☕ Morning Coffee: The Scariest Commercial Break of the Year

October 30, 2026October 27, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

Trick or Treat…It is soon time to vote…and end the haunting political advertising.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026
October 30, 2026

Good morning, coffee drinkers.

people sitting inside the coffee shop — _{^{Photo by Mizzu Cho on Pexels.com}}

Tomorrow is Halloween, and I imagine some of you are ready for the scary movies to disappear from the television schedule. We have had enough haunted houses, rattling chains, and people investigating strange noises in basements they had no business entering.

Personally, I would have put the house up for sale during the opening credits.

But even after the Halloween movies retreat into storage, we will still have those political advertisements.

Apparently, some horrors have a larger advertising budget.

We are four days away from the United States midterm elections on Tuesday, November 3. Four more days of ominous music, unflattering photographs, and a voice warning us that somebody running for office intends to destroy everything we hold dear.

By now, I am surprised the candidates have not been accused of stealing Halloween candy directly from the mouths of children.

Give it another commercial break.

Before we get to Tuesday, though, there is another observance I try to acknowledge every year. Halloween, October 31, is All Hallows’ Eve—the evening before All Saints’ Day on November 1.

a man voting beside a ballot box — _{^{Photo by Sora Shimazaki on Pexels.com}}

Beyond the costumes and candy, there is room in this season for remembrance. For thinking about those who came before us, the lives they lived, and what they left in our care.

I think about that responsibility when I consider what we are leaving for the people coming after us.

What will they learn from watching us? How to disagree? How to recognize the truth? How to accept an outcome we did not want?

Or simply how to shout louder?

One of my frustrations with political advertising is how much responsibility falls on the person sitting at home trying to sort through it. The Federal Trade Commission, which oversees truth in much commercial advertising, does not have jurisdiction over political advertisements. The FCC does not verify the accuracy of political claims before they air, either.

That does not make every accusation legally consequence-free. But it certainly leaves voters with a considerable amount of homework.

And most of us were only trying to watch a movie.

You hear an accusation. Then a denial. Then another advertisement explaining why the denial cannot be trusted. Somewhere in the middle, an actual voting record or statement may be buried beneath enough dramatic music to launch a horror franchise.

Sometimes the words are real, but the context has disappeared. Sometimes a vote against a bill becomes an accusation that someone opposed every worthwhile thing tucked inside it.

And sometimes a candidate says something troubling in plain language, only for supporters to spend the next week explaining why we should not believe our own ears.

Meanwhile, an unsupported accusation about the opponent travels around the neighborhood before the correction has its shoes on.

That is what wears people down. Eventually, some folks stop asking what is true and settle for whatever sounds right coming from their side.

I understand being tired. I am tired, too. But exhaustion is a poor reason to hand somebody else the responsibility for deciding what we believe.

My worry is that Tuesday will bring relief from the advertisements without bringing relief from the accusations.

I expect that if Democrats win close races, we will hear familiar claims from some Republicans that the election was stolen. That is my expectation, not a result we can know in advance. But I have grown weary of the suggestion that an election is trustworthy only when it produces the preferred winner.

A close race may warrant a recount under the applicable rules. An allegation of wrongdoing deserves examination when there is evidence behind it.

Disappointment alone proves nothing.

And counting ballots carefully takes time. We may go to bed Tuesday without knowing the outcome of every race. I would rather wait for an accurate count than demand a hurried answer simply because the television panel has run out of things to say.

So, as we move from Halloween into All Saints’ Day and then toward Election Day, perhaps we could give a little thought to what deserves our fear—and what deserves our attention.

Remember those who helped shape your life. Enjoy the children in their costumes. Save a little candy for yourself.

Then take your vote seriously enough to look beyond the commercial.

I am ready for the scary movies to end and the political advertisements to follow them out the door.

After that, I would appreciate one quiet morning when the most alarming thing on television is the price of a new refrigerator.

Pour yourself another cup, folks.

And keep the remote handy.

Signature of Benjamin Groff, with attribution to GroffMedia and a website link. — _{^{Benjamin Groff}}

Morning Coffee ––– Colonel Roy Rodrick – The Saturday Night Horse Auction

October 29, 2026October 28, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

Colonel Roy Rodrick

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026
October 29, 2026

Morning Coffee: Remembering Roy Rodrick.

A smiling older man wearing a light gray cowboy hat, glasses, and a colorful plaid shirt, draped in a red jacket. — **Colonel Roy Rodrick**

April 28, 1931 — October 26, 2026

Some voices stay with you for a lifetime.

For me, one of those voices belonged to Roy Rodrick, calling horses through an auction ring long after most sensible people would have gone home to bed.

My dad wasn’t one of those sensible people.

Neither was I, apparently. I was usually sitting beside him.

Colonel Roy Leon Rodrick, known affectionately as “Dutch,” passed away October 26, 2026, in Lawton, Oklahoma. He was 95.

Reading about his passing brought back the sale barns in Anadarko and Mountain View, the familiar faces in the seats, and those long nights when Dad insisted we stay until the very last horse came through.

There was always the possibility that the next one would be the horse he had been waiting for.

And you certainly couldn’t leave before finding out.

Roy was born April 28, 1931, in Hobart, Oklahoma, to Harold and Mattie Rodrick. He grew up in the Carnegie area and attended Prairie Vale Public School. Over the years, he worked at several occupations, but auctioneering was the work that became his calling.

He spent more than fifty years at it.

That is a lot of horses, a lot of bidders, and a remarkable amount of talking.

Roy had the voice for it—and the staying power.

Dad and I bought many a head of horses at Anadarko and Mountain View. During the years Roy and Lois operated the Mountain View horse sale, Saturday nights meant a gathering of people who came to buy, sell, visit, or simply see what might come through the ring.

Dad generally managed to do all four.

He would bring a collection of friends along, settle into his seat, and make himself comfortable. We might be there until nearly sunrise, but if horses were still coming through, we were still watching.

And Roy was still calling.

I can remember being tired enough to wonder whether morning would arrive before we got home. Dad, meanwhile, seemed perfectly willing to wait out the whole business.

Somewhere among the horses still waiting their turn might be a good mare, a promising cutting horse, or a bargain he couldn’t reasonably be expected to leave behind.

At least that was the general philosophy.

Those nights became part of my education. I watched the horses, listened to the bids, and paid attention to the people who knew what they were looking at. There was plenty to learn if a boy could sit still long enough to notice.

I found some of the best mares and cutting horses I ever owned at those sales.

And if Roy gave his word from the auction ring that a horse was sound, you could count on it.

His word meant something to us. When you were spending money on a horse you expected to ride, work, or bring home to your family, that mattered.

Roy understood horses. He also understood the people buying them.

He traveled throughout Oklahoma and Texas, buying, selling, and trading. From the accounts of those who knew him, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t consider trading for, and he rarely passed up an opportunity to make a deal.

I suspect Dad appreciated that about him.

The two of them certainly shared an interest in seeing what might be available.

One Christmas, Dad and I left a family gathering in Sentinel and somehow ended up in Mountain View looking at horses.

I cannot tell you exactly how a Christmas visit turned into a horse-shopping expedition. With Dad, those changes in direction didn’t require much explanation.

Roy came out and showed the horses to us.

That simple visit has stayed with me all these years. I remember being there with Dad, looking at horses, and Roy taking the time to show them.

Looking back, I’m grateful for those ordinary hours. At the time, I had no reason to think I would still be remembering them more than half a century later.

On June 27, 1978, Roy married Minnie Lois McLemore in Wichita Falls, Texas. Together, they shared many years, operated the Mountain View horse sale, and eventually made their home in Cordell.

Lois was related to my father through the McLemore family. In our part of Oklahoma, family connections had a way of turning up wherever you went. Follow a name far enough, and somebody would explain how you were related.

Sometimes the explanation took longer than the drive home.

Roy also enjoyed visiting and telling stories. His family’s remembrance describes a man who could strike up a conversation with just about anyone, whether they had known him for years or had only just met him.

That seems fitting for someone who spent so much of his life bringing people together around an auction ring.

People came for the horses, but they came back for the company, too. Over time, those Saturday nights became a regular part of their lives. You knew where you were going, who you might see, and whose voice would be waiting when you got there.

For many of us, that voice was Roy’s.

He leaves behind a large family, including children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, along with the many people who knew him through his years in the horse business.

Each will have a different story to tell.

Mine includes a pickup ride with Dad, a seat at the sale barn, and a long night watching horses come through the ring.

Roy Rodrick kept calling.

Dad kept watching.

And I was fortunate enough to be there beside him.

Rest well, Roy. Thank you for the good horses, the time you gave us, and the memories that have lasted all these years.

Find stories about horse sales by Benjamin and how they affected his life by searching here…some may truly surprise. At the auction barn Dutch was calling most of the sales!

^{_{Benjamin Groff}}

Morning Coffee -–– The Habana: Behind The Laughter

October 14, 2026October 9, 2026Benjamin4 Comments

“Within an hour and a half everyone was a ten!”

October 14, 2026

This morning’s coffee takes us back to a time long ago. If you remember it, good for you. For most of us, there are a few parts missing.

It was a time when the rules were more of a suggestion, and the law was applied with a light touch. I know. I was the one applying it.

Exterior view of Habana Inn, featuring a large sign with palm tree graphics and a welcoming message, surrounded by parked cars and greenery.

So pour yourself a cup, folks. We’re going back to the Habana—where the drinks were strong, the characters were unforgettable, and the details sometimes depended on who was doing the remembering.

It was the early 1980s, and another celebration was underway at the Habana Inn in Oklahoma City. Around that place, it sometimes seemed as though there was something to celebrate every day.

Then came a bomb threat.

Calls went to the hotel and the police and fire departments. The caller provided enough detail to raise serious concerns, and the decision was made to evacuate the property. Shows were taking place that afternoon, and drag queens were everywhere. Hotel employees began directing guests toward a parking lot across from the northeast corner of the hotel.

The manager was a short, feisty man whose name I can no longer recall. He was of retirement age, and he expected people to listen when he spoke. That afternoon, he made his way around the property telling everyone to leave.

Behind the hotel, near the back swimming pool, he encountered a drag queen who wasn’t inclined to follow his instructions.

A view of a swimming pool surrounded by lounge chairs and greenery, with people enjoying the water and sun under a large colorful umbrella.

He explained that there had been a bomb threat and that she needed to evacuate. She refused. They exchanged words. Then the manager pulled out a can of mace and sprayed her.

Her makeup began running down her face, and her reaction left little doubt about how badly it burned. But she wasn’t backing down. She pulled off a high-heeled shoe and took off after him.

Across the street, KOCO-TV had a camera crew filming the evacuation for the evening news. Suddenly, through the hotel’s front entrance came the manager, running for all he was worth. Behind him came the drag queen, makeup ruined, shoe raised overhead, screaming and cussing.

The folks gathered across the street had plenty to say about that unexpected addition to the afternoon’s entertainment. I don’t remember every remark, but the scene hardly needed commentary.

As I recall, a group of bartenders from the Pipeline—which later became the Finish Line—intercepted her and helped the manager reach safety.

For those who witnessed it, that chase became one of the Habana stories that never quite faded. Among those still around to tell it, I imagine it remains as vivid as ever.

But the laughter is only one part of what I remember.

The manager continued working and living at the Habana until he was found dead one morning in Penthouse B, near the back swimming pool.

Questions circulated afterward. Had someone been with him? Had he suffered a heart attack? Had anything else contributed to his death? People offered theories, but I never learned a confirmed explanation.

His would not be the only death I came to associate with that room.

One of the others was a man I knew well: Larry. I keep the last name to preserve the privacy for the family.

Larry was a bail bondsman, a reserve deputy with the Oklahoma County Sheriff’s Office, and the owner of a pawnshop in Del City. You would have been hard-pressed to meet a nicer man.

He also struggled with the distance between who he was and who he believed the world expected him to be. We talked about that. From what I saw, liquor and drugs had become ways for him to cope.

Our friendship did not erase my responsibilities as a police officer. More than once, I told him plainly, “If I ever catch you with drugs, it’s going to be the slammer. I can’t look the other way.”

Then I would get off duty, and we would go browsing through secondhand stores, looking through other people’s discarded treasures.

I sat with him at the Finish Line and had drinks. I also visited him in Penthouse 7, directly above the nightclubs. When the crowds filled the Copa or the Finish Line, you could feel the music through the room: thump, thump, thump. The party downstairs made its presence known upstairs.

Later, Larry moved into Penthouse B.

That room already had a reputation. People said it was haunted, and I didn’t even like going near it. Between Larry’s struggles and my own uneasiness about that room, I feared something would happen. Looking back, that was fear—not knowledge of what lay ahead.

I had been away from the property for a few days. When I returned, the news was everywhere.

They had found Larry.

I was told it appeared he had died in his sleep. I never learned a confirmed cause.

When I think of him now, I remember the man who browsed secondhand stores with me, the conversations we shared, and the kindness that existed alongside his troubles.

There was much more to the Habana than its bars, parties, and penthouses.

Jungle Red was a novelty shop where you could buy gay merchandise, magazines, and items for more private interests. For people exploring a part of themselves they weren’t ready to discuss openly, it offered a place to browse without involving the U.S. Postal Service.

Up a few steps next to the Copa, was a dress shop. Apparently, every respectable gay establishment needed one, and this one offered some impressive selections. If something in the window caught your eye, you asked the attendant at Jungle Red.

Not everyone wanted the pounding music of a nightclub. For those who preferred a quieter evening, there was a martini and piano bar just off the front lobby. It was named the Ledo.

Beside it was a restaurant. Gusher’s. All relating to the Oklahoma Oil Boom. Not the activity taking place at the hotel. I remember the eatery as one of the finest around. On weekends, the place stayed packed well beyond its posted closing time, and it remained busy throughout the week.

A large plate-glass window in the dining room looked south toward the main swimming pool and the surrounding rooms. Guests could sit over a meal and watch people making their way along the walkways above and below.

Naturally, those walks acquired a name: “the walk of shame.”

At the Habana, people sometimes accused others of doing exactly what they had done themselves—at least once, and usually more than twice.

Love stories began there. Others ended there. Sometimes, both happened to the same couple.

It could also be the last place you expected to recognize the handsome athlete from your hometown, especially in circumstances he probably wouldn’t have wanted discussed back in Smallville.

People came out at the Habana. Some did so willingly. Others were recognized before they were ready.

Looking back, I remember the laughter, the music, the friendships, and the freedom people found within those walls. I also remember the loneliness some carried with them, even in the middle of a crowd.

For some, the Habana was a place to spend an evening. For others, it became a home.

And for a few, it was where their lives ended.

For many more, it was where they finally began living as themselves.

A glowing neon sign displaying the word 'TRAMPS' in bright red light.

