Family

The Pig That Hid Under The Table

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By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Growing up, my trips to see my grandparents were always a highlight. We had moved to a farm about forty miles east of where they lived, and at least one weekend a month, I’d take a trip west on the Trailways bus. The bus, winding through the state highways, carried passengers to towns large and small, connecting lives along the way.

Fridays were my day of escape. School let out promptly at 3 PM, and I’d head straight to Mills Cafe to buy my bus ticket for $1. That single dollar bought me a ride and a weekend of stories, comfort, and understanding from my grandparents. After securing my ticket, I’d walk down the street to my dad’s barber shop, four doors from the cafe, to wait. Watching for the bus was a serious affair for me. I kept my eyes trained on the road, anxious I might miss it if I blinked. No bathroom breaks, no distractions. I had a mission: get to my grandparents.

Sometimes, folks in the barbershop would try to chat with me, but I was reserved, even standoffish. Sensing my focus, my dad would beam with pride as he explained to his customers,–––

“He’s waiting on the bus. He’s off to check on his grandparents for the weekend, ensuring they’re okay!”

The shop patrons would smile and nod, giving me a knowing look and sometimes adding, –––

“Well, you can’t interrupt a man on a mission.”

But there was another reason I didn’t engage in those conversations. I had a speech impediment that followed me until I was nearly twelve. My words tumbled out wrong, twisted by a thick Eastern accent that stood out in our small Oklahoma town. I’d say “Wooster” instead of rooster or “wise” instead of raise. It sounded right to me, but I was hard to understand to everyone else. My trips to my grandparents were a refuge from the teasing I often faced. They spoke like me, with the same accent, and they took the time to listen.

Bedtime with my grandmother always meant stories—real ones. One of my favorites was her early days with my grandfather when they lived on a farm in Illinois with his family. Not long after their wedding, my grandfather bartered with a neighbor, offering to harvest an acre of corn for a pig and a cow. The pig was young, newly weaned, and just learning to eat regular feed. The neighbor’s wife, however, was a bit unstable, though harmless—or so everyone thought.

One afternoon, while my grandfather and his brothers were out in the fields, my grandmother saw the neighbor’s wife marching down the road toward their home. In one hand, she held a knife, her face twisted in rage as she screamed, –––

“I want my pig!”

My grandmother was still young, not much older than a teenager, and alone in the house. Thinking quickly, she grabbed the little pig, rushed inside, and locked the door behind her. Huddling under the kitchen table, she threw a cloth over the pig, praying it would stay quiet. Outside, the woman’s footsteps grew closer, and her voice turned from angry to menacing.

“I’m going to kill you! I want my pig! Give me my pig!”

The door rattled under the force of the knife stabbing into it, and my grandmother could hear the woman’s curses, slurred with madness. Terrified, she clutched the pig tighter, knowing there was no way she’d give it up—not after my grandfather had worked so hard for it. The pig squirmed in her arms, and she whispered a desperate deal, promising it that if it stayed silent, it would never end up on the dinner table.

The minutes they stretched on like hours. It was sweltering in the kitchen, and my grandmother and the pig were sweaty. The woman outside kept up her assault, pounding on the door and shrieking threats. But the pig, to its credit, didn’t make a sound.

Finally, after an eternity, the woman’s husband happened by in his horse and buggy. He saw her crazed state and managed to coax her away, pulling her back home. My grandmother never saw her again, but for years afterward, she went out of her way to avoid passing that house. And as for the pig? It kept its end of the bargain—staying quiet—and lived to see another day, far from the breakfast table.

Hearing that story as a child gave me courage. Just as my grandmother had faced her fear, hiding under a table with a pig, I could face my challenges, too. Whenever I struggled with my speech, I thought of her and that pig. It gave me the strength to keep pushing forward, knowing that silence—and resilience—could sometimes be the best defense.

It Was A BedTime Story My Grandmother Would Tell Me, But It Was The Weekend That I Loved To Spend!

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By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

It was a bedtime story my grandmother used to tell me when I visited their home on weekends. They lived about forty miles west of the farm we had bought, but they had been farmers in the same area. As they grew older, they sold their place and moved to a larger town, closer to conveniences like supermarkets, doctors, hospitals, and stores. I visited them at least one weekend a month, sometimes more, either hopping a westbound Trailways bus or catching a ride with one of my dad’s friends heading out to Texas. On travel days, I dressed to the nines, careful not to show up looking like a bum, especially since people back then still took pride in looking sharp for such things. Times were changing, though. In the sixties, you started seeing folks on the bus with beads, bell bottoms, and cut-off t-shirts, their hair long, male or female.

I was five years old when I first started traveling with my grandparents, and it became a cherished tradition until my grandmother passed when I was eleven. Even as times changed, my routine remained the same. My grandfather would always park in front of the local drugstore that served as the bus stop in their town. A large courthouse sat in the center of the square, and the bus had to make a loop around it before stopping. The airbrakes would hiss, and I was always be the first one off. The bus driver ensured it, especially since I sat beside him on my suitcase for the whole ride.

My grandfather, whom I called Pop, would be waiting by the trunk of his 1952 Chevrolet Coupe. As I stepped down those bus steps, the driver would already have handed my suitcase to Pop, who would smile and say, ––––

“Let’s scoot. Mom’s got dinner about ready at home!”

And it was home. My home away from home. I often dreamed of moving there, living with them, and even telling them so. I wanted my dad and our horses to come too because, in my child’s mind, my grandparents loved me so much that they’d love my dad and our horses too.

Pop had a habit of smoking a pipe—or rather, puffing on one. I could spend hours watching him puff smoke into the air in their cozy den. He liked to mix cherrywood tobacco with Prince Albert, and the sweet scent lingered long after he finished, complementing the smells of my grandmother’s cooking, making you want to eat whatever she was making. There was no television after dinner on most evenings. Instead, we’d listen to the ticking of the clock and talk. It was simple, but those talks meant more to me than the grandest concerts I’ve ever attended.

There were exceptions, though. Saturday evenings, we’d watch the news, then Lawrence Welk and Porter Wagoner, followed by a local music show hosted by a furniture store owner. But the TV was always off once Pop went to bed. That’s when my grandmother and I would click it back on for our secret ritual—watching championship wrestling from Oklahoma City. She loved it, getting so worked up that she’d tear tissues to pieces while her favorite wrestlers fought. I’d hand her a new tissue each time she shredded the last one. No one knew about this passion of hers except me, and she confided that she only got to watch wrestling when I visited. It made me feel needed by these two people I loved so much.

At night, I slept on a cot in their bedroom. It was as comfortable as any five-star hotel bed. But before I bedded down, my grandmother would let me crawl between her and Pop in their bed while she told me stories. One of my favorites was when she grew up in East Texas. She’d laugh so hard telling it, tears streaming down her face. It always made me laugh, too.

“Mom, Florence Lula McElroy, Groff” 1914

She and her sister Ethyl were watching their little brother, Sam, who had just turned four. The rest of the family worked in the fields when the weather worsened. A funnel cloud was forming in the west, and the sisters, frightened, grabbed Sam and rushed into the farmhouse. Back then, there was no electricity, phones, or fundamental utilities, let alone cars. The girls did the only thing they could think of: they got under the heavy kitchen table, crying as the storm approached.

Not understanding what was happening, Little Sam asked, ––– “What should I do?”

My grandmother told him, ––– “Sam, you should pray!”

But the only prayer the boy knew was the table grace, so he began, ––– “Dear Lord, we thank you for what we are about to receive…”

That’s where the story always stopped because my grandmother would laugh so hard she couldn’t go on. I never knew if the house got hit or the storm blew the farm apart. All I remember is her laughter and how I’d move to the cot, hugging her and giving her a sloppy kiss goodnight.

Years later, I asked my Uncle Sam about that storm. He chuckled and said, ––– “Pots and pans were flying everywhere, and the two sisters were laughing like tea parties. We didn’t lose the house, but it scared me.”

Uncle Sam became my favorite great uncle after that.

I loved hanging out with Aunt Ethyl at family reunions. She dipped snuff—real tobacco, not the stuff you see now. She’d sniff it and tuck some into her upper lip. I could never keep up with her, and my grandmother would have been after me if she ever caught me trying.

