farm

Morning Coffee — The Places That Hold Our Names

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Some places hold more than memories—they hold the names of people who helped make us who we are. This morning in Elk City, Oklahoma, Steve and I spend a little time with family, remember those who came before us, and reflect on the place where our story together began nearly forty-four years ago.

August 20, 2026

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

There is something different about having your morning coffee in a place that already knows so much of your story.

This morning, Steve and I should be waking up in Elk City, Oklahoma.

Couple walking with a cat past an Oklahoma farm at sunset
A couple walks home along a farm road as the sun sets over rural Oklahoma.

We thought yesterday’s miles would be behind us for a little while. Mom would have made the journey with us from Arizona, across New Mexico and Texas, and back into Oklahoma, with Otis faithfully carrying out his special assignment of watching over her along the way. Today, however, we aren’t quite there yet. We stopped in Tucumcari—the roadside signs finally got us. Tucumcari tonight! If you’ve ever traveled Route 66 or Interstate 40, you know what I am talking about. We thought we would give Mother one more night in a Best Western.

Today we will hurry on our way just as soon as Steve reloads the car so the weight is properly distributed. If you have seen those television advertisements about “becoming your parents,” they are so true—especially when I watch the things my husband does!

My sister Twila will be waiting for us, along with my niece Amanda, her son Trysen, and other family members and friends. I sent a message last night saying we were on our way, and that the reason for arriving a day behind schedule was “due to our late mother.” I don’t know if they picked up on the play on words. It was what my dad claimed anytime we were late to a family function, and I was hoping someone would catch it.

Some of these family members we haven’t seen in a while. There will undoubtedly be stories told that everyone has heard before—and hopefully a few that somebody has forgotten.

Those are usually the best ones.

Once we arrive, we will probably be escorted through local cemeteries. I know that might sound like a strange way to spend part of a day, but I have never thought of cemeteries as entirely sad places. There is sadness there, certainly. But there is also history.

There are names carved into stones that once belonged to voices. There are dates representing entire lifetimes squeezed between a beginning and an ending. Behind those names are people who worked, worried, laughed, argued, raised families, paid bills, celebrated birthdays, sat around kitchen tables—and probably drank their share of morning coffee.

Some of those names belong to people we loved.

Years ago, Steve and I began our life together here in Elk City. In October of 1982, neither of us could possibly have known just how long the road ahead would be. We couldn’t have imagined all the places it would take us, the people we would meet, the homes we would make, or the memories we would collect. Yet here we are, nearly forty-four years later, back where so much of our story began.

And someday, when our travels are finally finished, this is where we have arranged to return. Steve and I have made arrangements to be laid to rest here in Elk City, so while we’re in town, we’ll check on our cemetery plots and make sure everything is squared away with the cemetery authorities.

That isn’t something I find particularly gloomy. Actually, I find a certain peace in it.

There is something comforting about knowing where the road eventually leads—not because you’re anxious to reach the destination, but because it allows you to spend less time worrying about the ending and more time enjoying everything between here and there. And Steve and I still have plenty of road ahead of us.

For now, there are people to visit. There are stories to tell. There are graves where we may stand quietly for a moment and remember. And there is my mother, traveling with us toward the place where, in two days, she will finally be laid beside my father.

Perhaps that is what today is really about. Coming home. Mom is coming home.

Steve and I have come back to the town where our life together began, surrounded by generations of people whose lives helped make ours possible.

This morning, I’ll raise my coffee cup to all of them—the ones sitting around the table with us and the ones whose chairs have been empty for many years. Because family isn’t measured only by who can still answer when you call their name. Sometimes family is measured by the names we refuse to forget.

And maybe that’s one of the reasons we visit old cemeteries. We aren’t visiting death. We’re visiting lives.

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

— Benjamin Groff II

Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com

U.S. Marshal Finch – Chapter Twelve and the Legend of Old Pete

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

June 20, 2026

Marshal Finch and the Legend of Old Pete

The road into Gotebo looked ordinary.

That should have been Chester Finch’s first warning.

His cherry-red moped sputtered along at a heroic twenty-two miles per hour, its emergency beacon lazily rotating while a cloud of dust followed behind. Beside him trotted George Jones, his loyal hound, who was already regretting every life decision that had led him to western Oklahoma.

The Legend of Old Pete Finds Its Way To Gotebo

Ahead, the hills moved.

Not metaphorically.

Actually moved.

Chester slowed his moped.

The hills stopped.

He adjusted his spectacles.

The hills blinked.

“Oh, George,”

Chester whispered.

George whimpered.

Because the hills were goats.

Hundreds of them.

Standing perfectly still on the ridges overlooking town.

Watching.

Waiting.

And somehow managing to look judgmental.

The town square was deserted except for the members of the Gotebo Goat Ropers, who huddled behind overturned wagons.

JD pointed toward the hills.

“They’ve been up there all morning.”

“They move?” Chester asked.

“No.”

“They attack?”

“No.”

“They eat anything?”

“Everything.”

Chester nodded.

“That’s generally what goats do.”

JD leaned closer.

“These are different.”

He pointed toward the center ridge.

There, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, stood the largest billy goat Chester Finch had ever seen.

The creature was massive.

His beard blew dramatically in the wind despite there being no wind.

One horn appeared chipped.

The other looked polished.

And hanging around his neck was something that looked suspiciously like an old silver pocket watch.

The townspeople removed their hats.

“That’s Old Pete.”

Chester squinted.

“You named him?”

