It started with a folding table, two plastic chairs, and a hand-painted sign that read, “Ice Cold Lemonade – 50¢.”
Emma, who is ten years old, and her little brother Caleb had a plan. They decided to spend the first real summer day doing something “big.” Not big like a vacation or fireworks—big like making a difference.
Their mom had mentioned that the animal shelter was trying to raise money. They needed some extra dog beds. They also needed fans for the kennels. That was all Emma needed to hear. She got to work squeezing lemons. She mixed sugar and water. She convinced Caleb that “lemonade manager” was a very important title.
By noon, their little stand was drawing a crowd. The lemonade was refreshing and generously poured. Additionally, Emma had placed a tip jar with a note: All proceeds go to the shelter pups! People smiled. They left five-dollar bills. Some handed over twenties and refused change. One elderly man left a fifty and simply said, “Thank you for reminding me what kindness looks like.”
By the end of the day, they had raised $237.50. They delivered it in person, with sticky hands and sunburned noses, to a surprised and teary-eyed shelter worker. Emma and Caleb even got to name one of the rescued puppies. They chose “Sunny.”
That evening, their mom posted a photo of the kids and their lemonade stand online. It went a little viral. Local news picked it up. The shelter ended up receiving over $3,000 in donations that week. This happened because two kids wanted to do something “big” on a warm summer day.
Now every June, Emma and Caleb set up the stand again, same folding table, same handwritten sign. Only now, the line stretches down the sidewalk. And Sunny? She got adopted. By them, of course.
It sat on the back porch, just outside the screen door. It was an old wooden shelf, weather-worn and slightly crooked. Everyone in the family knew it as “the pie shelf.”
Nobody remembered who gave it that name. Maybe it was Grandma. She used to cool her pies on it every Sunday afternoon. That was back when a breeze still found its way through the kitchen windows. There were always two pies—one for dinner and one “just in case someone dropped by.”
That shelf saw more life than most furniture in the house. Birthday cakes cooled there. Jars of canned peaches lined up in neat rows. Once, a baby kitten was found curled up in the corner, fast asleep next to a lemon meringue.
Years later, after Grandma had passed and the house had new owners, the pie shelf remained. Weathered, yes. Empty, often. But it stood—quiet and proud—like it was waiting for one more pie to be set on top.
When I visited the house last fall, I found it just the same. I brushed off the dust. Then, I straightened one of the legs with a folded napkin. For no reason at all, I baked an apple pie and set it right there on the top shelf.
I didn’t expect visitors. But just before sunset, a neighbor from years ago strolled by, drawn by the scent. He laughed when he saw the pie shelf.
“Some things,”
he said,
“don’t ever really leave us.”
We each took a slice and sat there on the porch, sharing stories of the people who came before us. For a brief moment, it seemed as though they were still here. They felt just inside the screen door, waiting for us to come in.
There is something about the days of summer that never quite leaves you. It is a scent in the air or a golden hue in the light. It is also the sound of cicadas warming up for their evening concert. For a child, summer feels like forever. For an adult, it feels like something you once held in your hands. You didn’t realize it would slip away so quickly.
I remember one summer, I must have been around eleven. We had a tire swing tied to the big oak tree out back. That tree had roots that curled up out of the ground like the backs of old hands. When it rained, they made little rivulets in the dirt. My brothers and I would race leaves down those muddy streams as if they were ships headed for faraway lands.
The days were long and hot, but we didn’t care. Shoes were optional. Supper was whenever someone called out loud enough for us to hear. Most days, we’d roam until we were sunburned and starving, a little wiser than we’d been that morning. There was always a watermelon cooling in the horse trough. We tried to swat away flies as we spit seeds into the grass, but we failed.
Evenings were for catching fireflies in jars. They were the kind with holes poked in the lid. We did this by using a nail we’d hammered with a rock. We thought we were giving them air. We didn’t yet know the difference between freedom and capture.
I think back on those days now and realize that summer isn’t just a season. It’s a feeling. You carry it in your chest long after the sweat has dried. The tan has faded. The swing has stopped creaking in the breeze.
It’s a reminder to slow down. To let the day last a little longer. To chase the light, even if it’s only for a little while.
There are moments in life when we contemplate our relationships with relatives who are dearly departed. Some have passed on, leaving behind only memories. Others are dearly departed in a different sense. They are no longer married into the family. Yet their presence lingers in our stories, our recollections, and sometimes, in our affections.
This story is about one such family member, who dearly departed not through death, but through divorce—from my sister. For nearly eighteen years or more, he was a big part of our family. Long before the wedding, during their dating years, he was already woven into our daily lives. He would often spend the night at our house. More than a few times, he slept in my room just to be near her. He was older than both of us, and a farmer by trade. During the winter months, farming slowed down. During this time, he worked as a parts clerk at his father’s Chevrolet dealership in town.
Since I worked for him on the farm, I spent nearly as much time with him as my sister did. From sunrise to sunset, we toiled together—planting crops, moving irrigation pipe, working cattle, and hauling hay. He even pitched in at the Girl Scout Camp where my dad was the ranger. And that’s where this story takes place.
It was the summer of 1978. A flood had wiped out a water line. The line ran from a well to a storage tank at the Girl Scout Camp. Special piping was needed for repairs. My dad asked Benny to take me to Clinton, Oklahoma, to pick up the materials. I was thrilled when he handed me the keys to one of the camp’s state-owned ranger vehicles. For a brief moment, I thought, “Wow, I get to drive!” But then he said, “Give these to Benny—he’ll be the one driving.” Shucks.
Still, the outing promised a break from our usual routine. We set out just before noon, heading west on State Highway 152. As we neared the town of Eakly, an Oklahoma Highway Patrol car coming toward us slowed dramatically. The trooper gave us both a piercing look, as if trying to place us. After passing us, he glanced back as though deciding whether to turn around. Odd, we thought—we hadn’t been speeding or doing anything wrong.
A few miles farther west, another patrol car did the exact same thing. Now we were both feeling uneasy. We even pulled over to check the truck—maybe something was dragging, maybe we had a flat tire—but everything checked out.
Four more patrol units gave us the same strange treatment. By now we were more than a little paranoid. What were we missing? We hadn’t turned on the radio, thinking it wasn’t our place to use official equipment in the state-owned truck. If we had, we’d have had our answer.
When we finally returned to the Ranger’s Quarters with the piping, we were greeted with wide eyes and urgent questions. Turns out, there had been a prison break nearby. The escapees had stolen a state vehicle—same color, same model, same government-issued license plate as the one we were driving. No wonder the troopers were ready to pounce. If we had known, we would’ve waved our Girl Scout badges out the window. We would have done this for the entire ride, like waving a white flag.
That trip became one of the many memorable moments I shared with my once-brother-in-law Benny. It was the story told every holiday. And it got laughs no matter how many times it was heard. Benny was a close comrade through much of my youth and during family gatherings. It was hard to see him and my sister go their separate ways. Still, I understood and respected her reasons. Sometimes life and family change in ways you don’t expect. And sometimes, those changes, though painful, lead to something better.
But Benny—well, he’ll always be one of our dearly departed.
A Frightening, Comical, and Hostile Ride: The Birth of Twila Elouise
By early June of 1960, Oklahoma’s summer heat had already settled in, pressing down across the vast plains. In Oklahoma City, JD Groff attended a convention of oil producers. He was representing Standard Oil Company alongside his superior. His superior was a man named Harold. Harold had a reputation for being both respected and heavy-handed with a whiskey glass.
