Now as I turn life a page To the land of the great Osage In those Oklahoma hills where I was born, While the black oil it rolls and flows And the snow-white cotton grows In those Oklahoma hills where I was born.
There is an old song called Oklahoma Hills that can carry me home before I have finished my first cup of coffee. It brings back the oak and blackjack trees, the open country, and that prairie breeze.
Although whoever called it a breeze must have been standing indoors.
I remember that Oklahoma wind well. I wore enough of it on my face to develop chapped lips, and I carried enough of the countryside home in my clothes that somebody probably should have checked me for property taxes.
Some of my strongest memories come from working in the peanut fields as a teenager. But the work began long before that. By eleven, I was helping my dad, driving either a tractor or a truck. When you weren’t in school, there was usually something that needed doing.
Looking back, that was a lot of responsibility for a boy that age. At the time, though, we didn’t spend much time discussing it. It took all of us to make it, and everybody had a part.
When I wasn’t helping Dad, I might be with my brother-in-law, moving irrigation pipe in the summer, feeding cattle, or sacking peanuts in the fall. When I first started filling those sacks, a full one nearly weighed as much as I did.
And it was dirty work.
The wind blew across those fields as though somebody had left a gate open clear up to Kansas. By ten in the morning, it seemed we could depend on a thirty-mile-an-hour breeze. By afternoon, forty or more.
At least that is how I remember it. I was the one standing out there getting sandblasted.
I tried everything I could think of to get out of that wind. I would use the tractor to move the peanut bins around so they would give me a little protection from the southwest. About the time I got settled, the wind would swing around and come straight out of the west.
So I would move things again.
Then it would blow from the south.
I began to suspect it was watching me.
If you have ever driven through western Oklahoma, you may have noticed trees that look as though they have spent their entire lives trying to get to the northeast. The southwest wind had worked on some of ours for so long that they simply grew that way.
Even the trees had learned there wasn’t much point arguing.
I would come home at night with grit in my mouth, dirt in my hair, and sand in places that had been fully covered all day. Sometimes getting clean required two baths.
The first was to rinse off the field.
The second was to take a bath in water that didn’t have the field floating in it.
Somewhere between moving those peanut bins and emptying that bathtub, I swore I would someday find a way out of that wind.
It took Steve and me several years after we met, but eventually we did move away. Family remained back home, so there were still reasons to return. Leaving a place doesn’t mean you stop belonging to the people there.
Besides, there was an airline out of Texas called Southwest. I always figured the Oklahoma wind had blown it down there.
I have traveled many miles since those days. The houses we once called home are gone now. I can still picture them, though, and remember what it felt like to arrive at the end of a long, dirty day.
I wanted out of those fields badly enough when I was young. I won’t pretend I was standing there admiring the scenery while the wind filled my mouth with sand. I was probably wondering how much longer we had to work.
But I remember my dad. I remember working alongside my brother-in-law. I remember being small enough that a sack of peanuts was a serious opponent, yet old enough to be counted on to help.
And I’m glad I can still remember.
That old song brings all of it back—the people, the work, the homes that are no longer standing, and a boy who was certain there had to be somewhere the wind didn’t blow quite so hard.
What a time it was, growing up in those Oklahoma hills.
Now, pass the coffee. If I’m going to sit here remembering those peanut fields, I’ll need something to wash the grit out of my mouth. Wait a minute, that might have been a peanut.
Good morning, coffee drinkers. Pour yourself a cup and take a breath. This morning, I’m thinking about change—the kind that begins within us, sometimes with the uncomfortable realization that we might have something wrong.
One of the biggest misconceptions we carry through life is that other people must see the world as we do—especially when it comes to the subjects that divide us most.
Someone once told me, “Everyone else has to believe as I do, or the whole world is screwed.” I was just out of high school and impressionable. That thought stayed with me—a little too well.
I wouldn’t say I fully embraced it, but I had firm ideas about right and wrong. In those days, the world looked pretty black and white to me. I hadn’t yet learned how much could exist between the two. Apparently, I thought I had life figured out before I had done much living.
Life has a way of correcting that.
Over the years, I have learned that no one has to agree with me for the world to be okay. People arrive at their beliefs through experiences I may never have had, just as my experiences have shaped me. Sometimes, we are looking at the same situation from very different places.
That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about right and wrong. Some things deserve a firm stand. But being certain and being right are not always the same thing, and listening can teach us more than insisting ever will.
There is more gray in life than I once allowed myself to see. Not every question has a simple yes-or-no answer. Sometimes, what seems obvious becomes less so when we learn what we didn’t know—or finally hear someone we hadn’t bothered to understand.
My perspectives have grown. I have not mastered them. I still catch myself reconsidering situations I thought I had settled in my mind. An old opinion will come marching out, full of confidence, and I have to stop and ask whether it still deserves the floor.
I’m not perfect. That is probably the most useful thing I can admit over this morning’s coffee.
Folks, we can give ourselves a little room to breathe. We can take a belief we’ve held tightly and loosen our grip long enough to examine it. Where did it come from? What supports it? Have we learned anything that ought to change it? Are we holding on because it still makes sense, or because we’ve held it so long that letting go feels uncomfortable?
If it holds up, keep it. If it needs adjusting, adjust it. And if it no longer holds up, we can let it go without treating every year we believed it as something we must defend.
I have done that, and it has made me a happier person. I spend less energy needing agreement and more time trying to understand. I hope that makes life a little easier for the people around me, too.
We cannot make everyone change. But we can start with the person holding our coffee cup.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
“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…
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 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.
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.
I was looking at the map showing where visits to benandsteve.com have come from, and something struck me: my words have been getting out more than I have.
Here I am in Arizona, putting together a few thoughts over coffee, while something I’ve written turns up halfway around the world.
Apparently, my stories don’t need a passport. They don’t even have to take their shoes off at the airport.
When I begin a piece, I usually have something fairly close to home in mind. A memory from Oklahoma. Something Steve said. An ordinary object that carries an extraordinary amount of history. Or a passing thought that refuses to leave until I give it a paragraph of its own.
I don’t generally sit down thinking, “I wonder how this will go over in Tanzania.”
Perhaps I should start.
In the recent figures I reviewed, approximately 45% of the recorded views came from China, while nearly 42% came from the United States. Canada accounted for about 5%, followed by the United Kingdom at roughly 2.5%.
The remaining views came from India, Pakistan, the Philippines, Tanzania, Tunisia, and the Netherlands. Together, those countries represented about 6% of the views in this snapshot.
That is quite a bit of traveling for thoughts that began here at home.
Visits to benandsteve.com from around the world
The shaded countries on the map made that reach visible in a way a column of figures never quite could. I found myself looking at places I hadn’t expected to appear and wondering how something I wrote had found its way there.
Of course, a map cannot tell me the whole story. It doesn’t tell me who stopped by, what brought them, or whether they stayed long enough to finish their coffee. But it does show recorded activity from parts of the world I never imagined would have any connection to my little corner of the internet.
And that gives me something to think about.
I grew up in a small Oklahoma town where you usually knew who was listening. Sometimes you knew their parents, their grandparents, and precisely who would hear about what you said before you made it home.
Writing online is a different experience. You put a story out there, and its next stop may be somewhere you’ve never been.
A recollection from my childhood might turn up in Canada. A bit of dry humor might make its way to the United Kingdom. Something about family, kindness, loss, or simply getting through the day might reach a place whose name I’ve known all my life without ever expecting my writing to arrive there.
I like that possibility.
So much of what I write begins with ordinary life. The details belong to me, but the feelings may be familiar to someone much farther away: missing a parent, remembering an old home, laughing at an aggravation, or finding comfort in a daily routine.
