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.
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.
Motivation does not always arrive before the work begins. Sometimes we must take one small step, interrupt the stillness, and give it a chance to catch up with us.
Motivation has a habit of arriving after the work begins.
Good morning, folks.
There are mornings when determination charges through the front door, throws open the curtains, and announces, “Let’s get something done!”
Then there are mornings when determination apparently has the day off.
The coffee is brewing. The sun is rising. The clock is moving. But we are sitting there waiting for some grand burst of motivation to lift us from the chair and carry us into the day.
Unfortunately, motivation can be terribly unreliable.
If we wait until we feel completely prepared, confident, rested, organized, and inspired, we may still be sitting beside the coffee pot when lunchtime arrives.
Sometimes we must begin before we feel ready.
Put on the shoes.
Make the telephone call.
Write the first sentence.
Wash the first dish.
Open the door and step outside.
Sometimes when Fall arrives it seems that time is off. That the moment we are in is all backwards. The evening is offset. The clock is moving slower than it should. Then all of the sudden it is later than it should be. That is what happens when time Falls back. Whether the time changes or not. The sun sets earlier, comes up sooner, or moves across the sky at a different pace. Autumn begins to change the way you move.
The first movement may be small, but small movements have a way of waking up the rest of us. One completed task leads to another. Before long, the day that seemed determined to go nowhere has discovered a destination.
I have learned that life rarely sends a marching band to announce the proper moment to begin. There may be no drumroll, perfect weather, or encouraging voice from the heavens. Most beginnings arrive quietly, disguised as an ordinary decision:
“I suppose I had better get started.”
That sentence has launched more accomplishments than we will ever know.
You do not need to conquer the entire day before breakfast. You only need to interrupt the stillness. Give yourself one honest reason to rise, move forward, and show the world you have not surrendered your place in it.
The coffee cannot do everything.
It can warm your hands, clear a little fog from your mind, and perhaps make other people safer to be around. But eventually, you must set down the cup and take the first step.
So begin before you feel ready.
Motivation may be running late—but once it sees you moving, it usually hurries to catch up.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong…
—Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
A friends list should not require complete agreement. The better question is not whether someone thinks like us, but whether they can disagree while still treating others with dignity.
Two smartphones rest beside coffee cups in a warmly lit, relaxed workspace.
This weekend, Steve and I found ourselves discussing a modern-day question: Who should we remain social media friends with?
It’s the first day of fall, so you know what that means: seasonal cleaning! Grab the broom and dusting cloth, clear away yesterday’s dust, and make room for everything this new season may bring.
Some of our online friends are people we know personally. Others entered our lives professionally. Some are kinfolk—and, as everyone knows, you do not get to choose your kinfolk. You simply learn which subjects should never be discussed at Thanksgiving.
Then there are the people we have never met. By every traditional definition, they are strangers. Yet, through years of comments, photographs, birthday wishes and shared stories, some of them have become more thoughtful and dependable than people we once saw every day.
Our friends lists also contain a few hangovers from our school years. Some go all the way back to kindergarten, while others joined us somewhere between high school and our last stop in higher education. There are former coworkers, old neighbors, distant cousins and people we once knew well but now recognize primarily by their profile pictures.
Together, they make up this grand and rather peculiar collection called a “friends list.”
The question Steve and I discussed was whether the things these people post could affect how others see us. Does remaining connected to someone suggest that we agree with everything that person believes?
Suppose a distant social media friend—someone we have never met—announces that they are against oxygen. Suddenly, the rumor begins circulating that Ben and Steve want people to stop breathing.
That would be the furthest thing from the truth. We want almost everyone to continue breathing.
But social media does not leave much room for careful distinctions. A friendship, a “like,” or even a silent connection can sometimes be interpreted as an endorsement. People may assume that because someone appears on our friends list, we approve of everything that person says.
That brings us to the difficult part: Who stays, and who goes?
Should one negative political post be enough to unfriend someone? Probably not. Most of us have had a bad day, written something too quickly or allowed frustration to speak before good judgment arrived.
Disagreement alone is not necessarily a reason to end a friendship. If someone dislikes watermelons, for instance, I might question their judgment—but I would not immediately remove them from my life.
However, if they begin posting that people who eat watermelons are destroying America, should be denied medical care and ought to be rounded up before the next family picnic, then we have moved beyond a harmless difference of opinion.
There is a difference between disagreeing with people and demeaning them.
Someone may disagree with our politics, our religion, our marriage or the way we live our lives. They have that right. But we also have the right to decide what behavior we will welcome into our personal space.
A friends list should not require complete agreement. If it did, most of us would eventually be left talking only to ourselves—and even then, I occasionally disagree with myself.
The better question may not be, “Does this person think like me?” It may be, “Does this person treat others with basic dignity?”
Can they disagree without becoming cruel? Can they discuss an issue without insulting entire groups of people? Do their posts contribute something worthwhile, or do they exist mainly to provoke fear, anger and division? When they discover that something they shared was false, do they correct it—or simply move on to the next falsehood?
Those questions tell us much more about a person than whether they vote the same way we do.
There is also a difference between making a mistake and establishing a pattern. One thoughtless post can be forgiven. A steady stream of hatred, personal attacks and deliberate misinformation becomes a choice.
At that point, unfriending someone is not necessarily an act of punishment. It may simply be an act of housekeeping.
We clean our homes by deciding what belongs inside them. Perhaps we should occasionally do the same with our social media spaces.
That does not mean everyone who irritates us must be shown the door. Social media platforms usually provide quieter choices. We can unfollow someone without ending the connection. We can mute a page, hide certain posts or simply continue scrolling.
Not every disagreement requires a courtroom, a family feud or a public announcement beginning with the words, “I am cleaning up my friends list.”
Sometimes the healthiest response is simply to stop giving someone our attention.
Steve and I did not establish a complicated set of rules. We did not begin working down the alphabet, judging every person from childhood onward. Instead, we came back to something much simpler.
We can remain connected to people who disagree with us. We can even learn from them. But we do not have to provide an audience for cruelty, hatred or the deliberate humiliation of others.
Friendship should leave room for differences. It should not require us to surrender our peace, compromise our values or remain silent while others are treated as less than human.
So, who should remain on the friends list?
Perhaps the people who remind us that there is still room in this world for conversation, laughter, kindness and the occasional disagreement over watermelon.
As for oxygen, Steve and I remain firmly in favor of it.
Since it is the first week of fall, we are doing a little seasonal cleaning around here—dusting off a few stories that deserve another moment in the light. You will notice as you read this weeks stories there will be a few cleaning tips sprinkled about as you read. ;-)
Have another cup of coffee—and please, continue breathing.
—— Who should remain on our social media friends list? The people who disagree with us—or only those who know how to disagree without becoming cruel? This Morning Coffee considers friendship, boundaries, watermelons and why Ben and Steve remain firmly in favor of oxygen.
By the Time Hollywood Gets to Georgia – The GOP Will Be Crying…
Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California. But movie productions bring more than cameras, celebrities and California money. They also bring thousands of workers—and some may decide to stay. While political leaders carefully redraw their districts, could they also be importing the very voters who might redraw their political future?
This will be a morning that you also should take bite out of something sweet. I suggest an Apple Fritter. Heavily glazed. The sugar rush will come in later regardless.
Now then.
Benjamin and Sheriff Otis
A cinematic map connects Hollywood with major production hubs across the United States.
Sheriff Otis and I have been listening to all this talk about re-districting— those voter’s districts being re-drawn, challenged, redrawn, rechallenged and hauled through the courts until nobody is entirely sure which district they live in or whether their congressman is still their congressman.
Several conservative states apparently believe they have discovered the perfect lines. They may have won.
Or have they?
While everybody was staring at the political maps, California may have been looking at a much larger map—the one showing where the movie studios are going.
California, after all, is not some little roadside economy surviving on oranges, movie stars and photographs of the Hollywood sign. Its economy is larger than those of most countries. If California were an independent nation, recent economic figures would place it among the largest economies in the world.
It could probably afford its own army, navy and air force. With Hollywood involved, it could film the invasion, win an Academy Award for it and sell the streaming rights before lunch.
Yet many people continue to speak of California as though it contributes nothing useful to the country.
Nothing, that is, except the movies, television programs, technology, agricultural products and enormous amounts of money they would very much like California to bring into their states.
Georgia, Texas and other states have been offering film incentives to attract productions away from Hollywood. They see studio lights, camera crews and production money arriving, and they begin smiling from rear to rear, believing they have finally found the end of the rainbow.
“Bring us your movies!” they shout.
“Build your studios here!”
“Spend that California money in our restaurants, hotels and Hoot-and-Whistles!”
But they may not have thought the entire thing through.
Productions do not arrive by themselves. They bring actors, camera operators, costume designers, makeup artists, writers, carpenters, electricians and thousands of other workers. Some remain only long enough to finish a production and return home. Others may decide they like the lower cost of living, the warm weather or the fact that a person can still find a parking space.
Those who genuinely establish residency may eventually register to vote.
Sheriff Otis howls out “BLUE VOTERS, MAYNARD!”
You heard me (he barks.)
Liberals moving east from California.
Or as Otis refers to it, A very bad area to sniff. (It smells of cow and oil drums.)
The very states hoping to attract California’s entertainment industry could also attract Californians. Those newcomers might vote in school-board races, city-council elections and contests for governor, Congress and the Senate.
They will not necessarily vote alike, of course. Californians are not produced on a political assembly line, even if Hollywood probably owns the rights to one.
Still, imagine the irony.
Political leaders redraw districts hoping to protect their party, then approve enormous incentives that encourage thousands of workers from another state to move directly into those carefully constructed districts.
Who Shot J.R.?
It would be the greatest political plot twist since television viewers learned that J.R. had been shot.
And who helped encourage the great migration of studios, corporations and media operations across the country?
The same political leaders who wanted California’s business without California’s influence.
They wanted the gold.
They just forgot that California is called the Golden State because Californians tend to arrive with it.
Perhaps California does not need to fight every redistricting map in court. Perhaps it merely needs to send a film crew.
Before long, every carefully drawn district could contain a casting director, three screenwriters, two sound engineers and somebody ordering an oat-milk latte at the Fill-Your-Buggy.
Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California.
Sometimes we become so focused on the road we are traveling that we forget there may be another way. A different choice, a fresh perspective, or simply the courage to ask,
Pour yourself a cup of coffee and consider something we sometimes forget when life becomes difficult:
There is usually another way.
We have a habit of looking at life as though someone has handed us a map with only one road marked on it. We convince ourselves that we must continue in the direction we are traveling because turning around would mean failure, changing course would mean weakness, or choosing something different would mean admitting we were wrong.
But life doesn’t work that way.
Sometimes the smartest thing we can do is stop long enough to notice the little road running off to the side.
Maybe there is another job.
Another friendship.
Another town.
Another dream.
Another way of spending your time.
Another way of looking at something that has bothered you for years.
Sometimes the alternative isn’t even something outside of us. Sometimes the new direction begins simply by changing the way we see what is already there.
A closed door doesn’t always mean the journey is over. It may simply mean we have been standing at the wrong door.
There are moments when we become so determined to make one particular thing work that we overlook every other possibility around us. We push harder. We worry more. We replay conversations. We imagine everything that could go wrong.
Meanwhile, another possibility may be sitting quietly beside us saying, You could try this instead.
That doesn’t mean we should abandon everything whenever life becomes difficult. Some things are worth fighting for. Some relationships are worth repairing. Some dreams deserve another attempt.
But perseverance and stubbornness are not always the same thing.
Wisdom sometimes means knowing when to keep pushing.
And sometimes wisdom means recognizing that you are allowed to choose another road.
There is tremendous freedom in those words:
You have options.
You have options.
You can reconsider.
You can begin again.
You can change your mind.
You can learn something today that causes you to see yesterday differently.
You can decide that what once mattered greatly to you doesn’t matter nearly as much anymore.
And you do not need permission to grow beyond the person you used to be.
Perhaps that is where we begin this morning.
Not by asking, How do I make everything stay the same?
But by asking:
What else is possible?
Look around.
There may be another road you haven’t noticed yet.
And it just might lead somewhere wonderful.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and remember, sometimes a fresh perspective begins with nothing more complicated than realizing there are other options.
We carry more into each morning than the coffee in our cup. Memories, worries, laughter, and yesterday’s unfinished thoughts often come along with us. But a new morning gives us another chance to decide what is worth carrying forward—and what might finally be time to leave behind.
But sometimes what we bring with us to the table gives it a little more weight.
Not the cup, of course. The cup weighs exactly what it did yesterday.
We carry yesterday into the morning.
