biography

Navigating Ethics in Law Enforcement

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After completing my training, I got assigned to a two-person unit for part of my shift. Unfortunately, this arrangement led to the exposure of my partner’s extramarital affair with a young woman who worked at a nightclub on the city’s east side. His behavior was hard to ignore. Night after night, he would leave the patrol unit to spend hours inside the club, leaving me alone to monitor radio calls. Each absence grew longer and my frustration deeper.


The city grappled with a surge in burglaries targeting vehicles, garages, homes, and businesses. As crime reports piled up, the department needed to be closer to solving the problem. Sitting in the patrol car logging incidents while my partner dallied at the bar weighed heavily on me. Worse, my delayed response times to calls had begun to draw attention, placing me in a difficult position.

Addressing the issue felt like navigating a minefield. On one hand, I had a duty to uphold the integrity of our patrol duties. On the other, reporting my concerns to a sergeant or lieutenant risked exposing my partner’s personal life, which I preferred to avoid. Going over their heads to the Captain or Major felt equally precarious. However, during my travels to pistol shooting competitions, I established a good rapport with the Chief of Police. I decided to take a chance.


One afternoon, I invited the Chief for coffee to discuss an upcoming qualification event. Once seated, I confessed my more profound concerns. I told him about my partner’s absences, the nightclub, and the woman I suspected was involved. I explained why I had yet to go through the chain of command and emphasized that my primary concern was the integrity of our patrol duties. To my relief, the Chief not only understood but also reassured me that I had made the right choice. His promise to handle the situation discreetly was a weight off my shoulders.


A week later, the schedule was released, and to my disappointment, I again got paired with the same partner. The pattern continued, with him vanishing into the nightclub and leaving me to manage radio calls alone. Frustration mounted, but I stayed focused on my responsibilities.
At the following briefing, Lieutenant Wheeler announced a significant change: I would get assigned to a solo unit. My former partner, now in a solo unit, would no longer work with me. Other patrol officers, except the K9 unit, were paired up. The decision felt like a small but meaningful vindication, a recognition of my commitment to upholding the integrity of our patrol duties.


Working solo was a challenge. Within my first three days, I responded to two fatal calls—more than many officers encounter in a month. However, I was not alone. I appreciated the support of my fellow officers, who often checked in during traffic stops or guided me through the intricacies of field reporting. Their support was a testament to the camaraderie in law enforcement and the importance of teamwork.


One night, around 1:00 AM, I intercepted a burglary alarm call at a sporting goods store. I was close to the location and informed dispatch I would respond. Oddly, my former partner claimed the call, though he was across town. Dispatch redirected him to return to headquarters instead. I only thought of it once I reached the station later.


The pieces fell into place. The Chief observed my partner’s behavior, noting how long his patrol unit lingered at the nightclub each night. The Chief orchestrated a fake alarm call to confirm his suspicions and monitored my partner’s response time. This thorough investigation led to the end of my partner’s career; he resigned the following day.


The aftermath was messy. My former partner left town with the barmaid and her four children, abandoning his wife of many years. She was devastated and began calling the department, requesting me by name to visit her. I got met with her anguish and accusations each time: “Why didn’t you tell me?” At just 21 years old, I struggled to understand why she held me responsible for policing her husband’s fidelity.


While I tried to console her, the experience left a deep impression. It wasn’t just a lesson about personal integrity and the far-reaching consequences of a lack of it. From then on, I made it a point to know my partners better, ensuring they had solid personal ethics or no attachments that could spill into their professional lives.


This early chapter of my career shaped my approach to law enforcement. It reminded me that while we wear a badge to uphold the law, we also carry the weight of trust—not just from the public but from those who depend on us, on and off duty. The importance of personal integrity in law enforcement cannot be overstated. It is not just about following the rules, but about the impact of our actions on the lives of others.

Pehr Gustaf Gyllenhammar, Former CEO and Chairman of VOLVO –––– ––– April 28, 1935 – November 2024 ––– 

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Pehr Gustaf Gyllenhammar, a visionary Swedish businessman whose leadership and influence extended across industries and continents, passed away in November 2024 at 89. Born in Gothenburg, Sweden, on April 28, 1935, to Pehr Gyllenhammar Sr. and Aina (née Kaplan), Pehr G. Gyllenhammar was a man of profound intellect, ambition, and a global vision that inspired many. 

Gyllenhammar is best remembered for his transformative tenure as CEO and chairman of Volvo from 1970 to 1994, during which time he led the company through a period of dynamic growth and innovation, leaving an indelible mark on the automotive and industrial sectors. His bold attempt to merge Volvo with Renault in the 1990s exemplified his forward-thinking, even as it marked the end of his career with the company.  

Beyond Volvo, Gyllenhammar’s career spanned various leadership roles, including Aviva’s chairman and Rothschild Europe’s vice chairman. A fervent advocate for European industrial collaboration, he co-founded the European Round Table of Industrialists, promoting cooperation among the continent’s leading companies.  

His contributions were recognized with numerous accolades, including France’s *Ordre National du Mérite* in 1980 and the *Legion of Honour* in 1987. In 2001, he was named an Honorary Master of the Bench of the Inner Temple in London.  

Gyllenhammar’s intellectual curiosity and political engagement made him a public figure beyond the boardroom. An early proponent of social liberalism, he championed the Scandinavian model of governance and was a vocal advocate for European unity. His political views and engagement with social issues often influenced his business decisions, making him a unique and influential figure in both the political and business spheres. At one point, he was even considered a potential leader of Sweden’s Liberal People’s Party.  

He balanced his professional endeavors with a rich personal life. He married Christina Engellau, the daughter of Volvo’s former CEO, in 1959 and shared nearly five decades with her until her passing in 2008. Together, they raised four children—Cecilia, Charlotte, Sophie, and Oscar—each of whom carved out successful paths in the arts, business, and design. Later in life, Gyllenhammar found love again, marrying Lee Welton Croll in 2013, with whom he welcomed a child in 2016.  

A man of deep conviction, Gyllenhammar exemplified leadership and resilience, leaving an indelible mark on the business world and the communities he served. His resilience in the face of challenges is a testament to his character and the impact of his legacy. He is survived by his wife, Lee, his five children, and a legacy that will inspire future generations.  

A private family service will honor his memory. The service, which will be held at a private memorial, and will be a time for family and close friends to share their memories of Gyllenhammar and celebrate his life. In place of flowers, the family requests donations to causes reflecting Gyllenhammar’s dedication to innovation, education, and European unity.

Parallels Between the Chinese Exclusion Act and Modern Immigration Concerns: Lessons from History –– The Danger Of Losing Immigrants

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You can also refer to the NPR Story America’s first major immigration crackdown and the making and breaking of the West  for additional insights and related material that complement this story, offering a deeper exploration of the subject.

3–5 minutes

The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 marked a pivotal moment in U.S. immigration history, becoming the first significant federal law restricting immigration. It targeted a specific ethnic group driven by economic fears, racial prejudice, and political populism. A review of this historic legislation, alongside the context of its enactment, reveals striking parallels to modern immigration debates. Both historical and contemporary issues illustrate how economic anxieties, cultural misunderstandings, and political opportunism can drive restrictive immigration policies that may ultimately prove disastrous for society.

The Role of Immigrant Labor in Economic Development

In the mid-19th century, Chinese immigrants, despite facing systemic discrimination and being blamed for economic problems, played a crucial role in building the American West. Their resilience and determination were evident in their instrumental role in constructing the transcontinental railroad, tackling some of the most dangerous and demanding jobs in brutal conditions. However, when the Panic of 1873 led to widespread unemployment, populist sentiment scapegoated Chinese immigrants, claiming they were stealing jobs from white workers.

A similar narrative exists today. Immigrant labor is fundamental to the agriculture, construction, and technology industries. Despite this, immigrants are often vilified during economic downturns, accused of taking jobs or lowering wages. This cyclical pattern of scapegoating undermines the reality that immigrants frequently perform jobs that native-born workers are unwilling or unable to do, driving economic growth and innovation. Restrictive immigration policies, such as deportations or bans, risk damaging these essential industries and the broader economy, much like the exclusion of Chinese workers stunted specific sectors in the late 19th century.

Cultural Backlash and Populist Politics

The transcontinental railroad’s completion in 1869 symbolized a remarkable technological achievement but also marked a turning point for Chinese immigrants. Their presence sparked a cultural backlash as they settled in communities like Truckee, California. Fueled by racial prejudice and populist rhetoric, white workers and politicians pushed for their exclusion, culminating in the Chinese Exclusion Act. This act institutionalized xenophobia and created a precedent for racially biased immigration policies.

Today, cultural anxieties continue to shape immigration debates. Concerns about preserving cultural identity and fears of “otherness” fuel resistance to immigrants. Particularly from Latin America, the Middle East, and Asia. Politicians often exploit these fears to rally support, pushing for restrictive measures such as border walls, travel bans, or mass deportations. Such actions not only marginalize immigrant communities but also foster division and xenophobia, hindering social cohesion.

Economic Consequences of Restriction

The long-term economic impacts of the Chinese Exclusion Act highlight the dangers of restrictive immigration policies. By limiting a vital workforce, the law hampered industries reliant on immigrant labor. The exclusion of Chinese workers also set a precedent that discouraged innovation and adaptability in labor markets, contributing to stagnation in certain regions.

Policies that limit immigrant contributions to the workforce have modern parallels. For example, restrictive visa programs and deportations threaten industries like agriculture and technology, which rely heavily on immigrant talent. Moreover, these policies can exacerbate labor shortages, driving up consumer costs and reducing the global competitiveness of U.S. industries. History demonstrates that economic growth thrives on diversity and inclusion, not exclusion.

Lessons from the Past

The Chinese Exclusion Act teaches us that targeting immigrants as scapegoats for economic or social challenges is a shortsighted and counterproductive strategy. Immigration is a cornerstone of American prosperity, fostering innovation, cultural richness, and financial resilience. Policies driven by fear and prejudice, rather than informed analysis, risk repeating the mistakes of the past and should be considered.

Today’s immigration debates echo the populist rhetoric and exclusionary measures of the late 19th century. However, we have the benefit of hindsight to recognize that such policies often create more problems than they solve. To avoid a similar disaster, today’s policymakers must approach immigration with a focus on integration, economic opportunity, and respect for human dignity. By learning from history, we can build a more inclusive and prosperous future, where all individuals feel valued and respected.