The Habana was known as the largest gay resort in the southwestern United States. Just off the property stood a bar originally called Saddle Tramps. Over the years, the name was shortened to Tramps, but I always preferred Saddle Tramps. You needed a saddle to ride out whatever you rounded up in there.

The drinks were usually liquor mixed with a drop of chaser. Ask for a whiskey and Coke, and you’d get three-quarters whiskey, a squirt of Coke, and then a little more whiskey—just in case the Coke had weakened it.

Within an hour and a half, every person in the joint was a ten.

The night wasn’t over. There was a dance club up the street called Angles where you could get your head cleared. Before going back to Saddle Tramps for another drink. Then you’d end the evening at the Finish Line or the Copa. At closing time everyone would spill over to the Lobby where they would either go to the restaurant or end up in the yard square and watch the walks of shame, if they were not walking it themselves. In all of this it was a peaceful event. If trouble makers showed up, a group of bears would take care of them. Escorting them off the property. Of course as security, we’d watch to make sure nothing got out of hand.

It was a different time and life was experiencing change. Today, the hotel has changed ownership. There is a book being written on this period. Which I have given written information about the times to the person writing it. I hope those memories live on. Because it was one hell of good time.

A signature of 'Benjamin Groff' accompanied by attribution to Benjamin Groff and GroffMedia, including a website link and copyright information for the year 2026.

Morning Coffee: What If We Had Kept Our Promises?

October 13, 2026October 9, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

What if there had been no Trail of Tears?

October 13, 2026

Well, if you survived Monday, pour yourself a cup. Depending on your calendar and community, you may have called it Columbus Day, Indigenous Peoples’ Day, or Native American Day.

woman in yellow jacket and brown white floral apron holding yellow white ceramic mug — _{^{Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com}}

Whatever name you used, it got me thinking about the Oklahoma of my childhood.

When we played Cowboys and Indians on the playground, we had the real McCoys on both sides—kids from cowboy families and kids from Native families.

Sadly, the cowboys always seemed to win, and our Native friends went along with it. That was simply how we played. I don’t remember anyone questioning why the ending had already been decided.

Now that I am older, I realize how sad that was. Truly sad. Even in a childhood game, we were repeating the story we had been taught: who got to be the hero, who was expected to lose, and whose side of the story hardly mattered.

Had I understood then what I understand now, I would have wanted more victories for my friends—and a chance for them to tell the story their way.

But we had been programmed. Before we were old enough to question the script, we already knew our parts.

Growing up, we commonly used the word “Indian.” We also watched television westerns where Indians fought cowboys, and the script usually told us whom to cheer for before anyone fired a shot.

Looking back, television was doing a fair amount of our thinking for us.

I still have Native friends who call themselves Indians. That is their choice, and I respect it. People deserve to tell us who they are, rather than have the rest of us decide for them.

The Oklahoma I remember has changed. Tribal businesses and casinos became increasingly visible over the years, especially after I moved away. Places I associated with one chapter of my childhood began to look very different.

But seeing a changing landscape and understanding its history are two different things.

For years, I wondered how land purchased by a tribe became tribal land. I also confused that question with whether the land was sacred. Those are different matters: sacredness concerns religious and cultural significance, while trust status involves a legal process through which the federal government holds land for a tribe or an individual Native person.

Still, understanding that distinction leaves me with a larger question: How did we arrive at a place where Native nations sometimes have to buy back portions of the lands they lost?

That question stays with me longer than the explanations about deeds and boundaries.

What might this country look like if settlers and the governments that followed them had respected Native nations’ right to govern themselves? If agreements had been honored? If families had not been forced from their homes?

What if there had been no Trail of Tears?

Would we be better off today? Would our relationships with one another be different? What knowledge, traditions, and possibilities might have survived that were instead disrupted or lost?

I am not looking for an argument over my morning coffee. I am wondering about the distance between the history we inherited and the history we might have made.

We cannot know exactly how that other America would have turned out. But uncertainty about what might have been does not erase what actually happened.

Perhaps that is what this day brings to my table: a reason to look beyond the television westerns of my childhood and listen to the people whose histories those scripts so often pushed aside.

My coffee cannot change yesterday. But I can still learn something today.

The reference to forced removal and the Trail of Tears is supported by the National Park Service’s historical account. nps.gov

Signature of Benjamin Groff along with copyright and attribution information.

Border Wall Dispute Raises Questions About Public Safety and Local Resources

October 12, 2026October 11, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

[SPECIAL EDITION]

“They keep building the border wall. If nothing else, it gives politicians something to crow about. Though these days, you have to wonder whether anyone’s still asking for directions to get here.”
— Imagining Will Rogers weighing in from the grave…

October 12, 2026

A dispute over border wall construction in southern Arizona has become a disagreement over law enforcement responsibilities, public safety, and the resources available to a county sheriff’s office.

In an October 9 open letter, the Arizona Sheriffs’ Association raised concerns about allegedly unanswered requests for assistance during protests in Santa Cruz County. The association said federal and state officials had reported incidents involving alleged violence, threats, and property damage. It called for those allegations to be documented and investigated.

_{^{The video above was from six months ago. Then there didn’t appear any issues with getting the wall up. Since that time those building Trump’s border wall cut into an ancient ground carving older than Stonehenge. The Las Playas Intaglio carving of a huge fish is at least 2,000 years older than the first Egyptian pyramid, according to researchers’ estimations.}}

The letter also attributed to Sheriff David Hathaway a policy limiting deputies’ responses to protest-related calls to incidents involving violence. Whether particular requests involved criminal conduct, and how his office handled them, requires further examination. According to Arizona’s Family’s report, the sheriff’s office had not responded to the station’s request for comment.

The dispute follows an October 5 federal operation at a protest encampment near Lochiel. Arizona’s Family reported that video showed a protester being removed from a cottonwood tree using a cherry picker before the tree was cut down. Activists had occupied the site to oppose construction of a second border barrier. That confrontation is described here.

The public safety questions deserve attention. So does the capacity of the local agency being asked to respond.

Santa Cruz County covers approximately 1,236 square miles of land and had an estimated population of 50,020 in July 2025. The Border Sheriffs directory lists 39 sworn officers for its sheriff’s office, although that listing does not establish current staffing or the number available for patrol on any particular shift.

colorful license plate wall display in canada — _{^{America has long welcomed people who came to do business—or simply escape winter for a little sunshine. This year, some businesses in those sunny destinations say fewer visitors are returning, and trade has slowed to a crawl. The sunshine is still here. The customers, it seems, are checking the forecast for more than the weather.}}

From my experience in law enforcement, an agency’s total sworn strength can give a misleading impression of its available manpower. Days off, training, leave, investigations, supervision, and other assignments affect how many officers can answer calls. A fair assessment should examine actual deployment and workload before drawing conclusions about available resources.

Staffing constraints do not erase a sheriff’s responsibilities. Arizona law requires sheriffs to preserve the peace and address public offenses and disturbances. Whether those duties were fulfilled here should be evaluated through dispatch records, incident reports, requests for assistance, and the sheriff’s explanation.

Federal agencies should also explain how they planned to manage demonstrations and coordinate with local authorities. Construction that draws sustained opposition requires clear arrangements for emergency response, protection of lawful protest, and investigation of alleged crimes.

The association has offered available assistance through the Arizona Department of Public Safety if requested. That offers a possible route toward cooperation while preserving the county sheriff’s independent authority.

My concern is whether the agencies involved have established a workable plan that protects residents, protesters, workers, and officers without leaving routine county services short of personnel. Answering that question requires documented facts, an opportunity for all sides to respond, and a realistic accounting of resources.

Signature of Benjamin Groff with attribution and copyright information.

The Legacy That Remained Above Ground

October 10, 2026October 7, 2026Benjamin1 Comment

A memorial holds meaning beyond its concrete, marble, steel and glass. Its name tells future generations whom a nation chose to remember. Its halls preserve music, theater, ceremony and shared experience.

October 10, 2026

In my 63 years, America has traveled an extraordinary distance. Yet some shadows seem to follow us from one generation into another.

Paper collage featuring American flags, Capitol, White House, Statue of Liberty, and civic buildings — _{^{This mornings coffee is going to be layered. Get ready.}}

I was born in 1963, during the Kennedy presidency. His assassination belongs to the beginning of my life, even though it lies beyond my earliest memories. For Americans old enough to remember November 22 of that year, the news from Dallas became a dividing line: before, and after.

The Kennedy years had already brought their share of danger. In April 1961, the failed Bay of Pigs invasion—developed under the Eisenhower administration and authorized by Kennedy—became one of his earliest foreign-policy crises.

Then came Dallas.

Questions involving the Soviet Union quickly became part of the national conversation. Lee Harvey Oswald had lived there, married a Russian woman and visited the Soviet Embassy in Mexico City shortly before the assassination.

Those circumstances fed suspicion. Official investigations, however, did not establish Soviet involvement. The Warren Commission found no evidence that a foreign government had employed or encouraged Oswald to assassinate Kennedy. The House Select Committee on Assassinations later concluded, on the evidence available to it, that the Soviet government was not involved.

Still, the suspicion never entirely disappeared from the American imagination.

And America continued through a succession of moments that once seemed unimaginable.

On March 31, 1968, President Lyndon Baines Johnson announced that he would neither seek nor accept his party’s nomination for another term. The Vietnam War consumed the nation, and political divisions continued to deepen.

That June, Robert Kennedy was assassinated while campaigning for the Democratic presidential nomination.

Vietnam stretched across presidencies, taking American lives and leaving divisions that remained long after the troops came home.

Then came Watergate.

Richard Nixon resigned on August 9, 1974, as impeachment proceedings advanced against him. On September 8, President Gerald Ford granted him a pardon for federal offenses committed or potentially committed during his presidency.

The country moved forward, carrying another argument about power and accountability.

Then came the Iran hostage crisis.

Fifty-two Americans endured 444 days of captivity following the seizure of the U.S. Embassy in Tehran. Negotiations during the Carter administration produced the agreement securing their freedom. They were released on January 20, 1981, as Carter left office and Ronald Reagan became president.

During Reagan’s presidency came Iran-Contra: secret weapons sales to Iran and the diversion of proceeds to support the Contras in Nicaragua. Reagan initially denied trading arms for hostages, but later acknowledged that the initiative had deteriorated into precisely that.

Under George H. W. Bush, America went to war in the Persian Gulf after Iraq invaded Kuwait.

During the Clinton years, we witnessed the deadly conclusion of the Branch Davidian standoff near Waco, Texas.

Aerial view of a damaged building with significant structural collapse on one side, exposing debris and rubble, surrounded by a cityscape. — _{^{Alfred P. Murrah Building Okc, Oklahoma.}}

Two years later, Timothy McVeigh, aided by Terry Nichols, carried out the Oklahoma City bombing. The attack killed 168 people, including 19 children. It remains the deadliest act of homegrown terrorism in American history.

Then came September 11, 2001.

During George W. Bush’s presidency, nineteen al-Qaeda terrorists hijacked four commercial airplanes. Nearly 3,000 people were killed in attacks that changed the country and the world.

A decade later, during the Obama administration, U.S. forces killed Osama bin Laden.

And still America continued.

Donald Trump became the 45th president. Joe Biden followed as the 46th. Trump returned as the 47th.

Russia again became entangled in an American presidency, under circumstances very different from the suspicions surrounding Kennedy’s assassination.

U.S. intelligence agencies concluded that Russia interfered in the 2016 election, an assessment upheld by the bipartisan Senate Intelligence Committee. The Mueller investigation documented numerous campaign contacts involving Russia, but did not establish that Trump campaign members conspired or coordinated with the Russian government in its election-interference activities.

These episodes do not establish a common conspiracy. They show how questions of foreign influence, presidential power and public trust can echo across generations.

Then, on July 1, 2024, the Supreme Court ruled that former presidents have absolute criminal immunity for conduct within their exclusive constitutional authority and at least presumptive immunity for other official acts. Unofficial acts receive no presidential immunity. The decision reshaped the legal boundaries of presidential accountability.

Now we find ourselves back at the Kennedy name.

Congress designated the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts as a living memorial in 1964. In September 2026, a federal judge again blocked efforts to add Trump’s name without congressional authorization. The board then voted for an extended renovation closure. Trump said repairs would depend on approval of the naming proposal.

Management separately cited structural safety concerns for a temporary closure, while the board’s renovation decision remained under court scrutiny.

The dispute widened further when a judge required advance notice before demolition and bipartisan lawmakers proposed legislation requiring congressional approval before a presidential memorial could be demolished. As of October 2, that proposal had not become law. These developments do not establish that demolition has begun, but they give the question of preservation immediate importance.

For me, that brings these years into an unsettling circle.

A presidency ended in Dallas. A cultural institution was later dedicated to keeping that president’s memory alive.

Nearly 63 years after his death, Americans are arguing over what can be done to that memorial, whose name it may carry and who has the authority to decide.

Repairs deserve careful attention. So do the laws and public responsibilities attached to the place being repaired.

Who decides what name a national memorial carries?

How much authority should a sitting president have to reshape an institution dedicated by Congress to another?

And when does renovation become reinvention?

Those questions reach beyond the Kennedy Center.

Across my lifetime, I have watched presidents come and go, wars begin and end, and scandals shake institutions that once seemed beyond question. The country has endured pressures that appeared capable of breaking it.

Survival, however, does not settle every question. We must still decide what we carry forward.

Some things belong to the American people across generations. Each administration inherits responsibility for them. Each generation receives something it did not build alone.

That inheritance asks something of us.

What parts are ours to change—and what parts have we been entrusted to preserve for those who come after us?

Kennedy’s presidency ended in Dallas.

rockets in kennedy space center in usa — _{^{Photo by Luis Bettiol on Pexels.com}}

His name survived on schools, highways, airports, a space center and one of America’s most important cultural institutions.

That is why the argument over the Kennedy Center reaches beyond performance halls and construction plans. It concerns the care we give to a memory entrusted to us.

Kennedy’s coffin was closed nearly 63 years ago.

The more unsettling question is what we will preserve of the legacy that remained above ground.

Signature of Benjamin Groff followed by copyright information and website details.

Morning Coffee: The First Dude

October 8, 2026October 1, 2026Benjamin1 Comment

The First Dude Has Died. And, He‘s Responsible For Over 500 Decendants…

October 8, 2026

Good morning, folks!

man sitting and reading newspaper — _{^{Photo by Anna Keibalo on Pexels.com}}

I read the other day that the First Dude had died. I stopped and looked at that headline twice.

The First Dude?

Was he somebody’s husband? A fellow who insisted on being first in line everywhere he went? Or one of those rascals who walks into a room as though he owns the place?

Was he one of the president’s kids? A former president’s brother? No, neither seemed quite right for a name like First Dude. I thought briefly of Doug Emhoff, Kamala Harris’s husband. He carried himself with enough quiet confidence to pull it off, but he already had a title: Second Gentleman.