I cannot say what any particular visitor takes away. I can only hope that somewhere in these pages, they find something worth pausing over.
This map has reminded me that the circle around benandsteve.com may be wider than I realized. My stories are beginning to show up in regions I never expected them to reach, and I’m curious to see where they go next.
Wherever you happen to be reading this, thank you for stopping by.
Pull up a chair. There’s always room for another cup.
And if my words make it to your part of the world before I do, please tell them to behave themselves. I have a reputation to consider.
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.
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.”
I don’t know whether it was an Oklahoma City thing or whether listeners elsewhere heard it, too. In the mid-1980s, I kept my patrol radio tuned to KATT, The Rock 1000. One of my favorite parts of the morning was a voice that came on with a greeting something like, “Hello, babysitters. This is Clarence, and this is the All My Children update.”
Clarence had a deep voice and a gift for recapping the previous day’s soap opera. He would run through the latest goings-on, slipping into impressions of the characters along the way. I could be miles into a patrol shift, carrying whatever the night had handed me, and that voice would give me a few minutes to laugh.
I needed those minutes. Some of the officers I worked with used enough starch in their underwear to stand at attention without getting out of the patrol car.
Around the station, I was known as the Lone Eagle. I worked the south district, and when I headed south, I soared. Some nights brought felony arrests. Other nights, I found a way to upset an elected city official who probably thought the hour made him unreachable.
Then there was Mildred.
Her husband was a city councilman, and the chief had agreed to put her on the reserve police force. How that arrangement came about, I couldn’t say. What I knew was that Mildred talked through an entire eight-hour shift without seeming to draw a breath. Riding with her was like attending a farm auction where the auctioneer never stopped and the hog never sold. Every so often, the hog would snort, and the bidding would begin again.
Somehow, no matter how the schedule was arranged, Mildred ended up in my unit. The other officers wouldn’t take her. I was the least senior officer on those nights, so I got the assignment.
One night, I lost my patience.
I asked Mildred if she had ever wondered why she always rode with me. She said she thought it was because I liked having her along. I told her that wasn’t it. I said it more harshly than I should have.
She looked genuinely surprised. She hadn’t noticed that other reserve officers got different assignments while she kept getting mine. I told her the others complained about riding with her. When she thought I was making it up, I played a mini-cassette recording of officers saying just that.
Mildred listened. Then she said, “Oh, Ben, you ought to hear what they say about you before you get to the station to pick me up.”
“I know,” I told her. “You don’t think this is the only tape I have, do you?”
I didn’t stop there. I said things about her husband and why I thought he wanted her out of the house. I had no proof of that. I was angry, and I wanted my words to land. I also told her what I expected to happen next: she would go home upset, her husband would complain to the chief, and sooner or later something would happen to me at work.
I drove back to police headquarters and gave her one sentence she could repeat.
“Get the hell out of my unit.”
That night may sound like a scene Clarence could have recapped the next morning: a councilman’s wife, a tape recorder, a patrol officer who finally said too much, and trouble waiting at the station. But there was nothing funny about what followed. Two matters did arise that left me feeling exposed and unable to defend myself as I might have at another time.
My father had died, and I was still crushed by it. I feared a public fight would hurt my family. A year later, I believe I would have fought with everything I had. At that moment, I pulled back.
When I think about those patrol mornings now, I still hear Clarence’s voice cutting through the radio. For a few minutes, his account of somebody else’s drama gave me room to breathe. I had no idea how much I would miss that little break when the drama became my own.
In the months that followed, a series of events unfolded. I’ve written about some of them. Others I’ve never told publicly. That changes in October, when I’ll share what happened and why it sent shock waves through our community and local law enforcement. Watch for the first installment of October Surprises.
Maybe you’re reading this over your first cup of coffee.
Maybe you’re on your way to work, letting someone’s voice read it aloud to you. I have no idea what I sound like on your end. Jimmy Stewart? Hank Hill? Cousin Itt? Perhaps Thing from The Addams Family is signing along. If it’s Bart Simpson?, please don’t let him drive.
Whatever voice you’ve given me, let me tell you about two fellows I saw at a convenience store.
The first was studying a basket of muffins. He leaned toward his friend and said,
“I could nab two of those, and nobody would even see me. I’m that quick.”
His friend said nothing. He just watched as the man slipped a muffin into each coat pocket.
I saw it. His friend saw it. The clerk did not.
Then the friend smiled.
“I can do better than that.”
He walked to the counter and asked the clerk,
“Would you like to see me make two of your freshest muffins disappear and then reappear?”
The clerk, curious now, handed him two muffins.
The man ate them both.
“Well,”
the clerk said,
“you made them disappear. How are you going to make them reappear?”
The man pointed across the store.
“Look in my friend’s coat pockets.”
I don’t know which of those two men walked out feeling cleverer. I do know the clerk ended up with quite a story to tell.
So take a sip of coffee, put a little spring in your step, and enjoy the start of your day. And if someone at the convenience store offers to show you a muffin trick, check your pockets first.
Some people need a cup of coffee to wake up. Others need a Loch Ness Monster.
Changing perspectives…
I heard a joke about a man who set out across Loch Ness to prove there was no monster. He was an atheist, too, and quite sure he knew what he would find: a lake, some water, and a good story somebody had made up.
Then his boat reached the middle of the lake. The sky darkened. The shoreline disappeared. And out of the water rose a creature towering over his boat.
“God, help me!” the man cried.
A voice came down from above. “That’s interesting. Five minutes ago, you didn’t believe in me.”
The man looked up and shouted, “Five minutes ago, I didn’t believe in the Loch Ness Monster, either!”
I have to give him that one. If a monster rose beside my boat, I would reconsider several things at once. I might even develop a sudden appreciation for life jackets, fast motors, and staying home.
Changing your mind when the facts change makes sense. But I have watched people change their views without a monster, a fact, or even a decent explanation in sight. An idea is terrible at breakfast, then brilliant by lunch because someone they admire said it out loud. The evidence hasn’t changed. The company has.
I suppose we have all done a little of that. Before the first cup of coffee, I can be certain I don’t need a second. Five minutes later, the pot starts looking mighty persuasive.
So today, if someone’s opinion changes in an instant, I may ask myself what appeared: new evidence, a new audience, or a creature rising out of the lake?
If it’s the creature, I’m changing my mind, too. And I’m taking my coffee to go.
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.
Motivation has a habit of arriving after the work begins.
Good morning, folks.
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
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.
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.
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?
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.
Benjamin and Sheriff Otis
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.
Who Shot J.R.?
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.
For those who have been around a time or two, you know where to find Steve and me on a weekend morning. For anyone just arriving, let me bring you up to speed.
Every weekend, usually Saturday or Sunday and sometimes both, we visit the same local restaurant. Our waitress looks for us. By the time we settle into a booth, she knows what I’m having, and our drinks are already on their way.
Three Sausage Patties, three eggs, wheat toast, hash browns, and a bowl of gravy. That is my order. Steve is more complicated. He studies the menu, makes a decision, changes his mind, and studies it again.
My order never changes. There’s comfort in that, especially at the end of a week when everything else seems to have demanded a decision.
I should explain the capital letters. Those Sausage Patties deserve them. They are, as we used to say when I was growing up, to die for. Back then, we said that about all sorts of things. These days, I’m happy just to get up on a weekend morning and go have breakfast.
I think fennel is part of what makes them so good. At least, that’s the word I intend to say. At the restaurant, Steve and I sometimes call it “fentanyl” by mistake. Then one of us catches it, and we both start laughing. Our waitress knows perfectly well what we mean, though I suspect she enjoys watching us try to get the word right.