“We didn’t.”

“He named himself.”

Chester blinked.

“Goats can’t do that.”

Nobody answered.

Because at that moment Old Pete stamped one hoof.

A smaller goat trotted down the hill carrying a piece of cardboard in its mouth.

The goat dropped it at Chester’s feet.

Written in surprisingly neat lettering:

SURRENDER TOWN.

RETURN ALL TOMATOES.

MORE SALT LICKS.

SIGNED, OLD PETE

Chester read the note twice.

Then three times.

Then turned it upside down.

George Jones sniffed it.

“George,” Chester said.

George sneezed.

“I don’t suppose you can explain this?”

George looked away.

Which Chester interpreted as a no.

That evening the townspeople gathered in the church basement.

Old Mrs. Crenshaw stood.

“My grandfather swore these goats descended from the herd of outlaw Pete Spence.”

“Impossible,” Chester said.

“The old ranch was in Arizona.”

Mrs. Crenshaw nodded.

“Some say Old Pete is his descendant.”

Another man stood.

“Some say he’s the reincarnation of Pete Spence.”

A third man adjusted his overalls.

“My cousin Earl says Pete Spence never died at all.”

“He became a goat.”

Chester slowly removed his glasses.

Cleaned them.

Put them back on.

“I have arrested thieves.”

Everyone nodded.

“I have arrested kidnappers.”

More nodding.

“I once arrested a man who claimed he was married to a weather vane.”

Murmurs of appreciation.

“But I have never…”

He paused.

“…investigated the possibility that an outlaw from Tombstone returned as livestock.”

The room fell silent.

George Jones barked.

Everyone looked at him.

“I think George agrees with me,” Chester said.

George barked again.

“No?”

Later that night Chester camped outside town.

At exactly midnight he awoke.

Something was standing over him.

He opened one eye.

Old Pete.

The giant billy goat stared down at him.

Neither moved.

Neither blinked.

Finally Chester sat up.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking.”

Old Pete chewed something thoughtfully.

“If you really are Pete Spence…”

The goat snorted.

“…then you’re awfully hairy.”

Old Pete snorted louder.

Then—

to Chester’s horror—

the goat turned.

Walked away.

And with one hoof scratched something into the dirt.

Chester hurried over with his lantern.

There in the moonlight were four words:

I KNOW WHERE MORGAN HID IT

Chester stared.

Morgan.

As in Morgan Earp.

He slowly looked up.

Old Pete was gone.

Only hoofprints remained.

And one silver pocket watch.

Ticking.

Chester picked it up.

Inside the lid was an inscription:

TOMBSTONE
1882

Chester swallowed hard.

George Jones growled.

Far away on the ridge, hundreds of goat eyes glimmered in the darkness.

And somewhere among them, Old Pete laughed.

Or coughed.

With goats, it was difficult to tell.

Next Chapter: Marshal Finch and the Secret of the Silver Pocket Watch

Will Old Pete reveal a century-old mystery?

Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time. Where the Sun is High. The Desert is Hot. And the Time Never Changes!
Stories concerning Marshal Finch always appear at High Noon, Arizona time. Where the Sun is High. The Desert is Hot. And the Time Never Changes!

Did Morgan Earp hide something before his death?

And why have the goats begun digging holes all over Gotebo?

To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.

Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes!

Binger Oklahoma Home Of Johnny Bench – The slow vanishing of the heartland!

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

7–10 minutes

The next photographs depict an small town in Oklahoma from its birth through current day.

Going to town. Getting groceries, supplies and other needed items were essential trips in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Towns like Binger, Oklahoma were places where such trading centers would become popular. Train depots and later bus lines would bring needed connections to the area.

The above photos capture buildings that no longer stand. They were lost in one of the early fires that shaped the town’s history. The original downtown was once located near the area now known as the Johnny Bench Ball Park. This is at the Fair Grounds. After each fire, the town slowly shifted north. It rebuilt itself one block at a time. Eventually, it settled into its current location. The Post Office was a major accomplishment for any community to achieve. When a post office came, it marked the community’s success. The community became a reliable base for investors, visitors, and tourists.

State Highway 152 now runs through the center of town. Locals know it as Main Street. This familiar stretch has quietly observed generations pass through. This place is not what I call my hometown. But, it remains part of my associations. It is woven into the landscape of where I grew up and the memories that shaped me. During the 1950s to 1980s, hundreds of teenagers gathered on Binger’s Main Street. They saw it as the Main Drag on Friday and Saturday nights. It was as hot as a radio station spinning its latest hit. Both tunes filled the air from the City Hall. Tires spun all the way to the east end by the CO-OP. Button Williams, the towns Police Chief, watching carefully over the towns teen as he had since God’s creation. His Assistant Chief Jerry Wright there to catch calls on off nights.

Binger has always felt like one of those places where sports held the town together. The fields and courts were filled with tough farm kids. They were shaped by long days and dusty roads. Life taught them strength early. Many came from the Caddo and Kiowa Nations. People from other tribes joined them. Together they formed a close-knit spirit. This made every game feel like a community event.

From those humble beginnings came Johnny Bench. He was a local boy who carried his talent all the way to the Cincinnati Reds. He proudly wore number 5. The town still honors him with a small museum. It serves as a quiet reminder of how far a dream can travel from a place like this. And then there was Robert Johnson Jr., who tasted professional baseball but chose the familiar comfort of small-town life instead. In these memories, the heart of Binger lives on. It resides not just in its history. It also lies in the way it shaped those who once called it home. My grandfather bought the first Model T Ford from the town of Binger’s Ford dealership. They came to town to sell them when the Model T’s came out. “Pop” described the Ford outfit as being near where an old Caddo Electric building sets today. If you drive through the town, you will see the big white building. It’s on the corner near US281 and SH-152.