Meanwhile, back in Clinton, JD’s wife Marjorie—known to family and friends as Margie—had decided to stay home during JD’s trip. Margie had four children already—Sheldon, Terry, Dennis, and Juli. She wanted to stay close to JD’s sister and brother-in-law. They could quickly step in and help with the kids if she needed to go to the hospital. It was a decision made with foresight and care, and as it turned out, it was the right one.
On June 2, Margie went into labor.
Her calm steadiness defined her actions. She went to the hospital, and the children were safely in good hands. Virgil Downing, her son-in-law, knew that JD needed to be reached quickly. He called the hotel in Oklahoma City. The oil convention was being held there. He had the front desk page, JD Groff.
“They called my name right in the middle of the banquet,”
JD later recalled.
“Everything stopped. I knew right then — it was time.”
JD bolted from the room, his heart pounding and his hands reaching for his keys when Harold intercepted him.
“You’re not driving,”
Harold slurred, wagging a finger.
“You’ll crash the damn car. You’re too excited, Groff. I’ll take you.”
JD tried to argue and pry the keys back, insisting that Harold should not drive. He even asked him multiple times to pull over. They should then switch places. Harold refused every time. He repeated with drunken certainty that he was the safer choice.
“You’ll wrap us around a tree,”
Harold barked, gripping the wheel with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other.
“You’re gonna be a daddy tonight, shaking too much to steer.”
A two-hour rollercoaster ride across the Oklahoma highways followed. It was a journey that JD would remember for the rest of his life.
“He passed cars on the left, passed them on the right,”
JD said later.
“He cussed at every truck, hollered at every red light, and nearly rear-ended a tractor. At one point, he tried lighting a cigar while doing 80 down a back road.”
As JD would describe,
“frightening, comical, and hostile all at once.”
By some miracle, they made it to Clinton in one piece. JD leaped from the car, bolted into the hospital, and made it to Margie’s side just in time.
That evening, on June 2, 1960, their daughter was born: Twila Elouise Groff.
JD had already picked the name. Twila for its soft, lyrical sound. Elouise served as a tribute to the Groff family lineage. This name stretched back to the family’s Swiss heritage. It was carried by strong women long before the Groffs ever set foot in America.
Twila’s birth quickly became more than a family milestone — it became a local legend.
In the next weeks and months, oil producers stopped by JD’s Standard Oil station in Clinton. Sales associates also visited. Colleagues from the convention came by as well. They checked in.
“How’s the baby?”
They’d ask.
“Did Harold drive you the whole way like a bat out of hell?”
Before long, the story had taken on a life of its own. Twila became affectionately known among oil company executives as
“The Standard Oil Baby.”
Her name would be mentioned at future conventions and meetings across Oklahoma. JD’s wild ride—and Twila’s prompt arrival—became an industry folklore, retold with laughter, awe, and camaraderie.
Years later, when new sales associates came through Clinton, they’d stop in and say,
“Is this where the Standard Oil Baby lives?”
And JD, with that familiar half-smile, would nod proudly and say,
Every year, in nearly every corner of the world, people buy flowers. They write cards and call their mothers to say “thank you.” But few know that Mother’s Day wasn’t always a celebration of brunches and bouquets. It began with a fight. It wasn’t with fists or fire, but with letters and marches. It involved the relentless will of one determined daughter.
The story starts in the United States in the late 1800s. It begins just after a brutal civil war tore the country apart. Ann Reeves Jarvis lived in a small town in West Virginia. She was a mother who believed that motherhood was more than just raising children. It was about strengthening communities. She organized “Mother’s Work Clubs” to teach women how to care for their families and treat illness. During the war, she crossed enemy lines to care for wounded soldiers. Being a mother meant healing, even in a time of hate for her.
When Ann died in 1905, her daughter Anna Jarvis was devastated. But in her grief, she found purpose. Anna believed that mothers—their love, their sacrifices, their invisible labor—deserved to be honored privately and publicly. She envisioned a day when everyone would pause to recognize the power of a mother’s influence.
In 1908, Anna held the first official Mother’s Day in her mother’s church. She sent 500 white carnations—her mother’s favorite flower—for the guests. But that was just the beginning. Anna wrote thousands of letters to politicians and ministers, urging them to create a holiday for mothers. She battled for six years until 1914 when the U.S. president made it official: the second Sunday of May would be known as Mother’s Day.
The idea spread across borders and oceans, and countries worldwide adopted it—each adapting it in their way. In Thailand, it aligns with the queen’s birthday. In Ethiopia, it’s celebrated with a family feast. But at its heart, it remains the same: a day to honor the women who shape our lives.
Ironically, Anna later grew furious at how commercialized Mother’s Day had become—filled with store-bought gifts rather than heartfelt thanks. But she couldn’t even stop its global march. The world had embraced the idea, and the spirit of that first small ceremony had taken root.
The next time you give your mother a flower or a call, remember. This day began not with marketing. It also did not start with tradition. It started with one woman’s vow to never let the world forget what mothers truly do.
Earl and Edna had been married for fifty-two years. In those five decades, they had developed a comfortable rhythm, like an old song they both knew by heart. Lately, the lyrics were getting harder to remember.
It all started on a Tuesday morning when Earl stood in the living room, scratching his head.
“Edna,”
He called,
“have you seen my glasses?”
“They’re on your head, Earl,”
Edna replied from the kitchen, her voice tinged with amusement.
Earl patted his scalp and chuckled.
“Well, I’ll be. Guess I’ve been wearing ‘em this whole time.”
But later that day, Edna forgot to turn off the iron. This left a suspicious scorch mark on Earl’s good slacks. That evening, Earl nearly brushed his teeth with muscle ointment. The next morning, Edna scheduled a doctor’s appointment—for both of them.
At Dr. Preston’s office, they sat side by side, holding hands, looking like two nervous schoolchildren awaiting their report cards.
“Doctor,”
Edna began,
“we’re both starting to forget things. Little things, mostly, but…”
Dr. Preston smiled kindly.
“That’s perfectly normal as we get older. One strategy that helps is to write things down. Keep a notepad handy, leave little notes where you’ll see them. It makes a world of difference.”
Earl snorted.
“Write things down? My memory’s just fine. It’s Edna’s that needs the fixing.”
Dr. Preston gave them both a knowing look.
“Just try it. You’ll thank me.”
When they got home, Edna felt a nap coming on and settled into her recliner with a cozy blanket. Earl switched on the TV, flipping channels, landing on a baseball game he wasn’t really watching.
After a while, Edna sat up.
“Earl, dear, would you go to the kitchen and get me a dish of ice cream?”
Earl muted the TV.
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“And write it down, so you don’t forget.”
Earl waved her off.
“Nonsense, Edna. It’s a dish of ice cream. I’ve got it.”
“But I’d like strawberries on it too,”
She added.
“And whipped cream.”
Earl tapped his temple confidently.
“Ice cream, strawberries, whipped cream. No problem.”
Edna gave him a skeptical look.
“You sure you don’t want to write it down?”
Earl shook his head and marched into the kitchen.
For the next fifteen minutes, Edna listened as pots clanged. Cabinet doors creaked. The microwave beeped, and something—was that the blender?—whirred loudly.
Finally, Earl returned, triumphant, a plate in his hands.
“Here you go!”
He declared, setting the plate on her lap.
Edna stared at the plate. Bacon. Eggs. A sprig of parsley.
She looked up at him with an exasperated sigh.
“Earl, where’s the toast I asked for?”
Earl blinked, confused.
“Toast?”
Edna shook her head, laughing despite herself.
