Learn About The Lady In Mickey Gilley’s Song – The Girls All Get Better At Closing Time.

‘I know Robert Redford, even Lola Hall…’

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

4–6 minutes

Lola Hall: Oklahoma’s Weather Girl Who Became a Legend

In the heart of America, television was becoming the central storyteller of the modern household. During this time, one woman in Oklahoma City quietly became a beloved figure. She was cherished across living rooms, farms, and small-town diners alike. Her name was Lola Hall, the poised and personable weather girl for KWTV Channel 9. Through the 1960s and 1970s, Lola transitioned from forecasting the weather. She began anchoring the morning news. She carved out a legacy of warmth, professionalism, and unexpected celebrity.

A Humble Start on Channel 9

Lola Hall wasn’t born into the limelight. She was raised in Oklahoma. She considered herself an ordinary woman. “I’m just a plain girl with a good work ethic,” she once said. She never imagined she would become a fixture in households across the state. She also didn’t foresee that her name would one day be immortalized in a hit country song.

She started at KWTV in the early 1960s. Television was still finding its footing then. Local personalities were becoming stars in their own right. Initially billed as a “weather girl,” a common term at the time, Lola did more. She did more than point at cloud symbols and smile at the camera. She brought a genuine understanding of weather patterns. Her calm demeanor during storms was notable. She had a natural charisma that made viewers trust her.

The Weather Girl also known as the Weather Lady, and Lola Hall

Lola quickly stood out not only for her delivery but for her grounded, approachable nature. She didn’t talk down to viewers or play a character. She was simply Lola — smart, steady, and relatable.

Rising to Anchor the Morning News

As her popularity grew, so did her responsibilities. By the early 1970s, Lola earned a promotion to co-anchor the morning news. This was a significant achievement for a woman in broadcasting. In that early morning slot, she became the face viewers saw as they sipped coffee. People watched her while packing school lunches. They prepared for long days on the farm or at work.

Her calm voice and natural empathy helped set the tone for the day. But it wasn’t a solo act.

Near the end of her career, she welcomed two of Oklahoma’s most trusted newsmen. Bill Haire and Wayne Lyle joined her on the morning show. Both were widely respected for their skill in agricultural reporting — essential content for Oklahoma’s large farming population. The trio became a necessary part of daily life for rural viewers. Farmers tuned in for weather and headlines. They also relied on Bill and Wayne for dependable reports on crop forecasts. Their reports covered market conditions and farming trends.

Lola, Bill, and Wayne worked together to form an Oklahoma morning news trifecta. They delivered information with clarity, sincerity, and a deep respect for their audience. They weren’t just broadcasters; they were neighbors.

A Country Music Cameo

But, Lola’s story wouldn’t be finished without an interesting twist. One of her career’s most surprising moments was an unexpected brush with country music fame.

Lola Hall, KWTV Channel 9′s beloved weather girl and morning news anchor, pictured during a 1970s broadcast. Her calm presence and signature charm made her a household name across Oklahoma.

During an interview with country star Mickey Gilley, Lola found herself momentarily flustered. Gilley, known for chart-topping hits and honky-tonk swagger, was in Oklahoma City promoting his music when he confessed on air.

He told Lola that back in his younger days, he grew up in rural east Texas. KWTV Channel 9 was one of the few stations they could pick up. And Lola Hall, with her grace and good looks, was a celebrity to the local boys.

“You were the hottest thing we’d ever seen,” 

Gilley smiled, adding that Lola had made such an impression that he mentioned her by name in his song.

 “The Girls All Get Prettier at Closing Time.”

For a brief moment, Lola lost her composure — laughing, blushing, and turning to the crew off-camera. It was a rare crack in her usually calm exterior, and viewers loved it. She quickly recovered, continuing the interview with her usual charm, but later admitted she was shocked.

“I thought I was just the girl telling them to grab an umbrella,” 

She joked.

A Lasting Legacy

Lola Hall stepped away from the news desk eventually. She left behind a legacy built not on flash or fame. Instead, it was built on trust, relatability, and professionalism. During an era when women in broadcasting often had to work twice as hard, Lola rose through the ranks. Her long-lasting connection with viewers stood as a quiet revolution.

She may never have considered herself glamorous. She may not have thought of herself as remarkable. But, to thousands of Oklahomans—and at least one country legend—she was both.

You know it each time you hear the song and Gilley sings the line,

“I know Robert Redford even Lola Hall!”

Lola Hall wasn’t just the weather girl. She was part of the fabric of Oklahoma life. Her name, her voice, and her smile are still remembered by those who welcomed her into their homes each morning.

For a personal take on her career click here and be taken to an interview with Lola Hall!

To truly dive into the story of Lola Hall and other trailblazing women of the 1950s and ’60s, prepare yourself. They were often known then as “weather girls.” Grab your favorite refreshment and settle in. This captivating podcast offers a rich glimpse into their rise to popularity. Back in the day, we just called it a recording—but whatever the name, you’re in for something special.

The Legacy of Lefty Frizzell: Influencing Country Legends

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

1–2 minutes

“The Voice That Taught a Generation”

Lefty Frizell

In the summer of 1950, a determined young singer named Lefty Frizzell stood outside Jim Beck’s recording studio. He was in Dallas, Texas. He was ready to make his mark. At just 22, he had already weathered a storm of heartbreak, barroom gigs, and run-ins with the law. Lefty had slicked-back hair and a crooked grin. A battered guitar was slung over his shoulder. He aimed for more than just a break. He was pursuing his destiny.

William Orville Frizzell was born in Corsicana, Texas, in 1928. He earned the nickname “Lefty” as a boy. Stories about how he got the nickname vary, from a boxing match to being left-handed. What was undeniable, though, was his voice. Smooth, elastic, and full of feeling, it wrapped around words in a way that captivated everyone who heard it.

That day in Dallas, Lefty recorded a few songs. He included one he had penned during his time in jail, ‘If You’ve Got the Money (I’ve Got the Time).‘ Within a few weeks, Columbia Records released it, and just like that, Lefty was catapulted into stardom.

By the end of 1950, he had four songs in the country Top Ten—a feat unheard of at the time. His singing style was marked by stretched syllables and graceful phrasing. It would later profoundly influence legends like Merle Haggard, George Jones, and Willie Nelson. We are forever appreciative for this influence.

Yet fame came with a cost. Lefty struggled with alcohol and the pressures of the spotlight. Though his career saw ups and downs, his voice never lost its magic. Even before he died in 1975 at the age of 47, he would sing for country artists. They would still gather around to hear him. They wanted to remember the man who changed the sound of country music forever.

Merle Haggard once said, 

“I can’t think of anyone who has influenced me more.”

Lefty Frizzell didn’t just sing songs—he bent time with his voice and taught a generation how to feel every word.

The Brothers of Friday the 13th: A Country Music Legacy

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

2–4 minutes

The Brothers of Friday the 13th

They say Friday the 13th brings bad luck. But, for Jack Anglin and Johnnie Wright, it brought something entirely different. It brought love, brotherhood, and the country music that carves its way into the soul.

Jack and Johnnie were destined to sing. Their childhoods were steeped in gospel, church choirs, and the rhythm of the land. They met as they met most things in life—through music. And they married as they did everything else—on a Friday the 13th. Jack wed Louise, and Johnnie took her sister, Muriel, as his bride. This made them brothers-in-law, but their voices had already made them brothers in spirit, their bond unbreakable.

