cowboy

Hogtied on the Linoleum Floor

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Lessons in Trust from Mom and Pop’s Living Room

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026 

4–5 minutes

I was five or six years old in 1968. That is the thought I had at midnight when I couldn’t fall asleep. I tried counting sheep to fall asleep. Nevertheless, every time one got over the fence, I thought of the Pink Panther cartoon. There was an episode where that cool pink cat finally got all the sheep counted onto one side. Then, they stampeded back and trampled him in bed. I worried that happen to me. So I paused.

By then, I’d lost my place anyway. Was I on thirty-five? Or forty-five? I laughed quietly to myself and started thinking about where I first saw that Pink Panther episode. Ah, yes—the living room floor at my grandparents’ house. I had to have been five or six.

That memory sent me down an entirely different path. I started thinking about my grandparents—Mom and Pop, as I always called them in my stories. Mom was in her seventies, Pop in his eighties. Their home was my escape on many weekends and long summer days. Life there felt simple, steady, and safe.

Mom kept a half-gallon tin can filled with treasures. It contained an old set of dominoes, tiny farm animals, and a little truck. I imagined it hauled just about anything. On the linoleum floor of their den, I spent hours building domino fences to keep the animals contained. Sometimes I hauled them off to market. Other times, I stacked the dominoes carefully into what I imagined was an oil derrick. In 1968, an imagination was powerful. An incomplete set of dominoes became anything a kid wanted it to be.

While I worked, Mom rocked gently in her chair, watching me with a smile as her bird, Billy, sang nearby. Pop sat with his pipe, sending out a steady stream of smoke from his Prince Albert tobacco. That bucket of toys kept me busy all day—or so it seemed. I never thought about the world changing beyond that setting.

If I ever got tired of farming, there was something else waiting in that tin can: a long cotton rope. It was also there if I got tired of building oil wells. And the rope was always for one thing—getting hogtied.

The rules were simple. I had to lie still. No kicking. Pop would tie my hands and feet together behind my back. Then wait until the clock on the china cabinet struck the top of the hour. Only then I tried to get loose. I couldn’t kick myself free—I had to work the knots with my hands. It usually took a good hour, but I always managed to escape.

It wasn’t unusual for neighbors to stop by while the grandson was hogtied on the floor. Jimmy Schriver, who lived across the street and stopped in nearly every day, sometimes offered advice. He even tried to help once or twice, which earned him a sharp rebuke from both Mom and Pop.

“No,”

They’d say.

“He must learn to escape from being hogtied. It’s crucial in case his horse gets stolen. And he gets tied up on the trail.”

To a five-year-old, that sounded perfectly reasonable. My dad and I rode horses often. I watched plenty of Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Rawhide, and Gunsmoke. This showed me that such things happen. In reality, I’ve never been hogtied by anyone other than my grandparents—but back then, it felt like practical training.

Mom, Pop, & Benjamin age 9,horses name is Sam.

Lying awake that night, I decided not to count sheep or cattle anymore—no sense risking a stampede. Instead, I wondered how my grandparents would be viewed today. What would someone think if they walked in and saw a child tied up on the floor? The child would be working knots while waiting for the clock to chime.

The more I thought about it, the smarter those two old-timers seemed. They discovered how to channel the boundless energy of a child. They couldn’t outrun or outplay the child. Instead, they turned that energy into patience, problem-solving, and imagination.

We played other games—wahoo, dominoes, bingo—but hogtying is the one that stayed with me. I’d look ridiculous asking for it now. If I see Mom and Pop again someday, I’d know which game to play first.

What I understand now is far more clear to me than it ever was back then. They were not really teaching me how to escape a knot. They were teaching me trust. Trust that I was safe. Trust that I could struggle and still be watched over. Trust that someone would always be nearby. They let me work it out on my own. They never let harm come to me. Being hogtied on that linoleum floor wasn’t about restraint. It was about freedom within boundaries. It was about confidence built quietly. It was the unspoken assurance that I was loved enough to be protected while learning how to untangle myself. That kind of trust, once given, stays with you for life. And today, would probably cause you to lose custody of your children.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026 

Santa’s Ride Through the Deep West

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

Santa Claus Goes Horseback Riding To Deliver Gifts Deep In The Heart Of The West!

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

It was Christmas Eve, and the moon cast a silvery glow over the rugged terrain of the American West. Santa Claus stood at the edge of a vast canyon. He stroked his thick white beard as he surveyed the land below. The snow drifts piled high, blanketing the valleys, draws, and washes, creating a breathtaking and treacherous scene. His sleigh and reindeer had brought him far, but this terrain was no place for flying. The jagged canyon walls and towering evergreens made it impossible for his magical team to navigate.

Santa turned to a figure waiting patiently in the moonlight: a sturdy chestnut stallion saddled with a well-worn western saddle. The horse, named Thunder, had been his trusted companion for these trips into the Deep West for hundreds of years. He patted Thunder’s neck affectionately.

“Looks like it’s up to us again, old friend,”

Santa said.

He swapped his sleigh for the horse, securing the large sack of gifts over Thunder’s haunches. As he mounted, the jingling of bells on his coat mingled with the creak of leather. He clicked his tongue. They were off. The sound of hooves crunching through snow echoed into the quiet night.

The descent into the canyon was steep, and the trail was narrow and winding. Santa guided Thunder with practiced ease, his red coat standing out against the stark white snow. They crossed frozen creeks, forded icy streams, and climbed rocky outcrops that tested Thunder’s strength and agility.

The air was warmer but still crisp when they reached the valley floor. Santa paused to check his list, illuminated by a soft, magical glow. The Wilson-Anderson family ranch was just a few miles away, nestled among the rolling hills and cottonwood trees.

This family had been here for generations, raising cattle and carrying on the traditions of the American West. Santa always made a special effort to visit their remote ranch, knowing life’s challenges in such a rugged land.

The silhouette of the homestead came into view as they approached the ranch. Its windows glowed warmly in the cold night. Santa dismounted and led Thunder to the barn, leaving the horse to rest and nibble on hay.

Quietly, Santa crept to the house. He climbed onto the porch and found the door unlocked, as was common in these parts. Inside, the living room had simple yet heartfelt decorations. There was a cedar wreath and a small tree decorated with handmade ornaments. Stockings hung above a wood-burning stove.

Santa set to work. He filled the stockings with treats and small trinkets. Then he placed a beautifully wrapped gift for each family member under the tree. Santa left a fine leather rope for the youngest, Jesse. A tiny cowboy hat was also there because Jesse had asked for a lasso.

Before leaving, Santa took a moment to admire the scene. The family dog, a blue heeler, stirred from its bed by the fire. Recognizing the kind man, it wagged its tail and drifted back to sleep.

For Santa Claus, this was more than just delivering gifts. It was a tribute to the resilience of the families. These families carved out lives in the harsh beauty of the deep West. As he rode into the night, he hummed a cowboy tune. He felt grateful for the chance to be part of their enduring story. It was magical, even for one night each year.

Santa returned to the barn, where Thunder waited patiently. With a final glance at the peaceful ranch, he mounted his horse and began the journey back. The moon was high, and the stars sparkled like diamonds as they retraced their path through the snow-filled wilderness.