The above photo shows Main Street in Binger, Oklahoma, in 1932. It captures a quiet moment frozen in time. After the town burned twice, it rose again each time. It was rebuilt about a block north of its original location. This carried with it the stubborn spirit of those who refused to let it disappear. This image shows what became the final resting place of that rebuilt heart of town.
When the sidewalks were poured, metal rings were set into the concrete. They were meant to tether horses and wagons. Townsfolk stepped inside to conduct their daily business. For decades, those rings remained. They served as humble reminders of a slower pace and simpler life. In the mid-1970s, new federal accessibility requirements called for lower ramps and fresh pavement. With that change, the old sidewalks were replaced. The iron echoes of the past quietly vanished. Now, only memory and photographs tell their story.
This photo was found behind a old counter in the back of a business in the 1970s. Its dated as being in the 1920s. Which is a possibility. The name of the business is unknown. Yet longtime residents at the time did recognize the business as belonging to the town.
Binger once hosted three cafes and a hardware store. It also had two barber shops, a bar, and a propane company. There was a drug store, a movie theater, and two grocery stores. Additionally, it featured two laundries, a plumbing company, and a funeral home. The town included a post office, an electrical repair shop, a junk-pawn shop, and a pool hall. Binger also had two dry goods stores and a Western Auto. It had a Chevrolet Dealership, a TV Repair Service, and Three Service Stations. These were a Sinclair, a Gulf, and a Git-N-Go. There was also a dress shoppe. There was even a healthy farmer’s Co-Op. There were many other businesses that came and went in between the years. The public school was well respected in the County and had been given financial support to meet its needs.

This is a photo of the buses traveling both directions along Main Street in Binger. I’ve carried it with me for years. I have shared it many times. It always stirs the same familiar sense of remembering. This photo was taken while looking west. It captures the gentle rise at the end of the street — Binger Hill. For generations, this slope has slowed heavy trucks. It becomes unforgiving during icy winter storms.

On the right side, the white building stands just before the line of trees begins. It once served as City Hall. Inside were the fire department, water department, and city clerk. The building also housed a small police office. There was a jail that I can assure you no one was eager to test. The bars were thick, cold steel, reinforced and unyielding. I saw more than a few individuals placed there by the town’s two-man police force. This pair quietly carried more responsibility than most ever realized.

This photograph isn’t just about traffic or buildings. It holds a piece of a time when Binger moved at a gentler pace. The town watched over its own. Every corner held a story waiting to be remembered.

Johnny Bench rode home with the Binger High School baseball team on April 1, 1965. They had just played a game in nearby Riverside. This was a routine trip. It would become a moment forever etched into the town’s history. As the bus crested a hill, the coach suddenly realized the brakes had failed. The vehicle couldn’t slow down. It careened into a curve at dangerous speed. It burst through the guardrail and plunged nearly fifty feet into a ravine below.

The accident claimed the lives of two young teammates, Harold Sims and Billy Joe Wylie. This loss rippled through a small community that mourned deeply. Amid the chaos, Bench survived. He was guided by advice once given by his father. His father was a propane truck driver who understood the dangers of the road. He had told his son that in such a situation, the safest place was the floor of the vehicle. Remembering those words, Johnny dropped down. He instinctively pulled teammate David Gunter with him. This act well have saved both of their lives.

What followed was not just a tale of tragedy. It was also a story of instinct and survival. There was a quiet strength carried forth from a small Oklahoma town into the story of a legendary career.

Johnny Bench, the legendary Cincinnati Reds catcher, was known for the remarkable size and strength of his hands. Many claim he can palm as many as five baseballs in one hand. He famously demonstrated this skill on the television program This Is Your Life in the early 1970s. This moment is still remembered by many longtime fans.

Today the state highway runs right through the town’s middle section. What once was a Main Street with shops and store fronts bustling with shoppers and townspeople is now empty. It is nearly deserted.

Opitz Cotton Gin is no longer open
Cart’s Lumber on the Town’s East side is one of the few businesses providing services to the town.
The Medical Center reportedly closed some years ago.

There are a few businesses still open in the town. A dollar store, a satellite bank of a local branch is located on the hill. There is one diner. A convenience store. A bar and the Post Office. But for most part, the buildings you find will be empty, boarded up and closed. In the 1970s, the town’s streets were packed with people parking to go shopping on Main Street. Now, the streets are wide open. Many contribute the towns rundown to the Caddo Electric Headquarters moving it’s headquarters three miles east of town. It caused many doing business with the Electric Cooperative to avoid stopping in Binger. It was the first set of nails in the towns casket. The others were placed there when too much faith was placed in the oil industry. Then as shops began to close, people began to move, and the towns center stopped functioning. I know because I was there and watched it. This was the town closest to our farm. I graduated from a school some fifteen minutes away, a place called Lookeba-Sickles. And that place is story for another day!

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Take Me Back To Yesterday Once More

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5–8 minutes

The Farm That Built Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025

The Flying Wagon – A Bribed Brother – A Frightened Mother

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A true story about two brother’s antics on the Western Plains of Oklahoma in the 1920s and ’30s.

