“Don’t Go Where You Don’t Know Where You’re At” — A Lesson from My Father

October 18, 2025September 19, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

2–3 minutes

A Memory That Ignites Each Year

Every year when All Hallows’ Eve rolls around, I think about a specific night. I remember it vividly. It was when I was sixteen. I was getting ready to go out with friends—excited, dressed up, and ready for a night of harmless fun. As I reached for the door, my father stopped me with a hand on my arm.

He’d never done that before. I was the youngest of six children. By the time I reached my teens, my parents had weathered every imaginable crisis. Their only standing rule was simple: “Be safe and be home before daylight.” But that night was different. Dad’s grip was firm, his eyes serious.

He said quietly, “Look—your Uncle Bennie came upon a man whose head had been cut off and left on a dirt road near our house when I was about your age. They never found who did it.”

I froze. Uncle Bennie had passed away before I was born, so I never had the chance to ask him about it. Dad didn’t offer more details. He only mentioned that Bennie had called the deputies. Bennie told them everything he knew. Then he lived with that memory for the rest of his life.

My father’s next words have stayed with me for decades: “I just want you to be safe. Don’t go where you don’t know where you’re at.”

Those words became a rule for me, a compass I’ve carried ever since. If my gut or my soul told me something wasn’t safe, I backed away. That simple warning guided me through my teenage years. It also helped me during my law enforcement career. Instincts and situational awareness can mean the difference between life and death in that field.

Even today, I don’t know much more than that chilling story about the headless man. But my father’s advice has saved me countless times. It’s taught me that safety isn’t just about the rules of the road. Safety is not limited to the places on a map. It’s about trusting the quiet warnings within yourself.

I share this story with you because maybe it can help someone else, just as it helped me. We live in a world full of distractions, routes we don’t know, and situations that feel uncertain. If you find yourself heading into something that doesn’t feel right, listen to that inner voice. Step back. Choose another path.

Because sometimes, the oldest lessons are the truest: Don’t go where you don’t know where you’re at. Your instincts know the terrain long before your eyes do. And that wisdom—passed from a father to a son—can save your life, too.

The Healing Impact of Simple Acts: A Hug Can Change Everything

October 8, 2025September 7, 2025Benjamin5 Comments

2–3 minutes

The Hug That Changed Everything

Mina at the Farmer's Market — _{^{Mina hugging at the Market}}

It was about five weeks after my back surgery when Steve and I went shopping at our farmers’ market. Normally, Saturdays are our day, but since he had volunteered the day before, we made our visit on Sunday instead. That simple change in schedule turned into something unexpected and heartwarming.

We ended up in the checkout lane of one of our favorite “checkout girls,” as we call her. Mina. She hadn’t seen me since before my surgery, and when she spotted us, her face lit up. She came running from behind the register. She wrapped her arms around both of us and hugged us tight. It felt like a son coming home from college after a long absence. She even insisted we give her our address so she can invite us to a family event she was planning. We’re still not sure what event it will be, but the invitation itself felt like a gift.

That hug reminded me of something simple yet profound. It showed the power of being openly accepting. Let people into your life regardless of who they are, what they look like, or where they come from. In Mina’s hug, I felt seen, valued, and welcomed back into the community.

It brought to mind another story—one shared with me for this blog.

It was 3 a.m. in a quiet hospital corridor when a young musician, newly diagnosed with leukemia, sat in fear and loneliness. The sterile lights and hum of machines gave her no comfort. She cried quietly, believing no one noticed.

But someone did.

A nurse named Ben saw her distress and asked, “Are you okay?” He didn’t prescribe medicine or adjust a machine—he offered a hug. That single gesture, simple as it was, gave her strength. It reminded her she wasn’t just a patient but a person worth comforting. She later said that hug stayed with her long after the treatments, even into remission.

Why These Stories Matter

Kindness has a transformative power. It’s impactful whether shown by a nurse in a hospital or a cashier in a farmers’ market. It can change moments and sometimes lives. We often think it has to be grand or costly. The truth is, the simplest acts—a hug, a smile, an invitation—can ripple far beyond what we imagine.

Mina’s hug will not make the news. Nurse Ben’s probably didn’t either. But for the people who received them, they became unforgettable.

Reflections for You

When was the last time a small act of kindness made a real difference in your day?
Have you offered something that felt ordinary to you but has meant the world to someone else?
What small kindness can you extend today to be someone’s “Mina” or “Nurse Ben”?