Take Me Back To Yesterday Once More

Benjamin3 Comments
5–8 minutes

The Farm That Built Me

When I look back on my childhood, I’m struck by how much life changed. The changes happened between the time I was born and when I turned eight. We didn’t have indoor plumbing at first. Initially we hauled water from town in five gallon buckets. That was for drinking and cooking. In a big tank in the back of my dad’s truck, water was hauled for the livestock. Eventually water was found on the farm in a well far south of our house. Than ran pipe as far as possible. But, the water pipe stopped about twenty feet shy of our kitchen door. My parents couldn’t afford to run it inside. Every day, we carried buckets from the outdoor faucet to the house. This was still an improvement over hauling water all the way from town.

If you have ever heard of the ‘little brown shack out back.’ Well we had one. We used it even after water was found on the place. Because their wasn’t a bathroom in built in the house. It would be added later. We would walk a trail to the shack in the summer and winter. It wasn’t fancy built at all. It had yellow jackets nest high on the wall. It had a hook and eye lock to secure the door when you were inside. A wooden block turned to keep the door shut when you left. It was cold as ice in winter and hot as hell in the summer. And our company didn’t take to it. It would cut their visits short. And sometimes I wondered if that wasn’t my dad’s plan for having for so long to start with.

Around the same time, we got our first telephone. The line lay exposed down the center of the dirt road. It was shared on a party line with two other houses. Every time the road grader came, the blade cut the wire. We would wait weeks for the phone man to splice it back together. They buried it once, but the sandrock kept them from going deep. The grader still found it. Eventually, someone figured out how to run it four feet off to the side of the road. That man got a promotion—and passed away not long after. These were the everyday challenges of our farm life.

Electricity was another novelty. We had it most of the time. But if it went off during a storm, it was especially bad during a snow event. We would be without lights for a week or longer. They were also the threads that wove our family together. These challenges taught us the value of perseverance. They also brought the joy of shared triumphs.

Heat was another story. Before our fireplace was installed, a single stove in the living room was turned down at night to save propane. We woke up to breath clouds in the cold air before school. Summers weren’t much easier. With no air conditioning, the whole family slept in the living room on pallets. We threw every door and window open. This helped capture the breeze from the five-acre lake a quarter mile south. We’d even open the fireplace flue to pull in a cool draft. It sounds uncomfortable now.

Back then, it was more than just a living arrangement. It was a testament to the value of family closeness. Six kids, two parents, visitors, and dogs—living in one big indoor campsite every night. If you’ve never known family closeness, you’ve missed something truly special. It’s these moments that I look back on with nostalgia and a deep appreciation for the bond we shared.

My father raised American Quarter Horses, and our farm revolved around them. We only kept one stud at a time to avoid brutal fights. Mares were bred individually, often requiring long hauls to other states to introduce new bloodlines. Our horses went everywhere—rodeo circuits, calf-cutting competitions, and even television shows. One star from Gunsmoke, Buck Taylor, called about a horse. Another buyer phoned from New York City during the Garden Square Futurity. He called to thank my dad for the mare Molly. Molly had taken him to the finals. My dad didn’t like us talking about our customers because he valued humility over reputation. As a kid, I didn’t understand. Now I do.

I remember the early 1970s and how tight our family budget must have been. My dad would come home from his barbershop with sacks of horse feed loaded in the back of his truck. He’d park in front of the house. Then, he’d hoist a heavy sack onto his shoulder and walk nearly two city blocks. He’d go down a hill, across a pasture, and all the way to our barn. He had back and leg issues that made every step painful, but he refused to “waste” fuel in his truck.

At the time, I didn’t grasp how precious that gallon of gas was during the oil crisis of the 1970s. To me, it was just Dad doing what he always did. He worked hard. He quietly bore pain. He put his family and animals first. Only now do I understand it was more than thrift; it was discipline and determination passed down like an heirloom.

That simple act—carrying those sacks of feed instead of burning a gallon of gas—left a mark on me. It taught me that sacrifice, resourcefulness, and responsibility are not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes they’re a man. He is alone at dusk, carrying a heavy burden down a path. This happens because it’s the right thing to do.

Everything shifted when Dad took a job at a Girl Scout camp. Horses were sold off until only a few remained for us to ride. We moved to the camp and poured ourselves into cleaning trails, rebuilding facilities, and living outdoors. Yet Dad’s passion for horses never dimmed. We still attended auctions and brought home horses to train. One day, I spotted a skittish dun mare at an auction—Lady. I knew she’d been mistreated and asked Dad to buy her. With patience, grooming, and daily walks, she became the smoothest riding horse I ever had. Lady followed me everywhere without reins, just like a loyal dog. Later, bred to a stud sixty miles away, she gave birth to a colt with the same gentle spirit.

Those years formed me. They were a school of life. They taught me resourcefulness. They also taught patience. I learned how to read the quiet signals of both people and animals. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. And now, decades later, every time a cool breeze brushes my face, I remember those nights in the living room. The windows were open. I hear the sound of our horses in the pasture. These are proof that even the simplest moments can shape a lifetime. The lessons I learned from farm life continue to inspire me. They shape my perspective. I appreciate the value of patience, resourcefulness, and the importance of family.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025

The Man Who Fell Asleep One Night-Dreaming He Became A Sheriff In The Wild West.

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He awakes the next morning to find he is still there.

2–3 minutes

Sheriff Without a Gun

Harold was an ordinary man living in a small house on the edge of town. He spent most of his evenings quietly—reading, cooking for one, and watching old Western movies before bed. One night, after drifting off in his recliner, Harold dreamed he was a cowboy riding across the dusty plains.

When he awoke the next morning, he nearly fell out of bed. The world outside his window was no longer his quiet backyard—it was a wild west frontier town. And tied right outside his kitchen door stood a horse named Gus, saddled and ready. Harold blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, and muttered,

“Well… this is new.”

Stepping outside, he was greeted by the townsfolk calling him Sheriff. Sheriff Harold, that is. The twist? He wore no gun.

“Best sheriff we ever had,”

they cheered,

“because you don’t bring trouble.”

But soon, trouble found them anyway. A group of gunslingers rolled into town, looking to cause mayhem.

Harold had no firearm to fight back. Thinking fast, he filled the pockets of his vest with smooth river rocks. When the gunslingers strutted down Main Street, Harold let fly. Whack—right in the shin—crack—one to the forehead. Pebbles rained down like hail until the bandits doubled over, tears streaming, too humiliated to continue.

Harold yelled –

“You get the hell out of here and don’t come back!”

They scrambled for their horses, chased out of town by the rock-throwing Sheriff himself.

From that day on, Sheriff Harold became a legend. The townsfolk swore he was the greatest Sheriff they’d ever known. This wasn’t because he outgunned the bad guys. It was because he outsmarted them. Every morning, Harold would pat Gus on the neck and tip his hat. He remembered that sometimes the simplest tools—a rock, a clever mind, and a little courage—are enough to keep the peace.

But somewhere else, in another world, Harold lay still. His daughter sat quietly at his bedside, holding his hand, eyes brimming with worry.

“Do you think he’ll ever regain consciousness?” 

She asked the doctor softly.

The doctor shook his head. 

“I don’t know. Stroke victims sometimes choose to stay where they are. Maybe Harold is better off living where he is. In that other place, he’s strong and needed. He is riding tall as Sheriff.”

His daughter squeezed his hand, whispering through tears, 

“Then I hope he knows we’ll always be proud of him—here, or there.”

And in the world of his dreams, Sheriff Harold tipped his hat, smiled, and rode Gus into the golden horizon.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Finding Hope in Forgotten Places

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2–3 minutes

I Just Came In to See if Someone Still Cares

The neon beer sign buzzed faintly against the cracked window of Earl’s Place, a bar that had seen better years. The wooden floor creaked under the weight of boots that hadn’t walked through in a long time. Jack pushed the door open and paused. He wasn’t sure why he’d come. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was the song playing faintly from the jukebox in the corner—one he hadn’t heard in years.