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

3–4 minutes

The Flying Wagon

You’ve heard of the Wright Brothers, but you probably haven’t heard of the Groff Brothers—JD and Bennie. Two western Oklahoma boys growing up wild and dusty in the 1920s and ’30s. They didn’t have blueprints or flying machines. What they had was imagination, a tall barn, and a battered old wagon that Bennie believed could fly.

Bennie was the older one. He was full of ideas that didn’t always make sense. They always sounded like fun—at least to him. JD, the youngest, often found himself drafted into Bennie’s adventures under what you might call “big brother persuasion.” Bennie had a way of making cooperation seem more appealing. He would start listing all the minor sins JD had committed that week. JD wasn’t dumb. He knew how to pick his battles.

One summer day, Bennie got it in his head that their wagon could be made to fly. All it needed were wings—planks nailed out to the sides—and a launch platform. The barn roof, with its steep pitch and high drop, was just the place. Bennie did the math. He calculated it as only a 1930s farm kid could. He figured the wagon might be too heavy to lift both of them. So, of course, he chose JD to be the pilot.

JD protested. Loudly. But Bennie made his case and called in his leverage. They went up with the wagon. They dragged it onto the roof like a couple of cartoon inventors chasing the wind.

Perched high above the ground, JD sat nervously in the creaking wagon, holding on to the sides. The wings were loose, the wheels rattled, and JD knew better than anyone how this would end.

“Hold on tight and don’t jump out!” Bennie shouted.

“I won’t,” JD called back, “I’ll fall!”

And with that, Bennie gave the wagon a mighty shove.

It was right about then that their mother—Mom—looked out the kitchen window. She saw what no mother should ever see: her youngest son soaring off the roof in a makeshift flying contraption. She dropped what she was doing and ran out the door, just in time to witness gravity take over. The wagon left the barn roof for the briefest moment of flight—then fell straight down like a stone.

JD hit the ground in a cloud of dust and bent wood. Miraculously, he survived—more scared than scraped, and too winded to say anything right away. Bennie stood nearby, squinting at the wreckage like a disappointed engineer.

“Well,” Bennie muttered, “I guess there wasn’t enough lift.”

Mom had a different theory: they would never try that again.

JD agreed with Mom.

That was just one of many scrapes the Groff brothers got into over the years. Bennie had the ideas, and JD often paid the price. But through it all, they stuck together—laughing, fighting, inventing, surviving. That’s what brothers did.

The wild stunts and hijinks came to an end far too soon. Bennie passed away in his mid-forties, and with him, a certain spark left the family. One relative said the family had been “a little less jovial” ever since.

It’s true. A parent never fully recovers from losing a child. And a brother never fully recovers from losing his bud.

For a moment, a wagon flew on top of a barn in western Oklahoma. Two boys believed they could touch the sky.

One of The Most Powerful Farming Recovery Stories Of This Day

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It came only after failing, suicide and horror. A true story. That matters!

The Tragic True Story of Jean-Michel “Michou” — A Farmer’s Silent Cry

Location: Loire-Atlantique, France
Year: 2011
Category: Real Farmer Story | Mental Health | Agriculture Crisis

🌱 Chapter 1: Born in the Soil

Jean-Michel, lovingly called Michou by his village neighbors, was born into a family of farmers in the rural province of Loire-Atlantique, France. His family had been farming for three generations — milking cows, sowing wheat, harvesting barley, and living off the land.

From a young age, Michou learned how to wake before sunrise, milk the cows, repair fences, and drive tractors.
Farming wasn’t a job for him — it was identity, love, and legacy.

“City people see cows as business. For us, they are family.” – Michou

🐄 Chapter 2: A Life of Relentless Labor

Michou managed a small dairy farm with 47 cows. He woke every day at 5:00 AM, fed his cattle, and milked them before the sky even turned blue. After that, he toiled in the fields, checking irrigation, sowing seeds, fixing old machines.

He worked 365 days a year — no holidays, no weekends.

Everyone saw him as the “hardworking farmer of the region,” always smiling, always moving.

But inside, Michou was collapsing.

📉 Chapter 3: The Economic Collapse

After 2008, the dairy industry in Europe began to spiral downward.

Milk prices dropped from €0.32/liter to €0.22/liter

Cost of production was €0.30/liter

Michou was losing money with every drop of milk

He took a loan of €24,000. Then another €18,000. Then mortgaged his tractor.
Still, the bills kept piling up: electricity, fodder, tractor repairs, fertilizers.

“I’m no longer a farmer. I’ve become a machine that produces milk… and debt.” – from Michou’s diary

💔 Chapter 4: When Support Fades

His wife, Lucie, fell ill — stress and fatigue.
His only son, Julien, moved to the city for work.

Michou was left completely alone — with cows and his memories.
His best friend Jacques, also a farmer, had taken his own life just a year before. Another neighbor followed the same path.

The village got quieter. Michou got quieter.

🧠 Chapter 5: Silent Depression

One day, Michou wrote:

“One of my cows was sick today. I cried. Maybe because I am sick too.”

He never shared his pain.
He would feed the cows and whisper to them… but talk to no one else.
Evenings were spent staring at the barn walls, thinking if all his life had been for nothing.

⚰️ Chapter 6: The Last Morning – Continue reading the story click here. The original posting continues with the rest of the story and a turning point that you won’t expect. I wanted to direct you to the original post where you can leave any comments for the author.

A Story About Tuff – The Dog That Became A Family Legend!

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

4–5 minutes

The Legend of Tuff

Tuff!