The Takeaway

Life is full of struggles and invisible battles, but kindness—especially when it surprises us—has the power to heal. A hug. A smile. An invitation. They seem small, but they carry extraordinary weight.

You never know whose burden you’ll lighten or whose courage you’ll restore. Sometimes the smallest things are the biggest miracles. And without even realizing it, you are the miracle-giver.

Simple Moments: How a Bench Transformed a Neighborhood

September 20, 2025August 26, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

1–2 minutes

The Bench by the Willow Tree

On the edge of town, near a quiet creek, there’s an old willow tree. Beneath its sweeping branches sits a wooden bench—simple, weather-worn, and unremarkable to anyone passing by. Yet, for the people who live nearby, it has become something more: a gathering place of unexpected kindness.

It started with an elderly woman who came to rest her legs each morning. One day, a teenager walking his dog sat down beside her. They began talking. By the time the boy left, she was smiling in a way her neighbors hadn’t seen in years. The next day, the boy came back—with coffee in hand for her.

Word spread. Soon, others began stopping at the bench. A widower brought extra tomatoes from his garden. A young mom offered homemade muffins. A pair of joggers left fresh flowers tucked into the slats. Strangers became neighbors, and neighbors became friends—all because of an old bench no one ever noticed before.

The willow still stands, and so does the bench. It hasn’t been polished, painted, or rebuilt—it doesn’t need to be. Its gift is not in how it looks. Its gift is in what it holds: conversations, kindness, and the small reminders. Even in a world that feels divided, we can still find each other in the simplest of places.

✨ The Takeaway: Sometimes hope and connection aren’t found in grand gestures. They aren’t always in perfect plans. Instead, these are found in an ordinary spot where people choose to show up for one another.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025

Forgiveness and Memories: A Story Unfolds

August 29, 2025August 15, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

1–2 minutes

The Last Letter

The envelope had no return address—just Ben Keller’s name written in neat, looping script he hadn’t seen in twenty years.

It arrived on a Wednesday, the gray morning when the world felt slightly out of focus. He set it on the kitchen table. He stared at it over his coffee. The handwriting gnawed at a half-buried memory.

When he finally opened it, there were only four words inside: “I forgive you. – M.”

Ben’s mind spun. M had only one reason to forgive him. It was Maggie Lowe, his best friend from the summer of ’98. They were both seventeen then. The girl who vanished after that last night on the lake. The girl everyone assumed had run away.

For the rest of the day, the letter sat in his jacket pocket, a warm weight against his chest. That night, he drove out to the lake. It looked smaller than it had in his memory. The old pier was still there. The boards were warped and groaned under his steps.

Halfway down, he stopped. Someone was standing at the end of the pier, back to him, long hair rippling in the wind.

“Maggie?”

The figure turned. Same face. Same eyes. Not aged a day.

Ben’s breath caught.

“How…?”

She smiled faintly, holding up her hand. A folded sheet of paper slipped from her fingers, catching the wind before it hit the water.

“You always wondered what happened. Now you’ll remember.”

When Ben blinked, she was gone.

And in his pocket, the original letter was gone too.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025

Some Memories Are Best Left Unchanged

August 9, 2025August 1, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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

3–4 minutes

Some Memories Are Best Left Unchanged

At 62, I’ve lived through six decades of friendships. Every ten years or so, there’s an evolution. New people come into your life. A few stay, and most eventually move on. In that revolving cycle, we come to appreciate each other’s company, character, talents, and sometimes, our usefulness. Life seems to have been designed this way for me. Over time, I’ve even developed an instinct for craving these transitions. Maybe it’s self-preservation. It’s growth.

Recently, I came across a post that stopped me in my tracks. It said,

“There’s a heavy emotional toll that comes with holding on to dead relationships. They fill your life with noise—unanswered messages, awkward small talk, the guilt of obligation just because something once meant something.”

That struck a chord.

Because the truth is—life isn’t a museum of past connections. It’s meant to be lived peering ahead, with people who show who you are now, not who you once were.

Outgrowing someone isn’t betrayal. It’s growth. Letting go doesn’t mean you never loved them. Instead, it means you love yourself enough to protect your peace.

That’s how I feel about many past connections. Some, I miss dearly. Others, I’ve outgrown. And a few? I had to run for my survival.