You can also refer to the NPR Story America’s first major immigration crackdown and the making and breaking of the West  for additional insights and related material that complement this story, offering a deeper exploration of the subject.

The Third Night. “That’s The SOB!”

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On my third night in the patrol division, a sense of foreboding hung over me. I couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was the intensity of the past two nights or the instincts honed over years in other divisions. Something felt off. I kept this unease to myself—I didn’t want Lt. Wheeler thinking I was jittery about the job. I wasn’t. It was just that sixth sense I’d learned to trust, the one that sometimes whispered when trouble was brewing.

At 2000 hours, we rolled out of headquarters, heading west along Old Route 66, now Third Street in our city. Before we made it far, dispatch radioed in: the Oklahoma Highway Patrol needed us to respond to a Signal 82—an injury accident—since their units were tied up. The details were scarce, but we learned an Elk City ambulance was already en route.

We reached the outskirts about three miles from town when the ambulance reported on-scene: a single-car slide-off with no injuries needing investigation. Routine stuff. Then, the airwaves exploded with an alert: Officer Down. The call came from ten miles further west. A semi-truck pulling a lowboy trailer was reported fleeing the scene.

Adrenaline surged. I radioed the sheriff’s department, letting them know our position and offering to assist. They authorized us to operate in their jurisdiction—a necessary formality. We sped west, scanning every shadow and turn.

Minutes later, a semi barreled out of Berlin Road, ignoring the stop sign as it merged onto Highway 6. I didn’t need to think twice.

“That’s the son of a bitch!”

I yelled, heart pounding.

Lt. Wheeler swung our Ford Crown Victoria into a hard U-turn, tires screaming. The truck’s hydraulic hoses flapped loose, whipping in the wind, as though the trailer had been hastily unhooked. Wheeler hit the lights and siren. The truck swerved to the shoulder but didn’t stop. I grabbed the shotgun as Wheeler directed the spotlight, illuminating the truck’s cab and surrounding darkness. I slipped into the bar ditch, invisible in the shadows, covering Wheeler as he approached.

The driver finally exited and handed over an expired license. Something felt off—more than just the expired ID. Radio chatter hinted at potential damage to the truck’s undercarriage, but we still didn’t know what had happened to the downed officer. Wheeler told the driver to stay put while he inspected the vehicle.

Then it happened.

The driver propped his foot on our patrol unit’s bumper and reached toward his pants leg. My instincts screamed.

“Hands on the hood! Feet on the ground!”

I ordered, the shotgun steady at his head. He froze, and Wheeler shot me a look—half surprise, half reproach—but patted the man down and cuffed him.

By now, a Beckham County deputy arrived. As the suspect squirmed in our back seat, I kept a close watch, retrieving his details for the report. His movements grew erratic, twisting and jerking. I yanked the door open.

“Knock it off!” I barked.

It felt like hours had passed, though it had been only minutes. Finally, the chilling news crackled over the radio: Trooper Guy David Nalley had been shot in the back of the head during a traffic stop. The suspect’s valid driver’s license had been found in Nalley’s hand.

The gravity of the situation hit like a gut punch.

As we transferred the suspect to the deputy’s vehicle, he managed to slip a gun from his boot, kicking it beneath the seat—a grim reminder of the Supreme Court ruling restricting how far we could search without probable cause. Had we known his connection to Nalley, we could have searched him thoroughly.

Soon after, an ambulance carrying Nalley approached, and we provided an emergency escort to the hospital twenty miles away. Inside the ER, chaos reigned. I found myself at the head of Nalley’s stretcher, squeezing an airway bag while nurses and doctors scrambled to save him. Despite their frantic efforts, I knew it was too late.

Outside, the air was heavy with sorrow. Trooper Nalley was gone—a devoted husband, a proud family man, and a true giant in every sense. He was the kind of man you thought of when hearing Jimmy Dean’s “Big John.”

The suspect’s story ended in tragedy too. During a mental evaluation, he took hostages with a gun smuggled in by his wife. He was killed during the standoff. His name isn’t worth remembering.

But Nalley’s is. He served with honor and left a legacy of kindness and courage. That night, I realized something: no amount of training or preparation can truly prepare you for moments like these.

When You Fight For your Life Any Thing Is Fair! Lt Wheeler’s Advice Of A Lifetime

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Officer Steve Mahan
Shot and Killed Jan 5. 1983

As I prepared for work, the memory of Officer Steve Mahan lingered heavily in my thoughts. He had been shot and killed on January 5th, 1983—a day etched in tragedy. That morning, a dense, unrelenting fog blanketed the world as if nature itself mourned the impending loss. I recalled how the rescue helicopter, grounded by the impenetrable fog, couldn’t transport him to a larger hospital equipped to treat his severe head trauma. Desperate, the doctors had no choice but to send him by ambulance over 100 miles away.


The ambulance crawled through the soupy mist, often unable to exceed 30 miles per hour. Time was slipping away, and the slow, arduous journey became a race against death. Despite their best efforts, he passed en route, his life extinguished before the fog could lift.


That day haunted me. As I pulled on my uniform, I reminded myself that tonight, I would be assigned to the very unit he had been using on the night he was executed. A weight settled on my shoulders—not fear but a solemn understanding of the risks we all faced. Yet, I felt a measure of reassurance knowing that Lt. Wheeler would be by my side, his steady guidance serving as both a compass and a shield against the uncertainty of the streets.

On my first day of patrol, the challenges of the job revealed themselves immediately, with a fatality marking my inaugural call. It was a sobering introduction to the weight of my duty. My Lieutenant, a seasoned mentor, shared his wisdom throughout the shift as we navigated the Oklahoma Statutes, Title 21. He precisely explained how every crime must meet specific legal criteria before being classified as such and emphasized the foundational principle that every suspect is presumed innocent until proven guilty. That early understanding of the law, I realized, was not just knowledge—it was a tool for justice and fairness, critical to our line of work.

The second day began differently. I was well-rested but curious about what this shift could bring. What could top the tragic death of the older woman the day before? The night unfolded quietly at first. My Lieutenant and I were patrolling the city’s southern section, with him now shifting the conversation to Title 47 of the Oklahoma Statutes, covering traffic laws and their nuances.

Then, without warning, the calm was shattered. The Lieutenant slammed our unit’s transmission into park and leapt out, his movements fluid and precise. Before I could react, he bolted to my side of the vehicle and tackled a man gripping his wife by the hair on the sidewalk. It had all happened instantly—I hadn’t even registered the altercation out of the corner of my eye. When I opened my door, Lieutenant Wheeler was already cuffing the suspect with practiced efficiency.

I stood momentarily frozen, feeling like I had failed to pull my weight. The Lieutenant’s decisive action was a masterclass in vigilance, and I resolved to sharpen my instincts.

After ensuring the woman was safe and gathering her statement, we booked the man into jail on charges of public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and assault and battery. The routine of patrol resumed, but the night had already taken on a different tone. During this lull, Lieutenant Wheeler imparted what I’ve come to regard as the most crucial lesson of my career.

“When you fight for your life, anything is fair,”

He said with a gravity that lingered in the air.

“Out there, there are no rules.”

He also stressed the importance of situational awareness and knowing the city like the back of my hand. While my previous experience in communications had given me a solid understanding of the city from a dispatcher’s perspective, patrolling the streets was entirely different.

He taught me to read the moving pieces of the urban puzzle—to develop a comprehensive view that encompassed the road ahead and the vast expanses on either side. Under his guidance, my observational skills sharpened, leading to accomplishments such as preventing a potential robbery and aiding in a successful arrest, which I could later be proud of.

It felt like I’d absorbed a semester’s criminal justice training in just two nights. But nothing could have prepared me for what was to come on the third night. Neither of us could have anticipated the events that would unfold, including a high-speed escort and a tense high profile traffic stop and truthfully, neither of us would have chosen to.

What happened next would change everything. Yet, in the end, it would pass unnoticed by the world—a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of our duty. This moment, however, was a stark reminder of the unpredictable nature of our work and the need for constant vigilance and resilience. That is the story which unfolded for day three.

She Choked On A Prune – My First Call!

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Time seemed to drag, yet it flew by in anticipation of the Chief’s order transferring me from Communications to Patrol. For years, I had taken complaints from the desk, booked prisoners, and processed bail. The routine had become second nature. The prospect of patrolling the streets promised a sense of freedom and a refreshing change of pace.

During my first month in Patrol, I was paired with Lieutenant Wheeler to acclimate to the policies and procedures specific to the division. Although I was already well-versed in most aspects of law enforcement, having spent significant time in the field, I understood the necessity of these transitional steps.

On October 25th, I reported for duty as usual, albeit in a different capacity. Lieutenant Wheeler adopted a methodical approach to the training, ensuring it was as instructive as possible. I kept an open mind, ready to absorb whatever new insights might come my way.

The shift started without delay. As we pulled out of the department gates, our first call came in from dispatch:

“Unit 5, respond to 305 East 1st Street. Signal 30 reported. Ambulance en route.”

Signal 30—a fatality. It was unusual for such a code to be broadcast if paramedics had not yet arrived. The ambiguity piqued our curiosity as we headed to the scene.

The address led us to an older neighborhood in the city’s central section. Upon arrival, we entered a modest single-family home and were met by a home healthcare worker. She explained, visibly shaken, that she had been sitting at the kitchen table with the 94-year-old female resident when the woman began choking on a prune. Despite her efforts to dislodge the obstruction, the victim had succumbed before she could call 911. The paramedics, now on-site, confirmed the death.

I radioed headquarters to notify the medical examiner (ME), who lived nearby and arrived within five minutes to officially pronounce the woman deceased.

Amid the formalities, the victim’s son, a doctor, arrived at the scene. Breaking the news to him was a somber task. I informed him that his mother had choked on a prune during dinner and that, despite all efforts, she had passed away. He asked to see her, and I assured him he could once the ME completed his assessment. The son was visibly displeased with the presence of the ME, which I understood; the clinical nature of such evaluations can be distressing, particularly for grieving family members.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Wheeler assigned me an unexpected task. Puffing on his pipe, he directed me to document the incident as though it were a homicide investigation.

“For practice,” he said, “for when we have the real thing.”

So, I meticulously diagrammed the house, including the kitchen and living room, and wrote a detailed report as instructed. It was a somber start to my Patrol assignment—a reminder that, in this line of work, even the routine can take on unexpected gravity.

