I thought I’d throw a little English banter into today’s chatter. It seemed fitting while I sat here with a cup of coffee and a recording of Star Trek: Strange New Worlds playing in the background.
I record shows when they air and watch them when life gives me a moment. This morning, while the Enterprise traveled through space, my mind wandered back to the days when I was a young chap watching cowboys ride across the television screen.
There was Rawhide, Hopalong Cassidy, and Gene Autry singing his way through the West. I enjoyed them all. But even as a boy, I thought some of those fellows had an easy time of it. The cowboy I knew best had horses to feed, cattle to tend, and work waiting for him whether the cameras were rolling or not.
That cowboy was my dad.
I watched him care for our animals day after day. He was tough, capable, and steady. To me, he was the real thing. He was my hero from the beginning.
What I don’t know is whether I ever told him that clearly enough.
We sometimes assume the people we love already know what they mean to us. Maybe they do. But hearing it from us can still make a difference. A few honest words can stay with someone long after the morning is over.
So while you have your coffee today, think of someone who matters to you. Tell them what you admire about them. Thank them for something they taught you. Let them know that the ordinary things they do have never looked ordinary to you.
You don’t need a grand speech. You just need to say it while they’re here to hear it.
My dad never rode across a television screen. But after all these years, he is still the cowboy I remember best.
Some people need a cup of coffee to wake up. Others need a Loch Ness Monster.
Changing perspectives…
I heard a joke about a man who set out across Loch Ness to prove there was no monster. He was an atheist, too, and quite sure he knew what he would find: a lake, some water, and a good story somebody had made up.
Then his boat reached the middle of the lake. The sky darkened. The shoreline disappeared. And out of the water rose a creature towering over his boat.
“God, help me!” the man cried.
A voice came down from above. “That’s interesting. Five minutes ago, you didn’t believe in me.”
The man looked up and shouted, “Five minutes ago, I didn’t believe in the Loch Ness Monster, either!”
I have to give him that one. If a monster rose beside my boat, I would reconsider several things at once. I might even develop a sudden appreciation for life jackets, fast motors, and staying home.
Changing your mind when the facts change makes sense. But I have watched people change their views without a monster, a fact, or even a decent explanation in sight. An idea is terrible at breakfast, then brilliant by lunch because someone they admire said it out loud. The evidence hasn’t changed. The company has.
I suppose we have all done a little of that. Before the first cup of coffee, I can be certain I don’t need a second. Five minutes later, the pot starts looking mighty persuasive.
So today, if someone’s opinion changes in an instant, I may ask myself what appeared: new evidence, a new audience, or a creature rising out of the lake?
If it’s the creature, I’m changing my mind, too. And I’m taking my coffee to go.
Motivation does not always arrive before the work begins. Sometimes we must take one small step, interrupt the stillness, and give it a chance to catch up with us.
Motivation has a habit of arriving after the work begins.
Good morning, folks.
There are mornings when determination charges through the front door, throws open the curtains, and announces, “Let’s get something done!”
Then there are mornings when determination apparently has the day off.
The coffee is brewing. The sun is rising. The clock is moving. But we are sitting there waiting for some grand burst of motivation to lift us from the chair and carry us into the day.
Unfortunately, motivation can be terribly unreliable.
If we wait until we feel completely prepared, confident, rested, organized, and inspired, we may still be sitting beside the coffee pot when lunchtime arrives.
Sometimes we must begin before we feel ready.
Put on the shoes.
Make the telephone call.
Write the first sentence.
Wash the first dish.
Open the door and step outside.
Sometimes when Fall arrives it seems that time is off. That the moment we are in is all backwards. The evening is offset. The clock is moving slower than it should. Then all of the sudden it is later than it should be. That is what happens when time Falls back. Whether the time changes or not. The sun sets earlier, comes up sooner, or moves across the sky at a different pace. Autumn begins to change the way you move.
The first movement may be small, but small movements have a way of waking up the rest of us. One completed task leads to another. Before long, the day that seemed determined to go nowhere has discovered a destination.
I have learned that life rarely sends a marching band to announce the proper moment to begin. There may be no drumroll, perfect weather, or encouraging voice from the heavens. Most beginnings arrive quietly, disguised as an ordinary decision:
“I suppose I had better get started.”
That sentence has launched more accomplishments than we will ever know.
You do not need to conquer the entire day before breakfast. You only need to interrupt the stillness. Give yourself one honest reason to rise, move forward, and show the world you have not surrendered your place in it.
The coffee cannot do everything.
It can warm your hands, clear a little fog from your mind, and perhaps make other people safer to be around. But eventually, you must set down the cup and take the first step.
So begin before you feel ready.
Motivation may be running late—but once it sees you moving, it usually hurries to catch up.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong…
—Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
Before the telephone rings, the messages arrive, and the world begins making its demands, the morning gives us a few quiet moments to gather ourselves. We should not hurry past them.
There is a small stretch of time each morning before the day begins asking things of us.
Before the telephone rings. Before the messages arrive. Before the headlines tell us what we should fear, question, or become angry about. For a few precious moments, there is only the sound of coffee pouring into a cup and the quiet promise of another day.
We often hurry through that silence without realizing how valuable it is. We begin making lists in our minds. We remember what we forgot yesterday and worry about what might go wrong today. Before our feet have carried us very far, our thoughts have already run several miles ahead.
But perhaps the morning was never meant to be a starting gun.
Perhaps it was given to us as a gentle place to gather ourselves—to sit quietly, take a breath, and remember that we are more than our obligations. We are more than the chores waiting in the next room, the appointments written on the calendar, or the problems we have not yet solved.
The world will make its demands soon enough. It always does. But it can wait long enough for us to finish one warm cup of coffee.
So, this morning, give yourself permission to remain still for another moment. Notice the light coming through the window. Listen for the familiar sounds of home. Think of someone who has made your life better simply by being part of it.
You do not have to accomplish anything during these few quiet minutes. You only have to be present for them.
Before the day asks something of you, allow the morning to give something to you: a little peace, a little strength, and another reason to be grateful you are here.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
The world will begin asking things of you soon enough. But before it does, sit quietly, take another sip, and allow the morning to give something back. Today’s Morning Coffee is waiting.
A friends list should not require complete agreement. The better question is not whether someone thinks like us, but whether they can disagree while still treating others with dignity.
Two smartphones rest beside coffee cups in a warmly lit, relaxed workspace.
This weekend, Steve and I found ourselves discussing a modern-day question: Who should we remain social media friends with?
It’s the first day of fall, so you know what that means: seasonal cleaning! Grab the broom and dusting cloth, clear away yesterday’s dust, and make room for everything this new season may bring.
Some of our online friends are people we know personally. Others entered our lives professionally. Some are kinfolk—and, as everyone knows, you do not get to choose your kinfolk. You simply learn which subjects should never be discussed at Thanksgiving.
Then there are the people we have never met. By every traditional definition, they are strangers. Yet, through years of comments, photographs, birthday wishes and shared stories, some of them have become more thoughtful and dependable than people we once saw every day.
Our friends lists also contain a few hangovers from our school years. Some go all the way back to kindergarten, while others joined us somewhere between high school and our last stop in higher education. There are former coworkers, old neighbors, distant cousins and people we once knew well but now recognize primarily by their profile pictures.
Together, they make up this grand and rather peculiar collection called a “friends list.”
The question Steve and I discussed was whether the things these people post could affect how others see us. Does remaining connected to someone suggest that we agree with everything that person believes?
Suppose a distant social media friend—someone we have never met—announces that they are against oxygen. Suddenly, the rumor begins circulating that Ben and Steve want people to stop breathing.
That would be the furthest thing from the truth. We want almost everyone to continue breathing.
But social media does not leave much room for careful distinctions. A friendship, a “like,” or even a silent connection can sometimes be interpreted as an endorsement. People may assume that because someone appears on our friends list, we approve of everything that person says.
That brings us to the difficult part: Who stays, and who goes?
Should one negative political post be enough to unfriend someone? Probably not. Most of us have had a bad day, written something too quickly or allowed frustration to speak before good judgment arrived.
Disagreement alone is not necessarily a reason to end a friendship. If someone dislikes watermelons, for instance, I might question their judgment—but I would not immediately remove them from my life.
However, if they begin posting that people who eat watermelons are destroying America, should be denied medical care and ought to be rounded up before the next family picnic, then we have moved beyond a harmless difference of opinion.
There is a difference between disagreeing with people and demeaning them.
Someone may disagree with our politics, our religion, our marriage or the way we live our lives. They have that right. But we also have the right to decide what behavior we will welcome into our personal space.
A friends list should not require complete agreement. If it did, most of us would eventually be left talking only to ourselves—and even then, I occasionally disagree with myself.
The better question may not be, “Does this person think like me?” It may be, “Does this person treat others with basic dignity?”
Can they disagree without becoming cruel? Can they discuss an issue without insulting entire groups of people? Do their posts contribute something worthwhile, or do they exist mainly to provoke fear, anger and division? When they discover that something they shared was false, do they correct it—or simply move on to the next falsehood?