“I just came in to see if someone still cares…”

He let out a dry chuckle.

“Well, ain’t that the truth.”

At a corner table, an older man nursed a black coffee, his hat tipped low. Folks just called him “Red,” though his hair had long gone silver. He raised his head, eyes sharp despite the years.

“Jack,”

he said, as if the name had been waiting on his tongue.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Jack shrugged and slid into the booth.

“Figured I’d find out if anybody remembered me.”

Red studied him for a moment.

“You mean if anybody still cares.”

Jack didn’t answer. His face told enough. Years of disappointments, false starts, and self-inflicted wounds weighed heavy on him. Work had dried up, his family had drifted off, and the last of his friends had stopped calling. He wasn’t looking for pity. Just… something.

“You know,”

Red said slowly,

“folks got it wrong. They think it’s a man’s mistakes that define him. But I’ll tell you something—it’s his fight against those mistakes that shows who he really is.”

Jack stared down at his calloused hands.

“What if you get tired of fighting?”

Red leaned in, voice low but steady.

“Then you rest. But you don’t quit. If you quit – that is when you hand yourself over to those demons for good. As long as you’ve got breath, you’ve still got a say in how the story ends.”

The jukebox crackled, replaying the song’s chorus, as if to punctuate the thought. Jack felt a sting behind his eyes he hadn’t let out in years. He cleared his throat.

“Guess I just needed to hear it from someone who wasn’t me.”

Red gave a slow nod.

“That’s why you came. Not for the beer. Not for the music. To find out if someone still cared. And I do. Hell, maybe more folks do than you think. You just stopped listening.”

Jack sat back, the weight in his chest easing, just a little. The bar was still dim. The world outside remained hard. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel invisible.

That night, as he stepped out into the cool air, Jack realized something. It wasn’t forgiveness from the world he was after—it was the fight inside himself he had to forgive. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start over.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

A Field Guide to Digshins (and Other Evenings Gone Sideways)

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3–5 minutes

Shindigs & Digshins: A Guide for the Uninitiated

From The Greater County Backroads Dictionary, 3rd Edition (self-published, available only at Gus’s Feed & Seed):

Digshin (noun) — /ˈdig-shin/

  1. A lively social gathering resembles a shindig. It features more spirited dancing. It has more questionable music combinations. There is a higher probability of meeting your future ex-spouse.
  2. Any event where the crowd can dance on the floor. They will also dance on the tables.
  3. A party that starts like a potluck. It ends like a family reunion if your family includes a traveling accordion player. Imagine two cousins who know the cha-cha, and a guy named Larry who’s never without his washboard.

Origin: Exact origin unknown. The phrase was first recorded in County gossip circa 1974. Edna Lou Perkins was overheard saying, “That wasn’t no shindig, that was a full-blown digshin.”

Usage:

“We went to the barn dance. We thought it was a shindig, but they had an accordion. There was a conga line and three flavors of moonshine. It was definitely a digshin.”

How I Learned the Difference the Hard Way

Around here, folks talk about a shindig and a digshin like they’re just cousins. They are close enough to be in the same family photo. But, they are different enough to fight over who gets the last piece of pie.

A shindig, you probably already know. That’s your wholesome Saturday-night community gathering. Picnic tables sag under the weight of potato salad and baked beans. Music is played by somebody’s cousin on an acoustic guitar. The dancing doesn’t need a permission slip or a chiropractor afterward. Kids run wild between the hay bales. The mayor dances with the school librarian. There’s always that one guy who insists his chili is “just a little spicy.” It makes half the crowd break into a sweat.

A digshin, though? That’s a different animal. I didn’t know that until one fateful summer evening when I mixed the two up.

It started with an invitation. I’d heard the Johnson family was organizing “a big shindig out at the old barn.” Because the Johnson’s know how to cook, I didn’t ask too many questions. I shined up my boots. I wore my good hat. I brought along a peach cobbler. I was hoping it would make me a local legend.

When I got there, I noticed a few things were… different

First off, the music wasn’t just country and bluegrass. There was a fiddle in there. It was tangled up with a bass line. The rhythm made my boots twitch without asking permission. Someone had added a washboard player who looked like he’d just wandered in from a Mardi Gras parade. Halfway through the first song, a guy with an accordion joined in. It was as if he’d been waiting all year for this moment.

Second, the crowd was livelier than your average shindig bunch. At a normal shindig, folks will dance — polite, steady, maybe a do-si-do if the caller is feeling bossy. But here? People were spinning, stomping, and swinging their partners until their hats flew off. The mechanic from three towns over was leading a line dance. It kept changing every eight beats. Meanwhile, the feed store clerk had somehow ended up dancing with three partners at once.

Then came the moment I knew I wasn’t at a shindig at all — I was at my first digshin.

See, at a shindig, you can leave anytime you want. Folks will wave, hand you a slice of pie for the road, and tell you to drive safe. At a digshin, you can’t leave without getting pulled into at least one dance. There will be one toast. And there is always one questionable story told by somebody who swears it happened “back in ’78.”

By the time I made it out, my boots were dusty. My cobbler dish was empty. My cheeks hurt from smiling. I still couldn’t tell you exactly what a digshin is, but I know this:

If you’re at a shindig, you’ll go home with a full belly.
If you’re at a digshin, you’ll go home with a full belly. You’ll also have a story you probably shouldn’t tell your grandmother.

If you are ever invited to a Shindig – Digshin crossover event, don’t pass up the chance to go. You will have the time of your life. Especially if you stay for the whole Digshin! (And remember it.)

How Western Movies Perpetuate Harmful Stereotypes of Indigenous Peoples

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

3–4 minutes

I was watching an old Western on television this past weekend. You know, the kind—cowboys and Indians. Or, as we might say today, American Ranchers and Indigenous Peoples.

The film, likely made in the 1950s, had the signature gloss of that era’s post-war cinema. Still, something about it suggested it was possibly shot even earlier, maybe in the 1940s. It was only later spliced, refitted, and packaged for the screen. The costumes, dialogue, and scenery all hinted at a time when the stereotypes were deeply ingrained in the script. They weren’t even questioned.

I probably watched that movie as a kid. I was sitting next to my father, not giving it a second thought. Back then, it was just another Western. But this time around, with a different set of eyes, what I saw was jarring.

It followed the predictable narrative: the cavalry riding in to tame the West and keep the “Indians” under control. Two delicately dressed white heroines were caught in the middle of a brewing conflict. A white doctor stood out as the lone character who dared to see Native people as human beings. He was mocked and ostracized for his compassion. This was especially true when a malaria outbreak swept through the tribe. He insisted they deserved treatment.

At one point, he stood in a room full of fellow whites. He asked,

“Do you think Indians are not human beings? Human beings like you and me, who deserve to live and be healthy?”

And one of the prim ladies, her hair perfect and her face untouched by empathy replied:

“I don’t know… how could they be?”

To which others in the room nodded and added, 

“That’s right.”

“Of course, they’re not!”

“No way, in God’s name.”

I sat there stunned, wondering:

“How did a line like that ever make it into a movie script?”

Even more troubling:

“How did it get past editors, producers, censors—only to be broadcast, repeated, and absorbed by generations?”

It wasn’t just offensive. It was abusive. And it made me sad.

