As I began this morning’s edition, a notice came in warning about young people and cigarette smoking. It got me thinking about the strange appeal of anything somebody tells you not to do.
Every generation tests the boundaries. Put up a fence, and somebody wants to see what’s on the other side. Put up a sign saying “Keep Out,” and now you’ve given them somewhere to go Saturday night.
Sometimes I wonder whether we’ve been approaching things backward. Tell young people not to eat anything healthy, and perhaps they’ll sneak off somewhere with a salad. Tell them they’re forbidden to come home before midnight, and they might be sitting on the couch by ten.
I wouldn’t build a parenting manual around that theory. But I have seen worse ideas put into practice.
I had five older siblings. All of them had curfews. Usually, they broke them. And usually, there were consequences severe enough that you would have thought the next one might learn something.
Apparently, each preferred to conduct an independent investigation.
By the time I reached the age when my siblings had begun campaigning for their freedom, my parents didn’t set a curfew for me.
The people most upset about this were my adult siblings.
They didn’t think it was fair.
I explained that I wasn’t out doing the things they had been doing.
That did very little to improve their attitude toward my freedom.
To this day, I don’t know why my parents were more relaxed with me. Maybe they trusted me. Maybe they were tired. Maybe, after raising the first five, they looked at the sixth and thought, “What’s the use?”
I preferred the trust explanation. My siblings probably had other theories.
There was another little difference between my childhood and theirs. I had been an uncle since I was five years old. My parents were already grandparents while they still had a young child of their own to raise.
That family arithmetic entertained me considerably.
As I got older, I enjoyed reminding them that, depending on how quickly the next generations got started, they could conceivably become great-great-grandparents before I turned twenty-five.
I thought that was a remarkable possibility, deserving of thoughtful discussion.
Two people can share a home, a life, and a deep love without sharing every opinion. Making room for honest disagreement—and listening when it gets uncomfortable—can help us understand the person sitting across the kitchen table. Or not!
Good morning, coffee drinkers, orange juice squeezers, and milk lovers! Whatever is in your cup, pull up a chair. This morning, we might disagree about something.
And that might be perfectly all right.
Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com. “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart…I Couldn’t If I Tried…”
I have long believed that a loving relationship needs room for a civilized argument now and then. Two people can love each other deeply and still look at the same situation and wonder how on earth the other person arrived at that conclusion.
You share a home. You share a life. That doesn’t mean you share a brain.
One of you sees an opportunity. The other sees a bill coming. One thinks a decision is perfectly reasonable. The other would have appreciated hearing about it before it became a decision.
Then come those familiar words:
“You did what?”
Suddenly, whatever was on television has lost its audience.
Sometimes it starts with an innocent mistake. Something forgotten. A message misunderstood. An errand that somehow required three explanations and still came home wrong.
Other times, the matter is serious. Money spent without discussion. A promise broken. A decision made by one person that affects both.
Whatever started it, there comes a moment when the conversation can go in several directions. We can explain ourselves. We can listen. Or we can begin preparing a declaration of war over the kitchen counter.
It is remarkably easy to choose that last one when our feelings are hurt.
We stop discussing what happened and begin presenting evidence about the person who did it. “You forgot”
“You forgot”
becomes “You never think about anybody but yourself.”
“You never think about anybody but yourself.”
Before long, an incident from years ago has been called to testify.
Now we have two arguments going: the one about the original problem and the one about what we just said to each other.
I think this is where the civilized part takes some work.
Being angry doesn’t excuse being cruel. And loving someone doesn’t require agreeing with everything they say. There ought to be room to say, “That hurt me,” or “I think you made a mistake,”
“That hurt me,” or “I think you made a mistake,”
without either person having to wonder whether the whole relationship is about to be put on trial.
There also has to be room for an answer.
That can be the difficult part. We may be so busy defending what we meant that we never hear what the other person experienced.
“I didn’t mean it that way”
“I didn’t mean it that way” might be true. So might “Well, that is how it felt.”
“Well, that is how it felt.”
Both deserve a hearing.
An innocent mistake may need an explanation, an apology, and a little grace. A serious breach of trust may require changed behavior and time. We cannot settle every disagreement by deciding that nobody meant any harm and putting another pot of coffee on.
But we cannot settle much if nobody is allowed to speak, either.
A quiet house can be peaceful. It can also hold two people who have given up trying to be heard. Sometimes the subject we keep avoiding is the very conversation we need to have.
Perhaps we need to say,
“I am too upset to talk about this properly right now. Let’s come back to it after supper.”
Then we need to come back after supper.
That pause ought to give us time to find our words, with enough care left in them to remember who will be listening.
I don’t believe couples need to manufacture arguments to keep a relationship healthy. Life supplies enough differences without our help. I do believe we need to be able to disagree honestly when those differences arrive.
Sometimes that means admitting we were wrong. Sometimes it means accepting that the other person has a point we would rather they hadn’t thought of.
And sometimes, even after a good conversation, we still see things differently. At least now we understand a little more about why.
When Steve and I moved to Arizona, we were fairly certain we had left most of the crazy weather behind us.
After Oklahoma and Kansas, sunshine and desert scenery sounded like a reasonable trade. I knew Arizona had its own weather problems. But somewhere in my thinking was the comforting notion that tornado country was now behind us.
More than two decades later, watching reports from Heber-Overgaard, that comfort has taken a considerable beating.
The community suffered substantial damage during a suspected tornado Wednesday evening, October 21. Reports described damaged buildings, fallen trees, downed power lines, and residents suddenly facing the work of putting their lives back together.
For those folks, the storm is already much more than a question waiting for an official answer.
During my years in law enforcement, I watched storms develop over the Oklahoma prairie. I have seen threatening clouds begin to rotate, watched funnels descend, and seen what happens when that circulation reaches the ground and starts tearing the daylights out of whatever stands in its way.
Those experiences stay with you.
When I look at storm damage now, I look for a story in what was left behind. Where did the debris travel? Which direction did the trees fall? Does the destruction follow a narrow track? Why did one building suffer so much while another nearby escaped?
Those questions matter. But experience also means recognizing that the first explanation is not always the complete explanation.
Powerful downbursts can produce damage that resembles tornado damage. Survey teams examine the broader pattern, including debris direction, structural damage, radar records, and witness accounts, to determine what happened. That work establishes both the cause and the strength of the winds.
Waiting for that determination can be frustrating, especially when the pictures look convincing. Still, the survey involves more than deciding whether to attach an EF1 or EF2 rating to an obvious tornado.
There is another distinction worth making. A tornado does not destroy a house simply by creating a vacuum. Violent winds, flying debris, and the failure of parts of a building cause the destruction. A collapsed roof, by itself, cannot settle the question of what kind of wind struck it.
Radar has its own limits. A hook echo can indicate a rotating storm with conditions favorable for tornado development. It does not, by itself, establish that a tornado is on the ground.
That does not make the danger any less real. It means the evidence deserves careful interpretation.
I also had to reconsider something about my adopted home: tornadoes are unusual here, but they are not new. The National Weather Service describes the October 2010 outbreak as the largest in Arizona history. We had already been living here for years when it happened.
Apparently, moving away from tornado country did not come with the guarantee I thought it did.
Climate change belongs in the larger conversation, too. But connecting a particular tornado to global warming requires more than pointing to an unusual storm.
45/47 TREETOPLER We*The RADARX With cutbacks by the Trump Administration weather forecasting may see budget reduced to primative restrictions.
NOAA identificatioin continuing is still a uncertainty about how climate change affects tornado activity. We can take a warming world seriously while being precise about what any single event tells us.
What concerns me most is how easily unfamiliar weather becomes weather we dismiss.
Folks prepare for what they remember. When a threat seems to belong somewhere else, it is easy to believe there must be some mistake when it arrives at your door.
I understand that thinking. I brought a little of it to Arizona myself.
The families cleaning up in Heber-Overgaard deserve answers, assistance, and time to recover. Their experience also deserves our attention long after the storm footage disappears from television.
We can choose where we live. We can decide which weather we prefer.
The weather, unfortunately, has never agreed to honor the arrangement. In recent day the National Weather Service has confirmed the storm that hit Heber-Overgaard did produce a EF-1 Tornado resulting in the areas damage to property. The report states it was rated an EF1. The tornado touched down and stayed on the ground for 9.25 miles and 11 minutes. This tornado was about 350 yards wide. Officials said one person was injured. That wasn’t the conclusion of the report.
On Wednesday morning at 7:32 a.m., officials said an EF1 tornado touched down near Prescott with max winds of 105 mph. It stayed on the ground for 8 miles and 14 minutes. It was about 300 yards wide. No injuries were reported.
Based on the Enhanced Fujita (EF) Scale, which rates tornadoes by estimated wind speed on a 0-5 scale, both tornadoes were rated EF1.
Arizona recorded at least 15 tornado warnings this week, according to the National Weather Service.
“That’s a large number for Arizona,” said meteorologist Mark O’Malley with the National Weather Service’s Phoenix office.
On Wednesday, it was the first time two tornados had touched down doing significant damage in two Arizona communities ever on the same day, in the history of weather record keeping. That is concerning to officials studying the changing effects on weather patterns in Arizona.
The damage reports may continue to be reviewed. But it appears that Arizona may not have seen the last of its unwelcome weather.
Does anyone have any information about the weather year round in Costa Rica?
Go-go boots, a stack of 45s, and a living room turned dance floor. My sisters did the dancing. I kept the records spinning. Who knew “It’s My Party” would give me a philosophy to carry through life? Pour a cup, folks. There’s another record waiting to drop.
Good morning, coffee drinkers! Have you ever heard an old song and suddenly remembered an entire room?
Not just the music. The furniture. The people. Even what they were wearing.
For me, it’s my sisters in their go-go boots, dancing across the living room like they had landed a spot on one of those groovy television shows. Meanwhile, I had an important job: keeping the records playing.
Our record player lived inside a gigantic piece of furniture that also housed the speakers and an AM-FM radio. It took up enough room that you might have expected it to sleep overnight guests.
It played three speeds—33⅓, 45, and 78—but the numbers weren’t what interested me. I wanted to load the automatic changer and watch it work. One record finished, another dropped into place, and the show continued.
There were records belonging to my parents and an uncle who lived with us. I never knew exactly whose were whose. Once the grown-ups were gone and we were home from school, ownership became less important than what we wanted to hear next.
My sisters provided the dancing. I provided the entertainment. Whether they appreciated my musical judgment is another story.
There was “L.A. International Airport,” with those big jet engines, and “Galveston” when the mood settled down a little. “Judy’s Turn to Cry” and “Runaway” had their turns, too.
But the one that stuck with me was “It’s My Party.”
I wasn’t particularly concerned with the romantic trouble unfolding in the song. I liked the declaration: it was your party, and if you wanted to cry, you could.
That sounded like a useful policy.
Even as a kid, I could imagine occasions when somebody might really tick me off and I would need to explain that my feelings were my own business. Here was a record doing the explaining for me. All I had to do was put it on.
Of course, childhood gives you only a small preview of the occasions when you might want to invoke that rule.
Life eventually supplies the rest.
Plans fall apart. People disappoint you. Something you thought would last forever ends before you’re ready. And sometimes you’re simply having a rotten afternoon without the energy to pretend otherwise.
On those days, that old song still makes a reasonable argument.
You can have your cry. You can let the record play through. Nobody says you have to be ready to dance just because everybody else is.
What stays with me most, though, is that living room: my sisters dancing, another record waiting to drop, and me enjoying my position as the person in charge of what came next.
I couldn’t have known how often those songs would follow me through life—or how differently I would hear them later.
Fortunately, my Johnny always came back to me.
But now I’m getting into “Judy’s Turn to Cry,” and that’s another record altogether.
Have another sip, folks. I’ll see what’s next on the stack.
Good morning, coffee drinkers! Have you ever lost something that mattered to you? Or screwed up so badly that even your dog wanted a little distance? And if you’re a cat person, did your cat refuse to look at you for a whole week?
Of course, with cats, it can be hard to tell whether you’ve disappointed them or they’re just keeping regular office hours.
Perhaps it was someone you loved, a friendship you depended on, or work you believed would carry you into the future. Sometimes a loss leaves an empty place where certainty used to be.