A conversation we wish had gone differently. A worry we never quite put down before going to bed. A name we have been thinking about. A memory that wandered in without knocking and decided to stay awhile.
Then there are the things we carry that feel a little lighter.
A laugh from yesterday.
Someone checking in just because they were thinking about us.
A dog stretched out nearby, perfectly content with life as long as breakfast eventually appears.
A familiar chair.
A quiet house.
And that first dependable cup of coffee.
Maybe mornings aren’t really about starting over. Life doesn’t erase itself while we sleep. The bills are still there. The problems haven’t packed their bags and moved out during the night. That stubborn thing we were worrying about yesterday may still be sitting right where we left it.
But morning does give us another chance to decide how much of it we are going to carry.
Some things need our attention.
Some things need our patience.
And some things probably need to be left sitting beside the road somewhere behind us.
We are not required to drag every disappointment we have ever known into every new day.
That may be one of life’s quieter lessons.
We can remember without remaining stuck.
We can care without carrying everything.
We can miss someone and still smile.
We can have difficult days and still believe there are good ones ahead.
So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, take inventory of what you brought to the table.
Keep the memories that make you smile.
Hold close the people who matter.
Take care of the things that truly need tending.
And perhaps leave a little room in your hands for something new.
Because you never know what this day may be waiting to give you.
Sometimes all we need is enough room to receive it.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your burdens a little lighter, and your day give you something worth carrying into tomorrow.
The ordinary moments of life often leave the deepest impressions. A familiar phrase, an old memory, or a simple act of kindness can become something we carry with us for years—and eventually pass along to someone else.
There is something comforting about the first cup of coffee in the morning.
Before the phone starts ringing, before the television begins telling us what happened while we slept, and before the responsibilities of the day start lining up at the door, there are those few quiet minutes when the world seems willing to wait.
This morning, as I sat with my coffee, I found myself thinking about how much of our lives we carry forward without even realizing it.
~~~
A phrase our father used to say.
A recipe our mother never bothered writing down because she simply knew how much of everything belonged in the bowl.
The way a grandparent waved from the porch.
The sound of an old screen door closing behind us.
The advice of a friend that didn’t seem particularly important when it was given, but somehow became wisdom twenty years later.
~~~
We spend so much of our lives believing we are moving forward and leaving yesterday behind.
But I don’t think that’s really how life works.
We carry yesterday with us.
Not all of it, thankfully. Time has a merciful way of softening some things and allowing others to fade. But the pieces that shaped us remain tucked away in places we don’t always recognize.
They appear when we catch ourselves saying something exactly the way one of our parents said it.
They show themselves when we perform some small kindness because once, long ago, someone did the same thing for us.
Sometimes they appear in the strangest places—a song on the radio, the smell of rain, an old photograph, or the sound of coffee being poured into a familiar cup.
And suddenly, someone or someplace we haven’t thought about in years is sitting right there beside us again.
Maybe that is one of life’s quieter gifts.
The people we have loved never completely leave the road we are traveling. They simply stop walking beside us in the way they once did.
Instead, they travel within us.
Their lessons become part of our decisions.
Their laughter becomes part of our memories.
Their kindness becomes something we pass along to somebody who may never know where it originally came from.
And eventually, pieces of us will travel the same way.
Someone will remember something we said.
Someone will tell one of our stories.
Someone might pour a cup of coffee one morning and smile because something reminded them of us.
That is why the ordinary moments matter so much.
We are always leaving something behind.
A word.
A kindness.
A story.
A memory.
So while you enjoy your coffee this morning, remember that the smallest things you do today may become something another person carries with them for years.
Make them worth carrying.
Have a wonderful morning, and may your coffee be warm, your memories gentle, and your day filled with something worth remembering.
The world may be ready to rush us into the day, but mornings deserve a gentler beginning. Sometimes the best way to prepare for everything ahead is to slow down, enjoy the coffee, and simply notice the quiet moments before the day begins.
The coffee is poured, the day is waiting, and somewhere out there the world has already decided we should be in a hurry.
There is always something waiting for us.
A message that needs answering.
A chore that needs finishing.
A place we are supposed to be.
A problem we have convinced ourselves must be solved before breakfast.
We spend so much of our lives rushing toward the next thing that sometimes we forget to notice the thing we are standing in.
This morning.
This cup of coffee.
This moment.
I think mornings were meant to be entered gently.
Not attacked.
Not conquered.
Not treated like the starting gun at a race.
There is something about those first quiet minutes of the day that belongs only to us.
Before the telephone rings.
Before the television begins telling us what went wrong overnight.
Before somebody somewhere needs something from us.
There is that little pocket of time when the house is still quiet and the coffee is warm, when we can sit for a moment and remember that simply being here is enough.
I have noticed through the years that some of the best mornings are the ones when absolutely nothing happens.
No emergency.
No unexpected visitor.
No major announcement.
Just the familiar sounds of life beginning again.
Maybe a dog stretching nearby.
A refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
A bird announcing itself outside the window.
The soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup.
Things so ordinary we hardly notice them.
Yet those are often the sounds we miss most when life changes.
We are always being told to make every minute count.
But perhaps every minute does not need to accomplish something.
Some minutes are allowed to simply exist.
Some are meant for sitting quietly.
Some are meant for remembering.
Some are meant for staring out the window while holding a warm cup between your hands and thinking absolutely nothing important at all.
There is value in that too.
Life will begin asking things from you soon enough.
The day will pick up speed.
There will be appointments, responsibilities, decisions and probably at least one thing that does not go according to plan.
But none of that has arrived yet.
Right now, it is morning.
And for these few minutes, you are allowed to simply be here.
So drink your coffee before it gets cold.
Watch the morning arrive.
Let the world wait just a little while.
Because sometimes the best way to prepare yourself for everything waiting ahead is to begin the day without rushing toward any of it.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com, and remember—
You do not have to race through every moment. Some of the best parts of life are found when we slow down long enough to notice them
Some of life’s most meaningful moments are the ones we barely notice while they are happening. This Morning Coffee is a reminder to appreciate the quiet, ordinary moments before they become the memories we miss most.
There are mornings when nothing remarkable happens.
The coffee brews. The house slowly wakes up. A dog stretches somewhere nearby. A car passes down the street. Maybe the sun finds its way through the blinds and lands across the floor in that familiar place it always seems to find.
Photo by Lucas Andrade on Pexels.comSomedays you need a cup. Somedays, you need two. And, somedays you need the whole damn pot!
Nothing extraordinary.
And yet, I have come to believe these may be some of the most important mornings we are given.
We spend so much of our lives waiting for something significant to happen. We look forward to birthdays, vacations, reunions, holidays, accomplishments and celebrations. We mark the big moments on calendars and take photographs so we will remember them.
But most of life happens somewhere in between.
It happens while we are standing at the kitchen counter waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.
It happens during the quiet conversation across the breakfast table.
It happens when someone asks, “Did you sleep okay?”
It happens when the dog follows you from one room to another for absolutely no reason other than the fact that wherever you are seems to be where he wants to be.
These moments rarely announce themselves as important.
There is no music playing in the background.
Nobody takes a photograph.
There is no ceremony.
And yet someday, these may be the moments we miss the most.
I think that is one of the lessons age quietly teaches us. The ordinary days we once hurried through eventually become the memories we would gladly revisit.
The sound of someone laughing in another room.
A familiar chair sitting beside the window.
A favorite coffee cup.
Someone calling your name from the other end of the house.
Things that once seemed ordinary somehow become treasures after enough years have passed.
Maybe that is why I have learned to appreciate mornings like this one.
There is coffee in the cup.
There are people I care about somewhere in this world.
There are memories behind me and, God willing, a few more waiting ahead.
And for the moment, nothing particularly remarkable is happening.
Which, when you think about it, is something rather remarkable itself.
So this morning, while you drink your coffee, take a look around.
There may be something happening right now that someday you will give almost anything to experience one more time.
Sometimes the best parts of life are the ones we almost failed to notice.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and remember, ordinary moments have a way of becoming extraordinary memories.
Some places hold more than memories—they hold the names of people who helped make us who we are. This morning in Elk City, Oklahoma, Steve and I spend a little time with family, remember those who came before us, and reflect on the place where our story together began nearly forty-four years ago.
There is something different about having your morning coffee in a place that already knows so much of your story.
This morning, Steve and I should be waking up in Elk City, Oklahoma.
A couple walks home along a farm road as the sun sets over rural Oklahoma.
We thought yesterday’s miles would be behind us for a little while. Mom would have made the journey with us from Arizona, across New Mexico and Texas, and back into Oklahoma, with Otis faithfully carrying out his special assignment of watching over her along the way. Today, however, we aren’t quite there yet. We stopped in Tucumcari—the roadside signs finally got us. Tucumcari tonight! If you’ve ever traveled Route 66 or Interstate 40, you know what I am talking about. We thought we would give Mother one more night in a Best Western.
Today we will hurry on our way just as soon as Steve reloads the car so the weight is properly distributed. If you have seen those television advertisements about “becoming your parents,” they are so true—especially when I watch the things my husband does!
My sister Twila will be waiting for us, along with my niece Amanda, her son Trysen, and other family members and friends. I sent a message last night saying we were on our way, and that the reason for arriving a day behind schedule was “due to our late mother.” I don’t know if they picked up on the play on words. It was what my dad claimed anytime we were late to a family function, and I was hoping someone would catch it.
Some of these family members we haven’t seen in a while. There will undoubtedly be stories told that everyone has heard before—and hopefully a few that somebody has forgotten.
Those are usually the best ones.
Once we arrive, we will probably be escorted through local cemeteries. I know that might sound like a strange way to spend part of a day, but I have never thought of cemeteries as entirely sad places. There is sadness there, certainly. But there is also history.
There are names carved into stones that once belonged to voices. There are dates representing entire lifetimes squeezed between a beginning and an ending. Behind those names are people who worked, worried, laughed, argued, raised families, paid bills, celebrated birthdays, sat around kitchen tables—and probably drank their share of morning coffee.
Some of those names belong to people we loved.
Years ago, Steve and I began our life together here in Elk City. In October of 1982, neither of us could possibly have known just how long the road ahead would be. We couldn’t have imagined all the places it would take us, the people we would meet, the homes we would make, or the memories we would collect. Yet here we are, nearly forty-four years later, back where so much of our story began.
And someday, when our travels are finally finished, this is where we have arranged to return. Steve and I have made arrangements to be laid to rest here in Elk City, so while we’re in town, we’ll check on our cemetery plots and make sure everything is squared away with the cemetery authorities.
That isn’t something I find particularly gloomy. Actually, I find a certain peace in it.
There is something comforting about knowing where the road eventually leads—not because you’re anxious to reach the destination, but because it allows you to spend less time worrying about the ending and more time enjoying everything between here and there. And Steve and I still have plenty of road ahead of us.
For now, there are people to visit. There are stories to tell. There are graves where we may stand quietly for a moment and remember. And there is my mother, traveling with us toward the place where, in two days, she will finally be laid beside my father.
Perhaps that is what today is really about. Coming home. Mom is coming home.
Steve and I have come back to the town where our life together began, surrounded by generations of people whose lives helped make ours possible.
This morning, I’ll raise my coffee cup to all of them—the ones sitting around the table with us and the ones whose chairs have been empty for many years. Because family isn’t measured only by who can still answer when you call their name. Sometimes family is measured by the names we refuse to forget.
And maybe that’s one of the reasons we visit old cemeteries. We aren’t visiting death. We’re visiting lives.
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.
Don’t decide how the day will end before it has even begun. This morning’s coffee is a reminder to move yesterday’s worries over and leave a little room at the table for something good.
Before our feet touch the floor, we are thinking about yesterday’s problems, today’s responsibilities, and tomorrow’s worries.
Then we pour the coffee and carry all of them to the table with us.
That is quite a crowd for so early in the morning.
I wonder how many good things we miss because we have already decided what kind of day we are going to have.
We tell ourselves the meeting will be difficult.
The person won’t call.
The answer will be no.
Traffic will be terrible.
Something will probably go wrong.
And sometimes we’re right.
But not always.
Every now and then, life surprises us.
The telephone rings, and it is someone we have been thinking about.
A stranger holds the door and smiles.
Someone says something kind when we need to hear it most.
A problem we have worried about for days works itself out with surprisingly little trouble.
Or maybe nothing dramatic happens at all.
Maybe the sun simply comes through the kitchen window at just the right angle, the coffee tastes especially good, and for a few minutes everything feels all right with the world.
Those little moments count too.
We cannot control everything waiting for us today. There will always be things we would rather avoid and circumstances we cannot change.
But we can leave a little room for the possibility that something good might happen.
Hope doesn’t require us to pretend that difficulties don’t exist.