The more I read, the more I thought I had him figured out. He was a Florida fellow with a remarkable social life. He had been quite the catch in his younger days and, from all appearances, remained popular for years. His family was enormous. There were 538 youngsters of racing age on the books, though I doubt he remembered every name.

And talk about a family making something of itself: 302 of them became winners. Together, his offspring earned nearly $30 million. That would give anybody at the coffee table something to brag about.

But the First Dude had earned his own reputation long before his children came along. He was a competitor who kept showing up among the best. In 2010, he finished second in the Preakness Stakes and third in the Belmont Stakes. He earned more than $1.4 million during his own racing career.

By now, you may have caught on. The First Dude was a horse.

First Dude, to give him his proper name, was a racehorse and later a stallion at Double Diamond Farm in Florida. He was named Florida Stallion of the Year in both 2017 and 2018. He died at 19.

**^{_{First Dude was a Stud! A Horse’s, Horse!}}**

I began reading with a chuckle over his name. I finished thinking about what it means to leave a mark. First Dude ran his own races, and then a whole new generation carried something of him onto the track.

So raise your coffee cup to the First Dude. He was quite a fellow. And, yes, he really did own a little piece of the place.

Based on reporting by Horse Racing Nation. Photo: Bob Mayberger / Eclipse Sportswire.

Morning Coffee: Climbing the Family Ladder

Featured1 Comment

Sometimes you have to question what your told. This is about abunch of those times.

October 6th, 2026

Good morning, folks!

I thought I would bring you up to date on how I’m doing socially and professionally. Despite doing absolutely nothing, I continue to climb the ladder of success.

Abstract torn-paper collage revealing a glowing geometric grid in blue, gold, and purple

For years, I had cousins in Oklahoma and Arkansas, with a few sprinkled across Texas. I was the adventurous one who made it to Colorado, Wyoming, and Arizona. But now a cousin of mine has moved from Kansas City to Chicago. Technically, he’s my cousin’s son, but he’s only ten years younger than I am, so we’ve never bothered with the fine print.

He lives about twenty floors up. That is a level of upward mobility I could never achieve without an elevator. When I pass through Chicago, I plan to announce that I’m stopping by the penthouse. Whether he actually lives in a penthouse is a detail I’ll leave out.

Did I mention he’s a doctor? Around the café, that earns me another badge of distinction, even though I didn’t attend a single one of his classes.

I’m having fun with it, of course. My cousin’s accomplishments belong to him. But people borrow the shine from someone else’s success all the time. Sometimes it’s harmless bragging over coffee. Sometimes that borrowed shine is used to convince us to trust someone or accept a deal we haven’t looked at closely.

That brings me to a habit I learned as a law enforcement officer, one that has helped me many times since: question what you’re told.

If a story sounds convincing, ask what supports it. If someone claims an impressive connection, find out what that connection actually means. If an offer sounds too good to pass up, take the time to read the terms. You don’t have to be suspicious of everyone. You can simply give yourself room to check the facts before you decide.

Sometimes the evidence confirms the story. Other times, it shows you something quite different.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish my coffee and call my cousin. I have to find out whether I can honestly keep saying “penthouse.”

Morning Coffee: Coffee, You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby!

October 3, 2026September 26, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

The First Thing Of Your Day, Is Coffee In Your Cup!

October 3, 2026

Good morning, folks!

Steaming coffee cup beside an open ceramic coffee jar and spoons

In their day, coffee was hot. It was waiting on the breakfast table, offered to anyone who stopped by, or kept brewing when someone had to stay awake all night. You took it black, with sugar, with cream, or with both. That was about the extent of the menu.

If my grandparents—or even my dad—could pull up to a coffee shop today, I think the menu would stop them in their tracks. Iced coffee? Coffee with foam? A drive-thru where people wait in line just to order a cup?

And then there was the ceremony of opening a fresh can of ground coffee. Someone would work the can opener around the lid and get the first breath of that rich aroma. If you were nearby, you leaned in for your turn. There was nothing quite like it. I’d recommend experiencing it once in your life, but once probably won’t be enough.

At home, we made coffee by the pot. You put the grounds in the maker, waited for the water to work its way through, and poured a cup when it was ready. I learned that when it was ready was an important part of the process. Pulling the carafe out too early could leave you cleaning up the counter before you’d had your first sip.

I still like sugar in mine. You may take yours black or with enough cream to change its color entirely. These days, you can have it poured over ice and topped with just about anything. My dad might have looked at that cup and asked when the coffee was coming.

But the part I remember best had little to do with how anyone ordered it. I remember waking to the sound of my parents or grandparents talking at the breakfast table while the smell of fresh coffee drifted through the house. Before I could make out what they were saying, I knew they were there and the day had begun.

That aroma can still take me back. Maybe you have a coffee memory like that, too. If you do, I hope your next cup brings it along for a visit.

Morning Coffee: The Cowboy I Knew

October 1, 2026September 24, 2026Benjamin5 Comments

Tell Them Now While It Matters. Tomorrow May Never Come!

October 1, 2026

Good morning, mates!

I thought I’d throw a little English banter into today’s chatter. It seemed fitting while I sat here with a cup of coffee and a recording of Star Trek: Strange New Worlds playing in the background.

Cowboy holding a steaming mug beside a ranch fence at sunset

I record shows when they air and watch them when life gives me a moment. This morning, while the Enterprise traveled through space, my mind wandered back to the days when I was a young chap watching cowboys ride across the television screen.

There was Rawhide, Hopalong Cassidy, and Gene Autry singing his way through the West. I enjoyed them all. But even as a boy, I thought some of those fellows had an easy time of it. The cowboy I knew best had horses to feed, cattle to tend, and work waiting for him whether the cameras were rolling or not.

That cowboy was my dad.

I watched him care for our animals day after day. He was tough, capable, and steady. To me, he was the real thing. He was my hero from the beginning.

What I don’t know is whether I ever told him that clearly enough.

We sometimes assume the people we love already know what they mean to us. Maybe they do. But hearing it from us can still make a difference. A few honest words can stay with someone long after the morning is over.

So while you have your coffee today, think of someone who matters to you. Tell them what you admire about them. Thank them for something they taught you. Let them know that the ordinary things they do have never looked ordinary to you.

You don’t need a grand speech. You just need to say it while they’re here to hear it.

My dad never rode across a television screen. But after all these years, he is still the cowboy I remember best.

You Don’t Have to Finish the Day Before Breakfast

September 25, 2026September 21, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

The day may arrive all at once, but we can only live it one moment at a time. Begin with the coffee, take the next good step, and let the rest of the morning wait its turn.

September 25, 2026

###

There are mornings when I wake up already behind.

I haven’t even placed my feet on the floor, yet my mind is standing beside the bed with a clipboard.

There are messages to answer, bills to remember, appointments to keep, stories to write, and several little things I promised myself I would do yesterday. Before I have poured my first cup of coffee, my brain has scheduled enough work to exhaust three people—and at least one of them should be younger than I am.

Traveler beside numbers 1 through 7; sign reads, “A stubborn sunrise is better than not having any at all.” — J_{^{ust start counting the stress away 1…2…3…4…}}

That is the trouble with mornings. The day arrives all at once, even though we can only live it one moment at a time.

Coffee understands this.

It doesn’t leap from the container into the cup fully prepared. The water must heat. The grounds must be measured. The coffee must brew. Then comes the cream, sugar, or whatever little ceremony makes the cup your own.

Nobody stands beside the coffee maker shouting, “Hurry up! We have an entire day to finish!”

Well, perhaps somebody does. But that person should probably be sent back to bed.

Coffee takes the time coffee takes.

Maybe we should grant ourselves the same kindness.

We do not have to solve every problem before breakfast. We do not have to know how the entire day will unfold. We don’t even have to feel particularly enthusiastic about it. Sometimes our first accomplishment is simply getting out of bed. The next may be finding our glasses and remembering why we walked into the kitchen.

Progress is still progress, even when it arrives wearing slippers.

I have discovered that a day becomes much less intimidating when I stop carrying all twenty-four hours at once. I only need to carry this moment.

Drink the coffee.

Answer one message.

Make one decision.

Do the next decent thing.

Then do another.

Some days will still become tangled. Plans will change. Someone will call just as we sit down. Something we carefully placed where we would remember it will disappear into that mysterious dimension occupied by missing socks, reading glasses, and important pieces of paper.

That does not mean the day has been lost.

There is still time to do some Fall Cleaning. Remember -– This is the first week of Autumn and Fall cleaning is not only for closets and cupboards. Sometimes our memories need to be taken down, dusted off, and placed where we can see them again.

A good day does not have to be a perfect day. It only needs a few honest moments: a kindness offered, a responsibility met, a laugh we didn’t expect, or the decision to begin again after something went wrong.

So, if this morning already feels too heavy, set part of it down.

You were never expected to carry the entire day before breakfast.

Begin with the coffee. Let it warm your hands. Take a breath and allow the world to turn without your supervision for a minute or two.

The day will still be waiting.

But perhaps, after that first cup, it won’t look quite so large.

Go ahead get a another cup, and enjoy your morning!

Are you exhausted before your feet even reach the floor? Today’s Morning Coffee is a reminder that you don’t have to carry all twenty-four hours at once—and progress still counts when it arrives wearing slippers.

Start Before You Feel Ready

September 24, 2026September 21, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

Motivation does not always arrive before the work begins. Sometimes we must take one small step, interrupt the stillness, and give it a chance to catch up with us.

September 24, 2026

Motivation has a habit of arriving after the work begins.

Good morning, folks.

Steaming coffee beside an open handwritten journal on a wooden table

There are mornings when determination charges through the front door, throws open the curtains, and announces, “Let’s get something done!”

Then there are mornings when determination apparently has the day off.

The coffee is brewing. The sun is rising. The clock is moving. But we are sitting there waiting for some grand burst of motivation to lift us from the chair and carry us into the day.

Unfortunately, motivation can be terribly unreliable.

If we wait until we feel completely prepared, confident, rested, organized, and inspired, we may still be sitting beside the coffee pot when lunchtime arrives.

Sometimes we must begin before we feel ready.

Put on the shoes.

Make the telephone call.

Write the first sentence.

Wash the first dish.

Open the door and step outside.

Sometimes when Fall arrives it seems that time is off. That the moment we are in is all backwards. The evening is offset. The clock is moving slower than it should. Then all of the sudden it is later than it should be. That is what happens when time Falls back. Whether the time changes or not. The sun sets earlier, comes up sooner, or moves across the sky at a different pace. Autumn begins to change the way you move.

The first movement may be small, but small movements have a way of waking up the rest of us. One completed task leads to another. Before long, the day that seemed determined to go nowhere has discovered a destination.

I have learned that life rarely sends a marching band to announce the proper moment to begin. There may be no drumroll, perfect weather, or encouraging voice from the heavens. Most beginnings arrive quietly, disguised as an ordinary decision:

“I suppose I had better get started.”

That sentence has launched more accomplishments than we will ever know.

You do not need to conquer the entire day before breakfast. You only need to interrupt the stillness. Give yourself one honest reason to rise, move forward, and show the world you have not surrendered your place in it.

The coffee cannot do everything.

It can warm your hands, clear a little fog from your mind, and perhaps make other people safer to be around. But eventually, you must set down the cup and take the first step.

So begin before you feel ready.

Motivation may be running late—but once it sees you moving, it usually hurries to catch up.

Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong…

—Benjamin Groff II
Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com

Before the Day Asks Anything of Us

September 23, 2026September 19, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

Before the telephone rings, the messages arrive, and the world begins making its demands, the morning gives us a few quiet moments to gather ourselves. We should not hurry past them.

September 23, 2026

Good morning, my friend.

There is a small stretch of time each morning before the day begins asking things of us.

Before the telephone rings. Before the messages arrive. Before the headlines tell us what we should fear, question, or become angry about. For a few precious moments, there is only the sound of coffee pouring into a cup and the quiet promise of another day.

We often hurry through that silence without realizing how valuable it is. We begin making lists in our minds. We remember what we forgot yesterday and worry about what might go wrong today. Before our feet have carried us very far, our thoughts have already run several miles ahead.

But perhaps the morning was never meant to be a starting gun.

Perhaps it was given to us as a gentle place to gather ourselves—to sit quietly, take a breath, and remember that we are more than our obligations. We are more than the chores waiting in the next room, the appointments written on the calendar, or the problems we have not yet solved.

The world will make its demands soon enough. It always does. But it can wait long enough for us to finish one warm cup of coffee.

So, this morning, give yourself permission to remain still for another moment. Notice the light coming through the window. Listen for the familiar sounds of home. Think of someone who has made your life better simply by being part of it.

You do not have to accomplish anything during these few quiet minutes. You only have to be present for them.

Before the day asks something of you, allow the morning to give something to you: a little peace, a little strength, and another reason to be grateful you are here.

Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.

The world will begin asking things of you soon enough. But before it does, sit quietly, take another sip, and allow the morning to give something back. Today’s Morning Coffee is waiting.

Morning Coffee: Who Should Remain on the Friends List?

September 22, 2026September 21, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

A friends list should not require complete agreement. The better question is not whether someone thinks like us, but whether they can disagree while still treating others with dignity.

September 22, 2026

Two smartphones beside two coffee cups on a wooden table — ^{_{Two smartphones rest beside coffee cups in a warmly lit, relaxed workspace.}}

This weekend, Steve and I found ourselves discussing a modern-day question: Who should we remain social media friends with?

It’s the first day of fall, so you know what that means: seasonal cleaning! Grab the broom and dusting cloth, clear away yesterday’s dust, and make room for everything this new season may bring.

Some of our online friends are people we know personally. Others entered our lives professionally. Some are kinfolk—and, as everyone knows, you do not get to choose your kinfolk. You simply learn which subjects should never be discussed at Thanksgiving.

Then there are the people we have never met. By every traditional definition, they are strangers. Yet, through years of comments, photographs, birthday wishes and shared stories, some of them have become more thoughtful and dependable than people we once saw every day.

Our friends lists also contain a few hangovers from our school years. Some go all the way back to kindergarten, while others joined us somewhere between high school and our last stop in higher education. There are former coworkers, old neighbors, distant cousins and people we once knew well but now recognize primarily by their profile pictures.

Together, they make up this grand and rather peculiar collection called a “friends list.”

The question Steve and I discussed was whether the things these people post could affect how others see us. Does remaining connected to someone suggest that we agree with everything that person believes?

Suppose a distant social media friend—someone we have never met—announces that they are against oxygen. Suddenly, the rumor begins circulating that Ben and Steve want people to stop breathing.

That would be the furthest thing from the truth. We want almost everyone to continue breathing.

But social media does not leave much room for careful distinctions. A friendship, a “like,” or even a silent connection can sometimes be interpreted as an endorsement. People may assume that because someone appears on our friends list, we approve of everything that person says.

That brings us to the difficult part: Who stays, and who goes?