We encounter these moments at different stages of life, often before we feel prepared for them. A child losing a dear friend discovers something no child should have to learn so soon. The unexpected death of a grandparent can change the familiar comfort of childhood. Years later, losing a parent may bring grief that takes longer to understand than we first realize.
Over time, we may become more familiar with loss. Familiarity does not make it easy, but experience can help us find our footing. We begin to understand that making peace with an absence does not mean forgetting what someone meant to us.
Other losses are harder to name. There may be no funeral, no farewell, and no clear moment when everyone recognizes that something has ended. A career changes direction. A purpose is interrupted. Work we believed mattered remains unfinished, along with questions that may never be answered.
Those endings can be difficult to accept because their consequences may reach beyond the person who experienced them. Others may have depended on that work or benefited from what it might have accomplished. We cannot know everything that would have followed, but we can recognize the value of giving worthwhile efforts a fair chance.
Perhaps part of finding peace is accepting that some chapters will remain unfinished. We can acknowledge what was lost, remember why it mattered, and carry that sense of purpose into whatever we still have the opportunity to do.
Good morning Coffee Drinkers. And if you are grandchildren, or children of pipe smoking folks, or maybe fathers and grandfathers. I had a flashback the other day. And it is a great way to start the day. It takes me back to the 1960s and early 1970s.
I was having a difficult time getting past writer’s block until The Other, the 1972 movie, came on. I’ve seen it numerous times, though I’m not exactly sure why. Usually, I’m doing something else while it plays in the background. Yet here it was again—and today, a familiar sound caught my attention.
The rattle of a Prince Albert tobacco can.
That sound took me straight back to childhood. My grandfather would hand me his empty cans, and I would fill them with all the necessities a child could find. Treasures, mostly. Then I’d run across the yard carrying them, announcing every step.
You could not sneak up on a sibling, a friend hiding from you, or the family pet. A Prince Albert can gave you away every time.
It wasn’t much help when you were hiding from your parents after some disastrous deed, either. Mom or Dad could follow that rattle as though they had sonar. Especially if you were trying to sit perfectly still but were shaking, scared to death.
Those cans had a scent all their own. The tobacco aroma faded over time, leaving the smell of an old tin, but you never quite stopped lifting the flap and poking your nose inside for another whiff. And somewhere along the way, you wondered just what Albert had done to become a prince.
An empty can could keep you occupied for hours. When you were little, it helped keep you out of trouble. As you got older, Prince Albert offered another opportunity.
Prank phone calls.
I couldn’t tell you how many times we called the local grocer and asked,
“Do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Well, you’d better let him out! He’s going to suffocate!”
Then we’d hang up, convinced we had pulled off something brilliant.
There was no caller ID to announce which kid was responsible. Looking back, the grocer probably heard that same joke ten times a day and patiently humored every one of us. We thought we were fooling him. I suspect he knew more than we gave him credit for.
That was about the extent of the mischief in my little world. No threats. No settling scores. Just a familiar joke, a patient grocer, and children who could find an afternoon’s entertainment in an empty tobacco can.
I hope others were lucky enough to know something like it.
And today, all these years later, that little can found one more use: it rattled a memory loose and gave me something to write about.
For the record Prince Albert was born a prince as the second son of Ernest I, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha (in Germany), and later received his formal British title of Prince Consort when Queen Victoria formally designated him as such in 1857.Prince Albert tobacco ended up on a can because R.J. Reynolds named the brand after Edward VII, who was known as Prince Albert before he became King of the United Kingdom.
Pull up a chair. If you’re on your second cup, you’re in good company. If you’re on your third, we may need you to chair the meeting.
This morning, I’ve been thinking about what keeps people going. Especially during those stretches when the news is exhausting, the future looks uncertain, and even the coffee seems to be taking its sweet time doing its job.
I keep coming back to the folks who make room for somebody else.
A chair pulled out. A phone call answered. Someone saying, “Sit down a minute. Tell me what’s going on.”
Small things, until you need them.
When we look back at history, we usually remember the people whose names made it into the books. Presidents, inventors, leaders, and the brave souls who stood before crowds and demanded something better.
But behind those moments were people making sandwiches, arranging rides, watching children, and opening their homes. Someone stayed late to clean up. Someone brought an extra coat. Someone made sure the person who had spoken so courageously didn’t have to walk home alone.
We ought to remember those folks, too.
Their contributions remind me that you don’t have to command an audience to help change somebody’s life. Sometimes you just have to notice who’s having a hard time getting through the day.
Of course, looking back requires some honesty. The old days held kindness, but they also held closed doors. Plenty of people were expected to remain quiet, stay out of sight, or accept whatever place somebody else had assigned them.
Some of us remember that part quite well.
And yet, people kept finding one another. They built friendships, communities, and families. They stood beside someone when doing so could cost them something. Slowly, through effort and setbacks, they opened doors that others would eventually walk through.
That gives me hope for what comes next.
I can’t tell you what the world will look like twenty years from now. I’m still trying to figure out why every device in this house needs an update just when I’ve learned how to use it.
But I do wonder what people will remember about us.
Will they remember that we listened? That we checked on someone? That when a person was being pushed aside, we moved over and made room?
We have some say in those answers today.
We can disagree and still care whether someone gets home safely. We can be tired and still offer a kind word. We can admit we don’t have a solution and stay long enough to hear the problem.
So, folks, as we finish our coffee, perhaps we can think of one person who could use a little company. Send the message. Make the call. Pull out the chair.
Someday, this morning will belong to the past, too.
Good morning, coffee drinkers. Pour yourself a cup and take a breath. This morning, I’m thinking about change—the kind that begins within us, sometimes with the uncomfortable realization that we might have something wrong.
One of the biggest misconceptions we carry through life is that other people must see the world as we do—especially when it comes to the subjects that divide us most.
Someone once told me, “Everyone else has to believe as I do, or the whole world is screwed.” I was just out of high school and impressionable. That thought stayed with me—a little too well.
I wouldn’t say I fully embraced it, but I had firm ideas about right and wrong. In those days, the world looked pretty black and white to me. I hadn’t yet learned how much could exist between the two. Apparently, I thought I had life figured out before I had done much living.
Life has a way of correcting that.
Over the years, I have learned that no one has to agree with me for the world to be okay. People arrive at their beliefs through experiences I may never have had, just as my experiences have shaped me. Sometimes, we are looking at the same situation from very different places.
That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about right and wrong. Some things deserve a firm stand. But being certain and being right are not always the same thing, and listening can teach us more than insisting ever will.
There is more gray in life than I once allowed myself to see. Not every question has a simple yes-or-no answer. Sometimes, what seems obvious becomes less so when we learn what we didn’t know—or finally hear someone we hadn’t bothered to understand.
My perspectives have grown. I have not mastered them. I still catch myself reconsidering situations I thought I had settled in my mind. An old opinion will come marching out, full of confidence, and I have to stop and ask whether it still deserves the floor.
I’m not perfect. That is probably the most useful thing I can admit over this morning’s coffee.
Folks, we can give ourselves a little room to breathe. We can take a belief we’ve held tightly and loosen our grip long enough to examine it. Where did it come from? What supports it? Have we learned anything that ought to change it? Are we holding on because it still makes sense, or because we’ve held it so long that letting go feels uncomfortable?
If it holds up, keep it. If it needs adjusting, adjust it. And if it no longer holds up, we can let it go without treating every year we believed it as something we must defend.
I have done that, and it has made me a happier person. I spend less energy needing agreement and more time trying to understand. I hope that makes life a little easier for the people around me, too.
We cannot make everyone change. But we can start with the person holding our coffee cup.
Not every Western needs John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn, Lorne Greene as Ben Cartwright, or Roy Rogers and Dale Evans riding into the sunset. Some, like Virginia City, are so loaded with familiar faces you could shake the cast like a family tree and still wonder who might fall out next.
Good morning, coffee drinkers! Pull up a chair and bring your cup. I already have my chair—and lately, I have been getting considerably more use out of it than I intended.
Another unexpected gift from this bum leg arrived this week when Virginia City showed up on my television screen. My traveling remains limited, but Hollywood graciously arranged a trip out West without requiring me to get up.
And what a traveling party they provided.
This 1940 Western, directed by Michael Curtiz, serves up a whole salad of old-school movie stars: Errol Flynn, Miriam Hopkins, Randolph Scott, and Humphrey Bogart as the bandit John Murrell. Alan Hale and Guinn “Big Boy” Williams add even more familiar faces to the company.
Bogart even comes with a mustache. That alone might make you set down your coffee and take a second look.
The story follows a Union officer, played by Flynn, who escapes from a Confederate prison and becomes involved in stopping a shipment of five million dollars in gold intended to help keep the Confederacy fighting. Scott plays his former prison commander, who is working to get that gold through. Naturally, other people have their own ideas about where five million dollars ought to go.
You can imagine how peacefully everyone settles their differences.
There is enough action here to shake a stick at twice, provided nobody shoots the stick out of your hand first. A prison escape, stagecoach excitement, robbery, and competing loyalties keep things moving. Just when you think someone might have a quiet moment to explain themselves, another complication comes along.
But the cast is what held my attention.
Watching this collection of performers, I kept wondering how one movie could accommodate so many personalities. Any one of them could command a scene. Put them together, and you find yourself watching the exchanges as closely as the action.
A look. A pause. A line delivered with just enough bite. Somebody standing perfectly still while another actor does the talking—and somehow remaining just as interesting.
That is a pleasure I find in these older movies. I enjoy watching actors work off one another, letting the tension build through their voices, expressions, and timing. The stars may draw you in, but the way they play a scene together keeps you there.
And yes, there are some handsome faces in this picture. Errol Flynn was hardly hired because he looked like somebody’s weather-beaten fence post. But the appeal goes well beyond appearances. These folks know how to hold your attention.
Virginia City gave me more than another afternoon of cowboys riding across the television. It gave me a chance to appreciate familiar performers in different company, especially Bogart, whose presence in this Western kept catching my eye.
Do not expect me to spend the morning swooning over a Southern belle and waiting for a “Frankly, my dear” farewell. I was too busy wondering who would get the gold, who could be trusted, and who would make it through the next scrape. There are other suggestions on how men settle their rage in the wild west.
That is one small consolation of being temporarily parked in a chair. You have time to let a movie unfold. You notice a supporting player. You pay attention to an exchange you might otherwise have missed while heading into the kitchen.
I would still prefer a working leg. Let us be clear about that.
But this week, the television delivered a little adventure and a whole gathering of familiar faces. For a while, I stopped thinking about what I could not get up and do.
So, folks, if Virginia City wanders across your screen, give it a little of your time. Pour another cup and settle in.
I managed a trip out West without leaving my chair. Considering my current transportation arrangements, that is a pretty good morning.
One of my favorite bloggers, WrookieSchU, shared his answers to four questions this week. His posts always give me something to enjoy or think about. Take a look at his profile when you have a moment. I’ll share his responses following this post, but first, I thought I’d offer my own.
Apparently, borrowing a conversation starter is something we older folks do. I heard that at an AARP meeting. Well, it wasn’t an official AARP meeting. It was a bunch of neighbors sitting around drinking coffee. There were enough of us eligible for membership that I figured it counted.
1. What is your favorite season?
At our age, every season is our favorite. After sixty, getting to the next one starts to feel like a milestone. You look forward to the next solstice with the same anticipation you once reserved for your senior prom—with more sensible shoes and considerably less concern about who’s taking you.
2. Would you like to live by the seaside or in the country?
Yes. Either would be fine. The important word in that question is live.
The seaside sounds lovely, provided I’m far enough from the water to stay dry. I can’t run as fast—or as straight—as I used to. If the ocean decides to move into the living room, I’d like sufficient notice.
The country would be fine, too, as long as I don’t wander off and get lost. I prefer trails that make a circle and bring me back to where I started. Ideally, near a chair and a fresh pot of coffee.
3. When was the last time you used the bus?
It must have been the early nineties, coming down from Aspen toward Glenwood Springs around two in the morning, after the bars had closed.
I couldn’t help it. I had to!