It simply asks us not to decide the ending before the day has had a chance to begin.
So while you’re sitting there with your coffee this morning, move yesterday’s worries over just a little bit.
You don’t have to throw them away.
Just don’t give them the whole table.
Save an empty chair for something unexpected.
Leave a little room for laughter.
Leave a little room for kindness.
Leave a little room for somebody to surprise you.
And most of all, leave a little room for something good.
Because this day hasn’t happened before.
You don’t know everything it is bringing with it.
Don’t let yesterday convince you that you already know how today will end.
Now take another sip.
Morning has only just arrived.
Let’s give it a chance.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
The Town Character. Every community has one of their own…
Not a mayor. Not a banker. Not a preacher.
Someone else.
The person everybody knows.
In small towns, medium-sized towns, and even in the neighborhoods of big cities, there is always that one soul who stands apart. They dress differently. Their clothes may be worn thin from years of use. Their hair may appear to have lost an argument with a comb decades ago. Their conversations wander like a country road with too many turns.
Sometimes they are slow.
Sometimes they are eccentric.
Sometimes they simply march to music no one else can hear.
Yet everyone knows them.
And strangely enough, everyone trusts them.
More than once, I have seen these individuals carrying a ring of keys bigger than any businessman in town owned. Keys to the hardware store. Keys to the church basement. Keys to the barber shop. Keys to the old furnace room beneath the drug store.
While respectable citizens were asleep in warm beds, these town characters were already at work.
They swept sidewalks before dawn.
They shoveled snow.
They lit furnaces.
They hauled groceries.
They checked doors to make certain businesses were secure.
Nobody worried about them stealing.
Nobody worried about them lying.
Because they belonged to the town.
Jack Elam was a town character (or was it caricuture) in Support Your Local Sheriff.
And the town belonged to them.
Children might giggle when they walked by.
Teenagers sometimes rolled their eyes.
Visitors would whisper, “What’s his story?”
The locals would answer simply:
“Oh, that’s just Charlie.”
Or Oris.
Or Lester.
Or Lewis.
Or Mary.
Or J.T.
No last name needed.
Everybody knew.
They were woven into the fabric of the community as surely as the courthouse clock or the old water tower.
In a world now obsessed with wealth, influence, and appearance, I sometimes think we lost something when we stopped noticing these people.
Because they remind us that a person’s value isn’t measured by education, money, or polish.
Sometimes the most trusted person in town is the fellow whose shirt is untucked, whose shoes don’t match, and whose greatest wealth is that everybody knows his heart.
Town Characters have been found throughout history.
Every town has one.
And the lucky towns never forget them.
Keep your local figure close. They are woven into the fabric of your community. You may not realize it now, but they are preserving a piece of today that someday you will treasure as yesterday.
Keep your local figure close. They are woven into the fabric of your community. You may not realize it now, but they are preserving a piece of today that someday you will treasure as yesterday.
There were so many chickens taking over the town, it took two posts to tell the events of Chapter Two!
The situation in town had gone from bad to worse.
The Colonels is Coming To Town!
The escaped chickens now controlled Main Street.
They strutted through intersections without looking both ways.
They occupied porches.
They stole sandwiches.
One particularly aggressive rooster had taken possession of the barber shop and refused to leave.
Nobody knew what to do.
Nobody except Marshal Chester Finch.
Or at least that was the rumor.
The truth was that Finch was sitting on the edge of his sputtering moped reading a poultry handbook he had purchased from a traveling salesman.
Unfortunately, the handbook’s most useful advice was:
“Avoid angry chickens.”
The Marshal needed something better.
Much better.
Then inspiration struck.
It arrived in the form of a grease-stained advertisement blowing down the street.
Finch snatched it from the air.
His eyes widened.
“Of course,”
he whispered.
“If chickens fear anything…”
He paused.
“…it might be Colonel Sanders.”
The plan was ridiculous.
Which made it perfect.
Within hours, Finch had assembled a group of volunteer actors from neighboring towns.
Several retired theater performers.
A traveling country singer who strongly resembled Reba McEntire from a distance.
A retired school principal.
A dentist.
And one confused accordion player who thought he was attending a church social.
Finch handed each of them a white suit.
A black string tie.
And a fake goatee.
The operation was named:
ProjectColonel Thunder.
The next morning, a wagon rolled into town carrying twelve imitation Colonel Sanders figures.
The actors climbed down dramatically.
The townspeople cheered.
The chickens stared suspiciously.
One brave actor stepped forward.
He adjusted his spectacles.
Pointed dramatically toward a flock.
And shouted:
“Return to your coop!”
The chickens looked at him.
The chickens blinked.
The chickens charged.
Project Colonel Thunder lasted approximately eleven seconds.
The actors fled in every direction.
One climbed onto a roof.
Two hid in a water trough.
The accordion player disappeared completely and was later discovered selling lemonade twenty miles away.
The Reba look-alike escaped by riding backward on a mule.
The chickens celebrated their victory with loud, triumphant clucking that could be heard across town.
It was a complete disaster.
Or so everyone thought.
Because while the chickens had defeated the fake Colonels…
They had become distracted.
For nearly an entire afternoon.
And during that precious time, citizens safely moved supplies, repaired fences, and rescued several residents who had become trapped inside the general store.
Marshal Finch studied the results carefully.
The plan had failed.
Yet somehow succeeded.
Which was the sort of outcome that seemed to follow Chester Finch wherever he went.
That evening he parked his moped outside town.
The sun disappeared behind the horizon.
The chickens settled in for the night.
Finch opened his notebook and wrote:
“Conclusion: Chickens are not afraid of Colonels.”
Then he added another note.
“However, they are extremely curious about them.”
What Finch didn’t know was that several former outlaws had been watching everything from a nearby ridge.
And they had just discovered a way to profit from the town’s misery.
A very profitable way.
The kind of way that would soon bring a new threat to town.
A threat called…
The Feathered Brotherhood.
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
High Noon in Arizona – Where Time Never Changes!
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes! 🐔🏜️🛵
I wanted to present this piece in my own voice. It is my effort to enter the conversation with greater emphasis and a more personal connection to the subject, hoping to give added meaning to the events we are facing today. The full written text of my remarks is included as well.
If I were a tyrant determined to weaken the Republic of the United States, I would not begin with tanks in the streets or soldiers at the door. No… history shows that nations are rarely surrendered all at once. They are usually persuaded to surrender themselves a little at a time.
First, I would attack confidence. Not confidence in me — confidence in one another.
I would begin by tearing away at the nation’s heroes. I would revisit every flaw, every mistake, every rumor from the past, and present them not as human failings, but as proof that nothing honorable had ever existed at all. Sheriffs, presidents, governors, military leaders, teachers, even ministers — I would insist they were never worthy of admiration in the first place.
I would convince people that patriotism was foolishness, that pride in country was embarrassment, and that respect for institutions was a sign of weakness.
Then I would flood the public square with noise.
Not one story — thousands of them.
Some true. Some half true. Some entirely manufactured. I would spread them across television, social media, podcasts, websites, and endless comment sections until the average citizen no longer knew what was real and what was fiction. Repetition would do the heavy lifting. After hearing something enough times, people begin mistaking familiarity for truth.
And once confusion took hold, I would encourage Americans to distrust every source of information except the ones loyal to my cause.
I would tell them the newspapers were lying.
The courts were corrupt.
The elections were rigged.
The scientists were compromised.
The teachers were indoctrinating.
The police were enemies.
The judges were bought.
And eventually, even neighbors would begin suspecting neighbors.
Division would become the national pastime.
I would not need brilliant leaders to carry out my plan. In fact, charisma without discipline would serve me better. I would elevate loud voices over wise ones. I would reward outrage instead of integrity. I would discover ambitious people lacking moral restraint — people willing to say anything, accuse anyone, or inflame any fear if it kept them powerful and profitable.
Money and attention can persuade some people to abandon principles they never truly possessed.
Then I would encourage the population to separate itself into tribes. Not Americans first — but factions first. Race against race. Rural against urban. Conservative against liberal. Young against old. Citizen against immigrant. I would make every disagreement feel permanent and unforgivable.
Because a divided people are easier to control than a united one.
And finally — perhaps most importantly — I would convince ordinary citizens that freedom itself was the problem. That liberty was dangerous. That dissent was threatening. That opposing voices should be silenced instead of debated.
At that point, I would hardly need to overthrow the Republic.
The people, exhausted, angry, suspicious, and fearful, would begin surrendering it willingly — believing all the while they were saving it.
History has shown that democracies rarely disappear with the sound of drums and marching boots. More often, they fade beneath the applause of crowds convinced they are doing what is necessary.
And the most dangerous tyrant of all?
The one who convinces people they are still free while teaching them to hate one another.
Sometimes the road to healing begins with nothing more than making sure no one feels left behind.
There are times in life when the smallest gestures carry the greatest meaning. A phone call. A handshake. A hug at a restaurant. Or simply hearing someone say, “We’re in town — come see us.” Those moments tell people they matter. In a world growing increasingly divided by politics, class, social standing, race, religion, and ideology, inclusion may be one of the last true bridges we have left.
Too many people today quietly carry the feeling of being left out. Sometimes it happens intentionally. Other times, people simply become busy, distracted, or absorbed in different circles. But exclusion, whether deliberate or accidental, leaves scars people rarely speak about openly. It creates loneliness in neighborhoods, divisions in families, and distance between old friends who once shared life together.
Yet inclusion has the power to heal much of that brokenness.
When we invite others to the table, we do more than share a meal. We remind people they are seen. We tell them their history with us mattered. We acknowledge their humanity and their place in our lives. A simple invitation can restore dignity to someone who feels forgotten. It can calm resentment before it hardens into bitterness. It can rebuild trust in a time when trust is disappearing from much of American life.
I often think about a small sign that hung in my grandparents’ home. It read, “The road to a friend’s home is never too long.” Those words were not simply decoration. They reflected a way of life. Back then, people stopped by to visit. Coffee was poured without ceremony. Extra chairs were always found. Folks did not ask what social class you belonged to before opening the door.
Somewhere along the way, much of society drifted from that spirit. Success was measured by status rather than kindness. Invitations became selective. Social circles became guarded. Technology connected the world while somehow making many people feel more isolated than ever before.
But perhaps the answer to repairing the country is not always found in Washington, headlines, or social movements alone. Perhaps part of the healing begins much smaller. Around dinner tables. At backyard cookouts. In reunions where nobody is intentionally left behind. In learning once again how to make people feel welcome.
Inclusion does not mean everyone must agree. It does not mean every friendship survives forever. But it does mean we can choose decency over social competition. Compassion over silent judgment. Humanity over hierarchy.
America has always been strongest when ordinary people looked out for one another. Neighbors helping neighbors. Friends remembering friends. Communities making room for those who felt forgotten. That spirit built towns, churches, schools, volunteer fire departments, and generations of families who survived hard times together.
Maybe that is what we need again.
Not perfection. Not performance. Not pretending.
Just people willing to say: “You still matter to us. Come sit with us awhile.”
Sometimes the road to healing the world begins with nothing more complicated than making sure the road to a friend’s home is never too long.
Few crimes produce stronger emotional reactions than crimes against children.
The public response is immediate and understandable. Anger. Revulsion. Confusion. A collective demand to know how any adult could sexually exploit a child. Yet despite the outrage, many conversations stop before reaching the deeper and more uncomfortable questions.
What psychologically drives a person toward underage victims?
Why do some offenders deliberately place themselves in positions of authority and trust?
And why do cases involving police officers, clergy, teachers, coaches, youth leaders, and other authority figures command such intense public attention?
These are difficult questions. But they are questions worth examining carefully and honestly if society truly wants to understand how these crimes occur and how they can be prevented.
Understanding Pedophilia Versus Child Sexual Abuse
One of the first and most important distinctions is understanding that not every individual who sexually abuses a child is clinically classified as a pedophile.
The term “pedophilia” is often used broadly in public discussion, but clinically speaking, pedophilic disorder refers to persistent sexual attraction toward prepubescent children. Mental health professionals recognize it as a psychiatric condition involving recurring fantasies, urges, or behaviors focused on children.
However, many offenders who commit crimes against minors are not exclusively attracted to children.
Some offenders are driven by:
power and domination,
opportunity and access,
emotional immaturity,
compulsive sexual behavior,
antisocial personality traits,
narcissism,
sadism,
or the ability to exploit vulnerable individuals with little resistance.
Criminologists often refer to some of these offenders as “situational offenders.” In other words, their crimes may stem more from opportunity, access, and control than from exclusive attraction to children themselves.
That distinction matters because understanding motive is critical to prevention.