Those questions tell us much more about a person than whether they vote the same way we do.
There is also a difference between making a mistake and establishing a pattern. One thoughtless post can be forgiven. A steady stream of hatred, personal attacks and deliberate misinformation becomes a choice.
At that point, unfriending someone is not necessarily an act of punishment. It may simply be an act of housekeeping.
We clean our homes by deciding what belongs inside them. Perhaps we should occasionally do the same with our social media spaces.
That does not mean everyone who irritates us must be shown the door. Social media platforms usually provide quieter choices. We can unfollow someone without ending the connection. We can mute a page, hide certain posts or simply continue scrolling.
Not every disagreement requires a courtroom, a family feud or a public announcement beginning with the words, “I am cleaning up my friends list.”
Sometimes the healthiest response is simply to stop giving someone our attention.
Steve and I did not establish a complicated set of rules. We did not begin working down the alphabet, judging every person from childhood onward. Instead, we came back to something much simpler.
We can remain connected to people who disagree with us. We can even learn from them. But we do not have to provide an audience for cruelty, hatred or the deliberate humiliation of others.
Friendship should leave room for differences. It should not require us to surrender our peace, compromise our values or remain silent while others are treated as less than human.
So, who should remain on the friends list?
Perhaps the people who remind us that there is still room in this world for conversation, laughter, kindness and the occasional disagreement over watermelon.
As for oxygen, Steve and I remain firmly in favor of it.
Since it is the first week of fall, we are doing a little seasonal cleaning around here—dusting off a few stories that deserve another moment in the light. You will notice as you read this weeks stories there will be a few cleaning tips sprinkled about as you read. ;-)
Have another cup of coffee—and please, continue breathing.
—— Who should remain on our social media friends list? The people who disagree with us—or only those who know how to disagree without becoming cruel? This Morning Coffee considers friendship, boundaries, watermelons and why Ben and Steve remain firmly in favor of oxygen.
By the Time Hollywood Gets to Georgia – The GOP Will Be Crying…
Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California. But movie productions bring more than cameras, celebrities and California money. They also bring thousands of workers—and some may decide to stay. While political leaders carefully redraw their districts, could they also be importing the very voters who might redraw their political future?
This will be a morning that you also should take bite out of something sweet. I suggest an Apple Fritter. Heavily glazed. The sugar rush will come in later regardless.
Now then.
Benjamin and Sheriff Otis
A cinematic map connects Hollywood with major production hubs across the United States.
Sheriff Otis and I have been listening to all this talk about re-districting— those voter’s districts being re-drawn, challenged, redrawn, rechallenged and hauled through the courts until nobody is entirely sure which district they live in or whether their congressman is still their congressman.
Several conservative states apparently believe they have discovered the perfect lines. They may have won.
Or have they?
While everybody was staring at the political maps, California may have been looking at a much larger map—the one showing where the movie studios are going.
California, after all, is not some little roadside economy surviving on oranges, movie stars and photographs of the Hollywood sign. Its economy is larger than those of most countries. If California were an independent nation, recent economic figures would place it among the largest economies in the world.
It could probably afford its own army, navy and air force. With Hollywood involved, it could film the invasion, win an Academy Award for it and sell the streaming rights before lunch.
Yet many people continue to speak of California as though it contributes nothing useful to the country.
Nothing, that is, except the movies, television programs, technology, agricultural products and enormous amounts of money they would very much like California to bring into their states.
Georgia, Texas and other states have been offering film incentives to attract productions away from Hollywood. They see studio lights, camera crews and production money arriving, and they begin smiling from rear to rear, believing they have finally found the end of the rainbow.
“Bring us your movies!” they shout.
“Build your studios here!”
“Spend that California money in our restaurants, hotels and Hoot-and-Whistles!”
But they may not have thought the entire thing through.
Productions do not arrive by themselves. They bring actors, camera operators, costume designers, makeup artists, writers, carpenters, electricians and thousands of other workers. Some remain only long enough to finish a production and return home. Others may decide they like the lower cost of living, the warm weather or the fact that a person can still find a parking space.
Those who genuinely establish residency may eventually register to vote.
Sheriff Otis howls out “BLUE VOTERS, MAYNARD!”
You heard me (he barks.)
Liberals moving east from California.
Or as Otis refers to it, A very bad area to sniff. (It smells of cow and oil drums.)
The very states hoping to attract California’s entertainment industry could also attract Californians. Those newcomers might vote in school-board races, city-council elections and contests for governor, Congress and the Senate.
They will not necessarily vote alike, of course. Californians are not produced on a political assembly line, even if Hollywood probably owns the rights to one.
Still, imagine the irony.
Political leaders redraw districts hoping to protect their party, then approve enormous incentives that encourage thousands of workers from another state to move directly into those carefully constructed districts.
Who Shot J.R.?
It would be the greatest political plot twist since television viewers learned that J.R. had been shot.
And who helped encourage the great migration of studios, corporations and media operations across the country?
The same political leaders who wanted California’s business without California’s influence.
They wanted the gold.
They just forgot that California is called the Golden State because Californians tend to arrive with it.
Perhaps California does not need to fight every redistricting map in court. Perhaps it merely needs to send a film crew.
Before long, every carefully drawn district could contain a casting director, three screenwriters, two sound engineers and somebody ordering an oat-milk latte at the Fill-Your-Buggy.
Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California.
For those who have been around a time or two, you know where to find Steve and me on a weekend morning. For anyone just arriving, let me bring you up to speed.
Every weekend, usually Saturday or Sunday and sometimes both, we visit the same local restaurant. Our waitress looks for us. By the time we settle into a booth, she knows what I’m having, and our drinks are already on their way.
Three Sausage Patties, three eggs, wheat toast, hash browns, and a bowl of gravy. That is my order. Steve is more complicated. He studies the menu, makes a decision, changes his mind, and studies it again.
My order never changes. There’s comfort in that, especially at the end of a week when everything else seems to have demanded a decision.
I should explain the capital letters. Those Sausage Patties deserve them. They are, as we used to say when I was growing up, to die for. Back then, we said that about all sorts of things. These days, I’m happy just to get up on a weekend morning and go have breakfast.
I think fennel is part of what makes them so good. At least, that’s the word I intend to say. At the restaurant, Steve and I sometimes call it “fentanyl” by mistake. Then one of us catches it, and we both start laughing. Our waitress knows perfectly well what we mean, though I suspect she enjoys watching us try to get the word right.
The mix-up has become part of our weekend routine. I can forget the name of the seasoning halfway through a sentence, but I never forget how those patties taste. By midweek, I’m already looking forward to their return performance.
Of course, the sausage alone wouldn’t make this our place. Our waitress remembers us. Steve gets all the time he needs with the menu. I get to sit across from him while our breakfast arrives, knowing that for a little while, there is nowhere else we need to be.
It’s a simple pleasure. That may be why I keep coming back to it.
Next weekend, Steve will open the menu and consider his options. Our waitress will look at me, pick up her pen, and smile. She already knows. And if I happen to mention the wrong herb again, I know she’ll know what I mean. Her name? Christin-a.
Today’s Morning Coffee begins a little differently. Before we turn to a more serious story about the Kennedy Center and America’s history, we’ll first share a few surprising facts, a little humor, and a reminder that coffee and conversations about the country have gone together for generations.
Normally, this would be where I pour the coffee, settle into the chair, and leave you with something simple to carry into the weekend.
Today is a little different.
Following this morning’s coffee, you will find a story that is considerably more serious. It concerns the Kennedy Center, the memory of President John F. Kennedy, and some of the larger questions I believe America is facing about history, institutions and what we choose to preserve for future generations.
I apologize for handing you something so heavy before you have finished your first cup.
But sometimes Morning Coffee is not only about making the morning easier. Sometimes it is about sitting together long enough to talk about something that matters.
So read the story that follows when you are ready.
Before we get there, however, I thought we should end the week with a few things that might make you say, “Well, I didn’t know that.”
Things You May Not Know
The Library of Congress receives roughly 15,000 items every working day and adds more than 10,000 of them to its collections. Somewhere in Washington, somebody apparently has a much larger “to be filed” pile than the rest of us.
The smallest book in the Library of Congress is called Old King Cole. It measures only about 1/25 of an inch by 1/25 of an inch—roughly the size of the period at the end of a sentence. Meanwhile, its largest book is approximately five feet by seven feet. That is less a book and more something you could use to replace a bedroom wall.
The Library also possesses written material dating to about 2040 B.C. and printed Buddhist texts dating to approximately 770 A.D. It is humbling to realize that human beings were already writing things down thousands of years before somebody invented the phrase, “I forgot my password.”
And since this is Morning Coffee, here is one especially appropriate bit of history.
James Smithson—the British scientist whose fortune eventually created the Smithsonian Institution—actually published his own method for making coffee in 1823. So apparently even the man behind the Smithsonian had opinions about how a proper cup should be made.
Coffee itself has a rather patriotic chapter in American history. After the Boston Tea Party, drinking coffee increasingly became associated with rejecting British tea, and colonial coffeehouses became important gathering places where politics, news and revolutionary ideas were discussed.