The mix-up has become part of our weekend routine. I can forget the name of the seasoning halfway through a sentence, but I never forget how those patties taste. By midweek, I’m already looking forward to their return performance.
Of course, the sausage alone wouldn’t make this our place. Our waitress remembers us. Steve gets all the time he needs with the menu. I get to sit across from him while our breakfast arrives, knowing that for a little while, there is nowhere else we need to be.
It’s a simple pleasure. That may be why I keep coming back to it.
Next weekend, Steve will open the menu and consider his options. Our waitress will look at me, pick up her pen, and smile. She already knows. And if I happen to mention the wrong herb again, I know she’ll know what I mean. Her name? Christin-a.
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.
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!
Wednesday may only be the middle of the week—but perhaps the middle deserves more attention. Today’s Morning Coffee is about slowing down long enough to notice your life while you are living it.
It doesn’t always feel that way, of course. Monday has developed a reputation for being the day nobody particularly wants to see coming. The alarm seems louder, the bed feels more comfortable, and that first cup of coffee often carries considerably more responsibility than coffee should ever be expected to handle.
But perhaps Monday deserves another look.
Monday is another beginning.
Whatever went wrong last week has already happened. Whatever we didn’t finish is waiting for another attempt. The words we wish we had said differently cannot be pulled back, but the next words out of our mouths can be kinder.
Life gives us remarkably few opportunities to change yesterday.
It gives us countless opportunities to change today.
That is worth remembering as we sit with our coffee this morning.
Maybe you have been carrying something around that has become heavier than it needs to be. A disagreement. A disappointment. An unfinished task. Something you have been putting off because beginning it seems harder than continuing to avoid it.
Monday may be as good a day as any to set it down, straighten it out, or simply begin again.
You don’t have to repair your entire life before lunch.
Sometimes progress is nothing more dramatic than making the phone call, answering the message, washing the dishes, opening the curtains, or finally taking the first step toward something you have been thinking about for weeks.
Small beginnings still count.
We tend to celebrate the grand accomplishments because they are easy to see. But nearly every great accomplishment started somewhere very ordinary—with someone deciding, on an otherwise unremarkable morning, that today they would try.
Perhaps that is Monday’s real gift.
It arrives whether we are ready for it or not and quietly places another blank page in front of us.
So pour the coffee.
Take your time with the first few sips.
Then decide what deserves another chance today.
It might be a project.
It might be a relationship.
It might simply be you.
Whatever it is, remember this: starting over does not mean you failed.
Sometimes it simply means you learned enough from yesterday to approach today differently.
And that sounds like a pretty good reason to raise the coffee cup.
Have a wonderful Monday, and make something good out of the day in front of you.
Sometimes we become so focused on the road we are traveling that we forget there may be another way. A different choice, a fresh perspective, or simply the courage to ask,
Pour yourself a cup of coffee and consider something we sometimes forget when life becomes difficult:
There is usually another way.
We have a habit of looking at life as though someone has handed us a map with only one road marked on it. We convince ourselves that we must continue in the direction we are traveling because turning around would mean failure, changing course would mean weakness, or choosing something different would mean admitting we were wrong.
But life doesn’t work that way.
Sometimes the smartest thing we can do is stop long enough to notice the little road running off to the side.
Maybe there is another job.
Another friendship.
Another town.
Another dream.
Another way of spending your time.
Another way of looking at something that has bothered you for years.
Sometimes the alternative isn’t even something outside of us. Sometimes the new direction begins simply by changing the way we see what is already there.
A closed door doesn’t always mean the journey is over. It may simply mean we have been standing at the wrong door.
There are moments when we become so determined to make one particular thing work that we overlook every other possibility around us. We push harder. We worry more. We replay conversations. We imagine everything that could go wrong.
Meanwhile, another possibility may be sitting quietly beside us saying, You could try this instead.
That doesn’t mean we should abandon everything whenever life becomes difficult. Some things are worth fighting for. Some relationships are worth repairing. Some dreams deserve another attempt.
But perseverance and stubbornness are not always the same thing.
Wisdom sometimes means knowing when to keep pushing.
And sometimes wisdom means recognizing that you are allowed to choose another road.
There is tremendous freedom in those words:
You have options.
You have options.
You can reconsider.
You can begin again.
You can change your mind.
You can learn something today that causes you to see yesterday differently.
You can decide that what once mattered greatly to you doesn’t matter nearly as much anymore.
And you do not need permission to grow beyond the person you used to be.
Perhaps that is where we begin this morning.
Not by asking, How do I make everything stay the same?
But by asking:
What else is possible?
Look around.
There may be another road you haven’t noticed yet.
And it just might lead somewhere wonderful.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and remember, sometimes a fresh perspective begins with nothing more complicated than realizing there are other options.
Every morning gives us another opportunity to decide what we will carry into the day. We may not control everything that happens, but we can still choose kindness, patience and the small acts that make an ordinary day a little better.
The house may still be quiet. The day may not have completely decided what it intends to become. For a few minutes, there is only the warmth of the cup in our hands and the opportunity to decide what we are going to carry with us into the hours ahead.
And we do carry things.
We carry yesterday’s disappointments. We carry conversations we wish had gone differently. We carry worries about tomorrow, people we love, bills that need paying, decisions that need making, and questions for which we still have no answers.
But we also carry something else.
We carry kindness.
We carry the memory of someone who once helped us when they didn’t have to. We carry the laughter of people who have shared our table. We carry lessons taught to us by parents, grandparents, friends and sometimes complete strangers who crossed our path only briefly.
Perhaps one of the greatest choices we make every morning is deciding which of those things deserves the most room.
There will always be something to worry about. There will always be someone determined to spoil a perfectly good day. And there will always be circumstances beyond our control.
But we still get to decide what we contribute.
A wooden park sign shares a heartfelt reminder to treat others with kindness.
A kind word costs very little.
Holding a door takes only a moment.
Calling someone who has been on your mind might change their entire afternoon.
And sometimes simply listening to another person without trying to correct them, hurry them or outdo their story is one of the finest gifts we can give.
None of these things will make the evening news.
There won’t be a parade.
Nobody is likely to hand us a trophy for being decent to another human being.
But those small acts have a way of traveling farther than we ever realize.
So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, perhaps we can leave a little room in the day for something good.
We don’t have to change the whole world before lunchtime.
Changing one person’s moment might be enough.
And sometimes, without ever knowing it, that person may be us.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your worries be light, and the kindness you send into the world find its way back home.
Be kind to others, it is really the right thing to do.
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.
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.
Some of life’s most meaningful moments do not announce themselves when they arrive. They are found in familiar voices, quiet mornings, ordinary routines, and the people beside us. Sometimes the moments we barely notice today become the memories we treasure most tomorrow.
Maybe it is the light coming through the window. Maybe it is a memory that wandered in before we were fully awake. Or maybe it is simply one of those days when we notice the little things we usually hurry past.
We spend so much of our lives looking ahead that we sometimes forget how much of life is actually built from ordinary moments. The grand occasions certainly matter, but they are surprisingly few. Most of our lives are made up of thousands of small mornings, simple conversations, familiar faces, and routines we rarely think twice about.
Until one day we miss them.
That is when we discover that ordinary never really meant unimportant.
Some of the things I remember most clearly from years gone by would have seemed completely insignificant at the time. A voice from another room. Someone sitting at the kitchen table. A familiar laugh. A car pulling into the driveway. Someone saying, “Come on, let’s go.”
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing anyone would have thought needed preserving.
Yet somehow those are the moments that remain.