A predator motivated by opportunity may seek environments with weak supervision or vulnerable victims. A predator motivated by compulsive attraction may develop elaborate grooming behaviors and hidden patterns over many years.
Both are dangerous. But they are not always psychologically identical.
The Role of Authority, Access, and Trust
When stories emerge involving police officers, clergy, teachers, coaches, or youth leaders, public reaction becomes even more intense.
Part of that reaction stems from betrayal.
Society grants authority figures unusual levels of trust. Parents trust teachers with their children. Communities trust officers to protect them. Churches trust clergy with spiritual guidance. Youth programs trust coaches and mentors to shape young lives.
Predators understand this.
Research into offender behavior has repeatedly shown that some predators intentionally seek environments where:
children are present,
trust is automatic,
questioning authority is discouraged,
and institutional reputation may suppress complaints or disbelief.
Predators often do not hide from society.
They embed themselves inside it.
This is one reason grooming behavior is so psychologically effective. Grooming is not merely manipulation of a child. It frequently involves manipulation of parents, coworkers, institutions, churches, and entire communities.
The offender cultivates an image of respectability and dependability. Many become known as “good people,” “helpful,” “professional,” or “dedicated.” That public image becomes part of the camouflage.
Communities are often stunned after an arrest because the accused individual “never seemed like that type.”
But predators rarely advertise themselves as monsters.
Most understand exactly how normal they need to appear.
Why Police Cases Draw Extraordinary Attention
When a police officer is accused of crimes involving children, public attention intensifies immediately.
That does not necessarily mean police officers offend at higher rates than the general population. Existing national evidence does not conclusively establish that law enforcement officers commit child sex crimes at disproportionately higher levels overall.
However, police cases attract extraordinary media coverage because policing carries unique public responsibilities.
Police officers:
enforce laws,
investigate crimes,
interact with vulnerable people,
understand investigative systems,
and carry the authority of the state itself.
When an officer violates those expectations, the betrayal feels magnified.
The same phenomenon occurs in scandals involving clergy, teachers, coaches, corrections officers, or youth leaders. The issue is not merely the crime itself. It is the collapse of trust surrounding the position.
Media organizations also prioritize such stories because they involve:
public accountability,
abuse of authority,
institutional credibility,
and perceived hypocrisy.
As a result, cases involving officers often receive significantly more visibility than similar cases involving private citizens.
This heightened visibility can create the impression that certain professions are uniquely linked to offending behavior when, in reality, the profession itself may simply place the offender under far brighter scrutiny.
Compartmentalization: The Double Life
Perhaps one of the most disturbing psychological aspects of these crimes is the ability many offenders have to compartmentalize their lives.
Some maintain:
careers,
marriages,
friendships,
church involvement,
community respect,
and public service roles while simultaneously hiding predatory behavior.
This psychological splitting is often compared to:
addiction psychology,
narcissistic compartmentalization,
cognitive dissonance,
or dual-identity behavior.
The public often expects predators to appear obviously disturbed or socially isolated. Yet many offenders are socially functional, organized, and outwardly respected.
That disconnect is precisely what makes these crimes so difficult for communities to process.
People struggle to reconcile the trusted public figure with the hidden private behavior.
In many cases, the offender himself psychologically separates the two identities, convincing himself he remains a “good person” despite criminal actions.
That internal justification process is frequently found in offender interviews and criminal psychology studies.
Institutional Fear and Silence
Another difficult reality is that institutions themselves sometimes become vulnerable to denial.
Organizations fear:
lawsuits,
scandal,
public embarrassment,
loss of trust,
political consequences,
or financial fallout.
This can lead to:
ignored warning signs,
minimized complaints,
transferred offenders,
or pressure placed on victims to remain silent.
Historically, many major scandals involving abuse were not created by one offender alone, but by systems that failed to act decisively when concerns first surfaced.
This is why transparency, reporting systems, independent investigations, and accountability matter so deeply in professions involving vulnerable populations.
The Uncomfortable Truth
The hardest truth for many people to accept is that predators are often not strangers lurking in dark alleys.
Many are trusted members of communities.
They may wear uniforms. They may stand behind pulpits. They may coach Little League teams. They may teach classrooms. They may work in law enforcement. They may sit beside families in church pews every Sunday.
That reality does not mean entire professions are corrupt.
It means trust itself can become a weapon in the hands of the wrong person.
And perhaps that is why these crimes disturb society so deeply.
Because they force people to confront a painful realization: sometimes the people communities trust the most are the very people least suspected of betrayal.
Understanding that reality is uncomfortable.
Ignoring it is dangerous.
The Weight of Accusation
There is another side to these investigations that society rarely discusses openly.
The emotional horror surrounding crimes against children is so intense that accusation alone can sometimes become enough to destroy a person long before evidence is ever examined.
One former officer described an incident that illustrates how quickly perception can overtake truth.
Late one evening, a teenage boy reportedly stopped by the officer’s private residence and asked him to write a fake citation so he could use it as identification to appear older and gain entrance into a nightclub.
The officer refused and told the youth to leave.
According to the account, the teenager became angry and shouted back:
“You’re gay. I’m telling everybody.”
The officer dismissed the comment, closed the door, and thought nothing more about the exchange.
The following evening, however, when he reported for duty, he was immediately summoned into the Major’s office.
The teenager had filed allegations claiming the officer had made sexual advances toward him the night before.
The officer was suspended pending investigation.
Within hours, rumors had already begun spreading throughout the community.
The most difficult part for the officer was not simply the investigation itself. It was the realization that in allegations involving minors and sexual misconduct, innocence often struggles to compete against suspicion.
He had no witnesses. No recording devices. No defense except his own word.
The encounter had taken place in the privacy of his own home.
Yet public opinion had already begun forming long before any investigation reached conclusions.
This reality creates an uncomfortable but necessary truth society must confront carefully.
Protecting children must always remain a priority. Allegations involving minors deserve immediate and serious investigation.
At the same time, accusations alone cannot become automatic proof of guilt.
History has shown both realities can exist simultaneously: real predators do hide within trusted institutions, and false accusations, misunderstandings, retaliation, or exaggerated claims can also occur.
The challenge for investigators, communities, and institutions is maintaining enough emotional discipline to pursue truth instead of simply reacting to fear.
That balance is difficult.
But without it, justice itself can become compromised from both directions.
A new bill in Louisiana aims to address homelessness through enforcement and court-directed programs. Supporters call it a pathway to services. Critics warn it could blur the line between help and coercion. This piece breaks down what the law actually says—and why it raises deeper questions about how we treat the most vulnerable among us.
There is a bill moving through Louisiana right now that deserves more than a passing glance. It deserves attention—clear-eyed, fact-based, and unflinching.
Because beneath the political talking points, something real is happening.
What the Bill Actually Does
Louisiana lawmakers have advanced a measure—commonly referenced as Louisiana House Bill 211 (2026)—that targets public camping and similar activities often associated with homelessness.
In plain terms:
Sleeping or camping in certain public spaces could become a criminal offense
Violations can lead to fines or jail time
Courts may direct individuals into structured programs or services as part of sentencing or diversion
Supporters argue this is about restoring order and connecting people with help. That is the stated intent.
And that part is factual.
Where the Concern Begins
Where this bill becomes controversial is not in what it says outright—but in how it operates in practice.
Critics—advocates, legal observers, and community groups—raise concerns that:
The “choice” between jail and programs may not feel like a choice at all
Court-directed participation in treatment or services could function as coercion under threat of punishment
Individuals may face financial obligations tied to those programs, depending on how they are administered
Those concerns are not invented—but they are also not fully settled facts across all interpretations of the bill.
They are warnings about what this kind of policy can become.
And history tells us those warnings are not without precedent.
The Line We Should Be Watching
There is a difference between:
Offering help and
Mandating compliance under penalty of jail
That line matters.
Because once a person’s existence—where they sleep, where they sit, where they try to survive—becomes criminalized, the system is no longer just offering assistance.
It is enforcing behavior.
What This Is—and What It Is Not
Let’s be precise, because precision matters:
It is true this bill criminalizes certain public behaviors tied to homelessness
It is true it allows courts to impose penalties, including jail
It is true it routes individuals into structured programs
It is not clearly established, based on current verified reporting, that:
People will universally be billed in a way that leads directly to punitive labor arrangements
Or that “forced unpaid labor” exists as a clearly defined, direct provision of the bill itself
Those claims are circulating—but they are interpretations and projections, not confirmed statutory facts.
And if we care about truth, we separate what is known from what is feared.
The Moral Question Still Stands
Even stripped down to verified facts, the question does not go away.
It becomes sharper.
What does it say about us if the primary tool we use to address homelessness is the criminal code?
What does it mean when the path to “help” runs through a courtroom?
And what happens when the least among us are told:
Comply—or face punishment.
A Final Word
You don’t have to exaggerate this bill to be troubled by it.
You don’t have to stretch facts to ask hard questions.
Because even at its most neutral reading, this legislation represents a shift— from compassion offered freely to compliance enforced by law.
We’re only at the beginning of 2026, yet many of us already feel the weight of events unfolding around us. Some disappointments are loud and public, others quieter and deeply personal. They come from headlines. Leadership is a source. Disappointments arise from a loss of trust. It is simply the sense that we keep revisiting the same struggles under new names.
This space isn’t about arguments or absolutes—it’s about honest reflection. Your perspective matters here, whether it’s something global or something close to home. Sometimes naming a concern is the first step toward understanding it.
What is the most disappointing concern you feel 2026 has already brought into the world?
6 responses to “Your Voice Matters: What’s the Most Disappointing Part of 2026 So Far?”
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One year ago former U.S. President Jimmy Carter passed away. We close this year with a celebration to his life. Recognizing his many accomplishments. Here is one, a promise he had made on the campaign trail before he was elected to office. That if he won the presidency, he would return to Elk City, Oklahoma and thank them. He upheld that promise, as well as many others he made. A man with true humility, honesty and principles. Sorely missed as an example to others.We honor a true a leader by remembering his life!
On March 24th, 1979, President Jimmy Carter returned to Oklahoma. He came to fulfill a campaign promise he had made during his first run for office. While campaigning, he passed through Elk City, Oklahoma, and vowed that if elected, he would return as President. True to his word, he came back to this small western Oklahoma town to connect with its residents.
By then, the memory of President Ford’s near-assassination and other threats against public figures lingered in the national consciousness. Carter was a peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia. He resonated with Oklahoma Citizens through his humility and shared values. This included his Democratic Party affiliation. First Lady Rosalynn Carter was accompanying him. Her warmth and grace complemented her husband. She left a positive impression on the locals.
At the time, Oklahoma’s Governor George Nigh was a celebrated figure in state politics. George Nigh was elected Lieutenant Governor more times than anyone else. He briefly served as Governor multiple times. This occurred when his predecessors resigned to take other offices. Despite some legal challenges about his eligibility, the State Supreme Court affirmed his ability to serve. He was now in his first full term as Governor. His presence at Carter’s visit added to the significance of the occasion.
The visit brought much excitement and preparation to Elk City, a town of about 12,000. The oil boom had not yet transformed the region. The high school’s field house was the largest venue available for the gathering. Elk City did not have an airport that accommodates Air Force One. Thus, the nearby Clinton-Sherman Airbase in Burns Flat, 15 miles east, was reactivated for the President’s arrival. A motorcade transported President Carter and his entourage to Elk City.
The event attracted widespread attention, with media outlets from a five-state area descending on the town. Governor Nigh, Oklahoma’s First Lady, U.S. Senators, Representatives, and many state officials joined the crowd. The field house overflowed with locals eager to witness history.
President Carter took the stage after introductions by various community leaders. His speech was marked by humility, sincerity, and a willingness to engage directly with the audience. During a question-and-answer session, a young girl boldly asked for a kiss. The President graciously obliged. This act endeared him further to the crowd.
Unlike many politicians who have returned to the comfort of Washington, D.C., President Carter chose to stay overnight at the home of Elk City Mayor Larry Wade. While he and Rosalynn rested, Elk City police officers securely guarded their limousine. It was stored in the fire department’s bay. The fire trucks were temporarily parked on the street. This allowed room for the vehicle. The bay doors were locked to make sure its secure.
The next morning, the Secret Service inspected and prepared the limousine for the journey back to the Clinton-Sherman Airbase. At 7:00 AM, President and Mrs. Carter were to be escorted by a motorcade that included local police and the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. But the Carters had been invited to church. And to church they would go. The President’s and First Lady’s Church attendance was unannounced and brief. Two routes were used to guarantee security, though the President’s exact route remains uncertain. By 8:15 AM, all vehicles converged at the church. The Carters left church and went to the Clinton – Sherman Airfield, near Burns Flat. “Nothing is to schedule” one news reporter was noted as saying. And, for the Secret Service, they appreciated it wasn’t. The changes in the planned activity helped create enough of a distraction.