Enough time has passed that I feel comfortable admitting it. Let’s leave it there before this turns into an entirely different Morning Coffee.
4. If you took a walk, would it be in the woods, to the shops, with the dog, to a park, or somewhere else?
Right now, if I took a walk, there’s a fair chance I’d fall down. I have one good leg, and I’m trying to keep it that way.
Once both legs are back in business, that’s another story. I’ve walked enough places in my life that a destination needs to make a pretty convincing case before I put my shoes on.
But honestly, with everything the world is facing today, I’d like my steps to do some good. Whether that means helping a neighbor, standing up for someone, or simply showing up when I’m needed, that would be a walk worth taking.
Gratitude
This morning, I’m grateful for folks who give us something to think about, neighbors who keep the coffee conversation going, and Steve, who has kept dinner coming while I offer instructions from my chair.
He still isn’t listening. Judging by dinner, he may be onto something.
Below are the questions as answered by WrookieShu. Click on his name to view his site or click here!
I used to love summer in Ireland as it was a real novelty to have some sort of sunshine. If we had 2 weeks of summer a year, we were doing really well. Now in Sydney, summer is way too hot and humid so I will say spring is my favourite season. You’re happy for the cold to leave and warmer weather to have arrived. However, I do appreciate all seasons for various reasons and I feel lucky to experience all of them, whether it be in Ireland or here in Australia.
2. Would you like to live by the seaside or in the country?
I would love to live by the sea for the beautiful beach walks. I really enjoy hearing the waves, it’s just so therapeutic. I have experienced both, living by the sea and in the country and have really enjoyed both.
We used to live near Bronte beach and I would take the walk along here on a near daily basis We also lived in a country village where we would walk the forest park at least once a day
3. When was the last time you used the bus?
I never really take a bus unless the trains aren’t working and they have replacement buses. Sadly this was pretty frequent when living in the Shire as the trains were always having track work. I think they said there has been 11 weekends so far this year where there was track work. It becomes very frustrating and I guess that was one reason we moved closer to the city. So I will say maybe a couple of months ago I was on a bus.
4. If you took a walk, would it be in the woods, to the shops, walk the dog, to a park, or somewhere else?
Into the woods sounds good, as long as it’s during the day!!!
Pour a cup, folks. Today’s Morning Coffee is about what happens when life makes you sit down while the world keeps moving. What is one small thing that made you smile recently?
Apparently, the world does not stop just because you break your leg. I find that inconsiderate.
Good morning, coffee drinkers! Pull up a chair. I already have mine, and lately we have become inseparable.
Steve made dinner Monday evening using a recipe he found online. I never use recipes, but I have to admit—his turned out delightful. He’s been doing the cooking ever since I broke my ankle and leg. I’ve been supervising from my chair and offering helpful instructions. He hasn’t been listening. Apparently, dinner is coming along just fine anyway.
With a cast on my leg, I have had plenty of time to observe life from a seated position. My television provides the entertainment. My MacBook provides the distractions. My phone provides distractions from those distractions.
Then my Apple Watch tells when me to stand. Sometimes, I even pay attention to it.
There ought to be a button that says, “Please discuss this with my surgeon.”
Meanwhile, Otis, our Jack Russell Terrier, continues racing through the house as though someone has announced that squirrels are taking over the government. Steve keeps things moving, and I supervise from my chair—a position for which I have discovered considerable natural talent.
But somewhere between the television, the notifications, and watching Otis break the household land-speed record, a thought occurred to me.
How much of our lives do we spend feeling behind?
Otis Guarding The House
Behind on the bills. Behind on the housework. Behind on returning messages. Behind on whatever we meant to accomplish before lunch, before Friday, or before we turned a certain age.
Even sitting still can feel like something we ought to be doing more efficiently.
Watch a movie? Certainly. But answer three messages, check the news, and figure out dinner while you are at it.
By the time the credits roll, we need someone to explain the movie we just watched.
I suspect some of you know exactly what I mean.
Somewhere today, somebody is drinking coffee before a shift they would rather not work. Somebody is caring for a person they love. Somebody is looking at an empty chair. Somebody is starting over, quietly, without an audience to applaud the effort.
And somebody is simply trying to get through their version of a Monday. Without saying something that requires an apology on a Tuesday. Or a Wednesday, or a Thursday. Or whatever day of the week it may be.
There is room for all of you at this table.
You do not need an impressive story to belong here. Tell me about the dog who stole your breakfast. The person you miss. The song that took you back forty years before your coffee had time to cool.
Those are the things I enjoy hearing. They give us something to recognize in one another.
My broken leg has certainly rearranged my days. I would have preferred a less dramatic reason to sit down. But since I am here, I might as well pay attention.
There is coffee to enjoy. There are old movies to revisit. There is Steve to talk with and Otis to watch—preferably before he launches himself across the furniture.
Otis and Benjamin
And there are folks on the other side of this screen, living lives I would like to hear about.
What is one small thing that made you smile recently?
Tell me in the comments. It does not have to be extraordinary. Around here, a good story can begin with a cup of coffee and a dog behaving badly.
When news of Dolly Parton’s death began circulating, Steve was at a client’s place of business. He called me and asked, “Have you heard the news about Dolly?”
I didn’t want to believe what he was about to tell me. Friends had called him with the news, but I wanted confirmation before accepting it. Then came the recorded announcement from her nephew.
When Steve and I spoke again, I said, “Well, let the family fights begin.”
Steve believed she would have arranged her affairs carefully enough to prevent that.
“They’re human,” I told him.
That was a cynical response, I admit. But I’ve lived long enough to know that careful planning and peaceful agreement are two different things.
In the weeks afterward, reports emerged of a legal dispute between the company managing Dolly’s business interests and her nephew. That does not establish that the whole family was fighting over an inheritance. It did, however, bring me back to a subject that reaches far beyond famous people and fortunes: what happens when grief meets money.
Some families come together after a death. They comfort one another, honor the person they’ve lost, and handle what remains with care. Others discover that the funeral flowers have barely wilted before someone starts keeping score.
Who got the watch? Who was promised the car? Who has the keys to the house? And why did somebody else receive more?
Suddenly, years of family history are being entered into evidence over a dining room table.
“I was always there.”
“You already got your share.”
“Mother told me I could have that.”
Mother, unfortunately, is no longer available to clarify the conversation.
And it doesn’t take a fortune. A modest bank account, a house on the edge of town, or an old piece of furniture can become the center of a battle that costs more—in money and relationships—than the thing itself is worth.
Sometimes the object matters because it holds a memory. I understand that. A watch can carry the memory of the hand that wore it. A chair can remind you of someone who sat there every evening. Those feelings deserve tenderness.
But tenderness can disappear quickly when “I would love to have that” becomes “That belongs to me.”
A will or a trust may provide instructions, but paperwork cannot guarantee good behavior. Nor does a disagreement automatically mean someone is greedy. There can be honest questions, mistakes, or genuine concerns about how an estate is handled.
Still, there is a difference between seeking an answer and refusing to accept any answer that doesn’t favor you.
That is the part that troubles me. At the very time people should be grieving and helping one another heal, they can become consumed with winning. The person who died gets pushed into the background while everyone argues over what that person left behind.
I was taught a simple rule: “If you didn’t earn it, it’s not yours.”
I think of that as a lesson in entitlement. An inheritance may become yours through someone’s wishes, but their possessions were never yours to demand while they were living. Their work, their savings, and their decisions belonged to them.
If they leave you something, receive it with gratitude. If they don’t, disappointment does not have to become a declaration of war.
I would rather remember someone for the life we shared than spend the rest of mine fighting over what was in their garage.
Drink your coffee, folks. And if someone leaves you the coffee pot, try to remember who used to fill it.
This morning’s coffee takes us back to a time long ago. If you remember it, good for you. For most of us, there are a few parts missing.
It was a time when the rules were more of a suggestion, and the law was applied with a light touch. I know. I was the one applying it.
So pour yourself a cup, folks. We’re going back to the Habana—where the drinks were strong, the characters were unforgettable, and the details sometimes depended on who was doing the remembering.
It was the early 1980s, and another celebration was underway at the Habana Inn in Oklahoma City. Around that place, it sometimes seemed as though there was something to celebrate every day.
Then came a bomb threat.
Calls went to the hotel and the police and fire departments. The caller provided enough detail to raise serious concerns, and the decision was made to evacuate the property. Shows were taking place that afternoon, and drag queens were everywhere. Hotel employees began directing guests toward a parking lot across from the northeast corner of the hotel.
The manager was a short, feisty man whose name I can no longer recall. He was of retirement age, and he expected people to listen when he spoke. That afternoon, he made his way around the property telling everyone to leave.
Behind the hotel, near the back swimming pool, he encountered a drag queen who wasn’t inclined to follow his instructions.
He explained that there had been a bomb threat and that she needed to evacuate. She refused. They exchanged words. Then the manager pulled out a can of mace and sprayed her.
Her makeup began running down her face, and her reaction left little doubt about how badly it burned. But she wasn’t backing down. She pulled off a high-heeled shoe and took off after him.
Across the street, KOCO-TV had a camera crew filming the evacuation for the evening news. Suddenly, through the hotel’s front entrance came the manager, running for all he was worth. Behind him came the drag queen, makeup ruined, shoe raised overhead, screaming and cussing.
The folks gathered across the street had plenty to say about that unexpected addition to the afternoon’s entertainment. I don’t remember every remark, but the scene hardly needed commentary.
As I recall, a group of bartenders from the Pipeline—which later became the Finish Line—intercepted her and helped the manager reach safety.
For those who witnessed it, that chase became one of the Habana stories that never quite faded. Among those still around to tell it, I imagine it remains as vivid as ever.
But the laughter is only one part of what I remember.
The manager continued working and living at the Habana until he was found dead one morning in Penthouse B, near the back swimming pool.
Questions circulated afterward. Had someone been with him? Had he suffered a heart attack? Had anything else contributed to his death? People offered theories, but I never learned a confirmed explanation.
His would not be the only death I came to associate with that room.
One of the others was a man I knew well: Larry. I keep the last name to preserve the privacy for the family.
Larry was a bail bondsman, a reserve deputy with the Oklahoma County Sheriff’s Office, and the owner of a pawnshop in Del City. You would have been hard-pressed to meet a nicer man.
He also struggled with the distance between who he was and who he believed the world expected him to be. We talked about that. From what I saw, liquor and drugs had become ways for him to cope.
Our friendship did not erase my responsibilities as a police officer. More than once, I told him plainly, “If I ever catch you with drugs, it’s going to be the slammer. I can’t look the other way.”
Then I would get off duty, and we would go browsing through secondhand stores, looking through other people’s discarded treasures.
I sat with him at the Finish Line and had drinks. I also visited him in Penthouse 7, directly above the nightclubs. When the crowds filled the Copa or the Finish Line, you could feel the music through the room: thump, thump, thump. The party downstairs made its presence known upstairs.
Later, Larry moved into Penthouse B.
That room already had a reputation. People said it was haunted, and I didn’t even like going near it. Between Larry’s struggles and my own uneasiness about that room, I feared something would happen. Looking back, that was fear—not knowledge of what lay ahead.
I had been away from the property for a few days. When I returned, the news was everywhere.
They had found Larry.
I was told it appeared he had died in his sleep. I never learned a confirmed cause.
When I think of him now, I remember the man who browsed secondhand stores with me, the conversations we shared, and the kindness that existed alongside his troubles.
There was much more to the Habana than its bars, parties, and penthouses.
Jungle Red was a novelty shop where you could buy gay merchandise, magazines, and items for more private interests. For people exploring a part of themselves they weren’t ready to discuss openly, it offered a place to browse without involving the U.S. Postal Service.
Up a few steps next to the Copa, was a dress shop. Apparently, every respectable gay establishment needed one, and this one offered some impressive selections. If something in the window caught your eye, you asked the attendant at Jungle Red.
Not everyone wanted the pounding music of a nightclub. For those who preferred a quieter evening, there was a martini and piano bar just off the front lobby. It was named the Ledo.
Beside it was a restaurant. Gusher’s. All relating to the Oklahoma Oil Boom. Not the activity taking place at the hotel. I remember the eatery as one of the finest around. On weekends, the place stayed packed well beyond its posted closing time, and it remained busy throughout the week.