Maybe that is something worth remembering this morning.
There may be something happening around you today that feels completely ordinary. You may not photograph it. You may never write about it. You probably will not even recognize its importance while it is happening.
But someday, it may become one of the moments you would give almost anything to experience once more.
We carry more into each morning than the coffee in our cup. Memories, worries, laughter, and yesterday’s unfinished thoughts often come along with us. But a new morning gives us another chance to decide what is worth carrying forward—and what might finally be time to leave behind.
But sometimes what we bring with us to the table gives it a little more weight.
Not the cup, of course. The cup weighs exactly what it did yesterday.
We carry yesterday into the morning.
A conversation we wish had gone differently. A worry we never quite put down before going to bed. A name we have been thinking about. A memory that wandered in without knocking and decided to stay awhile.
Then there are the things we carry that feel a little lighter.
A laugh from yesterday.
Someone checking in just because they were thinking about us.
A dog stretched out nearby, perfectly content with life as long as breakfast eventually appears.
A familiar chair.
A quiet house.
And that first dependable cup of coffee.
Maybe mornings aren’t really about starting over. Life doesn’t erase itself while we sleep. The bills are still there. The problems haven’t packed their bags and moved out during the night. That stubborn thing we were worrying about yesterday may still be sitting right where we left it.
But morning does give us another chance to decide how much of it we are going to carry.
Some things need our attention.
Some things need our patience.
And some things probably need to be left sitting beside the road somewhere behind us.
We are not required to drag every disappointment we have ever known into every new day.
That may be one of life’s quieter lessons.
We can remember without remaining stuck.
We can care without carrying everything.
We can miss someone and still smile.
We can have difficult days and still believe there are good ones ahead.
So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, take inventory of what you brought to the table.
Keep the memories that make you smile.
Hold close the people who matter.
Take care of the things that truly need tending.
And perhaps leave a little room in your hands for something new.
Because you never know what this day may be waiting to give you.
Sometimes all we need is enough room to receive it.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your burdens a little lighter, and your day give you something worth carrying into tomorrow.
For coffee this morning I am sharing a pet peeve that has been picking at me lately.
Nothing serious. Nothing that is going to keep me awake at night. But it does irk me.
“Come on, hop out of the car…I just want you to hop for me”
It is this hopping thing.
Somewhere along the way, people began asking other grown adults to hop everywhere.
I notice it especially in police videos. It has leaked over into television comercials. And, I have heard waitresses refer to it, when seating people at restaurants. But, I mainly hear it those police videos.
An officer stops a vehicle, walks up to the driver and eventually says something like:
“Go ahead and hop out of the vehicle for me.”
Hop?
Have you ever actually seen a grown adult hop out of a car?
Outside of Easter, a sack race, or perhaps New Year’s Eve after somebody has had far too much to drink, I cannot remember seeing many adults hopping anywhere.
Yet law enforcement officers across the country now seem determined to get us hopping.
“Hop out for me.”
“Hop over here.”
“Hop in the back seat.”
Maybe that explains why some people in those YouTube videos refuse to get out of the car. Perhaps the instruction simply does not register.
Imagine a grown man appearing at your front door and saying:
“Sir, would you hop out onto the lawn for me?”
Would you?
I would probably stand there wondering exactly what kind of hop he had in mind.
Eventually, in some of these police videos, after several requests for the driver to “hop out,” patience disappears, a window gets broken, and the person is physically removed from the vehicle.
At that point, strangely enough, nobody is hopping.
Well, except perhaps the officers, who suddenly seem to be hopping around one another trying to get the person handcuffed.
Then comes the next instruction.
“Go ahead and hop into the back seat.”
Think about that for a moment.
The person is now handcuffed, standing beside a police car, possibly having just been dragged out of another automobile, and someone is asking them to hop into the back seat of a car driven by a complete stranger.
That requires considerably more coordination than I possess.
But the hopping is not finished.
Eventually they arrive at what officials may call a detention facility, processing center, correctional intake facility, or any number of impressive names.
Let us save some time.
It is jail.
The officers open the patrol-car door and what do you suppose comes next?
“Come on and hop out for me.”
Another hop.
Before the experience is finished, the poor person may have been asked to hop out, hop over, hop in, hop back out, and possibly hop onto a bench.
When exactly did hop become the standard instruction for grown adults?
What happened to:
“Please step out of the vehicle.”
“Step to the rear of the car.”
“Come back here and speak with me.”
Those instructions sound perfectly reasonable. More importantly, I know exactly what they mean.
There is another reason I think words matter.
Sometimes an officer is asking someone to step out of a vehicle because doing so may actually prevent a situation from becoming worse. A conversation beside the vehicle might clear something up. It might reveal information the driver needs to know. It might even keep that person from making another mistake that results in an additional charge.
Crime prevention, after all, is one of the most important parts of police work.
And preventing someone from turning one bad decision into three?
Well, that really is something worth hopping about.
We carry pieces of the people who have traveled through our lives — their lessons, laughter, kindness, and even their little habits. This morning’s coffee is about remembering what others left with us and considering what we might leave behind for someone else.
Before the telephone rings, before the television begins telling us what happened overnight, and before the world starts asking something from us, there are those few quiet moments when we can simply sit and think.
I have come to believe those moments are more valuable than we realize.
We spend much of our lives collecting things. Not necessarily possessions, but memories, lessons, sayings, habits, friendships, disappointments, victories, and even a few regrets.
Some of them we carry without realizing it.
A phrase our father used to say.
Something our mother taught us without ever sitting us down and calling it a lesson.
The way an old friend laughed.
A song that suddenly takes us back forty years.
The smell of coffee brewing in a kitchen that no longer exists.
Life has an interesting way of packing our suitcase for us.
By the time we reach a certain age, we discover that we are carrying pieces of nearly everyone who has traveled beside us.
And perhaps that is one of life’s greatest gifts.
People do not entirely leave us when they are gone.
They remain in the things they taught us, the stories we tell about them, the kindness they showed us, and sometimes even in those little irritating habits we swore we would never adopt — until one morning we catch ourselves doing exactly the same thing.
That is when you have to smile.
Because somehow, without noticing, yesterday has quietly found its way into today.
So as you enjoy your coffee this morning, think about the people who helped pack your suitcase.
Remember the ones who taught you something worthwhile.
And when the opportunity comes today, leave something good behind for someone else to carry.
A kind word.
A little patience.
A helping hand.
A good story.
Because years from now, when someone else is sitting quietly over their morning coffee, you just might be one of the memories that makes them smile.
And that wouldn’t be such a bad thing to leave behind.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may there always be enough coffee for one more story.
Sunday coffee has a way of slowing the world down. Sometimes the best thing we can do before another week begins is sit quietly, sip slowly, and remember how much there still is to be thankful for.
I don’t know that there is anything scientific behind that statement. The beans are the same. The water comes from the same faucet. The coffee pot certainly hasn’t learned what day of the week it is.
But somehow, Sunday morning coffee knows.
It knows there is no reason to rush.
The coffee pot can sit there on the counter and quietly do its job while the rest of the house slowly decides whether it is ready to join the day.
There are mornings when coffee is practically a piece of emergency equipment. You pour it while looking at the clock, searching for your keys, wondering where you left your glasses, and trying to remember whatever important thing you promised yourself the night before that you absolutely would not forget.
Sunday coffee doesn’t seem interested in any of that.
Sunday coffee says, Sit down.
The world will still be there in ten minutes.
Maybe that is one of the little gifts we have forgotten how to appreciate.
I often find myself reflecting on the Sundays of my childhood, especially those quiet early mornings when only my father and I were awake.