“Looks like we’re both making notes from now on.”
Earl sat down beside her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Maybe we should just order takeout.”
And together, they chuckled, holding hands, as the baseball game played softly in the background.
After a moment, Earl squinted at the screen.
“Edna… do you know who’s winning? I can’t tell.”
Edna grinned slyly.
“That’s because, Earl… you’re on first base.”
Earl frowned.
“I’m on first base?”
“No, no,”
Edna said, shaking her head with mock seriousness,
“Who’s on first.”
Earl’s eyes widened.
“Who’s on first?”
Edna corrected, her eyes twinkling.
“No, Who’s on third,”
They both burst out laughing. They cackled until they were wiping tears from their eyes. The baseball game was long forgotten. Their memories were momentarily lost, but their joy was perfectly intact.
My mother will turn 95 this August—if she makes it that far. Of the six siblings, only my youngest sister and I have cared for her in her old age. Two of the others gradually drifted away after our father passed. They chose, for their own reasons, to cut contact year by year. The two oldest brothers have both died in recent years.
My mother has always had a sharp mind and a strong, toned body. She was constantly on the move, always busy. Even into her 90s, she remained active and mentally alert. But over the past year, she’s started to slip. She now experiences episodes of sundowning. During these moments, she loses track of what she’s saying. She also becomes unaware of where she is or where she’s been.
She now lives far away from me. Our once hour-long phone conversations, filled with talk of daily life, have been reduced to five minutes or less. Her thoughts drift. She forgets what we’re discussing, where she is, or even who she’s speaking with.
The next is a piece shared with me by KJ Stafford, titled “Cleaning Nana’s House.” It resonated deeply. My sisters and I cleaned the house we’d all grown up in. This was before my mother moved in with me for several years. She later moved in with my sister, where she now lives. Stafford’s words capture an experience I believe many can relate to, and with her blessing, I’m sharing it here.
CLEANING NANA’S HOUSE
BY: KJ Stafford
In January of 2024 we moved my Nana into my parents house. Her health was failing, and so was her mind. She was no longer able to live alone anymore and she hated that fact. The woman had been independent her entire life. And now at 90 years old she was forced to be cared for. She could no longer take care of herself. I remember the thought hurting my heart.
Fast forward to February 2025, I held her hand hours before she passed. I had never experienced death in that way before. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dealt with death- both grandpa’s, aunts, uncles… but this was different. It had never been so in my face the way this was. I had never been physically there, witnessing the deterioration every day, every hour. I had never actually watched death slowly take someone. They are memories that will be buried inside my brain until death comes for me. Descriptions that will never make it down on paper ––
April 25th 2025: We piled in our cars, drove the 7 hours to my Nana’s house and began the task of clearing out our memories to make room for someone else’s. My Nana had lived in that house for over 50 years. My mom grew up there. My siblings and I spent weeks there during the summer and until 2024 every Thanksgiving of my life was spent in that tiny dining room around the round, antique wood table. The kitchen looks as if it got stuck in the 70’s. Yellow countertops remind me of sunflowers. The floor is tiled and worn from years of cooking. Years of family gatherings. Years of love. There’s the iconic green couch that sits in the living room…or sat- now it will be given to another family. Moved into a different living room after sitting comfortably in it’s corner for all of these years.
We found love letters from my Grampy to my Nana, boxes of old black and white photographs, ancient toys, jewelry, coats that have somehow found their way back in style, antique glass and trinkets galore. Each find triggering a specific memory. Each find making me wish I could go back 15 years ago. When I was just coming up for the week to visit. Instead of it being the last time within these cozy walls.
My Nana was by far the strongest woman I’ve ever met. She grew up in Canada, abandoned by her mother before she was 8 years old, left with an alcoholic for a father who was never around. She spent Canadian winters in their small, wooden shack often times by herself. Venturing out into the thick snow every so often to find more logs for the fire- the only thing keeping her warm enough to survive. Scavenging for scraps of food. Eventually being passed on and off to relatives, never having a home to call her own. Never truly feeling loved by a family….
Upon finally coming to America, she met her first husband. She married him when she was only 17 and had three children by the time she was 27. He was a drunk. He was a cheater. She deserved better. One night he got back a little too late, my Nana kicked him out. Divorced his ass. She was the talk of the town. It was unheard of at that time. What woman with three young children abandons her husband? A STRONG one, that’s who.
She set goals for herself. She knew she wanted to work at the University. She knew that is where she would meet someone else. And she DID. She worked hard until she got hired. And shortly after, she met my Grampy. The sweetest man to ever walk this earth. Years later they had my Mom. Without my Nana’s strength. Without her knowing her self-worth, I would have never existed. Had she not followed her intuition. Had she not trusted her gut, there would be no me. No family. And for that, I am forever grateful.
I like to think she gave me a little of that strength. I feel it within myself sometimes. It’s why I took Stafford as my pen name. I am so honored. Honored that I was able to grow up with her in my life. Thankful that I had her to teach me how to become a strong woman. I vow to live my life as my Nana did. Never accepting less than I deserve and never being afraid to put myself out there, take a risk, trust my gut and grow.
When we first moved to the farm, my father bartered for just about everything. It was the 1960s. He had a wife and six kids. My young uncle, who felt more like an older brother, was also part of the family. He had plenty of mouths to feed. There were also many projects to tackle.
One of his deals involved tearing down an old house on a neighbor’s property in exchange for the lumber. It wasn’t a one-man job—my three older brothers, my uncle, and even my mother had to pitch in. My two sisters and I were assigned a very important task: holding down the tailgate of the pickup truck.
We were told in no uncertain terms to stay put. We knew exactly what that meant. From our perch on the tailgate, we watched as our dad and brothers clambered across the roof, tossing down boards. My mother hustled to pick them up, stacking them onto a flatbed trailer and into another old truck.
I still don’t know exactly why my mother did what she did next. Maybe she wanted to check on us; maybe she wanted to warn us again. But as boards kept flying off the house, she walked around to where we sat—into what my dad had firmly declared “the danger zone”—and yelled:
“You three stay away from here, or you’ll get hit in the head with a board with a rusty nail!”
And no sooner had the words left her mouth than—WHACK! A board sailed down and smacked her right on the head. Of course, it had a rusty nail. Of course, she screamed. And of course, all three of us screamed right along with her.
Almost instantly, my dad’s head popped up over the roof’s edge.
“What the hell are y’all screaming about?”
We all shouted at once:
“Mama’s bleeding! A board hit Mama in the head! There’s a nail in her head!”
My dad scrambled down the ladder, muttering adult words under his breath.
“Shit. Goddammit, Marge, why the hell were you standing where we told the kids not to go?”
My mother, ever unflappable, shot back:
“You threw that board at me on purpose!”
He glared at her.
“Dammit, I didn’t even know where you were. Kids, get off the tailgate and sit on that log. I gotta take your mother into town.”
They drove off toward Doc’s office, leaving my brothers to finish tearing down the house and loading up the wood. The sun set. The old trucks were filled. My brothers piled us into the pickup. They drove the mile and a half back home.
When we pulled into the yard, our parents were just arriving. My dad helped my mom out of the truck and told us she was fine—just a scratch, he said. Doc had cleaned her up, given her a tetanus shot, and sent her home with something “to relax her.”
Naturally, we kids had to see the wound for ourselves. It didn’t look like much—just a small cut hidden in her hair, surrounded by a bruise. Not exactly a house falling on someone’s head. But it had bled plenty, enough to scare us all.
That night, we sat around eating a casserole that had baked while we were gone, everything back to normal. Or so it seemed.