Which means that sitting around drinking coffee and talking about the condition of the country is hardly something we invented.
Americans have apparently been doing it for centuries.
So take another sip.
Enjoy your Friday.
And when you are ready, the next story is a little more serious.
Sometimes history asks us to remember.
Sometimes it asks us to pay attention.
And occasionally, it asks us to do both before the coffee gets cold.
Have a great Friday from benandsteve.com — and may your weekend begin with something good.
Wednesday may only be the middle of the week—but perhaps the middle deserves more attention. Today’s Morning Coffee is about slowing down long enough to notice your life while you are living it.
Some of the most important people in our lives rarely receive a standing ovation.
A diverse group gathers for a thoughtful conversation among the library shelves.
They don’t make speeches.
They don’t arrive with trumpets sounding.
Most of the time, they simply show up.
They are the person who notices when your voice sounds different on the telephone.
The neighbor who brings your trash container back toward the house.
The friend who sends a message saying, “Just checking on you.”
The coworker who quietly finishes something because they know you’ve had a difficult day.
The family member who has heard the same story many times but listens again anyway.
These are not spectacular acts when measured individually.
But life is not held together entirely by spectacular acts.
It is held together by thousands of small ones.
We remember the people who were there when everything fell apart because their presence became part of the memory itself. Years later, we may forget exactly what they said, but we remember that they stayed.
There is tremendous comfort in knowing somebody stayed.
Sometimes that is all a person needs.
Not advice.
Not a solution.
Not someone trying to explain why everything will eventually be fine.
Just someone willing to sit beside them long enough for the world to become manageable again.
We often underestimate the value of our own presence for the same reason.
We think helping someone requires something remarkable.
Usually, it doesn’t.
A cup of coffee across the kitchen table can help.
A five-minute telephone call can help.
Remembering somebody’s birthday can help.
Asking, “How are you doing?” and actually waiting for the answer can help.
The ordinary kindnesses are rarely ordinary to the person who needed them.
So while you are having your coffee this morning, think about the people who quietly helped hold your world together at different times in your life.
Some may still be here.
Some may have already gone on.
Some may never have known how much their small kindness meant.
And then consider this:
You may be that person for somebody else today.
You might never know it.
That is the interesting thing about kindness. We rarely know how far it travels after it leaves our hands.
So make the call.
Send the message.
Hold the door.
Listen to the story.
Stay a few minutes longer.
The world has enough people trying to make grand impressions.
What it desperately needs are more people willing to make small differences.
It doesn’t always feel that way, of course. Monday has developed a reputation for being the day nobody particularly wants to see coming. The alarm seems louder, the bed feels more comfortable, and that first cup of coffee often carries considerably more responsibility than coffee should ever be expected to handle.
But perhaps Monday deserves another look.
Monday is another beginning.
Whatever went wrong last week has already happened. Whatever we didn’t finish is waiting for another attempt. The words we wish we had said differently cannot be pulled back, but the next words out of our mouths can be kinder.
Life gives us remarkably few opportunities to change yesterday.
It gives us countless opportunities to change today.
That is worth remembering as we sit with our coffee this morning.
Maybe you have been carrying something around that has become heavier than it needs to be. A disagreement. A disappointment. An unfinished task. Something you have been putting off because beginning it seems harder than continuing to avoid it.
Monday may be as good a day as any to set it down, straighten it out, or simply begin again.
You don’t have to repair your entire life before lunch.
Sometimes progress is nothing more dramatic than making the phone call, answering the message, washing the dishes, opening the curtains, or finally taking the first step toward something you have been thinking about for weeks.
Small beginnings still count.
We tend to celebrate the grand accomplishments because they are easy to see. But nearly every great accomplishment started somewhere very ordinary—with someone deciding, on an otherwise unremarkable morning, that today they would try.
Perhaps that is Monday’s real gift.
It arrives whether we are ready for it or not and quietly places another blank page in front of us.
So pour the coffee.
Take your time with the first few sips.
Then decide what deserves another chance today.
It might be a project.
It might be a relationship.
It might simply be you.
Whatever it is, remember this: starting over does not mean you failed.
Sometimes it simply means you learned enough from yesterday to approach today differently.
And that sounds like a pretty good reason to raise the coffee cup.
Have a wonderful Monday, and make something good out of the day in front of you.
Sometimes we become so focused on the road we are traveling that we forget there may be another way. A different choice, a fresh perspective, or simply the courage to ask,
Pour yourself a cup of coffee and consider something we sometimes forget when life becomes difficult:
There is usually another way.
We have a habit of looking at life as though someone has handed us a map with only one road marked on it. We convince ourselves that we must continue in the direction we are traveling because turning around would mean failure, changing course would mean weakness, or choosing something different would mean admitting we were wrong.
But life doesn’t work that way.
Sometimes the smartest thing we can do is stop long enough to notice the little road running off to the side.
Maybe there is another job.
Another friendship.
Another town.
Another dream.
Another way of spending your time.
Another way of looking at something that has bothered you for years.
Sometimes the alternative isn’t even something outside of us. Sometimes the new direction begins simply by changing the way we see what is already there.
A closed door doesn’t always mean the journey is over. It may simply mean we have been standing at the wrong door.
There are moments when we become so determined to make one particular thing work that we overlook every other possibility around us. We push harder. We worry more. We replay conversations. We imagine everything that could go wrong.
Meanwhile, another possibility may be sitting quietly beside us saying, You could try this instead.
That doesn’t mean we should abandon everything whenever life becomes difficult. Some things are worth fighting for. Some relationships are worth repairing. Some dreams deserve another attempt.
But perseverance and stubbornness are not always the same thing.
Wisdom sometimes means knowing when to keep pushing.
And sometimes wisdom means recognizing that you are allowed to choose another road.
There is tremendous freedom in those words:
You have options.
You have options.
You can reconsider.
You can begin again.
You can change your mind.
You can learn something today that causes you to see yesterday differently.
You can decide that what once mattered greatly to you doesn’t matter nearly as much anymore.
And you do not need permission to grow beyond the person you used to be.
Perhaps that is where we begin this morning.
Not by asking, How do I make everything stay the same?
But by asking:
What else is possible?
Look around.
There may be another road you haven’t noticed yet.
And it just might lead somewhere wonderful.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and remember, sometimes a fresh perspective begins with nothing more complicated than realizing there are other options.
Every morning gives us another opportunity to decide what we will carry into the day. We may not control everything that happens, but we can still choose kindness, patience and the small acts that make an ordinary day a little better.
The house may still be quiet. The day may not have completely decided what it intends to become. For a few minutes, there is only the warmth of the cup in our hands and the opportunity to decide what we are going to carry with us into the hours ahead.
And we do carry things.
We carry yesterday’s disappointments. We carry conversations we wish had gone differently. We carry worries about tomorrow, people we love, bills that need paying, decisions that need making, and questions for which we still have no answers.
But we also carry something else.
We carry kindness.
We carry the memory of someone who once helped us when they didn’t have to. We carry the laughter of people who have shared our table. We carry lessons taught to us by parents, grandparents, friends and sometimes complete strangers who crossed our path only briefly.
Perhaps one of the greatest choices we make every morning is deciding which of those things deserves the most room.
There will always be something to worry about. There will always be someone determined to spoil a perfectly good day. And there will always be circumstances beyond our control.
But we still get to decide what we contribute.
A wooden park sign shares a heartfelt reminder to treat others with kindness.
A kind word costs very little.
Holding a door takes only a moment.
Calling someone who has been on your mind might change their entire afternoon.
And sometimes simply listening to another person without trying to correct them, hurry them or outdo their story is one of the finest gifts we can give.
None of these things will make the evening news.
There won’t be a parade.
Nobody is likely to hand us a trophy for being decent to another human being.
But those small acts have a way of traveling farther than we ever realize.
So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, perhaps we can leave a little room in the day for something good.
We don’t have to change the whole world before lunchtime.
Changing one person’s moment might be enough.
And sometimes, without ever knowing it, that person may be us.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your worries be light, and the kindness you send into the world find its way back home.
Be kind to others, it is really the right thing to do.
For millions of Americans, and for people around the world, this date carries a scar that time has never completely erased. It reminds us where we were, what we saw, what we felt, and how quickly an ordinary morning became something unimaginable.
But beneath the history, the headlines, the smoke, the sirens, and the sorrow is another lesson that reaches into every home.
There are no guarantees when we say goodbye.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, thousands of people did what they had done countless mornings before.
They kissed a spouse goodbye.
They hugged a child.
They waved from a doorway.
They grabbed their coffee, headed for work, boarded an airplane, stepped into an office, answered an alarm, or began an ordinary shift.
Most of them had every reason to believe they would be home again that evening.
Some never were.
That may be one of the hardest truths September 11 leaves with us.
We often live as though there will always be another opportunity.
Another phone call.
Another dinner.
Another visit.
Another chance to say, “I love you.”
Another chance to apologize.
Another chance to linger at the door for just a few more seconds.
But life has never promised us that.
A person can leave our presence in the morning and, through circumstances completely beyond anyone’s control, be gone before nightfall.