Tuff was no ordinary dog. He was a broad-chested, mixed-breed bulldog from the dusty plains of western Oklahoma. He was loyal to the core. He was tough as nails—just like his name. He belonged to a boy named JD, and from the moment they met, the two were inseparable.

Wherever JD went, Tuff followed. JD rode across the Caddo and Washita County prairie on his sturdy pony. He even rode it to the one-room schoolhouse west of Eakly. He rounded up cattle on the family farm. Regardless Tuff was there, his paws pounding the dirt in time with the horse’s hooves. At school, while JD sat through his lessons, Tuff stayed with the horse, standing guard like a seasoned sentry. Rain or shine, he never left his post. He stayed until the bell rang. Then, the trio trotted home together, just three-quarters of a mile up the road.

One warm afternoon, while JD was still in school, trouble came calling. A neighbor’s ornery bull had pushed its way through a loosely latched gate and wandered off. As luck would have it, it made its way straight to JD’s homestead, snorting and stomping with agitation. JD’s mother was outside hanging laundry to dry in the Oklahoma breeze. The bull burst through the linens like a locomotive. It tore shirts and sheets from the line as it charged.

Startled, she dropped her clothespin basket and backed toward the yard fence, but there was nowhere left to go. The bull pawed at the dirt, its head low, flaring its nostrils as it prepared to strike. Streaks of foam, mixed with dust and sweat, ran from its mouth. Its bulk towered just yards away from her.

Thinking fast, JD’s mom cupped her hands to her mouth and called out with everything she had:

“Tuff! Ole Tuff! Come on, boy!”

Three-quarters of a mile away, in the tall grass outside the schoolyard, Tuff heard her. His ears perked up. He knew that voice—and he knew something was wrong.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Tuff shot off like a bullet, heading for home. He crossed pasture and ditch, squeezing under fences and dodging brush, driven by pure instinct.

When he arrived, the bull was still threatening JD’s mother. Tuff didn’t bark or hesitate. He charged.

The bull turned at the last second. It was startled and tried to lower its head for a fight. But, Tuff was already on him. He raced in circles, nipping and weaving, confusing the brute. The bull spun to face him again and again, becoming dizzy from the dog’s unrelenting speed.

Then, in one perfectly timed leap, Tuff clamped down on the bull’s nose—hard. The bull bucked and shook, kicked and bawled, but Tuff held firm, teeth sunk deep, refusing to let go. He brought the angry beast to its knees, pinning it in place with nothing but grit and jaw strength.

Just then, a cowboy riding by spotted the commotion. JD’s mother waved him down, shouting, “Ride fast to the Yarnell place! Tell ’em their bull’s out before someone gets hurt!”

The man nodded and galloped off in a cloud of dust.

Within the hour, the Yarnells arrived with ropes, a nose ring, and a long wooden block to secure the bull. The farmer jumped down from his saddle, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m real sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I reckon I forgot to latch the gate. Wind must’ve blown it wide open.” He paused, nodding toward the growling dog still latched onto the bull’s nose. “But first, we’re gonna need that dog to let go.”

JD’s mom looked at Tuff, calm and composed despite the ordeal. “Tuff, let go now, boy. Come here.”

Without hesitation, Tuff released the bull and trotted obediently to her side, tongue lolling, chest heaving but proud. The bull didn’t move again until ropes were secured and the men began the long walk back to their farm.

JD’s mom glanced at her watch and smiled. “Tuff, JD’s about to get out of school. You’d better go meet him.”

And with that, Tuff turned and loped back down the road. He was headed to the schoolyard just in time to greet his boy.

That evening, Tuff was treated like a king. JD’s mom gave him the biggest soup bone she’d been saving. He was even allowed to lie on the kitchen floor during supper. This was something normally off-limits. As the family passed dishes and swapped stories, JD’s mom told them what Tuff had done.

The story of Ole Tuff was told time and again. It was passed down through the years by my grandmother and my dad. Every time it was told, Tuff got a little tougher. Tuff got a little braver. Yet, the heart of the story stayed the same.

Because sometimes, legends aren’t born in books or movies.

Sometimes, they’re born in backyards—with a boy, his dog, and a mama hanging laundry.

Remembering An Inlaw Who Is Dearly Departed (But – Yes…Still Alive)

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

3–4 minutes

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.

Title: The Trail Guardians – Chapter Two: Into the Hollow

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

2–4 minutes

The trail that day led into Cottonwood Hollow. It was a deep gully nestled between two ridges. The area was thick with ancient trees and the scent of cool, damp earth. Benji had finally summoned the courage to enter what the kids around the farm called “No Man’s Land.”

oggy doggy
Oggy Doggy, The Best Friend A Family Ever Had

Oggy darted ahead, barking sharply as he flushed out a covey of quail.

“Good boy!” 

Benji laughed, breaking into a jog behind him.

Bruiser trotted beside him, his heavy paws crunching over dry leaves. Every time a twig snapped, his muscular body tensed. If the wind shifted, he was ready to protect until he decided there was no danger.

Jackie moved like a ghost, glancing back from time to time, her black-and-white tail swaying gently. She paused here and there to mark tree trunks, just in case they needed help finding the way back.

About halfway through the Hollow, Oggy let out a sharp yip and froze—body crouched low, fur bristling.

Benji halted.

“What is it, boy?”

Then he saw it. A feral boar was rooting near the creek bed. Its coarse hair rose. Its tusks caught the last golden light of the afternoon. Oggy growled, weaving left and right, trying to distract it.