Later, as my mom recounted what happened, the story took on a life of its own. Over the years, at family gatherings and on phone calls, we’d hear her say,
“Well, you know, the day that house fell on my head…”
In the background, my dad’s familiar sigh would follow:
“Dammit, Marge. It was just a board. And it wouldn’t have hit you if you’d stayed where I told the kids not to go.”
But she never wavered. Even now, at 95, if you ask her, she’ll tell you straight:
Grief is one of the most powerful and complex emotions we can experience. Yet, it’s often the least talked about, especially in front of children. But we must do it. Parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, caregivers—everyone has a role in helping younger generations understand and process loss in healthy, open ways.
Why This Matters Now Is More Important Than Ever
I recently came across a meaningful article on the Modern Parenting Hub. The article offered guidance on how to talk to children. It also included advice on discussing grief with other family members. This instantly struck a chord with me. These conversations are difficult, yes, but incredibly important. This topic has come up often in my family. My father’s death nearly forty years ago has brought it up many times over the decades.
Despite the passage of time, some of my relatives are still coping with the ripple effects of that loss. It’s a reminder that unspoken grief doesn’t simply go away—it lingers, often silently, until we confront it.
The First Time I Saw My Father Cry
I’ll never forget the first time I saw my father cry. It wasn’t during a national tragedy or a close friend’s funeral. It was when we got the call that my grandmother, his mother, had passed away.
He and I were the first to arrive at my grandparents’ home. My grandfather sat slumped in his favorite chair, overcome with sorrow. My father leaned down and embraced him. Through his sobs, my grandfather whispered:
“We lost Ma Ma.”
My father’s tears came swiftly—tears of deep, unfiltered grief. Until then, I had only seen him cry from laughing too hard at his jokes. This was something entirely different. Something raw. And it changed the way I viewed him.
Grief in Unexpected Places
Years later, when my uncle died in a tragic car and train accident, I saw my parents overwhelmed again. It wasn’t until my father’s funeral that I fully grasped the impact grief can have. Children must witness honest expressions of grief.
My father was a deeply loved man. He had a large circle of close friends. We chose fourteen pallbearers. This number was still too small to honor everyone who had loved him.
The group included cowboys, law enforcement officers, linemen, ranchers, farmers, and local business owners. These men were known for being tough, stoic, and strong. Only family and pallbearers remained in the church during a private moment after the public service. I watched those same hardened men. They broke down in tears.
They weren’t quietly dabbing their eyes. They were crying. Fully, openly, and without shame.
The Lesson I’ll Never Forget
That moment stayed with me. It showed me that strength and vulnerability are not opposites. The ability to express emotion—especially grief—is one of the most courageous things we can do.
I often say that my father’s funeral was the day I learned it was okay for grown men to cry. And I believe that’s a lesson we need to pass down. Our children need to see that real strength includes compassion and empathy. It also consists of the willingness to mourn openly when we’ve lost someone we love.
Bringing Grief Into the Conversation
Grief is universal and should be discussed across all generations. When we make space for these emotions, we also make space for healing. Children gain from understanding that sadness is a natural response to loss. It doesn’t need to be hidden or avoided.
Resources like the Modern Parenting Hub are essential in guiding families through these complex moments. I’ll share their piece with my readers and loved ones, and I encourage you to do the same.
Final Thoughts
Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. It doesn’t play by the rules. We can talk about it. We can face it together. We can help each other navigate the path it carries through our lives. Let’s teach our children that tears are not signs of weakness—they are signs of love, humanity, and deep connection.
When I was a child, my dad and I did countless things together.
We rode horses nearly every weekend if not every evening. We went to rodeos and parades—not just as spectators but as participants. We traveled to horse sales, chasing his dreams of new bloodlines, no matter how far away they seemed. Of course, I realized when I grew up that they weren’t all that far.
A lake at the south end of our property teased me year-round. I saw cars creeping across its dam, people scrambling down its rocky banks, casting lines into its blue water. I dreamed of fishing with my dad. But he never seemed interested.
We had more important things to do. We needed to haul feed for the horses, cut hay, stack bales in the barn, and care for the animals. The farm and all our other activities consumed all our time. There was no time for anything else. School and sleep were crammed in the margins of my day.
Eventually, I grew up and moved away. After a chlorine gas leak injured my dad, he had to sell the last of his horses. He became tethered to the living room; his body slowed, but his mind sharpened. On my days off, I would come home. We would sit on the back patio, drinking iced tea and talking. We watched that same blue lake that had taunted me for so long.
One afternoon, while I was visiting, he said,
“Come look at what I found in the storage shed.”
Out back, he pulled a polished rod from a rack. It was old but cared for. The line had to be a 100-pound test.
“Used to fish with this before you were born,”
He said.
“Put it away after you come along. So many kids were drowning in lakes back then… I couldn’t take the chance.”
And now, decades later, he held it out like an invitation.
“Will you take me fishing?”
“Of course,”
I said.
He smiled, took a puff from his nebulizer, and told me to wait while he got his hat.
“Dad, you need a fishing license.”
I reminded him, hoping it would buy me time. I needed to figure out how to care for him in a setting I didn’t control.
From the kitchen, Mom called out,
“He got one last week! He’s been waiting for you to come home. Can’t drive that far by himself.”
That settled it. I grabbed my gear from behind the seat of my truck. Then, I loaded Dad up. Finally, I drove us to my secret fishing spot.
The fish were practically leaping from the water. Dad was giddy, casting with the energy of a man half his age.
He kept asking how I found such a remote place and marveling at the size of the fish we caught.
I thought I had waited 24 years to go fishing with my dad. I didn’t want to use up all my time in one afternoon.
Eventually, the stringer was full, and the sun started slipping.
“We’d better get you home,”
I said.
“Mom said you’ve got to be back by two for a breathing treatment.”
He frowned but nodded, and we packed up our catch.
When we got home, the house was empty.
“Was Mom going out today?”
I asked.
“I think your sister was taking her shopping,”
He said, unconcerned.
I got Dad set up with his treatment. The hum of the machine had just started when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Benji?”
A familiar voice—my sister’s mother-in-law. Using my childhood name.
“Where have you and your daddy been? We’ve been trying to find you.”
“We went fishing.”
“Fishing? You took JD fishing?”
“Yeah—we caught a nice stringer full.”
There was a pause.
“You’d better put them on ice. Your mother and sister were in a bad accident. A truck hit them head-on out on the bridge. They’re at the hospital in Chickasha. You need to get your daddy down there.”
I turned to him and broke the news gently. He took it quietly, still holding onto the joy of our day. Maybe it hadn’t fully sunk in, or he didn’t want to let go of the moment.
At the hospital, Dad was the first to go in and check on Mom. My sister waited in the hall, shaken but okay. When Dad came out, he looked as calm as ever.
“She’s going to be fine.”
He said.
“They’ve got her so doped up she thinks she’s on the moon.”
Catch of The Day
Then someone asked him where he’d been. He grinned.
“Fishing. Caught the biggest fish you’ve ever seen. I swear, some were as long as my arm!”
Everyone laughed.
“That’s a fish story if I’ve ever heard one!”
“Sure, JD. Whatever you say.”
I backed him up, grinning.
“We’ve got them at home. Put them on ice. Big stringer full.”
My oldest sister chimed in, skeptical.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. Slid them into a plastic bag first, then put them in the freezer.”
It was true.
