fear and wonder.

Jacob’s eyes widened. “Who—what is that? No one’s been out here!”

Suddenly, the sound of snapping branches filled the air. The boys froze, their breath catching in their throats. The smell of wood smoke drifted through the clearing from the shadows, though their own fire had long since died out.

“Come on,” Danny said, his voice shaky but determined. He grabbed a flashlight and motioned for Jacob to follow. “We’ve got to see where this leads.” Their fear was palpable, but they refused to let it paralyze them.

They followed the tracks, their boots crunching in the snow. The prints led them deeper into the woods, winding through the trees. The further they walked, the more a strange warmth surrounded them—almost unnatural, given the biting cold of the storm.

Then, they saw it.

An old cabin stood nestled between the trees, its roof sagging under the weight of the snow, but smoke curled from its chimney. The door creaked open slightly as if someone had left in a hurry.

Without thinking, Danny pushed the door wider. Inside, there was no one. But there was warmth. A fire roared in the stone hearth, and two tin mugs of coffee steamed on the table. More importantly, there were blankets, canned food, and an old map tacked to the wall with a safe path marked in pencil that led directly back to the mountain’s base.

The boys exchanged wide-eyed glances. “Who… who do you think was here?” Jacob whispered.

Danny shook his head slowly. His eyes drifted to the wall, where a small, yellowed note was pinned next to the map. Scrawled in faded ink were the initials, E&M.

“Do you think…?” Jacob began, but Danny cut him off with a glance. He didn’t know what to think.

The boys gathered supplies and hurried back to camp, guiding the others to the cabin. By dawn, the storm had eased, and they began their descent down the mountain, safe and warm.

No one spoke of the tracks, the fire, the cabin, or the initials on the wall.

But as they reached the base of the mountain, the legend of Earl and Maynard lived on—alive, as ever, in the back of their minds.

Resilience and Change: The Life of a Depression-Era Farmer

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Story By: Benjamin H Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Benjamin Harrison Groff stood at the edge of his farmland west of Eakly, on Cobb Creek in Caddo County, Oklahoma, his weathered hands resting on his hips as he surveyed the fields. The sun was setting behind the Oklahoma hills, casting a golden hue over the land he’d come to love and toil. It was 1930, and though the country was heading into hard times, B.H. Groff had built a life here, one of stability and quiet perseverance.

Ben H and Florence Groff

He was 38 years old, married to Florence, and father to three children—Bennie, Dorothy, and JD. His modest but sturdy house had been their home for as long as he could remember. Its value was $3500, and though it wasn’t much compared to the sprawling estates some wealthier landowners had, it was theirs. They had a lodger, Lex Long, a 22-year-old man who had come to stay a while back. The Groffs didn’t need the money, but Lex had been good company with the world the way it was; having an extra hand around never hurt.

Draught Horses like those kept on Groff’s Farm.

B.H. had been a farmer for most of his life, following in the footsteps of his father, Ulrich Groff, who had immigrated from Switzerland in the late 1800s. B.H. remembered his father well—stubborn, proud, and meticulous about his work. Ulrich had come to America with nothing, finding his way to Illinois, where he built a life with Martha, B.H.’s mother, who hailed from Tennessee. Ulrich had passed a few years ago, but his values and work ethic lived on in his son. Farming had been the family’s lifeblood; Ulrich Groff is a name well known around Olney, Illinois, as the man who, along with his sons, built a barn without any metal, using only wood. It remained a place to see when people visited the town. Through the current day, but lately, B.H. has been reconsidering.

The census taker had come by not too long ago, scribbling down notes as B.H. answered the questions. He had explained that, while still farming, he had recently taken on a new role as an employer, overseeing other farms and workers. The long days of breaking his back were coming to an end. He felt more like a foreman now, guiding others and ensuring the crops were harvested on time. This transition was not just a change in his work but a step towards providing more stability for his family and the families of his workers.

Nearby Binger, Oklahoma 1930s

But still, something was unsettling in the air. The world was shifting—money was tight for many, and the Groffs, while not destitute, were careful with every penny. B.H. looked at their old house, and the absence of a radio set inside was a testament to their simpler lifestyle. He had thought about getting one, but Florence had insisted it wasn’t necessary. “We have each other,” she would say, “What more entertainment do we need?” The lack of a radio, a luxury many families could afford, was a stark reminder of the economic hardships of the time.

At dinner, B.H. would listen to Bennie, Dorothy, and J.D. chatter about school and life on the farm. Bennie, at 13, was getting taller by the day, eager to follow in his father’s footsteps, while Dorothy and J.D. still had a spark of youthful innocence. Florence, ever watchful, would smile softly, her hands always busy with mending or preparing food. The simplicity of their lives didn’t bother her—it was how she preferred it. Their home was a haven of warmth and contentment, a place where the simple joys of life were cherished. The family’s unity and resilience in the face of adversity were a beacon of hope, a testament to the strength of the human spirit during the Great Depression, uplifting those who hear their story.