Is there a historical context to such language? Possibly. But what would a young Native American child feel sitting in front of that screen? Would they see their life reflected as something lesser—something not worthy of protection or dignity? Listening to the white characters, it certainly felt that way.

And it took me back to where I grew up.

I’m from the Kiowa and Comanche Counties area in Oklahoma—Caddo County, specifically. I was raised alongside Native American children, many of whom I called friends.

Later in life, I worked in law enforcement and came to know tribal members through both personal and professional relationships. I learned a great deal from them—about their culture, their pride, their pain.

When I started in law enforcement, the department had an initiation ritual. It involved arresting a man nicknamed Fifteen Thousand. He was a Native man, around 50 years old, who’d been detained countless times—hence the name. His real name was Thomas Kamaulty Sr.

He was the first person I ever arrested as an officer. 

And, in time, Thomas became the first person I ever saw get sober. That meant something.

Ira Hayes

I also think about people like Ira Hayes. He was a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira helped raise the flag at Iwo Jima during World War II. A hero by every standard. And yet, like Thomas, Ira suffered. Both carried the scars of discrimination and trauma. Both turned to alcohol as a way to numb the soul-deep wounds this country handed them.

We often ask why these cycles exist—but we rarely admit the truth: it’s because we’ve designed them to. We’ve placed people like Thomas, like Ira, into roles and systems. Their suffering can be managed. Their voices are diminished. Their lives are controlled. That was always the plan. And until we stop pretending it wasn’t, the script will keep playing—over and over again.

A Close Encounter: Horseback Riding and a Snake Surprise

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

3–5 minutes

When a Snake Crosses Your Path

Photo by Turuncu Sakal on Pexels.com

I was nine when my dad, sisters, and I rode horseback along the four-mile-long road circling our property. My dad liked the longer ride of four miles. He guided the horses through the deep sand that had accumulated in the red dirt of Western Oklahoma.

It was a bright, crisp spring afternoon. The season had warmed the land for several weeks. Still, I wore a light jean jacket to ward off the lingering chill.

Riding with my dad was always a solemn occasion. We never spoke much; we rode. Yet, when we returned home, we understood each other completely. Words weren’t necessary—the simple joy of riding together across the open land spoke directly to the soul.

Like my sisters, I had been on horseback since I could remember. My dad had propped me up in the saddle before I could sit upright. I considered myself a decent rider. Still, I was nowhere near my father’s skill. He seemed to move with his horse as though they were one being.

That afternoon, I sensed that my sisters were there more out of duty than enjoyment. Their smiles felt forced, their laughter shallow. Though they didn’t do it outright, I could tell their hearts were elsewhere. I didn’t think this would be the last time they rode with us. They were growing up. My sisters were drawn to other interests. They were leaving behind the horses that had once been a central part of our childhood.

Photo by Darya Sannikova on Pexels.com

I was the fourth rider in our single-file procession, coming behind my dad and sisters. We had traveled this route countless times. I knew the landmarks well. There was an oil well pump that sometimes startled the horses. Barking dogs lived at a neighbor’s line. A tattered rag flapped from a barbed-wire fence. These were the things that made a horse shy, and I took note of them with each ride.

We had covered nearly three miles when I noticed my dad and sisters had gained some distance ahead of me. It was just a few lengths, nothing unusual. But as I would later learn, riding close together has its benefits.

As we neared a mainly sandy stretch of road, my oldest sister turned in her saddle. She glanced back at me. Her expression was unreadable, but how she looked made my stomach tighten.

And then I saw it—a six-foot black bullsnake slithering onto the road.

It had watched the first three horses pass, believing the coast was clear. But I was still coming. Just as my eyes locked onto the snake, my horse saw it, too.

Photo by hayriyenur . on Pexels.com

His reaction was immediate—dodge and run.

My horse reared before I knew what was happening, jerking to the left while I pitched to the right. The world tilted, and sand rushed up to meet me. Then, there was an impact. I hit the ground hard, my breath escaping in a sharp gasp.

I hated snakes. At that age, I was convinced they were all out to kill me. I was lying in the dirt. My heart pounded as I scrambled to my feet, half-expecting the snake to strike. But my faithful horse hadn’t abandoned me. The horse trotted back, ears flicking, nostrils flaring with the same nervous energy I felt.

Ahead, my dad turned in the saddle, completely unaware of what had just happened. He saw me standing there, dust-covered and rattled, and called out in his usual no-nonsense tone:

“Would you quit fooling around and get back on your horse?”

Photo by Bozan Gu00fczel on Pexels.com

I was “fuming.” I muttered curses under my breath—at my horse, my dad, and that wretched snake. And at myself for not anticipating the spook that can send a horse sideways.

I climbed back into the saddle. I was convinced the snake would follow us up the road. It would try its luck again. It didn’t. But my horse remained, shying at every stick and shadow for the rest of the ride.

When we finally arrived home, I unsaddled and brushed him down, smoothing his coat and murmuring reassurances. He had been just as much a victim in the afternoon’s chaos as I had.

That afternoon was the second time I was ever thrown from a horse. The last time came when I was twenty. I was riding a high-spirited horse that my dad no longer handled. That horse was downright mean—no snakes needed to send him bucking.

The Last Drop: A Cowboy’s Journey of Sacrifice

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

2–4 minutes

The Last Drop

The desert stretched endlessly before him. A sea of golden sand and jagged rock shimmering under the merciless sun. Nathan Calloway, a weathered cowboy, pulled his bandanna higher over his nose. He squinted against the glare. Nathan’s loyal companion, Dusty, plodded steadily ahead, hooves sinking into the loose sand. It had been days since they left the last water hole. The journey across this godforsaken land felt like it would never end.

Nathan had one canteen slung across his saddle. He’d filled it to the brim at the last watering hole, which seemed a hundred miles behind them now. Each time Nathan drank, he made sure Dusty drank, too. He’d pour water into his old, sweat-stained hat, holding it steady while the horse lapped it.

Miles passed, the sun crawling toward the horizon without relief. Nathan should’ve run dry by now. His canteen weighted it, sloshing like he had just filled it. He didn’t question it—just kept pouring for Dusty, letting the horse drink before taking a sip himself.

By the time they reached the halfway mark, the world felt different. The heat played tricks on Nathan’s mind, distorting the horizon and bending the sky. The rhythmic clopping of Dusty’s hooves became a heartbeat against the silence.

Then, Dusty spoke.

“Thanks, partner,” 

The horse said, his voice deep and smooth as rolling thunder.

Nathan blinked hard, his throat tightening. 

“What was that?”

“For the water,”

Dusty said, shaking his mane. 

“I appreciate it.”

Nathan swallowed. He knew heat can make a man see things and hear things that weren’t real. But this felt different. He’d spent years with Dusty—maybe it just took this long to finally listen to him.

“You’re welcome, old boy,”

Nathan murmured, tipping the canteen over his hat again. Dusty drank, his dark eyes filled with something knowing, something grateful. The horse seemed to understand the sacrifice Nathan was making for him. Nathan, in turn, felt a deep sense of responsibility and care for his companion.

The two trudged on, man and horse, surviving together. The sun burned down. Their shadows stretched thin. The canteen never emptied as long as Nathan gave to Dusty first.

Then, just as the town rooftops shimmered into view, something changed.

Nathan stopped. His body ached, exhaustion weighing him down. The canteen felt lighter now. The end was so close—only a half-mile to go. He took a long, deep drink, the first he hadn’t shared. The water was warm but pure, sliding down his throat. Nathan’s hands trembled as he lowered the canteen.

Dusty faltered. The horse’s breath came shallow, his steps unsteady.