They began touring as Johnnie & Jack, their harmonies tight as barbed wire and twice as sharp. They sang of sorrow and salvation, of trains leaving and lovers staying. And behind them, always, stood the sisters.

Johnnie’s wife, Muriel, had a soft voice. It could’ve gone unnoticed if not for a quiet evening at home. She hummed along to a song Johnnie was working on. He stopped strumming, looked at her, and knew.

“You need a stage name,” 

He said. 

“Something people will remember.”

He thought a moment, then grinned. 

“Kitty Wells.”

She laughed at the name, but it stuck. Kitty Wells soon became the Queen of Country Music. Her voice turned the tide with It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels. The song gave women in the country their place in the spotlight.

In a later interview, Johnny recalled that the name “Kitty Wells” came from an old spiritual recording. He used to play it during his early days working at a radio station. The name stuck with him. When it came time to give Muriel a stage name, it felt like the perfect fit. It was familiar, timeless, and filled with meaning.

Life moved fast. Fame came. Tours blurred together. But Jack and Johnnie were always together—on stage, on the road, in life.

Then came March 1963.

Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas, and Hawkshaw Hawkins—all killed in a plane crash returning after a charity concert. The country music world was shattered. A memorial service was planned, and Jack insisted on going.

“Gotta pay respects,” 

He said. 

“We’ve all come up together.”

But he never made it.

On the fateful morning of March 8, 1963, Jack Anglin was en route to the service. Tragically, he lost control of his car and crashed. His life was taken in an instant. The news reached the church before Johnnie’s arrival. They say the moment he heard, Johnnie was overcome with grief, falling to his knees. The man who had been his constant companion on every stage, in every storm, was no more.

It was a heartbreak no harmony can fix.

Johnnie went on as best he could. Kitty sang. The spotlight stayed, but something had shifted. There was a silence beside him now where Jack’s voice used to be.

Still, the music lived on.

Two men, two sisters, two voices joined by fate, and a wedding date no one forgets. Friday the 13th had given them everything—and, somehow, had taken it all back.

Yet, their songs endure, a testament to their enduring legacy. In every old record and radio play, their voices still resonate. Jack and Johnnie were brothers in music and marriage. Their harmonies echo through the years. It is a timeless tribute to their bond and art.

Inside the Attic: Capturing a Dangerous Fugitive

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

2–3 minutes

Early in my law enforcement career, I rode with some of the best in the business. These included David “Booty” Ware, Bruce Poolaw, Junior Toehay, Don Gabbard, and Buttin Williams. All were Native American except for Gabbard, a character in his own right.


By the time I was 19, I had experienced more than most people do in a lifetime. I was just getting started.


One day, nearly every law enforcement officer in the county joined a search. They were looking for a man named Virgil Bass. He had a felony warrant and was considered dangerous. Virgil had vowed he wouldn’t go to jail without a fight. If anyone tried to arrest him, he’d either kill them or die trying.


We started early that morning, sweeping from one end of the county to another. By evening, we reached Virgil’s parents’ house on the county’s west side. We surrounded the place, each of us watching for any sign of an escape.


Bruce and I approached the door and stepped inside. His parents claimed they hadn’t seen him, but they kept glancing up at the ceiling.


Bruce, all 6’6″ of him, said firmly,

“We need to check everywhere.”


We made a show of slamming doors, stomping around, acting like we’d searched every corner. Then we got to the attic.


Bruce looked at me.

“You’re the only one who’ll fit up there. I’ll give you a boost.”


Before I knew it, my head was poking through the attic opening. It was pitch black. I called down,

“I need a flashlight!”


I was half-expecting a two-by-four to come crashing down on me—or worse. If Virgil was up there, he saw me silhouetted by the light from below.


Bruce handed me his flashlight. I pulled myself up until my arms were entirely inside the attic and swept the beam around. The attic was filled with fluffy pink insulation. One spot was different. A trail led from the opening to a lumpy insulation patch. About five feet away, the insulation looked disturbed.


I looked down at Bruce.

“I need a poker iron.”


I heard Bruce ask the family if they had one, and he handed it to me within seconds. I jabbed the iron into the lump, then thought better of it and started whacking the hell out of it.


Suddenly, there was yelling and cursing, and Virgil burst out of the insulation.


“Stop it! Stop it! I give up!”

he hollered.


I ordered him to follow me down, and once he was out, we cuffed him. We took him outside to Booty’s patrol car. Booty looked at the lump rising over Virgil’s eye. He asked,

“How’d that happen?”


I shrugged.

“He fell on a poker iron.”


The whole crew burst out laughing. After all, it’s easy to fall on a poker iron. This is especially true when hiding in an attic after threatening to die before going to jail.

Remembering John S. Foster Jr.: A Key Figure in Nuclear Deterrence

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

2–3 minutes

John S. Foster Jr., 102, Pioneering Physicist and Architect of U.S. Nuclear Deterrence, Dies

John Stuart Foster Jr. was a visionary physicist. His career spanned over eight decades of American scientific and defense innovation. He passed away on April 25, 2025, in Goleta, California. He was 102.​ (1)

Born on September 18, 1922, in New Haven, Connecticut, Foster was the son of renowned Canadian physicist John S. Foster Sr. He began his academic journey at McGill University, earning a Bachelor of Science degree in 1948. He later obtained a Ph.D. in physics from the University of California, Berkeley, in 1952.​ (2)

Foster’s skill during World War II was instrumental in developing radar and countermeasure technologies at Harvard’s Radio Research Laboratory. He served as a scientific advisor to the 15th Air Force in the Mediterranean Theater. This role further demonstrated his dedication to the war effort. (3)

In 1952, Foster was recruited by Edward Teller to join the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory (LLNL). His leadership in nuclear weapons design at LLNL was groundbreaking. He eventually became the director in 1961. This leadership fostered a culture of innovation and collaboration that continues to inspire today.

From 1965 to 1973, Foster served as the Director of Defense Research and Engineering at the U.S. Department of Defense, advising four Secretaries of Defense and two Presidents. He championed advancements in smart weapons, night vision, and reconnaissance technologies.​ (4)

After his tenure at the Pentagon, Foster joined TRW Inc. as Vice President of Science and Technology, later serving on its board of directors. He remained an influential figure in national security. He participated in the Defense Science Board. He also joined the President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board. Additionally, he served on the Commission to Assess the Threat to the United States from Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) Attack. ​(5)

Foster’s contributions earned him many accolades. These include the Enrico Fermi Award and the Founder’s Award from the National Academy of Engineering. He also received multiple Department of Defense Distinguished Public Service Medals. He was also honored internationally. He received the Knight Commander’s Cross of the Order of Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany. He was named Commander of the French Legion of Honor.​ (6)

In recognition of his enduring legacy, LLNL established the John S. Foster Jr. Medal, awarded annually to individuals demonstrating exceptional leadership in national security science and technology. (7)

Foster is survived by his family and a legacy that continues to influence U.S. defense policy and scientific research.​

A memorial service will be held at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. Instead of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the Livermore Lab Foundation in his honor.​ (8)

From Alps to Illinois: Ulrich L. Groff’s Inspiring Life Story

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

3–5 minutes

The Life and Legacy of Ulrich L. Groff

Ulrich Groff Sr.