One thing I’ve learned about long-term relationships—whether with people, places, or versions of ourselves—is the importance of taking regular inventory. What am I still carrying? What deserves to come with me into the future, and what needs to be laid to rest?

For me, I try to leave behind no unfinished business where love, sincerity, or kindness once lived. If you hope to rekindle old ties after a long silence, I offer this gentle caution. Some memories are best left untouched. If you plan to relive the past, go ahead. But please, go without me. We survived it once. I’m not eager to tempt fate with a rerun.

These days, I want to do something different. If there’s something we always talked about doing—some dream we never dared to chase—let’s talk about that. Let’s look ahead, not backward.

Getting older has made me clearer about what I want—and what I refuse to carry. It’s also made me think about my father. I remember him telling stories from the war, from his school days, from the old neighborhoods we lived in. He’d speak fondly of his buddies, show me their photos, and share their shenanigans. But he kept them in their place. He never tried to drag them ahead into the current day. He understood something I now understand: some memories belong to a time and place that can’t—and should not—be reentered.

I still get news from “back home,” as I call it. From the town I left 44 years ago. Many of the people I grew up with never left it. And I can’t return there—not fully—without recalling the world I chose to leave behind.

Of the 25 classmates I graduated with, at least eight are gone now. Some were lost to murder, some to accidents, and others to illness. I came from a small farming town where everyone knew everyone. If the death toll isn’t sobering enough, something even more surprising is how many of us turned out differently. This is more than anyone would’ve guessed. Five of my classmates have since come out as gay. A revelation that would have stunned our small-town sensibilities back then.

Interestingly, it’s not the ones who stayed close to home who thrived—it’s the ones who left. Who dared to change? Who moved ahead?

And maybe that’s the lesson.

Some memories deserve our respect—but not our resurrection.

Some people, our gratitude—but not our return.

Because the past has its place—and so do we.

And some memories…

are best left unchanged.

I Will Be Back…Or So They Tell Me – A Note Before Surgery

July 23, 2025July 19, 2025Benjamin3 Comments

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

2–3 minutes

A Note From Benjamin Before Surgery

By the time this post appears, I’ll be less than twenty-four hours from checking into the hospital. I have a scheduled lower back surgery. This operation was first approved in 2020. It was postponed due to the overwhelming strain COVID-19 placed on hospitals at the time.

Now, five years later, the time has come. The need for the surgery has grown unavoidable. It has reached a point where it significantly impacts not just my own quality of life. It also affects those around me—including our ever-faithful dog, Otis. After careful planning and the support of some very good people, the time feels right.

To keep the blog active, I’ve written and scheduled daily posts in advance. These will post – daily over the coming weeks as planned. Once I’m fully back to writing day-to-day pieces again, I’ll let everyone know. That said, if something urgent comes up, I will post an update. If it is of national interest and inspires me, I will do so before then. This is, of course, recovery allowing.

In the meantime, I’m grateful for the many kind gestures, well-wishes, and thoughtful messages already sent. That encouragement has made all the difference. I’m especially mindful of my partner, Steven. He will be holding down the fort. This will be happening while I’m in the care of a trusted medical team. He’ll be shuttling between the hospital and home, making sure Otis gets fresh air, snacks, and his favorite TV channel. We’ve jokingly planned it like a household awaiting a newborn—minus the diapers, thank goodness.

The procedure itself will be performed by Dr. Christopher Yeung, a well-regarded spine surgeon whose experience includes working with multiple professional sports teams. After an in-depth consultation, I felt confident in both his knowledge and his approach. The surgery, known as an Anterior Lumbar Interbody Fusion, involves accessing the lower spine through the abdomen. An access surgeon helps to safely move internal structures aside. It’s a careful, technical procedure. The recovery is long. It begins with just a few steps on day one and builds slowly through physical therapy. This process continues in the weeks and months ahead.

So for now, I’m focused on the first step: getting checked in and moving ahead. I’m hoping for deep sedation, steady hands, and a smooth path to healing.

Thanks again for walking alongside me, even if just in spirit. I’ll be back in touch when the fog begins to lift.

The Last Chair: A Story of Loss and Recovery

July 7, 2025Benjamin2 Comments

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

1–2 minutes

“The Last Chair at the Table”

There used to be four chairs at the table.
Every Sunday, without fail, they were filled.