Nathan hesitated. He looked at the canteen, now feeling light as air. Nathan shook it—nothing.

The world spun. The last stretch of desert blurred. Nathan swayed in the saddle.

A mile outside town, they found him. The townsfolk rushed ahead, lifting the man from his horse, but Nathan Calloway was gone. Dusty stood by, head bowed, his sides heaving. The canteen dangled empty from the saddle, not a drop left inside.

“You almost made it,”

Someone whispered.

No one noticed Dusty raise his head slightly, his dark eyes glistening with something almost human. He looked toward where his rider lay, then toward the empty horizon.

Deep in the desert’s silence, a voice like rolling thunder whispered,

“We made it.”

My Father’s Journey: From Service Station to Horse Ranch

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

4–5 minutes

Today, as I write, I ponder what story to share. Specific recollections stand out, shaping my life in ways that make them worth remembering.


One of my fondest memories is traveling with my father and one of his friends. These journeys often involved a horse—whether for a rodeo, a parade, or taking a mare to be bred. I remember sitting in the middle of the pickup seat. The air conditioning blasted my face. The two men talked nonstop. The smell of their cigarettes filled the cab; they never cracked a window. Though I never smoked a day in my life, I suspect I passively inhaled enough to equate to thirty packs.

This was the early 1970s when smoking held no taboos, even around children. My father eventually quit in his late fifties, relieved to be free of nicotine’s grip. Sadly, six months later, he responded to a chlorine leak at a swimming pool. While shutting off the container, he inhaled the toxic gas, permanently damaging his lungs. From then on, breathing was a struggle. The medications he took to manage his condition weakened his bones. By 63, he was no longer capable of walking. He passed away shortly after. But in those 63 years, he packed in a lifetime of experiences.


Reflecting on my childhood, I marvel at how my parents managed to supply for six children. We weren’t wealthy, yet they kept us clothed, fed, and engaged—horse riding, basketball, piano lessons, and football. We started in a beautiful three-bedroom brick home in a great community. My father owned a Texaco service station and volunteered as a fireman. Some neighbors even urged him to run for city council, but his passion lay elsewhere. He dreamed of owning a quarter-horse farm, a dream that required sacrifice.


The first step was selling our home. We moved into a one-bedroom rental, with my parents in the sole bedroom and us kids on foldout couches. My father attended barber school, planning for the future. A year later, he purchased forty acres in a small town 35 miles away. He used the money from selling the house and service station. The land was densely wooded, and my father and three older brothers worked tirelessly to clear it for a home.


He found a house nearby for sale, provided it was moved. It had four rooms downstairs, one upstairs, and disconnected kitchen and bathroom additions. Two trucks transported the house 28 miles to our new farm. Once settled, we designated rooms: the kitchen, living room, and bedrooms. The steep stairs to the upstairs bedroom often left me bruised from falls. I loved that room. It had windows at both ends, letting a breeze flow as I gazed at the valley. I imagined future adventures.
I discovered my secret hideout underneath those stairs, meant to be my sister’s closet. Small enough to squeeze deep inside, I stayed undetected until I was spotted and lost my perfect hiding place.


Life on the farm lacked modern conveniences, including indoor plumbing. My father found an abandoned outhouse and positioned it over a dry well. Inside, we had two five-gallon buckets of water for drinking, with a dipper hanging above and another for washing dishes. Each day, my father refilled them after closing his barbershop in town.


We also had no phone service at first. When we finally got a phone, I was about eight. The company laid a single line down the rural road. We shared it with three other families on a party line. Each household had a distinct ring. Still, anyone might eavesdrop. Power outages were frequent, lasting days during snowstorms or severe thunderstorms, making access to our home difficult in bad weather.


My father and brothers built horse barns south of our home. At one point, we had over forty horses. Spring was the busiest, with foals being born. My father hosted roping events, where friends gathered to rope all day. Eventually, he installed arena lighting, allowing him to ride even after long days in the barbershop. I joined him often, eating more red sand from falling off horses and calves than I care to remember.


Over time, the horses dwindled to just mine and his. My siblings had moved on from riding. My father worried that his aging stud horse was no longer suitable for breeding. That’s when he became a ranger at the Girl Scout camp, changing my world entirely. Life on the farm transitioned into something new and unknown. What I learned at the camp shaped me. It taught me the value of acceptance. The lessons in resilience have stayed with me through life’s most challenging moments. But that, as they say, is another story entirely.

To end, I want to include a question I recently asked my 95-year-old mother:

“You went through so much. It all started after selling the brick home. You moved from the life we had in the city. Knowing all this, would you do it again?”

She replied,

“in a heartbeat!”

Elmer’s Tough Ride: A Journey Through the Dust Bowl

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

4–6 minutes

Pa Elmer’s Ride

The winter had been relentless. The worst sandstorm in memory had swept through the region the year before. It buried the land in towering drifts of dust and sand. In some places, these drifts were waist-deep.

It marked the beginning of the Dust Bowl. This was a devastating era of dust storms. These storms crippled agriculture and reshaped life across the American and Canadian prairies in the 1930s.

Few families had stored enough food from the past year’s harvest. Even fewer were sure how long this disaster would last.

They say two things in life are certain: death and taxes. And for Elmer, tax time had come knocking. He had no choice but to ride nearly forty miles to the courthouse. He needed to pay his property taxes in person. He risked default if he didn’t. Despite the hard times, he had always kept his land in good standing. He intended to do so now, even with their dwindling savings. With three young children to feed, responsibility was heavily on his shoulders. His two sons and daughter were too young to fully grasp the hardship that had taken hold of the land. The struggle was real for Elmer and his wife, Ma Ma.

The night before his journey, Elmer told Ma Ma,

“I’ll be up by 3:30 and gone before sunrise. There’s no need to let anyone know I’m carrying money. Hard times make people desperate.”

While he trusted his neighbors, he wasn’t about to take unnecessary risks. He planned to make it halfway and camp near the Washita River before reaching the courthouse the next day.

At dawn, Pa Elmer saddled his pony, Smokey. Ma Ma handed him a small bundle—a few slices of fresh bread and beef jerky from the smokehouse.

“It’s not much,”

she said, touching his knee as he mounted up,

“but it’ll hold you over till you’re back. Ride safe, and don’t take any risks. Smokey can outrun any trouble that comes your way.”

Pa Elmer bent down in the saddle and kissed her.

“Two days there, a day and a half back. I’ll be fine.”

The parents didn’t know it. Their three children watched from behind the screen door, their little faces pressed against the mesh. As Ma-Ma gave Smokey a firm slap on the hip, Pa clicked his tongue and hollered,

“Yaw!”

The journey had begun.

Back inside, Ma Ma found the children still watching. She shooed them back to bed. Then she settled into her rocking chair with the Bible. It was her source of comfort through times of uncertainty.

The Ride to Town

Pa made good time. Smokey, eager for the open trail, trotted strong beneath him. By evening, they had covered thirty miles. Elmer found a spot near the Washita River where the grass was matted down—a daytime swimming hole. He unsaddled Smokey. Then, he tied him to a long rope to graze. Elmer stretched out beneath a tree, using his saddle as a pillow.

Sleep took him fast; it was a blessing he had dozed off facing east. The first light of dawn warmed his face, stirring him awake. After a quick breakfast of beef jerky, he saddled Smokey and continued.

By mid-morning, he reached the county seat. He tied Smokey to the hitching rail and strode into the courthouse. The county clerk barely glanced up from her papers.