Grandson Raymond, and JD Groff
And that fishing trip wasn’t the last. That summer—his last summer—I ensured we went out as often as possible. Sometimes, it was just the two of us. I had always dreamed of this as a boy, watching the lake from our back porch. Other times, I brought my brother and my nephews along. Dad would hold court on the bank. He told stories and gave advice. He cast his line with the patience of someone who knew the water well. He knew the time was short.
We laughed, caught fish, and built memories like campfires—small moments that glowed long after sunrise.
That summer was magical.
It was the summer, and I finally got to take my dad fishing. And it was everything I had waited for.
Growing up, it often felt like there wasn’t much to do. With six siblings and a life rooted on the farm, family trips or outside adventures seemed few and far between. But looking back now, I see how much my parents did to involve us in meaningful experiences.
They took us to local places of interest. They spent time with each of us in ways many parents couldn’t. At the time, I thought we were the ultimate close-knit family. My dad and I shared rodeos, horse sales, parades, and trail rides. He and my mother supported my sister’s love for basketball, attended games, and nurtured her talent. Another sister was given a piano, music lessons, and encouragement toward college. One of my brothers was allowed to buy into the farm and build a home. The two oldest boys had long since charted their paths. One went into the Marines. The other entered a world that eventually led to affluence. But no matter how far they went, they always came home for the holidays.
My mom’s youngest brother—my uncle—was a bonus sibling. He’d been born late in my grandparents’ lives, and as a teen and young adult, he often lived with us. He’d served in Vietnam. Though he was quiet about it, he carried a weight we all respected—even if we didn’t understand it fully.
One weekend, something unexpected happened. When I was 9, my uncle and brothers convinced my dad to take us to the lake. It was a rare outing, especially with all of us. I’d heard stories of him taking the family boating at lakes years before I was born. Yet, he had stopped going by the time I came along.
This lake trip, still, wasn’t a return to those stories. It was just up the road—Sayler’s Lake. It wasn’t much to look at. An old log cabin marked the entrance. The water looked murky and unsettling—it resembled a scene from a horror movie. Locals whispered that the lake had claimed lives—more than a few. It didn’t seem right, but the place had a reputation.
We arrived around 10 a.m. I was eager to get in the water, but my mother insisted I wear a life vest. I didn’t know how to swim, and she wasn’t taking any chances. I hated the bulky vest, but hated the thought of drowning more. My sisters had taken swimming lessons when we lived in town—those services didn’t exist where we were.
I paddled around, watching others enjoy themselves.
Across the water, people were diving from a rocky cliff. Some men dove headfirst, then climbed back up and did it again. It looked reckless, almost like a dare to death. Then, one of them dove in—and didn’t come back up.
I’ll never forget the girl on the cliff yelling,
“Where is he?”
People jumped into action. After five or ten long minutes, someone pulled his body from the water and dragged him to shore. The owner of the lake raced down in a pickup and began CPR. I stood there, stunned. It was the first time I’d ever seen someone dead—or nearly dead—pulled from water.
Then, the town ambulance arrived. It wasn’t like the ones you see on TV—it was a white Buick station wagon. An old man climbed out carrying an oxygen tank. When the victim’s friends saw him, they shook their heads and told him it was too late.
“You need a body bag.”
One of them said.
I didn’t know what a body bag was. But I figured it out when the old man pulled a stretcher from the back of the car. With the help of bystanders, he loaded the man’s body. Out of compassion, he turned on the red lights and the siren. Then he drove off.
I returned to where our family had set up a picnic. I don’t remember what I said—maybe something a little too grown-up or too curious—but I remember my father flicking me on the ear and speaking sharply,
“You aren’t quite that old yet.”
I’ve often wondered what that moment meant to him. Maybe he wasn’t angry—he was just shaken. Perhaps he didn’t want me to see what I had seen. That day made me grow up faster than he wanted. He liked to keep things under control, and this wasn’t one of those things.
Life doesn’t always allow us to choose the lessons we learn. Sometimes, they arrive uninvited on an ordinary day by a haunted lake.
When we arrived home that evening, the television was on in the living room. The news was starting. And there it was—Sayler’s Lake. A reporter stood near the very spot we’d been earlier, microphone in hand, delivering details about the drowning. I sat in disbelief, watching the event replay like it belonged to someone else’s world, not ours.
I remember thinking: How did they find out so fast? How had the news team gotten there?How did they film the scene, return to the station, and prepare the report all before dinner? It made the whole thing feel surreal—too real but somehow distant. The reporter confirmed what we had already feared. The man had died.
That moment glued itself to my memory. The sound of the television stayed with me, and the familiar living room around me lingered in my thoughts. The weight of what we had observed just hours earlier was still there. It layered into a quiet understanding. The world outside our farm can change in an instant. Sometimes, there are no answers—just echoes left behind by events too big to fully grasp.
My parents rarely attended celebrations, so seeing them at a party in our old town was a significant change. This meant that my two sisters and I would need to stay with my grandparents while they were “in town.” By then, my three older brothers had grown up and left home, marking a shift in our family dynamics.
It was unusual for my sisters to join me and my grandparents in their den. We affectionately referred to them as Mom and Pop. They usually came to the house for a celebration. This could be Christmas, Thanksgiving, or a birthday. We would all gather in the front living room. But we nestled with Mom and Pop this night in their cozy den.
Mom and Pop were old-timey. Mom had a rocking chair. She would rock endlessly in it. Pop sat stoically in his oversized comfort chair. He puffed on his pipe. They habitually glanced out the front door, tracking how often their neighbors left their homes. One neighbor, in particular, drove them crazy by leaving every thirty minutes. They never figured out why.
As evening settled in, the steady ticking of the mantle clock lulled us children into a calming trance. It was a good thing, too, because what was about to unfold would test our nerves.
A thunderstorm at night!
It roared in just as the clock struck seven—thunder, lightning, and a barrage of heavy rain. Mom and Pop had lived through the Dust Bowl. They had seen the Great Woodward, Oklahoma, Tornado. The tornado wiped out the town and claimed many lives in the black of night. Because of that, they had a deep respect for storms. They headed straight for the cellar at the first sign of a tornado threat.
Like an air raid siren, the storm siren was the town’s lifeline. In the early 1970s, we didn’t have the advanced weather alerts we do today. The local police alerted the residents. The fire departments would sound the alarm if a tornado was spotted. This gave residents only minutes to take cover. My grandmother hushed us, straining to listen for the whistle. Just as she did, a lightning strike took out the electricity—
NO LIGHTS!
Without hesitation, she calmly instructed,
“Pop, go in the bedroom and get the flashlight.”
Pop stood, walked to their bedroom, retrieved the flashlight, and handed it to her.
She scolded him.
“Pop, you could have turned it on, for heaven’s sake. Why didn’t you turn it on?”
Pop replied innocently,
“Well, Mom, you just said go get it—you didn’t tell me to turn it on.”
We sat in the dark, stifling laughter. Then it got worse. Mom attempted to turn on the flashlight, but nothing happened. She sighed.
“Pop, I thought we got new batteries for this last week?”
“We did, and I put them in,”
He answered confidently.
Confused, she asked,
“Pop, you left the new batteries on top of the chest of drawers, and I had to put them in. You never changed them.”
Pop puffed up.
“Mom, those were the old batteries I put up there after I changed them out.”
Mom groaned.
“Pop, why would you keep the old batteries? Why didn’t you throw them away?”
Pop’s reply ––
“If you saw them there, you’d know I’d already changed the batteries.”
Then Mom ––
“Pop, why would I assume that?”
She took a breath, trying to stay calm.
“Well, I put the old batteries in. So, what happened to the new ones?”