Ulrich L. Groff was born on October 8, 1848, in the alpine village of Wengen, nestled in the canton of Bern, Switzerland. Ulrich and Mary Miller Groff were Swiss natives. They were described on their immigration papers as “tillers of the soil.” These were farmers seeking a better future. In Switzerland, the Groff family lived in a small but close-knit community. It was in this environment that Ulrich learned the values of hard work. He also learned perseverance and family unity.

In 1852, when Ulrich was just four years old, the Groff family made a monumental journey to America. 

Their voyage took them across the Atlantic Ocean. This information is from family records shared by Sylvia Little, the mother of Jackie Lee Little. They traveled aboard one of the last great sailing ships. The journey lasted a whole month at sea before they landed in the port of New Orleans. From there, the family traveled north through the Wabash and Illinois Rivers, eventually arriving in Vincennes, Indiana.

There, they purchased wagons and teams of oxen to make the final leg of their journey. The Groffs settled in Richland County, Illinois. They would lay down roots and build a new life from the ground up. They faced challenges like language barriers, unfamiliar customs, and the harshness of the American frontier.

By 1860, the Groffs had firmly established themselves in Claremont Township, Richland County. The census that year listed young Ulrich as a ten-year-old student, attending school alongside his brothers Michael and Joseph. His father, a determined farmer, was farming 640 dollars’ worth of land—no small feat for an immigrant family. It was a humble beginning but one filled with purpose and promise.

On December 6, 1870, Ulrich Jr. married Martha Allen Eaks in Richland County. Martha had been born in Cannon City, Tennessee, on December 11, 1849, to William C. and Frances Eakes. Ulrich and Martha began a family together and raised their children on the Illinois prairie.

Ulrich Groff Jr. And Family

By 1880, Ulrich was a working farmer, and he and Martha had three sons: Ira Allen, Harvey S., and Otis E. Over the years, their household expanded to include nine children, with Benjamin H. Groff I. becoming a middle child. Eight of Ulrich Jr.’s children survived to adulthood. The Groff household, a warm and united family, also became a multi-generational home. By 1900, Ulrich’s mother, Mary, was a 74-year-old widow. She had survived the long journey from Switzerland. She also overcame the challenges of building a life in a new land. At that time, she was living with the family.

Martha passed away on February 22, 1906, at 56, and was laid to rest in Eureka Cemetery in Claremont. In 1909, Ulrich remarried, taking Ellen L. Richter of Olney, Illinois, as his wife. Ellen had been born in Bullitt County, Kentucky, to James and Catherine Yates Richter. Ulrich and Ellen had no children together. Later, they helped raise two grandchildren, Cleo and Walker. They stepped in after the children lost their father, Odis Edward Groff.

Ulrich bridged two continents and saw a century of change. He became a U.S. citizen in 1869 and worked on Illinois soil, much like his ancestors did in Switzerland. He never learned to read or write but valued education and ensured his children access it. His life was defined by perseverance, faith, and the quiet strength of a man who carried his family’s burden. Ulrich also became a respected member of the Richland County community. He was known for his hard work, honesty, and willingness to help others.

Ulrich Jr. passed away on June 6, 1927, at the age of 78 years, 7 months, and 29 days. He was buried beside Martha in Eureka Cemetery. Ellen lived on until 1939 when she passed away at the age of 82. She, too, was buried in Eureka.

The legacy of Ulrich L. Groff endures in the farmland he once tilled. It continues through the descendants he raised. The journey his family made was filled with hope. It was marked by courage and the will to start again. They traveled from the Alps of Switzerland to the heartland of Illinois.

Before Otis passed away, he and Ulrich’s son, Benjamin, discovered land in Oklahoma. In the early 1900s, they began farming it together. Benjamin and his sister, Laura Alice Dowty, eventually settled there permanently. They raised their families there and spent the rest of their lives on that land.

The Life and Career of Erik Ruus: An Estonian Icon

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

1–2 minutes

Eric Ruus -The Movie Database Groff Media©

Erik Ruus, a prominent Estonian theater and film figure, passed away on April 22, 2025. He was 62, just one day before his 63rd birthday. Born on April 23, 1962, in Elva, Estonia, Ruus had a distinguished career spanning over four decades. 

SOURCE researched for material (WikipediaIMDb+1xwhos.com+1)

A Life on Stage and Screen

Ruus graduated from the Viljandi Culture Academy in 1982 and began his professional acting career shortly thereafter. He was a longstanding member of the Rakvere Theater from 1985 to 1995 and from 1996 to 2009. Between 1995 and 1996, he performed at the Endla Theater in Pärnu. Since 2009, Ruus has worked as a freelance actor, contributing to various stage productions, films, and television series.​ (1)

Notable Film and Television Roles

Ruus’s film career included roles in several significant Estonian films. He played Peeter in Vaatleja (The Birdwatcher, 1987). This film received international acclaim. It won awards from the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival, the Torino Film Festival, and the Rouen Nordic Film Festival. In Tulivesi (Firewater, 1994), he portrayed Eerik, a position that left a forever impression on audiences. Notable appearances include Minu Leninid (1997) and Ferdinand (2002). He also appeared in Stiilipidu (2005) and Päeva lõpus (2009). His roles continued with Kutsar koputab kolm korda (2010) and Johannes Pääsukese tõeline elu (2019).​ (2)

On television, Ruus appeared in series like Ohtlik lend (2006), Kelgukoerad (2006–2007), Klass: Elu pärast (2010), and Õnne 13 (1997–1999) (3)

Personal Struggles and Resilience

Throughout his life, Ruus faced personal challenges, including struggles with alcohol, which affected his tenure at the Rakvere Theater. His unwavering commitment to his craft is remarkable and a testament to his cause. He continues to inspire many.​ (4)

Erik Ruus’s contributions to Estonian theater and film have left an indelible mark on the country’s cultural landscape. His performances resonated with audiences. His legacy will influence future groups of actors and artists. It is a testament to the impact of his work.

References:

(1) (Wikipedia+1xwhos.com+1xwhos.com+1Wikipedia+1)

(2) Wikipedia+1Wikipedia+1IMDb+4Wikipedia+4TheTVDB+4TheTVDB+4Wikipedia+4EFIS+4

(3) IMDbPro+1TheTVDB+1

(4) Wikipedia

Lloyd Bickerstaff: The Steady Voice of Elk City Police

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

3–4 minutes

The Quiet Backbone

Lt. Lloyd J. ‘Bick’ Bickerstaff E.C.P.D.

I keep a photo in a drawer in my desk. It is tucked beneath an old leather-bound notebook and a yellowing map of Beckham County. It’s a photo of Lloyd Joe “Bick” Bickerstaff. The image was taken about a month before his promotion to Captain with the Elk City, Oklahoma Police Department.

In the picture, Bick sits in his unit, his uniform crisp in the late autumn light. The shadows are long. The wind has just started to turn cold. That unmistakable Oklahoma sky behind him stretches flat and wide. It is quiet, open, and full of secrets. He wears a half-smile that says, 

“I’ve seen things, but I’ll carry them quietly.”