A large plate-glass window in the dining room looked south toward the main swimming pool and the surrounding rooms. Guests could sit over a meal and watch people making their way along the walkways above and below.
Naturally, those walks acquired a name: “the walk of shame.”
At the Habana, people sometimes accused others of doing exactly what they had done themselves—at least once, and usually more than twice.
Love stories began there. Others ended there. Sometimes, both happened to the same couple.
It could also be the last place you expected to recognize the handsome athlete from your hometown, especially in circumstances he probably wouldn’t have wanted discussed back in Smallville.
People came out at the Habana. Some did so willingly. Others were recognized before they were ready.
Looking back, I remember the laughter, the music, the friendships, and the freedom people found within those walls. I also remember the loneliness some carried with them, even in the middle of a crowd.
For some, the Habana was a place to spend an evening. For others, it became a home.
And for a few, it was where their lives ended.
For many more, it was where they finally began living as themselves.
The Habana was known as the largest gay resort in the southwestern United States. Just off the property stood a bar originally called Saddle Tramps. Over the years, the name was shortened to Tramps, but I always preferred Saddle Tramps. You needed a saddle to ride out whatever you rounded up in there.
The drinks were usually liquor mixed with a drop of chaser. Ask for a whiskey and Coke, and you’d get three-quarters whiskey, a squirt of Coke, and then a little more whiskey—just in case the Coke had weakened it.
Within an hour and a half, every person in the joint was a ten.
The night wasn’t over. There was a dance club up the street called Angles where you could get your head cleared. Before going back to Saddle Tramps for another drink. Then you’d end the evening at the Finish Line or the Copa. At closing time everyone would spill over to the Lobby where they would either go to the restaurant or end up in the yard square and watch the walks of shame, if they were not walking it themselves. In all of this it was a peaceful event. If trouble makers showed up, a group of bears would take care of them. Escorting them off the property. Of course as security, we’d watch to make sure nothing got out of hand.
It was a different time and life was experiencing change. Today, the hotel has changed ownership. There is a book being written on this period. Which I have given written information about the times to the person writing it. I hope those memories live on. Because it was one hell of good time.
Well, if you survived Monday, pour yourself a cup. Depending on your calendar and community, you may have called it Columbus Day, Indigenous Peoples’ Day, or Native American Day.
Whatever name you used, it got me thinking about the Oklahoma of my childhood.
When we played Cowboys and Indians on the playground, we had the real McCoys on both sides—kids from cowboy families and kids from Native families.
Sadly, the cowboys always seemed to win, and our Native friends went along with it. That was simply how we played. I don’t remember anyone questioning why the ending had already been decided.
Now that I am older, I realize how sad that was. Truly sad. Even in a childhood game, we were repeating the story we had been taught: who got to be the hero, who was expected to lose, and whose side of the story hardly mattered.
Had I understood then what I understand now, I would have wanted more victories for my friends—and a chance for them to tell the story their way.
But we had been programmed. Before we were old enough to question the script, we already knew our parts.
Growing up, we commonly used the word “Indian.” We also watched television westerns where Indians fought cowboys, and the script usually told us whom to cheer for before anyone fired a shot.
Looking back, television was doing a fair amount of our thinking for us.
I still have Native friends who call themselves Indians. That is their choice, and I respect it. People deserve to tell us who they are, rather than have the rest of us decide for them.
The Oklahoma I remember has changed. Tribal businesses and casinos became increasingly visible over the years, especially after I moved away. Places I associated with one chapter of my childhood began to look very different.
But seeing a changing landscape and understanding its history are two different things.
For years, I wondered how land purchased by a tribe became tribal land. I also confused that question with whether the land was sacred. Those are different matters: sacredness concerns religious and cultural significance, while trust status involves a legal process through which the federal government holds land for a tribe or an individual Native person.
Still, understanding that distinction leaves me with a larger question: How did we arrive at a place where Native nations sometimes have to buy back portions of the lands they lost?
That question stays with me longer than the explanations about deeds and boundaries.
What might this country look like if settlers and the governments that followed them had respected Native nations’ right to govern themselves? If agreements had been honored? If families had not been forced from their homes?
What if there had been no Trail of Tears?
Would we be better off today? Would our relationships with one another be different? What knowledge, traditions, and possibilities might have survived that were instead disrupted or lost?
I am not looking for an argument over my morning coffee. I am wondering about the distance between the history we inherited and the history we might have made.
We cannot know exactly how that other America would have turned out. But uncertainty about what might have been does not erase what actually happened.
Perhaps that is what this day brings to my table: a reason to look beyond the television westerns of my childhood and listen to the people whose histories those scripts so often pushed aside.
My coffee cannot change yesterday. But I can still learn something today.
The reference to forced removal and the Trail of Tears is supported by the National Park Service’s historical account. nps.gov
“They keep building the border wall. If nothing else, it gives politicians something to crow about. Though these days, you have to wonder whether anyone’s still asking for directions to get here.”
— Imagining Will Rogers weighing in from the grave…
A dispute over border wall construction in southern Arizona has become a disagreement over law enforcement responsibilities, public safety, and the resources available to a county sheriff’s office.
In an October 9 open letter, the Arizona Sheriffs’ Association raised concerns about allegedly unanswered requests for assistance during protests in Santa Cruz County. The association said federal and state officials had reported incidents involving alleged violence, threats, and property damage. It called for those allegations to be documented and investigated.
The letter also attributed to Sheriff David Hathaway a policy limiting deputies’ responses to protest-related calls to incidents involving violence. Whether particular requests involved criminal conduct, and how his office handled them, requires further examination. According to Arizona’s Family’s report, the sheriff’s office had not responded to the station’s request for comment.
The dispute follows an October 5 federal operation at a protest encampment near Lochiel. Arizona’s Family reported that video showed a protester being removed from a cottonwood tree using a cherry picker before the tree was cut down. Activists had occupied the site to oppose construction of a second border barrier. That confrontation is described here.
The public safety questions deserve attention. So does the capacity of the local agency being asked to respond.
Santa Cruz County covers approximately 1,236 square miles of land and had an estimated population of 50,020 in July 2025. The Border Sheriffs directory lists 39 sworn officers for its sheriff’s office, although that listing does not establish current staffing or the number available for patrol on any particular shift.
America has long welcomed people who came to do business—or simply escape winter for a little sunshine. This year, some businesses in those sunny destinations say fewer visitors are returning, and trade has slowed to a crawl. The sunshine is still here. The customers, it seems, are checking the forecast for more than the weather.
From my experience in law enforcement, an agency’s total sworn strength can give a misleading impression of its available manpower. Days off, training, leave, investigations, supervision, and other assignments affect how many officers can answer calls. A fair assessment should examine actual deployment and workload before drawing conclusions about available resources.
Staffing constraints do not erase a sheriff’s responsibilities. Arizona law requires sheriffs to preserve the peace and address public offenses and disturbances. Whether those duties were fulfilled here should be evaluated through dispatch records, incident reports, requests for assistance, and the sheriff’s explanation.
Federal agencies should also explain how they planned to manage demonstrations and coordinate with local authorities. Construction that draws sustained opposition requires clear arrangements for emergency response, protection of lawful protest, and investigation of alleged crimes.
The association has offered available assistance through the Arizona Department of Public Safety if requested. That offers a possible route toward cooperation while preserving the county sheriff’s independent authority.
My concern is whether the agencies involved have established a workable plan that protects residents, protesters, workers, and officers without leaving routine county services short of personnel. Answering that question requires documented facts, an opportunity for all sides to respond, and a realistic accounting of resources.
The National Weather Service has issued winter storm warnings for parts of the state through Monday morning. An earlier forecast called for 10 to 20 inches of snow in some areas, with isolated totals approaching 30 inches in the Bob Marshall Wilderness.
Thirty inches. That is considerably more wilderness than I require.
NBC Montana also reported that the Beartooth Highway’s closure was moved up to Friday because of the approaching winter weather. When even the highway is closing early, I consider that a fairly clear invitation to stay home.
Some folks see that forecast and think, “How beautiful! Let’s pack up and spend the winter there.”
I admire their enthusiasm. From Arizona.
Desert living suits Steve and me just fine. Give me a wide horizon, a warm afternoon, and a winter wardrobe that doesn’t require instructions.
Somewhere in my head, the Green Acres theme is playing while I compose my own little tribute to staying warm. Steve has probably heard enough of it already.
I have gone north in November. I was younger then. I didn’t know what I know now.
The sky would turn gray, and the weather forecaster would assure us that we were expecting wind and cold. Then we would wake up to waist-deep snow.
Apparently, the snow had neglected to attend the briefing.
I remember drifts deep enough for cattle to walk over barbed-wire fences and wander miles from where they belonged. Across that stretch of country—Texas, the Oklahoma Panhandle, southwestern Kansas, and into Colorado—winter could make a fence seem more like a suggestion.
The cattle weren’t respecting property lines. They were looking for somewhere better to stand.
I understood their position.
I have also gone into Wyoming in December, when the forecast called for “a dusting.”
A foot of snow later, I began to suspect that Wyoming used a different measuring system.
I was young enough to tolerate it then. Or at least young enough to claim I could. There may also have been a few questionable concoctions involved that improved my opinion of the situation without improving the weather.
They didn’t melt the snow. They merely made being trapped indoors seem briefly like something I had agreed to.
Meanwhile, the snow kept piling up outside, and the roofline began looking uncomfortably close to ground level.
These are experiences that build character. I believe I have accumulated enough character to remain in Mesa.
So, no, I won’t be meeting anyone in Montana on Monday. Not for snow, a sick moose, or a lost tourist. Send photographs. I will study them from a comfortable chair and express the appropriate concern.
I moved to the desert to stay warm, and that decision continues to hold up beautifully.
If I get too warm, I can daydream about lounging beside the pool, with my broken leg propped safely out of the proceedings. Otis will be looking at me as though I’m the household misfit.
This from a dog who considers running through the house at aircraft speed a reasonable afternoon activity.
In my version of the pool scene, he eventually joins me, dog-paddles back to his float, and settles beside a water bottle with a little umbrella attached.
He has no job, pays no bills, and somehow ends up on the better vacation.
That is life around here, folks.
Monday, October 12, 2026. I checked. It is Monday.
Mesa may have a few showers in the forecast, but nobody is predicting that I’ll need to shovel my way to breakfast.
This morning’s coffee comes with an eye-opener. I hadn’t planned to start the day this way, but the idea landed in my lap last week while I was lying around with a broken right ankle and leg. And—poof!—on came a flick I’ve seen so many times I can practically recite the dialogue: What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
Apparently, a broken leg wasn’t enough to keep me uncomfortable. Bette Davis had to drop by and finish the job. I can tell you I know “What Ever Happened To Baby Jane!”
Joan Crawford as Blanche (left) Bette Davis as Baby Jane (right)
I have watched What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? so many times that I can almost recite the dialogue along with the actors.
I first discovered it late one night while caring for my ailing mother-in-law. I watched it again when my own mother was in similar circumstances, and recently returned to it while recovering from a broken leg. Somehow, this wonderfully unsettling film keeps finding me when I’m already confined to one spot.
Bette Davis plays Baby Jane to perfection. Her performance gets under my skin every time. Joan Crawford, as her sister Blanche, makes you feel the helplessness of being trapped upstairs and dependent on someone increasingly cruel and unpredictable. From the moment Jane claims Blanche’s bird has escaped through the window, you know something is terribly wrong. Before long, you’re worrying that anyone who gets too close—including the neighbors—might meet the same fate as the housekeeper, Elvira.
Then there is the singing. Davis’s strained, childlike rendition of “I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy” makes my skin crawl, yet I still want to hear it. For me, it has the same unsettling, irresistible quality as the Silver Shamrock jingle in Halloween III: Season of the Witch (which, by the way, is our anniversary song—Steve’s and mine) Once it gets into your head, it settles in and refuses to leave.
Although the story includes murder, its final scene relies on something more haunting than a bloody spectacle. That is part of what keeps bringing me back: the performances, the dread, and the feeling that even familiar scenes can still unsettle me.