The test pattern had just disappeared from our black-and-white television, and the first program of the morning was the children’s show Davey and Goliath. It was followed by a gospel music program featuring the Florida Boys. I enjoyed both, although the second one was certainly aimed more toward my dad’s age group than mine.
When the gospel program ended, Dad would usually look at me and say, “Let’s go.”
Most Sundays, he already had a few sacks of groceries packed and ready to deliver around the southwest part of town, where much of Binger’s Black community lived. We had chickens—hundreds of them, at least it seemed that way to me as a child—along with cattle and pigs. My father shared what we had with people he believed truly needed it.
As we made those rounds, he would sometimes give me one of his little lessons.
“You don’t see a single one of them getting commodities at City Hall when they’re handing them out,” he would say. “Nope. It’s all these fine-to-do white people.”
There was always just a little preaching mixed into his words.
Even at that young age, I understood what he was showing me. I had already begun to recognize the hypocrisy he was talking about—the difference between what people said about others and what was actually taking place right in front of us.
Once our morning deliveries were finished, we would stop and buy the Sunday newspaper from the sidewalk vending machine. Dad would toss it into the pickup, and then we would head for the only café in town open on Sunday morning.
That was where Dad gathered what I now jokingly call his weekly community intelligence.
He listened.
He visited.
He heard who was doing what, who was upset with whom, whose crops were doing well, whose family was having trouble, and whatever else happened to be making its way through town that morning. Then, during the following week, he could use that information to maneuver his way through conversations in the barbershop.
And I had my own use for it.
Come Monday morning, I could walk onto the school playground and tell my classmates what I had heard their neighbors talking about over Sunday breakfast.
For a kid with a speech impediment, having a little inside information turned out to be a surprisingly useful way to keep a conversation going.
We spend so much of our lives preparing for the next thing that we sometimes fail to notice the thing we are living right now.
The coffee pot understands none of this, of course.
It simply sits there.
A little steam rises.
The kitchen begins to smell familiar.
A cup gets filled.
And for a few moments, nothing else is required of us.
There was a time when Sundays seemed almost designed around slowing down. Stores opened later. Families gathered for dinner. Church bells rang. Newspapers were thicker. People sat on porches longer.
Even the telephone seemed to understand that Sunday morning was not the appropriate time to cause trouble.
Today, the world rarely takes a day off.
Our phones buzz.
The news keeps moving.
Someone somewhere desperately wants us to know about a sale ending at midnight.
But the old coffee pot still offers the same invitation it always has.
Stay awhile.
Listen to the quiet.
Think about the people you love.
Remember the ones who once sat across the table from you.
Be thankful for those who still do.
And maybe leave a little room in your day for absolutely nothing important at all.
Because sometimes doing nothing important is exactly what the soul needs.
So this Sunday morning, pour another cup.
Let the coffee pot keep warm whatever is left behind.
And before you hurry into another week, give yourself permission to sit quietly with the life you already have.
It may not be perfect.
It may not always be easy.
But somewhere between the first sip and the bottom of the cup, you might discover there is still quite a bit worth being thankful for.
Have a wonderful Sunday from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be hot, your morning be peaceful, and nobody ask you to do anything important until at least the second cup.
Sometimes we convince ourselves that before we can move forward, everything has to be settled.
The house needs to be in order. The worries need to disappear. Yesterday’s problems need to be resolved, and tomorrow needs to make a little more sense.
Life rarely cooperates that neatly.
Most new beginnings happen while something else is still unfinished. We learn to take the next step while carrying a few unanswered questions with us.
Maybe that’s okay.
This morning doesn’t require you to have everything figured out. It only asks you to begin where you are—with the strength you have, the wisdom you’ve gained, and perhaps a warm cup of coffee in your hand.
Do one good thing. Say one kind word. Take one small step toward something that matters.
That is enough to get a day started.
You don’t need the whole road mapped out this morning. Just have faith enough to take the next step—the road will reveal itself as you go.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
There are probably people carrying a good memory of something you did long ago, even though you’ve forgotten all about it. This morning’s coffee is a reminder that the smallest kindness can become part of someone else’s story.
There are people from years ago whom I still remember for the smallest reasons.
They didn’t save my life.
They didn’t give me some great piece of wisdom.
They may not even remember me.
But I remember them.
I remember the person who took an extra moment to explain something when I didn’t understand.
The person who laughed with me when I needed to laugh.
The person who noticed I was having a difficult day and asked, “Are you doing okay?”
The person who poured another cup of coffee without being asked.
Funny, isn’t it?
We often think we have to do something extraordinary to make a difference in somebody’s life.
Most of the time, we don’t.
Sometimes we are remembered simply because we were kind when kindness was needed.
There are probably people walking around today carrying a memory of something you once did for them.
You may have forgotten it completely.
They haven’t.
Maybe you encouraged someone when they were ready to quit.
Maybe you sat beside somebody who didn’t want to be alone.
Maybe you made a child laugh.
Maybe you told someone they were doing a good job when nobody else bothered to notice.
To you, it may have been nothing more than an ordinary moment.
To them, it became part of their story.
That’s something worth thinking about over coffee this morning.
We spend a lot of time wondering what people think of us.
Perhaps a better question is:
How do people feel after they’ve been around us?
Do they leave feeling a little better?
A little more hopeful?
A little less alone?
Because long after people forget what we wore, what we owned, or how important we thought we were, they often remember how we treated them.
And someday, years from now, someone may be sitting at their own kitchen table with a cup of coffee remembering you.
Not because you did something remarkable.
But because, on an ordinary day when they needed it, you were kind.
Never underestimate the possibility that one small kindness from you may become someone else’s lifelong memory.
So today, give somebody something good to remember.
It doesn’t have to cost a thing.
A smile will do.
A kind word will do.
Taking a moment to listen will do.
Sometimes the smallest things stay with us the longest.
Now, how about another cup?
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
Don’t decide how the day will end before it has even begun. This morning’s coffee is a reminder to move yesterday’s worries over and leave a little room at the table for something good.
Before our feet touch the floor, we are thinking about yesterday’s problems, today’s responsibilities, and tomorrow’s worries.
Then we pour the coffee and carry all of them to the table with us.
That is quite a crowd for so early in the morning.
I wonder how many good things we miss because we have already decided what kind of day we are going to have.
We tell ourselves the meeting will be difficult.
The person won’t call.
The answer will be no.
Traffic will be terrible.
Something will probably go wrong.
And sometimes we’re right.
But not always.
Every now and then, life surprises us.
The telephone rings, and it is someone we have been thinking about.
A stranger holds the door and smiles.
Someone says something kind when we need to hear it most.
A problem we have worried about for days works itself out with surprisingly little trouble.
Or maybe nothing dramatic happens at all.
Maybe the sun simply comes through the kitchen window at just the right angle, the coffee tastes especially good, and for a few minutes everything feels all right with the world.
Those little moments count too.
We cannot control everything waiting for us today. There will always be things we would rather avoid and circumstances we cannot change.
But we can leave a little room for the possibility that something good might happen.
Hope doesn’t require us to pretend that difficulties don’t exist.
It simply asks us not to decide the ending before the day has had a chance to begin.
So while you’re sitting there with your coffee this morning, move yesterday’s worries over just a little bit.
You don’t have to throw them away.
Just don’t give them the whole table.
Save an empty chair for something unexpected.
Leave a little room for laughter.
Leave a little room for kindness.
Leave a little room for somebody to surprise you.
And most of all, leave a little room for something good.
Because this day hasn’t happened before.
You don’t know everything it is bringing with it.
Don’t let yesterday convince you that you already know how today will end.