Bick and his brother were born in Sentinel, Oklahoma. I only heard his brother’s name once in passing. Sentinel is a patch of land barely big enough to hold the stories it carries. They began their careers as State Troopers with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. The two brothers wore matching uniforms and chased something bigger than themselves.

But by the time I knew Bick, he rarely mentioned his siblings. I assumed time had done what it often does to families. Maybe there was a falling out—just distance. I never asked, and he never offered.

I knew he had a wife who baked cinnamon rolls on Sundays. He also had two children. One child was off in Sayre, chasing classes at a junior college. The other was a veterinarian who had graduated from Oklahoma State University. His life beyond the badge was quiet but rich. He even operated a small answering service—its operators worked right from his living room. You knew that life grounded him.

Nevertheless, Bick was more than just a veteran officer inside the department. He was the compass.

When rookies came in shaken from their first domestic call, Bick was the one who handed them a cup of bad coffee and said,

“It gets better if you let it.”

He never lectured. He just listened. And when he spoke, it was always worth hearing.

I remember the weeks leading up to his promotion. The department was shifting—a new Chief was being promoted, and a Major was moving up from Captain. Everyone felt the tremors of change. But Bick? He was steady and unmoved. I asked if he was nervous about entering a bigger role during such a turbulent time.

He just smiled that same quiet smile.

“Storms pass,” 

He said.

“Someone’s gotta keep the porch light on.”

He did more than that.

He held the whole house together.

Years passed. And then, like storms do, time took Bick from us. When the news came, I expected many familiar faces at the service. Officers from every corner of the state would be paying their respects. But they didn’t come. Time had moved on, and so had they. Somehow, the news of Bickerstaff’s passing hadn’t brought them back.

Elk City Police Chief Bill Putman did what mattered. He escorted Bick’s casket from Elk City to the Old Soldiers Cemetery in Oklahoma City. That quiet, deliberate ride said more than any ceremony. It was loyalty. It was respect. It was love.

I was there, too, standing back in the shadows as the service ended. I didn’t speak. Didn’t approach the family. I just paused long enough to leave a final tribute at the edge of his resting place. It was a farewell from someone who had seen firsthand what quiet strength looks like.

Maybe Bickerstaff would’ve preferred it this way. No fanfare. There is no parade of names—just those who mattered most.

I like to think I was one of them.

Bick was never the loudest voice in the room. He didn’t need to be.

But when he spoke, the room listened.

And when he left, the silence he left behind was deafening.

The echo he once carried over the radio has gone quiet. And somewhere out in Western Oklahoma, no one will ever hear that calm, steady voice call out again—

“Attention, all stations and units; stand by for a broadcast.”

From Cotton Fields to Sheriff: The Story of Jess Bowling

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

4–5 minutes

Sheriff Jess “Pooch” Bowling, Jr.: From Cotton Fields to County Leader

Jess ‘Pooch’ Bowling

Jess Bowling, Jr. was born in Binger, Oklahoma, on August 23, 1924. At just 11 years old, he left behind half his family. He also left the dusty plains of Oklahoma. He sought a new beginning in California. With his father and brother, young Jess traveled west in a weathered 1929 Buick. They finally settled in the small agricultural town of Dos Palos. His mother, two sisters, and another brother stayed behind in Oklahoma—a family split by circumstance but not by love.

Life in California was anything but easy. Jess Jr. rose with the sun. He toiled in the cotton fields until it set. He contributed what he could to help his family survive. It was hard work—grueling and endless—but there was resilience in the struggle. Sheriff later joked, “We did live in the biggest tent in Dos Palos!”

His father, Jess Sr., quickly became a cornerstone of the growing town. He opened a grocery store, invested in rental properties, and became active in local politics. His leadership and business savvy earned him a seat on the city council and, eventually, the title of Mayor.

Jess Jr. worked in the family store while attending school. He graduated from Dos Palos High School with a reputation for dependability and quiet strength. Not long after, fate stepped in when he met Darlene, a young woman from Iowa visiting relatives. The two married in 1945 and raised three children—Sharlynn, Shirley, and Michael.

The Badge and the Beat

Simulated Photo

Jess Bowling’s journey into law enforcement began in 1953 when he joined the Dos Palos Police Department. His first assignment? Tackling the town’s parking problem. Officer Bowling issued dozens of citations, doing so with a steady hand and a sense of duty. He even issued one to his father, the Mayor. Years later, he found that very ticket among his father’s possessions, a keepsake of humor and integrity.

Although that first stint in law enforcement was brief, it planted a seed. After returning to the family store, Bowling joined the Atwater Police Department in 1956. In 1958, he made the move that would define his career: joining the Merced County Sheriff’s Department.

Simulated Photo

In 1963, Bowling became the department’s first-ever canine handler, partnered with a large, loyal German Shepherd named Jim. Together, they helped pioneer a new era of policing.

By 1974, Jess Bowling had risen to the rank of Lieutenant when tragedy struck—the sudden passing of Sheriff Earl McKeown. In the aftermath, Bowling was appointed interim Sheriff. The people had already decided by the time the special election rolled around in May 1975. Bowling’s steady leadership and quiet competence earned him the Sheriff’s badge in his own right.

Reformer, Leader, Trailblazer

Sheriff Bowling led the department through six transformative years. He spearheaded major innovations that professionalized law enforcement in Merced County. Under his administration:

  • The Corrections Division was established, moving jail staffing from deputies to trained corrections officers.
  • Dispatch services were assigned to civilian professionals, freeing up sworn deputies for fieldwork.
  • He launched the county’s first-ever 24-hour patrol, marking the end of the “resident deputy” model.
  • He hired Merced’s first female deputy, breaking gender barriers in local law enforcement.
  • The department acquired its first handheld radios, enabling Bowling to reintroduce the classic “walking beat cop” in areas like Winton.

These weren’t just administrative changes but foundational shifts that shaped the Sheriff’s Department into a modern, responsive force.

His achievements were not only admired—they were preserved. Jess “Pooch” Bowling’s remarkable career is documented in a collection. His family lovingly maintains it as a tribute to a life of service.

Legacy and Final Salute

I had the privilege of knowing the Bowling family. One of my sisters even married Jess’s nephew. Every time he returned to town, Sheriff Bowling brought a yearbook from the department he once led. He proudly pointed out the growth and accomplishments of his former team. The department’s scope, the number of divisions, and the professionalism he helped instill always struck me, as did his accomplishments.

1974 – The first female deputy was sworn in

1974 – First portable transceivers issued to deputies

1974 – The first 24-hour patrol begins

1977 – First Special Emergency Response Team (SERT) organized

1977 – Marshal’s Office established

1980 – Hostage negotiators were trained and included on the SERT team

Merced County Sheriff’s Office, California

But behind the badge was a man who never forgot where he came from. Before the titles and the accolades, Jess “Pooch” Bowling was a boy in a Buick. He was a cotton picker working under the sun. He was a young man doing what he could to help his family survive.

After a doctor advised him to retire due to a serious heart condition, Sheriff Bowling stepped down in 1980. He lived to celebrate his 80th birthday during Merced County’s 150th anniversary in 2005. This honor was fitting for a man who helped shape its modern history.

Jess “Pooch” Bowling passed away on April 18, 2007. He was laid to rest beside his beloved Darlene in Dos Palos Cemetery.