September 11 reminds us not to take the people in our lives for granted.
It reminds us that the hurried goodbye deserves a little more care.
That the person sitting across from us at breakfast deserves our attention.
That the phone call from someone we love might be worth answering.
That anger sometimes deserves to be put aside before we walk out the door.
And that “I love you” is rarely something we should save for later.
This day also reminds us of those who ran toward danger while others were trying desperately to escape it.
Firefighters.
Police officers.
Paramedics.
Emergency workers.
Ordinary people who became extraordinary simply because someone else needed help.
Many knew the danger.
They went anyway.
Their courage remains part of the living legacy of September 11, along with the memories of every innocent life taken that morning.
So perhaps today’s coffee should be a little slower.
Perhaps we should sit with the people we love a little longer.
Make the call we have been putting off.
Forgive something that no longer deserves the space it occupies in our hearts.
And when someone we love walks out the door today, let our final words be words we would be at peace remembering.
Because none of us knows which goodbye will be the last.
September 11 taught us that lesson in the most painful way imaginable.
May we honor those who were lost not only by remembering how they died, but by remembering how important it is to cherish those who are still here.
Some of life’s most meaningful moments do not announce themselves when they arrive. They are found in familiar voices, quiet mornings, ordinary routines, and the people beside us. Sometimes the moments we barely notice today become the memories we treasure most tomorrow.
Maybe it is the light coming through the window. Maybe it is a memory that wandered in before we were fully awake. Or maybe it is simply one of those days when we notice the little things we usually hurry past.
We spend so much of our lives looking ahead that we sometimes forget how much of life is actually built from ordinary moments. The grand occasions certainly matter, but they are surprisingly few. Most of our lives are made up of thousands of small mornings, simple conversations, familiar faces, and routines we rarely think twice about.
Until one day we miss them.
That is when we discover that ordinary never really meant unimportant.
Some of the things I remember most clearly from years gone by would have seemed completely insignificant at the time. A voice from another room. Someone sitting at the kitchen table. A familiar laugh. A car pulling into the driveway. Someone saying, “Come on, let’s go.”
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing anyone would have thought needed preserving.
Yet somehow those are the moments that remain.
Maybe that is something worth remembering this morning.
There may be something happening around you today that feels completely ordinary. You may not photograph it. You may never write about it. You probably will not even recognize its importance while it is happening.
But someday, it may become one of the moments you would give almost anything to experience once more.
Before the phone rings, the messages arrive, and the day begins asking things of us, there is a little quiet time to simply be. Sometimes the most ordinary parts of morning—the coffee, the familiar sounds of home, and a few peaceful minutes—are the moments worth noticing most.
Before the list of things we meant to do yesterday quietly becomes today’s list.
There is coffee.
And sometimes, that is enough.
I have come to appreciate those first few moments of the morning. The house is still finding its footing. The outside world hasn’t completely awakened yet, and for a little while, nobody expects anything from you.
You can simply sit.
Think.
Remember.
Or, if you are lucky, think about absolutely nothing at all.
That may be harder than it sounds.
We spend so much of our lives preparing for what comes next that we sometimes miss what is sitting directly in front of us.
Not every day needs to be extraordinary to be meaningful. Sometimes the moments we barely notice—a warm cup of coffee, a familiar voice, or a quiet morning at home—become the memories we treasure most.
We carry more into each morning than the coffee in our cup. Memories, worries, laughter, and yesterday’s unfinished thoughts often come along with us. But a new morning gives us another chance to decide what is worth carrying forward—and what might finally be time to leave behind.
But sometimes what we bring with us to the table gives it a little more weight.
Not the cup, of course. The cup weighs exactly what it did yesterday.
We carry yesterday into the morning.
A conversation we wish had gone differently. A worry we never quite put down before going to bed. A name we have been thinking about. A memory that wandered in without knocking and decided to stay awhile.
Then there are the things we carry that feel a little lighter.
A laugh from yesterday.
Someone checking in just because they were thinking about us.
A dog stretched out nearby, perfectly content with life as long as breakfast eventually appears.
A familiar chair.
A quiet house.
And that first dependable cup of coffee.
Maybe mornings aren’t really about starting over. Life doesn’t erase itself while we sleep. The bills are still there. The problems haven’t packed their bags and moved out during the night. That stubborn thing we were worrying about yesterday may still be sitting right where we left it.
But morning does give us another chance to decide how much of it we are going to carry.
Some things need our attention.
Some things need our patience.
And some things probably need to be left sitting beside the road somewhere behind us.
We are not required to drag every disappointment we have ever known into every new day.
That may be one of life’s quieter lessons.
We can remember without remaining stuck.
We can care without carrying everything.
We can miss someone and still smile.
We can have difficult days and still believe there are good ones ahead.
So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, take inventory of what you brought to the table.
Keep the memories that make you smile.
Hold close the people who matter.
Take care of the things that truly need tending.
And perhaps leave a little room in your hands for something new.
Because you never know what this day may be waiting to give you.
Sometimes all we need is enough room to receive it.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your burdens a little lighter, and your day give you something worth carrying into tomorrow.
You don’t have to solve everything before the coffee cools. Some mornings are simply meant for taking life one task, one conversation, and one cup at a time.
There are mornings when the coffee seems to understand us better than we understand ourselves.
We sit down with a warm cup in our hands and a list already forming in our minds.
Things we need to do.
Things we should have done yesterday.
Things we are worried about tomorrow.
And before we have even taken the first good sip, we have managed to turn an ordinary morning into a meeting with every problem we have ever known.
I have learned something about mornings, though.
They were never meant to carry the weight of an entire lifetime.
Sometimes the best thing we can do is simply take care of what is directly in front of us.
Drink the coffee.
Feed the dog.
Answer the message.
Make the bed.
Call the person we have been meaning to call.
Step outside for a minute and notice that the sun came up again without asking us to supervise it.
There is a strange comfort in remembering that not everything requires our immediate attention.
Some problems need time.
Some answers haven’t arrived yet.
Some doors will open when they are ready.
And some things that feel terribly important this morning may not matter nearly as much by Friday.
We have a habit of wanting everything settled.
We want the question answered, the disagreement resolved, the bill paid, the project finished, the decision made and tomorrow neatly arranged before breakfast.
Life rarely cooperates.
It arrives one day at a time.
Maybe there is wisdom in learning to live the same way.
One day.
One conversation.
One responsibility.
One cup of coffee at a time.
There will always be unfinished business somewhere in our lives. There will always be something we wish we could change, something we are waiting for, and something we don’t completely understand.
That doesn’t mean today cannot still be a good day.
A good day doesn’t require a perfect life.
Sometimes a good day is simply one where we laughed once, helped somebody, accomplished one useful thing, ate something we enjoyed and made it home safely.
That may not sound extraordinary.
But after enough years have passed, we begin to understand that those ordinary days were the extraordinary ones.
So this morning, don’t demand too much from yourself before the coffee has even cooled.
You don’t have to solve everything today.
Just take care of today.
Tomorrow will bring its own cup.
Have a wonderful morning. May your coffee be warm, your worries be light, and may you find something good waiting for you somewhere along the way
The ordinary moments of life often leave the deepest impressions. A familiar phrase, an old memory, or a simple act of kindness can become something we carry with us for years—and eventually pass along to someone else.
There is something comforting about the first cup of coffee in the morning.
Before the phone starts ringing, before the television begins telling us what happened while we slept, and before the responsibilities of the day start lining up at the door, there are those few quiet minutes when the world seems willing to wait.
This morning, as I sat with my coffee, I found myself thinking about how much of our lives we carry forward without even realizing it.
~~~
A phrase our father used to say.
A recipe our mother never bothered writing down because she simply knew how much of everything belonged in the bowl.
The way a grandparent waved from the porch.
The sound of an old screen door closing behind us.
The advice of a friend that didn’t seem particularly important when it was given, but somehow became wisdom twenty years later.
~~~
We spend so much of our lives believing we are moving forward and leaving yesterday behind.
But I don’t think that’s really how life works.
We carry yesterday with us.
Not all of it, thankfully. Time has a merciful way of softening some things and allowing others to fade. But the pieces that shaped us remain tucked away in places we don’t always recognize.
They appear when we catch ourselves saying something exactly the way one of our parents said it.
They show themselves when we perform some small kindness because once, long ago, someone did the same thing for us.
Sometimes they appear in the strangest places—a song on the radio, the smell of rain, an old photograph, or the sound of coffee being poured into a familiar cup.
And suddenly, someone or someplace we haven’t thought about in years is sitting right there beside us again.
Maybe that is one of life’s quieter gifts.
The people we have loved never completely leave the road we are traveling. They simply stop walking beside us in the way they once did.
Instead, they travel within us.
Their lessons become part of our decisions.
Their laughter becomes part of our memories.
Their kindness becomes something we pass along to somebody who may never know where it originally came from.
And eventually, pieces of us will travel the same way.
Someone will remember something we said.
Someone will tell one of our stories.
Someone might pour a cup of coffee one morning and smile because something reminded them of us.
That is why the ordinary moments matter so much.
We are always leaving something behind.