“You here to ask for an extension on your taxes like everyone else?”

she asked.

Elmer tipped his hat.

“No, ma’am. I’m here to pay my taxes for this year and next.”

The clerk blinked, then scribbled out a receipt, her expression unreadable.

Paid this date: $28.33 for two years of property taxes.

Elmer folded the receipt and tucked it into the same safe spot where his money had been. Simply saying ––––

“Thank you, Mam!”

Pa had finished his business.

Trouble in Town

As he walked back to Smokey, a man loitering nearby gave a slow nod.

“That’s a fine-looking horse you got there. I’d buy him off you for $25.”

Elmer stiffened.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

The man’s eyes darkened, and his tone shifted.

“Maybe I just take the horse for nothin’.”

Elmer didn’t flinch. He met the man’s stare with steely resolve.

“No, you’d be lyin’ dead if you tried.”

A tense silence hung between them before the man forced a crooked smile.

“Mister, I was just jokin’.” 

He backed away.

“You have yourself a nice day.”

Elmer wasted no time. He swung into the saddle and galloped out of town.

The Journey Home

The Journey Home

Elmer has made the ride back in a day. Still, he took his time. He stopped by a few relatives along the way. In this part of the country, it was tradition—when you passed by kin, you paid a visit.

Late in the afternoon, as he approached home, he saw Ma Ma and the kids waiting at the gate. The children ran to meet him, full of questions.

“Well, Pa? How’d it go?” 

Ma Ma asked, relief washing over her face.

Elmer grinned and swung down from Smokey.

“Would’ve been home sooner,” 

he said, stretching his legs,

“but I kept runnin’ out of pipe tobacco.”

Ma Ma shook her head with a chuckle. As the family led him inside, the weight of the journey melted away. Home had never felt so good.

The Wild West Legacy: Tim’s Cattle Drive Experience

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

4–6 minutes

Sitting in the large living room, Tim’s father called him down from his upstairs bedroom. As Tim entered, he wondered if he had forgotten to do his chores properly. He also thought about whether his father had bad news to deliver.


Sitting on the fireplace ledge, he faced his father, who sat in his favorite chair.


“I’m helping Jess Paul tomorrow down south of Mingo for Doc. We must drive cattle up from their southern pasture. Then, we will move them into holding pens for transport to the sale barns. We need a third rider to keep the point in key areas, and I’d like you to come with us.”


Tim’s heart leaped. He had never been to Mingo but had always heard about the town. It was one of the last places with a 19th-century reputation. It was known as a wild, lawless settlement. Gunfights on the main street occurred weekly. Jess Paul often talked about how the local cowboys were descendants of the originals who roamed the territory before statehood.


Jess Paul was one of his father’s closest friends. Ten years ago, he lost both legs below the knee in a farming accident. Despite this, he rehabilitated himself and learned to walk using only a cane. Jess Paul can mount a horse and ride all day without showing pain or discomfort. With his two wooden legs, he can break a wild two-year-old stud just as well as any other cowboy. To Tim, Jess Paul was the toughest man Tim had ever known. His hands were massive, and he had a story for every place they went.


Tim’s father instructed his older sister to stop by his school and collect any assignments he’d miss.


“Tell his teacher I need him to work cattle,”

he said matter-of-factly.


The next morning came early. At 4:00 AM, Jess Paul was already up, having slept in his truck’s camper parked in front of their house. Jess Paul’s horse had been kept with the others on Tim’s father’s farm. While his father and Jess Paul gathered saddles and horses, Tim hitched the stock trailer to his father’s pickup.


Jake, Tim’s father, rode his horse, Red Man. Tim mounted Sam, his temperamental gelding, while Jess Paul rode Sonny. With the horses loaded, they set out for Mingo—a journey of over 150 miles. Another 20 miles beyond the town lay the range land where the cattle waited.


Jess Paul talked nonstop during the long drive. Tim had heard some of his stories several times before. Each time, Jess Paul added a new detail to keep them fresh. This made the stories engaging.


After three hours on the road, they arrived and unloaded the horses. Tim dreaded the ride on Sam. The weather was unseasonably cool, and Sam was known for taking off bucking at the worst possible times.


“No cowboying,”

Jake warned.

“We want these cattle to walk to the pens. Just guide them—don’t rush them or get them running.”


Tim nodded. He understood why. Running the cattle would make them lose weight, reducing their value at the auction.


No cattle were in sight from the truck. The trio mounted up and rode south across the prairie. Half an hour later, they spotted the herd—about two hundred head—gathered in a valley, sheltered from the cold north wind. Jake moved wide to one side of the herd. Jess Paul took the opposite side. Tim took position on the hill. He was ready to steer the cattle north toward the pens.

Tim fought to keep Sam still as the cattle approached. The horse was itching to jump, and Tim braced himself, expecting a sudden bucking fit.


The first two turning points went smoothly. Tim maneuvered between the cattle and the next position with ease. But at the final turn, he noticed a devil’s claw tangled around Sam’s hind hoof. The dried-up weed flower was notorious for driving horses wild, making them kick and thrash to free themselves. Tim knew he had to stay calm.

Devils Claw
Proboscidea louisianica


Slowly, he dismounted, working his way around Sam. He reached down with deliberate care. Then, he grabbed the devil’s claw and pulled it free. Using his boot, he brushed it away. Miraculously, Sam stood still.


Tim half expected the horse to explode at any moment. The last time Sam went full rodeo, they had been riding a narrow trail along a canyon. On one side was a dirt wall; on the other, a hundred-foot drop. Sam had bucked the entire way down to the canyon floor. Tim had held on for dear life. He cursed the horse with every bounce. Tim’s father scolded him for not stopping the horse. Tim never dared argue back. He had just been trying to survive the ride.


Now, with Sam behaving, Tim remounted and guided the cattle through the final turn. The herd moved steadily into the holding pens, where hay and grain had been spread.
After the last cow entered, the trio loaded their horses back into the trailer, and the gates clanged shut. The job was done. They had answered the call south of Mingo, and now it was time to head home.

Riding home meant Jess Paul would tell more stories.

Toby and Spitfire The Horse That Had Never Been Rode!

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro.

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© 

Ranch Hands told stories of Spitfire on the Whispering Pines Ranch—a wild and untamable horse that earned his name with every snort and stomp. Cowboys from every corner of the county had tried to ride him, only to find themselves airborne within moments, landing with bruised pride and sore limbs. Spitfire’s eyes would glimmer with a defiant fire as if daring the next rider even to try.

But one summer day, the world shifted on its axis when a nine-year-old boy named Toby visited the ranch. Toby’s light frame was offset by the quiet resilience of a child who had learned to conquer more obstacles than many seasoned ranchhands. Born with legs that didn’t work like other kids, Toby’s movements were careful and deliberate, assisted by crutches that clinked softly with each step.


Drawn by a gentle breeze and the soft nickering sounds, Toby found himself near Spitfire’s corral. The horse stood apart, tossing his white mane like a storm cloud, eyes wary and sharp. But as Toby watched, something stirred in Spitfire’s gaze; a flicker of curiosity outshone his usual mistrust.


Before anyone could stop him, Toby set his crutches by the fence and used the railings to hoist himself. Spitfire’s ears flicked, muscles tensed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he watched the boy with an intensity that made time pause.


With tiny movements, Toby approached. He whispered soft words that only the horse could hear, offering no challenge, only companionship. Spitfire took a cautious step forward, then another. The horse’s powerful head bent down a moment later, and his breath warmed Toby’s outstretched fingers.