Now take another sip.
Morning has only just arrived.
Let’s give it a chance.
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
Not every morning needs to be extraordinary. Sometimes the quiet, ordinary moments—the warm coffee, familiar voices, and people nearby—are the ones we eventually miss the most. Come sit for a while. The coffee is ready…
The coffee is brewing. The house is quiet. Somewhere outside, a bird is carrying on a conversation with another bird that apparently has a great deal to say.
And nothing particularly important is happening.
We have become so accustomed to looking for significance that we sometimes overlook the beauty of an ordinary day.
We celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, graduations, promotions, and all those other days we circle on the calendar. We take photographs. We gather people together. We remember them years later.
But when we look back on our lives, something interesting happens.
We begin missing the ordinary days too.
We remember sitting at the kitchen table while someone we loved stood at the counter.
We remember hearing their footsteps coming down the hallway.
We remember the sound of the screen door closing.
We remember someone asking, “Want another cup?”
At the time, none of it seemed important enough to remember.
Yet somehow we did.
Maybe that is because a life isn’t made mostly from extraordinary moments.
It is made from thousands upon thousands of ordinary ones.
The morning somebody handed you a cup of coffee.
The afternoon you sat on the porch doing absolutely nothing.
The evening everyone was home and nobody realized how precious that would someday become.
We didn’t know we were making memories.
We thought we were simply living.
Perhaps that is something worth remembering this morning.
You don’t have to accomplish something remarkable today for today to matter.
You don’t need a celebration.
You don’t need an announcement.
You don’t even need a particularly good story to tell when the day is finished.
Sometimes it is enough that the people you care about are nearby, the coffee is warm, and another morning has found its way to your door.
So don’t hurry through all of it.
Take an extra sip.
Listen to the sounds around you.
Notice who’s sitting across the table.
Someday you may discover that the mornings you once thought were ordinary were some of the most precious mornings you ever had.
The ordinary moments of today may become the treasured memories of tomorrow.
And that seems like a pretty good reason to pour another cup.
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
Not every road we travel is one we planned to take. Sometimes the detour introduces us to people, places, and possibilities we would have otherwise missed. Grab your coffee—we’re taking the scenic route this morning.
We know where we need to be, what needs to get done, and perhaps even what time we hope to have everything finished.
Then life puts up a detour sign.
Something changes.
A telephone call comes. Someone needs us. The car won’t start. The appointment runs late. A plan we were counting on falls apart. Suddenly, the road we expected to travel is closed, and we are headed somewhere we never intended to go.
I have traveled enough country roads in my life to know that detours can be frustrating.
But I have also discovered something else about them.
Sometimes the road you didn’t intend to travel shows you something you would never have seen otherwise.
You notice an old farmhouse sitting beneath a grove of trees. You cross a creek you didn’t know existed. You find a little town you have never visited. Maybe you meet someone you would never have met had everything gone according to plan.
Life works much the same way.
Some of the people who become important to us arrive because something else didn’t work out. Some of our greatest opportunities begin with disappointment. Some of the stories we eventually treasure started on days when we thought everything was going wrong.
That doesn’t mean every detour is pleasant.
Some are difficult. Some hurt. Some take us a long way from where we thought we would be.
But getting somewhere differently doesn’t always mean we are lost.
So, as you have your coffee this morning, perhaps there is something in your life that hasn’t gone according to plan.
You may be staring at a detour sign right now, wondering why the road ahead had to change.
Give it a little time.
Keep going.
Look out the window along the way.
There may be something waiting on this road that you could never have found on the one you originally planned to travel.
Sometimes the unexpected road becomes the one that takes us exactly where we needed to go.
Pour yourself another cup.
We’ve still got some traveling to do.
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
We spend so much time trying to finish everything that we sometimes forget to appreciate simply moving forward. Grab your cup. This morning, one small step is enough.
We pour the coffee, look at the day ahead, and begin making a list in our minds. Things that need doing. People who need calling. Problems that need solving. Yesterday’s unfinished business somehow finds its way onto today’s kitchen table before we have even taken the first sip.
But maybe everything doesn’t need to be finished today.
Some things simply take time.
I think back to the way people once approached ordinary work. A garden wasn’t planted in the morning and harvested that afternoon. A fence was built one post at a time. A long trip was measured in miles traveled, not merely by how quickly you reached the destination.
There was an understanding that worthwhile things often required patience.
We sometimes forget that when it comes to ourselves.
We expect answers immediately. We want worries settled, grief healed, relationships repaired, and uncertainty resolved before bedtime. When that doesn’t happen, we can feel as though we somehow failed the day.
But perhaps today’s accomplishment is simply moving one step forward.
Maybe you make the telephone call.
Maybe you write the first paragraph.
Maybe you forgive a little.
Maybe you worry a little less.
Maybe you finally sit quietly for ten minutes with a cup of coffee and realize the world managed to keep turning without your supervision.
There will always be something left undone when evening comes. That isn’t failure. That is life reminding us there is another day waiting.
So this morning, don’t measure your day by everything you manage to finish.
Measure it by whether you moved something worthwhile a little farther down the road.
And if all you manage today is one small step, remember:
A small step forward is still farther than you were yesterday.
Pour yourself another cup.
Tomorrow will have its own list.
For now, this morning is enough.
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
Excerpt
Not everything needs to be finished today. Some things simply take time. This morning’s coffee is a reminder that one small step forward can be enough.
We spend a lot of time thinking about what comes next. Tomorrow’s plans. Next week’s worries. The things we still need to accomplish and the places we hope someday to go.
But what if, just for this morning, today is enough?
What if the cup of coffee in your hand is enough to enjoy without thinking about the next one? What if the people around you are enough to appreciate without waiting for a special occasion to tell them so? What if this ordinary Wednesday deserves to be enjoyed simply because we are here to experience it?
Not every day needs to become a milestone.
Some days are meant to be lived quietly—watering the flowers, calling an old friend, laughing at something silly, watching the sun move across the room, or sitting for another five minutes with a cup of coffee that has probably already gone cold.
There is a lot of life tucked inside those little moments.
So don’t ask too much of today. Give it your best, appreciate what it offers, and let that be enough.
You don’t have to make today extraordinary. Just be present for it. Sometimes that is what makes a day extraordinary after all.
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
It sat quietly on the counter. No flashing lights. No digital display. It never argued with anyone. It simply had one responsibility—to protect what would feed the family tomorrow.
The bread box never baked the bread.
It never claimed credit for the farmer who grew the wheat or the baker who rose before daylight. It simply understood that once something valuable arrived, someone had to take care of it.
The old bread box had standards.
It wasn’t a storage place for everything. You didn’t toss old newspapers inside. You didn’t fill it with junk because there happened to be empty space. It knew the difference between what nourished a family and what merely occupied room.
Then one day people decided bread boxes were old-fashioned.
“We don’t need that anymore,”
they said.
The bread was left lying on the counter where it dried out a little more each day. Some blamed the bread. Others blamed the weather. Still others insisted nothing had changed at all.
The bread, of course, never argued.
It simply became stale.
And the remarkable thing about stale bread is this: it doesn’t happen all at once. You rarely notice it from one day to the next. It is only when you pick up the loaf and wonder what happened that you realize something important had quietly disappeared.
The bread box never made promises.
It never claimed it could improve the bread.
It simply protected it from becoming something it was never intended to be.
Perhaps that is the purpose of more things in life than we realize.
Sometimes the quiet, ordinary things aren’t there because they are exciting.
They are there because they have learned that what is worth keeping is usually worth protecting.
Look around your home. Every ordinary thing has a story. Sometimes, it’s really about us.