A word.
A kindness.
A story.
A memory.
So while you enjoy your coffee this morning, remember that the smallest things you do today may become something another person carries with them for years.
Make them worth carrying.
Have a wonderful morning, and may your coffee be warm, your memories gentle, and your day filled with something worth remembering.
The world may be ready to rush us into the day, but mornings deserve a gentler beginning. Sometimes the best way to prepare for everything ahead is to slow down, enjoy the coffee, and simply notice the quiet moments before the day begins.
The coffee is poured, the day is waiting, and somewhere out there the world has already decided we should be in a hurry.
There is always something waiting for us.
A message that needs answering.
A chore that needs finishing.
A place we are supposed to be.
A problem we have convinced ourselves must be solved before breakfast.
We spend so much of our lives rushing toward the next thing that sometimes we forget to notice the thing we are standing in.
This morning.
This cup of coffee.
This moment.
I think mornings were meant to be entered gently.
Not attacked.
Not conquered.
Not treated like the starting gun at a race.
There is something about those first quiet minutes of the day that belongs only to us.
Before the telephone rings.
Before the television begins telling us what went wrong overnight.
Before somebody somewhere needs something from us.
There is that little pocket of time when the house is still quiet and the coffee is warm, when we can sit for a moment and remember that simply being here is enough.
I have noticed through the years that some of the best mornings are the ones when absolutely nothing happens.
No emergency.
No unexpected visitor.
No major announcement.
Just the familiar sounds of life beginning again.
Maybe a dog stretching nearby.
A refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
A bird announcing itself outside the window.
The soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup.
Things so ordinary we hardly notice them.
Yet those are often the sounds we miss most when life changes.
We are always being told to make every minute count.
But perhaps every minute does not need to accomplish something.
Some minutes are allowed to simply exist.
Some are meant for sitting quietly.
Some are meant for remembering.
Some are meant for staring out the window while holding a warm cup between your hands and thinking absolutely nothing important at all.
There is value in that too.
Life will begin asking things from you soon enough.
The day will pick up speed.
There will be appointments, responsibilities, decisions and probably at least one thing that does not go according to plan.
But none of that has arrived yet.
Right now, it is morning.
And for these few minutes, you are allowed to simply be here.
So drink your coffee before it gets cold.
Watch the morning arrive.
Let the world wait just a little while.
Because sometimes the best way to prepare yourself for everything waiting ahead is to begin the day without rushing toward any of it.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com, and remember—
You do not have to race through every moment. Some of the best parts of life are found when we slow down long enough to notice them
We carry pieces of the people who have traveled through our lives — their lessons, laughter, kindness, and even their little habits. This morning’s coffee is about remembering what others left with us and considering what we might leave behind for someone else.
Before the telephone rings, before the television begins telling us what happened overnight, and before the world starts asking something from us, there are those few quiet moments when we can simply sit and think.
I have come to believe those moments are more valuable than we realize.
We spend much of our lives collecting things. Not necessarily possessions, but memories, lessons, sayings, habits, friendships, disappointments, victories, and even a few regrets.
Some of them we carry without realizing it.
A phrase our father used to say.
Something our mother taught us without ever sitting us down and calling it a lesson.
The way an old friend laughed.
A song that suddenly takes us back forty years.
The smell of coffee brewing in a kitchen that no longer exists.
Life has an interesting way of packing our suitcase for us.
By the time we reach a certain age, we discover that we are carrying pieces of nearly everyone who has traveled beside us.
And perhaps that is one of life’s greatest gifts.
People do not entirely leave us when they are gone.
They remain in the things they taught us, the stories we tell about them, the kindness they showed us, and sometimes even in those little irritating habits we swore we would never adopt — until one morning we catch ourselves doing exactly the same thing.
That is when you have to smile.
Because somehow, without noticing, yesterday has quietly found its way into today.
So as you enjoy your coffee this morning, think about the people who helped pack your suitcase.
Remember the ones who taught you something worthwhile.
And when the opportunity comes today, leave something good behind for someone else to carry.
A kind word.
A little patience.
A helping hand.
A good story.
Because years from now, when someone else is sitting quietly over their morning coffee, you just might be one of the memories that makes them smile.
And that wouldn’t be such a bad thing to leave behind.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may there always be enough coffee for one more story.
Some of life’s most meaningful moments are the ones we barely notice while they are happening. This Morning Coffee is a reminder to appreciate the quiet, ordinary moments before they become the memories we miss most.
There are mornings when nothing remarkable happens.
The coffee brews. The house slowly wakes up. A dog stretches somewhere nearby. A car passes down the street. Maybe the sun finds its way through the blinds and lands across the floor in that familiar place it always seems to find.
Photo by Lucas Andrade on Pexels.comSomedays you need a cup. Somedays, you need two. And, somedays you need the whole damn pot!
Nothing extraordinary.
And yet, I have come to believe these may be some of the most important mornings we are given.
We spend so much of our lives waiting for something significant to happen. We look forward to birthdays, vacations, reunions, holidays, accomplishments and celebrations. We mark the big moments on calendars and take photographs so we will remember them.
But most of life happens somewhere in between.
It happens while we are standing at the kitchen counter waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.
It happens during the quiet conversation across the breakfast table.
It happens when someone asks, “Did you sleep okay?”
It happens when the dog follows you from one room to another for absolutely no reason other than the fact that wherever you are seems to be where he wants to be.
These moments rarely announce themselves as important.
There is no music playing in the background.
Nobody takes a photograph.
There is no ceremony.
And yet someday, these may be the moments we miss the most.
I think that is one of the lessons age quietly teaches us. The ordinary days we once hurried through eventually become the memories we would gladly revisit.
The sound of someone laughing in another room.
A familiar chair sitting beside the window.
A favorite coffee cup.
Someone calling your name from the other end of the house.
Things that once seemed ordinary somehow become treasures after enough years have passed.
Maybe that is why I have learned to appreciate mornings like this one.
There is coffee in the cup.
There are people I care about somewhere in this world.
There are memories behind me and, God willing, a few more waiting ahead.
And for the moment, nothing particularly remarkable is happening.
Which, when you think about it, is something rather remarkable itself.
So this morning, while you drink your coffee, take a look around.
There may be something happening right now that someday you will give almost anything to experience one more time.
Sometimes the best parts of life are the ones we almost failed to notice.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and remember, ordinary moments have a way of becoming extraordinary memories.
Sunday coffee has a way of slowing the world down. Sometimes the best thing we can do before another week begins is sit quietly, sip slowly, and remember how much there still is to be thankful for.
I don’t know that there is anything scientific behind that statement. The beans are the same. The water comes from the same faucet. The coffee pot certainly hasn’t learned what day of the week it is.
But somehow, Sunday morning coffee knows.
It knows there is no reason to rush.
The coffee pot can sit there on the counter and quietly do its job while the rest of the house slowly decides whether it is ready to join the day.
There are mornings when coffee is practically a piece of emergency equipment. You pour it while looking at the clock, searching for your keys, wondering where you left your glasses, and trying to remember whatever important thing you promised yourself the night before that you absolutely would not forget.
Sunday coffee doesn’t seem interested in any of that.
Sunday coffee says, Sit down.
The world will still be there in ten minutes.
Maybe that is one of the little gifts we have forgotten how to appreciate.
I often find myself reflecting on the Sundays of my childhood, especially those quiet early mornings when only my father and I were awake.
The test pattern had just disappeared from our black-and-white television, and the first program of the morning was the children’s show Davey and Goliath. It was followed by a gospel music program featuring the Florida Boys. I enjoyed both, although the second one was certainly aimed more toward my dad’s age group than mine.
When the gospel program ended, Dad would usually look at me and say, “Let’s go.”
Most Sundays, he already had a few sacks of groceries packed and ready to deliver around the southwest part of town, where much of Binger’s Black community lived. We had chickens—hundreds of them, at least it seemed that way to me as a child—along with cattle and pigs. My father shared what we had with people he believed truly needed it.
As we made those rounds, he would sometimes give me one of his little lessons.
“You don’t see a single one of them getting commodities at City Hall when they’re handing them out,” he would say. “Nope. It’s all these fine-to-do white people.”
There was always just a little preaching mixed into his words.
Even at that young age, I understood what he was showing me. I had already begun to recognize the hypocrisy he was talking about—the difference between what people said about others and what was actually taking place right in front of us.
Once our morning deliveries were finished, we would stop and buy the Sunday newspaper from the sidewalk vending machine. Dad would toss it into the pickup, and then we would head for the only café in town open on Sunday morning.
That was where Dad gathered what I now jokingly call his weekly community intelligence.
He listened.
He visited.
He heard who was doing what, who was upset with whom, whose crops were doing well, whose family was having trouble, and whatever else happened to be making its way through town that morning. Then, during the following week, he could use that information to maneuver his way through conversations in the barbershop.
And I had my own use for it.
Come Monday morning, I could walk onto the school playground and tell my classmates what I had heard their neighbors talking about over Sunday breakfast.
For a kid with a speech impediment, having a little inside information turned out to be a surprisingly useful way to keep a conversation going.