Rebuilding Trust: The Impact of a New Police Facility

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In a gleaming, state-of-the-art facility, I yearned for the old station. The building at 303 West Fifth Street had something the new place lacked—character. It bore the marks of its long history, each crack and stain a testament to its battles and stories. By contrast, the new facility felt overly polished, almost ostentatious. Yet, I couldn’t deny its benefits. It offered the community better services and restored a sense of dignity lost after years of wear, neglect, and the relentless battering of Oklahoma’s weather.

The new station brought more than aesthetics; it symbolized the department’s renewed professionalism. After years of enduring lousy press and negative public perception, the facility served as a much-needed fresh start. The change was palpable. Officers began taking pride in their appearance—shining their brass, maintaining their units meticulously, and improving their health. Fast food runs gave way to salads and healthier choices. Quarterly fitness tests became mandatory, along with regular firearm qualifications.

Meanwhile, I was immersed in building the station’s new crime information center, logging details that painted a clearer picture of the city’s criminal landscape. Patterns emerged from seemingly unrelated incidents. Though not enough to secure warrants, the connections hinted at the methods and motives behind a string of burglaries. It was like assembling a jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece.

My role included ride-a-longs with patrol officers to understand their work firsthand. Having served both in dispatch and on patrol in previous departments, I could see both sides. During these rides, I shared my theories about the crimes, but my ideas were often met with skepticism. The officers humored me, though politely dismissive, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration. There had to be another way to make them see what I was uncovering.

Amid this, my focus shifted when the Chief of Police gave me unexpected news: I was to start competing in pistol-shooting matches across western Oklahoma. The announcement caught me off guard. As a Communications Officer, I only carried a sidearm if assigned to special events like parades or rodeos. Nonetheless, I attended the matches, often pitted against seasoned professionals. My performance, however, left much to be desired. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered the real issue—I was nearsighted. Once I got glasses, both my shooting and driving skills improved significantly.

The Chief’s directive had a purpose. On October 1, 1984, I received official notice of my transfer from Communications to the Patrol Division, effective October 25. My new assignment under Lieutenant Wheeler marked the beginning of a new chapter.

In my final weeks in Communications, I worked tirelessly to ensure a seamless transition for my replacement. I completed data entries and left the crime database in pristine order. The move to patrol was a dramatic shift that would challenge me in ways I couldn’t yet imagine—but also shape my career in profound and unexpected ways.

Saying Goodbye to The Old Station – And Hello to A New Destination 16

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The days felt strange for those of us who worked nights. As the darkness stretched on, one night blending into the next, daylight seemed more a memory than reality. Law enforcement is more than just a job; it’s a close-knit community, a world. There’s a deep-rooted fellowship among officers and an unbreakable chain of command that’s everything. Yet, that structure was sometimes a challenge for me to accept.

In a large family—four older brothers, two older sisters, a strict father, and a devoted mother—order was part of life. In a rural setting, the school was the only place outside the home where I experienced a different structure. Dad was the highest authority in our household, followed by Mom, then the eldest sibling present, down to the youngest. Dad’s words held firm even in his absence; his authority was an invisible force that needed no reinforcement.

Adjusting to the chain of command in law enforcement took me time, especially after starting in small departments with more relaxed structures. But at Elk City Police Department, things were different. There was a formal hierarchy: chief, assistant chief, major, captain, lieutenant, sergeant, patrolman, and communications officer. Here, I quickly learned that approaching the chief directly with questions or concerns was a breach of protocol, often met with a firm reminder to follow the ranks.

Simple tasks became lessons in patience. Whether I needed a lightbulb replaced or advice on a report, the chain of command required me to go through several levels before reaching a solution; I would have to wait days to get a minor answer. Frustrated, I eventually bit my lip and followed the structure, even if I didn’t like it. My captain called me out over the most minor lapses, like failing to change a burnt lightbulb on time, and I’d swallow my frustration, understanding that order was paramount.

As the community passed a tax to fund a new police station, we began to outgrow the quirks of our aging headquarters at 303 West Fifth Street. The old building, despite its shortcomings, was more than just a structure. It was a part of us, a place where we shared stories, laughed, and supported each other. Built in the 1930s, it had weathered time and neglect. Prisoners on the second floor could flood toilets, causing wastewater to seep into the dispatch and booking area below. But it was our home, filled with memories and camaraderie.

The new station was completed in 1984. Moving was bittersweet, not just for the community, who’d grown used to stopping by the old station for a friendly chat, but for us, too. The new facility was a symbol of progress, outfitted with state-of-the-art security, bulletproof glass, and advanced communication systems. The dispatch had better lighting, new mirrors, and high-tech computers; the National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System and National Crime Information Center computers were side-by-side. Every call was recorded and could be retrieved at any moment.

The jail had electronically controlled gates, holding cells, a kitchen, and a secure emergency exit. Security cameras covered the entire facility, displaying activity on monitors in the booking area. There were dedicated offices for records, evidence, detectives, and the command staff. In every way, it was an upgrade.

On the day of the move, I was instructed by ‘Captain Bick’ to stay home and prepare for the night shift. Despite my eagerness to be part of the transition, I respected his orders. Later that evening, I found myself driving to the old station out of habit. As I parked and entered, I was struck by the emptiness of the dispatch office. This was where I had sent officers out, received urgent calls, and coordinated responses. Now, it was a mere shell of its former self. Assistant Fire Chief Bob, who was also present, chuckled, ‘You’re at the wrong place—no cops here anymore!’

I smiled, feeling a wave of nostalgia, and pointed to the old wall that separated our side from the fire department. ‘Did you know President Carter’s original ‘Beast’ limousine was parked right on the other side of that wall one night? All the fire trucks were cleared out, and our officers watched to ensure no one touched it.’

Bob laughed, “Yeah, I remember that night. I was here too.”

It was hard to let go of stories like that—stories that had lifted people’s spirits and given them a break from their own troubles. With a sigh, I left the old building, heading to the new station, marveling at the thought of a facility so high-tech that even the door lock had a security code… which someone had promptly taped over because officers kept forgetting it.

After settling in, I was tasked with a significant assignment: entering city burglary data into the new computer system. I approached this task with the same dedication I gave every task, and it quickly provided me with valuable insights into the patterns of theft in the city. Over the next two years, this groundwork would prove instrumental in helping us dismantle a significant theft ring. But that’s a story for another time—this one is about the journey to a new place and the adjustments, big and small, that shaped us along the way.

Responding To The Last Call ––– The Last Of The Calls As They Were Reported 16

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It had been a long year. On January 5th, 1983, we lost an officer in the line of duty. That spring, three officers were arrested for stealing from a business they’d responded to on an alarm call. By summer, automobile burglaries and thefts were on the rise. The suspects were careful, leaving no evidence. Their modus operandi was smooth and untraceable—no one ever heard, saw, or interrupted these thieves. Most stolen items ranged in value from around $200, making each theft a felony under Oklahoma law.

The city was facing yet another wave of crime. Typically, it had about 10,000 residents, but the recent oil boom brought an influx, swelling the population to around 25,000. The sudden increase in population put a strain on the city’s resources, leading to a rise in crime. Jobs attracted people from all over, but housing needed to catch up. Tent cities sprang up in the southern sector, and parks filled with tents when vacant lots overflowed. Expecting thousands of oil jobs, many newcomers broke and scraped by.

Among the job seekers were newly released inmates from Cook County Detention in Chicago. Judges offered a stark choice: a one-way bus ticket to Elk City, Oklahoma, or a lengthy jail sentence. Most took the bus ticket. Upon arrival, they had to call the detention center from Elk City’s bus depot to check-in. Ducks in the city park began disappearing as desperate people scavenged for food. In response, the city council enacted a law prohibiting the molestation of ducks, with fines and jail time for violations. Signs reading “DO NOT MOLEST THE DUCKS” popped up, adding a hint of levity to an otherwise grim situation.

But ducks were far from the town’s biggest problem. It wasn’t the bars, the transient hotels renting beds by the shift, or even the “ladies of the night.” The real threat seemed to be the string of broad daylight robberies plaguing the community’s three leading grocery stores, and each hit at least once. One robbery even happened just a block from the police station, with the suspects abandoning their getaway vehicle behind the station in a post office lot.

The police department’s image was suffering. Officers worked 12-hour shifts, often doubling up due to the flood of calls, sometimes stacked five to ten deep. I reported at 5 p.m. for a 6 p.m. start to my 12-hour shift one day, noticing a huddle of high-ranking officers and county deputies outside an office. Figuring I’d get briefed later, I didn’t poke around—I had enough court subpoenas already without getting involved in another incident. And this was one situation I was glad to avoid.

“You have got to be kidding me,”

When my Captain came over, he told me they’d just brought in an officer for raping his daughter. This shocking revelation not only shamed the individual officer’s reputation but cast a shadow on the entire department; as police officers failed, the public’s trust in law enforcement was further eroded.

“You have got to be kidding me,” was all I could say.

This scandal was nearly the final blow for our department, already reeling from the recent departure of a chief struggling with personal issues. Within hours, newspapers and television stations caught wind of the arrest, and the phone lines lit up. Callers unleashed waves of abuse, condemning every officer affiliated with the department. The calls went on for days, creating a hostile environment for all officers and making their jobs even more difficult.

The officers arrested earlier in the year were convicted, further damaging the department’s reputation.

Amid this turmoil, my law enforcement career truly began. Although I had worked in various positions and departments, it was in this community that I found my calling. This city is where I started my adult life and career earnestly. I remained loyal to this place, forming memories with people in the booking area, the jail, and the streets. A shift in the workforce followed, which opened doors for me—an unexpected opportunity in a turbulent time. Could it get any worse? The heat was about to get turned up. In coming stories!

(You’ve been reading the back story for the big news over the next forty years involving several lives and lifetimes.)

Killed Walking Along The Highway – How A Killer Is Captured –– By Two Keen Deputies!

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

On a dark, silent night in 1980, the highways through Caddo County near the rural communities of Gracemont and Binger, Oklahoma, were deserted. Residents had long settled in their homes, leaving the quiet stretches of U.S. Highway 281 nearly void of movement. It was a time when law enforcement in rural Oklahoma had limited resources and technology, making cases like this all the more challenging to solve.