Anna always brought the rolls.
George never remembered the salad.
And Michael, the youngest, made them laugh so hard someone usually spilled something.
Then there was Claire. The one who set the table. Who kept the tradition.

But life doesn’t ask for permission when it starts rearranging things.

Anna moved three states away for a job that offered better pay and less time.
George passed unexpectedly—just one late afternoon in September, gone with no goodbyes.
Michael, grief-stricken and incapable of facing the silence, stopped coming.

And Claire… she kept setting the table. All four chairs. Every Sunday.

It felt foolish at first—preparing a meal for no one. But over time, the quiet stopped being so loud. She began to remember George’s voice not as an echo of absence, but as a smile in her thoughts. She started writing letters to Anna and cooking Michael’s favorite dish, just in case he came.

And one Sunday, he did.

He didn’t say much—just sat in his chair like it had never been empty.
They ate. They laughed. No one mentioned the salad.

Recovery isn’t about replacing what’s lost.
It’s about honoring it enough to keep living.

Even if all you do is keep setting the table.

The Friendship of Happy and Sorrow: A Heartwarming Tale

July 6, 2025Benjamin3 Comments

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

2–4 minutes

“The Curious Friendship of Happy Goines and Sorrow Downs”

There once was a boy named Happy Goines. Not a soul could understand why he was always so terribly sad. His name sparkled like sunshine, but his face wore clouds. He dragged his feet to school. He sighed during recess. He stared out windows like he was watching for something that never came.

No one knew what made Happy so downcast. His parents loved him. His teachers were kind. But he always seemed to carry some invisible weight.

That is, until the day he met Sorrow Downs.

Sorrow was a new kid, just moved to town from a place no one could pronounce. He had the kind of grin that made your face smile back before you even realized it. His laugh was sudden and contagious. Even his freckles looked cheerful.

The teacher introduced him to the class. She said his name aloud—“Class, this is Sorrow Downs”. Everyone waited for a gloomy face or quiet voice. But instead, Sorrow waved both hands and said, “Nice to meet you! I love your shoes!” even though he hadn’t looked at anyone’s feet.

The kids chuckled. Except for Happy, who simply blinked.

At lunch, Sorrow sat across from Happy. Sorrow plopped a jelly sandwich on the table. It looked like a gold trophy.

“You look sad,” Sorrow said matter-of-factly.

“I am,” Happy replied.

Sorrow tilted his head. “But your name’s Happy.”

“I didn’t choose it,” Happy said with a shrug.

Sorrow grinned. “Well, I didn’t choose mine either. Imagine being named Sorrow and feeling like I do! Every day feels like a birthday to me!”

Happy cracked the tiniest smile.

“Tell you what,” Sorrow said, pulling a folded paper from his pocket. “Wanna try trading names for a day?”

Happy blinked. “We can’t just—”

“Why not? Who’s stopping us?” Sorrow stood on his chair and declared, “I am Happy Goines today! And this,” he said pointing down, “is Sorrow Downs!”

Some kids giggled. One clapped.

From that moment, something began to shift.

All day long, “Happy” Sorrow told jokes, made up songs, and danced down the hall. And “Sorrow” Happy, for the first time in ages, felt joy in laughing with someone. It was a different experience from laughing at something.

The two became inseparable.

They swapped shoes, lunches, and names whenever they felt like it. One day they were “Joy and Misery.” Another day, “Up and Down.” They learned that feelings didn’t always have to match what people expected.

One day Happy asked, “Aren’t you ever sad, Sorrow?”

Sorrow thought for a moment. “Sometimes. But I don’t stay there. I just let the sad walk beside me until it’s ready to go.”

And Happy nodded like it was the truest thing he’d ever heard.

As the months passed, Happy wasn’t always happy, and Sorrow wasn’t always cheerful. But together they built a friendship where feelings were safe. Names didn’t define you. A good laugh could turn an ordinary Tuesday into something extraordinary.

You might hear two boys shouting new names if you walk past the old schoolyard now. They could be called Sunshine and Thunder, or Giggles and Grumps. They laugh like the whole world belongs to them.

And maybe, in a way, it does.

What Used To Be Considered Contents Of A Friendly Letter To Relatives And Friends – Sent Via The Postal Service!

June 28, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

Once common, a letter like this is no longer sent, a quiet casualty of how communication has evolved.