But I’m left with one thoroughly impractical question: whatever happened to the Baby Jane doll? Can I get one—and, more importantly, will it sing that tune? Apparently, watching the film repeatedly hasn’t disturbed me quite enough.
I say bring it back for this years Christmas sales! Why not reconcile with a symbol of pure craziness. It is in style today. Isn’t it?
I read the other day that the First Dude had died. I stopped and looked at that headline twice.
The First Dude?
Was he somebody’s husband? A fellow who insisted on being first in line everywhere he went? Or one of those rascals who walks into a room as though he owns the place?
Was he one of the president’s kids? A former president’s brother? No, neither seemed quite right for a name like First Dude. I thought briefly of Doug Emhoff, Kamala Harris’s husband. He carried himself with enough quiet confidence to pull it off, but he already had a title: Second Gentleman.
The more I read, the more I thought I had him figured out. He was a Florida fellow with a remarkable social life. He had been quite the catch in his younger days and, from all appearances, remained popular for years. His family was enormous. There were 538 youngsters of racing age on the books, though I doubt he remembered every name.
And talk about a family making something of itself: 302 of them became winners. Together, his offspring earned nearly $30 million. That would give anybody at the coffee table something to brag about.
But the First Dude had earned his own reputation long before his children came along. He was a competitor who kept showing up among the best. In 2010, he finished second in the Preakness Stakes and third in the Belmont Stakes. He earned more than $1.4 million during his own racing career.
By now, you may have caught on. The First Dude was a horse.
First Dude, to give him his proper name, was a racehorse and later a stallion at Double Diamond Farm in Florida. He was named Florida Stallion of the Year in both 2017 and 2018. He died at 19.
First Dude was a Stud! A Horse’s, Horse!
I began reading with a chuckle over his name. I finished thinking about what it means to leave a mark. First Dude ran his own races, and then a whole new generation carried something of him onto the track.
So raise your coffee cup to the First Dude. He was quite a fellow. And, yes, he really did own a little piece of the place.
Based on reporting by Horse Racing Nation. Photo: Bob Mayberger / Eclipse Sportswire.
A while ago, I was having what I thought was a fairly general conversation about a story in the Bible. I mentioned how many of us grow up hearing about a snake, an apple, and the first sin.
Well! Apparently, I had wandered into the Garden of Eden without checking my vocabulary at the gate.
“It wasn’t a snake, and it wasn’t an apple,” the person quickly corrected me. “It was a serpent and forbidden fruit.”
I nearly asked, “Are we absolutely sure about the produce?”
But I held my tongue. The distinction clearly mattered to this person, and I could respect that.
Still, it got me thinking. If the apple isn’t identified in the original story, how did it become such a familiar part of the version many of us heard as children? Somewhere along the way, somebody supplied the illustration, and the apple has been carrying the blame ever since.
That is quite a reputation for something we now put in a lunchbox.
And then there is the serpent. Tell a three-year-old about a snake, and you may get a nod. Tell that same child about a serpent, and you may have opened a question session that lasts until supper.
“What’s a serpent?”
“A snake.”
“Then why didn’t you say snake?”
There goes your afternoon.
The forbidden fruit could be even more troublesome.
“What kind of fruit?”
“The story doesn’t say.”
“Then how do we know which one not to eat?”
Try explaining that while cutting up an apple for their snack.
Children have a wonderful way of finding the question adults have learned to step around. They haven’t yet developed our habit of nodding politely when an explanation raises three more questions than it answers.
They simply ask.
Why was the fruit forbidden? Why was the tree there? Why could the serpent talk? Can the snake in the backyard talk?
And if it can, should we let it finish before calling somebody?
Before long, you are trying to explain temptation, disobedience, and consequences to someone whose greatest temptation that morning was eating a crayon.
Yet we sometimes treat their questions as a problem. We rush to simplify the story, then become uncomfortable when they notice that the simplified version doesn’t quite add up.
Perhaps the difficulty isn’t always in what children can understand. Perhaps it is in what adults are willing to explain—or willing to admit they don’t know.
A child asking “Why?” hasn’t necessarily challenged anyone’s faith. That child may simply believe you know the answer.
What a compliment. And what a responsibility.
The part that troubles me reaches beyond the snake and the apple. Children ask questions before they learn which questions make a room uncomfortable. They can play happily with another child before an adult gives them a reason to notice differences, draw lines, or decide who belongs.
Then we call the process growing up.
Growing up ought to give us more understanding, more kindness, and better questions. But sometimes we hand children our grudges and prejudices along with our explanations, as though everything we inherited deserves to be passed along.
Perhaps we could leave a few of those things out of the lesson.
This morning, I’m raising my coffee cup to the little ones who keep asking. The ones who can turn a simple explanation into an afternoon’s work with a single word.
And perhaps, before we teach them to stop asking it, we ought to ask it ourselves.
I thought I would bring you up to date on how I’m doing socially and professionally. Despite doing absolutely nothing, I continue to climb the ladder of success.
For years, I had cousins in Oklahoma and Arkansas, with a few sprinkled across Texas. I was the adventurous one who made it to Colorado, Wyoming, and Arizona. But now a cousin of mine has moved from Kansas City to Chicago. Technically, he’s my cousin’s son, but he’s only ten years younger than I am, so we’ve never bothered with the fine print.
He lives about twenty floors up. That is a level of upward mobility I could never achieve without an elevator. When I pass through Chicago, I plan to announce that I’m stopping by the penthouse. Whether he actually lives in a penthouse is a detail I’ll leave out.
Did I mention he’s a doctor? Around the café, that earns me another badge of distinction, even though I didn’t attend a single one of his classes.
I’m having fun with it, of course. My cousin’s accomplishments belong to him. But people borrow the shine from someone else’s success all the time. Sometimes it’s harmless bragging over coffee. Sometimes that borrowed shine is used to convince us to trust someone or accept a deal we haven’t looked at closely.
That brings me to a habit I learned as a law enforcement officer, one that has helped me many times since: question what you’re told.
If a story sounds convincing, ask what supports it. If someone claims an impressive connection, find out what that connection actually means. If an offer sounds too good to pass up, take the time to read the terms. You don’t have to be suspicious of everyone. You can simply give yourself room to check the facts before you decide.
Sometimes the evidence confirms the story. Other times, it shows you something quite different.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish my coffee and call my cousin. I have to find out whether I can honestly keep saying “penthouse.”
What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?
I received this story suggestion while I was doodling, and it brought to mind a memory…
To tell this story, I have to rewind to my early days of adulthood, when I was continuing my education and my roommates were contributing generously to my spontaneity.
One night, while we were sitting around entertaining ourselves, somebody issued a challenge: Go stand on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.
The stop signs were posted across the street in this one town..
My buddy and I decided we had to go right then, dressed as we were. I had on shorts and a tank top. He had on jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. My pickup would provide the transportation. Planning would have to catch up with us somewhere along the road.
We left the south side of Oklahoma City at three in the morning. By six, we had reached the Texas state line. We kept stopping for things we had forgotten, and by noon we had made it to Amarillo. With speed limits around 55 miles an hour, the journey was giving us plenty of time to reconsider our decision.
Somewhere west of Amarillo, we pulled over and fell asleep. Four or maybe six hours later, we woke up and continued our mission.
At the New Mexico state line, a brightly lit welcome to the Land of Enchantment appeared ahead of us. Coming west across that wide stretch of country, it was something to behold. From a distance, I thought we might have to stop and check in. As we got closer, I discovered we could enter freely. Later, I learned we could leave freely, too, provided neither of us got arrested.
By the time we reached Albuquerque, it was rush hour. I remember feeling strangely lonely. I could change lanes without anybody honking at me.
West of the city, the road grew dark again. We made plenty of pit stops along the way. Out in those wide stretches of desert, we also spotted what looked like promising sites for a little roadside golf. Fortunately, we had forgotten the clubs along with nearly everything else.
In Arizona, we stopped at a store with a big totem out front and a Texaco sign. We had one credit card between us, so we charged every supply we thought we might need, packed the pickup, and headed for Winslow.
Finally, we saw the exit.
We found a corner with a little sign telling us we had reached the place. We parked, stepped out of the truck—I want to be clear that we did not hop out—and walked over. We tried to look like two men who stood on corners in Arizona all the time.
Then we sang about standing on a corner in Winslow.
As if on cue, a woman in a flatbed truck drove past, heading west. She did not slow down. She did not look at us. Apparently, the song had oversold that part.
We had traveled so far that we needed proof before we went home. I pulled into a nearby motel and asked for directions to the interstate, though I already knew where it was. I came away with a business card and a book of matches.
You’d have to go there to get those, I reasoned.
On the return trip, my right front headlight went out just as we approached a trooper waiting in the median. He listened to the story of our mission, watched me give the bumper a kick, and saw the headlight come back on. We laughed, and he sent us on our way.
We seemed to make better time heading home. I suggested we must have a tailwind and somehow be traveling in the jet stream. My buddy accepted that explanation without question.
Come to think of it, I’ve barely mentioned him in this story. I reached over once to make sure he was warm. He was. He also appeared to be breathing and moving, both encouraging signs.
A silent partner can be the best kind of traveling companion.
Especially when you’re driving hundreds of miles to stand on a corner and discover the girl in the flatbed truck has other plans.
A mention of Stevie Nicks took me from an Oklahoma peanut field before sunrise to three Fleetwood Mac concerts with Steve. Funny what a song can bring back.
Recently, I read a piece on KikiFikar’s blog about family, texting, and Fleetwood Mac. One mention of Stevie Nicks sent me somewhere I hadn’t expected to go: back to an Oklahoma peanut field before sunrise.
You Can Go Your Own Way…
Memory is a curious thing. Some days, a word I need won’t come when I call for it. Someone can ask me about an event I was part of, and I’ll have trouble finding it in my head. Then a song comes along, opens a door, and there I am, riding out to work with my brother-in-law and KOMA playing on the radio.
They played Fleetwood Mac and Elton John. I especially remember “Bennie and the Jets.” At that hour, I thought the music was moving a lot faster than I was. The sun wasn’t up yet. Some mornings, it seemed the moon had barely finished its own shift.
We were headed to the peanut fields to move irrigation pipe. I mean the kind you picked up and carried, section by section, across the length of a field. And yes, fields is plural. We didn’t have farmhands, unless you counted the ones at the ends of our arms. Those hands also hauled hay, fed cattle, trained horses, and built fence.
When the temperature climbed past 100, those same hands became very interested in holding a fishing pole. We called it bottom fishing. Whether we caught anything or not, sitting near the water sounded better than moving pipe.
Years later, Fleetwood Mac found its way back into my life through Steve.
When we moved to Phoenix in 2002, I made the mistake of telling him I’d heard Stevie Nicks had been spotted filling her car near one of my offices. From then on, my commute came with an assignment: report any Stevie sightings.
After enough days of having nothing to report, I told him she probably wore disguises. I may have added that I’d heard she dressed like a witch. Steve did not appreciate my investigative work.
To make up for it, I accompanied him to three Fleetwood Mac concerts. One gave me such a migraine that we stopped on the way home and bought what felt like the convenience store’s entire supply of pain relievers. At another, we took my cousin, who had enjoyed himself quite a bit before the show began and made sure everyone around us knew he was there. I think I enjoyed that concert most of all.
The surprising part is that, years before Steve met me, he would have been standing outside a Stevie Nicks concert. His grandfather was a Southern Baptist preacher, and Steve took what he’d been taught seriously. As a young man, he believed Stevie was a witch and Fleetwood Mac was evil. He once went to the Lloyd Noble Center in Norman with a Bible and a sign to protest one of her concerts.
I still find it remarkable that the young man outside the venue grew into the man beside me, hoping I might spot Stevie at a gas station. When he tells that story now, it reminds me how much a person can change. By the time we met, he had already begun finding his own way. We’ve both kept at it ever since.
So KikiFikar’s piece gave me more than a Fleetwood Mac memory. It brought back a dark drive to the peanut fields, my brother-in-law’s radio, a concert migraine, my cousin having the time of his life, and a younger Steve I never knew.