That night, an Indigenous man, Jasper Williams, had set out on foot from his home, heading south along a dirt road that eventually led to the pavement of Highway 281. It was common for community members to walk from one home to another, no matter the distance, and Jasper was going to a friend’s house. The night was pitch black, with no moonlight or streetlights to guide him, save for the faint outline of the highway stretching before him.

As Jasper walked, visibility was almost nonexistent. The road was shrouded in darkness, with no nearby lights to help him stay clear of the highway’s center. At some point, as he walked around six miles north of Gracemont—almost midway between there and Binger—tragedy struck. Jasper was hit by a passing vehicle, which left him severely injured on the side of the road. By daylight, he was found deceased, having bled to death, with no car in sight and no immediate reports of an accident.

Upon closer inspection, deputies discovered fragments of evidence scattered on Jasper’s clothing and body: broken glass, bits of chrome, a hubcap, and remnants of a car’s signal light and headlight assembly, as well as traces of paint. With these clues, investigators determined the incident might not be an ordinary accident but potentially a case of vehicular homicide.

Deputy Hamilton drove a
Ford Ranchero

The case was assigned as a homicide due to the absence of witnesses, the lack of any report from the driver, and the fact that the vehicle fled the scene. Caddo County Deputies Hamilton and Ware—both of whom have since passed—took on the painstaking task of finding the person responsible. Armed with the physical evidence, they began an exhaustive search of autobody shops across the county and surrounding areas, hoping to find a vehicle with damage matching the debris at the scene.

After several weeks, their search finally paid off. The deputies located a damaged vehicle that matched the evidence they’d collected. The owner was identified and subsequently interviewed, leading to the arrest of a man named Larry Johnson.

During questioning, Johnson admitted he had left a bar in Binger around 2 a.m. on the night Jasper was killed. On his drive home, he confessed to drifting in and out of sleep, initially thinking he had hit an animal, possibly a dog. However, he chose not to stop. Later, after hearing news of the fatal accident, he realized he was likely the driver involved but continued to hope he was wrong.

Binger Main St. There Were
Bars On Both Sides of Street.

Johnson was later tried in Caddo County, where a jury found him guilty of manslaughter. He was sentenced to serve 15 years at Oklahoma’s Granite Reformatory.

Note: Some names, dates, and details have been altered to protect individuals’ privacy.

Remembering Henderikus “Pim” Sierks (10 March 1932 – 7 November 2024) The Brave Pilot

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

Henderikus “Pim” Sierks, a Dutch aviator known for his bravery and unwavering dedication both in military and civilian aviation, passed away on 7 November 2024, at the age of 92. Born in Haren, Groningen, on 10 March 1932, Sierks devoted his life to the skies, first serving with distinction in the Royal Netherlands Air Force before transitioning to a celebrated career as a commercial airline captain with Transavia.

Sierks trained with the Royal Canadian Air Force, where he gained experience on various aircraft, including the Airspeed Horsa, Auster AOP.6, and Avro 626. Back in the Netherlands, he became one of the foremost pilots of the Hawker Hunter fighter jet, serving over 11 years in the Royal Netherlands Air Force and solidifying his reputation as a skilled and disciplined aviator.

In 1974, Captain Sierks’ legacy was cemented during the infamous French Embassy hostage crisis in The Hague. When three Japanese Red Army members stormed the French Embassy and demanded a French aircraft to facilitate their escape, Sierks bravely volunteered to captain the flight. He skillfully negotiated with the hostage takers, gaining their assurance for the safety of his crew and the hostages, then flew them from Amsterdam to Damascus, Syria, with a critical refueling stop in Aden, Yemen. Sierks’ calm courage in this tense, unpredictable situation was hailed as exemplary, and he returned safely to deliver both the money and weapons back to the French Embassy in Damascus.

For his heroism, Sierks was awarded the Knight Grand Cross of the Order of Orange-Nassau by Queen Juliana, in addition to the Order of the Netherlands Lion and the Airman’s Cross. His actions that day made him a national hero and exemplified his lifelong dedication to duty, courage, and peace.

Following his career, Sierks moved to West Sussex, England, where he enjoyed a quiet life in retirement. He is remembered as a loving father, devoted friend, and a gentleman whose life and career left a mark on Dutch aviation history.

Otis The Dog That Trouble Finds

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© 

One sunny morning, Otis, a slick Jack Russell Terrier with a gleam in his eyes

and mischief in his heart, woke up. His fur was a brilliant shade of gold, shimmering in the sunlight, and his tail wagged with such enthusiasm that it could power a windmill. The day started innocently enough; we had breakfast at our favorite restaurant and came home. With his wagging tail and big, innocent eyes, Otis welcomed us home and helped us as we tidied up around the house. But Otis is no ordinary dog—trouble seems to find him as a squirrel finds an acorn. He gets these spurts of energy known well as zoomies.

It’s like he’s a magnet for mishaps, a walking comedy show. Wherever he goes, calamity follows. He’s so adorable that it’s impossible not to chuckle when his wrecking ball hits.

It wasn’t long before Otis’s nose led him to the kitchen. The scent of freshly baked bread cooling on the counter was just too tempting. He stood on his hind legs, stretching his neck as far as it would go. Just then, a slight breeze blew through an open window, knocking a paper off the fridge and startling Otis. He yelped and bumped into the counter in a flurry of fur and paws. The bread tumbled down, landing squarely on the floor.

When we walked in, Otis stood over the fallen loaf, his big, brown eyes looking up at us with a mix of innocence and apology. His expression seemed to say, “I didn’t mean to!” It’s hard not to forgive him when he looks at you like that.

We sighed but couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips. Before picking up the bread, Otis had darted out of the room, ears flapping, tail wagging like a flag, and disappeared into the yard.

As the day went on, Otis’s streak of bad luck continued. While exploring under the porch, he got tangled in a ball of twine that a handyman had left behind. Emerging from the shadows, he looked wide-eyed and confused, like a dog-sized spider web. The neighbors couldn’t help but chuckle when they saw him, tangled and guilty-looking. One even offered to help untangle him, but Otis, being Otis, managed to free himself in a comical fashion.

Capping off his day – Otis’s curiosity got the best of him once more when he found a potted plant by the front door. It only took a nudge from his nose for the pot to tip over, spilling soil all over the welcome mat. He sniffed the dirt, sneezed, and left tiny paw prints leading to his bed, where he flopped down, exhausted.

When found, he looked up with that sweet, guilty face as if saying, I swear, I don’t know how it happened!

Despite the chaos, we knelt and scratched behind his ears. Otis nuzzled into my hand, eyes closing in contentment. As much trouble as he got into, he was ours, and those mishaps only make our days a little more memorable—and a lot more fun. His presence, filled with joy, even amid his mischievous adventures, is a constant reminder of the happiness pets bring into our lives.

NASCAR FIGURE And Family Man Walter Ballard Sr. Funeral Services Planned For Nov.

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A Service Provided By benandsteve.com By: Benjamin©Groff Media2024© Truth Endures

Walter Harvey Ballard, Sr., a pioneering NASCAR figure and beloved family man, passed away surrounded by loved ones. Born on January 12, 1933, in Summerdale, Alabama, he was the second of six boys raised by Bernice Louise and Victor Ballard, Sr. Walter was preceded in death by his parents, his first wife, Rose Ballard; his second wife, Katy Ballard; and his daughter, Anna Marie Lorenzo.

Walter is survived by his children, Wayne and Catherine Henton, Walter Harvey Ballard, Jr., Clinton and Christine Ballard, Stony and Jerry Ann Ballard, Danny and Kim Ballard, and Lee-sa Krapish. He also leaves behind five devoted brothers and their wives: Carlos and Martha, Donald and Merry, Victor and Linda, Harold, and Rita, and Ernest and Beverly, along with fifteen grandchildren, fifteen great-grandchildren, and one great-great-grandchild.

Leaving home at a young age with only a ninth-grade education, Walter forged his path, beginning with service in the U.S. Army during the Korean War, where he served as a Sergeant in France. Following his military service, Walter channeled his ambition into building a successful career around his love of automobiles. He earned NASCAR’s first Rookie of the Year title in 1971 and, despite health challenges, remained deeply involved in racing as a team owner. Walter’s influence extended beyond the racetrack; his wife, Katy, co-founded one of the first NASCAR ladies’ organizations, underscoring their shared dedication to the sport.

To honor Walter’s commitment to helping others, the family requests that memorial gifts be made to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital or the Wounded Warriors Project, two causes dear to him.

Walter’s life will be celebrated on Monday, November 4 at 2:00 p.m. at James Funeral Home, with burial to follow at Northlake Memorial Gardens. Visitation will be held before the service from 12:00 to 2:00 p.m. at James Funeral Home.

Walter’s memory will be cherished by all who knew him. He was a devoted father, a trailblazer in NASCAR, and a man of strength and kindness.

Former Heavyweight Boxer ‘ Big Zo’ Dead At Age 44 – Alonzo “Big Zo” Butler, 1980 – 2024

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Alonzo Butler, a beloved former heavyweight boxer known to fans as “Big Zo,” passed away on Monday at age 44, as confirmed by his daughter, Jazlyn. A Chattanooga native who found his home in Knoxville, Alonzo impacted the boxing world and his community. His exceptional athleticism and dedication to his sport are reflected in his professional record of 35-3-2, with 25 knockouts. He fought mainly in Knoxville and East Tennessee, with a notable match in Auckland, New Zealand, in 2014. His achievements are a source of pride and celebration for all who knew him.

Butler’s decision to pursue boxing over football, where his power and precision earned him a devoted following, is a testament to his determination and courage. In 2006, Butler was honored as the Greater Knoxville Sports Hall of Fame’s Professional Athlete of the Year, a recognition he accepted with immense pride. Reflecting on the challenges of his career, Butler once shared, “Ace Miller told me four or five years ago I could be a champion, and I’ve stuck with it through the hard times. I’ve felt a responsibility to be a good model with the kids working with Golden Gloves, and I try to watch myself closely.” His commitment to being a positive role model and his dedication to his sport are qualities that will continue to inspire others.

Guided by legendary trainer Ace Miller, who managed and trained Butler during his undefeated run in the mid-2000s, Alonzo’s talent and warm personality left a mark on everyone he encountered. Miller spoke to Butler’s remarkable speed and strength, noting, “Alonzo could have done well in football because of his speed; at 250 pounds, we’ve timed him at 4.3 in the 40-yard dash. With his pure, warm personality, people want to know how he could be mean enough to be heavyweight champ of the world someday.”