His story is one of grit, integrity, and service. It is a journey from the cotton fields to the highest badge in the county.

The Real Badge 714: Jack Webb’s Impact on Police Representation

Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

1–2 minutes

Earning the Badge: How Jack Webb Won the Respect of the L.A.P.D.

Gaining the gratitude of the Los Angeles Police Department is no small accomplishment, especially for a television creator. Yet, after nearly two decades of portraying law enforcement with integrity and realism, Jack Webb did just that.

Best known as the mind behind groundbreaking crime dramas Dragnet and Adam-12. Webb distinguished himself from other producers and directors. He excelled in an industry often criticized for sensationalism. 

Rather than relying on over-the-top drama to capture ratings, he took a different approach: authenticity. Webb regularly consulted real-life officers, ensuring his shows reflected the true spirit and procedures of police work.

That commitment to realism earned him more than high ratings—it won him the deep admiration of the L.A.P.D. itself.

In 1968, the department honored Webb with a unique and heartfelt gesture. They presented him with the original Badge 714, famously worn by Sgt. Joe Friday in Dragnet. It was a symbolic gift that carried the full weight of the department’s appreciation.

“This is only a small token of our appreciation to you, Jack, and for all the things you have done for our department dating back to when Dragnet first went on the radio in 1949,” 

Said then-L.A.P.D. Chief Thomas Reddin during the presentation. 

“This badge has never been issued to anyone else; the entire force feels it belongs to you.”

The moment left Webb deeply moved.

“For one of the very few times in my life,” he said, “I’m at a loss for words. I can’t express my feelings.”

According to The Cumberland News, the L.A.P.D. viewed the gift as more than just a gesture of thanks. It was also a tribute to Webb’s enduring impact on the public image of police officers. This image is not defined by glamour or exaggeration. Instead, it is characterized by honesty and respect.

Reruns of the Dragnet Show can still be watched on television channels like MeTV.

Lessons from a Fateful Day at Sayler’s Lake

Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

4–6 minutes

A Day at Sayler’s Lake

Sayler’s Lake, SH152 Binger, OK

Growing up, it often felt like there wasn’t much to do. With six siblings and a life rooted on the farm, family trips or outside adventures seemed few and far between. But looking back now, I see how much my parents did to involve us in meaningful experiences.

They took us to local places of interest. They spent time with each of us in ways many parents couldn’t. At the time, I thought we were the ultimate close-knit family. My dad and I shared rodeos, horse sales, parades, and trail rides. He and my mother supported my sister’s love for basketball, attended games, and nurtured her talent. Another sister was given a piano, music lessons, and encouragement toward college. One of my brothers was allowed to buy into the farm and build a home. The two oldest boys had long since charted their paths. One went into the Marines. The other entered a world that eventually led to affluence. But no matter how far they went, they always came home for the holidays.

My mom’s youngest brother—my uncle—was a bonus sibling. He’d been born late in my grandparents’ lives, and as a teen and young adult, he often lived with us. He’d served in Vietnam. Though he was quiet about it, he carried a weight we all respected—even if we didn’t understand it fully.

One weekend, something unexpected happened. When I was 9, my uncle and brothers convinced my dad to take us to the lake. It was a rare outing, especially with all of us. I’d heard stories of him taking the family boating at lakes years before I was born. Yet, he had stopped going by the time I came along.

This lake trip, still, wasn’t a return to those stories. It was just up the road—Sayler’s Lake. It wasn’t much to look at. An old log cabin marked the entrance. The water looked murky and unsettling—it resembled a scene from a horror movie. Locals whispered that the lake had claimed lives—more than a few. It didn’t seem right, but the place had a reputation.

We arrived around 10 a.m. I was eager to get in the water, but my mother insisted I wear a life vest. I didn’t know how to swim, and she wasn’t taking any chances. I hated the bulky vest, but hated the thought of drowning more. My sisters had taken swimming lessons when we lived in town—those services didn’t exist where we were.

I paddled around, watching others enjoy themselves. 

Across the water, people were diving from a rocky cliff. Some men dove headfirst, then climbed back up and did it again. It looked reckless, almost like a dare to death. Then, one of them dove in—and didn’t come back up.

I’ll never forget the girl on the cliff yelling, 

“Where is he?”

People jumped into action. After five or ten long minutes, someone pulled his body from the water and dragged him to shore. The owner of the lake raced down in a pickup and began CPR. I stood there, stunned. It was the first time I’d ever seen someone dead—or nearly dead—pulled from water.

Then, the town ambulance arrived. It wasn’t like the ones you see on TV—it was a white Buick station wagon. An old man climbed out carrying an oxygen tank. When the victim’s friends saw him, they shook their heads and told him it was too late. 

“You need a body bag.” 

One of them said.

I didn’t know what a body bag was. But I figured it out when the old man pulled a stretcher from the back of the car. With the help of bystanders, he loaded the man’s body. Out of compassion, he turned on the red lights and the siren. Then he drove off.

I returned to where our family had set up a picnic. I don’t remember what I said—maybe something a little too grown-up or too curious—but I remember my father flicking me on the ear and speaking sharply, 

“You aren’t quite that old yet.”

I’ve often wondered what that moment meant to him. Maybe he wasn’t angry—he was just shaken. Perhaps he didn’t want me to see what I had seen. That day made me grow up faster than he wanted. He liked to keep things under control, and this wasn’t one of those things.

Life doesn’t always allow us to choose the lessons we learn. Sometimes, they arrive uninvited on an ordinary day by a haunted lake.

When we arrived home that evening, the television was on in the living room. The news was starting. And there it was—Sayler’s Lake. A reporter stood near the very spot we’d been earlier, microphone in hand, delivering details about the drowning. I sat in disbelief, watching the event replay like it belonged to someone else’s world, not ours.

I remember thinking: How did they find out so fast? How had the news team gotten there? How did they film the scene, return to the station, and prepare the report all before dinner? It made the whole thing feel surreal—too real but somehow distant. The reporter confirmed what we had already feared. The man had died.

That moment glued itself to my memory. The sound of the television stayed with me, and the familiar living room around me lingered in my thoughts. The weight of what we had observed just hours earlier was still there. It layered into a quiet understanding. The world outside our farm can change in an instant. Sometimes, there are no answers—just echoes left behind by events too big to fully grasp.

Memorable Family Moments During a Storm

Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

4–5 minutes

My parents rarely attended celebrations, so seeing them at a party in our old town was a significant change. This meant that my two sisters and I would need to stay with my grandparents while they were “in town.” By then, my three older brothers had grown up and left home, marking a shift in our family dynamics.

It was unusual for my sisters to join me and my grandparents in their den. We affectionately referred to them as Mom and Pop. They usually came to the house for a celebration. This could be Christmas, Thanksgiving, or a birthday. We would all gather in the front living room. But we nestled with Mom and Pop this night in their cozy den.

Mom and Pop were old-timey. Mom had a rocking chair. She would rock endlessly in it. Pop sat stoically in his oversized comfort chair. He puffed on his pipe. They habitually glanced out the front door, tracking how often their neighbors left their homes. One neighbor, in particular, drove them crazy by leaving every thirty minutes. They never figured out why.

As evening settled in, the steady ticking of the mantle clock lulled us children into a calming trance. It was a good thing, too, because what was about to unfold would test our nerves.