On Sunday afternoons, my dad drove to pick me up from the farm. I was always happy to see him but hated leaving my grandparents. I didn’t want to return to the town near our farm—it was never as pleasant as the time spent with Mom and Pop. When I was five, I never imagined that they’d leave this world or that I’d grow up. Life takes the airplane, and time takes the train.

Providing Pivotal Role For Family Members In Runup To Election Day! How Family Matters…

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A Report By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

During the run-up to any election, families play a pivotal role in supporting and understanding one another. This period, filled with political debates, media coverage, and public discourse, can stir emotions and create an intensely charged atmosphere. The emotional toll of election season can affect even the most resilient individuals, making the support of one’s family crucial and invaluable. Families are the core unit, providing a comforting and reassuring presence. It is essential that the role model (be it a father, older sibling, uncle, or aunt,) when possible, show support, care, and empathy. Doing so should be cultivated, and providing emotional backing and physical presence can help members navigate the turmoil of an upcoming election.

Election seasons amplify the daily stressors people face. Whether it is work pressure, financial struggles, or personal challenges, these become compounded by the uncertainty of political outcomes. Each family member may carry their political convictions, hopes, and anxieties, and these can sometimes clash with those of others. This emotional burden often deepens as people speculate about the possible outcomes—who they hope will win, who they fear will lose, and how the results will shape their future. The thought of losing an election can become so overwhelming that it leads to despair, disappointment, or even anger. For some, this emotional strain can develop into mental health issues, making it vital for families to remain vigilant about one another’s well-being during this time and to seek professional help if needed.

In the most extreme cases, the stress associated with an election’s outcome can drive individuals to become a threat to themselves or others. This is especially true when political messaging often stokes fear, resentment, and division. Individuals who place too much faith in a particular candidate or political party may feel personally attacked when that candidate loses. The sense of loss may not just be political; it can be internalized as a personal failure, leaving individuals feeling disillusioned or even desperate. Families must observe signs of distress, such as prolonged periods of sadness or withdrawal, recognize potential harmful behavior, like verbal or physical aggression, and intervene when necessary. It is crucial to remain proactive, offering emotional support and, if needed, involving professionals or authorities to prevent escalation.

The role of misinformation and campaigns lies in discussing election-induced emotional volatility. Many political campaigns thrive on pushing false narratives, spreading misleading information to sway voters. Misinformation, which includes false or inaccurate information that is spread deliberately to deceive, can reinforce individuals’ beliefs to dangerous levels. The spread of misinformation fuels emotional intensity and gives people a sense of justification for actions that, under normal circumstances, would seem unreasonable or extreme. When individuals have been repeatedly exposed to incorrect information, their convictions can become so ingrained that they believe their behavior—whether confrontation, violence, or drastic action—is justified.

In such situations, the line between reason and irrationality blurs. What may begin as passionate support for a candidate can spiral into dangerous behavior if an individual believes they are defending a “truth” that is, in fact, built on lies. This is why it is imperative for families to communicate openly about politics, encouraging fact-checking and critical thinking. Recognizing when a loved one’s emotional engagement has become unhealthy is not just crucial, but empowering. In these moments, reporting potentially dangerous behavior to the appropriate authorities is not an act of betrayal but one of care and protection for the individual and others around them, reinforcing the sense of responsibility and control within the family.

As elections approach, the pressure intensifies, with it, the emotional strain on families. However, families can also be a force for positive change, weathering the storm of political tension together by staying connected, offering support, and observing each other’s mental health. It is essential to create a space where emotions can be expressed freely but responsibly and where misinformation is challenged rather than accepted at face value. In doing so, families not only protect one another but also contribute to a more balanced and less volatile society during the electoral process, fostering a sense of hope and optimism for a brighter future.

The Impact Of Loss: Remembering A Childhood Best Friend For Life

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

When I was just eight years old, death was a concept that I hadn’t fully grasped. The only time it touched my life was when my grandparents’ neighbor, a gentleman named Tom, passed away. I was only seven then, and it happened so quickly that it didn’t leave a deep mark. My grandfather had sat up with Tom the night before he passed, a tradition people followed back then—sitting with the dying. It was a tradition, and my dad would continue the practice as I grew up, sitting with many men in our small town of 750 souls. I always wondered why he was asked to do that.

That night, when Pop, my name for my grandfather, went to sit with Tom, it was just my grandmother and me alone in their big, quiet house. It felt different without him there. Early the following day, around 6:00 AM, my grandmother and I were preparing breakfast when Pop came in through the backdoor. He quietly spoke to her, and I suspected what had happened. Mom, my grandmother, suggested I open the dining room door to let the morning light in. As I did, I overheard their conversation growing louder, and when I looked outside, I saw a hearse slowly pulling up to Tom’s house. I knew Tom had passed.

A few days later, my grandmother took me to his funeral, and Pop was one of the pallbearers. It was the first time I ever saw a person in a casket, and Tom still looked like Tom. After the service, my grandmother praised me to my father, saying I behaved so well—sitting quietly and respectfully. I thought I was just being myself. In those days, grandparents didn’t need to ask permission to take their grandchildren anywhere—funerals, courthouses, doctors’ offices, or even jails. The places they took me were some of the most fascinating.

But this story isn’t about Tom. It’s about someone much closer to my heart, a man named Maynord Rider, one of my dad’s dearest friends. Maynord often accompanied us to horse sales on Friday and Saturday nights, and I thought the world of him. He lived two miles south of our farm, a farmer like many others in our area. One cold winter night, our water well froze, and my dad had to drive out over the pasture to fix it. When his headlights passed over Maynord’s bedroom windows, Maynord, instinctively knowing we were in trouble, got out of bed, climbed into his old white Chevrolet pickup, and drove to our house. He pulled up with a five-gallon water thermos and asked if our well had frozen. My mother was surprised—how could he have known? When my dad returned, he asked,

“Maynord, what are you doing here?”

They talked, and it turned out Maynord had guessed right. My dad told him there was no use in fixing it in the dark, and they’d work on it the next day. My dad promised to let Maynord help him the following morning to get him to leave.

There were many stories about Maynord, but they all ended one Thursday in September 1971.

It was the start of a four-day weekend from school due to a statewide teachers’ meeting. The day was beautiful for September in Oklahoma—warm with the usual breeze. I had been pestering my oldest sister, who was tasked with watching me and my other sister. It was just after noon, and the day felt perfect—no school, no bus to catch, just freedom. Then the phone rang. My oldest sister answered, and I could hear her voice change as she said,

“Oh no!” followed by, “I’m not telling him. You should.”

A moment later, she said,

“Mother wants to talk to you.”

I ran to the phone, stretched the cord as far as it would go, and answered.

“Yes, Mother!”

I said, but I could hear a siren approaching in the background. My mother’s voice was calm but direct,

“Benji, Maynord Rider just dropped dead.”

The words hit me like a punch, and I dropped the phone, screaming.

The news hit me like a physical blow, and I dropped the phone, screaming. The rest of the day is a blur, but I remember Ryder, the dog Maynord had given me, howling at the front door, leaning against it as if he, too, understood what had happened. None of the other dogs made a sound—just Ryder, the one I had named after Maynord’s last name.

I wouldn’t see my dad for hours, but I learned the whole story when I did. Maynord had come in from working on the farm for lunch. He ate, felt a bit of indigestion, and decided to lie down for a nap. While his wife, Bonnie, worked in the kitchen, she heard a moan, and when she went to check on him, she found him unresponsive. Panicked, she called my dad at the barbershop, where he cut hair. When he got the call, he told her to call the ambulance and that he’d be there immediately. He told the customers in his shop what had happened, leaving the man in his chair and the shop open as he rushed out.

Driving his Buick Le Sabre station wagon, my dad said the speedometer hit 120 miles per hour as he raced to Maynord’s farm, hoping to get there in time. Hearing this story comforted me, knowing that my dad did everything he could, even though we had lost one of the best men I had ever known.

That Friday night, my parents took me to see Maynord at the funeral home. It was more complicated than when I had seen Tom in his casket. The grief was overwhelming, and I couldn’t contain my tears. It felt like the worst day of my life. For years after Maynord’s death, I would look up at the sky, hoping for some way to talk to him again, but that day never came.

Eventually, I learned that, in life, there would be days harder than that one—the loss of my grandparents and my dad—, but somehow, we keep going, hoping that one day, someone will see our headlights coming over the hill and come to help us, just like Maynord did for us.

