Morning Coffee: Everybody’s Got Something

Everybody Love’s Somebody Sometime….

Musical notation displaying a series of notes on a staff.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026
October 29, 2026


Good morning, coffee drinkers.

One thing about a broken ankle: it gives you plenty of time to sit and think. Unfortunately, it does not guarantee you will have anything sensible to think about.

Three men smiling together at an outdoor gathering, with umbrellas in the background.
Left to Right: Ben, Steve and Sasha Breakfast Christina’s Wild Berry Restaurant.

I had pictured a quiet recovery. Drinks, Steve, Otis, me, and the occasional trip from one room to another that requires about as much preparation as a small expedition.

Then we had company.

A friend needed somewhere to stay while working through a rough patch at life. I’ll leave the particulars to the people involved. Around here, we were providing a place to sleep, someone to listen, and whatever wisdom two older men could offer from their recliners.

We have seen situations like this many times.

Usually on television. But we felt reasonably qualified.

Otis disagreed.

A cheerful small dog with white and tan fur sitting on a soft textured rug, looking up with its tongue out and wearing a collar.
OTIS K-9 Canis familiaris

Our Jack Russell Terrier believes visitors should stay approximately fifteen minutes. That gives them time to admire him, explain their business, and leave before becoming part of the household.

Our guest had exceeded his allotted time considerably.

Otis began monitoring him.

If he shifted in his chair, Otis noticed. If he crossed his legs, Otis had a comment. If he attempted to stand, the entire security department came to attention.

Our friend already had enough on his mind without having to negotiate permission to use the bathroom.

“Otis, leave him alone,” became one of the most frequently spoken sentences in the house.

I would have intervened more effectively, but I am currently operating with one good leg and a scooter. By the time I arrive at a disturbance, everybody has had time to develop a different account of what happened.

There is something especially frustrating about needing help when you are accustomed to doing things yourself. You spot something across the room and think, I’ll just get that.

Then you remember.

There is no “just” right now.

Getting dressed is a project. Getting out the door is a coordinated event. Something as ordinary as going to breakfast requires Steve to manage the dog, me to manage the scooter, and everyone to remain clear of whichever direction I’m pointed.

Still, after more than a month away from our favorite restaurant, I was ready.

I missed the familiar faces. I missed our usual breakfast. I missed going somewhere for a reason that did not involve somebody examining a part of me.

So we gathered ourselves up and headed out, leaving Otis at home to review his complaints.

I expected questions about my ankle. I was prepared to explain the fall, the pain, the surgery, and how quickly an ordinary day can turn into a story you will be telling for the rest of your life.

But the folks at the restaurant already knew most of that.

Facebook had handled the preliminary reporting.

There were warm welcomes and well wishes, and it felt good to be back. For a little while, I could sit at a restaurant table instead of in my recovery chair and enjoy something familiar.

Of course, our guest attracted some interest, too.

I had been missing in action for weeks, returned on a scooter, and somehow there was still newer news at the table.

That is the trouble with trying to make a comeback. Somebody else arrives with a developing story.

Between the coffee and breakfast, it occurred to me that all three of us needed the outing for different reasons. I needed a break from being home with my ankle. Steve needed a break from helping me do all the things I usually do myself. Our friend needed a little time when his troubles weren’t the only thing in the room.

We couldn’t settle everything over breakfast. But we could eat, talk, and give the worrying a rest.

Sometimes that is about what you have to offer someone. A chair. A meal. A place to stay while they figure out what comes next.

I’m learning to accept that kind of help myself. I appreciate it more than I probably manage to say, even when I get frustrated with how much of it I need.

Otis, meanwhile, would appreciate a firm checkout date.

And I still don’t know how the restaurant heard we had a houseguest.

That dog of ours is a blabbermouth.

Signature of Benjamin Groff followed by attribution text for GroffMedia and the website benandsteve.com, dated 2026.
Benjamin Groff

☕ Morning Coffee: The Scariest Commercial Break of the Year

Trick or Treat…It is soon time to vote…and end the haunting political advertising.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026
October 30, 2026


Good morning, coffee drinkers.

people sitting inside the coffee shop
Photo by Mizzu Cho on Pexels.com

Tomorrow is Halloween, and I imagine some of you are ready for the scary movies to disappear from the television schedule. We have had enough haunted houses, rattling chains, and people investigating strange noises in basements they had no business entering.

Personally, I would have put the house up for sale during the opening credits.

But even after the Halloween movies retreat into storage, we will still have those political advertisements.

Apparently, some horrors have a larger advertising budget.

We are four days away from the United States midterm elections on Tuesday, November 3. Four more days of ominous music, unflattering photographs, and a voice warning us that somebody running for office intends to destroy everything we hold dear.

By now, I am surprised the candidates have not been accused of stealing Halloween candy directly from the mouths of children.

Give it another commercial break.

Before we get to Tuesday, though, there is another observance I try to acknowledge every year. Halloween, October 31, is All Hallows’ Eve—the evening before All Saints’ Day on November 1.

a man voting beside a ballot box
Photo by Sora Shimazaki on Pexels.com

Beyond the costumes and candy, there is room in this season for remembrance. For thinking about those who came before us, the lives they lived, and what they left in our care.

I think about that responsibility when I consider what we are leaving for the people coming after us.

What will they learn from watching us? How to disagree? How to recognize the truth? How to accept an outcome we did not want?

Or simply how to shout louder?

One of my frustrations with political advertising is how much responsibility falls on the person sitting at home trying to sort through it. The Federal Trade Commission, which oversees truth in much commercial advertising, does not have jurisdiction over political advertisements. The FCC does not verify the accuracy of political claims before they air, either.

That does not make every accusation legally consequence-free. But it certainly leaves voters with a considerable amount of homework.

And most of us were only trying to watch a movie.

You hear an accusation. Then a denial. Then another advertisement explaining why the denial cannot be trusted. Somewhere in the middle, an actual voting record or statement may be buried beneath enough dramatic music to launch a horror franchise.

Sometimes the words are real, but the context has disappeared. Sometimes a vote against a bill becomes an accusation that someone opposed every worthwhile thing tucked inside it.

And sometimes a candidate says something troubling in plain language, only for supporters to spend the next week explaining why we should not believe our own ears.

Meanwhile, an unsupported accusation about the opponent travels around the neighborhood before the correction has its shoes on.

That is what wears people down. Eventually, some folks stop asking what is true and settle for whatever sounds right coming from their side.

I understand being tired. I am tired, too. But exhaustion is a poor reason to hand somebody else the responsibility for deciding what we believe.

My worry is that Tuesday will bring relief from the advertisements without bringing relief from the accusations.

I expect that if Democrats win close races, we will hear familiar claims from some Republicans that the election was stolen. That is my expectation, not a result we can know in advance. But I have grown weary of the suggestion that an election is trustworthy only when it produces the preferred winner.

A close race may warrant a recount under the applicable rules. An allegation of wrongdoing deserves examination when there is evidence behind it.

Disappointment alone proves nothing.

And counting ballots carefully takes time. We may go to bed Tuesday without knowing the outcome of every race. I would rather wait for an accurate count than demand a hurried answer simply because the television panel has run out of things to say.

So, as we move from Halloween into All Saints’ Day and then toward Election Day, perhaps we could give a little thought to what deserves our fear—and what deserves our attention.

Remember those who helped shape your life. Enjoy the children in their costumes. Save a little candy for yourself.

Then take your vote seriously enough to look beyond the commercial.

I am ready for the scary movies to end and the political advertisements to follow them out the door.

After that, I would appreciate one quiet morning when the most alarming thing on television is the price of a new refrigerator.

Pour yourself another cup, folks.

And keep the remote handy.

Signature of Benjamin Groff, with attribution to GroffMedia and a website link.
Benjamin Groff

Morning Coffee ––– Colonel Roy Rodrick – The Saturday Night Horse Auction

Colonel Roy Rodrick

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026
October 29, 2026


Morning Coffee: Remembering Roy Rodrick.

A smiling older man wearing a light gray cowboy hat, glasses, and a colorful plaid shirt, draped in a red jacket.
Colonel Roy Rodrick

April 28, 1931 — October 26, 2026

Some voices stay with you for a lifetime.


For me, one of those voices belonged to Roy Rodrick, calling horses through an auction ring long after most sensible people would have gone home to bed.

My dad wasn’t one of those sensible people.

Neither was I, apparently. I was usually sitting beside him.

Colonel Roy Leon Rodrick, known affectionately as “Dutch,” passed away October 26, 2026, in Lawton, Oklahoma. He was 95.

Reading about his passing brought back the sale barns in Anadarko and Mountain View, the familiar faces in the seats, and those long nights when Dad insisted we stay until the very last horse came through.

There was always the possibility that the next one would be the horse he had been waiting for.

And you certainly couldn’t leave before finding out.

Roy was born April 28, 1931, in Hobart, Oklahoma, to Harold and Mattie Rodrick. He grew up in the Carnegie area and attended Prairie Vale Public School. Over the years, he worked at several occupations, but auctioneering was the work that became his calling.

He spent more than fifty years at it.

That is a lot of horses, a lot of bidders, and a remarkable amount of talking.

Roy had the voice for it—and the staying power.

Dad and I bought many a head of horses at Anadarko and Mountain View. During the years Roy and Lois operated the Mountain View horse sale, Saturday nights meant a gathering of people who came to buy, sell, visit, or simply see what might come through the ring.

Dad generally managed to do all four.

He would bring a collection of friends along, settle into his seat, and make himself comfortable. We might be there until nearly sunrise, but if horses were still coming through, we were still watching.

And Roy was still calling.

I can remember being tired enough to wonder whether morning would arrive before we got home. Dad, meanwhile, seemed perfectly willing to wait out the whole business.

Somewhere among the horses still waiting their turn might be a good mare, a promising cutting horse, or a bargain he couldn’t reasonably be expected to leave behind.

At least that was the general philosophy.

Those nights became part of my education. I watched the horses, listened to the bids, and paid attention to the people who knew what they were looking at. There was plenty to learn if a boy could sit still long enough to notice.

I found some of the best mares and cutting horses I ever owned at those sales.

And if Roy gave his word from the auction ring that a horse was sound, you could count on it.

His word meant something to us. When you were spending money on a horse you expected to ride, work, or bring home to your family, that mattered.

Roy understood horses. He also understood the people buying them.

He traveled throughout Oklahoma and Texas, buying, selling, and trading. From the accounts of those who knew him, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t consider trading for, and he rarely passed up an opportunity to make a deal.

I suspect Dad appreciated that about him.

The two of them certainly shared an interest in seeing what might be available.

One Christmas, Dad and I left a family gathering in Sentinel and somehow ended up in Mountain View looking at horses.

I cannot tell you exactly how a Christmas visit turned into a horse-shopping expedition. With Dad, those changes in direction didn’t require much explanation.

Roy came out and showed the horses to us.

That simple visit has stayed with me all these years. I remember being there with Dad, looking at horses, and Roy taking the time to show them.

Looking back, I’m grateful for those ordinary hours. At the time, I had no reason to think I would still be remembering them more than half a century later.

On June 27, 1978, Roy married Minnie Lois McLemore in Wichita Falls, Texas. Together, they shared many years, operated the Mountain View horse sale, and eventually made their home in Cordell.

Lois was related to my father through the McLemore family. In our part of Oklahoma, family connections had a way of turning up wherever you went. Follow a name far enough, and somebody would explain how you were related.

Sometimes the explanation took longer than the drive home.

Roy also enjoyed visiting and telling stories. His family’s remembrance describes a man who could strike up a conversation with just about anyone, whether they had known him for years or had only just met him.

That seems fitting for someone who spent so much of his life bringing people together around an auction ring.

People came for the horses, but they came back for the company, too. Over time, those Saturday nights became a regular part of their lives. You knew where you were going, who you might see, and whose voice would be waiting when you got there.

For many of us, that voice was Roy’s.

He leaves behind a large family, including children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, along with the many people who knew him through his years in the horse business.

Each will have a different story to tell.

Mine includes a pickup ride with Dad, a seat at the sale barn, and a long night watching horses come through the ring.

Roy Rodrick kept calling.

Dad kept watching.

And I was fortunate enough to be there beside him.

Rest well, Roy. Thank you for the good horses, the time you gave us, and the memories that have lasted all these years.

Signature of Benjamin Groff with copyright information and website link.

Find stories about horse sales by Benjamin and how they affected his life by searching here…some may truly surprise. At the auction barn Dutch was calling most of the sales!

Benjamin Groff


Morning Coffee ––– We Need to Talk—Before the Coffee Gets Cold

Two people can share a home, a life, and a deep love without sharing every opinion. Making room for honest disagreement—and listening when it gets uncomfortable—can help us understand the person sitting across the kitchen table. Or not!

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

October 26, 2026


Good morning, coffee drinkers, orange juice squeezers, and milk lovers! Whatever is in your cup, pull up a chair. This morning, we might disagree about something.

And that might be perfectly all right.

a woman throwing a crumpled paper to a co worker
Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com. “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart…I Couldn’t If I Tried…”

I have long believed that a loving relationship needs room for a civilized argument now and then. Two people can love each other deeply and still look at the same situation and wonder how on earth the other person arrived at that conclusion.

You share a home. You share a life. That doesn’t mean you share a brain.

One of you sees an opportunity. The other sees a bill coming. One thinks a decision is perfectly reasonable. The other would have appreciated hearing about it before it became a decision.