If a song takes you somewhere this morning, let it play. You might remember a person you miss, a day you can laugh about now, or just how far you’ve come since you first heard it. I’ll raise my coffee to that—and to whatever song KOMA was playing while we carried that last piece of pipe.
In their day, coffee was hot. It was waiting on the breakfast table, offered to anyone who stopped by, or kept brewing when someone had to stay awake all night. You took it black, with sugar, with cream, or with both. That was about the extent of the menu.
If my grandparents—or even my dad—could pull up to a coffee shop today, I think the menu would stop them in their tracks. Iced coffee? Coffee with foam? A drive-thru where people wait in line just to order a cup?
And then there was the ceremony of opening a fresh can of ground coffee. Someone would work the can opener around the lid and get the first breath of that rich aroma. If you were nearby, you leaned in for your turn. There was nothing quite like it. I’d recommend experiencing it once in your life, but once probably won’t be enough.
At home, we made coffee by the pot. You put the grounds in the maker, waited for the water to work its way through, and poured a cup when it was ready. I learned that when it was ready was an important part of the process. Pulling the carafe out too early could leave you cleaning up the counter before you’d had your first sip.
I still like sugar in mine. You may take yours black or with enough cream to change its color entirely. These days, you can have it poured over ice and topped with just about anything. My dad might have looked at that cup and asked when the coffee was coming.
But the part I remember best had little to do with how anyone ordered it. I remember waking to the sound of my parents or grandparents talking at the breakfast table while the smell of fresh coffee drifted through the house. Before I could make out what they were saying, I knew they were there and the day had begun.
That aroma can still take me back. Maybe you have a coffee memory like that, too. If you do, I hope your next cup brings it along for a visit.
By now, I expect to be in surgery or recovering afterward, possibly deeply sedated. Either way, someone else will be making the rounds this morning.
You see, I’ve done it again.
Somehow, I keep finding ways to get myself scheduled for repairs. Several times a year, somebody decides I need another adjustment. I’m beginning to think I should come with a maintenance manual.
This particular visit, however, was unplanned.
On Sunday, I was innocently walking across the den when my lights went out. No warning. No dramatic announcement. Just a sudden goodnight—and down I went.
In the process, I managed to break my leg and ankle and dislocate another bone in the ankle.
All of that, simply crossing the floor.
I didn’t trip over anything. I didn’t tumble down a staircase. I wasn’t attempting one of those athletic maneuvers that begins with “Watch this!” I fainted. Apparently, my landing had ambitions of its own.
Thanks to good insurance and the people arranging my care, I’m having surgery this morning to put things back where they belong.
Personally, I would have been happy with a Popsicle. The medical team felt a more substantial response was warranted.
The surgeon even postponed a trip out of town so he could stay and take care of me. That means a great deal. Knowing someone rearranged his own plans to help put me back together gives me something to be grateful for amid all this unexpected excitement.
I’m also grateful to having Steve there. He immediatedly heard me fall. Then notices something wasn’t right. My body was bent in a weird fold. He was my advocate in between my screaming. Then the rescuers who arrived at our home and carried me out. When your ordinary Sunday suddenly becomes an emergency, those folks become the most welcome people you’ve ever seen.
What still leaves me dumbfounded is how I managed so much damage in such a small space. I’ve had people demonstrate how they think I fell, and nobody else has come away with a broken leg or ankle.
I seem to have added something to the performance that cannot be reproduced.
In preparation for my absence, I’ve scheduled several weeks of Morning Coffee. There will still be a thought or two waiting here to help you begin your day, even while I’m busy following instructions about keeping my leg elevated.
During recovery, I plan to catch up on old episodes of South Park. I mean, educational programming about South America. We’ll see how convincing I sound after the medication wears off.
This was me in the Emergency Room Sunday night. I kept telling everyone “my eyes are up here!” They tried to reset it. Under full sedation, while unconscious, I screamed bloody murder. People could hear me out in the hallways adjacent to the emergency room. Patients who had been waiting for hours, got up and left. I was asked I could come back next week.
I do feel I owe you more. Perhaps a chance to sign my cast, if I get one. Or footage of the fire trucks and ambulance arriving. Some photographic evidence of this latest production would have been nice.
So far, I have only a photo of me in the emergency room. A photo of my foot.
All I can offer is the mystery of how a fellow walks across his own den, trips over absolutely nothing, and winds up needing surgical repairs.
Keep the coffee going, folks. I’m looking forward to updating you on the other side of surgery.
And next time somebody offers me a Popsicle, I’m taking it before the situation escalates.
I thought I’d throw a little English banter into today’s chatter. It seemed fitting while I sat here with a cup of coffee and a recording of Star Trek: Strange New Worlds playing in the background.
I record shows when they air and watch them when life gives me a moment. This morning, while the Enterprise traveled through space, my mind wandered back to the days when I was a young chap watching cowboys ride across the television screen.
There was Rawhide, Hopalong Cassidy, and Gene Autry singing his way through the West. I enjoyed them all. But even as a boy, I thought some of those fellows had an easy time of it. The cowboy I knew best had horses to feed, cattle to tend, and work waiting for him whether the cameras were rolling or not.
That cowboy was my dad.
I watched him care for our animals day after day. He was tough, capable, and steady. To me, he was the real thing. He was my hero from the beginning.
What I don’t know is whether I ever told him that clearly enough.
We sometimes assume the people we love already know what they mean to us. Maybe they do. But hearing it from us can still make a difference. A few honest words can stay with someone long after the morning is over.
So while you have your coffee today, think of someone who matters to you. Tell them what you admire about them. Thank them for something they taught you. Let them know that the ordinary things they do have never looked ordinary to you.
You don’t need a grand speech. You just need to say it while they’re here to hear it.
My dad never rode across a television screen. But after all these years, he is still the cowboy I remember best.
I don’t know whether it was an Oklahoma City thing or whether listeners elsewhere heard it, too. In the mid-1980s, I kept my patrol radio tuned to KATT, The Rock 1000. One of my favorite parts of the morning was a voice that came on with a greeting something like, “Hello, babysitters. This is Clarence, and this is the All My Children update.”
Clarence had a deep voice and a gift for recapping the previous day’s soap opera. He would run through the latest goings-on, slipping into impressions of the characters along the way. I could be miles into a patrol shift, carrying whatever the night had handed me, and that voice would give me a few minutes to laugh.
I needed those minutes. Some of the officers I worked with used enough starch in their underwear to stand at attention without getting out of the patrol car.
Around the station, I was known as the Lone Eagle. I worked the south district, and when I headed south, I soared. Some nights brought felony arrests. Other nights, I found a way to upset an elected city official who probably thought the hour made him unreachable.
Then there was Mildred.
Her husband was a city councilman, and the chief had agreed to put her on the reserve police force. How that arrangement came about, I couldn’t say. What I knew was that Mildred talked through an entire eight-hour shift without seeming to draw a breath. Riding with her was like attending a farm auction where the auctioneer never stopped and the hog never sold. Every so often, the hog would snort, and the bidding would begin again.
Somehow, no matter how the schedule was arranged, Mildred ended up in my unit. The other officers wouldn’t take her. I was the least senior officer on those nights, so I got the assignment.
One night, I lost my patience.
I asked Mildred if she had ever wondered why she always rode with me. She said she thought it was because I liked having her along. I told her that wasn’t it. I said it more harshly than I should have.
She looked genuinely surprised. She hadn’t noticed that other reserve officers got different assignments while she kept getting mine. I told her the others complained about riding with her. When she thought I was making it up, I played a mini-cassette recording of officers saying just that.
Mildred listened. Then she said, “Oh, Ben, you ought to hear what they say about you before you get to the station to pick me up.”
“I know,” I told her. “You don’t think this is the only tape I have, do you?”
I didn’t stop there. I said things about her husband and why I thought he wanted her out of the house. I had no proof of that. I was angry, and I wanted my words to land. I also told her what I expected to happen next: she would go home upset, her husband would complain to the chief, and sooner or later something would happen to me at work.
I drove back to police headquarters and gave her one sentence she could repeat.
“Get the hell out of my unit.”
That night may sound like a scene Clarence could have recapped the next morning: a councilman’s wife, a tape recorder, a patrol officer who finally said too much, and trouble waiting at the station. But there was nothing funny about what followed. Two matters did arise that left me feeling exposed and unable to defend myself as I might have at another time.
My father had died, and I was still crushed by it. I feared a public fight would hurt my family. A year later, I believe I would have fought with everything I had. At that moment, I pulled back.
When I think about those patrol mornings now, I still hear Clarence’s voice cutting through the radio. For a few minutes, his account of somebody else’s drama gave me room to breathe. I had no idea how much I would miss that little break when the drama became my own.
In the months that followed, a series of events unfolded. I’ve written about some of them. Others I’ve never told publicly. That changes in October, when I’ll share what happened and why it sent shock waves through our community and local law enforcement. Watch for the first installment of October Surprises.
Before I get too far into this story, I should tell you where I began retelling it: in an ambulance on the way to the emergency room.
The driver asked what had happened. I told him I had apparently performed the Groff Tenkiller Stunt again, nearly forty years after the original. Naturally, he asked what that meant. It was a fair question. He had no way of knowing that the answer involved a lake in Oklahoma, a cliff, a cooler of beer, and a group of friends operating under names like Sid Vicious, Johnny Rotten, and Red Foley.
There were seven or eight of us at Lake Tenkiller that weekend, depending on who you ask. Finest people you’ll ever meet, I told the driver. Depending on who you ask about that, too. We had escaped the cities for a little relief from our busy lives. Between our aliases, we sounded like the Sex Pistols had rented a boat with the cast of Gilligan’s Island. I must have been the slinger, because I spent much of that weekend slinging my body around.
I remember a rough night before our trip to the cliffs. At one point we were laughing about a helicopter landing so close to our camp that it might ruin our efforts to keep our identities mysterious. Then came word that Merle Haggard would be in nearby Muskogee. I announced that we ought to go. Surely Merle would let us in wherever he was. We hatched a plan, though calling it a plan gives it more credit than it deserves.
While that was taking shape, we took some beer to a cliff near the dam. The warnings against jumping were clear. We were young enough to believe we had plenty of time to worry about warnings later. My friends started diving. I watched from above, because I have always had a terrible fear of heights.
Then someone shouted that we were out of beer. I could help with that. Rob came with me to get another cooler from the truck. Somewhere along the path, I stepped off a rock that turned out to be more cliff than rock and injured my right ankle. I poured the only alcohol I had over it: beer. It was a poor attempt at first aid, but I was young and convinced I knew what I was doing.
As I limped back toward the water, I met a group of women carrying their own cooler. I invited them to join us and told them we were a rock-and-roll band enjoying a day off. Soon I was leading what I understood to be cheerleaders from the Muskogee area down to the cliffs.
My friends came up out of the water, shook out their ears, and stared. I had left to get beer and returned with an audience. I made one intentional cliff jump that afternoon and received a hero’s applause for bringing the party with me. I felt like Barney Fife after solving a crime.
The ankle was less impressed. Between the fall, my beer treatment, and the afternoon in the lake, it became badly infected. By the time I got home, I couldn’t get my uniform boot on. My doctor put me on antibiotics and pain medication and took me off duty for two weeks. As it happened, I had enough accumulated time from overtime that taking the leave kept me from eventually losing it.
That was the first Groff Tenkiller Stunt.
Nearly forty years later, on a Sunday afternoon in Arizona, I was walking from our bedroom toward the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. Something went dark. I turned, missed whatever I was trying to see, turned back, and tripped over myself. I blacked out and broke my leg and ankle in two places.
When I tried to stand, I fell forward. Steve came out of his recliner and told me not to move. I tried anyway. I went down like a dead mackerel.
I looked at my ankle, thought it was out of place, moved it, and told Steve, “See? That’s all it needed.” Then I tried to stand again. The pain proved my diagnosis was lacking. I screamed loudly enough to bring Otis to my side. He looked at me as though someone had tried to kill me.
“Good boy,”
I told him.
We tried the neighbors. Nobody was home. We even looked around our 55-plus community for a wheelchair someone might have left on a patio. No luck. I suggested I could scoot to the car. I made it about a cheek and a half before everything started going dark again.