Should one negative political post be enough to unfriend someone? Probably not. Most of us have had a bad day, written something too quickly or allowed frustration to speak before good judgment arrived.

Disagreement alone is not necessarily a reason to end a friendship. If someone dislikes watermelons, for instance, I might question their judgment—but I would not immediately remove them from my life.

However, if they begin posting that people who eat watermelons are destroying America, should be denied medical care and ought to be rounded up before the next family picnic, then we have moved beyond a harmless difference of opinion.

There is a difference between disagreeing with people and demeaning them.

Someone may disagree with our politics, our religion, our marriage or the way we live our lives. They have that right. But we also have the right to decide what behavior we will welcome into our personal space.

A friends list should not require complete agreement. If it did, most of us would eventually be left talking only to ourselves—and even then, I occasionally disagree with myself.

The better question may not be, “Does this person think like me?” It may be, “Does this person treat others with basic dignity?”

Can they disagree without becoming cruel? Can they discuss an issue without insulting entire groups of people? Do their posts contribute something worthwhile, or do they exist mainly to provoke fear, anger and division? When they discover that something they shared was false, do they correct it—or simply move on to the next falsehood?

Those questions tell us much more about a person than whether they vote the same way we do.

There is also a difference between making a mistake and establishing a pattern. One thoughtless post can be forgiven. A steady stream of hatred, personal attacks and deliberate misinformation becomes a choice.

At that point, unfriending someone is not necessarily an act of punishment. It may simply be an act of housekeeping.

We clean our homes by deciding what belongs inside them. Perhaps we should occasionally do the same with our social media spaces.

That does not mean everyone who irritates us must be shown the door. Social media platforms usually provide quieter choices. We can unfollow someone without ending the connection. We can mute a page, hide certain posts or simply continue scrolling.

Not every disagreement requires a courtroom, a family feud or a public announcement beginning with the words, “I am cleaning up my friends list.”

Sometimes the healthiest response is simply to stop giving someone our attention.

Steve and I did not establish a complicated set of rules. We did not begin working down the alphabet, judging every person from childhood onward. Instead, we came back to something much simpler.

We can remain connected to people who disagree with us. We can even learn from them. But we do not have to provide an audience for cruelty, hatred or the deliberate humiliation of others.

Friendship should leave room for differences. It should not require us to surrender our peace, compromise our values or remain silent while others are treated as less than human.

So, who should remain on the friends list?

Perhaps the people who remind us that there is still room in this world for conversation, laughter, kindness and the occasional disagreement over watermelon.

As for oxygen, Steve and I remain firmly in favor of it.

Since it is the first week of fall, we are doing a little seasonal cleaning around here—dusting off a few stories that deserve another moment in the light. You will notice as you read this weeks stories there will be a few cleaning tips sprinkled about as you read. ;-)

Have another cup of coffee—and please, continue breathing.

—— Who should remain on our social media friends list? The people who disagree with us—or only those who know how to disagree without becoming cruel? This Morning Coffee considers friendship, boundaries, watermelons and why Ben and Steve remain firmly in favor of oxygen.

September 21, 2026September 19, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

By the Time Hollywood Gets to Georgia – The GOP Will Be Crying…

Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California. But movie productions bring more than cameras, celebrities and California money. They also bring thousands of workers—and some may decide to stay. While political leaders carefully redraw their districts, could they also be importing the very voters who might redraw their political future?

September 21, 2026

###

Take a big long sip!

You are going to need it. Maybe take another.

This will be a morning that you also should take bite out of something sweet. I suggest an Apple Fritter. Heavily glazed. The sugar rush will come in later regardless.

Now then.

Stylized United States map linking Hollywood, Phoenix, Dallas, Austin, and Atlanta — _{^{A cinematic map connects Hollywood with major production hubs across the United States.}}

Sheriff Otis and I have been listening to all this talk about re-districting— those voter’s districts being re-drawn, challenged, redrawn, rechallenged and hauled through the courts until nobody is entirely sure which district they live in or whether their congressman is still their congressman.

Several conservative states apparently believe they have discovered the perfect lines. They may have won.

Or have they?

While everybody was staring at the political maps, California may have been looking at a much larger map—the one showing where the movie studios are going.

California, after all, is not some little roadside economy surviving on oranges, movie stars and photographs of the Hollywood sign. Its economy is larger than those of most countries. If California were an independent nation, recent economic figures would place it among the largest economies in the world.

It could probably afford its own army, navy and air force. With Hollywood involved, it could film the invasion, win an Academy Award for it and sell the streaming rights before lunch.

Yet many people continue to speak of California as though it contributes nothing useful to the country.

Nothing, that is, except the movies, television programs, technology, agricultural products and enormous amounts of money they would very much like California to bring into their states.

Georgia, Texas and other states have been offering film incentives to attract productions away from Hollywood. They see studio lights, camera crews and production money arriving, and they begin smiling from rear to rear, believing they have finally found the end of the rainbow.

“Bring us your movies!” they shout.

“Build your studios here!”

“Spend that California money in our restaurants, hotels and Hoot-and-Whistles!”

But they may not have thought the entire thing through.

Productions do not arrive by themselves. They bring actors, camera operators, costume designers, makeup artists, writers, carpenters, electricians and thousands of other workers. Some remain only long enough to finish a production and return home. Others may decide they like the lower cost of living, the warm weather or the fact that a person can still find a parking space.

Those who genuinely establish residency may eventually register to vote.

Sheriff Otis howls out “BLUE VOTERS, MAYNARD!”

You heard me (he barks.)

Liberals moving east from California.

^{_{Or as Otis refers to it, A very bad area to sniff. (It smells of cow and oil drums.)}}

The very states hoping to attract California’s entertainment industry could also attract Californians. Those newcomers might vote in school-board races, city-council elections and contests for governor, Congress and the Senate.

They will not necessarily vote alike, of course. Californians are not produced on a political assembly line, even if Hollywood probably owns the rights to one.

Still, imagine the irony.

Political leaders redraw districts hoping to protect their party, then approve enormous incentives that encourage thousands of workers from another state to move directly into those carefully constructed districts.

It would be the greatest political plot twist since television viewers learned that J.R. had been shot.

And who helped encourage the great migration of studios, corporations and media operations across the country?

The same political leaders who wanted California’s business without California’s influence.

They wanted the gold.

They just forgot that California is called the Golden State because Californians tend to arrive with it.

Perhaps California does not need to fight every redistricting map in court. Perhaps it merely needs to send a film crew.

Before long, every carefully drawn district could contain a casting director, three screenwriters, two sound engineers and somebody ordering an oat-milk latte at the Fill-Your-Buggy.

Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California.

California may simply be franchising.

Morning Coffee: Father Time Clocks In

September 20, 2026September 18, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

Warren Buffett says Father Time always wins. At 96, he has stepped down as chairman of Berkshire Hathaway, leaving me to wonder: Did anyone ever call him at bedtime because the evening shift was short?

September 20, 2026

###

Warren Buffett, age approximately one thousand, has stepped down as chairman of Berkshire Hathaway.

I included “Berkshire” because if I had said only “Hathaway,” some of you might have pictured Miss Jane from The Beverly Hillbillies. At Buffett’s age, I half expect her to step out of a closet with a ledger and tell him Mr. Drysdale needs him at the bank.

Buffett is actually 96.

His son Howard, a youthful 71, is taking over as chairman.

Greg Abel is already running the company as CEO, so Howard won’t have to spend his first day learning where they keep the keys to every Dairy Queen.

Buffett said, “Father Time always wins.” He is right about that. But I do wonder what retirement feels like when your workday has involved moving billions of dollars. Did anyone ever call just as he was getting into bed and say, “Warren, the evening shift is short. Can you come in?” Did he ever have to find someone to cover a holiday weekend?

I’m sure his work carried pressures I’ll never know. Still, I hope Howard is ready for the family tradition: putting in a few decades at Berkshire, reaching his seventies, and being told it’s finally his turn to take the chair.

As for Warren, I hope he enjoys retirement. He can sleep in, take a leisurely breakfast, and resist the urge to check how much the coffee company is worth.

Then again, after a lifetime of working, perhaps the hardest part is simply sitting down long enough to drink the coffee while it’s hot.

In 63 years, America has traveled an extraordinary distance, and yet some shadows seem to follow us from one generation into another.

September 18, 2026September 16, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

September 18, 2026

Illuminated modern building beside calm water with Washington Monument in distance

When President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22, 1963, questions involving the Soviet Union quickly became part of the national conversation. Lee Harvey Oswald had lived in the Soviet Union, had a Russian wife, and had visited the Soviet Embassy in Mexico City shortly before the assassination. Those facts helped feed suspicions that have persisted for generations.

Official investigations, however, did not establish that the Soviet government ordered or participated in Kennedy’s murder. The Warren Commission found no evidence that Oswald had been employed or encouraged by a foreign government, and a later congressional investigation likewise concluded that the Soviet government was not involved.

Still, the suspicion never entirely disappeared from the American imagination.

More than half a century later, Russia would again become entangled in an American presidency—this time under very different circumstances. U.S. intelligence agencies and the bipartisan Senate Intelligence Committee concluded that Russia interfered in the 2016 presidential election. Investigations also documented numerous contacts between people associated with Donald Trump’s campaign and individuals connected to Russia, although those investigations did not establish that the Trump family had joined a Russian conspiracy to control the election.

The circumstances were different.

The questions were different.

But Russia had once again become part of an American argument about a president, political power and public trust.

And somewhere between those two moments stands the name John F. Kennedy.

In 1963, that name became permanently attached to a national tragedy.

Sixty-three years later, it has again become part of a national political struggle.

In 63 years, we have watched America pass through moments that once seemed almost unimaginable.

Some of us were born into an America still carrying the optimism of the Kennedy years. Then came the Bay of Pigs, the failed 1961 invasion of Cuba authorized by President John F. Kennedy after the operation had originally been developed during the Eisenhower administration. It became one of Kennedy’s earliest foreign-policy crises.

Then, on November 22, 1963, President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas.

Five years later, his brother Robert Kennedy was assassinated while campaigning for the Democratic presidential nomination.

That same turbulent year, 1968, President Lyndon Baines Johnson surprised the nation by announcing that he would neither seek nor accept his party’s nomination for another term. His decision came while the Vietnam War consumed the nation and political divisions at home continued to deepen.

Vietnam itself stretched across presidencies, taking American lives and leaving divisions that remained long after the troops came home.

Then came Watergate.

President Richard Nixon resigned on August 9, 1974, as impeachment proceedings advanced against him. One month later, President Gerald Ford granted Nixon a full presidential pardon for federal offenses he had committed or might have committed while in office.

America moved forward again.

Then came the Iran hostage crisis.

Fifty-two Americans were held hostage for 444 days after the U.S. Embassy in Tehran was seized in 1979. President Jimmy Carter paid an enormous political price for the crisis. Yet negotiations conducted by his administration produced the agreement that ultimately secured their freedom. The hostages were released on January 20, 1981—the day Carter left office and Ronald Reagan was inaugurated.

Then, during the Reagan administration, came Iran-Contra.

Weapons were secretly sold to Iran as administration officials sought assistance in securing the freedom of American hostages held in Lebanon, while money from the transactions was diverted to support the Contra forces in Nicaragua. Reagan initially rejected the characterization that weapons had been traded for hostages, but later acknowledged that the facts showed the initiative had deteriorated into exactly that.

Under President George H. W. Bush, America went to war in the Persian Gulf after Iraq invaded Kuwait.

During the Clinton years, turmoil came from both abroad and within our own borders. We witnessed the deadly conclusion of the Branch Davidian standoff near Waco, Texas, in 1993. Two years later, Timothy McVeigh bombed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 people, including 19 children. As of Sept 16, 2026 it remains the deadliest act of homegrown terrorism in American history.

Then came September 11, 2001.

During the presidency of George W. Bush, nineteen al-Qaeda terrorists hijacked four commercial airplanes. Two struck the World Trade Center towers, another struck the Pentagon, and the fourth crashed in Pennsylvania after passengers and crew fought back. Nearly 3,000 people were killed.

A decade later, during the Obama administration, U.S. forces located and killed Osama bin Laden, the al-Qaeda leader who had directed the September 11 attacks.

And still America continued.

Donald Trump became the 45th president. Joe Biden followed as the 46th. Trump returned as the 47th.

During those years another consequential development occurred. In July 2024, the Supreme Court ruled in Trump v. United States that former presidents possess absolute immunity from criminal prosecution for actions falling within their core constitutional powers and at least presumptive immunity for other official presidential acts. The decision significantly altered the legal framework surrounding presidential power and accountability.

Now another American institution has become part of that continuing argument over government, presidential power, history and national identity: the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

The Kennedy Center was created as a living memorial to President John F. Kennedy. In 2026, efforts by its Trump-aligned leadership to place President Trump’s name on the building and grounds were blocked by a federal judge, who ruled that such changes require congressional authorization. Shortly afterward, the board voted to close most of the Kennedy Center for as long as two years for what it described as renovations and safety repairs. Fencing has since gone up around the complex.

And perhaps that is why the Kennedy Center has become symbolic of something larger.

Not because one building defines America.

It does not.

But because institutions accumulate meaning.

A memorial is not simply concrete, marble, steel and glass. Its name tells future generations whom a nation chose to remember. Its halls preserve music, theater, ceremony and history. Its identity becomes part of the historical record.

That is why changes to such places matter.

America rarely loses its identity in one dramatic moment. History suggests that change more often comes piece by piece—through elections, court decisions, wars, scandals, legislation, cultural struggles and arguments over institutions that once seemed permanent.

Sometimes those changes strengthen the country.

Sometimes Americans decide later that they went too far.

And sometimes a generation does not realize how much has changed until it turns around and looks at everything that disappeared along the way.

For those of us who have lived these 63 years, that may be the greater lesson.

We have watched presidents come and go. We have watched wars begin and end. We have watched assassinations, terrorist attacks, political scandals and constitutional crises. We have watched the country bend under pressures that, at the time, appeared capable of breaking it.

Yet the buildings themselves were never really the foundation.

The foundation was the agreement that some things belonged not to one president, one political party or one generation, but to the American people.

And perhaps that is the question confronting us again:

What parts of our national inheritance are merely ours to change—and what parts have we been entrusted to preserve for those who come after us?

And now we find ourselves back at the Kennedy name.

The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts was designated by Congress as a living memorial to the slain president. In 2026, a political and legal struggle developed over efforts by the Kennedy Center’s Trump-aligned leadership to place President Donald Trump’s name on the institution and its grounds. A federal judge ruled that such changes require congressional authorization. Shortly afterward, the board voted to close most of the Center for extensive renovations, and fencing appeared around the complex. The administration says the closure is necessary for repairs; opponents have challenged the actions surrounding the Center and fear permanent changes to its identity.

That brings these 63 years into an almost haunting circle.

They began for many of us with the gunshots in Dallas and the destruction of a presidency.