Hurricane Helene: The Unexpected Reckoning – The Mara Gonzalez Story

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

The Fall of 2024 was supposed to be quiet—it had just started, at least that’s what the weather forecasters had predicted. But as the Atlantic winds shifted and the sky over the Caribbean darkened, something was brewing—a force no one anticipated. Hurricane Helene, named after the calmest of saints, defied its serene namesake.

It raged towards the coast, catching everyone off guard with a fury unlike any other.

Mara Gonzalez, a lifelong resident of Tallahassee, Florida, knows hurricanes too well. Her family had lived through the destruction of Hermine in 2016 and, even further back, the devastating flood of 1843 that left the area uninhabitable. But Helene was different. It didn’t give them time to prepare. It increased, catching wind over the Gulf of Mexico and swelling from a Category 2 to a dangerous Category 4 within hours.

Mara’s weather app pinged. “Helene upgraded to Category 5. Evacuation recommended for coastal residents.” Her heart sank as she looked out the window, the clouds swirling angrily in the distance.

Her husband, Luis, was packing supplies in the truck—water, canned goods, blankets—everything they had prepared weeks before when the first storm warnings of the season were announced. They had been waiting for something to hit, but nothing ever came. Now, with Helene’s ferocity looming, the preparations seemed rushed. They had planned to ride it out, but the panic spreading through town made Mara reconsider.

“Luis, I think we need to leave,”

She called out, her voice trembling. The wind had already picked up, howling through the streets like a warning cry. Despite her fear, Mara’s determination to protect her family was unwavering.

Luis wiped the sweat from his brow.

“We can still make it inland before the storm hits,”

He reassured her, though his voice wavered.

The children, nine-year-old Sofia and six-year-old Diego sat quietly in the truck’s backseat, their eyes wide with confusion and innocence. They had lived through tropical storms before, but nothing this ominous.

As they made their way out of the neighborhood, Atlanta seemed to be on the move. Lines of cars stretched down the highway, desperate to escape the path of destruction. The radio crackled with reports of the storm’s unexpected growth, and people were urged to evacuate immediately.

But Hurricane Helene wasn’t following any conventional path. As the Gonzalezes drove inland toward Atlanta, the sky darkened further, and the wind picked up speed. The air was thick with the smell of rain and fear. Helene was coming in fast, making landfall quicker than expected. Mara gripped the dashboard as the rain pelted the windshield, blurring their view of the road ahead. The sound of the rain was deafening, and the wind was howling like a pack of wolves, adding to the sense of impending doom.

“Luis, do you think we’ll be safe in Atlanta?”

She asked, her voice barely audible over the pounding rain.

“I don’t know, Mara. We have to keep moving.”

Luis’s hands were tight on the wheel, his knuckles white.

The radio cut out. Silence fell over the car for a moment before the blaring broke it of emergency alerts.

“A tornado is in the storm’s wake, and they are directly in its path.”

“Dad, what’s happening?”

Sofia asked, her voice small and scared.

“Just a bit of rough weather, baby. We’re going to be fine,”

Luis tried to reassure her, but the fear in his voice betrayed him.

The hurricane’s outer bands unleashed their full fury as they approached Tallahassee. Roads flooded, trees were ripped from their roots, and debris littered the streets. The city, usually a haven for those fleeing coastal storms, was under siege by Helene’s wrath.

Mara’s phone buzzed again, this time with a text from her mother, who had stayed behind in Tampa. The water was rising fast; stay safe. I love you all.

Mara’s breath caught as she imagined her mother huddled inside her home, fighting the rising floodwaters. She wanted to scream, to tell her to leave, but the storm had already overtaken the coast.

Hours passed in the chaos, and they found temporary shelter in a school gym, along with hundreds of others who had fled in the nick of time. The wind howled outside as the noises of roofs getting ripped off homes echoed, and power lines crashing down filled the air. Yet, amid this turmoil, there was a sense of unity among the survivors, a shared understanding of the need to support each other.

But Mara couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about her mother and the others who stayed behind, hoping and praying they’d made it through the worst.

Morning came, but the storm lingered. Helene’s aftermath was unlike anything the city had ever seen. Tampa was submerged, and entire neighborhoods were wiped out. The streets were littered with debris, and the once vibrant city was now a ghost town. Atlanta too, was left battered, with flooding rivaling the disaster of Hurricane Harvey years before. The city was in a state of shock, trying to come to terms with the scale of the destruction.

Mara stood outside the shelter, looking at the devastation, trying to fathom the destruction that stretched as far as she could see. Helene had taken lives, homes, and peace of mind. Yet, as the sun rose, a strange calm settled over the city. People began to emerge, surveying the wreckage but already talking about rebuilding, helping one another, and survival.

“Hurricane Helene may have brought us down,” Luis said, placing a hand on Mara’s shoulder, “but it didn’t break us.” The city was a testament to that. Despite the devastation, people were already talking about rebuilding, helping one another, and survival. The spirit of the community was unbroken, and it was this resilience that would see them through the difficult times ahead.

Mara nodded, her mind racing with thoughts of what was next. There would be losses to mourn, people to find, and a future to rebuild. Helene had come unannounced and left destruction in its wake, but the people’s resilience would rise just as it always had, just as it always would.

Freddy the Frog: Embracing Adversity with Grace and Grit

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

Once upon a time, a frog named Freddy lived in a quiet woodland pond nestled at the edge of a neighborhood. Freddy’s life was simple and peaceful. His favorite spot was a cozy little lily pad shaded by tall reeds. Each morning, Freddy would wake to birds chirping, the soft rustle of leaves, and the shimmering sunlight dancing on the water.

That all changed one day when loud machines rolled in, and men in hard hats began building a new home next to the pond. Freddy watched in horror as the construction grew closer and closer until, one day, his beloved lily pad was torn from the water, and the pond shrunk into a muddy puddle.

With his home destroyed, Freddy had no choice but to leave. He hopped through the woods, searching for a new place to live. Days passed, and Freddy grew tired and hungry. Then, just as he was about to give up, he stumbled upon a lush, green golf course. In the middle of a pond sat a large and perfect lily pad, just waiting for a frog like him. Freddy couldn’t believe his luck.

Excitedly, he leaped onto the lily pad and settled in. The pond was clear, the grass was trimmed, and the sun shone warmly on his new home. Freddy thought he had found paradise—until the first golf ball landed in the water with a loud plop.

Startled, Freddy dove underwater, only to resurface to see a man with a long club fishing the ball out. “Hmm, must’ve sliced it,” the golfer muttered as he walked away.

Freddy shrugged it off and continued his day, but the peace didn’t last long. Soon, more golf balls began raining down from the sky, thudding into the water and onto his lily pad. Some would bounce off with a dull thud, while others would send ripples through the pond, unsettling everything around him.

Every day, Freddy’s new lily pad became a target. No matter how much he tried to ignore the golf balls, they kept coming. He would sit quietly, only to be startled by a ball splashing into the water inches away. Some days, the barrage was so constant that Freddy could hardly rest, his nerves frazzled from dodging incoming projectiles.

At first, Freddy thought about leaving again, but where would he go? The golf course pond was the only place he could find, and despite the constant bombardment, it was still a safe place to sleep. So, Freddy decided to adapt, showing a determination that inspired all who witnessed his struggle.

One evening, after narrowly avoiding yet another ball, Freddy had an idea. He gathered twigs, leaves, and small stones, building a tiny fortress around his lily pad. With each piece he added, the pad grew sturdier, able to withstand the impact of the golf balls.

Days turned into weeks, and Freddy became a master at navigating his chaotic new world. He could now sense a golf ball before it hit, leaping into the water just in time or taking cover behind his makeshift shield. Strangely, he began to enjoy the challenge. The golf balls that once terrorized him now felt like a game—a test of his agility and wit. His transformation from fear to enjoyment was a powerful testament to the resilience of the mind.

One afternoon, a young boy approached the pond as Freddy sat on his pad, watching the golfers. He had lost his ball, and as he peered into the water, he noticed Freddy sitting calmly on his lily pad fortress. “Hey, look!” the boy called to his dad. “A frog is living here!”

The boy and his father stood by the pond, smiling at Freddy. The father chuckled, “Seems like he’s figured out how to deal with all the golf balls, huh?” His admiration for Freddy’s resilience was evident in his tone.