Alonzo Butler’s legacy will endure in the hearts of those who knew him, from family and friends to fans and young athletes he inspired. His impact on the community through his boxing career and his role as a mentor is immeasurable. He leaves behind his daughter, Jazlyn, and a community that will forever be grateful for the kindness and strength he brought to the ring and beyond. His absence will be deeply missed in the lives of those dearest, but his memory will continue to inspire.

The world is going to POT, and we are watching it go!

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A view of the world as it is today by: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

My dad and grandfather are gone now, but neither would support a liar, cheat, rapist, insurrectionist, dictator, or someone who supports one, or generally speaking, a creep or ‘weirdo.’ 

There are other reasons you can look at as well. For instance, a candidate such has a sexual offense judgment against him, and he is under indictment for countless federal crimes; in the last year, one of the candidates was in the air, flying, on their way to being arrested, just as much as he was campaigning at one point. 

One or more of those reasons would have been reason enough to consider looking into the person’s background. And three to four, would have been reason enough to reject a person all together. Someone who was strongly running for public office would have been rejected. Now, the GOP considers it a qualification required for all Republican candidates.

The candidates have endorsements from KKK members. They boast about, a presidential politician having endorsements from dictators. They wallow in such markings, and candidates publicly brag about laws they will violate first, if elected. And this makes them the most qualified candidate. Going as far as boasting about becoming a dictator. Going about telling people this is the last election they will have to worry about voting in. 

Why? Does that mean the Constitution is going to get ripped apart, shredded, and there will no longer be a United States where the people choose its leaders? It appears it doesn’t matter to the people who are numb and following this character. They appear to have zoned out of reality. 

My grandfather, father, uncles, aunts, and even a few dogs and horses I’ve had would not have allowed the goings on to persist. The greatest generation has died chiefly off; fewer of them now than ever are living, which sadly shows in our world. They were the ones who knew what happens when the world that falls to fascism. When reality hits and the world dies. It is beginning as America will turn grey; it will become a black-and-white construct of anything anyone remembers of its being, if these destructionists are permitted to have their way with the country. We only hope enough voters come to the polls and and vote, and save our America!

My dad had a favorite saying: the older I got, the wiser he’d get. And he was right; I wish he were here to help us out of this madness!

JD Groff At Rest And Getting Wiser Every Day!

When 20,000 Americans Held a Pro-Nazi Rally in Madison Square Garden in 1939 – Now It’s Happening Again…

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Information Produced and Presented By Organizations Other Than Groff Media 2024


Above, two-time Academy Award nominee Marshall Curry presents A Night at The Garden, a film that revisits a night in February 1939 when “20,000 Americans rallied in New York’s Madison Square Garden to celebrate the rise of Nazism — an event largely forgotten from U.S. history.” As we described it back in 2017, the film documents the following scene:

What you’re looking at is the 1939 “Pro-American Rally” (aka Pro-Nazi Rally) sponsored by the German American Bund at Madison Square Garden on George Washington’s 207th Birthday. Banners emblazoned with such slogans as “Stop Jewish Domination of Christian Americans,” “Wake Up America. Smash Jewish Communism,” and “1,000,000 Bund Members by 1940” decorated the great hall.

New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia—an Episcopalian with a Jewish mother—considered canceling the event, but ultimately he, along with the American Jewish Committee and the American Civil Liberties Committee decreed that the Bund was exercising its right to free speech and free assembly.

A crowd of 20,000 filled the famous sports venue in mid-town Manhattan to capacity. 1,500 police officers were present to render the Garden “a fortress impregnable to anti-Nazis.” An estimated 100,000 counter-demonstrators were gathering outside.…

The most disturbing moment in the short film comes at the 3:50 mark, when another security force—the Bund’s Ordnungsdienst or “Order Service” pile on Isidore Greenbaum, a 26-year-old Jewish worker who rushed the podium where bundesführer Fritz Julius Kuhn was fanning the flames of hatred. Valentine’s men eventually pulled them off, just barely managing to save the “anti-Nazi” from the vicious beating he was undergoing.

Made entirely from archival footage filmed that night, A Night at The Garden “transports audiences to this chilling gathering and shines a light on the power of demagoguery and anti-Semitism in the United States.” You can learn more about the film and the 1939 rally at Marshall Curry’s web site.

Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or other xenophobic rallies being held this weekend in Madison Square Garden is purely coincidental, of course.

Related Content 

Yale Professor Jason Stanley Identifies 10 Tactics of Fascism: The “Cult of the Leader,” Law & Order, Victimhood and More

Toni Morrison Lists the 10 Steps That Lead Countries to Fascism (1995)

Fascism!: The US Army Publishes a Pamphlet in 1945 Explaining How to Spot Fascism at Home and Abroad

MAGA Is Not The First To Attempt And Bring Down America. A Populist Movement Nearly Destroyed American Democracy Over 110 Years Ago, But Our Democracy Prevailed

Over a century ago, the United States grappled with a political movement that closely resembled today’s MAGA (Make America Great Again) movement, a populist uprising spearheaded by former President Donald Trump. Like MAGA, this earlier movement thrived on populist discontent, nativist sentiments, and rejection of the established order. If not kept in check, it could have reshaped American democracy in ways that might have undermined its democratic institutions, a peril we must remain vigilant against.

One of the most significant instances was during Theodore Roosevelt’s presidency, a man with intricate political loyalties. In 1912, Roosevelt’s Bull Moose Party brought populist elements into the political mainstream, appealing to working-class voters who felt marginalized by the two major parties. While Roosevelt was not anti-democratic, his charismatic leadership style and his ability to rally crowds around a strongman image set a precedent for future political movements that would seek to undermine democratic norms.

Simultaneously, the rise of the “America First” movement and the Ku Klux Klan spanning the 1920s showed how easily populist rhetoric could veer into exclusionary nationalism and nativism. The Klan’s widespread influence reached local, state, and federal government levels, promoting an agenda that sought to disenfranchise non-white citizens, immigrants, and anyone considered “un-American.” This movement found an audience among rural and working-class Americans who felt left behind by the rapid industrialization and modernization of the country.

At the heart of these movements was a profound distrust of the government, elites, and institutions—just like the anti-establishment fervor that fueled the rise of MAGA. These movements aimed to “restore” a vision of America rooted in racial and social hierarchies, often using violent rhetoric and intimidation to achieve their goals. Had these populist forces gained more traction, they could have severely damaged the democratic foundation of the country, ushering in a more authoritarian regime.

It took concerted efforts from citizens and political leaders to resist these dangerous movements and restore democratic norms. In some ways, the lessons from over a century ago echo loudly today: unchecked populism, especially when it flirts with nativism and authoritarianism, can bring democracy to the brink of collapse. However, this history also reminds us of our power to shape the future of our democracy, offering hope and inspiration for positive change.

Today, as MAGA remains a force in American politics, it is crucial to remember that the battle to preserve democracy requires vigilance. While populism can express legitimate grievances of people who feel left behind, it must not be allowed to erode the institutions enabling democracy to function. History teaches us that democracy’s survival depends on our ability to balance widespread anger with reasoned leadership and respect for the rule of law. We all have a role to play in this ongoing struggle, and our vigilance is required to maintain a true Republic of the People!

Former Chief Deputy A.G. Charles Brandt Dead At Age 82

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Announcement A Service Of BenandSteve.com By Benjamin© GROFF MEDIA 2024© Truth Endures.

Charles Brandt, a former Delaware chief deputy attorney general and author of I Heard You Paint Houses, the book that inspired the acclaimed 2019 film The Irishman, passed away on Tuesday at the age of 82.

Brandt, who lived between Lewes, Delaware, and Sun Valley, Idaho, passed at Delaware Hospice at St. Francis in Wilmington. His daughter, Jenny Rose Brandt, a registered nurse and his primary caregiver, shared that he died due to complications from multiple chronic health conditions.

I Heard You Paint Houses, Brandt’s work of narrative nonfiction published in 2005, explores the life of Frank “Big Frank” Sheeran, a towering World War II veteran and former president of Teamsters Local 326 in Wilmington who also worked as a Mafia hitman. Brandt spent five years interviewing Sheeran, who, in those conversations, confessed to the killing of labor leader Jimmy Hoffa. Hoffa disappeared in 1975, and his body has never been found. Sheeran’s chilling accounts, shared in detail with Brandt, suggested he felt freed to speak as those he once feared were no longer alive.

The movie went to the big screen in The Irishman, directed by Martin Scorsese and featuring Robert De Niro and Al Pacino. The epic film, which runs over three hours and garnered 10 Academy Award nominations, brought widespread attention to Brandt’s extraordinary insights into Sheeran’s life and his ties to organized crime.

Charles Brandt leaves behind a legacy in law, literature, and film, his work casting light on some of America’s most notorious mysteries.

The Unlikely Friendship: Lessons in Kindness

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By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

It was a quiet Sunday morning. A knock came at the door as the man leafed through the morning paper. He answered it, and there stood a stranger, looking road-worn but determined. ––––

“Is this where Benjamin Groff lives?”

the stranger asked.

“Yes, it is,”

the man replied, studying the stranger’s face.

“You must be his father,”

the stranger ventured his smile kind and knowing.

“Yes, I am,”

the man replied, both curious and wary.

The stranger introduced himself.

“My name is Samuel Johnson. I’ve driven over seventy miles to meet you, sir. You must have been one remarkable man to raise a son like Benjamin.”

The father, his heart swelling with pride, felt a mix of emotions.

“Thank you, Samuel,”

he said.

“But, please, how do you know my son?”

Samuel nodded as though expecting the question.

“I met Ben at the Oklahoma State Fair last fall. I was just there to do a job—keeping an eye on one of the old buildings. Some local boys had been giving me trouble, but Ben stepped in. Out of all the things he could have done at the fair, he chose to sit down and talk with me. We spoke for hours. Your son has a way of making people feel seen, of looking out for folks. He even asked me if anyone was bothering me, and from that moment on, I felt I wasn’t just working the fair—I was spending time with a friend.”

The father listened, deeply touched.

“That sounds like Ben,”

he said softly, gesturing for Samuel to take a seat.

“Let me wake him—he’ll want to know you’re here.”

Ben’s father went to his son’s room and gently shook him awake.

“Ben, you’ll never guess who’s here to see you,”

he said.

Still half-asleep, Ben slowly got up and followed his father into the living room. To his surprise, there sat Samuel, his old buddy from the State Fair. A smile of joy spread across Ben’s face as memories flooded back.