A thunderstorm at night!

It roared in just as the clock struck seven—thunder, lightning, and a barrage of heavy rain. Mom and Pop had lived through the Dust Bowl. They had seen the Great Woodward, Oklahoma, Tornado. The tornado wiped out the town and claimed many lives in the black of night. Because of that, they had a deep respect for storms. They headed straight for the cellar at the first sign of a tornado threat.

Like an air raid siren, the storm siren was the town’s lifeline. In the early 1970s, we didn’t have the advanced weather alerts we do today. The local police alerted the residents. The fire departments would sound the alarm if a tornado was spotted. This gave residents only minutes to take cover.
My grandmother hushed us, straining to listen for the whistle. Just as she did, a lightning strike took out the electricity—

NO LIGHTS!

Without hesitation, she calmly instructed,

“Pop, go in the bedroom and get the flashlight.”


Pop stood, walked to their bedroom, retrieved the flashlight, and handed it to her.

She scolded him.

“Pop, you could have turned it on, for heaven’s sake. Why didn’t you turn it on?”

Pop replied innocently,

“Well, Mom, you just said go get it—you didn’t tell me to turn it on.”

We sat in the dark, stifling laughter. Then it got worse.
Mom attempted to turn on the flashlight, but nothing happened. She sighed.

“Pop, I thought we got new batteries for this last week?”

“We did, and I put them in,”

He answered confidently.

Confused, she asked,

“Pop, you left the new batteries on top of the chest of drawers, and I had to put them in. You never changed them.”

Pop puffed up.

“Mom, those were the old batteries I put up there after I changed them out.”

Mom groaned.

“Pop, why would you keep the old batteries? Why didn’t you throw them away?”

Pop’s reply ––

“If you saw them there, you’d know I’d already changed the batteries.”

Then Mom ––

“Pop, why would I assume that?”

She took a breath, trying to stay calm.

“Well, I put the old batteries in. So, what happened to the new ones?”

Pop hesitated.

“I thought they were the old batteries… so I threw them away.”

Mom clenched her jaw.

“So now we have no batteries and no flashlight. Wonderful.”

Determined, she announced,

“I’ll go upstairs and get the oil lantern.”

Pop offered to go, but she waved him off.

“No, you’ll mess it up. I’ll take care of it.”

While she was gone, it gave Pop time for improvisation. 

He asked us kids,

“You know where Moses was when the light’s when out?

We all answered,

“No!”

Pop humorously responded,

“He was in the dark!”

He got such a chuckle out of telling it and we of coursed laughed.

Mom carefully navigated the stairs in the dark. Within minutes, she returned with the glowing lantern. The lantern finally illuminated the room.

All the while, my sisters and I sat on the den floor. We were petting Mom and Pop’s chihuahua. We tried to contain our laughter over the events of the evening. We were laughing so hard that, had the siren blown, we couldn’t even hear it. Still, we attempted to keep some composure out of respect for Mom and Pop.

Pop lit up his pipe, turned to Mom, and said

“You ought to put it on your list for when we go shopping to get batteries.”

Our parents didn’t return until nearly ten, when the lights came on. I don’t know how fun their party had been, but ours couldn’t have been any better. Mom and Pop swore us to silence. They didn’t want our dad to think they were becoming forgetful. Until this day, that story has never been privately or publicly shared.

The Secrets We Keep From Our Parents

Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

3–4 minutes

Things I didn’t tell my Father.

JD GROFF

I think about my life and often find myself lost in daydreams. I think about what I have done, what I have left undone, and what I have never said. Among those lingering thoughts, my Father stands at the center of many. There is a growing list of moments I wish I had shared with him. Time always held me back. Fear held me back, too. Sometimes, stubbornness was also to blame.

Every child keeps secrets from their parents. It’s an unspoken rule of growing up, a silent understanding that some things are best left unsaid. Some secrets were harmless. Others were reckless. I believed a few were withheld to protect us from disappointment, confrontation, or painful truths.

I never told my dad I put frogs in my sister’s bed. They were scattered all over her room. He didn’t need to be a detective to know who the culprit was, but I never admitted it. It was a childish prank, one of many that shaped my mischievous youth.

I never told my dad I took his prized pickup truck for a drag race down the state highway. I was old enough to drive but not wise enough to make good decisions. By the time I got home that night, I had already faced my punishment. I felt humiliated for losing the race. There was also the quiet shame of knowing I had betrayed his trust. He never confronted me about it, but I suspect he knew. Fathers often do.

I never told my dad this story. One afternoon after school, I thought I had the rare gift of a chore-free evening. Then I opened the refrigerator and found a note beside the cola cans. His handwriting instructed me to bring the tractor to the meadow to help him build a fence.

Frustrated, I stomped outside, my young temper flaring. In my haste, I spun around and dented the fender of his truck. Later, he assumed someone had hit it with a car door while he was in town. I let him believe that. I convinced myself I’d tell him we’d laugh–– when the time was right. That moment never came. And until now, I’ve never told another soul.

But the most significant thing I never told my Father was how much he meant to me. He was my hero. His wisdom shaped me in ways I never fully understood until adulthood. I always thought there would be time to say those words. Yet, life has a cruel way of taking time away before we realize its worth.

I never told my dad that. As I stood before his casket, I saw not just the man who raised me. He was the embodiment of dignity, integrity, and strength. I wanted to tell him then, but it was too late.

But I can tell you.

“I’ll be dead, but the older you get, the wiser I’ll be!” – JD Groff.

JD Groff was the epitome of a great father. He had his flaws, as all men do. Nevertheless, his presence and character were a foundation. His unwavering values were something I always relied on. And though I never spoke the words to him, I hope Dad knew. I hope he felt it in the way I listened. I hope he recognized it in the way I followed his example. I hope he saw it in the life I have tried to live in his honor.

Some things stay unspoken, but they are never forgotten.

Memories of My Grandmother and the Whippoorwill

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–3 minutes

My grandmother, whom I affectionately called Mom, often shared childhood memories filled with the enchanting call of the whippoorwill. She spoke of its song with reverence, describing it as a sound of pure beauty that she dearly missed. Her stories wove a special bond between us. They spanned the miles that separated our homes in Northeast Texas, Southwest Arkansas, and Southeast Oklahoma.


Nowhere else, she insisted, did the whippoorwill’s call sound as sweet.


I lived nearly forty miles east of her. It was on a farm where the evenings were alive with the calls of night birds. When Mom visited, I would take her on walks to the barns. We listened to the quail and other birds stirring in the brush.


“Mom, are those the whippoorwills you were talking about?”

I’d ask eagerly.


She would shake her head, smiling softly.

“No, that’s not them.”


Her answer certainly puzzled me. I knew the birds in our region. What I heard matched the description of a whippoorwill. At least, it did to my ears. Yet she remained firm. The sound she longed for existed only in the woods of her childhood, some two hundred miles away.


Mom passed away in April 1975, and with her, I thought, went the mystery of the whippoorwill. But fate had other plans.


Not long after, my parents decided we would take a trip. We went to visit my great-uncle Sam and great-aunt Dora. They lived in the very place where Mom had been born. I expected only a family visit. Yet, something remarkable happened as we settled onto my great-uncle’s front porch.