Freddy, proud of his resilience, croaked contentedly. His new home wasn’t perfect, but he had made it his own. No matter how many golf balls came his way, Freddy the Frog would always find a way to bounce back.

And so, Freddy lived on his golf course lily pad, a small but mighty frog who turned adversity into adventure, embracing his unpredictable new life with grace and grit. His story serves as a reminder that no matter what life throws at us, with resilience and adaptability, we can always find a way to bounce back.

The end.

How Ultra-Processed Foods Consumed the American Diet

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

Today, ultra-processed foods dominate the American food supply, making up over half of an American adult’s diet and two-thirds of an American child’s diet despite links to poor health. 

Even as those numbers are likely to increase, and food technology develops at lightning speed, U.S. agencies have seemed to lag behind in updating the rules that regulate these foods compared to other countries. 

CBS Reports examines why ultra-processed foods have become so pervasive in the American diet – and what filling the gaps in federal regulation can do to ensure Americans are fed and healthy. 

Watch Ultra Processed: How Food Tech Consumed the American Diet on CBS News, Paramount+ or by downloading the free CBS News App.

Baseball’s Robert Edward “Bob” Blaylock Has Died. And Few Noticed.

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By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Robert Blaylock Obituary

Obituary published on Legacy.com by Green Hill Funeral Home of Owasso on Sep. 4, 2024.

Obituary of Robert Edward Blaylock
Robert Edward Blaylock, Husband, Father, Grandfather & Great Grandfather went to be with Jesus on September 1st, 2024, at the age of 89. He was born on June 28th, 1935, in Chattanooga, OK to Cecil and Fannie Blaylock.
Bob was a 1953 graduate of Muldrow High School where he excelled in baseball and basketball. After graduation he signed to play baseball with the St. Louis Cardinals organization. Bob’s love for baseball continued throughout his whole life, he was a great coach on and off the field. He was also inducted into the University of Arkansas – Ft. Smith for his basketball achievements in 2012 and he was the 1st Hall of Fame inductee at Muldrow High School in 2014.
He married Barbara Thompson on Oct 3, 1956. They had 3 children, Robyn, Russ and Terri. After his baseball career he raised his family in Tulsa, OK where he Managed the Saratoga Hotel and owned the Saratoga Restaurant until his retirement in 1997. After his retirement he bought a farm in Talala, OK where he raised racehorses and cattle. Bob loved animals of all kinds, he had pot belly pigs, cats, dogs and numerous Martin houses that he monitored hourly with his shotgun to keep the starlings away!
Bob’s Celebration of Life will be at 11:00 AM Friday, September 6th, 2024 at First Baptist Church, Owasso, OK. The visitation will be at Greenhill Funeral Home Thursday, September 5th, 2024, from 5:00 – 7:00 PM.
He was preceded in death by his wife Barbara, Parents Cecil & Fannie Blaylock, Brother & Sister-in-Law Harold & Wanda Blaylock and one infant sister Glenna Fay Blaylock.
He is survived by his sister and brother-in-law, Lois & OC Flanagan.
He is a Proud Papa of 9 Grandchildren and 10 Great Grandchildren who will always love and cherish the memories they have with him.
Pallbearers are his Grandsons John Einhellig, Tyler Lambert, Justin & Josh Beal and Luke & Jake Blaylock.
To send flowers to the family or plant a tree in memory of Robert Blaylock, please visit Tribute Store

EDITORS NOTE: Bob Blaylock’s talent on the mound caught the eye of the St. Louis Cardinals organization, with whom he would spend his entire ten-year professional career.
Bob made his MLB debut on July 22, 1956, pitching for the Cardinals against the Brooklyn Dodgers. Despite a promising start, his time in the majors was marked by challenges, including an injury in his youth that left him with only three fingers on his non-pitching hand. Yet, he was a hard thrower who led the American Association in strikeouts in 1958, a testament to his resilience and determination that should inspire us all.
Over two MLB seasons, in 1956 and 1959, Bob pitched in 17 games, striking out 42 batters. Though his major league career was brief, his impact was felt deeply by those who knew him. He was also part of a unique trio of unrelated Blaylocks who played in the National League during the 1950s, sharing the field with names like Marv and Gary Blaylock.

Caring for Aging Parents: Fears, Responsibilities, and Reflections

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

Fear of Your Parents’ Old Age

As my mother turned 94 in August 2024, my sister and I took turns caring for her and took time out to celebrate her milestone. I also cared for my mother-in-law until her death in her last years of life in our home and have experienced caring for a parent in their senior and final years. I came across an article that discussed the fears of some individuals in dealing with aging parents. I prepared remarks from it as memory serves and through internet searches on topics debating the subject.

“There is a break in the family history, where the ages accumulate and overlap, and the natural order makes no sense: it’s when the child becomes the parent of their parent.”

It’s when the father grows older and begins to move as if he were walking through fog. Slowly, slowly, imprecisely. It’s when one of the parents who once held your hand firmly when you were little no longer wants to be alone.

I remember when my mother asked me to help her down the stairs. It was a subtle, almost casual request, but its weight sank deep into my chest. She had always been so independent and capable. And yet, there she was, reaching out to me for balance, her hand trembling slightly in mine. It felt like the beginning of a new chapter that neither of us was ready for.

It’s when the father, once strong and unbeatable, weakens and takes two breaths before rising from his seat. My friend Lucy spoke of her father, a man who had always been larger than life, now struggling to remember where he left his glasses. “He used to be so sharp,” she said, her voice thick with the unspoken grief of seeing the man who once seemed invincible begin to fade. 

“Now, it’s like watching a candle burn down.”

It’s when the father, who once commanded and ordered, now only sighs, groans, and searches for the door and window—every hallway now feels distant. And we, as their children, will do nothing but accept that we are responsible for that life.

The life that gave birth to us depends on our life to die in peace. Every child is the parent of their parent’s death. 

Perhaps a father or mother’s old age is, curiously, the final pregnancy—our last lesson—an opportunity to return the care and love they gave us for decades. This sense of duty, though heavy, is a testament to the respect and acknowledgment we have for our parents.

And just as we adapted our homes to care for our babies, blocking power outlets and setting up playpens, we will now rearrange the furniture for our parents. 

The first transformation happens in the bathroom. We will be the parents of our parents, the ones who now install a grab bar in the shower. The grab bar is emblematic and symbolic. 

It inaugurates the “unsteadiness of the waters.” Because the shower, simple and refreshing, now becomes a storm for the old feet of our protectors. We cannot leave them for even a moment.

I once spoke to Sarah, who had installed those grab bars in her mother’s bathroom.

“She used to laugh at the idea of needing help,”

Sarah said, a faint smile on her lips.

“Now, she clings to that bar like a lifeline. And I stand outside the door, listening, ready to rush in if she calls. I never thought I’d have to do that for her.”

The tension in Sarah’s voice was palpable—the love and the frustration, the fear of what was coming, and the bittersweet comfort of being there for her mother.

The home of someone who cares for their parents will have grab bars along the walls. And our arms will extend in the form of railings. Aging is walking while holding onto objects; aging is even climbing stairs without steps. We will be strangers in our own homes. We will observe every detail with fear, unfamiliarity, doubt, and concern.

We will be architects, designers, frustrated engineers. 

How did we not foresee that our parents would get sick and need us? We will regret the sofas, the statues, the spiral staircase, all the obstacles, and the carpet.

But amid this frustration, there are moments of unexpected connection. 

One evening, while helping my father navigate his way to bed, he looked at me with a softness I hadn’t seen before. 

“I’m glad it’s you,” he whispered. You were always the one I could count on.”

At that moment, the roles reversed entirely—no longer just my father, he was now also my child, someone who needed and trusted me. The sweetness of that connection, of being needed in that way, mingled with the deep sadness of seeing him so diminished. 

These moments of connection, however brief, are a source of hope and upliftment amid the challenges of caring for aging parents.

Happy is the child who becomes the parent of their parent before their death, and unfortunate is the child who only appears at the funeral and doesn’t say goodbye a little each day. Being present for our parents in their final years is a duty and a privilege. It’s a chance to repay the love and care they’ve given us and to create lasting memories.

My friend Joseph Klein accompanied his father until his final moments. In the hospital, the nurse was maneuvering to move him from the bed to the stretcher and trying to change the sheets when Joe shouted from his seat:    

“Let me help you.”