There was a time when buying a loaf of bread was about as controversial as life could become.
Promises vs. Results.
Politics has become much the same way. Somewhere along the road we stopped asking one simple question:
Today, mentioning the price of that same loaf can start an argument.
“Did the last promises work?”
Every election season arrives with a fresh collection of guarantees. Taxes will go down. Jobs will multiply. Government will shrink. Crime will disappear. Inflation will be conquered. Our freedoms will be protected. We are assured that prosperity is just one election away.
Then four years pass.
The speeches become campaign commercials. The commercials become memories. And before long, many of us find ourselves hearing nearly the same promises from many of the same people, while somehow convincing ourselves this time the outcome will be different.
Perhaps before accepting another promise, we should compare it with the last one.
What were we told in 2024?
What actually happened?
Not what our favorite television network says happened. Not what social media insists happened. What changed in our own lives?
What happened to grocery prices?
What happened to gasoline?
Could you buy more—or less—with the paycheck you earned?
Did your insurance go up?
Did your property taxes change?
Did your retirement account grow or shrink?
Did your neighborhood become safer?
Those answers are far more valuable than any campaign slogan.
None of this means every promise failed. Governments accomplish some things and fall short on others. The honest voter should be willing to acknowledge both.
That requires something becoming increasingly rare in America—an honest inventory.
The next time someone tells you what tomorrow will look like, don’t begin by looking forward.
Begin by looking backward.
History may not predict the future, but it usually leaves enough footprints to tell us where we’ve already walked.Years ago, neighbors could spend an afternoon arguing over whosesourdough recipe made the better loaf, and everyone still shared a slice afterward.
Today, mention the price of that loaf—or the politician who promised to make it cheaper—and you may lose a friend before the bread comes out of the oven. That’s unfortunate, because both subjects have something in common. Good bread takes patience, honest ingredients, and careful attention. Good government should require no less. ––– Benjamin!
Why benandsteve.com will always be a place where stories, neighbors, and simple conversation matter more than bells and whistles.
There was a time when nearly every town had a little Mom and Pop general store. It wasn’t the biggest building in town. It didn’t have flashing lights, endless aisles, or a parking lot the size of a football field. But it had something far more important.
Are too many changes, causing you a blur?
It had people.
You stopped in because you needed a loaf of bread, a box of nails, a spool of thread, or maybe just a cold bottle of pop on a hot afternoon. Before long you found yourself visiting with a neighbor, catching up on local happenings, or hearing a story you hadn’t expected to hear. You came for one thing and often left with something entirely different.
That’s the way I have always wanted benandsteve.com to be.
It isn’t meant to be the biggest website on the internet. It isn’t trying to become a corporate media empire with every new bell, whistle, gadget, and artificial intelligence feature someone insists I must install before tomorrow. Every few days another message appears telling me I need this plug-in, that application, another update, another subscription, or one more feature that promises to make everything “better.”
Sometimes I wonder if the people designing these things have forgotten that simple still works.
I’m not trying to build a shining city on a hill. I’m simply trying to keep the lights on in my little general store.
When you stop by, I hope you’ll find a good story, a bit of history, a few headlines worth knowing, perhaps an obituary honoring someone who deserved to be remembered, or news about the men and women who serve in law enforcement, fire, EMS, and emergency services. Maybe you’ll discover something you didn’t expect. Maybe you’ll leave with a smile, a memory, or a thought worth carrying into the rest of your day.
The internet doesn’t always have to be loud. It doesn’t always have to flash, blink, autoplay, notify, or demand your attention every five seconds. Sometimes it’s enough to simply open the front door, hear it creak a little, and know the owner is behind the counter ready to say, “Good to see you. What’s new?”
That is what I hope benandsteve.com continues to be.
What you see is what you get.
No gimmicks. No smoke and mirrors. Just stories, memories, history, humor, and the occasional opinion from someone who still believes that neighbors matter, truth matters, and a simple conversation is worth preserving.
So pull up a chair. Look around. Read a story or two. And before you head back down the road, don’t forget to wave at the folks coming in behind you.
This story is historical fiction inspired by a brief newspaper account of an actual arrest near Stella, Oklahoma, during Prohibition.
When federal agents hauled J. W. Sims from the abandoned farm outside Stella, the newspapers made it sound simple.
The Man at The Still – Part II, The Road To Stella
Another moonshiner arrested.
Another still destroyed.
Another victory for Prohibition.
But life in rural Oklahoma was rarely that simple.
J. W. Sims had grown up in a world where whiskey was not considered a crime.
His father kept a jug in the barn.
His grandfather made peach brandy every fall.
Neighbors shared recipes as freely as they shared seeds for planting.
Then came 1920.
Congress passed the Eighteenth Amendment.
The government said alcohol was illegal.
The people of Oklahoma mostly shrugged.
Some obeyed.
Others simply moved their operations farther into the woods.
The farm near Stella had once belonged to a widow who moved to Shawnee after her husband died.
The house sat empty.
The barn sagged.
The well still produced cold water.
To a bootlegger, it was perfect.
The still itself was nothing fancy.
A copper boiler.
A warm condenser cooled by creek water.
A few barrels of corn mash.
The smell, however, was impossible to hide.
Sweet.
Sour.
Yeasty.
The scent drifted through the trees for a quarter mile.
Sims joked that if the federal agents could not find the still, they could simply follow their noses.
Harold McGilvery didn’t laugh.
Harold worried constantly.
“Somebody’s gonna talk,” he said.
“They always do.”
Business was good.
A gallon jug sold for three dollars.
Five dollars if the buyer lived in Shawnee.
Twice that if somebody wanted it shipped to Oklahoma City.
There were farmers who bought.
Oil field roughnecks bought.
Traveling salesmen bought.
Even churchgoers bought.
Especially churchgoers.
Sims found it amusing that some of his best customers lectured him on morality while handing over cash.
The first arrest came in the spring.
Not Sims.
Not Harold.
A man in Seminole County.
Then another outside Ada.
Then three more near Prague.
Federal agents had begun raiding stills throughout central Oklahoma.
The newspapers called them “revenooers.”
Most folks had other names for them.
Harold became nervous.
He wanted to quit.
Sims was less concerned.
“They can’t arrest everybody,” he said.
It was a statement history would prove incorrect.
One morning, before sunrise, dogs began barking.
Harold looked toward the road.
A pair of automobiles approached.
Dark sedans.
No county markings.
No warning.
Just dust and headlights.
“Federal men,” Harold whispered.
The two men ran.
Harold disappeared into the trees.
Sims slipped behind the barn.
For a moment, he thought he might escape.
Then came the shout.
“Federal officers!”
And the unmistakable sound of a shotgun shell being racked.
Sims raised his hands.
The newspapers would later report the facts in only a few sentences.
Federal officers raided an illicit distillery near Stella.
Harold McGilvery was arrested first.
J. W. Sims was arrested later in connection with the operation.
That was all.
No mention of the cold morning air.
No mention of the copper still cooling in the grass.
No mention of the dreams that ended beside an abandoned farmhouse.
What happened to J. W. Sims after that?
The records grow quiet.
Perhaps he paid a fine.
Perhaps he served a short sentence.
Perhaps he returned to farming.
Or perhaps he found another hidden hollow and another copper kettle.
Many did.
Because Prohibition was a peculiar war.
The government won the raids.
The bootleggers won customers.
And ordinary men like J. W. Sims lived somewhere in between.
One foot in the law.
One foot outside it.
Trying to make a living in Oklahoma during one of the strangest chapters in American history.