On that day at the fair, Ben had already taken in the sights, ridden the rides, and wandered through the livestock shows, which, to his surprise, had lost their charm despite his upbringing on a farm. He was winding down, simply walking, when he happened upon Samuel’s post.

Samuel was friendly, the kind of person who seemed to carry his life’s story in the lines of his face. Ben had sensed the man’s kindness right away, trusting him instinctively. They talked for hours, sharing stories. Samuel had offered him cold water from the employee stash and even let him use the private restroom in the back, which felt like a luxury compared to the crowded ones across the fairgrounds. Ben could still recall their easy camaraderie, even though much of what they’d discussed had faded over time.

Before parting, Ben had written down his number and directions to their home, saying,

“If you’re ever in town and need anything, look us up.”

Now, here was Samuel, having made good on that invitation.

After they caught up for a while, Ben suggested a tour of the campground where his father worked as a Ranger. The sprawling property had over 350 acres, six cabins, and a large recreation hall. As they rode around, they laughed about old times and marveled at the twists and turns that brought two unlikely friends together again.

Finally, as the afternoon sun started to wane, Samuel turned to Ben with a smile.

“I’d better head back to the city,”

he said, patting Ben on the shoulder.

“I’m grateful to have met your folks and seen your home—it’s even better than I’d imagined.”

He climbed into his Lincoln Continental, waved as he pulled away, and drove down the dusty road until he was out of sight. That was the last time Ben saw Samuel. But in the years that followed, he often recalled the kindness they’d shared, proof that a simple act of friendship could reach far beyond the boundaries of a single day.

Benjamin stood on the porch as Samuel drove off, watching the dust settle behind the Lincoln. He thought about how Samuel’s visit had bridged two worlds—a fact that didn’t escape him in a town where Black residents were often confined to the southwest corner, seen more as a separate community than as neighbors.


Growing up, Benjamin noticed the prejudices that ran through many families in town but never took root in his heart. His father, a man who saw people for who they were, not where they came from, profoundly influenced him. Samuel’s visit was a powerful reminder of how simple kindness could defy those boundaries, how a shared afternoon at a fair could lead to a journey across miles.

Though he never saw Samuel again, Benjamin often recalled those two encounters. They left him with a lesson he carried into adulthood and his career—a quiet but powerful truth about compassion. Samuel had come to honor Benjamin’s father. Still, Benjamin always remembered Samuel for showing him how friendship and decency could surpass any divide, leaving an enduring mark on his life.

In a way, Samuel had gifted him a legacy of his own: the reminder that sometimes, the connections we make in unexpected places leave the most enduring marks on our lives.

In Memory of Samuel!

The Pig That Hid Under The Table

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By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Growing up, my trips to see my grandparents were always a highlight. We had moved to a farm about forty miles east of where they lived, and at least one weekend a month, I’d take a trip west on the Trailways bus. The bus, winding through the state highways, carried passengers to towns large and small, connecting lives along the way.

Fridays were my day of escape. School let out promptly at 3 PM, and I’d head straight to Mills Cafe to buy my bus ticket for $1. That single dollar bought me a ride and a weekend of stories, comfort, and understanding from my grandparents. After securing my ticket, I’d walk down the street to my dad’s barber shop, four doors from the cafe, to wait. Watching for the bus was a serious affair for me. I kept my eyes trained on the road, anxious I might miss it if I blinked. No bathroom breaks, no distractions. I had a mission: get to my grandparents.

Sometimes, folks in the barbershop would try to chat with me, but I was reserved, even standoffish. Sensing my focus, my dad would beam with pride as he explained to his customers,–––

“He’s waiting on the bus. He’s off to check on his grandparents for the weekend, ensuring they’re okay!”

The shop patrons would smile and nod, giving me a knowing look and sometimes adding, –––

“Well, you can’t interrupt a man on a mission.”

But there was another reason I didn’t engage in those conversations. I had a speech impediment that followed me until I was nearly twelve. My words tumbled out wrong, twisted by a thick Eastern accent that stood out in our small Oklahoma town. I’d say “Wooster” instead of rooster or “wise” instead of raise. It sounded right to me, but I was hard to understand to everyone else. My trips to my grandparents were a refuge from the teasing I often faced. They spoke like me, with the same accent, and they took the time to listen.

Bedtime with my grandmother always meant stories—real ones. One of my favorites was her early days with my grandfather when they lived on a farm in Illinois with his family. Not long after their wedding, my grandfather bartered with a neighbor, offering to harvest an acre of corn for a pig and a cow. The pig was young, newly weaned, and just learning to eat regular feed. The neighbor’s wife, however, was a bit unstable, though harmless—or so everyone thought.

One afternoon, while my grandfather and his brothers were out in the fields, my grandmother saw the neighbor’s wife marching down the road toward their home. In one hand, she held a knife, her face twisted in rage as she screamed, –––

“I want my pig!”

My grandmother was still young, not much older than a teenager, and alone in the house. Thinking quickly, she grabbed the little pig, rushed inside, and locked the door behind her. Huddling under the kitchen table, she threw a cloth over the pig, praying it would stay quiet. Outside, the woman’s footsteps grew closer, and her voice turned from angry to menacing.

“I’m going to kill you! I want my pig! Give me my pig!”

The door rattled under the force of the knife stabbing into it, and my grandmother could hear the woman’s curses, slurred with madness. Terrified, she clutched the pig tighter, knowing there was no way she’d give it up—not after my grandfather had worked so hard for it. The pig squirmed in her arms, and she whispered a desperate deal, promising it that if it stayed silent, it would never end up on the dinner table.

The minutes they stretched on like hours. It was sweltering in the kitchen, and my grandmother and the pig were sweaty. The woman outside kept up her assault, pounding on the door and shrieking threats. But the pig, to its credit, didn’t make a sound.

Finally, after an eternity, the woman’s husband happened by in his horse and buggy. He saw her crazed state and managed to coax her away, pulling her back home. My grandmother never saw her again, but for years afterward, she went out of her way to avoid passing that house. And as for the pig? It kept its end of the bargain—staying quiet—and lived to see another day, far from the breakfast table.

Hearing that story as a child gave me courage. Just as my grandmother had faced her fear, hiding under a table with a pig, I could face my challenges, too. Whenever I struggled with my speech, I thought of her and that pig. It gave me the strength to keep pushing forward, knowing that silence—and resilience—could sometimes be the best defense.

It Was A BedTime Story My Grandmother Would Tell Me, But It Was The Weekend That I Loved To Spend!

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By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

It was a bedtime story my grandmother used to tell me when I visited their home on weekends. They lived about forty miles west of the farm we had bought, but they had been farmers in the same area. As they grew older, they sold their place and moved to a larger town, closer to conveniences like supermarkets, doctors, hospitals, and stores. I visited them at least one weekend a month, sometimes more, either hopping a westbound Trailways bus or catching a ride with one of my dad’s friends heading out to Texas. On travel days, I dressed to the nines, careful not to show up looking like a bum, especially since people back then still took pride in looking sharp for such things. Times were changing, though. In the sixties, you started seeing folks on the bus with beads, bell bottoms, and cut-off t-shirts, their hair long, male or female.

I was five years old when I first started traveling with my grandparents, and it became a cherished tradition until my grandmother passed when I was eleven. Even as times changed, my routine remained the same. My grandfather would always park in front of the local drugstore that served as the bus stop in their town. A large courthouse sat in the center of the square, and the bus had to make a loop around it before stopping. The airbrakes would hiss, and I was always be the first one off. The bus driver ensured it, especially since I sat beside him on my suitcase for the whole ride.

My grandfather, whom I called Pop, would be waiting by the trunk of his 1952 Chevrolet Coupe. As I stepped down those bus steps, the driver would already have handed my suitcase to Pop, who would smile and say, ––––

“Let’s scoot. Mom’s got dinner about ready at home!”

And it was home. My home away from home. I often dreamed of moving there, living with them, and even telling them so. I wanted my dad and our horses to come too because, in my child’s mind, my grandparents loved me so much that they’d love my dad and our horses too.

Pop had a habit of smoking a pipe—or rather, puffing on one. I could spend hours watching him puff smoke into the air in their cozy den. He liked to mix cherrywood tobacco with Prince Albert, and the sweet scent lingered long after he finished, complementing the smells of my grandmother’s cooking, making you want to eat whatever she was making. There was no television after dinner on most evenings. Instead, we’d listen to the ticking of the clock and talk. It was simple, but those talks meant more to me than the grandest concerts I’ve ever attended.

There were exceptions, though. Saturday evenings, we’d watch the news, then Lawrence Welk and Porter Wagoner, followed by a local music show hosted by a furniture store owner. But the TV was always off once Pop went to bed. That’s when my grandmother and I would click it back on for our secret ritual—watching championship wrestling from Oklahoma City. She loved it, getting so worked up that she’d tear tissues to pieces while her favorite wrestlers fought. I’d hand her a new tissue each time she shredded the last one. No one knew about this passion of hers except me, and she confided that she only got to watch wrestling when I visited. It made me feel needed by these two people I loved so much.

At night, I slept on a cot in their bedroom. It was as comfortable as any five-star hotel bed. But before I bedded down, my grandmother would let me crawl between her and Pop in their bed while she told me stories. One of my favorites was when she grew up in East Texas. She’d laugh so hard telling it, tears streaming down her face. It always made me laugh, too.

“Mom, Florence Lula McElroy, Groff” 1914

She and her sister Ethyl were watching their little brother, Sam, who had just turned four. The rest of the family worked in the fields when the weather worsened. A funnel cloud was forming in the west, and the sisters, frightened, grabbed Sam and rushed into the farmhouse. Back then, there was no electricity, phones, or fundamental utilities, let alone cars. The girls did the only thing they could think of: they got under the heavy kitchen table, crying as the storm approached.

Not understanding what was happening, Little Sam asked, ––– “What should I do?”

My grandmother told him, ––– “Sam, you should pray!”

But the only prayer the boy knew was the table grace, so he began, ––– “Dear Lord, we thank you for what we are about to receive…”

That’s where the story always stopped because my grandmother would laugh so hard she couldn’t go on. I never knew if the house got hit or the storm blew the farm apart. All I remember is her laughter and how I’d move to the cot, hugging her and giving her a sloppy kiss goodnight.