He gathered his strength and, for the first time, took his father into his arms, placing his father’s face against his chest.

He cradled his father, consumed by cancer: small, wrinkled, fragile, trembling. He held him for a long time, the time equivalent to his childhood, the time comparable to his adolescence, a long time, an endless time.

By Your Side, Nothing Hurts. He was rocking his father back and forth and caressing his father. Calming his father. And he said softly:

“I’m here, I’m here, Dad!”

At the end of his life, a father wants to hear that his child is there.

There is an inevitable grief in watching our parents age, but also a strange sense of fulfillment in being there for them as they were for us. It is a role we never asked for, yet one we take on with reluctance and a fierce sense of duty. Despite the challenges, there is a deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that we are doing everything possible to make our parents’ final years comfortable and dignified. 

The road is difficult, filled with moments of frustration and exhaustion, but also with love and tenderness—those fleeting instances when the gap between child and parent narrows, and we are simply there for each other, as we always have been.

Some parts of this story have been adapted from an original tale of unknown origin.

Me And My Dads Long Walk Home

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

Saturday nights were a ritual for my dad and me. From the time I started school—maybe even before that—every weekend, we’d find ourselves at horse auctions in nearby cities. It was our thing, a bond that felt like a gift wrapped in the familiar scent of hay, the distant sound of auctioneers’ rapid chants, and the sight of the starry night sky as we drove back home.

One particular Saturday night, a local car dealer trying to sell my dad a truck sparked the beginning of this story. My dad, a barber in a small town of about 750 souls, knew a Chevrolet dealer down the street from his shop. The dealer walked in one day, convincing him – he needed to trade his pickup for a newer model. The offer was tempting—my dad could take the truck for the weekend, drive it Saturday night and Sunday, and bring it back on Monday if he decided to make the trade. My dad, a seasoned horse trader who loved a good deal, took the bait.


As Saturday evening approached, I was all set for the auction when my dad arrived in a pickup truck I’d never seen before. “I’ll explain on the way,” he said, inviting me to join him. At nine, we had already faced a few life-altering events together. We had a bond built on trust and shared experiences, even when they led us down rough roads. This bond, forged through our shared love for horse auctions and our mutual trust, was something I cherished deeply.


The drive to the auction was about 45 minutes. The city was only 30 miles away, but this was 1972—speed limits were lower, and the highways were narrower. We took our time, even pulling over on a dirt road for a quick bladder relief break, which was as much a part of our trips as the auctions themselves.


The truck didn’t impress me much. It wasn’t flashy or powerful, and I was surprised my dad had even considered it. But he was a horse trader through and through, always on the lookout for a good deal, and I never questioned his judgment.


The truck did its job—climbing hills, passing cars, and stopping without much fuss. It got us to the auction barn, where we parked and settled in for the night. The auction barn was a lively place, filled with the sounds of horses, the chatter of traders, and the occasional shout of an auctioneer.

The auction lasted until nearly 1:00 AM, but that was nothing new for us. If it had gone on until sunrise, I would have been wide awake beside him. My dad was the envy of every father in that barn, with his young son at his side, fully immersed in horse-trading.


Finally, we made our way out to the parking lot. The truck, waiting for us like a tired old dog, started—barely. It was as if it was protesting the idea of working on a Sunday. We headed back home, north on US Highway 281, moving into the night and now with the town of Gracemont behind us.


Our adventure took an unexpected turn when the truck’s engine stopped 6 miles north of Gracemont. It didn’t sputter or struggle—it just stopped like someone had flipped a switch. My dad, a former service station owner and a man who knew his way around an engine, tried everything to revive it. But the truck had given up, and it was now 1:45 AM.


Stranded on a deserted highway without signs of life, we began walking. We knocked on doors, and my dad stood in the road, instructing me to run if I heard dogs or gunshots. But no one responded. Four houses later, and we’re still waiting.


By now, it was 4:30 AM, and we’d been walking for what felt like forever. Somehow, we covered nearly twenty miles, returning to our farm southeast of Lookeba, Oklahoma. The only break we got was from two teenage boys out drinking beer and driving dirt roads in a Mach1 Mustang. They gave us a lift for the last mile and a half, a sight to behold—my dad, an old cowboy, crammed into the backseat with a couple of rowdy teens and his nine-year-old son.


When we finally entered the house, my mother was asleep on the sofa, a table lamp casting a warm glow in the dim room.


My dad gently nudged her and whispered, –––

“Marge, we’re home.” She said, “Okay, we should all go to bed.”

Tragic Loss: Coping with Grief and Family Support | Campground Incident

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

Sammie had just turned fourteen and was riding his bike around the campgrounds his dad patrolled as a ranger. The family lived in a state-owned residence provided as part of his father’s compensation package while he got assigned to the western part of the state. Life in the park was usually quiet, but earlier that year, a tragedy struck a different campground on the state’s eastern side.


Two families had been brutally murdered in their sleep, sending shockwaves across the state. In response, the state implemented new security measures at every campground. Entrance gates were locked, and everyone entering was logged by their driver’s license or other identification. Unsuspected patrols got scheduled, lighting around the parks flickered on and off without notice, and campers got direct communication links to the ranger’s headquarters. Additional officers were stationed along park perimeters at night, keeping a vigilant eye on the fencelines.

It was nearing 5 PM when Sammie pulled up in front of his home and started to get off his bike. A car horn suddenly blared from the gate entrance, catching his attention. Squinting, he saw a familiar figure waving from the vehicle.


“Sammie—it’s your Uncle Ned! Let me in; I need to see your dad and mom!”


Sammie quickly hopped back on his bike, racing to the gate. He pulled out his key ring, unlocked the gate, and swung it open with a grin.

“Wow! This is a pleasant surprise. It’s great to see you, Uncle Ned! I’ll lock the gate and meet you back at the house.”


Ned was accompanied by a man Sammie didn’t recognize, but there was no time to dwell on it. The car pulled through the gate, and Sammie secured it before pedaling back to the house. As he approached, his sister burst through the back door, tears streaming down her face.
Startled, Sammie tried to comfort her, but before he could, Uncle Ned stepped forward to hold her.

Confusion and fear knotted rolled in Sammie’s chest as he asked, –––

“What’s going on? Is it Grandma or Grandpa? Did one of them die?”


Uncle Ned’s voice was heavy. –––

“No, Sammie. It’s your Uncle Richard. He was killed this afternoon.”


Sammie stood frozen, his mind racing, but no words came. The weight of the news pressed down on him like a physical force. He stumbled into the living room, where his parents were. His father held his mother close, her body trembling with sobs. His dad turned to Sammie, his voice raw with grief. –––

“Your Uncle Ricky is dead. He got hit by a train in Oklahoma City. That’s all we know right now.”

The shock numbed Sammie. He recalled watching the afternoon news and seeing a report of a car struck by a train. The paramedics had been performing CPR on one of the occupants, and Sammie had thought the head looked familiar. But he had dismissed the thought—it couldn’t have been someone he knew.


As the reality of the situation sank in, Sammie told his family about the news broadcast. –––

“I think… I think I watched the last moments of Uncle Richard’s life on television. It might be on the ten o’clock news again.”


That night, the family sat together, waiting for the broadcast. Sure enough, the footage replayed, and there was no doubt—it was Uncle Richard. The sight left them in stunned silence, the grief fresh all over again.


Days passed, and soon, it was time for the funeral. The family chose Sammie and five of his cousins to be pallbearers. The day was heavy with sorrow, and Sammie, feeling overwhelmed, approached his father. –––

“Dad, I don’t like going to funerals why do I have to go?”


His father’s response was gentle yet firm. –––

“Well, first, it’s the right thing to do: to show respect for another person’s life. As you age, you’ll realize that funerals are among the few times we come together as a family. They unite people who otherwise never see each other. You go to pay your respects and leave having been paid dearly for your time.”

Some characters in this story have had their names changed. While the story is true, certain information pertaining to the day is changed to protect the identity of those who may wish to keep their identity private. Benjamin Groff August 19th, 2024 Contact Us click here

The Cat That Came To Dinner

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

It was the early 1930s, and the Oklahoma Dust Bowl swept through the Lower Plains States, leaving the land desolate. Sand drifts piled high against fence lines and buried the once-thriving crops. The sky, often a fiery orange, seemed to smoke under the relentless barrage of dust, with the sun reduced to a mere, dim glow fighting to penetrate the thick haze. In these trying times, the ingenuity of the people shone through. Cotton sacks and burlap gunny sacks, soaked in water, were draped over windows, turning the blistering wind into a cool, damp breeze—a crude yet effective method of finding relief from the unforgiving heat.