As Air Force One prepared for departure, President Carter and Rosalynn climbed the stairway. They turned to wave goodbye to the assembled crowd. Then, they boarded the plane. Within minutes, the jet’s engines roared to life. It ascended into the blue Oklahoma sky. The departure left behind a community that felt valued and appreciated.
Jimmy Carter’s visit to Elk City exemplified his commitment to keeping promises and connecting with everyday Americans. Years after making his pledge, he returned to this western Oklahoma town. This return reflected the integrity and personal touch that characterized his presidency.
This Story From The Classics. Posted Originally in 2024 it is Reposted this year as part of the best of the best stories benandsteve.com are sharing at years end.
The last three days of the year often get overlooked. During this time, services go unnoticed around the average town or city. This well can be the case where you live.Police, Fire, Ambulance, and 911 Operators all do an incredible job. They work tirelessly in the build up to the New Year Eve Celebration and all the socializing involved. All the socializing is not celebratory, and the people they deal with are not all friendly.
As the year drew close, the city was abuzz with anticipation for the New Year’s celebrations. But for the fire, police, and ambulance services, the last three days of the year were anything but quiet. These dedicated men and women often worked long shifts. They sacrificed their own celebrations. They were on the front lines, ensuring the community’s safety and well-being.
Day One: December 29th
The fire department received a call about a house fire in the early morning hours. Flames engulfed the old wooden structure, and the firefighters worked tirelessly to control the blaze. They managed to rescue a family trapped inside, their faces covered in soot but grateful to be alive. Investigators later determined that a faulty space heater caused the fire. This serves as a stark reminder of the dangers of winter.
Meanwhile, the police were called to a domestic disturbance in a quiet suburban neighborhood. A heated argument escalated. Officers arrived with their professional demeanor and calm approach. They managed to defuse the situation. This ensured that both parties were safe and had a chance to cool down.
The ambulance service was dispatched to a car accident on the icy roads. A young driver had lost control of his vehicle and skidded into a tree. Paramedics worked quickly to stabilize him and transport him to the hospital. Despite the crash’s seriousness, the driver was expected to fully recover.
Day Two: December 30th
The fire department responded to a call about a gas leak in an apartment building. Residents were evacuated as firefighters located the source of the leak and shut it off. Their quick response and decisive action prevented a potential explosion. This reassured the residents. They were allowed to return to their homes once it was deemed safe.
The police were called to a robbery at a local convenience store. The suspect had fled the scene, but officers gathered evidence and track him down. The thief was apprehended and taken into custody, and the stolen goods were returned to the relieved store owner.
The ambulance service received a call about an elderly woman who had fallen in her home. Paramedics arrived to find her in pain and incapable of moving. They carefully lifted her onto a stretcher. They transported her to the hospital. At the hospital, she was treated for a broken hip. Her family was grateful for the swift and compassionate care she received.
Day Three: December 31st
On New Year’s Eve, the fire department was on high alert as fireworks lit up the night sky. They responded to several small fires caused by stray sparks, but thankfully, none resulted in severe damage. Firefighters patrolled the city, ensuring that everyone enjoyed the celebrations safely despite the potential dangers they faced.
The police were busy with calls about noise complaints and public intoxication. Officers maintained a visible presence in the city center, where crowds had gathered to watch the fireworks show. They worked to keep the peace and make sure everyone rang in the new year without incident.
The ambulance service was called to help a young woman who had collapsed at a New Year’s party. Paramedics quickly assessed her condition and determined that she had consumed too much alcohol. They provided her with the necessary care and transported her to the hospital for further observation.
When the clock struck midnight, the city erupted in cheers and celebrations. The fire, police, and ambulance services continued their vigilant watch, ready to respond to emergencies. For them, the end of the year was just another day. They served and protected their community. This often came at the cost of their own family celebrations.
Remember this New Year’s Eve and throughout the Holiday Season, Do Not Drink And Drive. Party Responsibly. Stay Alive For 2025!
On Christmas Day in 1921, a Swedish immigrant named Axel Bjorklund quietly pushed his hot dog cart to a corner in Boston’s North End. There, he handed out 500 steaming hot dogs to cold and hungry children, a simple act of kindness that would leave a lasting legacy.
Axel knew what it meant to struggle. He barely scraped by himself, but his heart ached for the impoverished children he saw daily. Hundreds of children, some as young as five, lined up in their threadbare clothes that chilly Christmas morning, shivering against the cold.
Despite their hunger and hardship, their faces lit up with joy as Axel handed each one a hot dog. Though the food quickly ran out, Axel’s resolve did not. He was determined to make this a yearly tradition. Over the next eight years, he gave away an astonishing 10,000 hot dogs before passing in 1930.
Axel was born on August 6, 1869, in Gothenburg, Sweden. In 1889, he immigrated to America and eventually settled in Boston’s North End, a neighborhood brimming with immigrants striving to build better lives.
Yet, poverty was rampant, especially after the devastating Spanish Flu pandemic left many families destitute and orphaned children wandering the streets. Amid this suffering, Axel’s generosity shone like a beacon of hope.
After a brief and unhappy marriage, Axel lived alone and decided to start a hot dog stand at the busy corner of Blackstone and Hanover Streets. The simple job gave him a sense of purpose, but seeing the hunger around him determined him to do more. He vowed that no child would go hungry if he had food to offer. His first Christmas giveaway in 1921 was a success, and he expanded the effort the following year, doubling the number of hot dogs to 1,000.
His annual giveaway grew as word of Axel’s kindness spread, eventually reaching 3,000 hot dogs yearly. The children affectionately began calling him “Hot Dog Santa.” Newspapers from across the United States and even Sweden shared his story, celebrating his selfless tradition.
Over time, Axel moved his hot dog giveaway to New Year’s Day, but the event remained a cherished occasion for the children who eagerly awaited it. However, Axel’s health began to deteriorate. Rheumatism caused frequent hospital visits, and his financial situation worsened. Struggling to pay his rent, Axel reached out to the public for help, determined to continue his tradition despite his hardships.
In December 1928, just before the giveaway, Axel’s landlady evicted him for failing to pay rent. The Salvation Army provided temporary support, but Axel’s circumstances grew increasingly dire. Over the next two years, he bounced between shelters, the poorhouse, and the Cambridge Home for the Aged, relying on the generosity of strangers. Even so, in 1929, he hosted one final hot dog giveaway.
On November 10, 1930, Axel Bjorklund passed away in a Massachusetts hospital, penniless and alone. He had no family and was destined for a pauper’s grave until news of his death reached the public. Outraged by his fate, citizens rallied together to give the man they called “Hot Dog Santa” a proper burial. Axel Bjorklund’s legacy of compassion and selflessness reminds us of the power of small acts of kindness during difficult times.
Remember, this holiday season, while times may feel joyful and bright for you, they could be challenging and somber for someone else. Offering a helping hand isn’t always a handout—it’s a gesture of humanity and compassion. Let’s take a moment to consider the needs of our fellow human beings, not just during the holidays but every day of the year.
In a quiet forest stood a skinny cedar tree, so different from all the others. The tall, majestic cedars around him stretched their lush branches high. In contrast, the little tree looked scrawny. It had sparse needles and a slightly crooked trunk.
People often came to the forest to select the perfect Christmas tree, always passing him by.
The other trees whispered and rustled in the wind, teasing him.
“Look at you, Herbie,”
They said, giving him the nickname that stuck.
“No one’s ever going to want you.”
Herbie tried to stand tall, but he knew they were right. Year after year, Herbie remained as the big, beautiful trees were chosen and taken away. The forest changed around him. He stayed in his lonely spot. He dreamed of what it would feel like to be wanted.
Then, one crisp winter morning, the tree cutters came again, their saws buzzing. Herbie didn’t expect to get noticed, but this time, something different happened. As they cleared their path, one of the workers stopped, scratched his head, and said,
“Well, let’s take this little one, too. Someone might like it.”
Herbie felt the sharp blade cut through his trunk. Before he could fully understand what was happening, he was bundled with the others and taken to the city.
A sea of magnificent Christmas trees surrounded Herbie at the tree lot. Their branches glistened with dew, and they stood tall and proud. Compared to them, Herbie felt even smaller, and his crooked trunk made him look even more awkward.
Shoppers strolled by, admiring the grand trees and taking them home individually. Herbie overheard a nearby pine whisper,
“Face it, Herbie, you’re not cut out for this. No one’s going to pick you.”
The lot grew emptier daily, and Herbie’s hope dwindled. By Christmas Eve, he was the only tree left, standing under the dim glow of a street lamp. The wind whistled through his sparse branches, and Herbie prepared for the inevitable—being tossed away, unloved.
But just as Herbie’s spirits hit their lowest, a tiny voice broke through the cold night air.
“Mama, look! That one’s perfect!”
Herbie lifted his branches slightly in surprise. A little boy with messy hair and bright, eager eyes was pointing at him.
“Are you sure, Tommy?”
His mother asked, crouching beside him,
“This tree is so small. And, well, it’s not exactly full.”
––––
“Exactly!”
Tommy said with a grin.
“It’s different, just like me. We’ll make it the best Christmas tree ever!”
Herbie’s heart soared as Tommy and his mother carefully carried him home. Tommy got to work in their cozy living room, stringing popcorn and cranberries across Herbie’s branches. His mother tucked shiny ornaments into every gap, and finally, they placed a glowing star on top.
Herbie couldn’t believe it. For the first time, he felt truly beautiful. He wasn’t just a funny-looking tree anymore—a Christmas tree.
On Christmas morning, Herbie watched with joy as Tommy tore through his presents, his laughter filling the room. The warmth of the fire danced on Herbie’s branches, and he realized he had never felt so happy.
When the holiday ended, Herbie feared getting thrown out like many trees before him. But instead, Tommy’s family carried him to their backyard.
Tommy said, patting his trunk as they planted him firmly in the soil.
“You’re part of our family now, Herbie,”
Year after year, as Herbie grew taller and fuller, Tommy would decorate him anew, even in the coldest winters.
Herbie learned that it wasn’t about how perfect he looked or how he compared to the other trees. The love and care he received—and gave—made him truly special.
And so, Herbie stood proudly, knowing he would always be part of something wonderful: a family.
The snow fell gently outside Tom Whitaker’s cabin, blanketing the woods in a serene hush. Inside, the fireplace cast a warm glow, flickering and dancing, casting long shadows on the walls. The smell of pine from the small, undecorated tree in the corner filled the room with a comforting aroma. It was Christmas Eve. Tom, a retired schoolteacher, sat in his favorite armchair. He had a mug of cocoa in hand and a book he couldn’t quite focus on. For the first time in decades, he was spending Christmas alone.
His wife, Evelyn, had passed away three years ago. His grown children were scattered across the country. They were tied up with their own families and commitments. Tom didn’t blame them, but the ache of solitude was undeniable. He declined their offers to join them, insisting he’d be fine alone. He wasn’t.
A knock at the door startled him as he gazed into the fire. Who would visit on a night like this? He opened the door. He found a boy no older than ten. The boy was bundled up in a red coat. He was holding a scraggly puppy with floppy ears.
“Hi, mister,”
the boy said, shivering uncontrollably.
“I found this puppy in the snow. My mom said we can’t keep him, but maybe you can.”
Tom stared at the boy and the trembling pup.
“Come inside before you freeze,”
he said, taking the puppy in his arms.
The boy declined, pointing to a car waiting at the edge of Tom’s driveway.
“Merry Christmas!”
he called as he dashed off.
Tom closed the door, holding the puppy close. The little dog’s brown eyes looked up at him with fear and hope.
“Well, you’re an unexpected guest,”
Tom murmured. He fetched a blanket and some leftover chicken for the pup, who wagged its tail furiously.
Later that evening, as Tom felt less lonely, another knock came. This time, it was Mrs. Abernathy, his elderly neighbor. She held a tin of cookies and a thermos of cider.
“I noticed your lights on,”
she said.
“Thought you like some company.”
She handed him the thermos, and the warm, comforting scent of cider filled the air.
They shared the cookies and cider, laughing about old times and neighbors long gone. Mrs. Abernathy left after an hour, but only after gifting Tom a hand-knitted scarf she had made.
As the clock struck midnight, Tom prepared for bed, his heart a little warmer. The puppy, now curled up in an old basket, barked softly. Another knock came.
“Who now?”
Tom muttered, opening the door.
A group of carolers stood outside, bundled against the cold, their voices harmonizing in “Silent Night.” Behind them was a man from a local grocery store holding a box.
“We’ve got extra holiday meals,”
the man explained after the carolers finished.