It was four in the afternoon, but I felt as though night was closing in. Steve checked my blood pressure: 80 over 50, with a pulse around 90. I finally said what neither of us had wanted to say.
“I think this is the time we actually call 911.”
When the fire crew arrived, I was glad to see them, though I tried to keep a little dignity about it. Soon I was in the ambulance explaining the Groff Tenkiller Stunt to a driver who had only asked a simple question.
That’s how an old memory turned into a patrol story. Once I started talking about Oklahoma, I remembered the mornings I spent driving my district with KATT on the radio, waiting for Clarence and his All My Children update. For a few minutes each day, he could make somebody else’s troubles sound entertaining.
And then I remembered Mildred, the wife of a city councilman. Neither of us knew it yet, but we were about to change the course of each other’s lives.
I know. Some of you were getting along just fine until I reminded you.
Before we face the week, let’s settle an important matter: I like calling you folks. It’s a warm word. It leaves room for the people I know well, the people I’ve just met, and the person standing behind me at the coffee shop who can see that I still haven’t decided what I want.
“Friend” is different. Friendship takes time. We might get there, but if we’ve never met, please don’t greet me with “Hello, my friend” while reaching for my wallet or trying to sell me a new roof. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.
“Folks,” though? That works. It sounds like someone pulling out an extra chair at the table. No promises required. You can sit down, have a cup, and tell me how your weekend went. If Monday has already tested your patience, you can tell me that, too.
So good morning, folks. Pour the coffee. Find your shoes. Check that you have your keys before you close the door. We’ll get this Monday started together.
And if we become friends along the way, I’ll be glad to call you one.
Maybe you’re reading this over your first cup of coffee.
Maybe you’re on your way to work, letting someone’s voice read it aloud to you. I have no idea what I sound like on your end. Jimmy Stewart? Hank Hill? Cousin Itt? Perhaps Thing from The Addams Family is signing along. If it’s Bart Simpson?, please don’t let him drive.
Whatever voice you’ve given me, let me tell you about two fellows I saw at a convenience store.
The first was studying a basket of muffins. He leaned toward his friend and said,
“I could nab two of those, and nobody would even see me. I’m that quick.”
His friend said nothing. He just watched as the man slipped a muffin into each coat pocket.
I saw it. His friend saw it. The clerk did not.
Then the friend smiled.
“I can do better than that.”
He walked to the counter and asked the clerk,
“Would you like to see me make two of your freshest muffins disappear and then reappear?”
The clerk, curious now, handed him two muffins.
The man ate them both.
“Well,”
the clerk said,
“you made them disappear. How are you going to make them reappear?”
The man pointed across the store.
“Look in my friend’s coat pockets.”
I don’t know which of those two men walked out feeling cleverer. I do know the clerk ended up with quite a story to tell.
So take a sip of coffee, put a little spring in your step, and enjoy the start of your day. And if someone at the convenience store offers to show you a muffin trick, check your pockets first.
Some people need a cup of coffee to wake up. Others need a Loch Ness Monster.
Changing perspectives…
I heard a joke about a man who set out across Loch Ness to prove there was no monster. He was an atheist, too, and quite sure he knew what he would find: a lake, some water, and a good story somebody had made up.
Then his boat reached the middle of the lake. The sky darkened. The shoreline disappeared. And out of the water rose a creature towering over his boat.
“God, help me!” the man cried.
A voice came down from above. “That’s interesting. Five minutes ago, you didn’t believe in me.”
The man looked up and shouted, “Five minutes ago, I didn’t believe in the Loch Ness Monster, either!”
I have to give him that one. If a monster rose beside my boat, I would reconsider several things at once. I might even develop a sudden appreciation for life jackets, fast motors, and staying home.
Changing your mind when the facts change makes sense. But I have watched people change their views without a monster, a fact, or even a decent explanation in sight. An idea is terrible at breakfast, then brilliant by lunch because someone they admire said it out loud. The evidence hasn’t changed. The company has.
I suppose we have all done a little of that. Before the first cup of coffee, I can be certain I don’t need a second. Five minutes later, the pot starts looking mighty persuasive.
So today, if someone’s opinion changes in an instant, I may ask myself what appeared: new evidence, a new audience, or a creature rising out of the lake?
If it’s the creature, I’m changing my mind, too. And I’m taking my coffee to go.
The day may arrive all at once, but we can only live it one moment at a time. Begin with the coffee, take the next good step, and let the rest of the morning wait its turn.
I haven’t even placed my feet on the floor, yet my mind is standing beside the bed with a clipboard.
There are messages to answer, bills to remember, appointments to keep, stories to write, and several little things I promised myself I would do yesterday. Before I have poured my first cup of coffee, my brain has scheduled enough work to exhaust three people—and at least one of them should be younger than I am.
Just start counting the stress away 1…2…3…4…
That is the trouble with mornings. The day arrives all at once, even though we can only live it one moment at a time.
Coffee understands this.
It doesn’t leap from the container into the cup fully prepared. The water must heat. The grounds must be measured. The coffee must brew. Then comes the cream, sugar, or whatever little ceremony makes the cup your own.
Nobody stands beside the coffee maker shouting, “Hurry up! We have an entire day to finish!”
Well, perhaps somebody does. But that person should probably be sent back to bed.
Coffee takes the time coffee takes.
Maybe we should grant ourselves the same kindness.
We do not have to solve every problem before breakfast. We do not have to know how the entire day will unfold. We don’t even have to feel particularly enthusiastic about it. Sometimes our first accomplishment is simply getting out of bed. The next may be finding our glasses and remembering why we walked into the kitchen.
Progress is still progress, even when it arrives wearing slippers.
I have discovered that a day becomes much less intimidating when I stop carrying all twenty-four hours at once. I only need to carry this moment.
Drink the coffee.
Answer one message.
Make one decision.
Do the next decent thing.
Then do another.
Some days will still become tangled. Plans will change. Someone will call just as we sit down. Something we carefully placed where we would remember it will disappear into that mysterious dimension occupied by missing socks, reading glasses, and important pieces of paper.
That does not mean the day has been lost.
There is still time to do some Fall Cleaning. Remember -– This is the first week of Autumn and Fall cleaning is not only for closets and cupboards. Sometimes our memories need to be taken down, dusted off, and placed where we can see them again.
A good day does not have to be a perfect day. It only needs a few honest moments: a kindness offered, a responsibility met, a laugh we didn’t expect, or the decision to begin again after something went wrong.
So, if this morning already feels too heavy, set part of it down.
You were never expected to carry the entire day before breakfast.
Begin with the coffee. Let it warm your hands. Take a breath and allow the world to turn without your supervision for a minute or two.
The day will still be waiting.
But perhaps, after that first cup, it won’t look quite so large.
Go ahead get a another cup, and enjoy your morning!
Are you exhausted before your feet even reach the floor? Today’s Morning Coffee is a reminder that you don’t have to carry all twenty-four hours at once—and progress still counts when it arrives wearing slippers.
Motivation does not always arrive before the work begins. Sometimes we must take one small step, interrupt the stillness, and give it a chance to catch up with us.
Motivation has a habit of arriving after the work begins.
Good morning, folks.
There are mornings when determination charges through the front door, throws open the curtains, and announces, “Let’s get something done!”
Then there are mornings when determination apparently has the day off.
The coffee is brewing. The sun is rising. The clock is moving. But we are sitting there waiting for some grand burst of motivation to lift us from the chair and carry us into the day.
Unfortunately, motivation can be terribly unreliable.
If we wait until we feel completely prepared, confident, rested, organized, and inspired, we may still be sitting beside the coffee pot when lunchtime arrives.
Sometimes we must begin before we feel ready.
Put on the shoes.
Make the telephone call.
Write the first sentence.
Wash the first dish.
Open the door and step outside.
Sometimes when Fall arrives it seems that time is off. That the moment we are in is all backwards. The evening is offset. The clock is moving slower than it should. Then all of the sudden it is later than it should be. That is what happens when time Falls back. Whether the time changes or not. The sun sets earlier, comes up sooner, or moves across the sky at a different pace. Autumn begins to change the way you move.
The first movement may be small, but small movements have a way of waking up the rest of us. One completed task leads to another. Before long, the day that seemed determined to go nowhere has discovered a destination.
I have learned that life rarely sends a marching band to announce the proper moment to begin. There may be no drumroll, perfect weather, or encouraging voice from the heavens. Most beginnings arrive quietly, disguised as an ordinary decision:
“I suppose I had better get started.”
That sentence has launched more accomplishments than we will ever know.
You do not need to conquer the entire day before breakfast. You only need to interrupt the stillness. Give yourself one honest reason to rise, move forward, and show the world you have not surrendered your place in it.
The coffee cannot do everything.
It can warm your hands, clear a little fog from your mind, and perhaps make other people safer to be around. But eventually, you must set down the cup and take the first step.
So begin before you feel ready.
Motivation may be running late—but once it sees you moving, it usually hurries to catch up.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong…
—Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
Before the telephone rings, the messages arrive, and the world begins making its demands, the morning gives us a few quiet moments to gather ourselves. We should not hurry past them.
There is a small stretch of time each morning before the day begins asking things of us.
Before the telephone rings. Before the messages arrive. Before the headlines tell us what we should fear, question, or become angry about. For a few precious moments, there is only the sound of coffee pouring into a cup and the quiet promise of another day.
We often hurry through that silence without realizing how valuable it is. We begin making lists in our minds. We remember what we forgot yesterday and worry about what might go wrong today. Before our feet have carried us very far, our thoughts have already run several miles ahead.
But perhaps the morning was never meant to be a starting gun.
Perhaps it was given to us as a gentle place to gather ourselves—to sit quietly, take a breath, and remember that we are more than our obligations. We are more than the chores waiting in the next room, the appointments written on the calendar, or the problems we have not yet solved.
The world will make its demands soon enough. It always does. But it can wait long enough for us to finish one warm cup of coffee.
So, this morning, give yourself permission to remain still for another moment. Notice the light coming through the window. Listen for the familiar sounds of home. Think of someone who has made your life better simply by being part of it.
You do not have to accomplish anything during these few quiet minutes. You only have to be present for them.
Before the day asks something of you, allow the morning to give something to you: a little peace, a little strength, and another reason to be grateful you are here.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
The world will begin asking things of you soon enough. But before it does, sit quietly, take another sip, and allow the morning to give something back. Today’s Morning Coffee is waiting.
A friends list should not require complete agreement. The better question is not whether someone thinks like us, but whether they can disagree while still treating others with dignity.
Two smartphones rest beside coffee cups in a warmly lit, relaxed workspace.
This weekend, Steve and I found ourselves discussing a modern-day question: Who should we remain social media friends with?
It’s the first day of fall, so you know what that means: seasonal cleaning! Grab the broom and dusting cloth, clear away yesterday’s dust, and make room for everything this new season may bring.
Some of our online friends are people we know personally. Others entered our lives professionally. Some are kinfolk—and, as everyone knows, you do not get to choose your kinfolk. You simply learn which subjects should never be discussed at Thanksgiving.
Then there are the people we have never met. By every traditional definition, they are strangers. Yet, through years of comments, photographs, birthday wishes and shared stories, some of them have become more thoughtful and dependable than people we once saw every day.
Our friends lists also contain a few hangovers from our school years. Some go all the way back to kindergarten, while others joined us somewhere between high school and our last stop in higher education. There are former coworkers, old neighbors, distant cousins and people we once knew well but now recognize primarily by their profile pictures.
Together, they make up this grand and rather peculiar collection called a “friends list.”
The question Steve and I discussed was whether the things these people post could affect how others see us. Does remaining connected to someone suggest that we agree with everything that person believes?
Suppose a distant social media friend—someone we have never met—announces that they are against oxygen. Suddenly, the rumor begins circulating that Ben and Steve want people to stop breathing.
That would be the furthest thing from the truth. We want almost everyone to continue breathing.
But social media does not leave much room for careful distinctions. A friendship, a “like,” or even a silent connection can sometimes be interpreted as an endorsement. People may assume that because someone appears on our friends list, we approve of everything that person says.
That brings us to the difficult part: Who stays, and who goes?