Bruiser stepped in front of Benji and barked once—low and commanding. The boar noticed the big dog and paused, nostrils flaring.

“Back up… slowly,” 

Benji whispered.

They had only taken a few steps when Jackie barked behind them. Benji spun around.

A second boar had crept up from the rear.

Trapped.

Benji’s heart pounded. Feral hogs? He’d never seen any this close to the farm before. His dad’s hogs were penned and docile. These? These had tusks. And just as panic set in, a third hog emerged from the brush, snorting and stomping.

Think, Benji. Think.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch of beef jerky—the snack he’d saved for later. Tearing it open, he waved a piece in the air.

The hogs’ heads turned toward the scent. Without wasting a second, Benji hurled the entire pouch as far as he can into the underbrush.

It worked.

All three hogs charged the pouch, squealing and shoving as they fought over the jerky.

Benji snapped his fingers. The dogs hustled back to his side, and together, they crept away.

But now, the sun was dipping low behind the ridge. Shadows stretched across the Hollow, and the light had grown dim. In the chaos, Benji had lost track of their path.

Everything looked the same.

He called softly,

“Jackie, take us home.”

Jackie trotted out, sniffing at nearby logs and bushes, searching for the scent trail she had left. But her markings were gone—wiped away. The boars, rubbing against the trunks and rolling in the undergrowth, had erased everything she’d left behind.

She circled wider, nose to the ground—but still, nothing.

Benji stood in the middle of the woods. Three feral hogs were still growling and grunting in the distance. They were gathered around a torn bag of jerky.

This wasn’t the bedtime story anyone wanted to hear. Was Benji going to stand there—or scoot? Benji doesn’t have beef jerky. What will he and his pals eat for supper if they have to spend the night in the woods? Check back tomorrow. Read Chapter Three to see if he finds his way out. Or will the boy and his dogs get hungry!

Title: The Trail Guardians – Chapter One: The Afternoon Call

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Title: The Trail Guardians

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

3–4 minutes
Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie
Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie, three friends that protected Benji.

Every day at exactly 3:35 p.m., the yellow school bus rumbled down the dusty country road. Its brakes squealed in protest. It stopped at the gate of the Miller farm. Waiting by the fence—tails wagging, ears alert—stood three loyal dogs: Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.

Oggy, a wiry shepherd-collie mix, zipped back and forth like a bolt of lightning, always the first to move. Bruiser was a proud and imposing German shepherd. His stare could make thunder retreat. He sat like a sentry. His eyes were fixed on the distant tree line. Jackie was a small but wise rat terrier. She lay in the shade, her head tilted. It was as if she was listening to the wind for stories.

Benji stepped off the bus. His backpack bounced and his heart was full of energy. He called out,

“Who’s ready for a hike?”

The dogs barked in harmony. Their daily ritual had begun—school ended, and the adventure began.

The woods, hills, and winding creeks beyond the Miller farm stretched wild and untamed. They were alive with beauty and mystery. There was a kind of danger only country kids and creatures could sense. Benji’s father trusted the dogs with more than just companionship. They each had a job:

Oggy, ever eager, raced ahead to flush out snakes, spook wild hogs, or alert the team to anything unusual. Bruiser stayed at Benji’s side, calm and formidable—his job was protection. Jackie had a sharp nose and clever instincts. She always brought up the rear. She tracked every step and memorized the path home.

Together, they were more than a team. They were guardians: a boy and his dogs, bound by loyalty, instinct, and love.

They had explored nearly every trail across the farm. But there was one place they had never dared to enter.

Benji called it No Man’s Land.

Even the cattle avoided it. Horses snorted and veered away from its edges. Dense with tangled brush, towering trees, and sheer, jagged cliffs, it lay beyond the farthest bend of the creek. You couldn’t see more than a few yards into it, even when standing on the embankment across the water. It was as if the woods had secrets they weren’t ready to share.

Sometimes, the team would gather at that high bank and stare into the thicket. Benji would speak softly as if trying not to disturb whatever is listening.

“What’s back there?”

he’d wonder aloud.

“Nobody’s ever gone in. But one day, we’ll be brave enough to cross that creek and find out.”

He told the dogs his plan: the safest way in would be through Cottonwood Hollow. If they cut through the grove, they would reach No Man’s Land without being seen from the road—or the house.

Before they set off, a familiar sound echoed across the pasture—the dinner bell.

Its clang was sharp and sure, and the dogs didn’t need to be told twice. The four companions turned for home. They momentarily forgot their trail. The promise of a warm meal and kind voices led them back.

They didn’t cross into No Man’s Land that day.

But they would.

And when they did, they’d uncover something none of them would ever have imagined.

Those dogs need to be fed. And it’s a good thing Benji got them home in time for ‘supper.’ Check back for Chapter Two. We’ll find out if the Team gets brave enough to hike into No Man’s Land!

The Day a House Fell: A Family Tale of Humor and Chaos

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

3–4 minutes

The Day a House Fell on My Mother’s Head

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:

“A house fell on my head.”

A Memorable Day: Taking My Dad Fishing

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

4–6 minutes

Taking Dad Fishing

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.

Memories and Mischief: The Summer of 1980

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

2–4 minutes

The Summer of 1980

The summer of 1980 would be remembered forever. It was the year three friends—Bub, Johnny, and Clem—took to the hayfields, hauling bales for farmers across the county.

They set out to help the local farmers with two old flatbed farm trucks. The farmers struggled to find enough hands to get their hay cuttings into the barn. What started as a way to earn cash quickly became much more significant.