One late afternoon, as the sun struggled to set, casting long shadows across the Groff household near the Caddo-Washita County line, Florence ‘Mom’ Groff finished preparing the evening meal—known simply as “Supper.” The family gathered around the table, hands clasped in prayer, their faces etched with the lines of hard work and resilience.

But as they lifted their heads, ready to eat, a sound cut through the thick silence—a soft, sad meow. The children were the first to hear it, their eyes widening in surprise. Then Mom and Pop heard it, too, and a hush fell over the room.

Mom Groff had always wished for a cat, a companion to keep her company, and a mouser to guard the pantry. To her, the sound was nothing short of a divine blessing, a wish finally granted amidst the harshness of their lives. The family’s joy was palpable, a rare moment of lightness in a world often shrouded in dust. Their hearts swelled with hope and anticipation, their spirits lifted by the prospect of a new member in their humble household.

With a heart full of hope, Mom poured a saucer of milk and gently opened the screen door, its hinges creaking as she knelt. Mom propped the door open and called softly, coaxing the stray Cat into the kitchen’s warmth.

The Cat, a scraggly creature with dust-matted fur, cautiously stepped inside, its eyes wide and curious. It approached the saucer and began to lap the milk, its tail flicking contentedly. The family watched in silence, their smiles growing as they saw the Cat settling in, imagining it becoming a permanent household member.

But fate had other plans. Just as the Cat seemed at ease, a sudden gust of wind caught the screen door, slamming it shut with a thunderous WHACK! The noise startled the Cat, sending it into a frenzy. With a yowl that echoed through the house, the Cat leaped onto the dining table in a single bound, scattering dishes, plates, glasses, and silverware in all directions. Food splattered across the room, landing in the laps of the children and Ben, Mom’s husband, who sat stunned at the chaos unfolding before them.

Now in full panic mode, the Cat darted around the kitchen, running along the walls as if possessed, leaving deep scratch marks and a trail of destruction in its wake. The family could only watch in disbelief as the once-peaceful scene became utter chaos. Dishes clattered, food splattered, and the Cat’s wild antics turned the kitchen into a battleground.

Finally, Ben, known as “Pop,” rose from his chair with the calm of a man who had seen it all. He grabbed a broom and walked to the kitchen door, his face determined. As he held the door open, he quietly muttered, ––– “scat, you son of a bitch, you. Scat!”

“Scat, you son of a bitch, you. Scat!”

With that, the Cat shot out the door, disappearing into the dust-laden twilight, leaving behind a shambling kitchen and a family in stunned silence. The sudden departure of the Cat left the family in a state of shock, their hearts still racing from the unexpected turn of events. The once lively kitchen now stood in stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.

The story might have ended there, but it became a cherished family tale, retold with laughter that brought tears to the eyes of those who heard it. My dad, JD Groff, was the one who shared it most often, his voice shaking with joy as he recalled Pop’s uncharacteristic outburst. Dad would always add with a chuckle, “Pop never cursed a day in his life until that damn Cat tore the hell out of our dinner table.”

After He Died, He became The Most Popular Educator In Town.

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A Fictional Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media2024© Truth Endures

In the small town of Fairview, the school principal, Mr. Harold Beasley, stood as a pillar of consistency and unwavering commitment. He wasn’t tall or short and carried a bit of a pot belly, always framed by his neatly pressed suits. His wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose, magnifying the keen intellect behind them.

Mr. Beasley was a whiz in math and science. He was often spotted in his office poring over the latest educational journals or solving complex equations just for fun. His passion for these subjects was palpable, spilling over into every interaction he had with his students and staff. But his brilliance in academia was matched by his unique sense of humor.

Mr. Beasley’s office was often filled with the sound of his hearty laughter, a testament to his unique sense of humor. His responses to students’ grumbles and grievances were always the same, laced with a touch of wit and understanding.

Rubbing his thumb and finger together and holding it up for a student to see after being asked for some special request he’d hold out his hand saying ––

“You know what that is? That is the world’s tiniest record player –– playing ‘My heart cries for you.”

He would then burst into hearty laughter, his belly shaking nearly busting the buttons on his shirt.

His responses to students’ grumbles and grievances were always the same.

“I can’t set up the schedule to please 250 students,”

He would say with a shrug.

And homework?

“It makes school days shorter.”

While his words might seem brusque, they were rooted in wisdom and fairness. Mr. Beasley knew that life wasn’t always about comfort; it was about learning and growing.

Over the decades, his straightforwardness and dedication earned him a mix of respect and frustration from students and fellow teachers alike. They might not always have liked his methods, but they couldn’t deny the results. Under his leadership, Fairview High consistently produced top-notch graduates who excelled in colleges and careers far beyond the town’s modest borders.

As the years passed, Mr. Beasley became a fixture at Fairview High, symbolizing stability in an ever-changing world. He celebrated countless graduations, always giving the same advice to departing seniors:

“Keep learning, keep questioning, and remember, the only limits are the ones you set for yourself.”

One crisp autumn morning, after fifty years of dedicated service, Mr. Beasley passed away peacefully. The news of his death spread quickly, casting a somber shadow over the town. The weight of his absence was felt by all who had been touched by his presence.

Even those who had butted heads with him over homework or school policies foun themselves reminiscing fondly about his impact on their lives.

Former students across the decades returned to Fairview, each carrying their treasured memory of Mr. Beasley. They spoke of his brilliant mind, quirky humor, and the lessons that had stayed with them long after leaving the school. John credited Mr. Beasley for his love of astronomy, and Maria credited him for inspiring him to become a mathematician because of his encouragement.

The school’s auditorium began filling with former students, teachers, and community members at the memorial service. As they shared their stories, one theme emerged: Mr. Beasley had not just been an educator but a mentor, guide, and friend. His legacy was not in the grades or the test scores but in the lives he had touched and the minds he had sparked.

In the end, Mr. Harold Beasley was remembered not just for his sharp mind and his tiny record player joke but also for his unwavering dedication to his students. He had spent his life teaching them not just about math and science but also about resilience, curiosity, and the importance of a good laugh. And that, more than anything, was his greatest lesson.

The Secret of Willow Woods

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A Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media2024© Truth Endures

Tommy was a curious little boy who loved exploring. One summer afternoon, he ventured deep into Willow Woods, a place he had always wondered about. As he wandered through the dense trees, he stumbled upon something extraordinary: a hidden community of miniature people no more significant than his pinky finger.

They lived in tiny homes nestled in the roots of trees, complete with a store, a church, and a post office. There were no cars, for they had not mastered making them so small. Instead, they traveled on foot or used small carts pulled by squirrels.

Tommy was amazed and approached cautiously. The miniature people, initially startled, soon realized he meant no harm. Among them was a little person named Nolin, who became fast friends with Tommy. They spent hours together, sharing stories and learning about each other’s worlds.

One day, Tommy had an idea. He brought a toy car from home and showed it to Nolin. The little vehicle fascinated the miniature people. With Tommy’s help, they began to design tiny vehicles that ran on water. Using miniature engines and the natural resources around them, they created a fleet of small, eco-friendly cars.

The community also harnessed wind and solar power to produce electricity. Tiny windmills spun in the breeze, and miniature solar panels soaked up the sun’s rays. The town flourished, becoming a model of sustainable living.

Their actions not only protected their community but also had a positive impact on the environment, inspiring others to follow their lead.

However, Tommy knew he had to keep their secret safe. He feared that if the grown-ups found out, they might destroy everything the miniature people had accomplished. This responsibility weighed heavily on him.

One day, as he was leaving the woods, he overheard some adults talking about expanding the nearby town, which would infringe on the woods. Tommy’s heart sank. He knew he had to act.

Tommy went back to the miniature town and shared his worries with Nolin. Together, they devised a plan. They would build a protective barrier of thorny bushes around the community, making it difficult for anyone to venture close. The miniature people worked tirelessly, and a dense wall of thorns soon surrounded their town.