Then come those familiar words:

“You did what?”

Suddenly, whatever was on television has lost its audience.

Sometimes it starts with an innocent mistake. Something forgotten. A message misunderstood. An errand that somehow required three explanations and still came home wrong.

Other times, the matter is serious. Money spent without discussion. A promise broken. A decision made by one person that affects both.

Whatever started it, there comes a moment when the conversation can go in several directions. We can explain ourselves. We can listen. Or we can begin preparing a declaration of war over the kitchen counter.

It is remarkably easy to choose that last one when our feelings are hurt.

We stop discussing what happened and begin presenting evidence about the person who did it. “You forgot”

“You forgot”

becomes “You never think about anybody but yourself.”

“You never think about anybody but yourself.”

Before long, an incident from years ago has been called to testify.

Now we have two arguments going: the one about the original problem and the one about what we just said to each other.

I think this is where the civilized part takes some work.

Being angry doesn’t excuse being cruel. And loving someone doesn’t require agreeing with everything they say. There ought to be room to say, “That hurt me,” or “I think you made a mistake,”

“That hurt me,” or “I think you made a mistake,”

without either person having to wonder whether the whole relationship is about to be put on trial.

There also has to be room for an answer.

That can be the difficult part. We may be so busy defending what we meant that we never hear what the other person experienced.

“I didn’t mean it that way”

“I didn’t mean it that way” might be true. So might “Well, that is how it felt.”

“Well, that is how it felt.”

Both deserve a hearing.

An innocent mistake may need an explanation, an apology, and a little grace. A serious breach of trust may require changed behavior and time. We cannot settle every disagreement by deciding that nobody meant any harm and putting another pot of coffee on.

But we cannot settle much if nobody is allowed to speak, either.

A quiet house can be peaceful. It can also hold two people who have given up trying to be heard. Sometimes the subject we keep avoiding is the very conversation we need to have.

Perhaps we need to say,

“I am too upset to talk about this properly right now. Let’s come back to it after supper.”

Then we need to come back after supper.

That pause ought to give us time to find our words, with enough care left in them to remember who will be listening.

I don’t believe couples need to manufacture arguments to keep a relationship healthy. Life supplies enough differences without our help. I do believe we need to be able to disagree honestly when those differences arrive.

Sometimes that means admitting we were wrong. Sometimes it means accepting that the other person has a point we would rather they hadn’t thought of.

And sometimes, even after a good conversation, we still see things differently. At least now we understand a little more about why.

friends enjoying coffee and taking a selfie
Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Pexels.com

To me, that is worth something. We have trusted each other enough to speak, and cared enough to listen.

So, folks, if something needs saying, find a way to say it. Leave room for the person across from you to do the same.

You may have shared that kitchen table for years. There can still be something to learn about the person sitting on the other side.

Pour them a cup while you’re at it.

Logo and signature of Benjamin Groff, accompanied by copyright and website information.
Benjamin Groff

Morning Coffee ––– We Moved to Arizona. Apparently, the Weather Followed.

It was 24 years ago we made the move. Still it seems that the weather is still catching up. And, we didn’t ask it to!

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026
October 25, 2026


Weather radar showing heavy rainfall indicated in red, with areas of mixed precipitation and snow, including road names like Burton Rd and Lone Pine Dam Rd.

When Steve and I moved to Arizona, we were fairly certain we had left most of the crazy weather behind us.

After Oklahoma and Kansas, sunshine and desert scenery sounded like a reasonable trade. I knew Arizona had its own weather problems. But somewhere in my thinking was the comforting notion that tornado country was now behind us.

Aerial view of a disaster scene with fallen trees, damaged vehicles, and scattered debris in a wooded area.

More than two decades later, watching reports from Heber-Overgaard, that comfort has taken a considerable beating.

The community suffered substantial damage during a suspected tornado Wednesday evening, October 21. Reports described damaged buildings, fallen trees, downed power lines, and residents suddenly facing the work of putting their lives back together.

For those folks, the storm is already much more than a question waiting for an official answer.

During my years in law enforcement, I watched storms develop over the Oklahoma prairie. I have seen threatening clouds begin to rotate, watched funnels descend, and seen what happens when that circulation reaches the ground and starts tearing the daylights out of whatever stands in its way.

Those experiences stay with you.

When I look at storm damage now, I look for a story in what was left behind. Where did the debris travel? Which direction did the trees fall? Does the destruction follow a narrow track? Why did one building suffer so much while another nearby escaped?

Those questions matter. But experience also means recognizing that the first explanation is not always the complete explanation.

Aerial view of a damaged landscape after a storm, showing debris, damaged buildings, and fallen trees in a rural area.

Powerful downbursts can produce damage that resembles tornado damage. Survey teams examine the broader pattern, including debris direction, structural damage, radar records, and witness accounts, to determine what happened. That work establishes both the cause and the strength of the winds.

Waiting for that determination can be frustrating, especially when the pictures look convincing. Still, the survey involves more than deciding whether to attach an EF1 or EF2 rating to an obvious tornado.

There is another distinction worth making. A tornado does not destroy a house simply by creating a vacuum. Violent winds, flying debris, and the failure of parts of a building cause the destruction. A collapsed roof, by itself, cannot settle the question of what kind of wind struck it.

Radar has its own limits. A hook echo can indicate a rotating storm with conditions favorable for tornado development. It does not, by itself, establish that a tornado is on the ground.

That does not make the danger any less real. It means the evidence deserves careful interpretation.

I also had to reconsider something about my adopted home: tornadoes are unusual here, but they are not new. The National Weather Service describes the October 2010 outbreak as the largest in Arizona history. We had already been living here for years when it happened.

Apparently, moving away from tornado country did not come with the guarantee I thought it did.

Climate change belongs in the larger conversation, too. But connecting a particular tornado to global warming requires more than pointing to an unusual storm.

A person climbing a tree during heavy rain and strong winds.
45/47 TREETOPLER We*The RADARX With cutbacks by the Trump Administration weather forecasting may see budget reduced to primative restrictions.

NOAA identificatioin continuing is still a uncertainty about how climate change affects tornado activity. We can take a warming world seriously while being precise about what any single event tells us.

What concerns me most is how easily unfamiliar weather becomes weather we dismiss.

Folks prepare for what they remember. When a threat seems to belong somewhere else, it is easy to believe there must be some mistake when it arrives at your door.

I understand that thinking. I brought a little of it to Arizona myself.

The families cleaning up in Heber-Overgaard deserve answers, assistance, and time to recover. Their experience also deserves our attention long after the storm footage disappears from television.

We can choose where we live. We can decide which weather we prefer.

The weather, unfortunately, has never agreed to honor the arrangement. In recent day the National Weather Service has confirmed the storm that hit Heber-Overgaard did produce a EF-1 Tornado resulting in the areas damage to property. The report states it was rated an EF1. The tornado touched down and stayed on the ground for 9.25 miles and 11 minutes. This tornado was about 350 yards wide. Officials said one person was injured. That wasn’t the conclusion of the report.

On Wednesday morning at 7:32 a.m., officials said an EF1 tornado touched down near Prescott with max winds of 105 mph. It stayed on the ground for 8 miles and 14 minutes. It was about 300 yards wide. No injuries were reported.

Based on the Enhanced Fujita (EF) Scale, which rates tornadoes by estimated wind speed on a 0-5 scale, both tornadoes were rated EF1.

Arizona recorded at least 15 tornado warnings this week, according to the National Weather Service.

“That’s a large number for Arizona,” said meteorologist Mark O’Malley with the National Weather Service’s Phoenix office.

On Wednesday, it was the first time two tornados had touched down doing significant damage in two Arizona communities ever on the same day, in the history of weather record keeping. That is concerning to officials studying the changing effects on weather patterns in Arizona.

The damage reports may continue to be reviewed. But it appears that Arizona may not have seen the last of its unwelcome weather.

Does anyone have any information about the weather year round in Costa Rica?

Artist signature and copyright information from Benjamin Groff, including the website benandsteve.com and the year 2026.
Benjamin Groff

Morning Coffee ––– Have you ever lost something that changed the way you understood your life?

When Life Goes On…And You May Not Want To…

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026
October 23, 2026


white coffee mug on menu in cozy cafe setting
Photo by Stephen Leonardi on Pexels.com

Good morning, coffee drinkers! Have you ever lost something that mattered to you? Or screwed up so badly that even your dog wanted a little distance? And if you’re a cat person, did your cat refuse to look at you for a whole week?

Of course, with cats, it can be hard to tell whether you’ve disappointed them or they’re just keeping regular office hours.

Perhaps it was someone you loved, a friendship you depended on, or work you believed would carry you into the future. Sometimes a loss leaves an empty place where certainty used to be.

We encounter these moments at different stages of life, often before we feel prepared for them. A child losing a dear friend discovers something no child should have to learn so soon. The unexpected death of a grandparent can change the familiar comfort of childhood. Years later, losing a parent may bring grief that takes longer to understand than we first realize.

Over time, we may become more familiar with loss. Familiarity does not make it easy, but experience can help us find our footing. We begin to understand that making peace with an absence does not mean forgetting what someone meant to us.

cat and dog together
Photo by Khaola E. on Pexels.com

Other losses are harder to name. There may be no funeral, no farewell, and no clear moment when everyone recognizes that something has ended. A career changes direction. A purpose is interrupted. Work we believed mattered remains unfinished, along with questions that may never be answered.

Those endings can be difficult to accept because their consequences may reach beyond the person who experienced them. Others may have depended on that work or benefited from what it might have accomplished. We cannot know everything that would have followed, but we can recognize the value of giving worthwhile efforts a fair chance.

Perhaps part of finding peace is accepting that some chapters will remain unfinished. We can acknowledge what was lost, remember why it mattered, and carry that sense of purpose into whatever we still have the opportunity to do.

Signature of 'Benjamin Groff' and copyright information including 'By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© benandsteve.com ©2026'.
Benjamin Groff

There’s Room at the Table

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 21, 2026


Good morning, coffee drinkers!

Pull up a chair. If you’re on your second cup, you’re in good company. If you’re on your third, we may need you to chair the meeting.

Cozy café interior with coffee, open notebook, plants, and sunset windows

This morning, I’ve been thinking about what keeps people going. Especially during those stretches when the news is exhausting, the future looks uncertain, and even the coffee seems to be taking its sweet time doing its job.

I keep coming back to the folks who make room for somebody else.

A chair pulled out. A phone call answered. Someone saying, “Sit down a minute. Tell me what’s going on.”

Small things, until you need them.

When we look back at history, we usually remember the people whose names made it into the books. Presidents, inventors, leaders, and the brave souls who stood before crowds and demanded something better.

But behind those moments were people making sandwiches, arranging rides, watching children, and opening their homes. Someone stayed late to clean up. Someone brought an extra coat. Someone made sure the person who had spoken so courageously didn’t have to walk home alone.

We ought to remember those folks, too.

Their contributions remind me that you don’t have to command an audience to help change somebody’s life. Sometimes you just have to notice who’s having a hard time getting through the day.

Of course, looking back requires some honesty. The old days held kindness, but they also held closed doors. Plenty of people were expected to remain quiet, stay out of sight, or accept whatever place somebody else had assigned them.

Some of us remember that part quite well.

And yet, people kept finding one another. They built friendships, communities, and families. They stood beside someone when doing so could cost them something. Slowly, through effort and setbacks, they opened doors that others would eventually walk through.

That gives me hope for what comes next.

I can’t tell you what the world will look like twenty years from now. I’m still trying to figure out why every device in this house needs an update just when I’ve learned how to use it.

But I do wonder what people will remember about us.

Will they remember that we listened? That we checked on someone? That when a person was being pushed aside, we moved over and made room?

We have some say in those answers today.

We can disagree and still care whether someone gets home safely. We can be tired and still offer a kind word. We can admit we don’t have a solution and stay long enough to hear the problem.

So, folks, as we finish our coffee, perhaps we can think of one person who could use a little company. Send the message. Make the call. Pull out the chair.

Someday, this morning will belong to the past, too.

Let’s give somebody a good reason to remember it.

A digital signature by Benjamin Groff accompanied by a copyright notice and the website benandsteve.com, indicating the year 2026.
Benjamin Groff

Morning Coffee – Change: It Could Be A Matter Of Opinion

“Everyone else has to believe as I do, or the whole world is screwed.”

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 20, 2026


Good morning, coffee drinkers. Pour yourself a cup and take a breath. This morning, I’m thinking about change—the kind that begins within us, sometimes with the uncomfortable realization that we might have something wrong.

male lawyer talking to his clients
Photo by Pavel Danilyuk on Pexels.com

One of the biggest misconceptions we carry through life is that other people must see the world as we do—especially when it comes to the subjects that divide us most.

Someone once told me, “Everyone else has to believe as I do, or the whole world is screwed.” I was just out of high school and impressionable. That thought stayed with me—a little too well.

I wouldn’t say I fully embraced it, but I had firm ideas about right and wrong. In those days, the world looked pretty black and white to me. I hadn’t yet learned how much could exist between the two. Apparently, I thought I had life figured out before I had done much living.

Life has a way of correcting that.

Over the years, I have learned that no one has to agree with me for the world to be okay. People arrive at their beliefs through experiences I may never have had, just as my experiences have shaped me. Sometimes, we are looking at the same situation from very different places.

That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about right and wrong. Some things deserve a firm stand. But being certain and being right are not always the same thing, and listening can teach us more than insisting ever will.