They now bring us to a building created so that the name of that president—and what his generation represented—would remain alive long after those gunshots faded.

I hesitate to call what is happening at the Kennedy Center the destruction of the building itself, because that has not been established. But symbolically, something much larger is being argued over.

Who owns a national memorial?

Who decides what name it carries?

How much authority should any sitting president have to reshape an institution created by Congress to memorialize another?

And when does renovation become reinvention?

Perhaps that is where the Kennedy Center becomes more than another Washington building surrounded by fencing.

For those who remember November 1963, it can represent the closing of an extraordinary historical circle.

Kennedy was killed by an assassin’s bullet.

His presidency ended in Dallas.

But his name survived.

It survived on schools, highways, airports, a space center and one of America’s most important cultural institutions.

That is why what happens to the Kennedy Center matters beyond marble, concrete and performance halls.

A nation can bury a president.

It can survive his assassination.

But the more difficult question comes generations later:

Does it continue to protect the memory entrusted to it?

Perhaps the Kennedy Center should not be described as the final nail in President Kennedy’s coffin.

Kennedy’s coffin was closed 63 years ago.

The more unsettling possibility is that we are deciding, 63 years later, what becomes of the legacy that remained above ground.

Morning Coffee — A Serious Cup, Then Something Lighter

September 18, 2026September 16, 2026Benjamin2 Comments

Today’s Morning Coffee begins a little differently. Before we turn to a more serious story about the Kennedy Center and America’s history, we’ll first share a few surprising facts, a little humor, and a reminder that coffee and conversations about the country have gone together for generations.

September 18,2026

Good Friday morning.

Normally, this would be where I pour the coffee, settle into the chair, and leave you with something simple to carry into the weekend.

Today is a little different.

Following this morning’s coffee, you will find a story that is considerably more serious. It concerns the Kennedy Center, the memory of President John F. Kennedy, and some of the larger questions I believe America is facing about history, institutions and what we choose to preserve for future generations.

I apologize for handing you something so heavy before you have finished your first cup.

But sometimes Morning Coffee is not only about making the morning easier. Sometimes it is about sitting together long enough to talk about something that matters.

So read the story that follows when you are ready.

Before we get there, however, I thought we should end the week with a few things that might make you say, “Well, I didn’t know that.”

Things You May Not Know

The Library of Congress receives roughly 15,000 items every working day and adds more than 10,000 of them to its collections. Somewhere in Washington, somebody apparently has a much larger “to be filed” pile than the rest of us.

The smallest book in the Library of Congress is called Old King Cole. It measures only about 1/25 of an inch by 1/25 of an inch—roughly the size of the period at the end of a sentence. Meanwhile, its largest book is approximately five feet by seven feet. That is less a book and more something you could use to replace a bedroom wall.

The Library also possesses written material dating to about 2040 B.C. and printed Buddhist texts dating to approximately 770 A.D. It is humbling to realize that human beings were already writing things down thousands of years before somebody invented the phrase, “I forgot my password.”

And since this is Morning Coffee, here is one especially appropriate bit of history.

James Smithson—the British scientist whose fortune eventually created the Smithsonian Institution—actually published his own method for making coffee in 1823. So apparently even the man behind the Smithsonian had opinions about how a proper cup should be made.

Coffee itself has a rather patriotic chapter in American history. After the Boston Tea Party, drinking coffee increasingly became associated with rejecting British tea, and colonial coffeehouses became important gathering places where politics, news and revolutionary ideas were discussed.

Which means that sitting around drinking coffee and talking about the condition of the country is hardly something we invented.

Americans have apparently been doing it for centuries.

So take another sip.

Enjoy your Friday.

And when you are ready, the next story is a little more serious.

Sometimes history asks us to remember.

Sometimes it asks us to pay attention.

And occasionally, it asks us to do both before the coffee gets cold.

Have a great Friday from benandsteve.com — and may your weekend begin with something good.

Regardless of what you are about to read.

Morning Coffee ––– What Is a Joppler?

September 17, 2026September 15, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

Joppler — noun. creator Benjamin H. Groff II

September 17, 2026

What Is a Joppler?

A diabolical person who can begin by telling you to click on a link and, within minutes, have you wondering why somebody is lying on the floor asking to be tasered, handcuffed, arrested, and possibly recruited into the United States Marine Corps.

###

I created the word myself.

Medieval jester juggling three balls before an amused crowd — ^{_{While you might imagine a jester, this subject is dressed in a three piece suit and tie. Ready to take you for all you have!}}

A joppler begins innocently enough.

Someone says, “Click on the link.”

You click.

That is your first mistake.

Because a joppler does not simply lead you from Point A to Point B. A joppler takes Point A, throws Point B out the window, backs over Point C, and somehow arrives at Point Q without anybody noticing how you got there.

Imagine somebody volunteering to be tasered.

They lie down on the floor because they want to know what it feels like. Then apparently one tasering is not enough. They want another one. Stronger this time.

PING!

Again.

PING!

Perhaps they find the person holding the Taser attractive. Now we have introduced an entirely different problem.

Next comes the role-playing.

“Arrest me.”

So they get handcuffed.

Then, naturally, they begin fighting the arrest they specifically requested five seconds earlier.

Now they have earned another tasering.

PING!

At this point you may be asking:

What in the hell does any of this have to do with clicking on a link?

Exactly.

You have been joppled.

I started by talking about clicking a link. Then I moved you into Tasers, handcuffs, role-playing, resisting arrest, electrical impulses and possibly questionable romantic attraction.

Your original train of thought is gone.

Your brain has been joppled.

And I can keep going.

Now we’re talking about getting older.

Except we’re not really talking about getting older, because suddenly you’re thinking about serving your country. Maybe becoming a Marine.

Except the war in Afghanistan is over.

So now we’re talking about Afghanistan.

Which takes us back to September 11, 2001.

But September 11 was twenty-five years ago.

Soon, an enormous portion of the American population will have been born after 9/11. For them, it will not be a personal memory at all. It will be history—something they learned about from parents, teachers, documentaries and old television footage.

And now stop.

Think about where we started.

Click on the link.

That was it.

A link.

And somehow we traveled from clicking a link to Tasers, handcuffs, Marines, Afghanistan, September 11 and the passage of an entire generation.

That is the work of a joppler.

A joppler can begin a conversation on one subject and eventually deposit you at the end of another subject that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the subject you thought you were discussing in the beginning.

And the worst part?

You usually don’t realize you have been joppled until it’s already over.

So the next time somebody says:

“Click on this link…”

Be careful.

You may be dealing with a joppler. At the end, you will be told that you agree with them. And you will believe them. Because if you don’t you’re wrong. And if you don’t agree. The people around you, won’t like you. If you disagree with them, then you will be a bigger joppler. So you best be a little joppler and just shut up and just nod your head and go along. That is how this country so joppled!

Morning Coffee*2 – Today We Had To Have A Second Cup of Coffee –

September 11, 2026September 11, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

September 11th, 2001 How The Day’s Events Unfolded

September 11, 2026

_{^{We Will Never Forget September 11, 2001}}

The Morning Everything Changed

For me, September 11, 2001, began as an average day.

There was nothing about that morning that suggested history was about to interrupt ordinary life.

It was just before 9:00 a.m. I had stopped at the Mayor’s Office in Wichita, Kansas, to drop off schedules and some other papers. After finishing there, I stepped into the elevator to head down toward the Chief of Police’s Office.

Several other people were riding with me.

Then my phone rang.

city skyline during night time — ^{_{Photo by Philip Warp on Pexels.com}}

At that time, it still wasn’t especially common for everyone to be carrying a cell phone the way we do today. I looked at the incoming number and knew immediately that I probably needed to answer it.

I barely had time to offer a greeting.

I was told to stop what I was doing and get over to the Wichita Eagle as quickly as possible to monitor what I could from the wire.

There had been an attack on the World Trade Center.

That was all I knew.

I made my way toward my vehicle, still trying to understand what I had just been told.

Then another call came.

A second airplane had struck the other tower.

I remember saying aloud, almost in disbelief:

“What? An airplane just hit the towers? Two of them?”

The people standing nearby looked at me in shock.

They wanted to know what was happening.

I told them the only thing I could tell them with any certainty:

Get to a television or a radio.

It appeared our nation was under attack.

By the time I arrived at the Wichita Eagle, the newsroom—or bullpen, as we called it—was unusually quiet.

It was full of reporters, but there was none of the ordinary newsroom chatter.

I stood just outside the room on the landing, watching television monitors and listening as the Associated Press wire sounded with update after update.

Someone would grab the latest report and read it aloud.

New York.

Then Pennsylvania.

Then Virginia and the District of Columbia.

Each update seemed worse than the one before it.

You could feel the realization spreading through the room that this was not going to be a normal news day.

It was going to be a very long day.

None of us standing there could have known just how long its shadow would become.

September 11 would destroy thousands of lives in a matter of hours. It would leave families grieving, reshape national security, change the way Americans traveled, and alter the direction of the country.

But history also has a strange way of reaching into individual lives in ways we cannot immediately see.

That day ultimately became part of the chain of events that changed my own life.

The economic and employment changes that followed would eventually lead Steve and me away from Kansas and the lower Great Plains and toward Arizona.

We went from winters of ice, snow, and cold prairie winds to the Sonoran Desert and summers measured in heat waves.

airplane over american flags near washington monument — _{^{Photo by Ramaz Bluashvili on Pexels.com}}

Years earlier, I had made Steve a promise that someday we would live in Phoenix.

I simply believed that “someday” was still twenty years away.

Life had other plans.

There is something almost impossible to reconcile about that.

A national tragedy that brought unimaginable grief to so many families also became one of the forces that redirected countless other lives.

Mine was one of them.

That does not lessen the tragedy.

If anything, it reminds me how far the consequences of a single day can travel.

A person can wake up believing they know exactly what tomorrow will look like.

Then the telephone rings.

A television screen changes.

A headline appears.

And suddenly the future takes a road no one had planned to travel.

That is what I remember most about September 11.

Not only the towers.

Not only the newsroom.

Not only the sound of the wire delivering one terrible update after another.

I remember how completely ordinary the morning had been just moments before.

And perhaps that is the lasting lesson.

We never really know which ordinary morning will become the dividing line between before and after.

So love the people around you.

Say what needs to be said.

Keep the promises that matter.

And never assume that because today began ordinarily, tomorrow is guaranteed to look the same.

Some mornings quietly become history.

Morning Coffee — For many some, dates pass quietly on the calendar this day may not do so.

September 11, 2026September 7, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

September 11, 2026

us flag on gray surface — _{^{Photo by Matthis Volquardsen on Pexels.com}}

September 11 does not.

For millions of Americans, and for people around the world, this date carries a scar that time has never completely erased. It reminds us where we were, what we saw, what we felt, and how quickly an ordinary morning became something unimaginable.

But beneath the history, the headlines, the smoke, the sirens, and the sorrow is another lesson that reaches into every home.

There are no guarantees when we say goodbye.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, thousands of people did what they had done countless mornings before.

They kissed a spouse goodbye.

They hugged a child.

They waved from a doorway.

They grabbed their coffee, headed for work, boarded an airplane, stepped into an office, answered an alarm, or began an ordinary shift.

Most of them had every reason to believe they would be home again that evening.

Some never were.

That may be one of the hardest truths September 11 leaves with us.

We often live as though there will always be another opportunity.

Another phone call.

Another dinner.

Another visit.

Another chance to say, “I love you.”

Another chance to apologize.

Another chance to linger at the door for just a few more seconds.

But life has never promised us that.

A person can leave our presence in the morning and, through circumstances completely beyond anyone’s control, be gone before nightfall.

September 11 reminds us not to take the people in our lives for granted.

It reminds us that the hurried goodbye deserves a little more care.

That the person sitting across from us at breakfast deserves our attention.

That the phone call from someone we love might be worth answering.

That anger sometimes deserves to be put aside before we walk out the door.

And that “I love you” is rarely something we should save for later.

This day also reminds us of those who ran toward danger while others were trying desperately to escape it.

Firefighters.

Police officers.

Paramedics.

Emergency workers.

Ordinary people who became extraordinary simply because someone else needed help.

Many knew the danger.

They went anyway.

Their courage remains part of the living legacy of September 11, along with the memories of every innocent life taken that morning.

So perhaps today’s coffee should be a little slower.

Perhaps we should sit with the people we love a little longer.

Make the call we have been putting off.

Forgive something that no longer deserves the space it occupies in our hearts.

And when someone we love walks out the door today, let our final words be words we would be at peace remembering.

Because none of us knows which goodbye will be the last.

September 11 taught us that lesson in the most painful way imaginable.

May we honor those who were lost not only by remembering how they died, but by remembering how important it is to cherish those who are still here.

This morning, hold your coffee close.

Hold your memories closer.

And hold the people you love closest of all.

We remember. We honor. And we never forget.

— Morning Coffee
benandsteve.com

There is something special about the few quiet minutes before the day begins asking things of us.

September 9, 2026September 5, 2026Benjamin1 Comment

Before the phone rings, the messages arrive, and the day begins asking things of us, there is a little quiet time to simply be. Sometimes the most ordinary parts of morning—the coffee, the familiar sounds of home, and a few peaceful minutes—are the moments worth noticing most.