Pop hesitated.
“I thought they were the old batteries… so I threw them away.”
Mom clenched her jaw.
“So now we have no batteries and no flashlight. Wonderful.”
Determined, she announced,
“I’ll go upstairs and get the oil lantern.”
Pop offered to go, but she waved him off.
“No, you’ll mess it up. I’ll take care of it.”
While she was gone, it gave Pop time for improvisation.
He asked us kids,
“You know where Moses was when the light’s when out?
We all answered,
“No!”
Pop humorously responded,
“He was in the dark!”
He got such a chuckle out of telling it and we of coursed laughed.
Mom carefully navigated the stairs in the dark. Within minutes, she returned with the glowing lantern. The lantern finally illuminated the room.
All the while, my sisters and I sat on the den floor. We were petting Mom and Pop’s chihuahua. We tried to contain our laughter over the events of the evening. We were laughing so hard that, had the siren blown, we couldn’t even hear it. Still, we attempted to keep some composure out of respect for Mom and Pop.
Pop lit up his pipe, turned to Mom, and said
“You ought to put it on your list for when we go shopping to get batteries.”
Our parents didn’t return until nearly ten, when the lights came on. I don’t know how fun their party had been, but ours couldn’t have been any better. Mom and Pop swore us to silence. They didn’t want our dad to think they were becoming forgetful. Until this day, that story has never been privately or publicly shared.
I think about my life and often find myself lost in daydreams. I think about what I have done, what I have left undone, and what I have never said. Among those lingering thoughts, my Father stands at the center of many. There is a growing list of moments I wish I had shared with him. Time always held me back. Fear held me back, too. Sometimes, stubbornness was also to blame.
Every child keeps secrets from their parents. It’s an unspoken rule of growing up, a silent understanding that some things are best left unsaid. Some secrets were harmless. Others were reckless. I believed a few were withheld to protect us from disappointment, confrontation, or painful truths.
I never told my dad I put frogs in my sister’s bed. They were scattered all over her room. He didn’t need to be a detective to know who the culprit was, but I never admitted it. It was a childish prank, one of many that shaped my mischievous youth.
I never told my dad I took his prized pickup truck for a drag race down the state highway. I was old enough to drive but not wise enough to make good decisions. By the time I got home that night, I had already faced my punishment. I felt humiliated for losing the race. There was also the quiet shame of knowing I had betrayed his trust. He never confronted me about it, but I suspect he knew. Fathers often do.
I never told my dad this story. One afternoon after school, I thought I had the rare gift of a chore-free evening. Then I opened the refrigerator and found a note beside the cola cans. His handwriting instructed me to bring the tractor to the meadow to help him build a fence.
Frustrated, I stomped outside, my young temper flaring. In my haste, I spun around and dented the fender of his truck. Later, he assumed someone had hit it with a car door while he was in town. I let him believe that. I convinced myself I’d tell him we’d laugh–– when the time was right. That moment never came. And until now, I’ve never told another soul.
But the most significant thing I never told my Father was how much he meant to me. He was my hero. His wisdom shaped me in ways I never fully understood until adulthood. I always thought there would be time to say those words. Yet, life has a cruel way of taking time away before we realize its worth.
I never told my dad that. As I stood before his casket, I saw not just the man who raised me. He was the embodiment of dignity, integrity, and strength. I wanted to tell him then, but it was too late.
But I can tell you.
“I’ll be dead, but the older you get, the wiser I’ll be!” – JD Groff.
JD Groff was the epitome of a great father. He had his flaws, as all men do. Nevertheless, his presence and character were a foundation. His unwavering values were something I always relied on. And though I never spoke the words to him, I hope Dad knew. I hope he felt it in the way I listened. I hope he recognized it in the way I followed his example. I hope he saw it in the life I have tried to live in his honor.
Some things stay unspoken, but they are never forgotten.
We never took a trip or spent a day alone without resorting to Vienna sausages. It was a ritual. Sometimes we’d have crackers with them. Sometimes not. But one thing was sure: the lid of that little can popped open when hunger struck.
I’m talking about my dad, JD. He refused to stop at roadside cafés or even at convenience stores. If we needed gas, we’d pull into a filling station. But for food, we used whatever we brought from home. As a child, I never minded. Sitting there, sharing those sausages with my dad, I saw they tasted better than anything we bought.
Years passed, and I eventually moved out. But my dad’s traditions didn’t stop with me. His grandkids soon got to experience his simple pleasures, though I didn’t realize it then. Recently, while visiting with my nephew, he shared a memory that made me smile.
“Pa Pa,”
he said,
“always had a can of Vienna sausages when he visited. We’d sit together and share them like he used to do with you.”
But then he added something even more telling about my dad’s practical ways.
One day, they were out on the back patio. When the last sausage was gone, my nephew picked up the empty can. He was ready to throw it away. But Pa Pa stopped him.
“No, give it to me,”
Pa Pa J. said.
He walked to a pipe with an open end. This pipe was leading into the house. He placed the can over it. It fit perfectly, sealing the opening. My nephew chuckled as he realized the simple genius behind it—Pa Pa’s foolproof way of keeping wasps from nesting inside.
And so, somewhere in that old homeplace, if someone tinkering around. They find a pipe with a can stuck inside. They should leave it be. Because if Pa Pa put it there, you can bet it was for a good reason. Unless, of course, they want a house full of Yellow Jackets.
The old pickup truck rattled down the highway, packed tight with the Miller family. The father, Dale, gripped the steering wheel, his sharp eyes scanning the road ahead. Beside him, their mother, Janice, balanced a warm dish of sweet potatoes wrapped in a towel on her lap. Every thirty seconds she would let out a ‘hiss,’ and reach for the dash, her only comment to Dale’s driving. In the same seat, the children jostled for space. Clayton, the eldest at twenty-two, leaned against the window with his arms crossed. His younger sisters, Maggie and Rachel, squeezed in beside him. Then there was little Jack. He was the baby of the family, barely eight, and sat between his sisters. His feet barely touched the floor.
It was the same every year. They drove forty miles on bumpy roads. Gravel spat against the undercarriage. The chilly air sneaked in through cracks in the old truck’s frame. The family’s first stop was Janice’s side, the sprawling Henderson clan, where a sea of cousins, aunts, and uncles waited. The noon meal would be loud, laughter filling the air along with the scent of roasted turkey and homemade pies.
Clayton was ever the quiet one. He watched the open fields pass by. Meanwhile, Maggie chattered about the games she’d play with her cousins. Rachel checked the food in the back. She made sure nothing had tipped over. Meanwhile, Jack, restless, kicked his feet. He asked every ten minutes, “How much longer?”
When they finally pulled into the driveway of Janice’s childhood home, they heard the noise instantly. It hit them before they even got out of the truck. Kids ran around the yard. Adults stood in clusters laughing. The kitchen was an organized chaos of steaming dishes and busy hands. The family squeezed through the door, greeted by warm hugs, as coats were peeled off and plates were filled.
After lunch, games and stories took up the afternoon. Clayton found himself talking with an uncle about work on the ranch, while Maggie and Rachel gossiped with their cousins. Jack, after an impressive three plates of food, ran outside to join a game of tag. Dale was talking to his favorite brother-in-law, about a horse he was bringing along.
But there was no time to linger too long. As the sun began to sink, Dale gave the usual call: “Time to load up! We still got another stop!” They groaned and said their farewells. Everyone piled back into the truck with full stomachs. Hands waved through the window.