There is more gray in life than I once allowed myself to see. Not every question has a simple yes-or-no answer. Sometimes, what seems obvious becomes less so when we learn what we didn’t know—or finally hear someone we hadn’t bothered to understand.

My perspectives have grown. I have not mastered them. I still catch myself reconsidering situations I thought I had settled in my mind. An old opinion will come marching out, full of confidence, and I have to stop and ask whether it still deserves the floor.

I’m not perfect. That is probably the most useful thing I can admit over this morning’s coffee.

Folks, we can give ourselves a little room to breathe. We can take a belief we’ve held tightly and loosen our grip long enough to examine it. Where did it come from? What supports it? Have we learned anything that ought to change it? Are we holding on because it still makes sense, or because we’ve held it so long that letting go feels uncomfortable?

If it holds up, keep it. If it needs adjusting, adjust it. And if it no longer holds up, we can let it go without treating every year we believed it as something we must defend.

I have done that, and it has made me a happier person. I spend less energy needing agreement and more time trying to understand. I hope that makes life a little easier for the people around me, too.

We cannot make everyone change. But we can start with the person holding our coffee cup.

A signature block with the name 'Benjamin Groff' in a stylized font, along with attribution to GroffMedia and a website link, marked with a copyright symbol and the year 2026.

Morning Coffee: A Bum Leg and a Bonanza of Movie Stars

Not every Western needs John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn, Lorne Greene as Ben Cartwright, or Roy Rogers and Dale Evans riding into the sunset. Some, like Virginia City, are so loaded with familiar faces you could shake the cast like a family tree and still wonder who might fall out next.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 19th, 2026


Good morning, coffee drinkers! Pull up a chair and bring your cup. I already have my chair—and lately, I have been getting considerably more use out of it than I intended.

Three men in period costumes converse in front of a vintage stagecoach marked 'Wells Fargo Overland Mail Co.' with a fourth man visible inside the coach, all set in a western landscape.

Another unexpected gift from this bum leg arrived this week when Virginia City showed up on my television screen. My traveling remains limited, but Hollywood graciously arranged a trip out West without requiring me to get up.

And what a traveling party they provided.

This 1940 Western, directed by Michael Curtiz, serves up a whole salad of old-school movie stars: Errol Flynn, Miriam Hopkins, Randolph Scott, and Humphrey Bogart as the bandit John Murrell. Alan Hale and Guinn “Big Boy” Williams add even more familiar faces to the company.

Bogart even comes with a mustache. That alone might make you set down your coffee and take a second look.

The story follows a Union officer, played by Flynn, who escapes from a Confederate prison and becomes involved in stopping a shipment of five million dollars in gold intended to help keep the Confederacy fighting. Scott plays his former prison commander, who is working to get that gold through. Naturally, other people have their own ideas about where five million dollars ought to go.

Vintage movie advertisement featuring Errol Flynn and Miriam Hopkins, promoting the film 'Virginia City' with additional cast mentions including Randolph Scott and Humphrey Bogart.

You can imagine how peacefully everyone settles their differences.

There is enough action here to shake a stick at twice, provided nobody shoots the stick out of your hand first. A prison escape, stagecoach excitement, robbery, and competing loyalties keep things moving. Just when you think someone might have a quiet moment to explain themselves, another complication comes along.

But the cast is what held my attention.

A scene in a vintage bar setting featuring a woman in a black dress surrounded by several men in cowboy and military attire, engaged in conversation and display.

Watching this collection of performers, I kept wondering how one movie could accommodate so many personalities. Any one of them could command a scene. Put them together, and you find yourself watching the exchanges as closely as the action.

A look. A pause. A line delivered with just enough bite. Somebody standing perfectly still while another actor does the talking—and somehow remaining just as interesting.

That is a pleasure I find in these older movies. I enjoy watching actors work off one another, letting the tension build through their voices, expressions, and timing. The stars may draw you in, but the way they play a scene together keeps you there.

And yes, there are some handsome faces in this picture. Errol Flynn was hardly hired because he looked like somebody’s weather-beaten fence post. But the appeal goes well beyond appearances. These folks know how to hold your attention.

Virginia City gave me more than another afternoon of cowboys riding across the television. It gave me a chance to appreciate familiar performers in different company, especially Bogart, whose presence in this Western kept catching my eye.

A vintage black and white photograph of a glamorous woman in a sparkling dress, sitting on a bar counter, while three men in casual attire cheer and raise glasses in celebration.

Do not expect me to spend the morning swooning over a Southern belle and waiting for a “Frankly, my dear” farewell. I was too busy wondering who would get the gold, who could be trusted, and who would make it through the next scrape. There are other suggestions on how men settle their rage in the wild west.

That is one small consolation of being temporarily parked in a chair. You have time to let a movie unfold. You notice a supporting player. You pay attention to an exchange you might otherwise have missed while heading into the kitchen.

I would still prefer a working leg. Let us be clear about that.

But this week, the television delivered a little adventure and a whole gathering of familiar faces. For a while, I stopped thinking about what I could not get up and do.

So, folks, if Virginia City wanders across your screen, give it a little of your time. Pour another cup and settle in.

I managed a trip out West without leaving my chair. Considering my current transportation arrangements, that is a pretty good morning.

Yee–– Haa!

Signature of Benjamin Groff with attribution to GroffMedia and website link

Morning Coffee: A Cast of Characters

Look I probably should have told you this before but you see…

well…

insanity runs in my family…

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 16, 2026


With a cast on my leg, I have been glued to my chair. Naturally, that has left me glued to the television while also glued to the screen of my Apple MacBook Pro, swiping through my iPhone, and tapping my Apple Watch to see what it has to tell me.

vintage coffee and pocket watch on lace table
Photo by Rahime Gül on Pexels.com

Usually, it tells me something the other two devices have already announced.

I have an entire electronic staff keeping me informed, and apparently none of them communicate well enough to realize the position has already been filled.

My watch reminds me to stand. My leg reminds me that we need to discuss that first.

Somewhere between notifications, I remember to change the television channel, arrange a trip to the bathroom, and remind Steve that dinner will eventually be necessary. He may prepare it or call it in. His choice. I am trying to be an agreeable patient.

You would have to ask him how that is going.

Meanwhile, Otis, our Jack Russell Terror—excuse me, Terrier—is tearing through the house with enough energy to power all these devices. Doppler radar would struggle to track him. By the time it registered his location, he would have completed another lap and accused somebody of sitting in his chair.

If you know, you know.

One unexpected benefit of this enforced sitting has been a fresh look at movies I have watched many times before.

During some of those earlier viewings, I rolled my eyes. I knew the dialogue, the entrances, the misunderstandings, and what was coming next. Quite often, I was watching alongside a sick relative during the final stretch of their life. Those familiar movies seemed to offer comfort, and we let them play.

At the time, I thought I was simply keeping somebody company.

camera beside white mug
Photo by Wendy Wei on Pexels.com

Looking back, there was more to it. A familiar voice on the television. A story that asked very little of us. The quiet reassurance of another person sitting nearby.

Now Steve is beside me while I recover, and there is something familiar about that arrangement. Thankfully, I expect to get out of this chair eventually. Steve probably expects that even more enthusiastically.

For now, I have a cast on my leg and have developed a renewed appreciation for the cast on the screen.

Today’s selection was Arsenic and Old Lace, with Cary Grant, whom I have long admired. He was quite a catch then. As far as I am concerned, he would be quite a catch today.

Grant plays Mortimer Brewster, a drama critic whose outspoken objections to marriage have become somewhat inconvenient: he has just married Elaine, played by Priscilla Lane.

That should be enough excitement for one afternoon. Unfortunately, he has relatives.

His aunts, Abby and Martha, played by Josephine Hull and Jean Adair, are sweet, gracious, and devoted to making lonely gentlemen comfortable.

A little too permanently comfortable.

Their hospitality involves elderberry wine with ingredients you would not want included in the family cookbook.

Then there is Mortimer’s brother Teddy, played by John Alexander, who believes he is Theodore Roosevelt. Most families have somebody who dominates a gathering. The Brewsters have somebody prepared to lead a charge through it.

And just when Mortimer’s afternoon seems sufficiently complicated, his brother Jonathan arrives, played by Raymond Massey, accompanied by Peter Lorre as Dr. Einstein.

Jonathan is the sort of relative whose arrival makes you wish you had left for your honeymoon several hours earlier.

The whole thing is wonderfully frantic and ghoulishly delightful, especially this time of year. Cary Grant spends much of it trying to bring reason into a household where reason apparently moved out years ago.

Watching it again, I found myself enjoying the expressions, the timing, and the sheer absurdity of it all. Knowing what happens next gives you time to notice how beautifully they get you there.

Perhaps that is part of the pleasure of returning to an old movie. We bring a different day, a different mood, and a few more years of living to the same familiar story.

This time, I brought a cast, several opinionated Apple devices, a husband on dinner duty, and a dog traveling at the speed of poor judgment.

The Brewster household suddenly seemed almost manageable.

So pour yourself another cup, folks. There is still plenty of enjoyment to be found in an old picture and the company beside you.

But if somebody offers you homemade elderberry wine, you might ask to see the recipe.

I’ll stick with coffee.

Signature of Benjamin Groff with copyright notice and website information.

  • She Passed Out On Cary ! No Wonder . . . She’s just discovered his favorite aunts have poisoned their 13th gentleman friend !
  • I’ll knock your block off, you big stiff! You’re a bum!
  • WARNER SHOW OF THE YEAR! BEATS THE STAGE PLAY BY 500 LAUGHS AND 5000 SHIVERS! (Print Ad- New York Sun, ((New York, NY)) 31 August 1944)
  • HERE IS A LAFF RIOT IF EVER THERE WAS ONE (Print Ad- Philadelphia Inquirer, ((Philadelphia, Penna.)) 28 January 1945)
  • YOU Don’t SCREAM You Just ROAR! (Print Ad- Evening Recorder, ((Amsterdam, NY)) 1 December 1944)
  • Something Screwy IS GOING ON! Cary and Priscilla are aghast when Aunts Abby and Martha prepare to slip arsenic into the wine of their 13th victim! (Print Ad-Warsaw Daily Union, ((Warsaw, Ind.)) 24 February 1945)

Now if reviews on my own content would just measure up!

Morning Coffee: When Grief Meets the Inheritance

“If you didn’t earn it, it’s not yours.”

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 15, 2026


When news of Dolly Parton’s death began circulating, Steve was at a client’s place of business. He called me and asked, “Have you heard the news about Dolly?”

cup of coffee with chocolate biscuits on a saucer between a pearl necklace and an old correspondence
Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

I didn’t want to believe what he was about to tell me. Friends had called him with the news, but I wanted confirmation before accepting it. Then came the recorded announcement from her nephew.

When Steve and I spoke again, I said, “Well, let the family fights begin.”

Steve believed she would have arranged her affairs carefully enough to prevent that.

“They’re human,” I told him.

That was a cynical response, I admit. But I’ve lived long enough to know that careful planning and peaceful agreement are two different things.

In the weeks afterward, reports emerged of a legal dispute between the company managing Dolly’s business interests and her nephew. That does not establish that the whole family was fighting over an inheritance. It did, however, bring me back to a subject that reaches far beyond famous people and fortunes: what happens when grief meets money.

Some families come together after a death. They comfort one another, honor the person they’ve lost, and handle what remains with care. Others discover that the funeral flowers have barely wilted before someone starts keeping score.

Who got the watch? Who was promised the car? Who has the keys to the house? And why did somebody else receive more?

Suddenly, years of family history are being entered into evidence over a dining room table.

“I was always there.”

“You already got your share.”

“Mother told me I could have that.”

Mother, unfortunately, is no longer available to clarify the conversation.

And it doesn’t take a fortune. A modest bank account, a house on the edge of town, or an old piece of furniture can become the center of a battle that costs more—in money and relationships—than the thing itself is worth.

Sometimes the object matters because it holds a memory. I understand that. A watch can carry the memory of the hand that wore it. A chair can remind you of someone who sat there every evening. Those feelings deserve tenderness.

But tenderness can disappear quickly when “I would love to have that” becomes “That belongs to me.”

A will or a trust may provide instructions, but paperwork cannot guarantee good behavior. Nor does a disagreement automatically mean someone is greedy. There can be honest questions, mistakes, or genuine concerns about how an estate is handled.

Still, there is a difference between seeking an answer and refusing to accept any answer that doesn’t favor you.

That is the part that troubles me. At the very time people should be grieving and helping one another heal, they can become consumed with winning. The person who died gets pushed into the background while everyone argues over what that person left behind.

I was taught a simple rule: “If you didn’t earn it, it’s not yours.”

I think of that as a lesson in entitlement. An inheritance may become yours through someone’s wishes, but their possessions were never yours to demand while they were living. Their work, their savings, and their decisions belonged to them.

If they leave you something, receive it with gratitude. If they don’t, disappointment does not have to become a declaration of war.

I would rather remember someone for the life we shared than spend the rest of mine fighting over what was in their garage.

Drink your coffee, folks. And if someone leaves you the coffee pot, try to remember who used to fill it.

Signature of Benjamin Groff with credit information and website link.

Morning Coffee: What If We Had Kept Our Promises?

What if there had been no Trail of Tears?

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 13, 2026


Well, if you survived Monday, pour yourself a cup. Depending on your calendar and community, you may have called it Columbus Day, Indigenous Peoples’ Day, or Native American Day.

woman in yellow jacket and brown white floral apron holding yellow white ceramic mug
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Whatever name you used, it got me thinking about the Oklahoma of my childhood.