September 9, 2026

~~~ ### ~~~

Before the phone rings.

asian men sitting on stairs with drinks — _{^{Photo by Handi Berty on Pexels.com}}

Before the messages start coming in.

Before somebody needs an answer.

Before the list of things we meant to do yesterday quietly becomes today’s list.

There is coffee.

And sometimes, that is enough.

I have come to appreciate those first few moments of the morning. The house is still finding its footing. The outside world hasn’t completely awakened yet, and for a little while, nobody expects anything from you.

You can simply sit.

Think.

Remember.

Or, if you are lucky, think about absolutely nothing at all.

That may be harder than it sounds.

We spend so much of our lives preparing for what comes next that we sometimes miss what is sitting directly in front of us.

The warmth of the cup in our hands.

The light beginning to slip through the window.

silhouette of man making coffee in kitchen — _{^{Photo by Smitha Nittur on Pexels.com}}

The familiar sounds of home.

A dog wandering through the room, checking to make sure breakfast hasn’t somehow been forgotten.

These little things rarely make the headlines of our lives.

But perhaps they should.

Because when we look back, it isn’t always the big accomplishments we miss the most.

Sometimes it is the kitchen table.

The old coffee cup.

The chair somebody used to sit in.

The sound of a familiar voice coming from another room.

Ordinary things have a strange way of becoming priceless once enough time has passed.

So before today gets busy, give yourself a few minutes.

Don’t rush the coffee.

Don’t rush the morning.

There will be plenty of time for everything else.

For now, sit where you are and notice what is still here.

There is more to be thankful for in an ordinary morning than we sometimes realize.

And maybe that is the real gift of morning coffee.

It doesn’t solve everything.

It simply gives us a quiet place to begin.

Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your morning peaceful, and your day give you at least one reason to smile.

Morining Coffee ––– One Cup at a Time: Finding Peace in an Ordinary Morning

September 5, 2026October 12, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

You don’t have to solve everything before the coffee cools. Some mornings are simply meant for taking life one task, one conversation, and one cup at a time.

Coffee cup, handwritten note reading “Morning Notes · Oct 28,” and folded linens — _{^{A steaming cup of coffee, handwritten notes, and folded linens create a peaceful morning scene. Groff Media2026©}}

There are mornings when the coffee seems to understand us better than we understand ourselves.

We sit down with a warm cup in our hands and a list already forming in our minds.

Things we need to do.

Things we should have done yesterday.

Things we are worried about tomorrow.

And before we have even taken the first good sip, we have managed to turn an ordinary morning into a meeting with every problem we have ever known.

I have learned something about mornings, though.

They were never meant to carry the weight of an entire lifetime.

Sometimes the best thing we can do is simply take care of what is directly in front of us.

Drink the coffee.

Feed the dog.

Answer the message.

Make the bed.

Call the person we have been meaning to call.

Step outside for a minute and notice that the sun came up again without asking us to supervise it.

There is a strange comfort in remembering that not everything requires our immediate attention.

Some problems need time.

Some answers haven’t arrived yet.

Some doors will open when they are ready.

And some things that feel terribly important this morning may not matter nearly as much by Friday.

We have a habit of wanting everything settled.

We want the question answered, the disagreement resolved, the bill paid, the project finished, the decision made and tomorrow neatly arranged before breakfast.

Life rarely cooperates.

It arrives one day at a time.

Maybe there is wisdom in learning to live the same way.

One day.

One conversation.

One responsibility.

One cup of coffee at a time.

There will always be unfinished business somewhere in our lives. There will always be something we wish we could change, something we are waiting for, and something we don’t completely understand.

That doesn’t mean today cannot still be a good day.

A good day doesn’t require a perfect life.

Sometimes a good day is simply one where we laughed once, helped somebody, accomplished one useful thing, ate something we enjoyed and made it home safely.

That may not sound extraordinary.

But after enough years have passed, we begin to understand that those ordinary days were the extraordinary ones.

So this morning, don’t demand too much from yourself before the coffee has even cooled.

You don’t have to solve everything today.

Just take care of today.

Tomorrow will bring its own cup.

Have a wonderful morning. May your coffee be warm, your worries be light, and may you find something good waiting for you somewhere along the way

Former players, colleagues remember Wayne Martin as mentor, ‘second father’

youtube https://www.wkyt.com/2026/09/03/former-players-colleagues-remember-wayne-martin-mentor-second-father

☕ Morning Coffee – Getting The First Cup Of Coffee After A Long Trip

August 27, 2026August 26, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

After a long and emotional trip to Oklahoma, coming home feels different. This morning’s coffee is about gratitude, memories, and the quiet comfort of returning to familiar places and familiar routines.

August 27, 2026

There is something about the first cup of coffee after a long trip that tastes a little different.

Maybe it is because the coffee is being poured from your own pot again. Maybe it is the familiar chair, the familiar morning light, or simply the comfort of knowing that for the moment, there is nowhere you have to be.

a cup of coffee on a blue surface — _{^{Photo by Cleydalton moura on Pexels.com}}

Steve and I are back home from Oklahoma.

The trip carried more emotion than miles. We traveled roads filled with memories, family, laughter, quiet moments, and goodbyes. We visited places that have been woven through my life for as long as I can remember. We spent time with people I love, remembered those who are no longer with us, and completed a journey that had been waiting for us for quite some time.

And now we are home.

The suitcases may still need attention. There are probably things sitting somewhere they do not belong. Otis is undoubtedly pleased to have returned to his familiar territory, where he can once again supervise the neighborhood and make certain nothing suspicious happens without his approval.

But this morning, none of that seems terribly important.

Sometimes coming home is not simply walking through your own front door. It is the moment when your mind finally catches up with your body.

You sit down.

You pour the coffee.

And suddenly you realize just how much has happened.

There are trips we take for vacations, trips we take for adventure, and trips we take because life has asked something of us. This Oklahoma trip was one of those journeys that asked something from the heart.

I returned carrying memories I did not have when I left.

Some made me smile.

Some brought tears.

Some reminded me exactly where I came from.

And perhaps that is one of the quiet gifts of going home to the places that helped make us who we are. We discover that although the towns change, people move away, generations pass, and familiar landmarks disappear, a part of us never really leaves.

It waits there for us.

Along an old highway.

Inside a cemetery gate.

Around a family conversation.

Beside a familiar Oklahoma field.

And then we bring a little of it home with us again.

So this morning, my coffee is not asking me to accomplish anything profound. It is simply reminding me to be grateful.

Grateful for the journey.

Grateful for the people who showed up.

Grateful for the memories.

And especially grateful for the privilege of coming home.

Sometimes the greatest comfort in traveling a long road is discovering that your own coffee cup was waiting for you at the end of it.

Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and remember, sometimes coming home is where the healing begins.

Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.

— Benjamin Groff II
Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com

Lessons From a Barber Chair

July 14, 2026July 11, 2026Benjamin2 Comments

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

July 14, 2026

Dad taught me so much, while saying nothing at all…

My father never gave speeches about treating people fairly.

Groff’s Barber Shop – Equality Before Its Time.

He didn’t quote famous leaders. He didn’t lecture me about prejudice or equality. In fact, I don’t ever remember us having a conversation about race.

He simply lived his life in a way that made those conversations unnecessary.

Growing up, my father was the only barber in our little Oklahoma town of about 750 souls. It was the 1960s, and like many small towns across America, ours had invisible lines that everyone seemed to understand. One section of town was where the Black families lived. I never really understood why. To me, it was simply another neighborhood where some of my classmates lived.

Every so often, a Black mother would bring her four boys into my father’s barber shop for haircuts. It never failed. Someone sitting in the waiting area would quietly get up, walk out the door, and leave.

As a little boy, I didn’t understand what I had just witnessed.

Neither, it seemed, did my father.

Without missing a beat, he would drape the barber’s cape around the first young man and go to work as though nothing unusual had happened. If I happened to ask about the customers who left, Dad’s answer was always the same.

“They’ll be back,” he would say. “I’m the only barber in town. Otherwise, they’ll have to drive forty miles for a haircut.”

There was never anger in his voice. Never judgment. Never a sermon.

Just the quiet confidence of a man who knew what was right and wasn’t about to change because someone else disapproved.

On Sunday mornings, we’d often visit families in that same neighborhood. I played with kids who happened to be Black, but to me they were simply classmates and friends. Our school wasn’t large enough for anyone to disappear into the crowd. My graduating class would eventually reach only twenty-eight students.

Then I started watching the evening news.

Night after night, television showed marches, protests, violence, and hatred taking place around the country. I remember thinking how strange it all seemed. I honestly believed most people lived the way my father did.

One summer, during a trip to the Oklahoma State Fair, I wandered into one of the exhibit buildings after I had seen everything that interested me. An older Black gentleman was working there as a maintenance employee, keeping an eye on the building.

We struck up a conversation.

Before long, we were swapping stories as though we’d known each other for years. I told him about my hometown, my father, and the barber shop. Before leaving, I casually said, “If you’re ever out our way, stop in.”

I never expected him to take me up on the invitation.

Several weeks later, I was cleaning my bedroom when my father called me into the living room.

“There’s a gentleman here who says he knows you,” Dad said with a puzzled smile. “And he insists I must be a perfect father to have raised such a son.”

Standing there was my friend from the State Fair.

I couldn’t believe he had actually come.

We spent the afternoon walking around our place, catching up as if no time had passed at all. Looking back, I doubt either of us thought much about the color of our skin. We were simply two people who had enjoyed each other’s company.

It wasn’t until years later, when the television miniseries Roots aired, that I began to understand what so many Americans had experienced. Like millions of others, I watched every episode. But I also watched the conversations that followed. Neighbors talked. Classmates talked. Adults revealed opinions I had never heard before.

For the first time, I realized prejudice wasn’t something found only on the evening news. Sometimes it lived much closer to home.

After graduating and entering law enforcement, my father’s quiet example stayed with me.

One evening I watched another officer use what I believed was excessive force during an arrest. I couldn’t undo what had happened, but I could make certain the young man wasn’t alone afterward. I volunteered to transport him to jail.

On the drive, I explained how he could file a civil rights complaint if he believed his rights had been violated. Before we arrived, I asked him to promise me he would follow through.

When I returned from my scheduled days off, I was instructed to report to the Major’s office.

My assignment changed.

For what seemed like forever, I cleaned dog kennels at the city’s animal shelter.

Some might say I paid a price.

I never saw it that way.

Long before I wore a badge, I had watched a barber quietly refuse to let other people’s prejudice determine how he would treat another human being.

He never gave me a lecture about equality.

He never told me how to live my life.

He simply cut hair.

And somewhere between that old barber chair, a surprise visit from a friend I met at the State Fair, and the lessons that followed me into a police uniform, I learned that integrity isn’t something you talk about.

It’s something you do.

My father probably never realized he was teaching me one of the greatest lessons of my life.

Then again, maybe that’s how the best teachers always work.

Author’s Note

Longtime readers of benandsteve.com may recognize portions of this story. Over the years, these memories have appeared as part of other, larger stories on the blog. However, they have never been told as a story of their own.

As I continue writing and publishing my life story, I’ve come to realize that this particular memory deserved to stand on its own. The events surrounding my father’s barber shop, my unexpected friendship at the Oklahoma State Fair, and the lessons those experiences carried into my years in law enforcement are explored in greater detail throughout my memoir.

Sometimes a single moment in life is important enough to be remembered twice—once as part of a larger journey, and once for the lesson it taught.

–––– Benjamin

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

This Election Year What WIll You Do? What Will You Do?

July 10, 2026July 8, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

Groff Media ©2026 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

July 10th, 2026

This is a timely subject, but I would encourage approaching it from the standpoint of preparing citizens for uncertainty rather than assuming that misconduct will occur. That makes your piece more credible and more useful to readers across the political spectrum.

Instead of asking, “What do you plan to do, when this happens?” consider asking, “What should citizens do if they believe something has gone wrong?” That subtle change invites thoughtful discussion without presenting unverified scenarios as inevitable.

Here is an approach that sounds like it could fit your style:

What Will You Do If You Don’t Trust the Election?

Every election produces winners, losers, and questions. Most questions are answered quickly. Others linger for weeks or even months. In today’s political climate, many Americans—regardless of party—already worry about the integrity of elections before the first ballot is even cast.

Some fear voting machines could malfunction or be tampered with. Others worry voter rolls may be inaccurate, that absentee ballots will be mishandled, or that eligible voters could encounter unexpected obstacles at the polls. Whether those concerns ultimately prove justified or not, the question remains the same:

What should a citizen do if they honestly believe something went wrong?

The answer is not violence. It is not intimidation. It is not threatening election workers who are often your own neighbors. It is not spreading rumors because someone posted a dramatic claim on social media. A constitutional republic only functions when disagreements are handled through lawful means rather than anger.

If you believe there was a problem, document it. Keep records. Ask questions. Contact your local election officials. Report suspected violations to the proper authorities. Support legitimate recounts where state law allows them. Follow court proceedings. Encourage transparency. Demand evidence—not rumors. The strength of our democracy has never depended upon everyone agreeing. It has depended upon citizens insisting that disputes be settled through law instead of force.

Perhaps the greater question isn’t whether an election will be challenged. History tells us that many elections have been. The real test is whether Americans can disagree without abandoning the very institutions designed to resolve those disagreements.

Because once citizens lose confidence that peaceful processes still matter, everyone loses—regardless of which candidate wins.

You might even close with a question that encourages discussion instead of division:

“If the results of an election left you with serious questions, what would your next step be? Would you seek facts? File a complaint? Volunteer as a poll watcher in the next election? Or would you simply walk away? Democracy depends not only on voting—but on how we respond when we believe something deserves closer scrutiny.”

That ending invites readers to think about responsible civic action rather than assuming any particular outcome or directing them toward a predetermined conclusion. It also reinforces an important principle: confidence in elections is strengthened by transparency, evidence, and lawful processes—not by speculation alone.

Groff Media ©2026 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

J.W. Sims The Man at The Still: Part III Cannon Ball Joe

July 8, 2026June 27, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026  July 8, 2026

Part III: Judge Cannon Remembers

By the time Oklahoma County District Judge Joe Cannon took the bench, Prohibition had been dead for decades.

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

GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Today On July 4th, We Celebrate America’s Independence – With – This Is My Country – To Have and To Hold

July 4, 2026June 16, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 - Truth Endures 2026©

July 4, 2026

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.

https://youtu.be/-zqoR3yWu2k?si=1no0yBy71hvqsqr5

The White Squirrels of Olney – What Brought My Grandmother Back

July 3, 2026June 17, 2026Benjamin4 Comments

July 3, 2026

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.

That tradition, thankfully, is still alive

This Summer Season As You Take To The Highway There May Be The Highway Myth That Refuses to Die

June 29, 2026June 16, 2026Benjamin2 Comments

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

June 29, 2026

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.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

The Discovery of Beeping Moon Rocks: Dr. Richard Campbell’s Journey

FeaturedLeave a comment

A Story By Benjamin H Groff© Groff Media Copyright 2024© 

Reposted from an early publication on Groff Media, 2026 Truth Endures ©

June 27, 2026

From the Halls of The NASA Johnson Spaace Center…

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.

Marshal Chester Finch – Chapter Fourteen: The Last Ride of Old Pete

June 22, 2026June 16, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

June 22, 2026

The sun rose over Gotebo with an unusual silence.

No screaming.

No overturned wagons.

No missing laundry.

And perhaps most suspicious of all…

No goats standing on rooftops.

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!

The Question That Stopped the Debate

June 5, 2026June 4, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

June 5, 2026

Regardless of political party, every voter should be able to answer one simple question: What has gotten better?

The War Dept. is the only one getting increased funding it seems…

Political debates often generate more heat than light. The participants trade statistics, accusations, and talking points while supporters on each side declare victory before the discussion has even ended. Most of the time, the debate itself is quickly forgotten.

But every once in a while, a simple question emerges that cuts through all the noise.