The adults did start to clear some of the woods, but they stopped short when they encountered the thorny barrier. Declaring it too much trouble, they left that part of the forest untouched.

Tommy was relieved but knew the barrier was only a temporary solution. He solemnly promised Nolin and the miniature people that he would always protect their secret. This promise was not just a word, but a commitment that he upheld throughout his life, visiting them often but never telling anyone about the wonders hidden in Willow Woods.

In the end, there were no winners and no losers. The miniature community continued to thrive, hidden from the world. Tommy grew up, but he always remembered his tiny friends and the promise he made. His word was his bond, shielding the secret community, allowing it to remain a beacon of what the world could be—sustainable, harmonious, and thriving—hidden safely in the heart of Willow Woods. This story is a testament to the power of promises and the impact of small actions on a larger scale. 

The story would have ended there if not for the promise so many years ago. The one Tommy gave said he would always shield the little people from the significant adults and intruders wanting the land for greed. Tommy, a successful businessman who had made millions in his dealings, bought the little people’s world’s land and built a protective barrier around the property. He then placed the property in a revolving Trust that would remain untouched, assuring the little people’s world would always be safe from intruders. This time, Tommy returned to tell Nolan, now an elder of the community getting to say,

“WE WON!”

A Select Article from One of Our Trusted Sources ~ What Makes Chicken Noodle Soup the Ultimate Comfort Soup! ~

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It’s not just the tender chicken, the perfectly cooked noodles, or the savory broth that make it special; it’s the way this humble soup stirs memories of cherished family moments, rainy days spent indoors, and the simple, comforting presence of loved ones.

What Makes Chicken Noodle Soup the Ultimate Comfort Food?
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 A Blinding Prank That Wasn’t FoolProof

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A Story By Benjamin H Groff© Groff Media Copyright 2024©

In the small town of Havenbrook, two blind men, Al and Bert, were renowned for their cunning and mischievous antics. Despite their lack of sight, they possessed a sharp wit and an uncanny ability to navigate the world around them. They orchestrated elaborate practical jokes daily, relishing in the townspeople’s reactions.

Yesterday, Al and Bert made an unusual purchase: a driverless car. They had saved up for months, and now their latest scheme was about to unfold. The sleek, shiny vehicle arrived at their doorstep, and the two friends couldn’t contain their excitement.

“This is going to be legendary!” Al exclaimed, his face lighting up.

Bert nodded, grinning from ear to ear. “Let’s give Havenbrook a show they won’t forget.”

That morning, Al and Bert put on a show. They dressed in a deliberately disheveled manner, with their clothes inside out and their hair tousled. They staggered down the street, feigning confusion and disorientation. The townspeople looked on in bewilderment as the two blind men stumbled around, bumping into things and seeking directions.

“Excuse me, can you help us? We seem to have lost our way,” Bert asked a passerby, his voice trembling with fake desperation.

The kind-hearted woman pointed them in the right direction, her face filled with concern. Al and Bert thanked her profusely before stumbling off in the opposite direction, leaving the woman and the other townspeople in a state of amused bewilderment.

Their antics continued throughout the day, with Al and Bert putting on an Oscar-worthy performance. They wandered into shops, interrupted conversations, and generally caused chaos wherever they went. Each time someone offered help, the duo responded with exaggerated confusion, leaving the townspeople scratching their heads and bursting into laughter at the same time.

By midday, they decided it was time to unveil the pièce de résistance. Al and Bert climbed into their driverless car, pretending to argue about who should take the wheel.

“You drive, Al! I can’t see a thing!” Bert insisted, his voice rising in mock panic.

“Neither can I, you fool! We’re both blind!” Al shot back, throwing his hands up in frustration.

The car, programmed to respond to voice commands, smoothly pulled out of the driveway and began its route through town. The sight of two blind men driving a car sent shockwaves through Havenbrook. People gawked, some laughed, and others chased after the vehicle, shouting warnings and pleas for them to stop, adding to the chaotic and humorous scene.

Inside the car, Al and Bert were beside themselves with laughter. They marveled at the chaos unfolding outside, their faces aching from so much smiling.

“Look at them! They think we’re driving!” Al gasped, clutching his sides.

Bert nodded, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. “Best prank ever!”

The car continued its journey, obediently following its pre-programmed path. Realizing they got duped again, the townspeople couldn’t help but chuckle at the elaborate ruse. Al and Bert’s reputation as the town’s resident tricksters became cemented even further.

As the day drew close, the car returned to their home, and the two friends climbed out, exhausted but exhilarated. They high-fived each other, basking in the success of their latest prank.

“Well, Bert, we’ve done it again,” Al said, a satisfied smile on his face.

Bert nodded in agreement. “Indeed we have, Al. Indeed we have.”

In the days that followed, the story of the blind men and their driverless car became the stuff of legend in Havenbrook. Al and Bert continued their daily pranks, always finding new ways to keep the townspeople on their toes. And though their sightless eyes never saw the results of their efforts, their hearts were full of the joy and laughter they brought to their beloved town.

Embracing Differences: Robella’s Journey to Belonging

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Robella, a woman with physical differences, was born into a world that seemed to reject her. Her hair grew out long and kinky on one side and short and stubby on the other, and she was nearly bald in the back. Her left leg was shorter than the right. The elbow on her right arm is three inches higher than the left. Her nose had a long mole on end, which, when she was in school, all the children nicknamed her ‘witchy-pooh.’ Her body had grown misshaped, and she had to wear specially-made clothes that she made since her parents had distanced themselves from her for being so embarrassing.

Robella, often misunderstood and feared, would rummage the town’s alleys for whatever she could find. She would growl feverishly at anyone who said hello to her or offered to help her, a response born out of years of rejection. However, even this didn’t stop the town’s nicest people from trying to help her. Mrs. Meyers, who ran the bakery, would make a point to set a hot loaf of bread out on the back steps of her store every Monday, knowing that Robella would soon be looking for items the store owners had discarded. Robella would rummage through the cans and junk in the alley until she got to the bread, every week she would sniff it and say out loud,

“Mrs. Myers Bakery always forgets and leaves a loaf of bread in the oven over the weekend. My gain!”

She proceeded down the alley, finding other items that store owners had carefully placed for her, knowing where she would look for them. Robella would find the goods, and she would let out a grunt and laugh and proceed on.

One cold winter day, as Robella made her usual rounds through the alley, she stumbled upon something unexpected. There was a small, wrapped package with a note attached among the carefully placed items. Curiosity piqued, and she hesitated before picking it up.

The note read:

“To Robella,
You are special and loved just as you are. Please join us at the town square tonight for a surprise.

With love,
Your Neighbors”

Robella frowned and grumbled to herself, unsure what to make of it. Despite her mistrust, a flicker of curiosity and hope stirred within her. She decided to see what kind of joke the townspeople might be playing on her.

As the evening approached, Robella made her way to the town square, staying in the shadows so she would not be seen. To her surprise, the square was transformed into a magical wonderland, filled with lights and decorations. The townspeople had gathered, and a large table was set with all kinds of delicious food. At the center of it all stood Mrs. Meyers, holding a beautifully decorated cake.

“Robella, we’ve been waiting for you,”

Mrs. Meyers called warmly, spotting her in the shadows. The crowd turned, and they all smiled at her, to her amazement.


“Come, join us, “
one of the townspeople said, extending a hand towards her.

“We’ve prepared a feast in your honor.”

Robella hesitated, unsure of what to make of this unexpected show of kindness. But Mrs. Meyers, sensing her hesitation, walked over and gently took her hand, leading her to the center of the square.

“This is for you, dear. We want you to know that we see you, we care about you, and we want you to be part of our community. Your differences are what make you special, and we celebrate them.”

Tears welled up in Robella’s eyes. For so long, she had felt nothing but rejection and loneliness. Now, faced with genuine kindness and acceptance, her hardened exterior began to crack. She felt a mix of emotions-disbelief, gratitude, and a glimmer of hope. Could it be that she was finally finding a place where she belonged?

“But I’m so different,”
she whispered, looking down.

“And that makes you unique and wonderful,”
Mrs. Meyers replied.

“We all have our differences, which makes our community rich and beautiful.”

The townspeople came forward one by one, each offering a word of kindness or a small gift. They shared stories of their struggles and how they had overcome them with the support of each other. Robella listened, her heart slowly warming with each tale.