The boys took turns driving. Two worked at the back of the truck, stacking and securing the bales. They did this while bumping along dirt roads. When they reached a barn, all three pitched in to unload. It was grueling work. It was hot, dusty, and backbreaking. They made a decent sum at fifteen cents per bale when split three ways. More importantly, they earned something money couldn’t buy: the respect of an entire community. Their work ethic, reliability, and bargain rates made them invaluable, and grateful farmers often sweetened the deal with generous tips.

Word spread fast. Soon, the boys had more work than they handled. They got their hands on a third truck and fixed it up. Each took charge of their own rig. They hired extra help to keep up with demand. By summer’s end, the three had hauled an unprecedented amount of hay. No one remembered seeing so much in the valley.

But it wasn’t all work.

The boys had a playful streak, and the town delighted in their antics. One night, Clem slept soundly in their makeshift bunkhouse. Bub got the idea to spread hair remover gel over Clem’s hairy legs. Hours later, Clem woke to a strange smell. He wrinkled his nose. He assumed one of the others had eaten something bad. He groggily rolled over and went back to sleep, unaware of the smooth patches forming on his legs. The next day, Clem discovered the damage in the shower. He saw the damage and heard Bub and Johnny howling with laughter outside the bathroom door.

Clem didn’t get mad. He got even.

At noon, he played the perfect gentleman. He told Bub and Johnny that he held no grudges. He wanted to treat them to lunch. They stayed behind at the barn. He ran to the burger joint and ordered the most enormous double cheeseburgers. There was also a mountain of fries and chocolate malts. For himself, he ordered vanilla. Before returning, he slipped some laxatives into the chocolate malts.

The unsuspecting pair devoured their meal, thanking Clem for his generosity, utterly unaware of the payback coming their way. Four hours later, they were running to the bathroom non-stop, clutching their stomachs, confused and miserable. Clem stood back, arms crossed, grinning. Their “cleaning out” lasted for days. When the town caught wind of the prank, it only added to the growing legend of the hay-hauling boys.

The mischief didn’t stop there.

There were ambushes, booby traps, and endless laughter. Even with their busy schedule, they found time to fish. They caught some of the biggest catfish the town had ever seen.

By summer’s end, they had built more than a successful hay-hauling business—they had created memories that would last a lifetime. Long after the last bale was stacked, folks in town would still talk about the summer of 1980. During that summer, three hardworking boys became the heart and humor of the valley.

Haunted Memories: The Ghosts of Groff House

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

5–7 minutes
The Old Groff House
The Groff House first moved to Binger from Anadarko, Ok

The old farmhouse was to be our new home. Moving from the city to the farm felt like an adventure, but the others didn’t share my enthusiasm. They struggled with giving up indoor plumbing, a telephone, and dependable electricity.


For my father, though, this was the beginning of a dream—a quarter-horse ranch of his own. The house had been moved from another town and placed onto a block foundation. Uneven concrete blocks, haphazardly arranged, served as makeshift steps leading up to the front door. The door was old, with a large square glass pane in the upper half and weathered wood below. Layers of peeling white paint flaked away inside and out, revealing the scars of time.


But what stood out most was the screen door. It had a single spring that pulled it shut with a sharp clap. This sound still echoes in my memory. Above it, a simple porch overhang provided some protection from the rain. It offered slightly less protection from the sun. The overhang always seemed too small for its purpose.


I was the youngest of six children—or seven, depending on how you counted. My mother’s youngest brother, Uncle Ricky, practically lived with us. He had been raised alongside my older brothers, and I always considered him one of us. These memories of our close-knit family bring a sense of nostalgia and warmth.


My sisters and I stayed close to the house initially. Our parents were wary of hidden dangers lurking in the fields and pastures. Rusted cans, barbed wire, and remnants of years gone by littered the property. My brothers were tasked with clearing the land, ensuring no horse would stumble upon a forgotten hazard. But even without the safety excuse, the grown-ups didn’t need us underfoot as they worked to build barns and fences.


The house felt enormous to my sisters and me. It had only four rooms downstairs. There was one large room upstairs. The ground floor had interconnected doorways. These doorways allowed us to run in endless circles around the stairwell. The kitchen, with its worn linoleum floor and a large propane stove, was the heart of the home. The living room had threadbare furniture. Its windows had seen better days. It was where we gathered in the evenings. We were expected to behave when our parents were home, but the house became our playground when they weren’t.


One evening, my oldest sister shared a story she had heard at school. A man, unknown to us, had been found dead in the upstairs room. Hung himself, they said. His wife had passed away downstairs, and he had followed soon after. My younger sister and I absorbed the tale. We were unsure whether it was truth or fiction. Nonetheless, it rooted itself in our minds.


My parents’ conversations surfaced bits and pieces of the house’s history. They assured us no one had died there—at least, not to their knowledge. But then came the phrase that stuck with us:

“But if they did, there’s nothing to worry about.”

It was as if they had confirmed it without confirming it. They planted just enough doubt to keep our imaginations running wild.


And then, one night, something happened that we would never forget.


It had been an unbearably hot day, the humidity clinging to us like a second skin. We had no air conditioning. We relied on a single box fan upstairs for the boys at night. During the day, we moved it downstairs. As evening fell, a storm rolled in. The sky darkened, thunder rumbled, and the first lightning strike knocked out our power.