The ranchhands who came running, yelling warnings, froze as they witnessed the impossible: Spitfire, the proud, untamable beast, knelt in the dust as if making a silent vow. Toby’s smile lit up his face as he settled onto Spitfire’s broad back, and for the first time, Spitfire carried a rider not with rebellion but grace.

They could remember when the horse was born in a south pasture four springs ago and got herded into the corrals for the first time. That someone had got that close and made peace with the critter.


“You couldn’t get close enough to feed him,” ––– said Harland the leadhand.

“Given how cantankerous he is, how could the kid get that close to him?” ––– said Orville, an outfitter.

The stunned onlookers could only watch in awe as they moved in perfect harmony. Toby, the boy who faced each day with quiet determination, had found his match in the fierce spirit of a horse that would allow no other. And Spitfire, known for his wild, unbroken heart, found a rider worthy of his trust in a child who saw him as a friend. Not as a challenge. Teaching the ranchhands, as opposed to spurs and whips, a gentle touch can go a long way!

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

From A Horse Sale To A “CB” Coffee Break”

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

Join Us For a Coffee Break!

If you’ve read previous stories about my dad and me heading to horse sales during my youth, you’ll know it was a ritual we performed every Friday and Saturday night. It wasn’t just about the horses but the time we spent together and the bond we shared. Somewhere, someplace, we could always find a horse sale. And if the horse sales took a break in the summer, we’d catch a rodeo, no matter how far we had to drive.

I saw more of Oklahoma at night than I ever did during the day. That’s when my dad and I would drive the state highways, venturing wherever the road took us. But this particular trip was different. We were going to our regular sale in the city, about 30 miles from home.

It was the 1970s, and Citizen Band (CB) radio had become all the rage. I had three older brothers, all grown, who installed CB radios in their vehicles, catching my dad’s attention. Before long, we also had one in our pickup, tuned in, and received signals from all over. Dad outfitted our rig with twin whip antennas and a power mic; he even considered adding an amplifier but decided against it after hearing the FCC might crack down on him. My dad always did things by the book. So we were content rolling down the highway, our handles “Big Jake” for him and “Gentle Ben” for me.

We’d pick up reports about ‘Bears in the Air’ and ‘Bear Setups’ just down the road. Although we were doing the speed limit, Dad would ease up on the accelerator to humor me, making me think those reports were helping. On our way to the horse sale that night, we heard a spectrum of new voices on the air—voices we’d never heard before.

I told my dad they were coming in too consistently and clearly to be skip signals; they had to be close.

He said, “Let’s listen to them a minute.”

As we tuned in, these voices discussed being in Indian City and staying set up all night. They invited anyone to come by, mentioning they were at the Coffee Break on the east side of town, near the rodeo grounds. The ‘Coffee Break’ was a popular gathering spot for CB radio enthusiasts to meet, socialize, and share their experiences.

Indian City was the nickname for Anadarko, where we were headed for the horse sale. The town was known for its tourist attraction, Indian City, USA, with teepees and all—a gimmick that drew in visitors.

Dad keyed up the mic and gave a breaker. One of the new voices responded. Dad explained we were headed to a horse sale and might drop by for a cup if the horses weren’t any good later.

They said,

“Come on by! Have you ever been to one of our Coffee Breaks?”

Dad replied,

“That’s a big negatory!”

Well then,” they said,

“park wherever you can and find Booth 12—that’s where we’re set up.“

We went to the horse sale, and I spied a horse or two I thought Dad might be interested in. But around 11:00 PM, he nudged me and said,

“Let’s go to the Coffee Break. I want to see what it’s about, and I’m sure you do, too.”

I wanted to say yes, but those two horses had not come up. We had a herd of horses back home, so missing one or two wouldn’t matter. Besides, I was curious about what we’d get into at this place.

When we arrived at the rodeo grounds, the area was full of campers, RVs, and tents—huge tents, at least to me. The tent poles seemed massive, with lighting strung throughout by wire. I wasn’t sure if it was safe, but I trusted my dad as he led the way.

We found what we thought was Booth 12, where a lady sat in a folding lawn chair. She looked up at me and said, 

“Hi, sweetie. You run away from home?”

I quickly replied,

“Oh no, I’m here with my dad; we’re looking for Booth 12.”

She smiled, a crooked grin on her face, and said,

“You’re looking for Honey Badger! HONEY BADGER, GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!”

From around the corner came a short man with a balding head and a potbelly. He hadn’t shaved in a week and said,

“What is it, Wilda? You don’t have to yell! Oh, hello.”

I whispered to my dad,

“The lady’s name is Wilda,”

Mimicking the style of Sgt—Friday and Officer Bill Gannon on Dragnet.

My dad looked down at me and used his favorite phrase when I tried to do impressions: 

“Don’t be stupid.”

Honey Badger had sharp ears because when he heard Dad’s voice, he said, 

“I know him—that’s Big Jake. We talked to you a few hours ago, and I’ve heard you before when we passed through these parts. I’m Honey Badger. Let me show you around. Wilda, you want to watch the boy?”

Dad told me to stay with Wilda, promising he’d be right back. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I decided to start searching if I didn’t hear from him by the top of the hour. For all I knew, these could be aliens from another planet up to something strange. I had just turned ten, and the year before, my dad and I had to walk home after the truck we test-drove broke down on our way home from a horse sale. I could take on whatever might be behind those dark tents—or at least that’s what I told myself.

In the meantime, Wilda and I managed to strike up a friendship. She told me they were from Kansas and had retired. Honey Badger worked with honeybees as a hobby, hence his CB name. She said,

“And I’m the Queen Bee; I get on that radio and just Buzz.”

Wilda looked like a much older Ms. Kitty—a short, broad, ancient Ms. Kitty. Her voice reminded me of one of the blonde girls on The Andy Griffith Show who gave Andy and Barney a hard time. She was a sweet soul who must’ve lived quite a life. She got me a hot cup of Pepsi and talked about missing her TV show to come on this trip with Honey Badger. But she said, –––

“It’s worth it. You don’t know when one of you is going to die. You want to do all the things in life you can before you call it quits.”

She shared stories about her and her husband’s adventures, and I did my best to look interested, though I only sometimes followed along.

Dad must have been gone for thirty minutes. I had no idea what he was doing, but I sure had a lot of intelligence gathered from Queen Bee to share with him.

When he finally returned, he scooped me up, thanked Queen Bee for having us over, and assured her we’d made friends on the southern plains that stretched far north.

As we got into the pickup and headed home, I noticed Dad pushed his hat back on his head, just like he did at Christmas when he and one of my uncles secretly toasted shots at my grandparents. He was in such a good mood, so I shared my findings. –––

“So,” I began, “Wilda—or Queen Bee—said they’ve been to several states doing Coffee Breaks because she can’t have kids, and he doesn’t want any. He also has some car problems that he can’t fix. She told me he lost his left nut in the war. But I don’t think he’s still driving the same car he had when he was in the war.”

At the time, I thought whatever Dad had been up to must’ve been a lot of fun because he laughed all the way home. Within a year or two, I realized Honey Badger hadn’t lost a lugnut at all—but maybe it was better when he had.

There are Memorials left behind for those CB Radioer’s who’ve met up and passed on by clicking here.

Echoes of Laughter: Nights at the Red Barn Café. ~ Cordell, Oklahoma 1968

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

The sun dipped low over the plains, painting the sky with hues of yellow and burnt orange. As dusk embraced the town, a familiar buzz began to build around the old auction barn. Trucks and trailers, caked in red dirt, lined the gravel lot. The air was thick with the mingling scents of hay, leather, and anticipation. But as the final gavel fell and the last winning bidder of the last horse to sell walked up to the young gelding and led him away, the real excitement shifted just east of the heart of Cordell: The Red Barn Café.