As the night went on, Robella felt something she hadn’t felt in years: a sense of belonging. She realized that she didn’t have to be alone or angry anymore. These people truly cared for her, and they wanted her to be a part of their lives. Their kindness, their acceptance, had the power to transform her life.

From that day forward, Robella became an integral part of the community. She used her skills to help others, sewing clothes for those in need and sharing her resourcefulness. The townspeople, in turn, included her in their daily lives, and she formed deep, meaningful friendships. It was the collective acceptance and kindness of the community that had transformed her life, showing her that she was not alone and that her differences were not a barrier to belonging.

Robella’s heart softened, and her once harsh demeanor transformed into one of kindness and warmth. She learned to smile and laugh genuinely, and the townspeople celebrated her unique qualities, seeing the beauty in her differences. She became an integral part of the community, using her skills to help others, sewing clothes for those in need and sharing her resourcefulness. The townspeople, in turn, included her in their daily lives, and she formed deep, meaningful friendships.

Weiner: The Bravest Piglet of Maplewood Farm

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Once upon a time, in a picturesque countryside, set between rolling hills and verdant fields, there was a farm known as Maplewood. This farm was home to various animals, each with unique charm, but none were as spirited and curious as a little piglet named Weiner. The air was always filled with the sweet scent of hay, and the sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves was a constant backdrop to their lives.


Weiner was a tiny, rosy piglet with a button nose and twinkling eyes that sparkled with mischief and curiosity. He lived in a cozy style with his mother and siblings, who were a mix of different farm animals. The farm was a bustling place, with chickens clucking, cows mooing, and sheep baaing. Unlike his siblings, who were content with their daily routine, Weiner always dreamt of adventure. He would often sneak out to explore the farm, befriending every animal he met, from the clucking chickens to the gentle cows.
One sunny morning, while Weiner was innocently frolicking near the edge of the farm, he noticed something unusual. The air felt different, and there was a faint smell of smoke. His tiny heart began to race as he trotted closer to the source. To his horror, he saw a small fire spreading near the barn, where all the hay was stored. The entire farm, his home, could be in grave danger if it reached the barn.


Weiner knew he had to act fast. He dashed back towards the farmhouse, his tiny hooves kicking up dust as he ran. Reaching the farmhouse, he found Farmer Brown sitting on the porch, sipping his morning coffee.


“Oink! Oink!” Weiner squealed frantically, tugging at Farmer Brown’s pant leg. His eyes were wide with fear, and his little body was trembling.


Farmer Brown looked down, puzzled. “What’s the matter, little Weiner?”
Weiner kept squealing and pulled harder, trying to convey the urgency. He was scared, but he knew he had to do something. Sensing something was wrong, Farmer Brown set down his coffee and followed the piglet. As they neared the barn, the smell of smoke became unmistakable.

“Oh no! The barn’s on fire!”

Farmer Brown exclaimed.

He quickly ran to the water pump and started filling buckets. Weiner, thinking swiftly, dashed off again, this time towards the duck pond. There, he found his friend, Daisy, the duck, a wise and gentle creature, and explained the situation in frantic oinks and quacks.


Daisy, understanding the urgency, rallied her duck friends. Together, they formed a line from the pond to the barn, each duck passing water in their beaks. Weiner joined the line, using his snout to help splash water on the flames. The ducks’ feathers glistened in the sunlight as they worked, and Weiner’s tiny hooves splashed in the water, creating a rhythmic sound.


The commotion attracted the attention of the other animals. The cows used their strength to push heavy water troughs closer while the chickens flapped their wings to fan the flames away from the barn. The sheep, not wanting to be left out, used their woolly bodies to smother smaller fire patches. It was a true display of teamwork and unity.


The farm was a flurry of activity. Thanks to Weiner’s quick thinking and the cooperation of all the animals, the fire was soon under control. The flames were extinguished before they could reach the barn, saving the precious hay and the farm itself from disaster. It was a moment of triumph and relief for everyone.


Farmer Brown, covered in soot but immensely grateful, gathered all the animals around. “Thank you, everyone, for your help. But especially you, Weiner. If it wasn’t for your bravery and quick thinking, we could have lost everything.”


Weiner blushed under his pink fur, happy to have helped save his home. From that day on, Weiner was known as the hero of Maplewood Farm. The other animals looked up to him, and he became a symbol of courage and teamwork. Though he still loved to explore, Weiner did so with a new purpose, knowing that sometimes, even the smallest piglet could make the most significant difference.


Maplewood Farm continued to thrive, with Weiner’s tale of heroism becoming a cherished story passed down through the generations. The little piglet who saved the farm had shown everyone that anything was possible with bravery and a little teamwork.

THE END!

Embracing Identity: Eleanor’s Journey from Tomboy to Lady Athlete

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Eleanor’s father sent her to spend two months one summer with her grandmother and two Aunts in the countryside of GoatsManor. Her Aunts, Lilly and Lula, were very precise about how they liked to have the table settings placed each evening. Her Grandmother, Lola, insisted she wears a summer dress to tea at 2 O’clock exactly each afternoon. The ladies explained to Eleanor that she had specific criteria for becoming a lady.

Eleanor was a tomboy turning 14 to 15 years old, and she wished she could still play softball with the youth back in her neighborhood in Boston. Her father, Walter, had become a widower after Eleanor’s mother, Leanne, passed away from cancer two years ago. He was concerned that Elly, as she was known to the neighborhood boys, was becoming less of a lady and more of a roughhouse bar room gal—something he didn’t want for his little girl. So he had called his wife’s mother and aunts and arranged for a summer at GoatsManner.

The first week at GoatsManor was a whirlwind of rules and routines. Eleanor, a tomboy at heart, found herself suffocating in the frilly dresses and precise manners. Her mind often wandered to the dusty baseball diamond and her friends back home. Despite her resistance, her grandmother and aunts persisted, believing that structure and propriety would mold her into a proper young lady.

One hot afternoon, after another tedious tea session, Eleanor wandered into the sprawling fields behind the manor. She needed to clear her head and escape the suffocating expectations. As she walked, she stumbled upon an old barn, its red paint peeling and roof sagging. Curiosity got the better of her, and she pushed open the creaky door.

That was the day, Eleanor stumbled upon a hidden treasure: an old, dusty trunk filled with what appeared to be her mother’s childhood belongings. Among the items were a well-worn softball glove, a collection of vintage baseball cards, and a photograph of her mother, Leanne, in a baseball uniform, grinning widely with a bat slung over her shoulder.

Eleanor’s heart raced with excitement and a newfound connection to her mother. She spent hours in the barn, trying on the glove and imagining her mother playing the sport she loved. It was in this dusty sanctuary that Eleanor felt a surge of joy and freedom, a feeling she hadn’t experienced since her mother’s passing. The barn became her refuge, where she could be herself without judgment.

Over the next few weeks, Eleanor made it a habit to visit the barn whenever possible. She practiced throwing and catching, feeling a sense of freedom and joy she hadn’t felt since her mother’s passing. The barn became her refuge, where she could be herself without judgment.
One day, as Eleanor practiced her pitches, she heard a soft applause behind her. She turned to find her grandmother, Lola, watching her with a gentle smile. Eleanor froze, expecting a reprimand, but Lola’s expression was kind.

“I used to watch your mother play out here,” Lola said softly. “She was quite the athlete, just like you.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean Mom played softball too?”

Lola nodded. “Oh, yes. She loved it dearly. She found joy and strength in the game. It’s part of who she was.”
Tears welled up in Eleanor’s eyes as she realized that her mother had shared her passion for softball. She felt a deep connection and renewed sense of purpose to her mother.

From that day on, Lola and Eleanor spent their afternoons in the barn, practicing together. Lola, who had once been a skilled player, taught Eleanor new techniques and shared stories of her mother’s adventures on the field. The bond between grandmother and granddaughter grew stronger with each passing day.


Eleanor still attended the afternoon teas and followed the table-setting rules, but her perspective had shifted. No longer did she feel confined by them. She had found a balance between GoatsManor’s expectations and her own identity. By the summer’s end, Eleanor had become more poised and confident and embraced her love for softball, knowing it was a cherished part of her mother’s legacy.

When it was time to return to Boston, Eleanor left GoatsManor with a newfound sense of self and a heart full of cherished memories. She knew she could be both a lady and a fierce athlete, carrying forward the best of both worlds.