Years later, I asked my Uncle Sam about that storm. He chuckled and said, ––– “Pots and pans were flying everywhere, and the two sisters were laughing like tea parties. We didn’t lose the house, but it scared me.”

Uncle Sam became my favorite great uncle after that.

I loved hanging out with Aunt Ethyl at family reunions. She dipped snuff—real tobacco, not the stuff you see now. She’d sniff it and tuck some into her upper lip. I could never keep up with her, and my grandmother would have been after me if she ever caught me trying.

On Sunday afternoons, my dad drove to pick me up from the farm. I was always happy to see him but hated leaving my grandparents. I didn’t want to return to the town near our farm—it was never as pleasant as the time spent with Mom and Pop. When I was five, I never imagined that they’d leave this world or that I’d grow up. Life takes the airplane, and time takes the train.

The Legend of Arizona’s Red Ghost Faris And His Caravan Of Former Calvary

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Sailors and an Arab camel herder load
a Bactrian camel aboard the USS Supply
during one of the two expeditions to
procure camels – National Archives

In the sun-scorched deserts of Arizona, the vast emptiness was once filled with the pounding hooves of horses and the steady march of soldiers from the United States Cavalry. But for a brief moment in history, an unlikely companion joined their ranks—the camel. Brought from distant lands, these towering creatures with their humped backs and long legs had intended to be the army’s answer to the challenges of traversing the rugged terrain of the Wild West.

A/I Created Photo

In the mid-1800s, under the guidance of Secretary of War Jefferson Davis, the U.S. government embarked on a truly unique experiment-the ‘Camel Corps’. Camels, renowned for their endurance in desert conditions, were imported to America and tasked with the challenging job of carrying supplies across the barren landscapes where wagons and horses often struggled. The soldiers stationed at the forts in Arizona and New Mexico were initially skeptical. They were baffled by the strange creatures that spit and moaned, their massive feet gliding over the desert sands as if weightless.

Among the camels, one stood out—a massive bull camel named Faris. He had traveled across the seas from the deserts of Egypt, his broad hump towering over his fellow camels. With piercing eyes and a personality as stubborn as the most seasoned cavalrymen, Faris became the pack’s leader, guiding the other camels through endless miles of scorching desert, carrying their loads without complaint.

Library of Congress

But the experiment was short-lived. As the Civil War loomed, funding for the Camel Corps dried up, and the forts in the Arizona desert began to close one by one. With the forts gone and no practical use for the camels, the military made a fateful decision: they turned them loose, setting them free in the vast desert wilderness. The soldiers and settlers who remained watched with mixed emotions as the camels slowly strode off into the horizon, their long necks and humps silhouetted against the setting sun.

Library of Congress

Faris led the herd, now wild, into the vast stretches of land where no human tread. Once tethered and burdened with human supplies, the camels embraced their freedom, roaming the desert, their calls echoing in the canyons and across the mesas.

For years, sightings of the camels became the stuff of legend. Travelers and settlers spoke of giant creatures wandering the wilderness, spooking horses, and disappearing into the dunes as quickly as they were seen. Stories of ‘The Red Ghost’ surfaced, a phantom camel said to be terrorizing ranchers, with strange tracks left in the dust after raids on isolated farms. The mystery deepened with some claiming to see a human skeleton strapped to the back of one rogue camel, but no one knew for sure whether this was fact or fiction.

Library of Congress

Faris, now older but still commanding, led his herd deeper into the desert as the years passed. The camels, with no soldiers to guide them, learned to live off the sparse vegetation, adapting as always. They became masters of the land, surviving where few others could, a testament to their remarkable adaptability.

Generations of Arizonans grew up hearing tales of the camels. Old ranchers would sit by the fire, recounting when they saw a lone camel watching them from the top of a ridge, its eyes gleaming in the moonlight before they vanished into the desert night. Cowboys whispered of Faris, the great camel leader, still roaming the wild, the last of a forgotten army, king of the untamed desert.

So, the camels of the Wild West became more than just a footnote in history—they became legends, ghosts of a time when even the most foreign creatures found a place in the rugged and unforgiving land of the Arizona desert.

A released camel or a descendent of one is believed to have inspired the Arizonan legend of the Red Ghost.

One of the few camel drivers whose name survives was Hi Jolly. He lived out his life in the United States. After his death in 1902, he was buried in Quartzsite, Arizona. His grave is marked by a pyramid-shaped monument topped with a metal profile of a camel.

MAGA Is Not The First To Attempt And Bring Down America. A Populist Movement Nearly Destroyed American Democracy Over 110 Years Ago

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Over a century ago, the United States grappled with a political movement that bears striking similarities to today’s MAGA (Make America Great Again) movement, a populist uprising spearheaded by former President Donald Trump. Like MAGA, this earlier movement thrived on populist discontent, nativist sentiments, and a rejection of the established order. If not kept in check, it could have reshaped American democracy in ways that might have undermined its democratic institutions, a peril we must remain vigilant against.

One of the most significant instances of this was during Theodore Roosevelt’s presidency, a man with intricate political loyalties. In 1912, Roosevelt’s Bull Moose Party brought populist elements into the political mainstream, appealing to working-class voters who felt marginalized by the two major parties. While Roosevelt was not anti-democratic, his charismatic leadership style and his ability to rally crowds around a strongman image set a precedent for future political movements that would seek to undermine democratic norms.

Simultaneously, the rise of the “America First” movement and the Ku Klux Klan spanning the 1920s showed how easily populist rhetoric could veer into exclusionary nationalism and nativism. The Klan’s widespread influence reached local, state, and federal government levels, promoting an agenda that sought to disenfranchise non-white citizens, immigrants, and anyone considered “un-American.” This movement found an audience among rural and working-class Americans who felt left behind by the rapid industrialization and modernization of the country.

At the heart of these movements was a profound distrust of the government, elites, and institutions—just like the anti-establishment fervor that fueled the rise of MAGA. These movements aimed to “restore” a vision of America rooted in racial and social hierarchies, often using violent rhetoric and intimidation to achieve their goals. Had these populist forces gained more traction, they could have severely damaged the democratic foundation of the country, ushering in a more authoritarian regime.

It took concerted efforts from both citizens and political leaders to resist these dangerous movements and restore democratic norms. In some ways, the lessons from over a century ago echo loudly today: unchecked populism, especially when it flirts with nativism and authoritarianism, can bring democracy to the brink of collapse. However, this history also reminds us of our power to shape the future of our democracy, offering hope and inspiration for positive change.

Today, as MAGA remains a force in American politics, it is crucial to remember that the battle to preserve democracy requires vigilance. While populism can express legitimate grievances of people who feel left behind, it must not be allowed to erode the very institutions that allow democracy to function. History teaches us that democracy’s survival depends on our collective ability to balance popular anger with reasoned leadership and respect for the rule of law. We all have a role to play in this ongoing struggle, and it is our vigilance that will keep democracy alive.

You can also find a more information concerning this subject at Salon.com click here.

There Goes Patti McGee! Skateboardings First Lady! (1945-2024)

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There Goes Patti McGee – An Essay

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Patti McGee was not just a skateboarder; she was a trailblazer, a pioneer, and a symbol of inclusivity in a sport rapidly emerging in the 1960s. Her journey, which began with a skateboard built by her brother, evolved into a legendary career that broke barriers for women in skateboarding and cemented her place in history as one of the most iconic figures in the sport. She was not just a name in the history books but a person with a passion for skateboarding that was infectious to all who knew her.

Despite the challenges and the sport’s male-dominated nature, Patti’s resilience and determination shone through. Her first skateboard, a humble creation from her brother’s wood shop project, began a journey that would see her rise to national prominence.

In 1964, Patti won the Women’s National Skateboard Championship in Santa Monica, California. Her smooth style, grace, and technical ability on the board distinguished her as a force in the early skateboarding community. Her victory was a breakthrough moment for women in the sport, demonstrating that skateboarding was not just a boys’ game but one where women could excel and lead.

Patti’s career reached heights when she became the first professional female skateboarder, sponsored by Hobie Skateboards and Vita Pak. She traveled the country, performing skateboarding demonstrations, showcasing her talent, and spreading the love of the sport to a broader audience. Her influence was undeniable, helping to popularize skateboarding during its first wave of mainstream attention between 1959 and 1965. As a spokesperson and ambassador, she promoted the sport with passion and determination, ensuring that girls and women also saw skateboarding as a place for them.

In 1965, Patti made history again, becoming the first female skateboarder to appear on the cover of Life magazine. Her iconic photo, smiling while riding a skateboard in mid-air, is still considered one of the most memorable images of early skateboarding culture. Patti’s presence in the media helped legitimize skateboarding as a serious sport, and her charm and skill made her a role model for countless young skaters.

Patti’s contributions to the sport were officially recognized in 2010 when she became the first woman inducted into the Skateboarding Hall of Fame. Her induction was a celebration of her achievements and a reminder of her lasting impact on the sport and the many skaters who followed in her footsteps. Patti’s legacy is a testament to the importance of inclusivity, showing that skateboarding is for everyone, regardless of gender.

Beyond her professional accomplishments, Patti’s impact on the skateboarding community was profound. She continued to inspire new generations of skaters, sharing her love for the sport and advocating for the inclusion of women. Her spirit, determination, and dedication to her craft left an indelible mark on the skateboarding world, connecting her to skaters of all ages and backgrounds.

Patti McGee passed away on October 16, 2024, after suffering a stroke and subsequent complications. Her death marked the end of a remarkable life that helped shape the skateboarding world. As a champion, a role model, and a pioneer, she will be remembered as the matriarch of skateboarding, someone who paved the way for women in the sport and left an enduring legacy of passion and inclusivity. Her absence leaves a void in the skateboarding community that will be felt for years.

Obituary: Patti McGee (1945-2024)

Patti McGee, the world’s first professional female skateboarder and an iconic figure in skateboarding history, passed away on October 16, 2024, following complications from a stroke. She was 79 years old.

Born on August 23, 1945, Patti grew up in the United States, where she developed a love for skateboarding early in life. She first gained national recognition in 1964 when she won the Women’s National Skateboard Championship. Her victory established her as a pioneer in the sport and a role model for future generations of female skaters.

In 1965, Patti became the first woman to appear on the cover of Life magazine, an iconic moment that showcased her talent and helped popularize skateboarding. That same year, she became the first professional female skateboarder, sponsored by Hobie Skateboards and Vita Pak, traveling the country to perform and promote the sport.