Perched on the corner of Main and Elm, the café’s crimson façade glowed warmly under the neon sign that blinked “Open.” Its rustic wooden doors beckoned the weary and the jubilant alike. A symphony of clinking glasses, spirited chatter, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the room.

Photo is simulated image, it does not represent the actual design of the actual Red Barn in Cordell.

Tonight was no different.

Big Jake JD Groff, a seasoned auction hand with a penchant for tall tales and horse trader, sauntered in, his boots echoing on the worn wooden floor, followed by his son, Benjamin, age 6. Jake tipped his hat to Mary Lou, the ever-smiling waitress who’d been serving slices of pie and pots of coffee since anyone could remember.

“Evenin’, Mary Lou. Got any of that pecan pie left?” Jake drawled.

“For you, Two-Bit? Always,” she winked, scribbling his order.

At the corner booth, a group of cowboys huddled close, their hats resting on the table, revealing sweat-stained brows and sunburned necks. Among them was young Delmer Scott, with a bearded-faced and eager, attending his 100th auction. His eyes sparkled as he recounted his purchase. He was known to everyone as “Scott!”

“Got me a real beauty tonight,” Scott boasted, his voice brimming with pride. “A chestnut mare, strong legs, and a spirit that’d make the wind jealous.” 

Jake, his best friend, said to him,

“‘You SOB, you bought a goddamn jackass, and you know it!”

Scott shot back, Groff,

“you lying bitch, you’re just jealous because you bought a goddamn nearly dead 30-year-old plow horse that is about to keel.”

Old Man Harris, a legend in these parts, chuckled softly, his grey mustache twitching.

“Son, every horse looks like a winner under those auction lights. Wait till you’re trying to saddle her on a cold morning.”

The table erupted in laughter, the kind that warms the soul. This type of banter draws crowds to the Red Barn after auctions every Saturday Night. The food and service are the icing on the cake.

Near the jukebox, which softly crooned Patsy Cline tunes, a group from out of state compared notes. They’d driven from Texas, lured by tales of the Cordell auctions. Amid shared stories and friendly ribbing, they marveled at the community’s camaraderie.

“It’s like we’ve known y’all our whole lives, if we may; it’s the damnest thing we ever saw!” 

One of them mused, raising a mug of steaming coffee.

As the night wore on, tales grew taller. Jake recounted the time he supposedly outbid a millionaire from Tulsa with just “a wink and a handshake,” while Mary Lou swore she saw Elvis pass through town once, stopping by for a slice of her famous pie.

But beneath the banter and jest, there was an unspoken understanding. These nights at the Red Barn Café were more than just post-auction gatherings; they were the threads that wove the community together. In a rapidly changing world, where traditions faded, and new ways emerged, this little café stood as a testament to simpler times.

By 2:00 AM, as the crowd began to thin and the neon sign’s glow dimmed, the stories had been told, deals celebrated, and friendships fortified. Clutching a worn napkin filled with advice scribbled by his newfound mentors, Scott loved the warmth that had little to do with the strong coffee, but be damned if he’d ever say anything about it around Jake!

Benjamin stepped out into the fantastic night with his dad, Jake. He glanced back at the Red Barn Café, its silhouette etched against the starlit sky. Like so many before him, he knew those smoking, cussing, and storytelling friends who gathered had memories forged within their souls that would be cherished for a lifetime.

Decades later, the tales of Saturday nights at the Red Barn Café in Cordell, Oklahoma, would become legends as the world moved on. Stories of laughter, camaraderie, and the indelible spirit of a community bound by shared passions and dreams were only folktales of a time gone by; the Red Barn had been torn down, and its memory erased for generations. The true legends of those days are left to a few who remember Saturday Nights at the Red Barn Cafe in Cordell, Oklahoma!

Riding For Their Lives, Two Cowboys Find One Another On The Way Home

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A Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media2024©. Truth Endures

In the rugged expanse of the 1870s, the badlands of old Mexico were no place for the faint of heart. The sun beat down relentlessly on the arid landscape, casting long shadows as two figures galloped toward the distant border of the United States. Dust rose in their wake, marking their desperate flight from a fate they did not deserve.


Thomas “Tommy” Bellamy and Javier “Javi” Morales were not hardened outlaws, but the cards got dealt against them. In a dimly lit cantina, they had accused two desperados of cheating at poker—a claim that sparked a barfight and ended in gunfire. The local sheriff, a man of questionable integrity, saw an opportunity to pin the shootout on Tommy and Javi, branding them as evil men. With the threat of hard labor or the horrors of Mexican prisons looming, their only hope lay in reaching the safety of the U.S. border.


The journey was fraught with challenges. The badlands were an unforgiving terrain with little water and less mercy. Their horses, Midnight and Sol, were their only companions in the vast, empty wilderness. Days blended into nights as they pushed on, driven by the fear of capture and the promise of freedom.


As the miles stretched on, so did Tommy and Javi’s bond. In the quiet moments between the relentless pursuit, they found solace in each other’s company. Around the campfire, under a canopy of stars, they shared stories of their pasts—Tommy, the son of a Tennessee farmer, and Javi, the orphaned child of a Mexican peasant. Their differences faded in the face of their shared struggle, and a deep, unspoken connection began to blossom.


One night, as the embers of their fire glowed softly, Tommy glanced over at Javi. The flickering light cast shadows across Javi’s face, highlighting the weariness and determination etched into his features. Tommy felt a pang of emotion he could not quite place—a mix of admiration, respect, and more.


“Javi,” Tommy began hesitantly, “I don’t know what I’d do without you out here.”
Javi looked up, his dark eyes reflecting the flames. “We’re in this together, Tommy. Always have been, always will be.”


Their eyes locked, and the world around them seemed to fade away at that moment. Tommy reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and Javi met his touch with a quiet intensity. It was a tentative gesture, a bridge between fear and hope, and it spoke volumes more than words ever could.


As the days turned into weeks, their bond grew more pungent, transcending the physical hardships they faced. They encountered hostile landscapes, battled exhaustion, and evaded pursuers while drawing strength from each other. In a land where trust was scarce and betrayal familiar, they had found something rare and precious—unwavering loyalty and love.
One evening, as they neared the border, they found a small, abandoned shack. Exhausted and hungry, they decided to take shelter for the night. Inside, the air was cool, and the silence was broken only by the distant howls of coyotes. They sat close, their shoulders touching, as they shared a meager meal.


“Tommy,” Javi said softly, “do you ever think about what we’ll do once we cross the border?”
Tommy nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Yeah, I do. We’ll find a place to start fresh. Somewhere we can be free.”


Javi smiled, a rare sight that lit up his face. “As long as we’re together, we’ll make it.”
The border was within reach, but the journey was far from over. The two men knew the dangers that awaited them on the other side, but they faced them with a newfound determination. They were not just running from a past they did not deserve but running toward a future they could build together.


As dawn broke, they saddled their horses and got ready for the final leg of their ride. Tommy glanced at Javi, his heart swelling with pride and affection. They were outlaws by circumstance, but they had found something true and pure in each other.


With a shared nod, they spurred their horses forward, leaving behind the badlands of old Mexico and riding toward the promise of a new life. Their path was uncertain, but their bond was unbreakable, forged in the fires of adversity and tempered by the strength of their love.