When we played Cowboys and Indians on the playground, we had the real McCoys on both sides—kids from cowboy families and kids from Native families.

Sadly, the cowboys always seemed to win, and our Native friends went along with it. That was simply how we played. I don’t remember anyone questioning why the ending had already been decided.

Now that I am older, I realize how sad that was. Truly sad. Even in a childhood game, we were repeating the story we had been taught: who got to be the hero, who was expected to lose, and whose side of the story hardly mattered.

Had I understood then what I understand now, I would have wanted more victories for my friends—and a chance for them to tell the story their way.

But we had been programmed. Before we were old enough to question the script, we already knew our parts.

Growing up, we commonly used the word “Indian.” We also watched television westerns where Indians fought cowboys, and the script usually told us whom to cheer for before anyone fired a shot.

Looking back, television was doing a fair amount of our thinking for us.

I still have Native friends who call themselves Indians. That is their choice, and I respect it. People deserve to tell us who they are, rather than have the rest of us decide for them.

The Oklahoma I remember has changed. Tribal businesses and casinos became increasingly visible over the years, especially after I moved away. Places I associated with one chapter of my childhood began to look very different.

But seeing a changing landscape and understanding its history are two different things.

For years, I wondered how land purchased by a tribe became tribal land. I also confused that question with whether the land was sacred. Those are different matters: sacredness concerns religious and cultural significance, while trust status involves a legal process through which the federal government holds land for a tribe or an individual Native person.

Still, understanding that distinction leaves me with a larger question: How did we arrive at a place where Native nations sometimes have to buy back portions of the lands they lost?

That question stays with me longer than the explanations about deeds and boundaries.

What might this country look like if settlers and the governments that followed them had respected Native nations’ right to govern themselves? If agreements had been honored? If families had not been forced from their homes?

What if there had been no Trail of Tears?

Would we be better off today? Would our relationships with one another be different? What knowledge, traditions, and possibilities might have survived that were instead disrupted or lost?

I am not looking for an argument over my morning coffee. I am wondering about the distance between the history we inherited and the history we might have made.

We cannot know exactly how that other America would have turned out. But uncertainty about what might have been does not erase what actually happened.

Perhaps that is what this day brings to my table: a reason to look beyond the television westerns of my childhood and listen to the people whose histories those scripts so often pushed aside.

My coffee cannot change yesterday. But I can still learn something today.

The reference to forced removal and the Trail of Tears is supported by the National Park Service’s historical account. nps.gov

Signature of Benjamin Groff along with copyright and attribution information.

Border Wall Dispute Raises Questions About Public Safety and Local Resources

“They keep building the border wall. If nothing else, it gives politicians something to crow about. Though these days, you have to wonder whether anyone’s still asking for directions to get here.”

— Imagining Will Rogers weighing in from the grave…

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 12, 2026


A dispute over border wall construction in southern Arizona has become a disagreement over law enforcement responsibilities, public safety, and the resources available to a county sheriff’s office.

In an October 9 open letter, the Arizona Sheriffs’ Association raised concerns about allegedly unanswered requests for assistance during protests in Santa Cruz County. The association said federal and state officials had reported incidents involving alleged violence, threats, and property damage. It called for those allegations to be documented and investigated.

The video above was from six months ago. Then there didn’t appear any issues with getting the wall up. Since that time those building Trump’s border wall cut into an ancient ground carving older than Stonehenge. The Las Playas Intaglio carving of a huge fish is at least 2,000 years older than the first Egyptian pyramid, according to researchers’ estimations.

The letter also attributed to Sheriff David Hathaway a policy limiting deputies’ responses to protest-related calls to incidents involving violence. Whether particular requests involved criminal conduct, and how his office handled them, requires further examination. According to Arizona’s Family’s report, the sheriff’s office had not responded to the station’s request for comment.

The dispute follows an October 5 federal operation at a protest encampment near Lochiel. Arizona’s Family reported that video showed a protester being removed from a cottonwood tree using a cherry picker before the tree was cut down. Activists had occupied the site to oppose construction of a second border barrier. That confrontation is described here.

The public safety questions deserve attention. So does the capacity of the local agency being asked to respond.

Santa Cruz County covers approximately 1,236 square miles of land and had an estimated population of 50,020 in July 2025. The Border Sheriffs directory lists 39 sworn officers for its sheriff’s office, although that listing does not establish current staffing or the number available for patrol on any particular shift.

colorful license plate wall display in canada
America has long welcomed people who came to do business—or simply escape winter for a little sunshine. This year, some businesses in those sunny destinations say fewer visitors are returning, and trade has slowed to a crawl. The sunshine is still here. The customers, it seems, are checking the forecast for more than the weather.

From my experience in law enforcement, an agency’s total sworn strength can give a misleading impression of its available manpower. Days off, training, leave, investigations, supervision, and other assignments affect how many officers can answer calls. A fair assessment should examine actual deployment and workload before drawing conclusions about available resources.

Staffing constraints do not erase a sheriff’s responsibilities. Arizona law requires sheriffs to preserve the peace and address public offenses and disturbances. Whether those duties were fulfilled here should be evaluated through dispatch records, incident reports, requests for assistance, and the sheriff’s explanation.

Federal agencies should also explain how they planned to manage demonstrations and coordinate with local authorities. Construction that draws sustained opposition requires clear arrangements for emergency response, protection of lawful protest, and investigation of alleged crimes.

The association has offered available assistance through the Arizona Department of Public Safety if requested. That offers a possible route toward cooperation while preserving the county sheriff’s independent authority.

My concern is whether the agencies involved have established a workable plan that protects residents, protesters, workers, and officers without leaving routine county services short of personnel. Answering that question requires documented facts, an opportunity for all sides to respond, and a realistic accounting of resources.

Signature of Benjamin Groff with attribution and copyright information.

No, I Won’t Meet You in Montana

“Won’t You Meet Me In Montana?”

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 12, 2026


No, I won’t meet you in Montana. Especially on Monday.

couple among trees in snow
Photo by Hugo Sykes on Pexels.com

The National Weather Service has issued winter storm warnings for parts of the state through Monday morning. An earlier forecast called for 10 to 20 inches of snow in some areas, with isolated totals approaching 30 inches in the Bob Marshall Wilderness.

Thirty inches. That is considerably more wilderness than I require.

NBC Montana also reported that the Beartooth Highway’s closure was moved up to Friday because of the approaching winter weather. When even the highway is closing early, I consider that a fairly clear invitation to stay home.

Some folks see that forecast and think, “How beautiful! Let’s pack up and spend the winter there.”

I admire their enthusiasm. From Arizona.

Desert living suits Steve and me just fine. Give me a wide horizon, a warm afternoon, and a winter wardrobe that doesn’t require instructions.

Somewhere in my head, the Green Acres theme is playing while I compose my own little tribute to staying warm. Steve has probably heard enough of it already.

I have gone north in November. I was younger then. I didn’t know what I know now.

pouring hot tea from thermos
Photo by Amine on Pexels.com

The sky would turn gray, and the weather forecaster would assure us that we were expecting wind and cold. Then we would wake up to waist-deep snow.

Apparently, the snow had neglected to attend the briefing.

I remember drifts deep enough for cattle to walk over barbed-wire fences and wander miles from where they belonged. Across that stretch of country—Texas, the Oklahoma Panhandle, southwestern Kansas, and into Colorado—winter could make a fence seem more like a suggestion.

The cattle weren’t respecting property lines. They were looking for somewhere better to stand.

I understood their position.

I have also gone into Wyoming in December, when the forecast called for “a dusting.”

A foot of snow later, I began to suspect that Wyoming used a different measuring system.

I was young enough to tolerate it then. Or at least young enough to claim I could. There may also have been a few questionable concoctions involved that improved my opinion of the situation without improving the weather.

They didn’t melt the snow. They merely made being trapped indoors seem briefly like something I had agreed to.

Meanwhile, the snow kept piling up outside, and the roofline began looking uncomfortably close to ground level.

These are experiences that build character. I believe I have accumulated enough character to remain in Mesa.

So, no, I won’t be meeting anyone in Montana on Monday. Not for snow, a sick moose, or a lost tourist. Send photographs. I will study them from a comfortable chair and express the appropriate concern.

I moved to the desert to stay warm, and that decision continues to hold up beautifully.

If I get too warm, I can daydream about lounging beside the pool, with my broken leg propped safely out of the proceedings. Otis will be looking at me as though I’m the household misfit.

This from a dog who considers running through the house at aircraft speed a reasonable afternoon activity.

In my version of the pool scene, he eventually joins me, dog-paddles back to his float, and settles beside a water bottle with a little umbrella attached.

He has no job, pays no bills, and somehow ends up on the better vacation.

That is life around here, folks.

Monday, October 12, 2026. I checked. It is Monday.

Mesa may have a few showers in the forecast, but nobody is predicting that I’ll need to shovel my way to breakfast.

Montana can keep the snow. I’ll keep the coffee.

And if you need me, you know where to find me.

Somewhere warm.

Signature of Benjamin Groff with attribution and copyright information

Morning Coffee ––– This Mornings Could Be Mourning Coffee With Such A Writing As I Have For You!

“I’m Writing A Letter For Daddy”

If You Know The First Words To The Song.

Then You Already Can See The Google-Eyes Of Bette Davis!

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 11, 2026


This morning’s coffee comes with an eye-opener. I hadn’t planned to start the day this way, but the idea landed in my lap last week while I was lying around with a broken right ankle and leg. And—poof!—on came a flick I’ve seen so many times I can practically recite the dialogue: What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

Apparently, a broken leg wasn’t enough to keep me uncomfortable. Bette Davis had to drop by and finish the job. I can tell you I know “What Ever Happened To Baby Jane!”

A scene from a classic film featuring two women; one sitting in a wheelchair and the other standing with a silver tea service, set in a vintage interior.
Joan Crawford as Blanche (left) Bette Davis as Baby Jane (right)

I have watched What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? so many times that I can almost recite the dialogue along with the actors.

I first discovered it late one night while caring for my ailing mother-in-law. I watched it again when my own mother was in similar circumstances, and recently returned to it while recovering from a broken leg. Somehow, this wonderfully unsettling film keeps finding me when I’m already confined to one spot.

Bette Davis plays Baby Jane to perfection. Her performance gets under my skin every time. Joan Crawford, as her sister Blanche, makes you feel the helplessness of being trapped upstairs and dependent on someone increasingly cruel and unpredictable. From the moment Jane claims Blanche’s bird has escaped through the window, you know something is terribly wrong. Before long, you’re worrying that anyone who gets too close—including the neighbors—might meet the same fate as the housekeeper, Elvira.

Then there is the singing. Davis’s strained, childlike rendition of “I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy” makes my skin crawl, yet I still want to hear it. For me, it has the same unsettling, irresistible quality as the Silver Shamrock jingle in Halloween III: Season of the Witch (which, by the way, is our anniversary song—Steve’s and mine) Once it gets into your head, it settles in and refuses to leave.

Although the story includes murder, its final scene relies on something more haunting than a bloody spectacle. That is part of what keeps bringing me back: the performances, the dread, and the feeling that even familiar scenes can still unsettle me.

But I’m left with one thoroughly impractical question: whatever happened to the Baby Jane doll? Can I get one—and, more importantly, will it sing that tune? Apparently, watching the film repeatedly hasn’t disturbed me quite enough.

I say bring it back for this years Christmas sales! Why not reconcile with a symbol of pure craziness. It is in style today. Isn’t it?

Signature of Benjamin Groff with the text 'By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© benandsteve.com ©2026'

The Legacy That Remained Above Ground

A memorial holds meaning beyond its concrete, marble, steel and glass. Its name tells future generations whom a nation chose to remember. Its halls preserve music, theater, ceremony and shared experience.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 10, 2026


In my 63 years, America has traveled an extraordinary distance. Yet some shadows seem to follow us from one generation into another.

Paper collage featuring American flags, Capitol, White House, Statue of Liberty, and civic buildings
This mornings coffee is going to be layered. Get ready.

I was born in 1963, during the Kennedy presidency. His assassination belongs to the beginning of my life, even though it lies beyond my earliest memories. For Americans old enough to remember November 22 of that year, the news from Dallas became a dividing line: before, and after.

The Kennedy years had already brought their share of danger. In April 1961, the failed Bay of Pigs invasion—developed under the Eisenhower administration and authorized by Kennedy—became one of his earliest foreign-policy crises.

Then came Dallas.

Questions involving the Soviet Union quickly became part of the national conversation. Lee Harvey Oswald had lived there, married a Russian woman and visited the Soviet Embassy in Mexico City shortly before the assassination.

Those circumstances fed suspicion. Official investigations, however, did not establish Soviet involvement. The Warren Commission found no evidence that a foreign government had employed or encouraged Oswald to assassinate Kennedy. The House Select Committee on Assassinations later concluded, on the evidence available to it, that the Soviet government was not involved.

Still, the suspicion never entirely disappeared from the American imagination.

And America continued through a succession of moments that once seemed unimaginable.

On March 31, 1968, President Lyndon Baines Johnson announced that he would neither seek nor accept his party’s nomination for another term. The Vietnam War consumed the nation, and political divisions continued to deepen.

That June, Robert Kennedy was assassinated while campaigning for the Democratic presidential nomination.