The second stop was Dale’s side, a quieter gathering with just his sister’s family. Fewer cousins, a calmer atmosphere, and jokes cracking from Bus and Virgil. Aunt Sis served coffee and pie, and the talk was slower, nostalgic—old family stories, memories of Christmases past.
Rachel curled up in a chair with a book while Maggie helped Aunt Sis in the kitchen. Jack, fighting off sleep, leaned against his mother, his eyes drooping. Clayton sat with his dad and uncle, talking about the year’s crops and the price of cattle.
By the time they left, the truck was much quieter. The ride home was filled with drowsy murmurs, Jack fast asleep against his mother’s side. Rachel and Maggie leaned on each other, the warmth of the long day still lingering. Dale, was dreaming of all the memories he had been reminded of while seeing his folks and kin.
As the headlights cut through the darkness, Dale glanced in the rear view mirror at his family. It was a long trip every year. Yet, as he looked at his wife and children—fed, happy, and together—he knew it was always worth it.
The holidays weren’t about the miles traveled, but the moments shared. He never had a million dollars, but he sure felt like it.
The old oak tree is a silent witness to Sarah’s life.
The old oak tree was a silent witness to Sarah’s life. It stood tall at the top of the hill, its branches stretching toward the heavens. Sarah sat on a wooden bench beneath its shade. She stared at the horizon, where the sun-drenched the sky in shades of gold and crimson. This was where she had always met her grandfather, who taught her about life, love, and faith. The oak tree, a symbol of strength and endurance, had always been a part of their meetings.
She can still hear his voice—soft yet firm, filled with wisdom. “Death takes the body, sweetheart, but never let it take your love. Love stays here.” He had placed his hand over her heart when he said it.
It had been a year since he passed. She still felt his presence in the whisper of the wind, even in the rustling leaves. The loss had been unbearable, but time had taught her something—her grandfather was not truly gone.
Her mind held the memories. They were like precious gems, each a testament to his life and their bond. She remembered sitting on his lap as a child, listening to stories of his youth. She recalled the scent of his old leather chair. He hummed an old hymn while tending his garden. She remembered the warmth of his calloused hand in hers during Sunday walks. Like a living tapestry, these memories kept him alive in her heart.
Her heart kept the love. Love did not disappear with death. It remained, placed safely within her, growing stronger each day.
And then there was faith. Faith whispered that this was not the end. It reassured her that she would see him again one day in a place beyond time and sorrow. This promise filled her with hope and anticipation.
Sarah reached into her pocket and pulled out a small wooden cross he had carved for her long ago. Clutching it tightly, she closed her eyes. “I miss you, Grandpa,” she whispered.
A gentle breeze brushed against her cheek. For a brief moment, she almost felt his hand on her shoulder. The sensation was so real that she almost felt the roughness of his palm and the warmth of his touch.
She smiled. Love remained. Memories endured. And faith promised—one day, they would meet again.
Ramone was not supposed to go to town without his older siblings. Nonetheless, he felt he had to on this day. He had awoken without finding anyone in his home. The house was empty. The animals had disappeared. Even the dogs were not there. They typically stayed at home when everyone had to go to work.
Ramone was alone. There was no reason he knew of for this. The boy had woken up in a strange place. He was stuffed under a bed and pushed between a bed and the wall. He thought he must’ve had a dream and wandered there. Why else would he be in such a place? Ramone was never left alone and was beginning to worry something terrible had happened.
Ramone crawled out from under the bed, his heart thumping in his tiny chest. He rubbed his sleepy eyes, trying to make sense of the eerie silence around him. The morning light poured through the cracked window. Yet, the house felt different. It was empty and hollow as if no one had been there for a long time.
He ran to the kitchen. He expected to see his mother at the stove. He also thought his older sister would scold him for being late for breakfast. Instead, the table was bare. There was no food, no dishes, nothing. He called out, his voice small against the stillness.
“Mamá?”
No answer.
He hurried outside, stepping onto the dusty ground with bare feet. The corral was empty. The goats, the chickens—gone. Even the dogs that always lounged in the shade were missing—a lump formed in his throat. Something was wrong.
Ramone had often been told not to go to town alone, but fear overpowered any thoughts of disobedience. If his family wasn’t home, maybe they had gone to town for help. He had to find them.
He slipped on his too-big sandals and started down the narrow dirt path that led to town. The sun was climbing higher, and the heat pressed against his small frame. The closer he got to town, the more his stomach twisted.
Something felt –– off.
When he reached the outskirts, he stopped. The usual chatter of morning markets and passing cars was missing. The streets were strangely quiet. Shops stood open, but no one was inside. Tables were set with half-eaten meals as if people had left in the middle of breakfast.
His breath came in quick gasps. His family wasn’t there.
No one was.
Ramone was alone in an empty town.
And then, a sound broke the silence from somewhere down the street—soft, slow footsteps echoing against the abandoned buildings.
Someone was coming. The footsteps became louder. It became clear that a cart being pulled by a donkey was coming around the corner. But there wasn’t a person with it.
Ramone’s heart pounded in his chest. The cart rattled onward, its wooden wheels creaking against the empty street. The donkey plodded ahead, its ears flicking as if listening for a command that would never come.
But there was no driver.
Ramone took a step back, his tiny hands trembling. His words from the day before echoed in his mind. He yelled words after getting into trouble for mischief that had found its way into his life.
“I wish I was the only person in the world!”
Had he wished for this? Had his anger somehow made it real?
His legs felt heavy as if the ground itself wanted to pull him down. He turned in circles, hoping—praying—to see someone step out of a doorway or call his name. But no one did.
Tears welled in his eyes. He hadn’t meant it. He didn’t want to be alone.
The cart rolled past him, and the donkey’s slow, steady steps were the only sound in the world.
Ramone squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.
“Wake up, wake up!”
He whispered, pressing his fists against his temples.
“This has to be a dream.”
He forced his eyes open.
The town was still empty.
He ran, his sandals slapping against the dusty road. He ran past the silent market. He ran past the still houses. He passed the church where the bells should have been ringing. But they weren’t ringing.
And then—he saw his home.
It looked just as he had left it. The door was slightly open, swaying in the wind.
He rushed inside, desperate.
“Mamá!”
he cried.
“Papá! Anybody!”
Silence.
Ramone stumbled into his room, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The bed was there. The blankets were rumpled as if someone had pushed them aside in the middle of the night.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the mattress. He curled up, his tiny body shaking.
“I take it back,”
He whispered into the fabric.
“I don’t want to be alone. I want my mamá. My papá. My sisters. Please…”
The weight of exhaustion pressed down on him, his eyelids growing heavy. The room began to spin, the world around him fading into darkness.
Then—
A voice.
Soft. Familiar.
“Ramone? Mijo, wake up.”
His eyes fluttered open.
The morning light streamed in. Ramone’s mamá stood over him, her warm hand brushing his forehead. From the kitchen, he heard his sisters laughing, the clatter of dishes, and the barking of the dogs outside.
His heart leaped.
It was just a dream.
It was a terrible, lonely dream.
Ramone threw his arms around his mamá, holding onto her tightly.
She chuckled, stroking his hair.
“What’s gotten into you, mi niño?”
Ramone didn’t answer. He just held on, knowing that, no matter what, he would never wish to be alone again.
Tim had been caring for his father’s White Rock chicken pen for months. It was a new chore he got handed as he got older. Tim collected eggs from nests, fed the chickens, and cleaned the pens. He also ensured plenty of fresh water for the fowl to drink.