Recently, during a political exchange, one participant was asked a question that should have been easy to answer:

“What has gotten better?”

Not what might get better.

Not what the other side did wrong.

Not what could happen in the future.

What has actually improved?

The question seemed simple enough. Yet, like many simple questions, it carried unexpected weight.

As I watched the discussion unfold, I found myself less interested in the person being questioned and more interested in the question itself. In fact, I began wondering how many Americans—Republicans, Democrats, Independents, Libertarians, or those who avoid political labels altogether—could clearly answer it.

If you support a politician, what has improved because of that support?

If you oppose a politician, what has become worse?

Could you explain it without repeating a slogan?

Could you explain it without quoting social media?

Could you explain it using your own experiences and observations?

Those are harder questions than many of us would like to admit.

For generations, Americans have debated politics around dinner tables, barber shops, church gatherings, union halls, coffee shops, and family reunions. People disagreed then just as they do now. The difference was that many people could explain why they believed what they believed.

Today, we live in a world flooded with information. We have more access to news, opinions, podcasts, videos, and commentary than any generation in history. Yet, despite this abundance of information, meaningful conversations often seem more difficult than ever.

Too often, political discussions become competitions rather than conversations.

Instead of asking questions, we choose sides.

Instead of seeking understanding, we seek confirmation.

Instead of listening, we wait for our turn to speak.

The result is a nation where many people can repeat what they have heard but struggle to explain why they believe it.

That is not a criticism aimed at one party or one ideology. It is a challenge for all of us.

A healthy democracy depends upon informed citizens. It requires people who can think independently, evaluate evidence, question assumptions, and explain their reasoning. It requires citizens who are willing to admit when they do not know something and willing to reconsider their views when new information emerges.

Most importantly, it requires people who can answer simple questions honestly.

What has improved?

What has declined?

What evidence supports your conclusion?

Whether your answers point toward progress or concern is less important than your ability to explain them thoughtfully.

The future of our republic may depend less on who wins the next election and more on whether citizens can still engage in meaningful discussion about the issues that affect their lives.

The next time politics enters the conversation, perhaps we should pause before reciting a talking point and ask ourselves a simple question:

What has gotten better?

And perhaps an even more important one:

Can Americans Still Explain Why They Support Their Political Beliefs?

Sacred Waters and Public Questions: The Debate Over Kash Patel’s Pearl Harbor Snorkeling Visit

June 4, 2026June 3, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com
June 4, 2026

The FBI defended the event, describing it as a historical and educational visit connected to official government travel rather than a recreational outing.

The waters above the USS Arizona have long been regarded as sacred.

Pearl Harbor. Aerial view. Scene of Japanese attack.

Beneath those calm blue waves rests a battleship torn apart during the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. More than 900 sailors and Marines remain entombed within the vessel, making it not only a historic landmark but also a military cemetery.

For generations, Americans have visited the USS Arizona Memorial in silence. Visitors arrive by boat, stand above the wreckage, and pay their respects. Snorkeling and diving around the site are generally prohibited to the public.

That is why reports that FBI Director Kash Patel participated in a military-coordinated “VIP snorkel” near the memorial last summer ignited controversy across the nation.

According to government emails obtained by The Associated Press, Patel joined an exclusive snorkeling excursion during an official visit to Hawaii. The Navy later confirmed the event took place, emphasizing that participants were instructed not to touch the ship and were briefed on the memorial’s significance as the final resting place of hundreds of service members.

The question is not whether the trip occurred. It did.

The question is whether it should have.

For some veterans, the answer is a firm no.

Marine veteran Hack Albertson, who has participated in authorized dives to inspect the wreck, described the site as hallowed ground and said it deserves the utmost solemnity. Navy veteran and Naval Academy historian William McBride was even more direct, comparing recreational access to the memorial to playing games at Arlington National Cemetery.

Others view the matter differently.

Some family members of Pearl Harbor survivors have expressed little concern, noting that such visits have occasionally been granted to government and military officials for decades. The Navy has stated that the excursion was not unique and that similar access has been provided to distinguished visitors in previous administrations.

Perhaps what this controversy reveals is not simply a disagreement over one man’s actions, but a larger debate about how America honors its fallen.

Military cemeteries are different from other historic sites. They are places where history and sacrifice meet. Whether one believes the snorkeling trip was respectful or inappropriate, the reaction from many veterans demonstrates how deeply Americans continue to value those who never came home.

Eighty-four years after Pearl Harbor, the USS Arizona still evokes powerful emotions. The men who died there are not statistics in a history book. They are sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers whose final resting place remains beneath those waters.

At Rest. The USS Arizona Memorial – Pearl Harbor.

That is why the debate matters.

Not because of politics.

But because Americans continue to ask how sacred ground should be treated, and who, if anyone, should receive privileges that ordinary citizens do not.

Remembering Retired Colonel Bruce Crandall

June 3, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

A Hero Who Never Left His Men Behind

June 03, 2026

https://images.openai.com/static-rsc-4/AbloFiPLKyknq5eqxL3cSbLoG0OcMiTwTUL5TyXcQwPvzNptY2zTqed1h54ZNjpk_4HROL_u6hkD7On7F3jZJUEo81q06Nl9codOLQ7eKkvCGSLs8aWBLVGbtaIs2trDceeXo0_Z0yX340wvUl0Bo9ZW23MK8Ka3d_iWIsWI1xvEJ61D3XnlFAWjuwCRmpZC?purpose=fullsize

https://images.openai.com/static-rsc-4/WltYf5WenEhl4_HTIDK8iGXD3vDiWBLVPe-de6PZH4nkioCqRzqvH6uKD3MfGO4IFtdcYuh1DN5_xbP8PNN9YwCONYNLkwMlXZ5qUeFrAdMyL_jya419PFfiuhPSHAQNNDNkKH7cfp_BYTH0P-eRJAdFr7PgQEgJ6JikMN8xU86aE4uVy-qK-DufU5pYRPIr?purpose=fullsize

https://images.openai.com/static-rsc-4/ILuDiZOpPhI0oH9gWtd_Pel63LPd6ywMK6lUy9WyrW2tVCqkEGkA-ZTyJxSiFogsKnQ6FfhC4n4JWFFRrDTg6NWT9T4yiVJEnKmPiJsraFS15Vuc9Qqd9g6lsOFTcsTIWr5_aJqTWEPq8MUIzeI5Bo1UKOx2mstyWIm-ucS4gUC2zFXtstjy5LqI4WJ0d0wj?purpose=fullsize

Some men become heroes through a single act of courage. Others spend a lifetime proving what courage truly means. Retired U.S. Army Colonel Bruce Crandall belonged to the latter group.

Colonel Crandall, who died on May 31 at the age of 93, leaves behind a legacy of extraordinary service, selflessness, and devotion to the soldiers who depended upon him. His story is one that deserves to be remembered not only by military historians, but by every American who values duty, sacrifice, and leadership.

During two tours in Vietnam, Crandall flew more than 900 combat missions. Yet it was one day in November 1965 that would forever define his place in American military history.

As commander of a flight of helicopters during the fierce fighting in the Ia Drang Valley, Crandall and his fellow aviators found themselves in the middle of one of the first major battles between U.S. and North Vietnamese forces. The landing zone was under relentless enemy fire. Helicopters were being driven away by the intensity of the attack. Wounded soldiers were stranded on the battlefield with little hope of evacuation.

Most men would have understood if the risk became too great.

Bruce Crandall did not.

Again and again, he flew his unarmed helicopter back into the combat zone. Enemy fire raked the landing area. The danger was obvious. Yet Crandall continued returning, delivering ammunition and supplies to embattled troops and evacuating wounded soldiers who desperately needed medical attention.

By the end of the day, he had flown numerous rescue missions under conditions that many considered impossible. His actions helped save the lives of dozens of American soldiers who might otherwise have been left behind.

For those heroic actions, Crandall was awarded the Medal of Honor, the nation’s highest military decoration. The award recognized not only extraordinary bravery but an unwavering commitment to the men on the ground who were counting on him.

His story later reached millions through the film We Were Soldiers, where actor Greg Kinnear portrayed him. Yet those who knew Crandall often described him as a humble man who viewed himself simply as a soldier doing his job.

That humility may be one of the most remarkable parts of his story.

The generation that fought World War II, Korea, and Vietnam often carried their accomplishments quietly. They did not seek praise. They did not ask to be called heroes. They simply answered when their nation called and did what was required of them.

Ret. Col. Bruce Crandall would receive the nation’s highest honor for valor in 2007 for his actions during the Nov. 14, 1965, Battle of Ia Drang — the first major battle of the Vietnam War. (U.S. Army) — Ret. Col. Bruce Crandall

Bruce Crandall embodied those values.

His life reminds us that true leadership is not found in titles or rank. It is found in the willingness to place the welfare of others before your own safety. It is found in the courage to go back when everyone else is retreating. It is found in the determination to never abandon those who depend on you.

As America pauses to remember Colonel Bruce Crandall, we honor not only a Medal of Honor recipient but a man whose actions represented the very best of our nation. His helicopter may have long since landed, but the example he set continues to soar.

Today we remember a warrior, an aviator, a husband, a father, and a patriot.

Most of all, we remember a man who never left his fellow soldiers behind.

Rest in peace, Colonel Bruce Crandall. Thank you for your service, your courage, and your sacrifice. The nation you served so faithfully will not forget.

Benjamin Groff On The State of The Nation

June 2, 2026June 3, 2026Benjamin3 Comments

I wanted to present this piece in my own voice. It is my effort to enter the conversation with greater emphasis and a more personal connection to the subject, hoping to give added meaning to the events we are facing today. The full written text of my remarks is included as well.

June 2, 2026

IF I WERE A TYRANT

Hate, Anger and Discontent, the new American way! — Never Compromise! The New American Way…

BENJAMIN GROFF II

IF I WERE A TYRANT

If I were a tyrant determined to weaken the Republic of the United States, I would not begin with tanks in the streets or soldiers at the door. No… history shows that nations are rarely surrendered all at once. They are usually persuaded to surrender themselves a little at a time.

First, I would attack confidence. Not confidence in me — confidence in one another.

I would begin by tearing away at the nation’s heroes. I would revisit every flaw, every mistake, every rumor from the past, and present them not as human failings, but as proof that nothing honorable had ever existed at all. Sheriffs, presidents, governors, military leaders, teachers, even ministers — I would insist they were never worthy of admiration in the first place.

I would convince people that patriotism was foolishness, that pride in country was embarrassment, and that respect for institutions was a sign of weakness.

Then I would flood the public square with noise.

Not one story — thousands of them.

Some true. Some half true. Some entirely manufactured. I would spread them across television, social media, podcasts, websites, and endless comment sections until the average citizen no longer knew what was real and what was fiction. Repetition would do the heavy lifting. After hearing something enough times, people begin mistaking familiarity for truth.

And once confusion took hold, I would encourage Americans to distrust every source of information except the ones loyal to my cause.

I would tell them the newspapers were lying.
The courts were corrupt.
The elections were rigged.
The scientists were compromised.
The teachers were indoctrinating.
The police were enemies.
The judges were bought.
And eventually, even neighbors would begin suspecting neighbors.

Division would become the national pastime.

I would not need brilliant leaders to carry out my plan. In fact, charisma without discipline would serve me better. I would elevate loud voices over wise ones. I would reward outrage instead of integrity. I would discover ambitious people lacking moral restraint — people willing to say anything, accuse anyone, or inflame any fear if it kept them powerful and profitable.

Money and attention can persuade some people to abandon principles they never truly possessed.

Then I would encourage the population to separate itself into tribes. Not Americans first — but factions first. Race against race. Rural against urban. Conservative against liberal. Young against old. Citizen against immigrant. I would make every disagreement feel permanent and unforgivable.

Because a divided people are easier to control than a united one.

And finally — perhaps most importantly — I would convince ordinary citizens that freedom itself was the problem. That liberty was dangerous. That dissent was threatening. That opposing voices should be silenced instead of debated.

At that point, I would hardly need to overthrow the Republic.

The people, exhausted, angry, suspicious, and fearful, would begin surrendering it willingly — believing all the while they were saving it.

History has shown that democracies rarely disappear with the sound of drums and marching boots. More often, they fade beneath the applause of crowds convinced they are doing what is necessary.

And the most dangerous tyrant of all?

The one who convinces people they are still free while teaching them to hate one another.

The Boys Who Believed They Were Saving the Future

June 1, 2026May 31, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

June 1, 2026

A fading photograph of young World War II servicemen reminds us of a generation that believed sacrifice, truth, and unity could build a better America.

There is something haunting about old World War II photographs.
Not because of the uniforms.
Not because of the war itself. No photo description available.

But because of the faces.

These were not old men yet. They were boys. Farm boys. Small-town boys. Sons of mechanics, barbers, school teachers, ranchers, and church-going mothers who watched them board trains with tears hidden behind forced smiles. They left behind dirt roads, harvest fields, Saturday night dances, and families who prayed every evening they might return home alive.

The young men in this photograph likely believed what millions of others believed at the time — that their sacrifices would permanently change the world for the better.

And for a long while, it seemed they had.

After the war came neighborhoods.
Factories.
Opportunity.
Families.
A belief in country.
A belief in community.
A belief that democracy and decency had survived one of mankind’s darkest moments.

UNITY!

Their generation became known as The Greatest Generation not because they claimed the title for themselves, but because those who followed saw what they endured and understood the price they paid.

They fought in freezing forests and burning deserts.
They crossed oceans knowing many beside them would never return.
Some came home carrying medals.
Others came home carrying nightmares they never spoke about.

Yet they built lives anyway.

They raised children to believe sacrifice mattered.
That honor mattered.
That truth mattered.
That America, despite its flaws, was worth protecting.

And now many of the things they stood for seem to be fading under the weight of division, political hatred, greed, and a society that often forgets what previous generations endured to preserve freedom in the first place.

The painful irony is this:

Many veterans spent the rest of their lives believing the nation had moved forward because of what they had done. Their families believed it too. Schools taught it. Communities honored it. Flags waved proudly for them every Memorial Day and Veterans Day.

But somewhere along the way, respect began giving way to mockery.
Service became politicized.
History became disposable.
Truth became negotiable.

The men in photographs like this never imagined a time when Americans would fight each other more fiercely than they once fought enemies overseas.

And yet here we are.

Still, perhaps their greatest lesson was never perfection.
Perhaps it was endurance.

Because those young men were not flawless heroes from a Hollywood script. They were ordinary people who answered extraordinary times with courage. They showed future generations that democracy survives only when people are willing to sacrifice something for others besides themselves.

Maybe that is the part we are in danger of losing.

Not the uniforms.

Not the medals.
But the willingness to place country, truth, and community ahead of ego.

These young faces remind us that history was once carried on the shoulders of boys who became men far too quickly. And whether we realize it or not, the world we inherited was purchased partly through their fear, their courage, and in many cases, their blood.

The question now is whether future generations will preserve what they believed they saved.

Look at today’s world and the flood of voices insisting that fairness is weakness. That the ideals generations of Americans once believed in were somehow a lie. We are told freedom was never real, truth no longer matters, institutions cannot be trusted, and even the information we rely upon each day is designed to deceive us. Fear, division, and suspicion are being sold as wisdom. History has shown us before where that road can lead. It is the kind of confusion and distrust that tyrants have always depended upon to weaken societies from within. And perhaps the greatest danger of all is that those carrying such messages rarely arrive wearing uniforms or waving flags of conquest. More often, they arrive disguised as certainty, outrage, and easy answers for the angry, the fearful, and the uninformed

Dog Shoots Lady At Signal Light. A Story You Never Expected to Read

May 27, 2026May 26, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

May 27th, 2026

When Dogs Go Armed: A Story You Never Expected to Read

There are headlines you expect to see in modern America. Political fights. Storm warnings. Celebrity scandals. Another debate about guns. But every once in a while, a story comes along that makes you stop, stare at the screen, and wonder if someone accidentally filed a script from a comedy movie into the news wire.

Dog Gone Shooting — Dog Shoots Person Outside Store.

Today was one of those days.

In what may be one of the strangest stories to come out of the American heartland in a long time, a dog in Scottsbluffreportedly managed to discharge a shotgun and injure a woman outside a convenience store.

Yes. You read that correctly.

According to reports carried by KNOP News and Gray News, police say officers were called to a convenience store after an initial report that someone had been shot with a BB gun. While officers were en route, dispatchers learned the incident actually involved a shotgun.

When police arrived, they discovered a truck with a camper attached. The passenger-side door panel showed damage consistent with a shotgun blast. Investigators say the owner had stopped at the convenience store while a passenger stood outside near the front passenger door. Inside the truck, a dog moved across the back seat, somehow triggering a shotgun that had a live shell chambered.

When the dog fired the shot, a woman sitting at a nearby traffic light reportedly had her arm resting outside her vehicle window. One pellet from the blast struck her in the upper right arm.