Vietnam stretched across presidencies, taking American lives and leaving divisions that remained long after the troops came home.

Then came Watergate.

Richard Nixon resigned on August 9, 1974, as impeachment proceedings advanced against him. On September 8, President Gerald Ford granted him a pardon for federal offenses committed or potentially committed during his presidency.

The country moved forward, carrying another argument about power and accountability.

Then came the Iran hostage crisis.

Fifty-two Americans endured 444 days of captivity following the seizure of the U.S. Embassy in Tehran. Negotiations during the Carter administration produced the agreement securing their freedom. They were released on January 20, 1981, as Carter left office and Ronald Reagan became president.

During Reagan’s presidency came Iran-Contra: secret weapons sales to Iran and the diversion of proceeds to support the Contras in Nicaragua. Reagan initially denied trading arms for hostages, but later acknowledged that the initiative had deteriorated into precisely that.

Under George H. W. Bush, America went to war in the Persian Gulf after Iraq invaded Kuwait.

During the Clinton years, we witnessed the deadly conclusion of the Branch Davidian standoff near Waco, Texas.

Aerial view of a damaged building with significant structural collapse on one side, exposing debris and rubble, surrounded by a cityscape.
Alfred P. Murrah Building Okc, Oklahoma.

Two years later, Timothy McVeigh, aided by Terry Nichols, carried out the Oklahoma City bombing. The attack killed 168 people, including 19 children. It remains the deadliest act of homegrown terrorism in American history.

Then came September 11, 2001.

During George W. Bush’s presidency, nineteen al-Qaeda terrorists hijacked four commercial airplanes. Nearly 3,000 people were killed in attacks that changed the country and the world.

A decade later, during the Obama administration, U.S. forces killed Osama bin Laden.

And still America continued.

Donald Trump became the 45th president. Joe Biden followed as the 46th. Trump returned as the 47th.

Russia again became entangled in an American presidency, under circumstances very different from the suspicions surrounding Kennedy’s assassination.

U.S. intelligence agencies concluded that Russia interfered in the 2016 election, an assessment upheld by the bipartisan Senate Intelligence Committee. The Mueller investigation documented numerous campaign contacts involving Russia, but did not establish that Trump campaign members conspired or coordinated with the Russian government in its election-interference activities.

These episodes do not establish a common conspiracy. They show how questions of foreign influence, presidential power and public trust can echo across generations.

Then, on July 1, 2024, the Supreme Court ruled that former presidents have absolute criminal immunity for conduct within their exclusive constitutional authority and at least presumptive immunity for other official acts. Unofficial acts receive no presidential immunity. The decision reshaped the legal boundaries of presidential accountability.

Now we find ourselves back at the Kennedy name.

Congress designated the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts as a living memorial in 1964. In September 2026, a federal judge again blocked efforts to add Trump’s name without congressional authorization. The board then voted for an extended renovation closure. Trump said repairs would depend on approval of the naming proposal.

Management separately cited structural safety concerns for a temporary closure, while the board’s renovation decision remained under court scrutiny.

The dispute widened further when a judge required advance notice before demolition and bipartisan lawmakers proposed legislation requiring congressional approval before a presidential memorial could be demolished. As of October 2, that proposal had not become law. These developments do not establish that demolition has begun, but they give the question of preservation immediate importance.

For me, that brings these years into an unsettling circle.

A presidency ended in Dallas. A cultural institution was later dedicated to keeping that president’s memory alive.

Nearly 63 years after his death, Americans are arguing over what can be done to that memorial, whose name it may carry and who has the authority to decide.

A memorial holds meaning beyond its concrete, marble, steel and glass. Its name tells future generations whom a nation chose to remember. Its halls preserve music, theater, ceremony and shared experience.

Repairs deserve careful attention. So do the laws and public responsibilities attached to the place being repaired.

Who decides what name a national memorial carries?

How much authority should a sitting president have to reshape an institution dedicated by Congress to another?

And when does renovation become reinvention?

Those questions reach beyond the Kennedy Center.

Across my lifetime, I have watched presidents come and go, wars begin and end, and scandals shake institutions that once seemed beyond question. The country has endured pressures that appeared capable of breaking it.

Survival, however, does not settle every question. We must still decide what we carry forward.

Some things belong to the American people across generations. Each administration inherits responsibility for them. Each generation receives something it did not build alone.

That inheritance asks something of us.

What parts are ours to change—and what parts have we been entrusted to preserve for those who come after us?

Kennedy’s presidency ended in Dallas.

rockets in kennedy space center in usa
Photo by Luis Bettiol on Pexels.com

His name survived on schools, highways, airports, a space center and one of America’s most important cultural institutions.

That is why the argument over the Kennedy Center reaches beyond performance halls and construction plans. It concerns the care we give to a memory entrusted to us.

Kennedy’s coffin was closed nearly 63 years ago.

The more unsettling question is what we will preserve of the legacy that remained above ground.

Signature of Benjamin Groff followed by copyright information and website details.

Morning Coffee: My Words Have Gone Traveling

So put me on a highway
And show me a sign
And take it to the limit one more time

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 9, 2026


Good morning, folks.

I was looking at the map showing where visits to benandsteve.com have come from, and something struck me: my words have been getting out more than I have.

person with coffee on retro newspaper on table
Photo by Tahir Osman on Pexels.com

Here I am in Arizona, putting together a few thoughts over coffee, while something I’ve written turns up halfway around the world.

Apparently, my stories don’t need a passport. They don’t even have to take their shoes off at the airport.

When I begin a piece, I usually have something fairly close to home in mind. A memory from Oklahoma. Something Steve said. An ordinary object that carries an extraordinary amount of history. Or a passing thought that refuses to leave until I give it a paragraph of its own.

I don’t generally sit down thinking, “I wonder how this will go over in Tanzania.”

Perhaps I should start.

In the recent figures I reviewed, approximately 45% of the recorded views came from China, while nearly 42% came from the United States. Canada accounted for about 5%, followed by the United Kingdom at roughly 2.5%.

The remaining views came from India, Pakistan, the Philippines, Tanzania, Tunisia, and the Netherlands. Together, those countries represented about 6% of the views in this snapshot.

That is quite a bit of traveling for thoughts that began here at home.

Visits to benandsteve.com from around the world

The shaded countries on the map made that reach visible in a way a column of figures never quite could. I found myself looking at places I hadn’t expected to appear and wondering how something I wrote had found its way there.

Of course, a map cannot tell me the whole story. It doesn’t tell me who stopped by, what brought them, or whether they stayed long enough to finish their coffee. But it does show recorded activity from parts of the world I never imagined would have any connection to my little corner of the internet.

And that gives me something to think about.

I grew up in a small Oklahoma town where you usually knew who was listening. Sometimes you knew their parents, their grandparents, and precisely who would hear about what you said before you made it home.

Writing online is a different experience. You put a story out there, and its next stop may be somewhere you’ve never been.

A recollection from my childhood might turn up in Canada. A bit of dry humor might make its way to the United Kingdom. Something about family, kindness, loss, or simply getting through the day might reach a place whose name I’ve known all my life without ever expecting my writing to arrive there.

I like that possibility.

So much of what I write begins with ordinary life. The details belong to me, but the feelings may be familiar to someone much farther away: missing a parent, remembering an old home, laughing at an aggravation, or finding comfort in a daily routine.

I cannot say what any particular visitor takes away. I can only hope that somewhere in these pages, they find something worth pausing over.

This map has reminded me that the circle around benandsteve.com may be wider than I realized. My stories are beginning to show up in regions I never expected them to reach, and I’m curious to see where they go next.

Wherever you happen to be reading this, thank you for stopping by.

Pull up a chair. There’s always room for another cup.

And if my words make it to your part of the world before I do, please tell them to behave themselves. I have a reputation to consider.


Morning Coffee: The First Dude

The First Dude Has Died. And, He‘s Responsible For Over 500 Decendants…

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 8, 2026


Good morning, folks!

man sitting and reading newspaper
Photo by Anna Keibalo on Pexels.com

I read the other day that the First Dude had died. I stopped and looked at that headline twice.

The First Dude?

Was he somebody’s husband? A fellow who insisted on being first in line everywhere he went? Or one of those rascals who walks into a room as though he owns the place?

Was he one of the president’s kids? A former president’s brother? No, neither seemed quite right for a name like First Dude. I thought briefly of Doug Emhoff, Kamala Harris’s husband. He carried himself with enough quiet confidence to pull it off, but he already had a title: Second Gentleman.

The more I read, the more I thought I had him figured out. He was a Florida fellow with a remarkable social life. He had been quite the catch in his younger days and, from all appearances, remained popular for years. His family was enormous. There were 538 youngsters of racing age on the books, though I doubt he remembered every name.

And talk about a family making something of itself: 302 of them became winners. Together, his offspring earned nearly $30 million. That would give anybody at the coffee table something to brag about.

But the First Dude had earned his own reputation long before his children came along. He was a competitor who kept showing up among the best. In 2010, he finished second in the Preakness Stakes and third in the Belmont Stakes. He earned more than $1.4 million during his own racing career.

By now, you may have caught on. The First Dude was a horse.

First Dude, to give him his proper name, was a racehorse and later a stallion at Double Diamond Farm in Florida. He was named Florida Stallion of the Year in both 2017 and 2018. He died at 19.

First Dude was a Stud! A Horse’s, Horse!

I began reading with a chuckle over his name. I finished thinking about what it means to leave a mark. First Dude ran his own races, and then a whole new generation carried something of him onto the track.

So raise your coffee cup to the First Dude. He was quite a fellow. And, yes, he really did own a little piece of the place.

Based on reporting by Horse Racing Nation. Photo: Bob Mayberger / Eclipse Sportswire.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026


Morning Coffee: The Snake, the Apple, and “Why?”

What was involved when Eve tempted Adam in the Garden?

Three and Four Years are Asking…

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 7, 2026


Good morning, folks!

a table with a plate of food and coffee cups
Photo by hello aesthe on Pexels.com

A while ago, I was having what I thought was a fairly general conversation about a story in the Bible. I mentioned how many of us grow up hearing about a snake, an apple, and the first sin.

Well! Apparently, I had wandered into the Garden of Eden without checking my vocabulary at the gate.

“It wasn’t a snake, and it wasn’t an apple,” the person quickly corrected me. “It was a serpent and forbidden fruit.”

I nearly asked, “Are we absolutely sure about the produce?”

But I held my tongue. The distinction clearly mattered to this person, and I could respect that.

Still, it got me thinking. If the apple isn’t identified in the original story, how did it become such a familiar part of the version many of us heard as children? Somewhere along the way, somebody supplied the illustration, and the apple has been carrying the blame ever since.

That is quite a reputation for something we now put in a lunchbox.

And then there is the serpent. Tell a three-year-old about a snake, and you may get a nod. Tell that same child about a serpent, and you may have opened a question session that lasts until supper.

“What’s a serpent?”

“A snake.”

“Then why didn’t you say snake?”

There goes your afternoon.

The forbidden fruit could be even more troublesome.

“What kind of fruit?”

“The story doesn’t say.”

“Then how do we know which one not to eat?”

Try explaining that while cutting up an apple for their snack.

Red apple and coiled snake beside a mossy garden path

Children have a wonderful way of finding the question adults have learned to step around. They haven’t yet developed our habit of nodding politely when an explanation raises three more questions than it answers.

They simply ask.

Why was the fruit forbidden? Why was the tree there? Why could the serpent talk? Can the snake in the backyard talk?

And if it can, should we let it finish before calling somebody?

Before long, you are trying to explain temptation, disobedience, and consequences to someone whose greatest temptation that morning was eating a crayon.

Yet we sometimes treat their questions as a problem. We rush to simplify the story, then become uncomfortable when they notice that the simplified version doesn’t quite add up.

Perhaps the difficulty isn’t always in what children can understand. Perhaps it is in what adults are willing to explain—or willing to admit they don’t know.

A child asking “Why?” hasn’t necessarily challenged anyone’s faith. That child may simply believe you know the answer.

What a compliment. And what a responsibility.

The part that troubles me reaches beyond the snake and the apple. Children ask questions before they learn which questions make a room uncomfortable. They can play happily with another child before an adult gives them a reason to notice differences, draw lines, or decide who belongs.

Then we call the process growing up.

Growing up ought to give us more understanding, more kindness, and better questions. But sometimes we hand children our grudges and prejudices along with our explanations, as though everything we inherited deserves to be passed along.

Perhaps we could leave a few of those things out of the lesson.

This morning, I’m raising my coffee cup to the little ones who keep asking. The ones who can turn a simple explanation into an afternoon’s work with a single word.

And perhaps, before we teach them to stop asking it, we ought to ask it ourselves.

Why?

Screenshot

Morning Coffee: Climbing the Family Ladder

Sometimes you have to question what your told. This is about abunch of those times.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 6th, 2026


Good morning, folks!

I thought I would bring you up to date on how I’m doing socially and professionally. Despite doing absolutely nothing, I continue to climb the ladder of success.

Abstract torn-paper collage revealing a glowing geometric grid in blue, gold, and purple

For years, I had cousins in Oklahoma and Arkansas, with a few sprinkled across Texas. I was the adventurous one who made it to Colorado, Wyoming, and Arizona. But now a cousin of mine has moved from Kansas City to Chicago. Technically, he’s my cousin’s son, but he’s only ten years younger than I am, so we’ve never bothered with the fine print.