We spend so much of our lives preparing for the next thing that we sometimes fail to notice the thing we are living right now.
The coffee pot understands none of this, of course.
It simply sits there.
A little steam rises.
The kitchen begins to smell familiar.
A cup gets filled.
And for a few moments, nothing else is required of us.
There was a time when Sundays seemed almost designed around slowing down. Stores opened later. Families gathered for dinner. Church bells rang. Newspapers were thicker. People sat on porches longer.
Even the telephone seemed to understand that Sunday morning was not the appropriate time to cause trouble.
Today, the world rarely takes a day off.
Our phones buzz.
The news keeps moving.
Someone somewhere desperately wants us to know about a sale ending at midnight.
But the old coffee pot still offers the same invitation it always has.
Stay awhile.
Listen to the quiet.
Think about the people you love.
Remember the ones who once sat across the table from you.
Be thankful for those who still do.
And maybe leave a little room in your day for absolutely nothing important at all.
Because sometimes doing nothing important is exactly what the soul needs.
So this Sunday morning, pour another cup.
Let the coffee pot keep warm whatever is left behind.
And before you hurry into another week, give yourself permission to sit quietly with the life you already have.
It may not be perfect.
It may not always be easy.
But somewhere between the first sip and the bottom of the cup, you might discover there is still quite a bit worth being thankful for.
Have a wonderful Sunday from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be hot, your morning be peaceful, and nobody ask you to do anything important until at least the second cup.
We spend so much time looking at how far we have left to go that we sometimes forget the miles already behind us. This morning’s coffee is a reminder to turn around occasionally and appreciate just how far you’ve come.
We think about what needs to be done today, what is waiting for us tomorrow, and where we hope to be sometime down the road.
We don’t often turn around and look behind us.
Maybe we should.
There are roads you’ve already traveled that once frightened you.
There were problems you were certain you couldn’t solve.
There were nights you wondered how you would make it until morning.
There were changes you didn’t ask for, goodbyes you weren’t ready to say, and circumstances you never imagined would become part of your story.
Yet here you are.
Coffee in hand.
Another morning.
Still going.
We have a habit of measuring ourselves by how far we have left to go instead of recognizing how far we have already come.
It’s a little like climbing a hill while staring only at the top.
Every step reminds you that you aren’t there yet.
But turn around for a moment.
Look at the distance behind you.
Suddenly, those little steps don’t seem so little anymore.
Life is like that.
Growth rarely announces itself while it’s happening.
We simply get up each morning and keep going.
We learn.
We adjust.
We stumble.
We get back up.
And somewhere along the way, without realizing it, we become stronger than the person who first started down the road.
Maybe you’re not where you hoped you would be by now.
That’s all right.
Perhaps there are things you still want to accomplish, relationships you want to mend, places you want to see, or pieces of yourself you’re still trying to understand.
Keep going.
But every once in a while, turn around.
Remember the things you’ve survived.
Remember the lessons you’ve learned.
Remember the people you’ve loved and the people who loved you along the way.
Give yourself credit for the miles already traveled.
You earned every one of them.
Sometimes we need to stop asking, “How much farther?” and take a moment to say, “Look how far I’ve come.”
So this morning, before you hurry toward whatever is waiting ahead, sit with your coffee for another minute.
Look back down the road.
That person standing there in your memories had no idea whether they would make it this far.
But they did.
You did.
And today, the road continues.
Now, let’s have another cup before we get moving.
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
After traveling hundreds of miles with us—from Arizona, through New Mexico and Texas, and finally into Oklahoma—we brought her to Binger.
Her last ride is over.
She rests beside my father now.
And this morning, life has done that peculiar thing it always does after a loss.
It continued.
The sun came up.
Someone started a car.
A dog needed attention.
Coffee had to be made.
The world didn’t stop simply because something monumental happened in mine.
Perhaps that is one of life’s quietest lessons.
We spend days preparing ourselves for the big moments—the service, the goodbye, the final prayer. But nobody prepares us quite as well for the morning afterward.
The morning when there is nowhere else we need to take them.
No arrangements left to make.
No more miles left to drive.
Just memories.
Yesterday, I stood in Oklahoma soil and helped return my mother to the place that had shaped so much of her life.
Today, I can begin carrying her differently.
Not in a special carrier.
Not buckled safely into the vehicle.
Not guarded faithfully by Otis.
I carry her in stories.
I carry her in the expressions I inherited without realizing it.
I carry her in memories of childhood, family gatherings, arguments, laughter, disappointments, forgiveness, and all those wonderfully complicated things that make a family a family.
Perhaps that’s what we eventually discover about saying goodbye.
The people we love don’t simply disappear down some road behind us.
They become part of the traveler.
And so this morning, I will have another cup of coffee.
Then Steve, Otis, and I will eventually point ourselves toward Arizona.
There will be an empty place in the vehicle where Mom rode with us.
But I don’t think she’s leaving Oklahoma alone.
A little bit of her will be going home with me.
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
Coffee is that wonderful drink that calms the soul—without calming you so much that you wake up the next morning with your best friend asking, “Do you remember what you did last night?”
Drink coffee. Lots of coffee. Your reputation may depend on it. ☕
And then there are mornings when you wrap both hands around the cup because you need something steady to hold.
This is one of those mornings.
Today, we are taking Mom home.
Before we reach Binger, I want her final journey to pass through some of the places that belong to our family’s story.
Marjorie Groff at the Homestead
We will travel near Sentinel, Oklahoma, past the country where her parents made their home in the 1930s.
Then we will continue toward Cordell.
That’s where I was born.
I find something deeply meaningful about carrying my mother past the place where she once carried me. While raising my sister. Along with other other siblings.
Then we will travel east toward Binger.
There, at Binger Murray Cemetery, my mother will finally be laid to rest beside my father, JD Groff.
For so many years, they traveled through life together. They raised a family. They worked. They struggled. They laughed. They disagreed. They grew older.
But their lives became part of ours, and whatever else can be said about the years behind us, one truth remains:
They were Mom and Dad.
Today, Steve will be beside me. Otis will have completed his special assignment. Family and friends will gather. Words will be spoken. Memories will be shared.
And eventually there will come a moment when there is nothing left for me to do except say goodbye.
Or perhaps not goodbye.
Maybe simply:
We got you here, Mom.
You’re home.
This morning’s coffee is for everyone who has ever had to make that final journey with someone they love.
Drink it slowly.
Remember them well.
And when the time comes, let them go with love.
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
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.
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.
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.
There are probably people carrying a good memory of something you did long ago, even though you’ve forgotten all about it. This morning’s coffee is a reminder that the smallest kindness can become part of someone else’s story.
There are people from years ago whom I still remember for the smallest reasons.
They didn’t save my life.
They didn’t give me some great piece of wisdom.
They may not even remember me.
But I remember them.
I remember the person who took an extra moment to explain something when I didn’t understand.
The person who laughed with me when I needed to laugh.
The person who noticed I was having a difficult day and asked, “Are you doing okay?”
The person who poured another cup of coffee without being asked.
Funny, isn’t it?
We often think we have to do something extraordinary to make a difference in somebody’s life.
Most of the time, we don’t.
Sometimes we are remembered simply because we were kind when kindness was needed.
There are probably people walking around today carrying a memory of something you once did for them.
You may have forgotten it completely.
They haven’t.
Maybe you encouraged someone when they were ready to quit.
Maybe you sat beside somebody who didn’t want to be alone.
Maybe you made a child laugh.
Maybe you told someone they were doing a good job when nobody else bothered to notice.
To you, it may have been nothing more than an ordinary moment.
To them, it became part of their story.
That’s something worth thinking about over coffee this morning.
We spend a lot of time wondering what people think of us.
Perhaps a better question is:
How do people feel after they’ve been around us?
Do they leave feeling a little better?
A little more hopeful?
A little less alone?
Because long after people forget what we wore, what we owned, or how important we thought we were, they often remember how we treated them.
And someday, years from now, someone may be sitting at their own kitchen table with a cup of coffee remembering you.
Not because you did something remarkable.
But because, on an ordinary day when they needed it, you were kind.
Never underestimate the possibility that one small kindness from you may become someone else’s lifelong memory.
So today, give somebody something good to remember.
It doesn’t have to cost a thing.
A smile will do.
A kind word will do.
Taking a moment to listen will do.
Sometimes the smallest things stay with us the longest.
Now, how about another cup?
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
Don’t decide how the day will end before it has even begun. This morning’s coffee is a reminder to move yesterday’s worries over and leave a little room at the table for something good.
Before our feet touch the floor, we are thinking about yesterday’s problems, today’s responsibilities, and tomorrow’s worries.
Then we pour the coffee and carry all of them to the table with us.
That is quite a crowd for so early in the morning.
I wonder how many good things we miss because we have already decided what kind of day we are going to have.
We tell ourselves the meeting will be difficult.
The person won’t call.
The answer will be no.
Traffic will be terrible.
Something will probably go wrong.
And sometimes we’re right.
But not always.
Every now and then, life surprises us.
The telephone rings, and it is someone we have been thinking about.