“Thought you might enjoy one.”
Tom accepted the box, his throat tight with emotion. Inside were a roast chicken, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a pie.
As the night wore on, Tom marveled at the change. A Christmas he had dreaded became one filled with unexpected kindness. He sat by the fire with the puppy on his lap. The scarf was around his neck. He held a plate of warm food.
“Merry Christmas,”
he whispered to the little dog, who wagged its tail in agreement. Tom no longer felt alone. His cabin became filled with the spirit of the season through strangers, neighbors, and a small, scruffy pup. The pup found him when he needed it most.
In the little town of Mesa Ridge, the December sky seemed to hold every dream ever whispered. This town was tucked between a quiet stretch of desert. December didn’t arrive with just one story. It came with hundreds.
Not everyone called this time “Christmas.” Some families lit candles and spoke of miracles. Others gathered for feasts that marked the turning of the year. Some spent the month in quiet reflection, while others burst through the season with celebration and song.
But one thing was always the same: the light.
It started with a single lantern placed outside the old community center on the first day of December. No one remembered who began the tradition, but every night the lantern burned, its small glow chasing back the darkness. By the second evening, another family placed a candle beside it. Then the kids down the block added a tiny string of lights. A paper star was made by the third-grade class. The elders contributed a jar filled with sand and a tea light, remembering doing the same in their youth.
Within a week, the once-plain walkway to the center shone with a thousand shapes of light. These represented different traditions, different meanings, and different languages of hope. They were all gathered in the same place.
One chilly evening, as neighbors drifted in to admire the growing show, an elderly woman named Mrs. Cordero said softly,
“This is what the season is supposed to look like. All of us… together, not the same, but warm in the same glow.”
A teenager beside her shrugged.
“But what does it celebrate? Which holiday?”
Mrs. Cordero smiled the smile that had seen many Decembers.
“It celebrates us,”
She said.
“Us choosing to be a little softer with one another. A little kinder. A little more willing to look someone in the eye and say, ‘You matter to me.’ If the lights have a job, it’s simply to remind us that we’re better when we brighten one another.”
Word spread quickly, as all good messages do.
Light has no doctrine, and kindness has no borders. In December, we simply shine a little brighter—together.
Soon, families who had never spoken found themselves sharing warm drinks and stories. The bakery owner delivered sweet rolls just because it felt right. A newcomer from across the country found herself wrapped in community she hadn’t expected. Even the grouchy widower who lived on the corner had not decorated for anything in decades. He quietly placed a single white lantern at the end of his driveway. No explanation needed.
On December 24th—whatever that date meant to each household—a gentle hush fell across Mesa Ridge. People walked the lantern path not as one faith or another, but simply as neighbors. The lights flickered, danced, and whispered the same message in a hundred different languages:
Goodwill belongs to everyone. Kindness is not seasonal, but December is a good place to start. And light—no matter where it comes from—shines brightest when shared.
When the last lantern was lit that night, the community didn’t cheer. They simply breathed in the moment, letting the warmth settle into their bones.
Some carried the glow home. Some carried it into the New Year. Some carried it for a lifetime.
And in the little town of Mesa Ridge, the tradition continued. It wasn’t because anyone told them to. It was because they remembered how it felt to step into the light together.
We all know words can inspire, connect, and excite—but they can also alienate, offend, or sound tired. Daria Knupp, Sr. Content Marketing Manager at Personify, recently published a thoughtful article. It lists 10 words and phrases we should stop using in the events industry. We should consider avoiding them everywhere. Her list stopped me in my tracks—and it will surprise you, too.
We use these terms often at conferences, in meetings, and in our everyday work to convey intelligence, wit, and creativity. Nevertheless, some have roots in stereotypes, outdated social theories, or even deeply offensive historical contexts. Here are highlights from Knupp’s list. I also include my own reflections on why they matter. Additionally, I explore how we can do better.
Phrases Worth Rethinking
“Guru” Originally, the title of the highest spiritual leaders in Hinduism and Buddhism. Using it casually—“event planning guru”—can trivialize a sacred role. Try “expert” or “specialist” instead.
“Pow Wow” is not just a “quick meeting.” It’s a sacred Native American gathering of community and celebration. Try “meeting” or “collaboration.”
“Tribe” is often used to describe a network or support, but it is tied to outdated and harmful stereotypes. Swap in “team,” “group,” or “cohort.”
“Nitty Gritty” Commonly meant “the essentials,” but it was rooted in references to the slave trade. Use “details” or “essentials” instead.
“Hold Down the Fort” Seems harmless, but it was initially tied to colonial conflicts with Native Americans. Consider “supervise” or “manage.”
“Tipping Point” was popularized by Malcolm Gladwell, but historically referred to racial “thresholds” in neighborhoods. Try “pivotal moment” or “milestone.”
“Rule of Thumb” Linked—to wife-beating folklore. Safer to say “general guideline” or “industry standard.”
“Crazy” or “Insane” Using mental illness terms casually undermines efforts to destigmatize. Replace with “absurd,” “outrageous,” or “ridiculous.”
Buzzwords like “Synergy,” “Leverage,” and “Bandwidth” Overuse makes you sound like a cliché. Switch it up with plainer language.
Hyperboles. Nothing wrong with exaggeration—but when overdone, it can make you less credible. Mix in metaphors or puns for variety.
Personal Reflection: A Lifelong Connection
I’ve had very close Native American friends who have been like family to me for nearly fifty years. Through countless conversations, shared meals, and life’s ups and downs, similar concerns about language never arose. We always spoke openly and comfortably with one another, and I thought we understood each other fully.
Now, reading about the origins of these words and their potential to harm, I have to ask myself—was I wrong? Did I unintentionally cause pain, even to the people I love and respect? This personal reflection can make the audience feel empathetic and introspective. Did my long-held assumptions give me a sense of being “above” the issue when in reality I wasn’t?
This is why articles like Daria Knupp’s matter. They challenge us to reevaluate. They help us check our blind spots. They make us confront how easy it is to inherit language without questioning it. This can make the audience feel motivated and empowered. I hope that in sharing this, readers will pause. I hope they think: if language is so powerful, what can we do to use it better?
Why This Matters
As Knupp points out, we interact with thousands of attendees, exhibitors, colleagues, and friends. Every word choice carries weight. Being mindful of language isn’t about being “too sensitive”; it’s about making sure everyone feels respected and included. And honestly? It makes us sound more intelligent and up-to-date.
For me, this list was surprising because so many of these phrases have been normalized. Seeing their origins laid out in one place makes me rethink my own habits. It also makes me curious—what other everyday expressions are we using without realizing their history?
The Takeaway
Language evolves, and so can we. By phasing out these outdated or offensive terms, we show ourselves as thoughtful professionals and better human beings. Words shape experiences. They can also change them—for the better.
NOTE: We live in a time when there’s a relentless push to roll back equality. Efforts aim to undo hard-won progress toward balancing the scales between the haves and the have-nots. Reports like this stand as a vital reminder. There will always be voices, somewhere, willing to rise for decency, fairness, and moral courage.
Every year when All Hallows’ Eve rolls around, I think about a specific night. I remember it vividly. It was when I was sixteen. I was getting ready to go out with friends—excited, dressed up, and ready for a night of harmless fun. As I reached for the door, my father stopped me with a hand on my arm.
He’d never done that before. I was the youngest of six children. By the time I reached my teens, my parents had weathered every imaginable crisis. Their only standing rule was simple: “Be safe and be home before daylight.” But that night was different. Dad’s grip was firm, his eyes serious.
He said quietly, “Look—your Uncle Bennie came upon a man whose head had been cut off and left on a dirt road near our house when I was about your age. They never found who did it.”
I froze. Uncle Bennie had passed away before I was born, so I never had the chance to ask him about it. Dad didn’t offer more details. He only mentioned that Bennie had called the deputies. Bennie told them everything he knew. Then he lived with that memory for the rest of his life.
My father’s next words have stayed with me for decades: “I just want you to be safe. Don’t go where you don’t know where you’re at.”
Those words became a rule for me, a compass I’ve carried ever since. If my gut or my soul told me something wasn’t safe, I backed away. That simple warning guided me through my teenage years. It also helped me during my law enforcement career. Instincts and situational awareness can mean the difference between life and death in that field.
Even today, I don’t know much more than that chilling story about the headless man. But my father’s advice has saved me countless times. It’s taught me that safety isn’t just about the rules of the road. Safety is not limited to the places on a map. It’s about trusting the quiet warnings within yourself.
I share this story with you because maybe it can help someone else, just as it helped me. We live in a world full of distractions, routes we don’t know, and situations that feel uncertain. If you find yourself heading into something that doesn’t feel right, listen to that inner voice. Step back. Choose another path.
Because sometimes, the oldest lessons are the truest: Don’t go where you don’t know where you’re at. Your instincts know the terrain long before your eyes do. And that wisdom—passed from a father to a son—can save your life, too.
As autumn rolls in, we want to thank every one of you for stopping by BenAndSteve.com. By coming here, you’ve chosen more than just another news site. You’ve found a space where information, perspective, and community come together.
Here you’ll find a variety of voices, stories, and updates. Plus, it’s a place to connect and share opinions. You can also see how others think. Whether you’re here for fresh news, or thoughtful commentary, we’re proud to offer you fresh news every day. We also give thoughtful commentary. You will find a little inspiration here too.
So grab your favorite fall drink, explore the latest posts, and join the conversation. We’re thrilled you’re part of our growing community—and this October is only the beginning of what’s ahead!
Welcome to Chiawuli Tak, Arizona—a sun-drenched speck of a census-designated place nestled in Pima County. The town had just 48 residents in 2020. It has risen to an estimated 112 today. It’s the town where “small population” doesn’t even start to cover it. (And yes, that growth rate of about 6.7% annually is basically like adding a few family reunions per year.) (1)
The Town So Quiet…
Once upon a Sunday, locals cheered when a tumbleweed gently tapped on the general store window. They marveled at it, of course. The nearest neighbor hosts alone can use the company. With a population density of around 20 people per square mile, it’s quieter than most people’s living rooms. If you shout “Howdy!” in Chiawuli Tak, you’ll hear your own echo. You also hear the echoes of three generations of family dogs responding in kind. (2)
Despite its tiny size, 19 households call Chiawuli Tak home. Nearly five people per house live there on average. There are a handful of single dads. They are brimming with dad jokes. There are also single moms who know the power of multitasking. Enough cousins exist to start a family band. Everyone’s related, and everyone knows the town gossip by breakfast. (3)
A Name With Flair
The name Chiawuli Tak comes from the O’odham language and means “the barrel cactus sits.” It is the only town in America deliberately named after a cactus that sat down. This cactus thereby became the most laid-back plant in the desert. (4)
Why We Love This Place
Chiawuli Tak reminds us that it doesn’t take big cities to tell good stories. Sometimes, you just need a handful of folks, a trusty barrel cactus, and a whole lot of unexpected charm. So raise your morning coffee high. Do it for the towns that make you smile. These towns only show up on very sparse maps.
It was about five weeks after my back surgery when Steve and I went shopping at our farmers’ market. Normally, Saturdays are our day, but since he had volunteered the day before, we made our visit on Sunday instead. That simple change in schedule turned into something unexpected and heartwarming.
We ended up in the checkout lane of one of our favorite “checkout girls,” as we call her. Mina. She hadn’t seen me since before my surgery, and when she spotted us, her face lit up. She came running from behind the register. She wrapped her arms around both of us and hugged us tight. It felt like a son coming home from college after a long absence. She even insisted we give her our address so she can invite us to a family event she was planning. We’re still not sure what event it will be, but the invitation itself felt like a gift.
That hug reminded me of something simple yet profound. It showed the power of being openly accepting. Let people into your life regardless of who they are, what they look like, or where they come from. In Mina’s hug, I felt seen, valued, and welcomed back into the community.
It brought to mind another story—one shared with me for this blog.
It was 3 a.m. in a quiet hospital corridor when a young musician, newly diagnosed with leukemia, sat in fear and loneliness. The sterile lights and hum of machines gave her no comfort. She cried quietly, believing no one noticed.
But someone did.
A nurse named Ben saw her distress and asked, “Are you okay?” He didn’t prescribe medicine or adjust a machine—he offered a hug. That single gesture, simple as it was, gave her strength. It reminded her she wasn’t just a patient but a person worth comforting. She later said that hug stayed with her long after the treatments, even into remission.
Why These Stories Matter
Kindness has a transformative power. It’s impactful whether shown by a nurse in a hospital or a cashier in a farmers’ market. It can change moments and sometimes lives. We often think it has to be grand or costly. The truth is, the simplest acts—a hug, a smile, an invitation—can ripple far beyond what we imagine.