~~~~~

At that exact moment, a woman sitting at a nearby traffic light reportedly had her arm resting outside her vehicle window. One pellet from the blast struck her in the upper right arm. Thankfully, authorities said the injury was not believed to be life-threatening, and she was transported to a hospital by a family member.

Now let us all pause for a moment and absorb the fact that somewhere in the middle of America — about as close to the center of the nation as you can throw a dart, give or take a little left turn — a dog managed to become part of a shooting investigation.

Only in America could a sentence like that exist.

For years, the public conversation around firearms has focused on criminals, mental health, violence, politics, and public safety. But apparently nobody stopped to ask the important question:

“What happens if the Labrador gets involved?”

The irony writes itself. We have spent decades hearing about “good guys with guns” and “bad guys with guns,” and now the country may have entered a new and deeply confusing era:

Dogs with guns.

Of course, beneath the humor is a serious reminder. Firearms left loaded and unsecured inside vehicles can become dangerous under the strangest circumstances imaginable. In this case, it was not an armed criminal, an act of rage, or even recklessness in the traditional sense. It was a dog moving across a seat.

That alone should be enough to make every gun owner stop and think.

Suspected of accidentally shooting cat lady…

Still, somewhere out there tonight, a golden retriever is probably being looked at with just a little more suspicion than usual.

And one can only imagine the next question modern America may eventually have to answer:

Will it someday take a good dog with a gun to stop a bad dog with a gun?

Then again, maybe this entire incident was cosmic payback. Maybe she was a lifelong cat lady. Maybe she had once yelled at a barking dog somewhere back in 1987. The universe keeps records on these things. Apparently, so do Labradors.

No Virginia, The United States Isn’t On The Verge Of Collapse ––– Yet!

May 26, 2026May 26, 2026Benjamin1 Comment

When Fear Becomes a Product: The Truth Behind Viral “Insider Warning” Stories

May 26th, 2026

HELP! — The continual warning that something is out to get you!

Every few years America experiences a new wave of warnings that spread across social media like wildfire. Sometimes it is about economic collapse. Sometimes war. Sometimes shortages, blackouts, or the idea that “people in power know something the rest of us do not.”

Recently, one of those stories began circulating again. It tells of an Uber driver picking up a mysterious government-connected passenger near Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport who quietly warns him that America is approaching energy shortages, water failures, and regional power outages tied to tensions involving Iran and the Strait of Hormuz. By the end of the story, the frightened driver is ordering emergency water filters for his family while urging readers to do the same before it is “too late.”

It is dramatic writing. It is emotional writing. And parts of it are built around very real fears.

But that does not make the story factual.

The Truth Hidden Inside the Fiction

Roswell aliens crash into Santa. — Santa and Aliens, Fictional are they?

What makes stories like this powerful is that they mix truth with exaggeration.

There really are tensions in the Middle East affecting global oil markets. There really are concerns about power grid vulnerabilities around the world. Countries such as Cuba have experienced major electrical failures in recent years. Some regions in Africa and South America have dealt with fuel shortages and rolling blackouts.

Even here in the United States, people remember:

the Texas winter grid collapse,
gasoline shortages after pipeline cyberattacks,
supply chain disruptions during COVID,
and rising utility costs.

Those things happened.

What has NOT been confirmed is the darker prediction at the center of the viral story:

there is no verified evidence of planned “energy lockdowns,”
no public confirmation of an imminent nationwide grid collapse,
and no proof that insiders are secretly warning friends and family of an unavoidable societal breakdown.

The biggest clue comes at the end of the story itself.

After pages of fear and suspense, the reader is directed toward a specific survival product. That changes the entire nature of the piece. It stops being a warning and starts becoming marketing.

Fear has always sold products.

America’s Real Problem May Be Distrust

The reason these stories spread so quickly is because many Americans no longer trust institutions to tell them the truth.

That distrust did not appear overnight.

People have watched:

political division deepen,
economic pressure increase,
corporations profit during crises,
and ordinary families struggle with inflation, housing costs, and uncertainty.

So when someone reads a story claiming that “the people at the top already know,” it feels believable — even when evidence is thin.

The emotional part of the story works because millions of Americans already feel vulnerable.

Preparedness Is Wisdom — Panic Is Business

There is nothing wrong with being prepared.

Having:

bottled water,
canned food,
flashlights,
batteries,
medication backups,
or even a portable water filter

is simply common sense in a world where storms, outages, and emergencies happen.

That is very different from believing civilization is six weeks away from collapse.

One mindset encourages responsibility.

The other encourages panic.

And panic has become a business model online.

The Bigger Lesson

The most important lesson may not be about Iran, oil, or water filters at all.

It may be this:

Electrical setup — Electrical Substation

We are living in an age where emotional storytelling can feel more convincing than verified facts.

A well-written narrative can move people faster than a government report ever will.

That means readers must slow down, ask questions, and separate:

genuine preparedness from fear marketing,
evidence from rumor,
and possibility from certainty.

Because once fear becomes profitable, somebody will always find a way to sell it.

— benandsteve.com | Truth Endures

The Ragin’ Cajun: Doug Kershaw, Rusty Kershaw, and the Louisiana Sound That Shook America

May 25, 2026May 24, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

May 25, 2026

From Louisiana dance halls to national television, the Kershaw brothers carried Cajun music into the American spotlight with fiddles, fire, heartbreak, and unforgettable Southern spirit.

The canjun era playboys — Rusty and Doug Kershaw

There are entertainers who become famous, and then there are entertainers who become woven into the cultural identity of an entire region. Doug Kershaw belongs in that second category.

For generations of Americans, the sound of Cajun music was introduced not through textbooks or documentaries, but through the fiery fiddle and unforgettable personality of the man known as “The Ragin’ Cajun.”

Born in Louisiana in 1936, Doug Kershaw grew up surrounded by the sounds of French-speaking Cajun culture. In fact, he reportedly did not learn English fluently until around the age of eight. Music came first. By childhood he had already mastered the fiddle and was performing professionally while still young. But Doug’s rise was not a solo journey.

Standing beside him during those early years was his younger brother, Rusty Kershaw.

The Ragin Cajun era — Rusty and Doug Kershaw

Together, the Kershaw brothers became one of the most recognizable Cajun acts in America during the 1950s and early 1960s. Rusty often played guitar while Doug handled the fiddle and vocals. The pairing worked perfectly. Doug brought explosive energy and showmanship, while Rusty added a smoother musical balance that grounded the performances. Their harmonies and stage chemistry helped carry Cajun music far beyond Louisiana dance halls and onto national stages.

The brothers recorded together under names such as “The Continental Playboys” and later found growing popularity with songs that blended traditional Cajun sounds with country and rock influences. Their performances helped open doors for Cajun music at a time when much of America had little exposure to the culture. In many ways, the Kershaw brothers became ambassadors for an entire way of life rooted in the Louisiana bayous.

Doug’s signature song, “Louisiana Man,” eventually became one of the defining Cajun recordings of the modern era. Written while serving in the military alongside Rusty, the song would later be recorded by hundreds of artists and become permanently tied to Louisiana musical history.

But success also brought hardship.

By the 1960s, the brothers’ partnership began to fracture under the pressures of touring, fame, and personal struggles. Rusty Kershaw battled severe substance abuse problems for years, an issue that would haunt much of his life and career. While Doug continued rising as a solo performer known worldwide as “The Ragin’ Cajun,” Rusty drifted through periods of instability despite remaining respected by musicians who recognized his immense talent.

Still, Rusty’s influence on Southern music remained significant. He worked with major artists, performed in recording sessions, and continued contributing to the broader Louisiana music scene even when public attention faded. Musicians who knew him often described him as gifted, deeply authentic, and troubled by demons that shadowed many performers of that era.

Rusty Kershaw in Nashville 1955 — Rusty Kershaw, from recording with brother Doug.

Rusty Kershaw died in 2001 at the age of 63.

Doug, meanwhile, carried on. Like many gifted performers of his generation, he openly battled depression and substance abuse during portions of his own life, yet continued performing with the same fiery spirit audiences had always loved. His story carried the same rough edges and resilience found in the music he played.

As of 2026, Doug Kershaw is still alive at 90 years old, a living reminder of a uniquely American musical tradition that once echoed from dance halls, roadside bars, radio stations, and county fairs across the South.

Over the years many people have also confused Doug Kershaw with another famous Louisiana-born performer, Sammy Kershaw. The similarity in names, combined with their Louisiana roots and unmistakable Southern styles, naturally led audiences to assume the two men were related. Surprisingly, they are not known to be close relatives.

Sammy Kershaw rose to fame during the 1990s country music boom with songs such as “She Don’t Know She’s Beautiful,” “Cadillac Style,” and “Queen of My Double Wide Trailer.” Where Doug Kershaw exploded onto stages with a fiddle and Cajun rhythms, Sammy carried Louisiana into mainstream country radio with honky-tonk storytelling and a voice many compared to George Jones.

What connected all of them was not necessarily blood, but heritage.

They emerged from the rich musical soil of Louisiana, where Cajun traditions, country music, gospel, swamp pop, and Southern storytelling blended into something that could not have come from anywhere else in America. Louisiana did not merely produce singers during that era — it produced personalities. Characters. Performers whose accents, styles, and energy reflected an entire culture.

In many ways, Doug and Rusty Kershaw helped pave the road for later Louisiana performers like Sammy Kershaw to reach national audiences while still sounding unmistakably Southern. One represented the wild spirit of Cajun fiddle music. Another represented its soulful backbone. Together they helped preserve the sound of Louisiana for generations of listeners.

And perhaps that is the real legacy of “The Ragin’ Cajun.” Doug Kershaw did not simply entertain audiences. He carried a culture with him every time he stepped onto a stage — fiddle in hand, sweat pouring under the lights, and enough energy to shake the walls like a Gulf Coast thunderstorm.

Colonel Roy Rodrick

Some voices stay with you for a lifetime.

The First Dude?

Motivation has a habit of arriving after the work begins.

By the Time Hollywood Gets to Georgia – The GOP Will Be Crying…

Things You May Not Know

What Is a Joppler?

We Will Never Forget September 11, 2001

Dad taught me so much, while saying nothing at all…

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

What Will You Do If You Don’t Trust the Election?

Groff Media ©2026 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

Part III: Judge Cannon Remembers

The Man at the Still

Epilogue: Cannon Ball Joe

“Cannon Ball Joe.”

GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

A reflective story inspired by a timeless patriotic verse.

This Is My Country

“This is my country! Land of my birth!”

“With hand upon heart, I thank the Lord for this, my native land…”

This was his country.Not perfect.But deeply loved.Forever his.

They Were The Favorite Thing To See When She Returned To Olney.

Groff Media ©2026 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

The Roads That Built America

The Roads That Built America

There is time to put an old myth to rest.

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.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

From the Halls of The NASA Johnson Spaace Center…

The sun rose over Gotebo with an unusual silence.

“George,” he said.

“I don’t trust it.”

“Impossible!” cried Powder Puff.

“Maaaa.”

“Maaaaaa.”

“Maaa.”

“He says,” she whispered,

“The goats are tired.”

“He says they fought because they were afraid.”

“He says perhaps descendants of outlaws don’t have to live like outlaws forever.”

“George.”

“I think we’ve finally solved one.”

“Or at least survived it.”

Groff Media ©2026 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

Regardless of political party, every voter should be able to answer one simple question: What has gotten better?

The FBI defended the event, describing it as a historical and educational visit connected to official government travel rather than a recreational outing.

Others view the matter differently.

Perhaps what this controversy reveals is not simply a disagreement over one man’s actions, but a larger debate about how America honors its fallen.

Benjamin Groff IIGroff Media © Truth Endures

A Hero Who Never Left His Men Behind

Groff Media ©2026 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

IF I WERE A TYRANT

BENJAMIN GROFF II

Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

A fading photograph of young World War II servicemen reminds us of a generation that believed sacrifice, truth, and unity could build a better America.

The young men in this photograph likely believed what millions of others believed at the time — that their sacrifices would permanently change the world for the better.

UNITY!

And now many of the things they stood for seem to be fading under the weight of division, political hatred, greed, and a society that often forgets what previous generations endured to preserve freedom in the first place.

The men in photographs like this never imagined a time when Americans would fight each other more fiercely than they once fought enemies overseas.

Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

When Dogs Go Armed: A Story You Never Expected to Read

When the dog fired the shot, a woman sitting at a nearby traffic light reportedly had her arm resting outside her vehicle window. One pellet from the blast struck her in the upper right arm.

Now let us all pause for a moment and absorb the fact that somewhere in the middle of America — about as close to the center of the nation as you can throw a dart, give or take a little left turn — a dog managed to become part of a shooting investigation.

“What happens if the Labrador gets involved?”

Groff Media ©2026 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

When Fear Becomes a Product: The Truth Behind Viral “Insider Warning” Stories

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

The Truth Hidden Inside the Fiction

America’s Real Problem May Be Distrust

Preparedness Is Wisdom — Panic Is Business

The Bigger Lesson

— benandsteve.com | Truth Endures

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

From Louisiana dance halls to national television, the Kershaw brothers carried Cajun music into the American spotlight with fiddles, fire, heartbreak, and unforgettable Southern spirit.

_{^{We Will Never Forget September 11, 2001}}

This was his country.
Not perfect.
But deeply loved.
Forever his.

Benjamin Groff II
Groff Media © Truth Endures