A note from the writer, One of the descendants of the Sims family drove my rural route school bus. Years later, as a teenager working summers cleaning floors at the school, he would tell me stories about J. W. Sims. It has taken me many years to gather the pieces of those stories and compare them with the historical record. Some parts proved true. Others were undoubtedly embellished over time. Every bit of it, however, was fascinating. The man who shared those stories with me passed away several years ago. On a recent trip back to my hometown, I visited with his relatives and asked for their blessing to tell the tales their father, uncle, and family member had entrusted to me. What you've read is not just history? It is memory, folklore, and the enduring power of stories passed from one generation to the next. Benjamin H. Groff II
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.
The Town Has A June 15th Fireworks Show – No Thanks To The Chickens!
The people of Clucker’s Gap believed they had finally solved their chicken problem.
This would prove to be incorrect.
The town’s Fourth of July fireworks had been secretly hidden inside the county fairgrounds agriculture barn.
“Chickens never go into barns,” declared Mayor Buckley.
Several farmers attempted to object.
Unfortunately, they were ignored.
To make matters worse, someone had been scattering nitrogen-enhanced chicken feed all over town.
The feed had been developed by Professor Cornelius Peabody, who claimed it would increase egg production.
It certainly increased something.
The chickens had become larger.
Faster.
And considerably more opinionated.
No one knew who was distributing the feed.
No one knew where it was stored.
And no one knew why every chicken seemed capable of jumping fences they previously respected.
Standing above it all was the county barn’s famous cupola.
Inside hung the Eternal Lantern.
For fifty years the lantern had burned day and night.
No one knew who filled it.
No one knew where the fuel came from.
And no one could remember a time when it had ever gone out.
Naturally, no one questioned it.
That was mistake number one.
The evening of June 15th arrived warm and still.
Marshal Chester Finch was conducting his weekly Moped Safety Awareness Patrol.
His red beacon flashed.
His siren occasionally squeaked.
Children waved.
Finch accidentally threw hard candy at a mailbox.
The mailbox surrendered.
Everything appeared normal.
Then came the first sign of trouble.
A chicken landed on the roof of the agriculture barn.
Then another.
Then twenty.
Then approximately four hundred and sixty-seven more.
Farmer Jenkins pointed upward.
“Why are they all gathering there?”
No one knew.
The chickens began pecking furiously at the cupola.
The old wood rattled.
The Eternal Lantern swayed.
A single spark drifted downward.
Right into a hay bale.
Nothing happened.
For three whole seconds.
Then…
WHOOOMPH!
The hay erupted.
The hidden fireworks ignited.
Rockets blasted through the barn walls.
Roman candles shot across the fairgrounds.
Bottle rockets chased the mayor.
Catherine wheels attached themselves to two tractors.
Someone’s prize pig briefly achieved flight.
Then came the second explosion.
The mysterious nitrogen-enhanced chicken feed.
Two thousand pounds of it.
The blast launched a mushroom cloud of feed, feathers, and confusion three hundred feet into the air.
The shockwave lifted townspeople off their feet.
The sheriff landed in a watermelon patch.
The mayor landed in the county pond.
The town band landed in perfect formation and continued playing.
Marshal Finch and his moped achieved temporary aviation.
Witnesses later estimated they traveled nearly seventy-five yards before splashdown.
The giant plume drifted over the county.
For several moments it resembled a chicken.
No one found that comforting.
As the dust settled, the entire town emerged from the pond covered in feathers and fish.
Mayor Buckley stood waist-deep in water.
His hat floated past.
“I suppose,” he said, “we should have hidden the fireworks somewhere else.”
Finch removed a catfish from his boot.
According to regulation manual Section 27, Paragraph 9, he informed the crowd:
“Any fireworks storage plan that ends with livestock becoming airborne is officially discouraged.”
The crowd nodded.
That seemed reasonable.
Then everyone froze.
From the far side of the pond came a familiar sound.
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOO!
General Clawford stood atop the water tower.
Beside him sat a wooden crate.
Stamped across the side were the words:
“PROPERTY OF THE CHICKEN KING.”
Marshal Finch slowly adjusted his hat.
“I thought we settled this.”
General Clawford merely smiled.
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time.
Or at least it looked like a smile.
And somewhere in the darkness, another lantern flickered to life.
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes! 🐔🏍️💥🧨.
Harley Davidson has been targeted for no apparent reason! A company that has been in good standing for over 120 years!
There was a time when if someone wanted to damage a business, they had to stand on a street corner and tell people not to shop there.
Today, all it takes is a social media account.
A single post can reach hundreds of thousands of people. A video can be shared across the country in hours. An accusation can become accepted as fact before anyone pauses to ask whether it is true.
That raises an important question:
When does criticism become defamation?
The question came to mind after reading reports about a recent social media campaign targeting Harley-Davidson.
For decades, Harley-Davidson has represented something uniquely American. Its motorcycles have become symbols of freedom, independence, veterans, road trips, and a culture that has existed for generations.
Yet over the past several weeks, social media influencers and political personalities began attacking the company, describing it as “woke,” “anti-American,” and even “gay.” At the same time, many of the same accounts were encouraging consumers to purchase motorcycles from a competing manufacturer, Indian Motorcycle. According to reporting by The Bulwark, numerous influencers appeared to be using remarkably similar talking points while simultaneously promoting Harley’s competitor. The article raised questions about whether the campaign was organic or coordinated. No evidence has publicly emerged proving who, if anyone, organized the effort.
What makes the situation unusual is that Harley-Davidson had already announced in 2024 that it had ended its DEI department and scaled back several diversity-related initiatives after previous criticism from activists. The company stated it no longer maintained a DEI function and would focus on growing motorcycling and serving its riding community.
Yet the attacks continued.
Whether readers agree or disagree with Harley-Davidson’s past decisions is not really the point.
The larger issue is what happens when public opinion is manufactured.
If a business actually engages in conduct that customers dislike, criticism is fair. Consumers have every right to spend their money where they choose.
But what if the accusations are exaggerated?
What if they are misleading?
What if they are completely false?
And what if someone is profiting from spreading those claims?
Those questions move beyond politics and into the realm of ethics.
Most Americans would likely agree that consumers deserve truthful information before making purchasing decisions. We expect truth in advertising. We expect products to perform as advertised. We expect companies not to deceive customers.
Should the same standard apply to people attempting to damage a company’s reputation?
American law has long protected free speech. It should.
But free speech and knowingly false statements have never been exactly the same thing. Businesses, like individuals, can suffer tremendous financial harm when false information spreads unchecked.
Imagine spending a lifetime building a company, employing thousands of workers, paying suppliers, supporting local communities, and creating a respected brand. Then one morning you discover strangers on the internet have decided to label your business with accusations that may bear little resemblance to reality.
The damage can be immediate.
Customers leave.
Sales decline.
Employees worry.
Investors react.
All because of something that may never have been true in the first place.
Social media has given every citizen a voice. That is one of the great achievements of the digital age.
But it has also created a world where rumors can travel farther than facts.
Perhaps the question facing America is not whether people should be allowed to criticize businesses.
Of course they should.
The real question is whether people who knowingly spread false information intended to harm a company should bear responsibility when real damage results.
That debate is likely to grow louder in the years ahead.
Because in today’s world, a rumor is no longer just a rumor.
It can become a weapon.
Closing Question
If someone intentionally spreads false information about a business for political, personal, or financial gain, should they be held responsible for the economic damage they cause?
THE BOTTOM LINE
If you hear information coming from someone. Especially a politician. Stop. Take it with a grain of salt. And then go do your own research. See if it is true. Don’t believe them when they tell you that everything you learn through research is false.
Thank you for visiting benandsteve.com TruthEndures