Mina’s hug will not make the news. Nurse Ben’s probably didn’t either. But for the people who received them, they became unforgettable.
Reflections for You
When was the last time a small act of kindness made a real difference in your day?
Have you offered something that felt ordinary to you but has meant the world to someone else?
What small kindness can you extend today to be someone’s “Mina” or “Nurse Ben”?
The Takeaway
Life is full of struggles and invisible battles, but kindness—especially when it surprises us—has the power to heal. A hug. A smile. An invitation. They seem small, but they carry extraordinary weight.
You never know whose burden you’ll lighten or whose courage you’ll restore. Sometimes the smallest things are the biggest miracles. And without even realizing it, you are the miracle-giver.
Eddie and Carl had always been close, but nothing tied them together like their truck. A massive eighteen-wheeler, shining chrome dulled by road dust, it was both their livelihood and their burden. They’d gone deep into debt to buy it. They hoped to build their hauling business around orange deliveries from the groves in California.
But the payments ate away at every mile they drove.
Even with steady work, the numbers never added up. So they tried to get clever. They began running side jobs—hauling crates of produce, lumber, even furniture—between their orange routes. One drove while the other slept. Their heads were propped against the hard cab window. They woke with stiff necks that seemed to worsen each week.
“Just a few more years,”
Carl would mutter.
“We’ll get ahead.”
Eddie always nodded, though neither believed it completely.
Then the crisis hit. On a rain-slicked highway outside Phoenix, a sudden shudder ran through the truck. Eddie, at the wheel, felt the steering go slack. He fought the wheel, but the trailer jackknifed, scattering oranges across three lanes of traffic. By some miracle, no one was killed—but the damage was catastrophic. Their load was ruined, the rig torn apart, and the trucking company that contracted them pulled their work instantly.
The brothers sat on the shoulder. They were soaked in the rain. They watched cars crunch over the fruit they had worked so hard to deliver. They thought it was the end.
But in the weeks that followed, something unexpected happened. Photos of the accident—highways littered with smashed oranges, drivers climbing out to help clean up—went viral.
Reporters picked up the story of the brothers who worked around the clock. Their necks were stiff, and their wallets were thin. They were just trying to get ahead.
Sympathy poured in. A crowdfunding campaign was launched. And soon, Eddie and Carl weren’t just hauling oranges anymore. They were speaking about small-town grit and about persistence. They talked about what it meant to keep pushing ahead when the load was too heavy.
The truck nearly broke them. The crisis almost ruined them. In losing everything, they discovered something bigger. They found a community that believed in them more than they had ever felt in themselves.
It began as nothing more than a joke. A character on television—smug, ridiculous—coasted down an elevator while declaring something so absurd that everyone laughed. It was too silly to be taken seriously, too exaggerated to live beyond the moment.
But no one challenged it. And why would they? It was just a laugh, a one-liner, a small puff of smoke that seemed harmless. Yet smoke drifts. It clings. The joke became a line repeated at dinner tables, then in office chatter, then across social media. What started as comedy grew like a weed, tangled and persistent.
You knew it was a lie. You knew from the very beginning. But saying something meant being the one to ruin the joke, the one to argue when everyone else was smiling. It was easier to let it go. Easier to think, Surely this will fade away.
Except it didn’t. The lie ballooned. It threaded itself into conversations, policies, schools, and pulpits. Suddenly your neighbors were quoting it as if it explained the world. Your family repeated it without hesitation. They did not repeat it because they believed it. They found it easier than fighting for the truth.
And now here you are. Watching as the lie isn’t just smoke anymore—it’s a fire, raging and indiscriminate, swallowing millions in its path. The streets fill with people repeating the words that started as a smirk on an elevator ride. And they look to you, because they trust you. Because they think you see what they see.
But you don’t. You know better.
The question is no longer whether the lie is funny. The question is whether you will stand against it now. It is late, but not too late. Otherwise, silence will make you part of it.
Earl and Mabel Thompson were a quiet couple in their seventies. They lived on Maple Street in a small white house with blue shutters. Most evenings were spent watching the news or sipping tea on the porch. Their pride and joy, though, wasn’t a grandchild or a garden, but a bird—a rare mime bird. Unlike parrots, which repeated words, this bird can mimic voices perfectly. You’d swear the real person was in the room.
They named him Charlie.
One summer morning, Mabel was dusting the birdcage. Earl was fumbling with the Sunday crossword. Charlie spotted the cage door ajar. With a gleeful flap, he darted out the window and into the open sky. Earl dropped his pencil. “Mabel, the bird’s loose!”
But by then, Charlie was already over Johnson City, Kansas Main Street, testing his repertoire of voices.
Trouble Takes Flight
Charlie’s first stop was the Jenkins’ house. Hovering outside the kitchen window, he called out in Mr. Jenkins’ voice:
“Darlin’, I burned the roast again!”
Mrs. Jenkins stormed into the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon, ready for a fight. Poor Mr. Jenkins had been quietly napping in his recliner. He nearly fell over when she accused him of ruining dinner. He hadn’t even touched it.
From there, Charlie zipped down to O’Malley’s Bar. Perched on the ceiling fan, he crooned in half a dozen voices: “Put that on my tab!” “You call that a drink?” and, worst of all, in the barkeep’s own gruff tone: “Next round’s free, boys!” Chaos erupted as patrons demanded their “free round,” and fists began flying before anyone realized the voice was coming from above.
Civic Mischief
Not content with bars and kitchens, Charlie wheeled into the Johnson City police station. He perched outside the dispatcher’s window. He barked in Officer Daniels’ exact voice: “Unit 12, urgent back-up on Fifth and Main!”
Three patrol cars roared away with sirens blaring. The station was left in confusion. The real Officer Daniels walked out of the bathroom holding a sandwich. One County Unit, A State Patrol Car and the city’s only other active patrol unit.
Later that same afternoon, Charlie wandered into Johnson City’s Hospital. There, using a spot-on imitation of the head doctor, he announced over the intercom:
“Paging Dr. Howard, please report to Room 207. Emergency tonsil transplant, stat!”
Patients and nurses alike scrambled in a tizzy, while Dr. Howard was still in the cafeteria with a mouthful of Jell-O. He nearly joked. Squirming to get up his belly got wedged beneath the table and chair. A colleague that was with Doctor Howard, began laughing so hard he nearly passed out from the added action.
Charlie flew down to Johnson City John Deere. He landed in their parts department. There, he began calling out engine parts numbers from bin numbers. This drove the parts clerks absolutely crazy.
The Chase and the Capture
Word spread of a mysterious troublemaker around town. By that time, Earl and Mabel were chasing after Charlie with a birdcage. They called sweetly, “Here, Charlie! Come home, dear!”
The town’s patience was running thin, though most couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. Charlie was exhausted from a day of impersonations. Finally, he landed right back on Earl’s shoulder with a satisfied squawk:
“Well, that was fun!”
—in Earl’s exact voice.
Earl sighed, Mabel shook her head, and the crowd around them burst into laughter.
Aftermath
From that day on, Charlie’s cage was fitted with a brand-new lock. Earl swore it would never happen again.
Still, every now and then, when the wind blew just right across Maple Street, folks swore they heard Charlie. He was practicing a new trick. The voices varied—sometimes the mayor, sometimes the school principal—but the laughter it brought the town was always the same.
On the edge of town, near a quiet creek, there’s an old willow tree. Beneath its sweeping branches sits a wooden bench—simple, weather-worn, and unremarkable to anyone passing by. Yet, for the people who live nearby, it has become something more: a gathering place of unexpected kindness.
It started with an elderly woman who came to rest her legs each morning. One day, a teenager walking his dog sat down beside her. They began talking. By the time the boy left, she was smiling in a way her neighbors hadn’t seen in years. The next day, the boy came back—with coffee in hand for her.
Word spread. Soon, others began stopping at the bench. A widower brought extra tomatoes from his garden. A young mom offered homemade muffins. A pair of joggers left fresh flowers tucked into the slats. Strangers became neighbors, and neighbors became friends—all because of an old bench no one ever noticed before.
The willow still stands, and so does the bench. It hasn’t been polished, painted, or rebuilt—it doesn’t need to be. Its gift is not in how it looks. Its gift is in what it holds: conversations, kindness, and the small reminders. Even in a world that feels divided, we can still find each other in the simplest of places.
✨ TheTakeaway: Sometimes hope and connection aren’t found in grand gestures. They aren’t always in perfect plans. Instead, these are found in an ordinary spot where people choose to show up for one another.
In our little town, back-to-school season wasn’t marked by glossy superstore aisles or online orders delivered in cardboard boxes. No, it happened right on Main Street. It was at the drug store tucked neatly between the barber shop and the movie theater.
That drug store was a place all its own. A long soda fountain stretched nearly the length of one wall. It had red-topped stools that spun in slow circles when you climbed onto them. Folks would stop in for a cherry Coke or a vanilla phosphate. The hum of the soda jerk’s mixer became as familiar as the sound of church bells on Sunday morning. On the north end of the store, up near the front window, stood a glass display case. Behind it sat neat stacks of paper bags. Each bag was carefully filled with the exact school supplies a child would need for a given grade.
Every August, families filed in, children buzzing with nervous excitement. You only needed to walk up to the counter. Puff out your chest and tell the lady behind it your grade number. With a kind smile, she’d hand over a brown paper bag with your future sealed inside. The bag contained pencils, crayons, rulers, and erasers. For the younger grades, it included that wide-lined treasure known as the Big Chief Tablet.
Kindergarten through third grade was the golden stretch, when opening that bag felt like Christmas morning in August. We’d tear into the packages of crayons. We tested the sharpness of new pencils. We imagined all the things we’d draw and write. But as the years went on, the thrill wore off. By fourth grade, the magic faded. We realized those paper bags didn’t just hold supplies. They carried us straight back into the dreaded routine of homework. There were also spelling tests and teachers who never gave you quite enough recess.
Still, that ritual mattered. The drug store had a soda fountain fizzing. Its shelves were lined with shiny notebooks. It gave us a sense of belonging. It tied the town together. The barber cut hair next door. The movie theater marquee changed weekly. Parents shepherded kids through one more milestone.
Every bag marked a fresh start, even if we grumbled about it. None of us would have admitted it then. Yet, there was comfort in knowing that behind that glass display case was a little brown sack of sharpened pencils. It was waiting for us every year with brand-new beginnings.
Instead of roaming the country as a military force, it can return to its roots. It should focus on protecting communities, fighting disasters, and standing ready at home. This was how it was initially intended.
Regular Role of the National Guard
Traditionally, the National Guard is a reserve part of the U.S. Armed Forces with a dual state and federal mission. Its primary duties include:
Disaster response: helping with hurricanes, floods, wildfires, tornadoes, and other natural disasters.
Civil support: assisting with search and rescue, law enforcement support, and humanitarian aid.
Community protection: maintaining order during emergencies like riots or public unrest (when activated by a governor).
Military readiness: training to serve as backup for overseas missions if federally activated.
Current Use vs. Regular Use
In recent years, the Guard has been used much more often as a deployable military force nationwide and abroad. Instead of focusing mainly on disaster relief and state emergencies, units have often been:
Sent overseas for long deployments (Iraq, Afghanistan, and other global missions).
Deployed domestically for extended periods to reinforce border security.
Called into action for large-scale protests or high-profile events (sometimes more as a security force than a disaster-relief one).
This “running about the country” role shows the impact of federal activation. It often overrides the state-level, community-first role the Guard was created for.
If They Were Not Used in This Way
If the Guard were not being tasked so heavily with nationwide or military-style deployments, they would be more focused on:
Local readiness involves staying in their communities and training for natural disasters and emergency responses.
Rapid-response teams: being first on the ground for wildfires, floods, and major storms.
Community integration: building stronger ties with local emergency agencies, fire, police, and hospitals.
Relief from strain: soldiers wouldn’t be stretched between frequent national missions and their civilian lives (jobs, families).
In short, without the current expanded use, the Guard would essentially serve as a state-based safety net. It would not work as a roaming military or quasi-police force.
Back to Basics: Rethinking the Role of the National Guard
The National Guard has long been the “citizen-soldier” force of the United States, built to serve both State and country. In recent decades, its role has changed. It has drifted toward functioning as a national military extension. It is constantly deployed across the country and overseas. What if, instead, the Guard returned to its roots?
1. Local First: Anchored in Communities
At its best, the Guard is a local safety net. Guardsmen live, work, and raise families in the same communities they serve. Units should primarily focus on state-based missions. This focus ensures the Guard would be ready to respond within hours to natural disasters. They would also be prepared for civil emergencies or infrastructure crises. Imagine a Guard that spends more time training with local fire departments, EMTs, and hospitals than on federal deployments.