Ulrich Groff & Family

B.H. often wondered what his father would think of the life he’d built. Ulrich had been proud of his roots, reminding B.H. of the Groff family’s journey from Switzerland to America. Now, with Ulrich gone, B.H. felt the weight of his legacy. He wanted to honor it, but times were changing. Ben wasn’t just a farmer anymore but a man responsible for more than his land. He was an employer now, managing men who had their own families. This shift in his role was a sign of progress and a departure from his father’s more straightforward life, reflecting the uncertain and changing dynamics of the farming community during the Great Depression.

The fields stretched out before him, endless and full of promise. As the sun dipped below the horizon, B.H. looked at the land. He knew that whatever the future held, it would be shaped by hard work, perseverance, and the simple joys of family. And perhaps there was room for a bit of change along the way. The future was uncertain, but B.H. was ready to face it with the same determination that had guided him so far.

Hurricane Helene: The Unexpected Reckoning – The Mara Gonzalez Story

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

The Fall of 2024 was supposed to be quiet—it had just started, at least that’s what the weather forecasters had predicted. But as the Atlantic winds shifted and the sky over the Caribbean darkened, something was brewing—a force no one anticipated. Hurricane Helene, named after the calmest of saints, defied its serene namesake.

It raged towards the coast, catching everyone off guard with a fury unlike any other.

Mara Gonzalez, a lifelong resident of Tallahassee, Florida, knows hurricanes too well. Her family had lived through the destruction of Hermine in 2016 and, even further back, the devastating flood of 1843 that left the area uninhabitable. But Helene was different. It didn’t give them time to prepare. It increased, catching wind over the Gulf of Mexico and swelling from a Category 2 to a dangerous Category 4 within hours.

Mara’s weather app pinged. “Helene upgraded to Category 5. Evacuation recommended for coastal residents.” Her heart sank as she looked out the window, the clouds swirling angrily in the distance.

Her husband, Luis, was packing supplies in the truck—water, canned goods, blankets—everything they had prepared weeks before when the first storm warnings of the season were announced. They had been waiting for something to hit, but nothing ever came. Now, with Helene’s ferocity looming, the preparations seemed rushed. They had planned to ride it out, but the panic spreading through town made Mara reconsider.

“Luis, I think we need to leave,”

She called out, her voice trembling. The wind had already picked up, howling through the streets like a warning cry. Despite her fear, Mara’s determination to protect her family was unwavering.

Luis wiped the sweat from his brow.

“We can still make it inland before the storm hits,”

He reassured her, though his voice wavered.

The children, nine-year-old Sofia and six-year-old Diego sat quietly in the truck’s backseat, their eyes wide with confusion and innocence. They had lived through tropical storms before, but nothing this ominous.

As they made their way out of the neighborhood, Atlanta seemed to be on the move. Lines of cars stretched down the highway, desperate to escape the path of destruction. The radio crackled with reports of the storm’s unexpected growth, and people were urged to evacuate immediately.

But Hurricane Helene wasn’t following any conventional path. As the Gonzalezes drove inland toward Atlanta, the sky darkened further, and the wind picked up speed. The air was thick with the smell of rain and fear. Helene was coming in fast, making landfall quicker than expected. Mara gripped the dashboard as the rain pelted the windshield, blurring their view of the road ahead. The sound of the rain was deafening, and the wind was howling like a pack of wolves, adding to the sense of impending doom.

“Luis, do you think we’ll be safe in Atlanta?”

She asked, her voice barely audible over the pounding rain.

“I don’t know, Mara. We have to keep moving.”

Luis’s hands were tight on the wheel, his knuckles white.

The radio cut out. Silence fell over the car for a moment before the blaring broke it of emergency alerts.

“A tornado is in the storm’s wake, and they are directly in its path.”

“Dad, what’s happening?”

Sofia asked, her voice small and scared.

“Just a bit of rough weather, baby. We’re going to be fine,”

Luis tried to reassure her, but the fear in his voice betrayed him.

The hurricane’s outer bands unleashed their full fury as they approached Tallahassee. Roads flooded, trees were ripped from their roots, and debris littered the streets. The city, usually a haven for those fleeing coastal storms, was under siege by Helene’s wrath.

Mara’s phone buzzed again, this time with a text from her mother, who had stayed behind in Tampa. The water was rising fast; stay safe. I love you all.

Mara’s breath caught as she imagined her mother huddled inside her home, fighting the rising floodwaters. She wanted to scream, to tell her to leave, but the storm had already overtaken the coast.