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

4–6 minutes

_{^{Photo by John-Mark Smith on Pexels.com}}

Otis the Protector & the Blessing of Good Friends

Dear Lawrence and Matilda,

Summer is the season when friendly faces return. Over the last two days, we’ve been lucky to welcome four dear friends into our lives again. One of them we hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years.

Our friend David moved away long ago in pursuit of new opportunities. We kept in touch online, and about a year ago, we sold his mother one of our cars. He trusted our word that the car was solid and dependable—and that trust meant a lot.

David and his spouse Josh flew into town Thursday. We already had our plans set. We planned to have dinner at our favorite Main Street spot, Christina’s Wildberry Restaurant. The food there is so good you’ll want to order extra sides. (And I do.)

We caught up on everything. David had moved on from California and now lives in Seattle, working as a film producer for Amazon. We had once caught a glimpse of him in a movie. We wondered if acting was his calling. Yet, he ended up behind the camera instead. The conversation flowed easily as we shared stories of the past twenty years. We talked about loved ones we’d lost. We discussed the changes in our lives. We even shared our various health battles. It was a wonderful reunion.

Back at home, yet, Otis—our ever-vigilant dog—was not quite as enthusiastic. He’s fiercely protective of our home, and new visitors throw his routine into chaos. He needed time to warm up: slow approaches, sniffing, backing off. Growling. Barking. Panting. It was a whole process. After a solid half-hour of cautious interaction, Otis finally accepted David and Josh. But his window of friendliness only lasted about five to ten minutes—just in time for them to leave.

And then came Saturday morning.

Otis had barely recovered from his last round of introductions. Then our friends Angie and Sasha showed up for breakfast—again at Christina’s Wildberry. But this time, Otis escalated. He was in full protection mode from the moment they approached the door. We strapped him into his safety vest. I controlled his lunges. As soon as the door opened, he exploded into noise. Growls, barks, lunges—the works. He reared on his hind legs like a wild stallion, roaring from the depths of his protective instincts. I had to scoop him up just so our friends was allowed to come inside.

We finally decided the best move was to leave for breakfast and give Otis a break. I would be the last one out. I unhooked his leash and bent down to reassure him.

“You’re in charge now,”

I said.

“Watch the house, and you’re free to bite anyone who tries to get in.”

His ears perked. Head tilted. Tail wagging. He jumped up with glee, clearly proud to be entrusted with such an important task. I locked the door and set the alarm—knowing full well that no burglar was getting past Commander Otis.

At the restaurant, our regular waitress Christine (no relation to the owner) greeted us with a smile. We always sit in her section. The service is consistently wonderful, and the food never disappoints. As we enjoyed our meal, we caught up on recent happenings. We also discussed the month ahead. We talked about my upcoming surgery in July. Not the easiest topic, but one that matters deeply among close friends. Angie and Sasha have supported us immensely. We rely on them more than words can express.

After breakfast, we walked next door to the wholesale closeout auction warehouse. It’s a local gem filled with Amazon returns and overstock items. It’s a weekly stop for us, and we nearly always walk out with a treasure or two. This time was no exception—we all left holding bags of bargains from the $10, $5, and $3 tables. The outer walls of the warehouse show moderately priced goods under $50. These include cooking gear, tools, and musical equipment.

But that’s where I had to call it a day. My legs gave out—one of the symptoms tied to my spinal disc issue. It’s why surgery is coming. I was brought home to rest in my easy chair while Steve, Angie, and Sasha continued the shopping mission.

They headed to the local children’s home thrift store. Steve found me a kitchen stool. It was a fantastic find that will make cooking much easier. It allows me to sit while preparing meals. He also scored a new cutting board, which we’ve been sorely needing. The one we’ve been using is over twenty years old and has clearly done its time.

Later, the crew returned home, showing off their finds and bragging about their deals. We laughed, relaxed, and soaked in the joy of good company.

It’s been a full couple of days, and yes, I’m tired—but I’m also grateful. Sharing time with friends is a blessing, whether we saw them last week or haven’t seen them in decades. Add a protective dog with a dramatic flair. Include a few great meals and a handful of discount treasures. You’ve got the makings of a truly memorable summer weekend.

Talk again soon. Say hello to the folks.