Her contributions to skateboarding were formally recognized in 2010 when she became the first woman inducted into the Skateboarding Hall of Fame. Patti’s induction was a crowning achievement in a career filled with groundbreaking moments, solidifying her status as a trailblazer in the sport.

Throughout her life, Patti remained a beloved figure in the skateboarding community. She inspired skaters of all ages and advocated for women’s participation in the sport. Her passion, talent, and dedication left an enduring legacy that will continue to influence the skateboarding world for years.

Patti goes on before her daughter, Hailey, and countless friends and admirers in the skateboarding community. Her life is a remembering of her exceptional achievements, vibrant spirit, and commitment to promoting inclusivity in the sport she loves.

We are grateful for Patti McGee’s life and legacy. She was a true pioneer, a legend, and an inspiration to all who followed in her footsteps. Missing her presence in the world will continue forever, but her legacy will continue to roll on, just like the wheels of the skateboards she rode so gracefully.

May she rest in peace.

Bridge’s Revered Grand Master Ron Smith Has Died. (1947 – October 16, 2024)

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Ron Smith, a revered Grand Life Master and world-class bridge player with over 30,000 master points, passed away on October 16, 2024. He had dignitly fought a battle with Parkinsons Disease for the past ten years. Born in 1947, Ron was a fixture in the Bridge world. His competitive spirit, sharp intellect, and deep game love were legendary. He began his Bridge career during the Roth Stone era, known for its more conservative bidding strategies. He continued to evolve his style over the decades, consistently keeping pace with modern techniques.

Hailing from Chattanooga, Tennessee, Ron made a lasting impact on both the national and international Bridge scenes. He became well known for his numerous victories and placements in major tournaments. Ron won several prestigious titles among his many accomplishments, cementing his legacy as one of the Bridge community’s most skilled and consistent players.

Ron’s influence extended beyond the table. His passion for teaching and mentoring others was evident and profound. He played an instrumental role in shaping the careers of many up-and-coming Bridge players, leaving an indelible mark on the game’s future. He is remembered not just for his skill but also for his remarkable humility, kindness, and unwavering dedication to the game and its community.

Ron Smith’s passing leaves a significant void in the world of Bridge, which will be deeply felt by all who know him. His legacy, however, will continue to inspire future generations of players. He is survived by his wife Linda, their family, by countless friends and fellow players who admired him as a competitor and a person.

Rest in peace, Ron. Your contributions to the world of Bridge will forever live.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maynord, what are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

A moment later, she said,

“Mother wants to talk to you.”

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

“Yes, Mother!”

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

“Benji, Maynord Rider just dropped dead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Japan’s Culinary Expert Yukio Hattori Dies 1945 – 2024

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

Obituary: Yukio Hattori (1945 – 2024)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Special Note Of Thanks!

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

There Once Was A Clown Named Ho Ho!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Intestate Legacy of John Ellis, Esq.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End.

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

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

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

Ben H and Florence Groff

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

Draught Horses like those kept on Groff’s Farm.

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

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

Nearby Binger, Oklahoma 1930s

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

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

Ulrich Groff & Family

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

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

The Days Of My Youth, When The West Was Really Wild!

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

When the West was wild, and I was nine years old. Strapped on my waist were two silver cap guns and a gunslinger belt. My horse was a pony named Little Bit, named so because of the bridal’s bit size for the horse. On Saturday mornings, my youngest sister and I would watch the antics of Roy Rogers and Del Evans on black-and-white television. During the rest of the weekend and after school, we did our best to live out what we had seen in real life.

My sister’s horse was named Sugar and slightly bigger than mine. Still, mine was fast and could run at a lope, making the breeze hitting my face seem as though we were going at the speed of light. On our farm near a hill south of our home, there were miniature bluffs where my sister and I would ground tie our horse, hide behind, and carry out a shootout with the invisible villains we imagined approaching and trying to steal the farm. We lived miles from town, and this would be our entertainment. Our parents were aware of our riding trips, and while our dad would rather be present, he trusted us to be responsible and safe.

As we roamed the hills on those long, dusty afternoons, it felt like we were the only two kids in the world with such grand adventures. The bluffs were our fortress, the sky our ceiling, and the occasional hawk circling overhead became a witness to our endless battles against make-believe outlaws. The smell of fresh earth, mingled with the sweat of our horses, was intoxicating. It was freedom, pure and simple, a feeling that inspired us and now fills us with nostalgia.


Sometimes, when the wind would shift just right, I’d catch the faint scent of Mom’s cooking from the farmhouse and know it was nearly time to head home. But in those moments, I was Roy Rogers, protector of the ranch, with Little Bit galloping beneath me as we chased the bad guys across the plains.


One day, after an especially exciting shootout, our father must have noticed we’d been gone a little too long. We saw him standing on the front porch as we rounded the bend toward the house. Dad crossed his arms, and his face was stern—Dad always believed in knowing where we were, and he didn’t much like the idea of us riding off without him. But as we neared, I saw the corner of his mouth twitch and a glimmer of pride in his eyes. His silent support reassured us and made us feel more connected to him. Maybe he recognized some of the cowboy spirit in us, or perhaps it was the sight of two kids who had spent the day living their version of the Wild West.


He never scolded us that day, though he didn’t have to say much. With a smile, he helped us unsaddle our horses, and as the sun dipped low behind the hills, we knew our adventures would have to wait until the next day.


But deep down, I think Dad knew, just as we did, that the West wasn’t so wild after all—it was just our way of making the world a little bigger, a little braver, and a whole lot more fun. As the sun dipped low behind the hills, we knew our adventures would have to wait until the next day, filling us with excitement and anticipation for the next chapter of our Wild West escapades.

Roger Palm, 75, Swedish Drummer for ABBA, Dies from Complications of Alzheimer’s Disease

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By: Benjamin. Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Roger Palm, a revered Swedish drummer whose beats helped define some of ABBA’s most iconic hits, passed away on September 21st., 2024 at the age of 75 due to complications from suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.

Born on March 31, 1949, in Kyrktåsjö, Sweden, Palm showed an early passion for music and began his professional drumming career at seventeen. His talent quickly garnered attention, leading him to become a member of the Swedish bands The Gimmicks and later The Beatmakers. By 1970, Palm had cemented himself as a highly sought-after session musician.

Roger Palm’s association with ABBA began in 1971 when he played on a session for a Frida single produced by Benny Andersson. A year later, in 1972, he laid down the drums for “Rock’n’Roll Band,” marking his first contribution to the ABBA sound. Though Ola Brunkert was the primary drummer for the band, Palm’s unmistakable rhythms enriched many of ABBA’s greatest hits, including “Mamma Mia,” “Dancing Queen,” “Take A Chance On Me,” and “Thank You For The Music.”

A studio musician of prodigious skill and vast discography, Palm was instrumental in creating timeless tracks that resonated around the world. His legacy, particularly his contributions to ABBA’s musical tapestry, will live on in the hearts of fans and music lovers worldwide.

He is survived by a loving family, friends galore and fans worldwide. Private services will be held at a later date.

Gone But Not Forgotten: Honoring Everyday Heroes

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

Gone But Not Forgotten: A Digital Memorial

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In a quiet corner of the internet, there exists a place unlike any other—a virtual tribute to those who had walked this earth, loved, laughed, suffered, and left their mark, only to slip away as the sands of time carried them beyond the reach of the living. It was called Notable Deaths: Gone But Not Forgotten.

The website is more than just a list of names. It is a symphony of lives, a testament to the idea that every life matters, no matter how famous or obscure. Each entry tells the story of a person who has shaped the world in their own way, whether through art, science, politics, or just by touching the lives of those around them. This is a space for reflection, a collection of special memories and achievements.

At first glance, Gone But Not Forgotten appeared like any other tribute site—a photo, a name, a short biography. But for those who ventured deeper, it became clear that this was more than just a collection of obituaries. It was an evolving narrative, with contributors from all walks of life adding details about the departed, piecing together the puzzle of who they were. Some names were well-known household figures like actors, musicians, and leaders. Others were lesser-known heroes—activists, teachers, parents—whose contributions quietly wove into the fabric of society. This is a community of shared experiences, a place where grief is understood and shared.

Among the most moving sections was the Like You, These People Mattered column. Here, visitors could submit stories about people who had passed away. Major fame was not required of them, only a life well-lived. Each submission reminded the world that grief is universal, that love for the departed transcends celebrity, and that the value of a life doesn’t lie in recognition but in the impact it has on others. Every life, no matter how seemingly ordinary, is a treasure and a legacy.

One day, a young woman named Lena found herself on the website. She wasn’t sure how she’d ended up there—maybe it was fate, perhaps the randomness of an internet search—but she was grateful. Lena had lost her grandfather just a few weeks before, and the wound was still fresh. He had been the heart of their family, a kind, strong man who had lived through wars, raised children, and taught Lena everything she knew about compassion. His death had left a void she didn’t know how to fill.

On Gone But Not Forgotten, she found solace. She read stories of others who had felt the same loss, who had watched their loved ones slip away, only to hold onto their memories for comfort. She realized that her grandfather’s story, though deeply personal, was part of a much larger tapestry of human experience. Moved by the thought, Lena submitted a post to the Like You, These People Mattered section, pouring out her heart as she shared the man her grandfather had been—the jokes he told, the lessons he imparted, the quiet dignity with which he had faced his final days.

Days passed, and one afternoon, Lena returned to the site to find her story had been published. Not only that, but others had commented on it—people she didn’t know but who understood her grief. They offered words of sympathy, shared experience, and hope. Lena felt an overwhelming sense of connection. Here, in this virtual space, her grandfather lived on; in some small way, his life had touched others.

The website became a regular stop in her day. She began reading more of the stories, leaving comments for others who were grieving, and sometimes just sitting with the quiet weight of history as she browsed the names and faces of those who had passed. Famous or not, every story mattered. Each life was a thread in the rich, intricate tapestry of humanity.

As time went on, Gone But Not Forgotten grew. More stories were added, and more voices joined the chorus of remembrance. The world kept turning, and people kept living and dying, but this digital sanctuary reminded everyone that no one was truly gone as long as they were remembered. This is a place where the legacy of our loved ones lives, where their stories continue to inspire and comfort us.

Ultimately, the website became more than a place to honor the dead. It became a celebration of life—the connections we make, the people we love, and the way our stories, no matter how small, continue to ripple outward even after we’re gone.