Hours passed in the chaos, and they found temporary shelter in a school gym, along with hundreds of others who had fled in the nick of time. The wind howled outside as the noises of roofs getting ripped off homes echoed, and power lines crashing down filled the air. Yet, amid this turmoil, there was a sense of unity among the survivors, a shared understanding of the need to support each other.

But Mara couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about her mother and the others who stayed behind, hoping and praying they’d made it through the worst.

Morning came, but the storm lingered. Helene’s aftermath was unlike anything the city had ever seen. Tampa was submerged, and entire neighborhoods were wiped out. The streets were littered with debris, and the once vibrant city was now a ghost town. Atlanta too, was left battered, with flooding rivaling the disaster of Hurricane Harvey years before. The city was in a state of shock, trying to come to terms with the scale of the destruction.

Mara stood outside the shelter, looking at the devastation, trying to fathom the destruction that stretched as far as she could see. Helene had taken lives, homes, and peace of mind. Yet, as the sun rose, a strange calm settled over the city. People began to emerge, surveying the wreckage but already talking about rebuilding, helping one another, and survival.

“Hurricane Helene may have brought us down,” Luis said, placing a hand on Mara’s shoulder, “but it didn’t break us.” The city was a testament to that. Despite the devastation, people were already talking about rebuilding, helping one another, and survival. The spirit of the community was unbroken, and it was this resilience that would see them through the difficult times ahead.

Mara nodded, her mind racing with thoughts of what was next. There would be losses to mourn, people to find, and a future to rebuild. Helene had come unannounced and left destruction in its wake, but the people’s resilience would rise just as it always had, just as it always would.

THE GOOD OLE DAYS – When Liquor And Smoking Was Looked Down On In The Church!

BenjaminLeave a comment

A Report By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Back When It Was Wrong to Drink Alcohol if You Attended Church Regularly**

There was a time in America when attending church wasn’t just a Sunday ritual—it was a statement about your character and standing in the community. The church was not just a place of worship, but a social hub, a moral compass, and a powerful institution that dictated the norms of the society. If you were a regular churchgoer, there were unspoken rules about living outside church walls. Drinking alcohol or smoking cigarettes were two vices that could quickly bring judgment upon you, even if they were as commonplace as breathing for others.

In small towns, everyone knew each other, and word traveled fast. It wasn’t uncommon for whispers to start over something as innocent as being seen at a local diner that served alcohol. If you planned to go out on a Saturday night, you’d carefully choose your venue. Establishments that served soft drinks and burgers were safe zones. But heaven forbid you step into a place with a liquor license, even if you ordered only iced tea. The fear of being seen holding a bottle or sitting too close to someone who did would make you check the room every few minutes, scanning for familiar faces.

If someone from the church spotted you and word got back, there would be consequences. Churchgoers who believed themselves to be the guardians of morality would meet in hushed tones after Sunday service. By the following week, it wasn’t just an isolated incident but a full-blown scandal. Being blackballed from the church community was as much a social exile as a spiritual one. It meant being shunned by your friends, ignored by your neighbors, and excluded from community events. It was a scarlet letter that you wore for all to see.

For many, life revolved around the church. From social gatherings to community support, it was the center of life. If you fell out of favor, you might as well have packed your bags and left town. People would stop coming by your house. Your family would feel isolated, and worse yet, your reputation could be tarnished, so you’d be forever known as “the one who didn’t live right.”

What made it even harder was that many people did drink or smoke, just not publicly. Behind closed doors, whiskey bottles would appear, and cigarettes would be lit, but it was all secret. There was a fine line between private indulgence and public condemnation; walking that line required skill. Even the most upstanding churchgoers knew when to bend the rules to avoid exposure, but there was no forgiveness once caught.

This wasn’t just a rule enforced by the church leaders. It was ingrained in the fabric of the town. Even those who didn’t care much for the church often aligned themselves with its standards because the social costs of defying them were too high. Businesses knew to close down on Sundays, and local events were always planned around the church calendar. People were always watching, and it was the judgment of your peers that carried the actual weight.

But it wasn’t all rigid. A seismic shift was underway. The younger generation, starting in the 1960s and into the ’70s, began to question why the church had such control over their personal lives. They saw the church’s influence as oppressive, and they were determined to break free. Some moved away from the towns, hoping to escape the ever-present watchful eyes. Others rebelled quietly, choosing to live their lives in contrast to the expectations but always careful to avoid getting caught. Those who stayed and fought for change were few and far between, and the weight of tradition bore down on them heavily.

As time went on, the grip loosened, but for those who lived through it, the fear of social disgrace for drinking or smoking stayed with them long after the rules faded.