He lives about twenty floors up. That is a level of upward mobility I could never achieve without an elevator. When I pass through Chicago, I plan to announce that I’m stopping by the penthouse. Whether he actually lives in a penthouse is a detail I’ll leave out.

Did I mention he’s a doctor? Around the café, that earns me another badge of distinction, even though I didn’t attend a single one of his classes.

I’m having fun with it, of course. My cousin’s accomplishments belong to him. But people borrow the shine from someone else’s success all the time. Sometimes it’s harmless bragging over coffee. Sometimes that borrowed shine is used to convince us to trust someone or accept a deal we haven’t looked at closely.

That brings me to a habit I learned as a law enforcement officer, one that has helped me many times since: question what you’re told.

If a story sounds convincing, ask what supports it. If someone claims an impressive connection, find out what that connection actually means. If an offer sounds too good to pass up, take the time to read the terms. You don’t have to be suspicious of everyone. You can simply give yourself room to check the facts before you decide.

Sometimes the evidence confirms the story. Other times, it shows you something quite different.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish my coffee and call my cousin. I have to find out whether I can honestly keep saying “penthouse.”

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026


Morning Coffee: Coffee, You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby!

The First Thing Of Your Day, Is Coffee In Your Cup!

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 3, 2026


Good morning, folks!

Steaming coffee cup beside an open ceramic coffee jar and spoons

In their day, coffee was hot. It was waiting on the breakfast table, offered to anyone who stopped by, or kept brewing when someone had to stay awake all night. You took it black, with sugar, with cream, or with both. That was about the extent of the menu.

If my grandparents—or even my dad—could pull up to a coffee shop today, I think the menu would stop them in their tracks. Iced coffee? Coffee with foam? A drive-thru where people wait in line just to order a cup?

And then there was the ceremony of opening a fresh can of ground coffee. Someone would work the can opener around the lid and get the first breath of that rich aroma. If you were nearby, you leaned in for your turn. There was nothing quite like it. I’d recommend experiencing it once in your life, but once probably won’t be enough.

At home, we made coffee by the pot. You put the grounds in the maker, waited for the water to work its way through, and poured a cup when it was ready. I learned that when it was ready was an important part of the process. Pulling the carafe out too early could leave you cleaning up the counter before you’d had your first sip.

I still like sugar in mine. You may take yours black or with enough cream to change its color entirely. These days, you can have it poured over ice and topped with just about anything. My dad might have looked at that cup and asked when the coffee was coming.

But the part I remember best had little to do with how anyone ordered it. I remember waking to the sound of my parents or grandparents talking at the breakfast table while the smell of fresh coffee drifted through the house. Before I could make out what they were saying, I knew they were there and the day had begun.

That aroma can still take me back. Maybe you have a coffee memory like that, too. If you do, I hope your next cup brings it along for a visit.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026


Morning Coffee: The Cowboy I Knew

Tell Them Now While It Matters. Tomorrow May Never Come!

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

October 1, 2026


Good morning, mates!

I thought I’d throw a little English banter into today’s chatter. It seemed fitting while I sat here with a cup of coffee and a recording of Star Trek: Strange New Worlds playing in the background.

Cowboy holding a steaming mug beside a ranch fence at sunset

I record shows when they air and watch them when life gives me a moment. This morning, while the Enterprise traveled through space, my mind wandered back to the days when I was a young chap watching cowboys ride across the television screen.

There was Rawhide, Hopalong Cassidy, and Gene Autry singing his way through the West. I enjoyed them all. But even as a boy, I thought some of those fellows had an easy time of it. The cowboy I knew best had horses to feed, cattle to tend, and work waiting for him whether the cameras were rolling or not.

That cowboy was my dad.

I watched him care for our animals day after day. He was tough, capable, and steady. To me, he was the real thing. He was my hero from the beginning.

What I don’t know is whether I ever told him that clearly enough.

We sometimes assume the people we love already know what they mean to us. Maybe they do. But hearing it from us can still make a difference. A few honest words can stay with someone long after the morning is over.

So while you have your coffee today, think of someone who matters to you. Tell them what you admire about them. Thank them for something they taught you. Let them know that the ordinary things they do have never looked ordinary to you.

You don’t need a grand speech. You just need to say it while they’re here to hear it.

My dad never rode across a television screen. But after all these years, he is still the cowboy I remember best.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026


Clarence, Mildred, and the Lone Eagle

You are kidding me, they don’t talk about me like that? Surely… Yes they do. And I can let you listen to it!

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 30, 2026


Good morning, folks.

Winding rural road through mist, viewed from inside a vehicle

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.


The Groff Tenkiller Stunt

September 29, 2026

Hello, babysitters. This is Clarence,

and this is

“The All My Children”

update or was it

“The Young and The Restless”

update?

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 29th, 2026


Before I get too far into this story, I should tell you where I began retelling it: in an ambulance on the way to the emergency room.

Visual depiction of the story’s descriptors

The driver asked what had happened. I told him I had apparently performed the Groff Tenkiller Stunt again, nearly forty years after the original. Naturally, he asked what that meant. It was a fair question. He had no way of knowing that the answer involved a lake in Oklahoma, a cliff, a cooler of beer, and a group of friends operating under names like Sid Vicious, Johnny Rotten, and Red Foley.

There were seven or eight of us at Lake Tenkiller that weekend, depending on who you ask. Finest people you’ll ever meet, I told the driver. Depending on who you ask about that, too. We had escaped the cities for a little relief from our busy lives. Between our aliases, we sounded like the Sex Pistols had rented a boat with the cast of Gilligan’s Island. I must have been the slinger, because I spent much of that weekend slinging my body around.

I remember a rough night before our trip to the cliffs. At one point we were laughing about a helicopter landing so close to our camp that it might ruin our efforts to keep our identities mysterious. Then came word that Merle Haggard would be in nearby Muskogee. I announced that we ought to go. Surely Merle would let us in wherever he was. We hatched a plan, though calling it a plan gives it more credit than it deserves.

While that was taking shape, we took some beer to a cliff near the dam. The warnings against jumping were clear. We were young enough to believe we had plenty of time to worry about warnings later. My friends started diving. I watched from above, because I have always had a terrible fear of heights.

Then someone shouted that we were out of beer. I could help with that. Rob came with me to get another cooler from the truck. Somewhere along the path, I stepped off a rock that turned out to be more cliff than rock and injured my right ankle. I poured the only alcohol I had over it: beer. It was a poor attempt at first aid, but I was young and convinced I knew what I was doing.

As I limped back toward the water, I met a group of women carrying their own cooler. I invited them to join us and told them we were a rock-and-roll band enjoying a day off. Soon I was leading what I understood to be cheerleaders from the Muskogee area down to the cliffs.

photo of ambulance parked near trees
Photo by Nothing Ahead on Pexels.com

My friends came up out of the water, shook out their ears, and stared. I had left to get beer and returned with an audience. I made one intentional cliff jump that afternoon and received a hero’s applause for bringing the party with me. I felt like Barney Fife after solving a crime.

The ankle was less impressed. Between the fall, my beer treatment, and the afternoon in the lake, it became badly infected. By the time I got home, I couldn’t get my uniform boot on. My doctor put me on antibiotics and pain medication and took me off duty for two weeks. As it happened, I had enough accumulated time from overtime that taking the leave kept me from eventually losing it.

That was the first Groff Tenkiller Stunt.

Nearly forty years later, on a Sunday afternoon in Arizona, I was walking from our bedroom toward the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. Something went dark. I turned, missed whatever I was trying to see, turned back, and tripped over myself. I blacked out and broke my leg and ankle in two places.

When I tried to stand, I fell forward. Steve came out of his recliner and told me not to move. I tried anyway. I went down like a dead mackerel.

I looked at my ankle, thought it was out of place, moved it, and told Steve, “See? That’s all it needed.” Then I tried to stand again. The pain proved my diagnosis was lacking. I screamed loudly enough to bring Otis to my side. He looked at me as though someone had tried to kill me.

“Good boy,”

I told him.

We tried the neighbors. Nobody was home. We even looked around our 55-plus community for a wheelchair someone might have left on a patio. No luck. I suggested I could scoot to the car. I made it about a cheek and a half before everything started going dark again.

It was four in the afternoon, but I felt as though night was closing in. Steve checked my blood pressure: 80 over 50, with a pulse around 90. I finally said what neither of us had wanted to say.

“I think this is the time we actually call 911.”

When the fire crew arrived, I was glad to see them, though I tried to keep a little dignity about it. Soon I was in the ambulance explaining the Groff Tenkiller Stunt to a driver who had only asked a simple question.

That’s how an old memory turned into a patrol story. Once I started talking about Oklahoma, I remembered the mornings I spent driving my district with KATT on the radio, waiting for Clarence and his All My Children update. For a few minutes each day, he could make somebody else’s troubles sound entertaining.

And then I remembered Mildred, the wife of a city councilman. Neither of us knew it yet, but we were about to change the course of each other’s lives.

Screenshot

You Don’t Have to Finish the Day Before Breakfast

The day may arrive all at once, but we can only live it one moment at a time. Begin with the coffee, take the next good step, and let the rest of the morning wait its turn.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 25, 2026


###

There are mornings when I wake up already behind.

I haven’t even placed my feet on the floor, yet my mind is standing beside the bed with a clipboard.

There are messages to answer, bills to remember, appointments to keep, stories to write, and several little things I promised myself I would do yesterday. Before I have poured my first cup of coffee, my brain has scheduled enough work to exhaust three people—and at least one of them should be younger than I am.

Traveler beside numbers 1 through 7; sign reads, “A stubborn sunrise is better than not having any at all.”
Just start counting the stress away 1…2…3…4…

That is the trouble with mornings. The day arrives all at once, even though we can only live it one moment at a time.

Coffee understands this.

It doesn’t leap from the container into the cup fully prepared. The water must heat. The grounds must be measured. The coffee must brew. Then comes the cream, sugar, or whatever little ceremony makes the cup your own.

Nobody stands beside the coffee maker shouting, “Hurry up! We have an entire day to finish!”

Well, perhaps somebody does. But that person should probably be sent back to bed.

Coffee takes the time coffee takes.

Maybe we should grant ourselves the same kindness.

We do not have to solve every problem before breakfast. We do not have to know how the entire day will unfold. We don’t even have to feel particularly enthusiastic about it. Sometimes our first accomplishment is simply getting out of bed. The next may be finding our glasses and remembering why we walked into the kitchen.

Progress is still progress, even when it arrives wearing slippers.

I have discovered that a day becomes much less intimidating when I stop carrying all twenty-four hours at once. I only need to carry this moment.

Drink the coffee.

Answer one message.

Make one decision.

Do the next decent thing.

Then do another.

Some days will still become tangled. Plans will change. Someone will call just as we sit down. Something we carefully placed where we would remember it will disappear into that mysterious dimension occupied by missing socks, reading glasses, and important pieces of paper.

That does not mean the day has been lost.

There is still time to do some Fall Cleaning. Remember -– This is the first week of Autumn and Fall cleaning is not only for closets and cupboards. Sometimes our memories need to be taken down, dusted off, and placed where we can see them again.

A good day does not have to be a perfect day. It only needs a few honest moments: a kindness offered, a responsibility met, a laugh we didn’t expect, or the decision to begin again after something went wrong.

So, if this morning already feels too heavy, set part of it down.

You were never expected to carry the entire day before breakfast.

Begin with the coffee. Let it warm your hands. Take a breath and allow the world to turn without your supervision for a minute or two.

The day will still be waiting.

But perhaps, after that first cup, it won’t look quite so large.

Go ahead get a another cup, and enjoy your morning!


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026


Are you exhausted before your feet even reach the floor? Today’s Morning Coffee is a reminder that you don’t have to carry all twenty-four hours at once—and progress still counts when it arrives wearing slippers.

Start Before You Feel Ready

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.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 24, 2026


Motivation has a habit of arriving after the work begins.

Good morning, folks.

Steaming coffee beside an open handwritten journal on a wooden table

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.

Open the door and step outside.

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


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Before the Day Asks Anything of Us

Before the telephone rings, the messages arrive, and the world begins making its demands, the morning gives us a few quiet moments to gather ourselves. We should not hurry past them.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 23, 2026


Good morning, my friend.

Delicious Coffee

There is a small stretch of time each morning before the day begins asking things of us.

Before the telephone rings. Before the messages arrive. Before the headlines tell us what we should fear, question, or become angry about. For a few precious moments, there is only the sound of coffee pouring into a cup and the quiet promise of another day.

We often hurry through that silence without realizing how valuable it is. We begin making lists in our minds. We remember what we forgot yesterday and worry about what might go wrong today. Before our feet have carried us very far, our thoughts have already run several miles ahead.

But perhaps the morning was never meant to be a starting gun.

Perhaps it was given to us as a gentle place to gather ourselves—to sit quietly, take a breath, and remember that we are more than our obligations. We are more than the chores waiting in the next room, the appointments written on the calendar, or the problems we have not yet solved.

The world will make its demands soon enough. It always does. But it can wait long enough for us to finish one warm cup of coffee.

So, this morning, give yourself permission to remain still for another moment. Notice the light coming through the window. Listen for the familiar sounds of home. Think of someone who has made your life better simply by being part of it.

You do not have to accomplish anything during these few quiet minutes. You only have to be present for them.

Before the day asks something of you, allow the morning to give something to you: a little peace, a little strength, and another reason to be grateful you are here.

Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

The world will begin asking things of you soon enough. But before it does, sit quietly, take another sip, and allow the morning to give something back. Today’s Morning Coffee is waiting.