We huddled by the screen door, watching the storm unfold. Rain poured down in sheets, lightning flashing every few seconds. We saw him in one brilliant burst of light—a rider on a white horse just beyond our fence.


My oldest sister called for our mother.

“There’s a man out on the road! Should we call him in?”


The lightning illuminated him again. The horse and rider are stark white, motionless against the downpour. They turned into our driveway and stopped at the yard gate. The rider tilted his head, water spilling off the brim of his hat, but he did not move.


We yelled for our parents, urging them to look. The rain intensified, drumming against the roof. And then, in the next flash of lightning—he was gone. No retreating figure, no horse galloping away. Just empty, rain-slicked ground where he had stood.


That wasn’t the last strange occurrence. The memory of the white horse and its rider haunted us, lingering in the corners of our minds. We couldn’t shake the feeling that we were not alone in the house. We felt that unseen presences were walking the same halls.


The dirt roads in Oklahoma turn sandy in the summer. They capture every footprint—deer, bobcat, rabbit, and occasional lost traveler. One morning, waiting for the school bus, we saw her.
A tiny older woman walked at a steady pace past our house. We called out a greeting, but she didn’t acknowledge us. The school bus approached from behind, and I considered asking the driver to stop and offer her a ride.


But when we reached the road, she was gone.


What we didn’t see was more unsettling than her disappearance—tracks. There were no prints in the soft sand, no sign that anyone had walked there.


I looked at my sisters. One of them whispered,

“Don’t say anything. They’ll think we’re crazy.”


Later, an old-timer visited us often. He told us about a train depot standing across the road long before we arrived. He suspected that some soldiers returning from World War I, whose bodies were unclaimed, never left that station. He spoke of ghostly figures wandering the fields at night. Strange sounds echoed from the direction of the old depot. His stories added another layer of mystery to our already haunted farmhouse.


Over the years, my father and I rode our horses through the backcountry. We found old graves. Some were Indian graves, others belonged to settlers, and some were marked only by time-worn stones. One day, I asked my father if it was sad that they had been forgotten.


He looked at me thoughtfully.

“They’re remembered the way they’re meant to be. You don’t need a grave to be remembered. It’s what you do while you’re alive that matters.”


I understood what he meant, but some of me still felt sorrow for those lost souls. Maybe they weren’t as alone as I thought. They still walked in the rain, strolled along dirt roads, or found another way to be remembered. The mystery of their existence lingers, leaving us with more questions than answers.

Tim’s Journey Raising Game Chickens

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

4–5 minutes

Tim and His Prize Chicken

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 and his Rooster
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.

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

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

4–5 minutes

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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

She replied,

“in a heartbeat!”

The Great Bison Incident: A True Survival Story

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

3–4 minutes

The Great Bison Incident (A True Story)

Carney had no idea what his neighbor, Ted Ortiz, had done. Ted had recently purchased what everyone around here called a buffalo—though, technically, they were bison. His grand idea? Cross-breeding the massive bull with his cattle. What is there to go wrong?

That morning, Carney had spent hours plowing one of his fields. When he finally finished, he hopped down from his tractor. He stretched his back and pulled out his packed lunch—a simple sandwich and a thermos of water. After a few quick gulps, he was ready to tackle the next field.

He set off across the pasture, taking his usual shortcut. Halfway across, he heard a deep, rumbling snort behind him. At first, he figured it was just one of Ted’s cows and kept walking. But then he noticed something—the snorting sound was moving with him.

Carney turned around and froze.

A massive, very annoyed bull bison stood just a few yards away. And Carney had unknowingly interrupted the beast’s afternoon of affection.

The bison pawed the ground, snorted louder, and locked eyes with Carney. He had seconds to decide—fall, play dead, or run like hell. He chose the latter.

Now, Carney was in his fifties. He was not exactly a sprinter, but he moved like an Olympic athlete when faced with a furious bison. His only hope was a nearby tree. He scrambled up, arms and legs flailing, barely reaching a branch as the bull slammed into the trunk below.

Unfortunately, Carney had picked the wrong tree.

It was dead.

The bison rammed it again. The whole thing groaned and wobbled. Carney had two choices—jump and run or ride the tree down like a doomed cowboy in a slow-motion disaster.

So he jumped. And ran.

And here’s where things took an unexpected turn.

Carney swears he made it to the fence, jumped over, and escaped without a scratch. But according to the newspaper, the story went a little differently.

The article claimed that the bison knocked the tree over after Carney hit the ground. Then it turned its fury back on him. Carney had no other options. He did the only thing he thought possible. He dropped to the ground. His face was down in the dirt, and he played dead.

The bison approached, snorting, its heavy breath huffing across Carney’s back. It sniffed his head. His shoulders. His boots. Then, it reached his backside—and suddenly, something changed.

The bull gagged.

Its eyes watered, and its massive body trembled. The mighty beast gave a final snort of disgust. It turned its tail and bolted. The beast ran away as fast as its hooves carried it.

Carney, shaking but victorious, got to his feet and went to the other field. Before plowing, he had to detour into the nearest creek. He needed to scrub off whatever offended that bison so severely.

The newspaper never revealed its source for this version of events, but everyone had their suspicions. Most believed the town barber had something to do with it. After all, most of the town’s best stories started in his shop.

To this day, the Great Bison Incident resurfaces whenever the local men need a good laugh. It is a legendary reminder that sometimes survival comes down to sheer luck, including an unfortunate choice in lunch. It’s a tale that never fails to entertain.

This is a true story. The names have been changed to protect the privacy of those in real life.