2. Disaster Response as the Core Mission
Hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, wildfires—these are the events that disrupt American lives far more often than foreign conflict. A back-to-basics Guard would prioritize:
Maintaining rapid-response disaster teams in every State.
Stockpiling equipment is tailored for local threats. This includes boats in flood zones, fire suppression gear in the West, and snow mobility in the North.
Conducting community disaster drills ensures that both citizens and Guardsmen are equally prepared.
Units would no longer be pulled away for distant missions. They would focus on being the first and best resource for emergencies at home.
3. Training for Peace, Not Just War
Right now, Guard training often mirrors active-duty military requirements, preparing for combat tours. In a reset model, training would also emphasize:
Cybersecurity units to defend state and municipal systems.
Community relations, so Guardsmen stay trusted neighbors rather than distant enforcers.
This would shift the Guard’s culture back toward being helpers before fighters.
4. Federal Role: Truly Exceptional, Not Routine
Of course, the Guard must stay capable of federal service in extreme situations—war, national catastrophe, or extraordinary need. Yet, deployments abroad or cross-country should be rare exceptions, not the default. By limiting federalization, Guardsmen can balance their civilian careers and military service, reducing burnout and attrition.
5. Why It Matters
A back-to-basics Guard would mean fewer fatigued families. It would result in stronger ties to local communities. This approach ensures a quicker, more reliable response when disaster strikes. America’s Guard would not be stretched thin across the globe. It would once again stand where it was meant to: in the towns and states it calls home.
What if you read notices in your local news that read?
PRESS RELEASE
FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION
Governor Announces New “Back to Basics” Model for the National Guard
Kansas, June 32, 1901 — Governor Sample, today, announced a renewed vision for the role of the National Guard. He prioritized disaster response, community protection, and local readiness. These take precedence over routine national or overseas deployments.
“For too long, our Guard has been stretched thin. They have been asked to serve as a roaming military force. Their greatest value lies right here at home,” said Governor Sample. “This back-to-basics approach ensures readiness. When disaster strikes—whether it’s a wildfire, flood, storm, or cyberattack—the Guard will be here for the people of Kansas.”
The new model emphasizes:
Local Focus: Units stay in-state and train alongside fire, police, and emergency services.
Disaster Response Core: Stockpiles of equipment tailored to regional needs (boats, fire suppression, snowmobiles).
Civil Support: Enhanced training in medical aid, engineering, and cybersecurity.
Federal Deployment Limits: Guard units will be reserved for exceptional national missions, not routine overseas tours.
“Our citizen-soldiers are not only protectors—they are neighbors, coworkers, and family members,” The Governor added.
“By keeping them rooted in our communities, we strengthen both readiness and trust.”
The announcement received praise from emergency officials. Guard families also praised it. They say the plan reduces the strain on soldiers. These soldiers balance military duties with civilian life.
“This will make the Guard what it was always meant to be—a safety net for the people. It was not meant to be a shadow army,” said Major General Example, Adjutant General of the Kansas National Guard.
OR –
National Guard to Refocus on Community, Disaster Relief Under New State Plan
Pingpong, CA. Feb.30th, 1901 — The National Guard in California will soon change their focus. They will be trading extended deployments and national security missions for a renewed focus closer to home. In a press conference yesterday, Governor Pixel outlined a “back-to-basics” approach. This approach emphasizes disaster response, community support, and local readiness as the Guard’s primary mission.
The plan follows many years of frequent Guard call-ups across the country. These call-ups range from border security and protest response to overseas rotations. Critics have long argued these duties stretch citizen-soldiers too thin, pulling them away from their families, jobs, and communities.
Under the new model, Guard units would focus on in-state needs, like wildfire suppression, flood response, and medical assistance. Specialized equipment would be stockpiled based on regional threats. Training would shift toward engineering, emergency medicine, and cybersecurity. The focus would be less on combat deployments. Federal missions wouldn’t disappear, but would be reserved for “extraordinary circumstances.”
“This change will transform the Guard. It will achieve its true purpose,” said Major General Mission, Adjutant General of the California National Guard. “It will become a force that’s ready to protect and serve right where its soldiers live.”
Community leaders praised the proposal, noting the Guard’s quick local response during past disasters. Families of Guardsmen also welcomed the change, saying the plan reduces the strain of juggling civilian and military life.
The proposal has yet to be tested. It signals a shift in priorities. The Guard is rooted not in constant deployments. Its foundation lies in its mission as a local safety net for the people of California.
Returning the Guard to its original purpose –
📌 Top 3 Changes in the Guard’s Role
1. Local First
Guard units will stay primarily in-state, training with fire, police, and emergency services for quicker disaster response.
2. Disaster Response Core
Specialized equipment stockpiles—boats, wildfire gear, snowmobiles—tailored to each region will be prioritized over combat readiness.
3. Federal Deployment Limits
Units will only be sent on national or overseas missions for extraordinary emergencies, not as a routine practice.
That day will probably never come for a great many who read this report. For others who do, it serves as a goal. It becomes something to aim for when trying to look to a brighter future.
The morning was sunny on the golf course. A group of doctors noticed a team of nurses playing a round a few holes over. One of the doctors cupped his hands and hollered across the fairway:
“Hey! When you walked by the gate, the watchdog said WOOF! WOOF!”
The nurses froze, glaring back. One of them raised her club like a microphone and shouted,
“Oh yeah? When you all walked by the pond, the ducks went QUACK! QUACK!”
The golf course grew quiet. A couple of retirees nearby peeked out of their carts to see what the commotion was. The trash talk had officially begun.
Just then, a police officer—off duty but still in uniform for reasons only he knew—wandered up and added his grievance.
“That’s nothing! I went into a restaurant today and a bunch of teenagers started going OINK! OINK! OINK! at me!”
Back in the day, the slur was meant to show resentment toward police officers by labeling them as pigs. Still, many officers suggested it represented [Pride Integrity and Guts]!
The doctors and nurses nodded sympathetically, but before long they were all laughing. It seemed no profession was safe from ridicule.
“Well,” said one of the nurses, grinning. “If we’re going to keep score, I went to a rock concert last week. The singer stopped mid-song, pointed straight at the crowd, and called us every name in the book. I felt like I’d paid extra for the insults.”
By now, the golfers had abandoned their shots. The officer had parked his cart. The conversation had spiraled into a full-blown “who got called what” competition. Farmers chimed in about “moo” jokes. Teachers griped about “boring” chants. A barber also complained about being called “clip-clop” at the horse races.
The sun dipped lower, balls went unhit, and nobody remembered the score of the game. One thing was certain: the Great Name-Calling Open had been played on that course. Every profession—dog, duck, pig, or otherwise—walked away laughing.
Everywhere we look, the signs of division are clear. Our conversations have turned into shouting matches, our communities into factions, and even the smallest differences into battle lines. A nation divided can’t stand strong. But there is another path. It does not ask us to agree on everything. Instead, it asks us to bring ourselves into spaces that center peace and shared purpose.
The Power of a Centered Community
When we step away from division and enter a group that is centered and peaceful, something remarkable happens. The noise quiets down. Respect returns to the conversation. We start to see each other not as opponents. Instead, we see each other as fellow human beings. We recognize struggles, joys, and hopes that are more alike than different. These kinds of communities create an environment where empathy can thrive—and empathy is the root of unity.
A Call to Unite Around a Common Cause
Now more than ever, we need to reclaim what unites us. Not political slogans, not party lines—but a shared wish for dignity, fairness, and belonging. The call is simple: bring yourself, with open hands and an open heart, to a group that fosters peace. Choose to engage in a way that builds bridges instead of burning them. Let’s unite around the common cause of healing our communities, so that we can heal our nation.
Closing Thought
Division is loud, but peace is stronger. Every voice that chooses compassion over conflict adds weight to the side of unity. The choice begins with each of us—will we contribute to the noise, or to the harmony?
When I first wrote this piece during election season, I thought it spoke to a particular moment. But the truth has a way of staying relevant. Looking around today, it feels just as necessary—maybe even more so.
1–2 minutes
THE TRUTH IS THE HARDEST THING TO LOOK AT AND ACCEPT
There was a time in American politics. Back then, slinging mud was considered the lowest, most dishonorable act a candidate would commit. Those who spread lies were branded untrustworthy. Decent people would never cast a vote for them. Back then, communities had a different rhythm. You knew your neighbors. You checked on the widow down the street. You went out of your way to support local businesses because of family ties. Courtesy was second nature. You didn’t blare your horn because someone hesitated at a stop sign. You didn’t sneer at people who looked different from you. When you traveled to another town for a ballgame, you were respectful. You treated their facilities with the same respect you expected for your own.
Politics, too, carried that sense of respect. When someone won an election—whether at the local, state, or national level—it wasn’t the end of the world. It simply meant they had earned the right to represent their community for a set term. Neighbors didn’t conspire to punish one another for “voting the wrong way.” They did not claim elections were fraudulent just because their candidate lost. They accepted the truth, even when it was difficult, because truth was what held the fabric of the community together.
What’s striking is that no one sought to destroy the lives of those who disagreed with them. Debate can be sharp, but it stopped short of hatred. People understood that democracy required trust. It required trust in the process. It required trust in one another. It also required trust that truth—no matter how uncomfortable—would endure. That same truth remains today. Still, it asks something of us. It requires the courage to look it in the eye. We must accept it and live by it.
As I write this, I am still in recovery—at least, I hope I am. Truthfully, this post was written before my surgery, so I can’t yet say how it all turned out. By the time you read this, several weeks will have passed since the procedure took place. It was scheduled to publish automatically, so here we are. If the doctors didn’t nick a major artery, I’ll be fine. If they didn’t accidentally close me up with a coffee lid inside, I’ll be okay. I will eventually get back to writing these posts daily. Until then, I’ve got a few stories lined up and ready to go.
The other day, I heard a siren blaring in my right ear. That startled me, since my left ear—damaged years ago in a police shooting—usually just rings nonstop. But this sound was sharp, insistent, and real. It kept getting louder, and I was sure it was headed into our neighborhood. I turned to my better half and said:
“Sounds like a house is about to go up for sale.”
He replied:
“Nope. I’m watching a police pursuit on YouTube.”
And we laughed—and I mean, really laughed. That’s the kind of exchange you’ll hear often in a 55+ community. Especially among those of us in the 55–65 age range, and certainly from our older friends beyond that. Because when sirens echo through the streets here, the conversation usually shifts to:
“Did you hear who it was?”
And yes, sadly, “was” is often the operative word. Sirens and flashing lights tend to signal more than just a medical emergency. They also draw a small parade of concerned neighbors. Curious drive-by observers and the always-early realtor, already imagining the next listing, gather quickly.
Now, don’t mistake this for a lack of respect for the sick or the departed. It’s really about staying informed. In a 55+ community, if you miss a couple of days, you could easily fall behind on who passed away. You might not know when the services are. This could affect your pickleball schedule. You could be waiting to play a doubles match that will never happen. The other team has quite literally checked out.
Even the golf course has its quirks. The back nine may suddenly open up if someone didn’t quite finish the front five. It’s the kind of morbid practicality that comes with age—and a bit of wit.
Social gatherings here often revolve around food, especially the cherished potluck lunch. And trust me, in a 55+ community, when they say potluck, they mean luck. You just hope enough actual pots show up to make it a meal by the time noon rolls around.
But all joking aside, living here has been one of the best choices we’ve ever made. Will Rogers once said, “If you don’t like the weather in Oklahoma, just wait a minute.” Well, in a 55+ community, the same could be said about neighbors.
We love this place. In the twelve years we’ve lived here, we’ve only lost three neighbors. This is a testament to the spirit and vitality of this community. Funny enough, when we first moved in, we were technically too young to qualify. But we were here to care for my then 83-year-old mother. After she moved in with my sister and never came back, we decided to stay. Eventually, we aged into the group ourselves and bought a home right here in the neighborhood.
It’s clean, quiet, and secure. There’s 24-hour security. Many of our needs are covered through a very affordable HOA. Less than $100 a month covers trash service, gym access, swimming and tennis. It also includes pickleball courts, a dog park, clubhouse use, and even a monthly newspaper.
So, if you’re nearing that point in life—my advice? Raise the kids and get them out of the house. Then consider moving to a 55+ community as soon as you can. The sooner you arrive, the more life you’ll have to enjoy it. You don’t have to work yourself into the grave. You can laugh your way there instead—one siren, one potluck, one sunrise at a time.
There are times in life when the smallest gestures carry the greatest meaning. A phone call. A handshake. A hug at a restaurant. Or simply hearing someone say, “We’re
What you leave today becomes someone’s answer tomorrow.