Morning Coffee: Who Should Remain on the Friends List?

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.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 22, 2026


Two smartphones beside two coffee cups on a wooden table
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.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

——       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?

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 21, 2026


###

Take a big long sip!

You are going to need it. Maybe take another.

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
Stylized United States map linking Hollywood, Phoenix, Dallas, Austin, and Atlanta
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.

California may simply be franchising.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Morning Coffee: Father Time Clocks In

Warren Buffett says Father Time always wins. At 96, he has stepped down as chairman of Berkshire Hathaway, leaving me to wonder: Did anyone ever call him at bedtime because the evening shift was short?

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 20, 2026


###

Warren Buffett, age approximately one thousand, has stepped down as chairman of Berkshire Hathaway.

Warren Buffett

I included “Berkshire” because if I had said only “Hathaway,” some of you might have pictured Miss Jane from The Beverly Hillbillies. At Buffett’s age, I half expect her to step out of a closet with a ledger and tell him Mr. Drysdale needs him at the bank.

(Nancy Kulp) Jane Hathaway

Buffett is actually 96.

His son Howard, a youthful 71, is taking over as chairman.

Greg Abel is already running the company as CEO, so Howard won’t have to spend his first day learning where they keep the keys to every Dairy Queen.

Howard Buffett

Buffett said, “Father Time always wins.” He is right about that. But I do wonder what retirement feels like when your workday has involved moving billions of dollars. Did anyone ever call just as he was getting into bed and say, “Warren, the evening shift is short. Can you come in?” Did he ever have to find someone to cover a holiday weekend?

I’m sure his work carried pressures I’ll never know. Still, I hope Howard is ready for the family tradition: putting in a few decades at Berkshire, reaching his seventies, and being told it’s finally his turn to take the chair.

As for Warren, I hope he enjoys retirement. He can sleep in, take a leisurely breakfast, and resist the urge to check how much the coffee company is worth.

Then again, after a lifetime of working, perhaps the hardest part is simply sitting down long enough to drink the coffee while it’s hot.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Morning Coffee: The Sausage Patties

Whatever the reason, I’ll be back next weekend. Our waitress can probably write down my order now.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026


Every weekend, usually Saturday or Sunday and sometimes both, we visit the same local restaurant. Our waitress looks for us. By the time we settle into a booth, she knows what I’m having, and our drinks are already on their way.

Three Sausage Patties, three eggs, wheat toast, hash browns, and a bowl of gravy. That is my order. Steve is more complicated. He studies the menu, makes a decision, changes his mind, and studies it again.

My order never changes. There’s comfort in that, especially at the end of a week when everything else seems to have demanded a decision.

I should explain the capital letters. Those Sausage Patties deserve them. They are, as we used to say when I was growing up, to die for. Back then, we said that about all sorts of things. These days, I’m happy just to get up on a weekend morning and go have breakfast.

I think fennel is part of what makes them so good. At least, that’s the word I intend to say. At the restaurant, Steve and I sometimes call it “fentanyl” by mistake. Then one of us catches it, and we both start laughing. Our waitress knows perfectly well what we mean, though I suspect she enjoys watching us try to get the word right.

The mix-up has become part of our weekend routine. I can forget the name of the seasoning halfway through a sentence, but I never forget how those patties taste. By midweek, I’m already looking forward to their return performance.

Of course, the sausage alone wouldn’t make this our place. Our waitress remembers us. Steve gets all the time he needs with the menu. I get to sit across from him while our breakfast arrives, knowing that for a little while, there is nowhere else we need to be.

It’s a simple pleasure. That may be why I keep coming back to it.

Next weekend, Steve will open the menu and consider his options. Our waitress will look at me, pick up her pen, and smile. She already knows. And if I happen to mention the wrong herb again, I know she’ll know what I mean. Her name? Christin-a.



By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

In 63 years, America has traveled an extraordinary distance, and yet some shadows seem to follow us from one generation into another.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 18, 2026


Illuminated modern building beside calm water with Washington Monument in distance

When President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22, 1963, questions involving the Soviet Union quickly became part of the national conversation. Lee Harvey Oswald had lived in the Soviet Union, had a Russian wife, and had visited the Soviet Embassy in Mexico City shortly before the assassination. Those facts helped feed suspicions that have persisted for generations.

Official investigations, however, did not establish that the Soviet government ordered or participated in Kennedy’s murder. The Warren Commission found no evidence that Oswald had been employed or encouraged by a foreign government, and a later congressional investigation likewise concluded that the Soviet government was not involved.

Still, the suspicion never entirely disappeared from the American imagination.

More than half a century later, Russia would again become entangled in an American presidency—this time under very different circumstances. U.S. intelligence agencies and the bipartisan Senate Intelligence Committee concluded that Russia interfered in the 2016 presidential election. Investigations also documented numerous contacts between people associated with Donald Trump’s campaign and individuals connected to Russia, although those investigations did not establish that the Trump family had joined a Russian conspiracy to control the election.

The circumstances were different.

The questions were different.

But Russia had once again become part of an American argument about a president, political power and public trust.

And somewhere between those two moments stands the name John F. Kennedy.

In 1963, that name became permanently attached to a national tragedy.

Sixty-three years later, it has again become part of a national political struggle.

In 63 years, we have watched America pass through moments that once seemed almost unimaginable.

Some of us were born into an America still carrying the optimism of the Kennedy years. Then came the Bay of Pigs, the failed 1961 invasion of Cuba authorized by President John F. Kennedy after the operation had originally been developed during the Eisenhower administration. It became one of Kennedy’s earliest foreign-policy crises.

Then, on November 22, 1963, President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas.

Five years later, his brother Robert Kennedy was assassinated while campaigning for the Democratic presidential nomination.

That same turbulent year, 1968, President Lyndon Baines Johnson surprised the nation by announcing that he would neither seek nor accept his party’s nomination for another term. His decision came while the Vietnam War consumed the nation and political divisions at home continued to deepen.

Vietnam itself stretched across presidencies, taking American lives and leaving divisions that remained long after the troops came home.

Then came Watergate.

President Richard Nixon resigned on August 9, 1974, as impeachment proceedings advanced against him. One month later, President Gerald Ford granted Nixon a full presidential pardon for federal offenses he had committed or might have committed while in office.

America moved forward again.

Then came the Iran hostage crisis.

Fifty-two Americans were held hostage for 444 days after the U.S. Embassy in Tehran was seized in 1979. President Jimmy Carter paid an enormous political price for the crisis. Yet negotiations conducted by his administration produced the agreement that ultimately secured their freedom. The hostages were released on January 20, 1981—the day Carter left office and Ronald Reagan was inaugurated.

Then, during the Reagan administration, came Iran-Contra.

Weapons were secretly sold to Iran as administration officials sought assistance in securing the freedom of American hostages held in Lebanon, while money from the transactions was diverted to support the Contra forces in Nicaragua. Reagan initially rejected the characterization that weapons had been traded for hostages, but later acknowledged that the facts showed the initiative had deteriorated into exactly that.

Under President George H. W. Bush, America went to war in the Persian Gulf after Iraq invaded Kuwait.

During the Clinton years, turmoil came from both abroad and within our own borders. We witnessed the deadly conclusion of the Branch Davidian standoff near Waco, Texas, in 1993. Two years later, Timothy McVeigh bombed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 people, including 19 children. As of Sept 16, 2026 it remains the deadliest act of homegrown terrorism in American history.

Then came September 11, 2001.

During the presidency of George W. Bush, nineteen al-Qaeda terrorists hijacked four commercial airplanes. Two struck the World Trade Center towers, another struck the Pentagon, and the fourth crashed in Pennsylvania after passengers and crew fought back. Nearly 3,000 people were killed.

A decade later, during the Obama administration, U.S. forces located and killed Osama bin Laden, the al-Qaeda leader who had directed the September 11 attacks.

And still America continued.

Donald Trump became the 45th president. Joe Biden followed as the 46th. Trump returned as the 47th.

During those years another consequential development occurred. In July 2024, the Supreme Court ruled in Trump v. United States that former presidents possess absolute immunity from criminal prosecution for actions falling within their core constitutional powers and at least presumptive immunity for other official presidential acts. The decision significantly altered the legal framework surrounding presidential power and accountability.

Now another American institution has become part of that continuing argument over government, presidential power, history and national identity: the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

The Kennedy Center was created as a living memorial to President John F. Kennedy. In 2026, efforts by its Trump-aligned leadership to place President Trump’s name on the building and grounds were blocked by a federal judge, who ruled that such changes require congressional authorization. Shortly afterward, the board voted to close most of the Kennedy Center for as long as two years for what it described as renovations and safety repairs. Fencing has since gone up around the complex.

And perhaps that is why the Kennedy Center has become symbolic of something larger.

Not because one building defines America.

It does not.

But because institutions accumulate meaning.

A memorial is not simply concrete, marble, steel and glass. Its name tells future generations whom a nation chose to remember. Its halls preserve music, theater, ceremony and history. Its identity becomes part of the historical record.

That is why changes to such places matter.

America rarely loses its identity in one dramatic moment. History suggests that change more often comes piece by piece—through elections, court decisions, wars, scandals, legislation, cultural struggles and arguments over institutions that once seemed permanent.

Sometimes those changes strengthen the country.

Sometimes Americans decide later that they went too far.

And sometimes a generation does not realize how much has changed until it turns around and looks at everything that disappeared along the way.

For those of us who have lived these 63 years, that may be the greater lesson.

We have watched presidents come and go. We have watched wars begin and end. We have watched assassinations, terrorist attacks, political scandals and constitutional crises. We have watched the country bend under pressures that, at the time, appeared capable of breaking it.

Yet the buildings themselves were never really the foundation.

The foundation was the agreement that some things belonged not to one president, one political party or one generation, but to the American people.

And perhaps that is the question confronting us again:

What parts of our national inheritance are merely ours to change—and what parts have we been entrusted to preserve for those who come after us?

And now we find ourselves back at the Kennedy name.

The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts was designated by Congress as a living memorial to the slain president. In 2026, a political and legal struggle developed over efforts by the Kennedy Center’s Trump-aligned leadership to place President Donald Trump’s name on the institution and its grounds. A federal judge ruled that such changes require congressional authorization. Shortly afterward, the board voted to close most of the Center for extensive renovations, and fencing appeared around the complex. The administration says the closure is necessary for repairs; opponents have challenged the actions surrounding the Center and fear permanent changes to its identity.

That brings these 63 years into an almost haunting circle.

They began for many of us with the gunshots in Dallas and the destruction of a presidency.

They now bring us to a building created so that the name of that president—and what his generation represented—would remain alive long after those gunshots faded.

I hesitate to call what is happening at the Kennedy Center the destruction of the building itself, because that has not been established. But symbolically, something much larger is being argued over.

Who owns a national memorial?

Who decides what name it carries?

How much authority should any sitting president have to reshape an institution created by Congress to memorialize another?

And when does renovation become reinvention?

Perhaps that is where the Kennedy Center becomes more than another Washington building surrounded by fencing.

For those who remember November 1963, it can represent the closing of an extraordinary historical circle.

Kennedy was killed by an assassin’s bullet.

His presidency ended in Dallas.

But his name survived.

It survived on schools, highways, airports, a space center and one of America’s most important cultural institutions.

That is why what happens to the Kennedy Center matters beyond marble, concrete and performance halls.

A nation can bury a president.

It can survive his assassination.

But the more difficult question comes generations later:

Does it continue to protect the memory entrusted to it?

Perhaps the Kennedy Center should not be described as the final nail in President Kennedy’s coffin.

Kennedy’s coffin was closed 63 years ago.

The more unsettling possibility is that we are deciding, 63 years later, what becomes of the legacy that remained above ground.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Morning Coffee — Don’t Hurry Past Today

oh lord coffee please purple and pink cup
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

We spend so much time waiting for the next important day that we sometimes overlook the ordinary ones.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 16, 2026


Wednesday has an unusual position in the week.

Monday is the beginning.

Friday is the finish line everybody seems to be watching.

Wednesday is simply standing somewhere in the middle, usually receiving very little attention.

Perhaps that makes it a lot like life.

We spend an enormous amount of time waiting for something else.

Waiting for Friday.

Waiting for vacation.

Waiting for retirement.

Waiting until the weather cools down.

Waiting until the bills are paid.

Waiting until we have more time.

Waiting until life finally settles down enough for us to enjoy it.

Then one day we look behind us and discover that all of those ordinary days we hurried through were life.

They weren’t the space between important moments.

They were the important moments.

The morning when nothing unusual happened.

The dog sleeping nearby.

Someone you love sitting in the next room.

The familiar sound of the coffeemaker finishing its work.

A telephone conversation about absolutely nothing important.

Dinner at the same table.

A sunset you have seen hundreds of times.

Those things rarely announce themselves as memories while they are happening.

But years later, they can become the things we would give almost anything to experience one more time.

That is why perhaps Wednesday deserves a little respect.

It reminds us that the middle matters.

Not every day needs to be memorable.

Not every morning needs a purpose beyond simply being here to experience it.

There is something comforting about an ordinary day.

No emergency.

No terrible telephone call.

No unexpected crisis.

Just another cup of coffee and another sunrise.

We sometimes call that boring.

Maybe we should call it fortunate.

So today, don’t hurry too quickly toward Friday.

Take a look around Wednesday first.

Notice who is sitting beside you.