One day, Tim’s father came home from work. He told Tim they were going on a short trip. The purpose of the trip was to look at game roosters and hens. He suggested that if Tim wanted to buy one, he should bring the money. Tim had been saving this money from doing chores and receiving it as gifts.
Tim gathered his savings—an impressive $25.00—and he and his father set off to explore this new thing he had just heard about: “Game Chickens.” They arrived at a property owned by the Gaines family about twenty miles away. Tim was surprised to see dozens of small doghouses spread across the backyard.
Mr. Gaines, a middle-aged man, came out of the house, greeted Tim’s father, and asked,
“You’re here about the chickens, aren’t you?”
Tim and his father answered in unison,
“Yes, we are!”
They looked around and discussed their options. Tim’s father purchased five hens and five guineas. Tim proudly bought a rooster with his savings.
When they returned home, Tim’s father explained,
“We’ll use the rooster you bought to encourage these hens to lay eggs. Once we collect enough eggs, we’ll place them in a new incubator I bought. I’ll teach you how chickens lay eggs. You’ll also learn how they set and hatch their eggs.”
It felt like forever to collect enough eggs, but it only took about a week. Once they had gathered a good number, Tim’s father marked each egg with an ‘X’ on one side. He marked an ‘O’ on the other side of each egg. He then placed them in the incubator. He ensured the proper humidity. He added a small amount of water to the bottom tray. A screen was placed over the water, and the eggs were laid on top.
Tim’s father explained, –––
“For the first eighteen days, we must turn the eggs regularly. Turn them at least thrice daily. This prevents the developing chicks from sticking to the shell. The incubator will handle the temperature, but it’s up to us to turn them.”
Tim learned they couldn’t touch the eggs with bare hands, as oils from their skin clog the shell’s pores. They used cotton gloves to handle them. Tim eagerly helped his father turn the eggs daily, hoping to see signs of life inside.
As they approached the last three days, Tim’s father announced, –––
“No more turning. The chicks need to position themselves for hatching now. And we must keep the incubator closed—no peeking!”
It was the hardest thing for a nine-year-old to resist opening the incubator, but Tim managed. Then, on the twentieth day, he heard a faint ––
“Peep, peep!”
“Should we open it and see if they’re okay?”
Tim asked excitedly.
“Not yet,”
His father replied.
“Let’s give it another day or two to make sure they all have time to hatch.”
That was not the answer Tim wanted to hear, but he trusted his father. The next two days felt like an eternity. The soft peep grew louder, and his father finally said, –––
“Let’s open it up and see what we have!”
To their amazement, all fifty eggs had hatched. The incubator was full of tiny, fluffy chicks, chirping loudly in their new world.
Tim holding his Rooster
Over the next month, Tim was responsible for feeding the chicks a unique grain mix. He also provided fresh water with added vitamins to prevent early diseases common in poultry. In about eight weeks, the chicks had grown into young roosters and hens, scattering in all directions across the farm.
Tim learned that game roosters were naturally aggressive toward each other. As they matured, the males had to be separated or butchered. Many ended up in the freezer, while a few got held back as breeders for future generations.
Tim’s father also explained why Mr. Gaines had so many small doghouses in his yard.
“He separates his game roosters to keep them from fighting. Some people sell them, and some even use them for illegal cockfighting, but we’ll never do that. It’s inhumane and against the law.”
As for the guineas, Tim’s father let them roam freely around the farm.
“They’re the best burglar alarms you can have. If anything or anyone unusual comes around, they’ll make a racket.”
Tim discovered the game chickens laid green, blue, and brown eggs. All are in demand by area residents looking to avoid white eggs, and they have added health benefits.
Through this experience, Tim gained a lifelong appreciation for the care and responsibility of raising animals. He learned patience, the importance of careful handling, and how to nurture life from beginning to maturity. This lesson stayed with him forever.
Today, as I write, I ponder what story to share. Specific recollections stand out, shaping my life in ways that make them worth remembering.
One of my fondest memories is traveling with my father and one of his friends. These journeys often involved a horse—whether for a rodeo, a parade, or taking a mare to be bred. I remember sitting in the middle of the pickup seat. The air conditioning blasted my face. The two men talked nonstop. The smell of their cigarettes filled the cab; they never cracked a window. Though I never smoked a day in my life, I suspect I passively inhaled enough to equate to thirty packs.
This was the early 1970s when smoking held no taboos, even around children. My father eventually quit in his late fifties, relieved to be free of nicotine’s grip. Sadly, six months later, he responded to a chlorine leak at a swimming pool. While shutting off the container, he inhaled the toxic gas, permanently damaging his lungs. From then on, breathing was a struggle. The medications he took to manage his condition weakened his bones. By 63, he was no longer capable of walking. He passed away shortly after. But in those 63 years, he packed in a lifetime of experiences.
Reflecting on my childhood, I marvel at how my parents managed to supply for six children. We weren’t wealthy, yet they kept us clothed, fed, and engaged—horse riding, basketball, piano lessons, and football. We started in a beautiful three-bedroom brick home in a great community. My father owned a Texaco service station and volunteered as a fireman. Some neighbors even urged him to run for city council, but his passion lay elsewhere. He dreamed of owning a quarter-horse farm, a dream that required sacrifice.
The first step was selling our home. We moved into a one-bedroom rental, with my parents in the sole bedroom and us kids on foldout couches. My father attended barber school, planning for the future. A year later, he purchased forty acres in a small town 35 miles away. He used the money from selling the house and service station. The land was densely wooded, and my father and three older brothers worked tirelessly to clear it for a home.
He found a house nearby for sale, provided it was moved. It had four rooms downstairs, one upstairs, and disconnected kitchen and bathroom additions. Two trucks transported the house 28 miles to our new farm. Once settled, we designated rooms: the kitchen, living room, and bedrooms. The steep stairs to the upstairs bedroom often left me bruised from falls. I loved that room. It had windows at both ends, letting a breeze flow as I gazed at the valley. I imagined future adventures. I discovered my secret hideout underneath those stairs, meant to be my sister’s closet. Small enough to squeeze deep inside, I stayed undetected until I was spotted and lost my perfect hiding place.
Life on the farm lacked modern conveniences, including indoor plumbing. My father found an abandoned outhouse and positioned it over a dry well. Inside, we had two five-gallon buckets of water for drinking, with a dipper hanging above and another for washing dishes. Each day, my father refilled them after closing his barbershop in town.
We also had no phone service at first. When we finally got a phone, I was about eight. The company laid a single line down the rural road. We shared it with three other families on a party line. Each household had a distinct ring. Still, anyone might eavesdrop. Power outages were frequent, lasting days during snowstorms or severe thunderstorms, making access to our home difficult in bad weather.
My father and brothers built horse barns south of our home. At one point, we had over forty horses. Spring was the busiest, with foals being born. My father hosted roping events, where friends gathered to rope all day. Eventually, he installed arena lighting, allowing him to ride even after long days in the barbershop. I joined him often, eating more red sand from falling off horses and calves than I care to remember.
Over time, the horses dwindled to just mine and his. My siblings had moved on from riding. My father worried that his aging stud horse was no longer suitable for breeding. That’s when he became a ranger at the Girl Scout camp, changing my world entirely. Life on the farm transitioned into something new and unknown. What I learned at the camp shaped me. It taught me the value of acceptance. The lessons in resilience have stayed with me through life’s most challenging moments. But that, as they say, is another story entirely.
To end, I want to include a question I recently asked my 95-year-old mother:
“You went through so much. It all started after selling the brick home. You moved from the life we had in the city. Knowing all this, would you do it again?”
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