A stranger holds the door and smiles.
Someone says something kind when we need to hear it most.
A problem we have worried about for days works itself out with surprisingly little trouble.
Or maybe nothing dramatic happens at all.
Maybe the sun simply comes through the kitchen window at just the right angle, the coffee tastes especially good, and for a few minutes everything feels all right with the world.
Those little moments count too.
We cannot control everything waiting for us today. There will always be things we would rather avoid and circumstances we cannot change.
But we can leave a little room for the possibility that something good might happen.
Hope doesn’t require us to pretend that difficulties don’t exist.
It simply asks us not to decide the ending before the day has had a chance to begin.
So while you’re sitting there with your coffee this morning, move yesterday’s worries over just a little bit.
You don’t have to throw them away.
Just don’t give them the whole table.
Save an empty chair for something unexpected.
Leave a little room for laughter.
Leave a little room for kindness.
Leave a little room for somebody to surprise you.
And most of all, leave a little room for something good.
Because this day hasn’t happened before.
You don’t know everything it is bringing with it.
Don’t let yesterday convince you that you already know how today will end.
Now take another sip.
Morning has only just arrived.
Let’s give it a chance.
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
Not every morning needs to be extraordinary. Sometimes the quiet, ordinary moments—the warm coffee, familiar voices, and people nearby—are the ones we eventually miss the most. Come sit for a while. The coffee is ready…
The coffee is brewing. The house is quiet. Somewhere outside, a bird is carrying on a conversation with another bird that apparently has a great deal to say.
And nothing particularly important is happening.
We have become so accustomed to looking for significance that we sometimes overlook the beauty of an ordinary day.
We celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, graduations, promotions, and all those other days we circle on the calendar. We take photographs. We gather people together. We remember them years later.
But when we look back on our lives, something interesting happens.
We begin missing the ordinary days too.
We remember sitting at the kitchen table while someone we loved stood at the counter.
We remember hearing their footsteps coming down the hallway.
We remember the sound of the screen door closing.
We remember someone asking, “Want another cup?”
At the time, none of it seemed important enough to remember.
Yet somehow we did.
Maybe that is because a life isn’t made mostly from extraordinary moments.
It is made from thousands upon thousands of ordinary ones.
The morning somebody handed you a cup of coffee.
The afternoon you sat on the porch doing absolutely nothing.
The evening everyone was home and nobody realized how precious that would someday become.
We didn’t know we were making memories.
We thought we were simply living.
Perhaps that is something worth remembering this morning.
You don’t have to accomplish something remarkable today for today to matter.
You don’t need a celebration.
You don’t need an announcement.
You don’t even need a particularly good story to tell when the day is finished.
Sometimes it is enough that the people you care about are nearby, the coffee is warm, and another morning has found its way to your door.
So don’t hurry through all of it.
Take an extra sip.
Listen to the sounds around you.
Notice who’s sitting across the table.
Someday you may discover that the mornings you once thought were ordinary were some of the most precious mornings you ever had.
The ordinary moments of today may become the treasured memories of tomorrow.
And that seems like a pretty good reason to pour another cup.
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
We spend so much time trying to finish everything that we sometimes forget to appreciate simply moving forward. Grab your cup. This morning, one small step is enough.
We pour the coffee, look at the day ahead, and begin making a list in our minds. Things that need doing. People who need calling. Problems that need solving. Yesterday’s unfinished business somehow finds its way onto today’s kitchen table before we have even taken the first sip.
But maybe everything doesn’t need to be finished today.
Some things simply take time.
I think back to the way people once approached ordinary work. A garden wasn’t planted in the morning and harvested that afternoon. A fence was built one post at a time. A long trip was measured in miles traveled, not merely by how quickly you reached the destination.
There was an understanding that worthwhile things often required patience.
We sometimes forget that when it comes to ourselves.
We expect answers immediately. We want worries settled, grief healed, relationships repaired, and uncertainty resolved before bedtime. When that doesn’t happen, we can feel as though we somehow failed the day.
But perhaps today’s accomplishment is simply moving one step forward.
Maybe you make the telephone call.
Maybe you write the first paragraph.
Maybe you forgive a little.
Maybe you worry a little less.
Maybe you finally sit quietly for ten minutes with a cup of coffee and realize the world managed to keep turning without your supervision.
There will always be something left undone when evening comes. That isn’t failure. That is life reminding us there is another day waiting.
So this morning, don’t measure your day by everything you manage to finish.
Measure it by whether you moved something worthwhile a little farther down the road.
And if all you manage today is one small step, remember:
A small step forward is still farther than you were yesterday.
Pour yourself another cup.
Tomorrow will have its own list.
For now, this morning is enough.
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
Excerpt
Not everything needs to be finished today. Some things simply take time. This morning’s coffee is a reminder that one small step forward can be enough.
Before the day gets busy, pour yourself a cup of coffee and stay here for just a moment.
We spend a surprising amount of our lives waiting for something. We wait for Friday, for vacation, for better weather, for the next celebration, or for the day when things finally settle down.
Meanwhile, life keeps happening.
It is happening in the coffee you’re holding. In the morning light coming through the window. In the familiar voice from the other room. In the dog waiting patiently for you to notice him. In the ordinary little routines we sometimes hurry through without realizing how precious they are.
Years from now, some of the things we barely notice today may be the very things we would give anything to experience once more.
So don’t rush through all of today trying to reach tomorrow.
Drink the coffee while it’s warm. Listen to the story you’ve heard a hundred times. Say “I love you.” Stay an extra minute when your heart tells you to stay.
There will always be somewhere else to go.
But there will never be another today.
Take a little time to notice your life while you’re living it. You may discover that an ordinary Tuesday was something pretty wonderful after all.
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
☕ Morning Coffee
Before You Hurry Past It
Good morning, my friends.
Before the day gets busy, pour yourself a cup of coffee and stay here for just a moment.
We spend a surprising amount of our lives waiting for something. We wait for Friday, for vacation, for better weather, for the next celebration, or for the day when things finally settle down.
Meanwhile, life keeps happening.
It is happening in the coffee you’re holding. In the morning light coming through the window. In the familiar voice from the other room. In the dog waiting patiently for you to notice him. In the ordinary little routines we sometimes hurry through without realizing how precious they are.
Years from now, some of the things we barely notice today may be the very things we would give anything to experience once more.
So don’t rush through all of today trying to reach tomorrow.
Drink the coffee while it’s warm. Listen to the story you’ve heard a hundred times. Say “I love you.” Stay an extra minute when your heart tells you to stay.
There will always be somewhere else to go.
But there will never be another today.
Take a little time to notice your life while you’re living it. You may discover that an ordinary Tuesday was something pretty wonderful after all.
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
Internet Claim: Man Used Missing Men’s Bodies To Make Famous Beef Jerky
Local authorities arrested Buckworth on suspicion of using human meat for the jerky he sold to the public, and police needed to find the source of the meat.
A grotesque story now circulating again on Facebook, TikTok, and other social media platforms claims a man from Wenatchee was arrested after investigators supposedly discovered his “best-selling jerky” was made from human meat. The post names a man called “Ross Buckworth,” claims missing workers were connected to the case, and attempts to present itself as a real criminal investigation.
There is just one problem.
None of it is true.
The story is a recycled internet hoax that has been reposted for years in slightly different versions. In some versions the suspect is named “Ross Buckworth.” In others, “Leslie Buckworth.” Sometimes the story claims the events happened in Washington state. Other times it says Montana. The details change because the story itself is fabricated.
Fact-checking organizations previously traced earlier versions of the same claim to satire and fake-news style websites. Snopes labeled one widely shared version as satire. Another debunk pointed directly to a satirical source site that openly described itself as a humor publication.
What appears to have confused many readers is that the hoax borrows pieces from a real Wyoming wildlife-poaching case involving illegal jerky sales. In that legitimate case, Wyoming investigators discovered a man had been selling jerky made from poached mule deer and antelope while marketing it as beef jerky. DNA testing confirmed the meat came from illegally killed wildlife — not humans.
The actual Wyoming case involved wildlife violations investigated by the Wyoming Game and Fish Department. Authorities charged the suspect with poaching-related crimes, illegal sale of game meat, and hunting violations. No accusations involving human remains or cannibalism were ever part of the case.
That real story appears to have been twisted into sensational clickbait.
The viral post also shows several classic signs of internet fabrication:
No legitimate law enforcement agency confirms the arrest.
No credible newspaper or television outlet reported the story.
The alleged suspect cannot be verified through official records.
The details change depending on who reposts it.
The story uses shock value designed to trigger emotional reactions and sharing.
This is how many social media hoaxes survive. They blend one small piece of reality with outrageous fiction, then rely on people sharing before checking the facts.
In today’s online environment, shocking stories spread faster than verified information. The more disturbing the claim, the more engagement it receives. Algorithms reward outrage, fear, and disgust because people react emotionally before they pause to ask whether something is actually true.
That is exactly why stories like this continue to resurface every few years.
The “human jerky” story is not a hidden crime finally exposed to the public.