The evening air cooled as the sun dipped below the horizon. Towering trees stood like silent guardians, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. The Ouachita Mountains stretched beyond us, their shadows deepening as dusk settled in. And then, clear as a bell, I heard it.


“Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!”


The call rang through the crisp and melodic trees, carried by the mountains and forest floor acoustics. It was so rich and hauntingly beautiful, unlike anything I had ever heard.

At that moment, I understood.


I knew why Mom had never heard it quite the same anywhere else. Here, and only here, the whippoorwill’s call possessed a magic she had never been capable of finding again.
I have never heard it since.


But in that fleeting moment, I was surrounded by nature’s beauty. I heard the echoes of the whippoorwill’s song. I found peace. It was as if I had brought her wish full circle. I was hearing the sound she longed for. I was honoring her memory in a way that words never could.


And in that sound, I found her again.

Hear the sound in the video below.

Learn about the Whippoorwill here!

The Long Holiday Journey: Family Moments on the Road

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

3–4 minutes

The Long Holiday Ride

Going Home
The Miller Family Going Home For the Holidays,

The old pickup truck rattled down the highway, packed tight with the Miller family. The father, Dale, gripped the steering wheel, his sharp eyes scanning the road ahead. Beside him, their mother, Janice, balanced a warm dish of sweet potatoes wrapped in a towel on her lap. Every thirty seconds she would let out a ‘hiss,’ and reach for the dash, her only comment to Dale’s driving. In the same seat, the children jostled for space. Clayton, the eldest at twenty-two, leaned against the window with his arms crossed. His younger sisters, Maggie and Rachel, squeezed in beside him. Then there was little Jack. He was the baby of the family, barely eight, and sat between his sisters. His feet barely touched the floor.


It was the same every year. They drove forty miles on bumpy roads. Gravel spat against the undercarriage. The chilly air sneaked in through cracks in the old truck’s frame. The family’s first stop was Janice’s side, the sprawling Henderson clan, where a sea of cousins, aunts, and uncles waited. The noon meal would be loud, laughter filling the air along with the scent of roasted turkey and homemade pies.

Clayton was ever the quiet one. He watched the open fields pass by. Meanwhile, Maggie chattered about the games she’d play with her cousins. Rachel checked the food in the back. She made sure nothing had tipped over. Meanwhile, Jack, restless, kicked his feet. He asked every ten minutes, “How much longer?”

When they finally pulled into the driveway of Janice’s childhood home, they heard the noise instantly. It hit them before they even got out of the truck. Kids ran around the yard. Adults stood in clusters laughing. The kitchen was an organized chaos of steaming dishes and busy hands. The family squeezed through the door, greeted by warm hugs, as coats were peeled off and plates were filled.

After lunch, games and stories took up the afternoon. Clayton found himself talking with an uncle about work on the ranch, while Maggie and Rachel gossiped with their cousins. Jack, after an impressive three plates of food, ran outside to join a game of tag. Dale was talking to his favorite brother-in-law, about a horse he was bringing along.

But there was no time to linger too long. As the sun began to sink, Dale gave the usual call: “Time to load up! We still got another stop!” They groaned and said their farewells. Everyone piled back into the truck with full stomachs. Hands waved through the window.

The second stop was Dale’s side, a quieter gathering with just his sister’s family. Fewer cousins, a calmer atmosphere, and jokes cracking from Bus and Virgil. Aunt Sis served coffee and pie, and the talk was slower, nostalgic—old family stories, memories of Christmases past.

Rachel curled up in a chair with a book while Maggie helped Aunt Sis in the kitchen. Jack, fighting off sleep, leaned against his mother, his eyes drooping. Clayton sat with his dad and uncle, talking about the year’s crops and the price of cattle.

By the time they left, the truck was much quieter. The ride home was filled with drowsy murmurs, Jack fast asleep against his mother’s side. Rachel and Maggie leaned on each other, the warmth of the long day still lingering. Dale, was dreaming of all the memories he had been reminded of while seeing his folks and kin.

As the headlights cut through the darkness, Dale glanced in the rear view mirror at his family. It was a long trip every year. Yet, as he looked at his wife and children—fed, happy, and together—he knew it was always worth it.

The holidays weren’t about the miles traveled, but the moments shared. He never had a million dollars, but he sure felt like it.

Remembering Slick Watts: NBA Star and Community Hero

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

Where you do not have to pay to read a person’s obituary.

2–3 minutes

https://www.theelinetwork.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/slick-watts.jpg

Donald Earl “Slick” Watts (July 22, 1951 – March 15, 2025)

Donald Earl “Slick” Watts was a beloved figure in basketball. He was also a cherished member of the Seattle community. He passed away on March 15, 2025, at 73. Slick was born on July 22, 1951, in Rolling Fork, Mississippi. His journey from humble beginnings to NBA stardom is a testament to his dedication. It also highlights his charisma and enduring spirit.

Slick’s basketball career began at Grand View Junior College, after which he transferred to Xavier University of Louisiana in 1970. There, he played under coach Bob Hopkins and alongside future ABA and NBA star Bruce Seals. He was a leader on the court. His leadership guided the Xavier Gold Rush to consecutive NAIA District 30 Championships in 1972 and 1973.

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Undrafted in 1973, Slick’s relentless determination earned him a spot with the Seattle SuperSonics. Known for his signature bald head and headband, he quickly became a fan favorite. In the 1975–76 season, Slick led the NBA in assists and steals, the first player to achieve this remarkable feat. His tenure in the NBA also included stints with the New Orleans Jazz and the Houston Rockets.

Beyond his professional career, Slick’s contributions to the Seattle community were profound. He dedicated many years to education. Slick Watts shared his skills and gifts as a physical education teacher at several elementary schools. Slick also served as a basketball coach at Franklin High School. His commitment to nurturing young talent and promoting physical fitness left an indelible mark on countless students.

In 2001, Slick faced a serious health challenge with sarcoidosis but demonstrated resilience and strength in his recovery. In April 2021, he suffered a significant stroke. He faced rehabilitation with the same determination that characterized his life on and off the court.

Slick Watts is survived by his son, Donald Watts. Donald followed in his father’s footsteps. He played basketball at the University of Washington and later contributed to the sport as a coach and mentor. Slick’s legacy is etched in basketball history. It also lives in the hearts of those he inspired through community engagement and unwavering spirit.

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A public memorial service will be held in Seattle to honor Slick’s life and legacy. Details will be announced in the coming days. Instead of flowers, the family asks for donations to The Watts Foundation. This supports youth basketball programs and continues Slick’s lifelong commitment to empowering the next generation.

Slick Watts will be remembered for his exceptional basketball court skills. He profoundly affected the community and was dedicated to education. His resilience in the face of adversity inspired him.

A Personal Journey Through America’s Must-See Cities

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

3–4 minutes

A Few Of The Places I’ve Been

Photo by Rajiv Krishnan on Pexels.com

A few places I’ve been are not just locations on a map. They are experiences, sensations, and moments that can’t be conveyed simply through words or photographs. You would have to have been there to understand.

Take the Grand Canyon, for example. No photo can capture its overwhelming vastness. Standing on its rim, you stare into the depths of time carved into the earth. The wind carries whispers from a million years ago, and the sun paints ever-changing shadows along the canyon walls. To see a picture is to miss how the air smells. You miss how the silence hums. Your perspective on life shifts when faced with something so immense, leaving you in awe of nature’s grandeur.