Notice who calls.

Notice the familiar sounds around your home.

Notice the ordinary things that make your life yours.

Someday you may discover those were the things that mattered most.

Finish your coffee before it gets cold.

Stay in the conversation a little longer.

And don’t be so eager to get to tomorrow that you completely miss today.

Have a peaceful Wednesday.



By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026


Wednesday may only be the middle of the week—but perhaps the middle deserves more attention. Today’s Morning Coffee is about slowing down long enough to notice your life while you are living it.

Morning Coffee — The People Who Quietly Hold Us Up

Life is rarely held together by grand gestures. More often, it is held together by ordinary people quietly showing up when somebody needs them.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 14, 2026


Some of the most important people in our lives rarely receive a standing ovation.

Five adults having a conversation in a library, with one taking notes
A diverse group gathers for a thoughtful conversation among the library shelves.

They don’t make speeches.

They don’t arrive with trumpets sounding.

Most of the time, they simply show up.

They are the person who notices when your voice sounds different on the telephone.

The neighbor who brings your trash container back toward the house.

The friend who sends a message saying, “Just checking on you.”

The coworker who quietly finishes something because they know you’ve had a difficult day.

The family member who has heard the same story many times but listens again anyway.

These are not spectacular acts when measured individually.

But life is not held together entirely by spectacular acts.

It is held together by thousands of small ones.

We remember the people who were there when everything fell apart because their presence became part of the memory itself. Years later, we may forget exactly what they said, but we remember that they stayed.

There is tremendous comfort in knowing somebody stayed.

Sometimes that is all a person needs.

Not advice.

Not a solution.

Not someone trying to explain why everything will eventually be fine.

Just someone willing to sit beside them long enough for the world to become manageable again.

We often underestimate the value of our own presence for the same reason.

We think helping someone requires something remarkable.

Usually, it doesn’t.

A cup of coffee across the kitchen table can help.

A five-minute telephone call can help.

Remembering somebody’s birthday can help.

Asking, “How are you doing?” and actually waiting for the answer can help.

The ordinary kindnesses are rarely ordinary to the person who needed them.

So while you are having your coffee this morning, think about the people who quietly helped hold your world together at different times in your life.

Some may still be here.

Some may have already gone on.

Some may never have known how much their small kindness meant.

And then consider this:

You may be that person for somebody else today.

You might never know it.

That is the interesting thing about kindness. We rarely know how far it travels after it leaves our hands.

So make the call.

Send the message.

Hold the door.

Listen to the story.

Stay a few minutes longer.

The world has enough people trying to make grand impressions.

What it desperately needs are more people willing to make small differences.

Enjoy your coffee, and have a wonderful Tuesday.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

You may never know how much a simple call, visit, or kind word means to another person. This morning’s coffee is for the people who quietly stay.

Morning Coffee — A Fresh Cup, A Fresh Start

Monday gives us something yesterday cannot—a fresh opportunity. We cannot rewrite what has already happened, but we can decide what happens next.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026
September 14, 2026


There is something forgiving about Monday morning.

close up shot of a cup of coffee
Photo by hello aesthe on Pexels.com

It doesn’t always feel that way, of course. Monday has developed a reputation for being the day nobody particularly wants to see coming. The alarm seems louder, the bed feels more comfortable, and that first cup of coffee often carries considerably more responsibility than coffee should ever be expected to handle.

But perhaps Monday deserves another look.

Monday is another beginning.

Whatever went wrong last week has already happened. Whatever we didn’t finish is waiting for another attempt. The words we wish we had said differently cannot be pulled back, but the next words out of our mouths can be kinder.

Life gives us remarkably few opportunities to change yesterday.

It gives us countless opportunities to change today.

That is worth remembering as we sit with our coffee this morning.

Maybe you have been carrying something around that has become heavier than it needs to be. A disagreement. A disappointment. An unfinished task. Something you have been putting off because beginning it seems harder than continuing to avoid it.

Monday may be as good a day as any to set it down, straighten it out, or simply begin again.

You don’t have to repair your entire life before lunch.

Sometimes progress is nothing more dramatic than making the phone call, answering the message, washing the dishes, opening the curtains, or finally taking the first step toward something you have been thinking about for weeks.

Small beginnings still count.

We tend to celebrate the grand accomplishments because they are easy to see. But nearly every great accomplishment started somewhere very ordinary—with someone deciding, on an otherwise unremarkable morning, that today they would try.

Perhaps that is Monday’s real gift.

It arrives whether we are ready for it or not and quietly places another blank page in front of us.

So pour the coffee.

Take your time with the first few sips.

Then decide what deserves another chance today.

It might be a project.

It might be a relationship.

It might simply be you.

Whatever it is, remember this: starting over does not mean you failed.

Sometimes it simply means you learned enough from yesterday to approach today differently.

And that sounds like a pretty good reason to raise the coffee cup.

Have a wonderful Monday, and make something good out of the day in front of you.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Morning Coffee – There is Another Way…

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,

“What else is possible?”

can open doors we never noticed before.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 13, 2026


Good morning.

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.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Morning Coffee ––– What We Carry Into the Day

Every morning gives us another opportunity to decide what we will carry into the day. We may not control everything that happens, but we can still choose kindness, patience and the small acts that make an ordinary day a little better.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 12, 2026


There is something about the first cup of coffee that feels like a small beginning.

black and white text on black wall
Photo by James Frid on Pexels.com

The house may still be quiet. The day may not have completely decided what it intends to become. For a few minutes, there is only the warmth of the cup in our hands and the opportunity to decide what we are going to carry with us into the hours ahead.

And we do carry things.

We carry yesterday’s disappointments. We carry conversations we wish had gone differently. We carry worries about tomorrow, people we love, bills that need paying, decisions that need making, and questions for which we still have no answers.

But we also carry something else.

We carry kindness.

We carry the memory of someone who once helped us when they didn’t have to. We carry the laughter of people who have shared our table. We carry lessons taught to us by parents, grandparents, friends and sometimes complete strangers who crossed our path only briefly.

Perhaps one of the greatest choices we make every morning is deciding which of those things deserves the most room.

There will always be something to worry about. There will always be someone determined to spoil a perfectly good day. And there will always be circumstances beyond our control.

But we still get to decide what we contribute.

Wooden sign reading, "Be kind to the people around you, the life you save might be your own."
A wooden park sign shares a heartfelt reminder to treat others with kindness.

A kind word costs very little.

Holding a door takes only a moment.

Calling someone who has been on your mind might change their entire afternoon.

And sometimes simply listening to another person without trying to correct them, hurry them or outdo their story is one of the finest gifts we can give.

None of these things will make the evening news.

There won’t be a parade.

Nobody is likely to hand us a trophy for being decent to another human being.

But those small acts have a way of traveling farther than we ever realize.

So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, perhaps we can leave a little room in the day for something good.

We don’t have to change the whole world before lunchtime.

Changing one person’s moment might be enough.

And sometimes, without ever knowing it, that person may be us.

Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your worries be light, and the kindness you send into the world find its way back home.

Be kind to others, it is really the right thing to do.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Morning Coffee — For many some, dates pass quietly on the calendar this day may not do so.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 11, 2026


us flag on gray surface
Photo by Matthis Volquardsen on Pexels.com

September 11 does not.

For millions of Americans, and for people around the world, this date carries a scar that time has never completely erased. It reminds us where we were, what we saw, what we felt, and how quickly an ordinary morning became something unimaginable.

But beneath the history, the headlines, the smoke, the sirens, and the sorrow is another lesson that reaches into every home.

There are no guarantees when we say goodbye.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, thousands of people did what they had done countless mornings before.

They kissed a spouse goodbye.

They hugged a child.

They waved from a doorway.

They grabbed their coffee, headed for work, boarded an airplane, stepped into an office, answered an alarm, or began an ordinary shift.

Most of them had every reason to believe they would be home again that evening.

Some never were.

That may be one of the hardest truths September 11 leaves with us.

We often live as though there will always be another opportunity.

Another phone call.

Another dinner.

Another visit.

Another chance to say, “I love you.”

Another chance to apologize.

Another chance to linger at the door for just a few more seconds.

But life has never promised us that.

A person can leave our presence in the morning and, through circumstances completely beyond anyone’s control, be gone before nightfall.

September 11 reminds us not to take the people in our lives for granted.

It reminds us that the hurried goodbye deserves a little more care.

That the person sitting across from us at breakfast deserves our attention.

That the phone call from someone we love might be worth answering.

That anger sometimes deserves to be put aside before we walk out the door.

And that “I love you” is rarely something we should save for later.

This day also reminds us of those who ran toward danger while others were trying desperately to escape it.

Firefighters.

Police officers.

Paramedics.

Emergency workers.

Ordinary people who became extraordinary simply because someone else needed help.

Many knew the danger.

They went anyway.

Their courage remains part of the living legacy of September 11, along with the memories of every innocent life taken that morning.

So perhaps today’s coffee should be a little slower.

Perhaps we should sit with the people we love a little longer.

Make the call we have been putting off.

Forgive something that no longer deserves the space it occupies in our hearts.

And when someone we love walks out the door today, let our final words be words we would be at peace remembering.

Because none of us knows which goodbye will be the last.

September 11 taught us that lesson in the most painful way imaginable.

May we honor those who were lost not only by remembering how they died, but by remembering how important it is to cherish those who are still here.

This morning, hold your coffee close.

Hold your memories closer.

And hold the people you love closest of all.

We remember. We honor. And we never forget.

— Morning Coffee
benandsteve.com


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

There are mornings when the coffee tastes exactly the same as it did yesterday, but somehow the morning itself feels different.

Some of life’s most meaningful moments do not announce themselves when they arrive. They are found in familiar voices, quiet mornings, ordinary routines, and the people beside us. Sometimes the moments we barely notice today become the memories we treasure most tomorrow.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 10, 2026


Maybe it is the light coming through the window. Maybe it is a memory that wandered in before we were fully awake. Or maybe it is simply one of those days when we notice the little things we usually hurry past.

That first warm cup in our hands.

man hand over vintage photograph in book
Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

The familiar chair.

The quiet hum of the house.

A dog stretching somewhere nearby.

The sound of the world beginning another day.

We spend so much of our lives looking ahead that we sometimes forget how much of life is actually built from ordinary moments. The grand occasions certainly matter, but they are surprisingly few. Most of our lives are made up of thousands of small mornings, simple conversations, familiar faces, and routines we rarely think twice about.

Until one day we miss them.

That is when we discover that ordinary never really meant unimportant.

Some of the things I remember most clearly from years gone by would have seemed completely insignificant at the time. A voice from another room. Someone sitting at the kitchen table. A familiar laugh. A car pulling into the driveway. Someone saying, “Come on, let’s go.”

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing anyone would have thought needed preserving.

Yet somehow those are the moments that remain.

Maybe that is something worth remembering this morning.

There may be something happening around you today that feels completely ordinary. You may not photograph it. You may never write about it. You probably will not even recognize its importance while it is happening.

But someday, it may become one of the moments you would give almost anything to experience once more.

So enjoy your coffee.

light man coffee cup
Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Listen to the voices around you.

Notice the people who share your day.

And whenever possible, linger just a little longer.

Because while we are busy waiting for the memorable moments of life to arrive, some of them are already happening right in front of us.

Have a wonderful morning, and may your coffee be warm, your memories be kind, and your ordinary moments become something worth remembering.

— Morning Coffee
benandsteve.com


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

There is something special about the few quiet minutes before the day begins asking things of us.

Before the phone rings, the messages arrive, and the day begins asking things of us, there is a little quiet time to simply be. Sometimes the most ordinary parts of morning—the coffee, the familiar sounds of home, and a few peaceful minutes—are the moments worth noticing most.

By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

September 9, 2026


~~~ ### ~~~

Before the phone rings.

asian men sitting on stairs with drinks
Photo by Handi Berty on Pexels.com

Before the messages start coming in.

Before somebody needs an answer.

Before the list of things we meant to do yesterday quietly becomes today’s list.

There is coffee.

And sometimes, that is enough.

I have come to appreciate those first few moments of the morning. The house is still finding its footing. The outside world hasn’t completely awakened yet, and for a little while, nobody expects anything from you.

You can simply sit.

Think.

Remember.

Or, if you are lucky, think about absolutely nothing at all.

That may be harder than it sounds.

We spend so much of our lives preparing for what comes next that we sometimes miss what is sitting directly in front of us.

The warmth of the cup in our hands.

The light beginning to slip through the window.

silhouette of man making coffee in kitchen
Photo by Smitha Nittur on Pexels.com

The familiar sounds of home.

A dog wandering through the room, checking to make sure breakfast hasn’t somehow been forgotten.

These little things rarely make the headlines of our lives.

But perhaps they should.

Because when we look back, it isn’t always the big accomplishments we miss the most.

Sometimes it is the kitchen table.

The old coffee cup.

The chair somebody used to sit in.

The sound of a familiar voice coming from another room.

Ordinary things have a strange way of becoming priceless once enough time has passed.

So before today gets busy, give yourself a few minutes.

Don’t rush the coffee.

Don’t rush the morning.

There will be plenty of time for everything else.

For now, sit where you are and notice what is still here.

There is more to be thankful for in an ordinary morning than we sometimes realize.

And maybe that is the real gift of morning coffee.

It doesn’t solve everything.

It simply gives us a quiet place to begin.

Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your morning peaceful, and your day give you at least one reason to smile.


By Benjamin Groff II GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026