On Christmas Day in 1921, a Swedish immigrant named Axel Bjorklund quietly pushed his hot dog cart to a corner in Boston’s North End. There, he handed out 500 steaming hot dogs to cold and hungry children, a simple act of kindness that would leave a lasting legacy.
Axel knew what it meant to struggle. He barely scraped by himself, but his heart ached for the impoverished children he saw daily. Hundreds of children, some as young as five, lined up in their threadbare clothes that chilly Christmas morning, shivering against the cold.
Despite their hunger and hardship, their faces lit up with joy as Axel handed each one a hot dog. Though the food quickly ran out, Axel’s resolve did not. He was determined to make this a yearly tradition. Over the next eight years, he gave away an astonishing 10,000 hot dogs before passing in 1930.
Axel was born on August 6, 1869, in Gothenburg, Sweden. In 1889, he immigrated to America and eventually settled in Boston’s North End, a neighborhood brimming with immigrants striving to build better lives.
Yet, poverty was rampant, especially after the devastating Spanish Flu pandemic left many families destitute and orphaned children wandering the streets. Amid this suffering, Axel’s generosity shone like a beacon of hope.
After a brief and unhappy marriage, Axel lived alone and decided to start a hot dog stand at the busy corner of Blackstone and Hanover Streets. The simple job gave him a sense of purpose, but seeing the hunger around him determined him to do more. He vowed that no child would go hungry if he had food to offer. His first Christmas giveaway in 1921 was a success, and he expanded the effort the following year, doubling the number of hot dogs to 1,000.
His annual giveaway grew as word of Axel’s kindness spread, eventually reaching 3,000 hot dogs yearly. The children affectionately began calling him “Hot Dog Santa.” Newspapers from across the United States and even Sweden shared his story, celebrating his selfless tradition.
Over time, Axel moved his hot dog giveaway to New Year’s Day, but the event remained a cherished occasion for the children who eagerly awaited it. However, Axel’s health began to deteriorate. Rheumatism caused frequent hospital visits, and his financial situation worsened. Struggling to pay his rent, Axel reached out to the public for help, determined to continue his tradition despite his hardships.
In December 1928, just before the giveaway, Axel’s landlady evicted him for failing to pay rent. The Salvation Army provided temporary support, but Axel’s circumstances grew increasingly dire. Over the next two years, he bounced between shelters, the poorhouse, and the Cambridge Home for the Aged, relying on the generosity of strangers. Even so, in 1929, he hosted one final hot dog giveaway.
On November 10, 1930, Axel Bjorklund passed away in a Massachusetts hospital, penniless and alone. He had no family and was destined for a pauper’s grave until news of his death reached the public. Outraged by his fate, citizens rallied together to give the man they called “Hot Dog Santa” a proper burial. Axel Bjorklund’s legacy of compassion and selflessness reminds us of the power of small acts of kindness during difficult times.
Remember, this holiday season, while times may feel joyful and bright for you, they could be challenging and somber for someone else. Offering a helping hand isn’t always a handout—it’s a gesture of humanity and compassion. Let’s take a moment to consider the needs of our fellow human beings, not just during the holidays but every day of the year.
After weeks of rehab after my back surgery, I finally treated myself to breakfast at my favorite spot—Christina’s Wildberry Diner. It didn’t disappoint. It never does. The place is everything a diner should be. It’s a mix of friendly faces. The menu is full of home-cooked favorites. It has the atmosphere that makes first-timers wish they would come back again and again.
Of course, I ordered my usual. Our waitress Christine is our favorite server, not the owner. She knows my routine so well. She brings drinks to the table before we’ve even settled in. She’ll look at me with a grin and ask, “Having your normal with gravy this week?” And my answer is always the same: “Of course!”
My better-half, Steve, makes his order. But it is never quite as predictable. Pancakes one week, toast the next—it keeps Christine on her toes. But no matter what we order, our glasses are never empty. That’s part of what makes this place special. Christine remembers. The staff notices. After four years of showing up on weekends, the diner has come to expect us. If we’re going to be out of town, we let them know. Here, being seen and known is part of belonging.
After breakfast comes the next stop in our routine: Superstition Ranch Market. It’s a no-frills produce market where farmers bring in fresh fruits and vegetables by the bulk. We’ve honed our shopping to an art. We’re in and out in under ten minutes. The savings are worth the trip. The produce is second to none. The clerks know us, too. One cashier in particular likes us at her lane, and when she’s there, that’s where we go. They check on our health. They also check on our recovery. This care says everything about the community we’re lucky to live in.
What makes it remarkable is this: Mesa, Arizona, isn’t a small town. It’s the second-largest city in the state, part of a metro area of more than five million people. And yet, somehow, in the middle of all that, we’ve found a community that feels small, familiar, and deeply connected.
For more than 24 years, we’ve lived in Arizona, and the last 12 in Mesa. Of all the places we’ve called home, this city is one of the most special. It has a blend of people from everywhere. It has a rhythm of routines and unexpected kindness.
It sat on the back porch, just outside the screen door. It was an old wooden shelf, weather-worn and slightly crooked. Everyone in the family knew it as “the pie shelf.”
Nobody remembered who gave it that name. Maybe it was Grandma. She used to cool her pies on it every Sunday afternoon. That was back when a breeze still found its way through the kitchen windows. There were always two pies—one for dinner and one “just in case someone dropped by.”
That shelf saw more life than most furniture in the house. Birthday cakes cooled there. Jars of canned peaches lined up in neat rows. Once, a baby kitten was found curled up in the corner, fast asleep next to a lemon meringue.
Years later, after Grandma had passed and the house had new owners, the pie shelf remained. Weathered, yes. Empty, often. But it stood—quiet and proud—like it was waiting for one more pie to be set on top.
When I visited the house last fall, I found it just the same. I brushed off the dust. Then, I straightened one of the legs with a folded napkin. For no reason at all, I baked an apple pie and set it right there on the top shelf.
I didn’t expect visitors. But just before sunset, a neighbor from years ago strolled by, drawn by the scent. He laughed when he saw the pie shelf.
“Some things,”
he said,
“don’t ever really leave us.”
We each took a slice and sat there on the porch, sharing stories of the people who came before us. For a brief moment, it seemed as though they were still here. They felt just inside the screen door, waiting for us to come in.
We never took a trip or spent a day alone without resorting to Vienna sausages. It was a ritual. Sometimes we’d have crackers with them. Sometimes not. But one thing was sure: the lid of that little can popped open when hunger struck.
I’m talking about my dad, JD. He refused to stop at roadside cafés or even at convenience stores. If we needed gas, we’d pull into a filling station. But for food, we used whatever we brought from home. As a child, I never minded. Sitting there, sharing those sausages with my dad, I saw they tasted better than anything we bought.
Years passed, and I eventually moved out. But my dad’s traditions didn’t stop with me. His grandkids soon got to experience his simple pleasures, though I didn’t realize it then. Recently, while visiting with my nephew, he shared a memory that made me smile.
“Pa Pa,”
he said,
“always had a can of Vienna sausages when he visited. We’d sit together and share them like he used to do with you.”
But then he added something even more telling about my dad’s practical ways.
One day, they were out on the back patio. When the last sausage was gone, my nephew picked up the empty can. He was ready to throw it away. But Pa Pa stopped him.
“No, give it to me,”
Pa Pa J. said.
He walked to a pipe with an open end. This pipe was leading into the house. He placed the can over it. It fit perfectly, sealing the opening. My nephew chuckled as he realized the simple genius behind it—Pa Pa’s foolproof way of keeping wasps from nesting inside.
And so, somewhere in that old homeplace, if someone tinkering around. They find a pipe with a can stuck inside. They should leave it be. Because if Pa Pa put it there, you can bet it was for a good reason. Unless, of course, they want a house full of Yellow Jackets.
Daniel stepped into the old movie theater, greeted by the warm, buttery aroma of freshly popped popcorn. It was the same scent from childhood when he remembered Saturday matinees with his father. His fingers were sticky from too much caramel corn. He heard the comforting rustle of a paper bag in his lap.
Tonight, the theater was nearly empty. A black-and-white classic was playing, something from Daniel’s father’s era. Daniel barely glanced at the screen. As he moved to the concession stand, the current blurred with the past in his mind.
“Large popcorn, extra butter,”
he said out of habit.
The teenage worker scooped the golden kernels into a striped bag, the scent thick and intoxicating. The warm, buttery aroma enveloped Daniel, transporting him back in time. He inhaled deeply. For a moment, he was seven years old again. He held his father’s hand as they walked down the carpeted aisles. They found their usual seats in the middle row.
“You always gotta have popcorn, kid,”
his father had said, grinning.
“It’s part of the experience.”
Daniel took his seat and set the bag beside him. His father should have been sitting there, too. The empty chair, a stark reminder of his absence, felt heavier than it should.
The smell of popcorn filled the air, wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. He closed his eyes, listening to the distant crackle of the projector. He almost heard his father’s voice, whispering about the film’s history like Daniel always did.
Daniel reached into the bag with a soft smile and tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. The taste was salty and warm, each kernel bursting with flavor. The theater didn’t feel so empty for the first time in years.