Should one negative political post be enough to unfriend someone? Probably not. Most of us have had a bad day, written something too quickly or allowed frustration to speak before good judgment arrived.
Disagreement alone is not necessarily a reason to end a friendship. If someone dislikes watermelons, for instance, I might question their judgment—but I would not immediately remove them from my life.
However, if they begin posting that people who eat watermelons are destroying America, should be denied medical care and ought to be rounded up before the next family picnic, then we have moved beyond a harmless difference of opinion.
There is a difference between disagreeing with people and demeaning them.
Someone may disagree with our politics, our religion, our marriage or the way we live our lives. They have that right. But we also have the right to decide what behavior we will welcome into our personal space.
A friends list should not require complete agreement. If it did, most of us would eventually be left talking only to ourselves—and even then, I occasionally disagree with myself.
The better question may not be, “Does this person think like me?” It may be, “Does this person treat others with basic dignity?”
Can they disagree without becoming cruel? Can they discuss an issue without insulting entire groups of people? Do their posts contribute something worthwhile, or do they exist mainly to provoke fear, anger and division? When they discover that something they shared was false, do they correct it—or simply move on to the next falsehood?
Those questions tell us much more about a person than whether they vote the same way we do.
There is also a difference between making a mistake and establishing a pattern. One thoughtless post can be forgiven. A steady stream of hatred, personal attacks and deliberate misinformation becomes a choice.
At that point, unfriending someone is not necessarily an act of punishment. It may simply be an act of housekeeping.
We clean our homes by deciding what belongs inside them. Perhaps we should occasionally do the same with our social media spaces.
That does not mean everyone who irritates us must be shown the door. Social media platforms usually provide quieter choices. We can unfollow someone without ending the connection. We can mute a page, hide certain posts or simply continue scrolling.
Not every disagreement requires a courtroom, a family feud or a public announcement beginning with the words, “I am cleaning up my friends list.”
Sometimes the healthiest response is simply to stop giving someone our attention.
Steve and I did not establish a complicated set of rules. We did not begin working down the alphabet, judging every person from childhood onward. Instead, we came back to something much simpler.
We can remain connected to people who disagree with us. We can even learn from them. But we do not have to provide an audience for cruelty, hatred or the deliberate humiliation of others.
Friendship should leave room for differences. It should not require us to surrender our peace, compromise our values or remain silent while others are treated as less than human.
So, who should remain on the friends list?
Perhaps the people who remind us that there is still room in this world for conversation, laughter, kindness and the occasional disagreement over watermelon.
As for oxygen, Steve and I remain firmly in favor of it.
Since it is the first week of fall, we are doing a little seasonal cleaning around here—dusting off a few stories that deserve another moment in the light. You will notice as you read this weeks stories there will be a few cleaning tips sprinkled about as you read. ;-)
Have another cup of coffee—and please, continue breathing.
—— Who should remain on our social media friends list? The people who disagree with us—or only those who know how to disagree without becoming cruel? This Morning Coffee considers friendship, boundaries, watermelons and why Ben and Steve remain firmly in favor of oxygen.
By the Time Hollywood Gets to Georgia – The GOP Will Be Crying…
Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California. But movie productions bring more than cameras, celebrities and California money. They also bring thousands of workers—and some may decide to stay. While political leaders carefully redraw their districts, could they also be importing the very voters who might redraw their political future?
This will be a morning that you also should take bite out of something sweet. I suggest an Apple Fritter. Heavily glazed. The sugar rush will come in later regardless.
Now then.
Benjamin and Sheriff Otis
A cinematic map connects Hollywood with major production hubs across the United States.
Sheriff Otis and I have been listening to all this talk about re-districting— those voter’s districts being re-drawn, challenged, redrawn, rechallenged and hauled through the courts until nobody is entirely sure which district they live in or whether their congressman is still their congressman.
Several conservative states apparently believe they have discovered the perfect lines. They may have won.
Or have they?
While everybody was staring at the political maps, California may have been looking at a much larger map—the one showing where the movie studios are going.
California, after all, is not some little roadside economy surviving on oranges, movie stars and photographs of the Hollywood sign. Its economy is larger than those of most countries. If California were an independent nation, recent economic figures would place it among the largest economies in the world.
It could probably afford its own army, navy and air force. With Hollywood involved, it could film the invasion, win an Academy Award for it and sell the streaming rights before lunch.
Yet many people continue to speak of California as though it contributes nothing useful to the country.
Nothing, that is, except the movies, television programs, technology, agricultural products and enormous amounts of money they would very much like California to bring into their states.
Georgia, Texas and other states have been offering film incentives to attract productions away from Hollywood. They see studio lights, camera crews and production money arriving, and they begin smiling from rear to rear, believing they have finally found the end of the rainbow.
“Bring us your movies!” they shout.
“Build your studios here!”
“Spend that California money in our restaurants, hotels and Hoot-and-Whistles!”
But they may not have thought the entire thing through.
Productions do not arrive by themselves. They bring actors, camera operators, costume designers, makeup artists, writers, carpenters, electricians and thousands of other workers. Some remain only long enough to finish a production and return home. Others may decide they like the lower cost of living, the warm weather or the fact that a person can still find a parking space.
Those who genuinely establish residency may eventually register to vote.
Sheriff Otis howls out “BLUE VOTERS, MAYNARD!”
You heard me (he barks.)
Liberals moving east from California.
Or as Otis refers to it, A very bad area to sniff. (It smells of cow and oil drums.)
The very states hoping to attract California’s entertainment industry could also attract Californians. Those newcomers might vote in school-board races, city-council elections and contests for governor, Congress and the Senate.
They will not necessarily vote alike, of course. Californians are not produced on a political assembly line, even if Hollywood probably owns the rights to one.
Still, imagine the irony.
Political leaders redraw districts hoping to protect their party, then approve enormous incentives that encourage thousands of workers from another state to move directly into those carefully constructed districts.
Who Shot J.R.?
It would be the greatest political plot twist since television viewers learned that J.R. had been shot.
And who helped encourage the great migration of studios, corporations and media operations across the country?
The same political leaders who wanted California’s business without California’s influence.
They wanted the gold.
They just forgot that California is called the Golden State because Californians tend to arrive with it.
Perhaps California does not need to fight every redistricting map in court. Perhaps it merely needs to send a film crew.
Before long, every carefully drawn district could contain a casting director, three screenwriters, two sound engineers and somebody ordering an oat-milk latte at the Fill-Your-Buggy.
Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California.
Warren Buffett says Father Time always wins. At 96, he has stepped down as chairman of Berkshire Hathaway, leaving me to wonder: Did anyone ever call him at bedtime because the evening shift was short?
Warren Buffett, age approximately one thousand, has stepped down as chairman of Berkshire Hathaway.
Warren Buffett
I included “Berkshire” because if I had said only “Hathaway,” some of you might have pictured Miss Jane from The Beverly Hillbillies. At Buffett’s age, I half expect her to step out of a closet with a ledger and tell him Mr. Drysdale needs him at the bank.
(Nancy Kulp) Jane Hathaway
Buffett is actually 96.
His son Howard, a youthful 71, is taking over as chairman.
Greg Abel is already running the company as CEO, so Howard won’t have to spend his first day learning where they keep the keys to every Dairy Queen.
Howard Buffett
Buffett said, “Father Time always wins.” He is right about that. But I do wonder what retirement feels like when your workday has involved moving billions of dollars. Did anyone ever call just as he was getting into bed and say, “Warren, the evening shift is short. Can you come in?” Did he ever have to find someone to cover a holiday weekend?
I’m sure his work carried pressures I’ll never know. Still, I hope Howard is ready for the family tradition: putting in a few decades at Berkshire, reaching his seventies, and being told it’s finally his turn to take the chair.
As for Warren, I hope he enjoys retirement. He can sleep in, take a leisurely breakfast, and resist the urge to check how much the coffee company is worth.
Then again, after a lifetime of working, perhaps the hardest part is simply sitting down long enough to drink the coffee while it’s hot.
For those who have been around a time or two, you know where to find Steve and me on a weekend morning. For anyone just arriving, let me bring you up to speed.
Every weekend, usually Saturday or Sunday and sometimes both, we visit the same local restaurant. Our waitress looks for us. By the time we settle into a booth, she knows what I’m having, and our drinks are already on their way.
Three Sausage Patties, three eggs, wheat toast, hash browns, and a bowl of gravy. That is my order. Steve is more complicated. He studies the menu, makes a decision, changes his mind, and studies it again.
My order never changes. There’s comfort in that, especially at the end of a week when everything else seems to have demanded a decision.
I should explain the capital letters. Those Sausage Patties deserve them. They are, as we used to say when I was growing up, to die for. Back then, we said that about all sorts of things. These days, I’m happy just to get up on a weekend morning and go have breakfast.
I think fennel is part of what makes them so good. At least, that’s the word I intend to say. At the restaurant, Steve and I sometimes call it “fentanyl” by mistake. Then one of us catches it, and we both start laughing. Our waitress knows perfectly well what we mean, though I suspect she enjoys watching us try to get the word right.
The mix-up has become part of our weekend routine. I can forget the name of the seasoning halfway through a sentence, but I never forget how those patties taste. By midweek, I’m already looking forward to their return performance.
Of course, the sausage alone wouldn’t make this our place. Our waitress remembers us. Steve gets all the time he needs with the menu. I get to sit across from him while our breakfast arrives, knowing that for a little while, there is nowhere else we need to be.
It’s a simple pleasure. That may be why I keep coming back to it.
Next weekend, Steve will open the menu and consider his options. Our waitress will look at me, pick up her pen, and smile. She already knows. And if I happen to mention the wrong herb again, I know she’ll know what I mean. Her name? Christin-a.
Today’s Morning Coffee begins a little differently. Before we turn to a more serious story about the Kennedy Center and America’s history, we’ll first share a few surprising facts, a little humor, and a reminder that coffee and conversations about the country have gone together for generations.
Normally, this would be where I pour the coffee, settle into the chair, and leave you with something simple to carry into the weekend.
Today is a little different.
Following this morning’s coffee, you will find a story that is considerably more serious. It concerns the Kennedy Center, the memory of President John F. Kennedy, and some of the larger questions I believe America is facing about history, institutions and what we choose to preserve for future generations.
I apologize for handing you something so heavy before you have finished your first cup.
But sometimes Morning Coffee is not only about making the morning easier. Sometimes it is about sitting together long enough to talk about something that matters.
So read the story that follows when you are ready.
Before we get there, however, I thought we should end the week with a few things that might make you say, “Well, I didn’t know that.”
Things You May Not Know
The Library of Congress receives roughly 15,000 items every working day and adds more than 10,000 of them to its collections. Somewhere in Washington, somebody apparently has a much larger “to be filed” pile than the rest of us.
The smallest book in the Library of Congress is called Old King Cole. It measures only about 1/25 of an inch by 1/25 of an inch—roughly the size of the period at the end of a sentence. Meanwhile, its largest book is approximately five feet by seven feet. That is less a book and more something you could use to replace a bedroom wall.
The Library also possesses written material dating to about 2040 B.C. and printed Buddhist texts dating to approximately 770 A.D. It is humbling to realize that human beings were already writing things down thousands of years before somebody invented the phrase, “I forgot my password.”
And since this is Morning Coffee, here is one especially appropriate bit of history.
James Smithson—the British scientist whose fortune eventually created the Smithsonian Institution—actually published his own method for making coffee in 1823. So apparently even the man behind the Smithsonian had opinions about how a proper cup should be made.
Coffee itself has a rather patriotic chapter in American history. After the Boston Tea Party, drinking coffee increasingly became associated with rejecting British tea, and colonial coffeehouses became important gathering places where politics, news and revolutionary ideas were discussed.
Which means that sitting around drinking coffee and talking about the condition of the country is hardly something we invented.
Americans have apparently been doing it for centuries.
So take another sip.
Enjoy your Friday.
And when you are ready, the next story is a little more serious.
Sometimes history asks us to remember.
Sometimes it asks us to pay attention.
And occasionally, it asks us to do both before the coffee gets cold.
Have a great Friday from benandsteve.com — and may your weekend begin with something good.