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Washington, D.C., is another place to experience and be understood. Walking among its monuments and institutions is like stepping into a living history book. The weight of past decisions and the ongoing creation of history are tangible. You stand where the nation’s most influential figures have walked. It fills you with a profound connection to the past. It also connects you to the current time. It makes you feel like a part of history.

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Then resort cities like Palm Springs, California, Tampa, Florida, and Las Vegas, Nevada. Each city offers a unique atmosphere that cannot be fully captured without being there.

Palm Springs feels like a cinematic escape. It is where you can brush shoulders with a movie star. You will find yourself surrounded by towering mountains on one side. There is an endless sea of wind turbines on the other. It’s all swimming pools, sunshine, and Hollywood glamour between the two. It makes you feel like you’ve stepped into the pages of a luxury magazine.

Tampa, Florida, has its distinct charm. The old cigar district, Ybor City, takes you back in time with its historic brick streets and family-owned restaurants. It offers an eclectic mix of tattoo parlors, jewelry shops, and late-night clubs. Just a short drive away, the sun-drenched beaches of St. Pete offer the perfect contrast—soft sand, rolling waves, and the scent of saltwater in the air.

Fremont Street
Groff Media “A Night On The Town”

Las Vegas is a city of dual identities. The Strip dazzles with its colossal casinos, neon lights, and grand-scale entertainment, a modern marvel of excess and spectacle. But downtown, the Fremont Street Experience transports you to old Vegas. Here, the first hotels still stand beneath a digital canopy of flashing lights synchronized to music. Street performers, quirky shops, and hidden gems make it an adventure.

Salt Lake City, Utah, left an impression on me not just for its skyline but for its architecture. The intricate designs of its buildings make the city itself a work of art. The influence of the Mormon faith is woven into nearly every aspect of its layout and culture. This influence gives the town a sense of unity and purpose. It is both fascinating and humbling.

Oklahoma
Oklahoma’s Last House Standing Groff Media

And then, there’s Oklahoma and Kansas—where the wind is an ever-constant force, shaping the land and the people. A 40-mph breeze is just another Tuesday, with gusts often reaching 70 mph. Tornadoes and earthquakes occur sometimes at the same time. Many people think Interstate 40 and Interstate 35 are the most significant things to come out of those states. These highways offer an escape route from the relentless winds sweeping across the plains.

Each of these places has left an imprint on me. It’s not just because of what they look like. It’s also because of what they feel like. And no matter how well I describe them, you’ll never truly know unless you’ve been there yourself.

Memories and Mischief: The Summer of 1980

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–4 minutes

The Summer of 1980

The summer of 1980 would be remembered forever. It was the year three friends—Bub, Johnny, and Clem—took to the hayfields, hauling bales for farmers across the county.

They set out to help the local farmers with two old flatbed farm trucks. The farmers struggled to find enough hands to get their hay cuttings into the barn. What started as a way to earn cash quickly became much more significant.

The boys took turns driving. Two worked at the back of the truck, stacking and securing the bales. They did this while bumping along dirt roads. When they reached a barn, all three pitched in to unload. It was grueling work. It was hot, dusty, and backbreaking. They made a decent sum at fifteen cents per bale when split three ways. More importantly, they earned something money couldn’t buy: the respect of an entire community. Their work ethic, reliability, and bargain rates made them invaluable, and grateful farmers often sweetened the deal with generous tips.

Word spread fast. Soon, the boys had more work than they handled. They got their hands on a third truck and fixed it up. Each took charge of their own rig. They hired extra help to keep up with demand. By summer’s end, the three had hauled an unprecedented amount of hay. No one remembered seeing so much in the valley.

But it wasn’t all work.

The boys had a playful streak, and the town delighted in their antics. One night, Clem slept soundly in their makeshift bunkhouse. Bub got the idea to spread hair remover gel over Clem’s hairy legs. Hours later, Clem woke to a strange smell. He wrinkled his nose. He assumed one of the others had eaten something bad. He groggily rolled over and went back to sleep, unaware of the smooth patches forming on his legs. The next day, Clem discovered the damage in the shower. He saw the damage and heard Bub and Johnny howling with laughter outside the bathroom door.

Clem didn’t get mad. He got even.

At noon, he played the perfect gentleman. He told Bub and Johnny that he held no grudges. He wanted to treat them to lunch. They stayed behind at the barn. He ran to the burger joint and ordered the most enormous double cheeseburgers. There was also a mountain of fries and chocolate malts. For himself, he ordered vanilla. Before returning, he slipped some laxatives into the chocolate malts.

The unsuspecting pair devoured their meal, thanking Clem for his generosity, utterly unaware of the payback coming their way. Four hours later, they were running to the bathroom non-stop, clutching their stomachs, confused and miserable. Clem stood back, arms crossed, grinning. Their “cleaning out” lasted for days. When the town caught wind of the prank, it only added to the growing legend of the hay-hauling boys.

The mischief didn’t stop there.

There were ambushes, booby traps, and endless laughter. Even with their busy schedule, they found time to fish. They caught some of the biggest catfish the town had ever seen.

By summer’s end, they had built more than a successful hay-hauling business—they had created memories that would last a lifetime. Long after the last bale was stacked, folks in town would still talk about the summer of 1980. During that summer, three hardworking boys became the heart and humor of the valley.

Childhood Memories and Roberta Flack’s Influence

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–3 minutes

The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face, It Was Killing Me Softly

I was between six and eight years old. That was the first time I heard The First Time I Saw Your Face. I also heard Killing Me Softly with His Song for the first time then. My oldest sister, Julie, adored those songs. She was taking piano lessons at that time. She often attempted to play them. Her fingers hesitantly found their way across the keys.

I still remember the old upright piano my parents got for her from a family friend. It was massive and heavy as a full-grown ox. My brothers struggled to carry it to the front wall of our living room. That’s where it stayed for years. Some of the keys stuck, while others refused to make a sound. But a piano tuner visited us. Afterward, the old instrument came to life. It was ready to echo through the house with Julie’s music.

Those long summer days when school was out were filled with Roberta Flack’s voice drifting through our home. Julie played her albums endlessly, the lyrics weaving into my young mind. I remember watching Play Misty for Me. It was my first real brush with suspense. I was more worried about Roberta Flack than I was about Clint Eastwood’s character. My parents had to reassure me that it was just a movie and that no one was in danger.

The First Time I Saw Your Face became inseparable from that film in my memory. In the same way, Killing Me Softly with His Song later found its way into About a Boy. I saw that one at the old Caddo Theater on Main Street in Binger, Oklahoma. My parents never let Julie go to the movies alone, so I was always sent as her reluctant chaperon. At the time, I was too small to protect her from anything. Still, I suppose my presence was enough to keep her out of trouble. At least that’s what my parents hoped.

All these years later, those songs still surface in my mind, uninvited but always welcome. They sneak in when I try to fall asleep while studying and when I need to concentrate. They echo my childhood memories. They replay in the corners of my mind. They are tethered to the days when Julie sat at that old upright piano. She tried to master the melodies.

And for that, I owe it all to Roberta Flack. Shall she rest in peace.