With love,

Benjamin, Steven and Otis

Friendly letters, once a cherished form of personal connection, have become increasingly rare in the U.S. Postal Service. Instant messaging, email, and social media have contributed to this shift. Handwritten notes and heartfelt letters have largely faded from everyday life. A stamped envelope once carried news, encouragement, or love across miles. Now, a quick text or emoji often takes its place. The art of letter writing has a personal touch and thoughtful pace. It has quietly slipped into nostalgia. It is an almost forgotten tradition in our fast-moving digital world.

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

June 23, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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

3–4 minutes

There are moments in life when we contemplate our relationships with relatives who are dearly departed. Some have passed on, leaving behind only memories. Others are dearly departed in a different sense. They are no longer married into the family. Yet their presence lingers in our stories, our recollections, and sometimes, in our affections.

This story is about one such family member, who dearly departed not through death, but through divorce—from my sister. For nearly eighteen years or more, he was a big part of our family. Long before the wedding, during their dating years, he was already woven into our daily lives. He would often spend the night at our house. More than a few times, he slept in my room just to be near her. He was older than both of us, and a farmer by trade. During the winter months, farming slowed down. During this time, he worked as a parts clerk at his father’s Chevrolet dealership in town.

Since I worked for him on the farm, I spent nearly as much time with him as my sister did. From sunrise to sunset, we toiled together—planting crops, moving irrigation pipe, working cattle, and hauling hay. He even pitched in at the Girl Scout Camp where my dad was the ranger. And that’s where this story takes place.

It was the summer of 1978. A flood had wiped out a water line. The line ran from a well to a storage tank at the Girl Scout Camp. Special piping was needed for repairs. My dad asked Benny to take me to Clinton, Oklahoma, to pick up the materials. I was thrilled when he handed me the keys to one of the camp’s state-owned ranger vehicles. For a brief moment, I thought, “Wow, I get to drive!” But then he said, “Give these to Benny—he’ll be the one driving.” Shucks.

Still, the outing promised a break from our usual routine. We set out just before noon, heading west on State Highway 152. As we neared the town of Eakly, an Oklahoma Highway Patrol car coming toward us slowed dramatically. The trooper gave us both a piercing look, as if trying to place us. After passing us, he glanced back as though deciding whether to turn around. Odd, we thought—we hadn’t been speeding or doing anything wrong.

A few miles farther west, another patrol car did the exact same thing. Now we were both feeling uneasy. We even pulled over to check the truck—maybe something was dragging, maybe we had a flat tire—but everything checked out.

Four more patrol units gave us the same strange treatment. By now we were more than a little paranoid. What were we missing? We hadn’t turned on the radio, thinking it wasn’t our place to use official equipment in the state-owned truck. If we had, we’d have had our answer.

When we finally returned to the Ranger’s Quarters with the piping, we were greeted with wide eyes and urgent questions. Turns out, there had been a prison break nearby. The escapees had stolen a state vehicle—same color, same model, same government-issued license plate as the one we were driving. No wonder the troopers were ready to pounce. If we had known, we would’ve waved our Girl Scout badges out the window. We would have done this for the entire ride, like waving a white flag.

That trip became one of the many memorable moments I shared with my once-brother-in-law Benny. It was the story told every holiday. And it got laughs no matter how many times it was heard. Benny was a close comrade through much of my youth and during family gatherings. It was hard to see him and my sister go their separate ways. Still, I understood and respected her reasons. Sometimes life and family change in ways you don’t expect. And sometimes, those changes, though painful, lead to something better.

But Benny—well, he’ll always be one of our dearly departed.

Where am I going? In July I will be going places…So watch for me here!

June 22, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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

2–3 minutes

A Little Heads-Up About July

Next month, you will notice I won’t be posting daily. Don’t worry—some content will still show up, thanks to the magic of pre-scheduled posts. The reason for the slowdown? I’m finally getting a long-overdue back surgery.

It’s not a procedure I’m exactly excited about. There’s a good chance it’ll knock me off my usual rhythm for a while. That is, of course, if everything goes according to plan. But, there are plenty of ways it not happening:

I can experience a sudden, miraculous recovery and cancel the whole thing.
My insurance will decide it’s a luxury item and deny the claim.
The orderly will wheel me into the wrong operating room.
The doctor disappears right before showtime.
Or, I will be the one who disappears—just as the doctor walks in, ready to go.
Or, the operating table goes missing on the day of the surgery.

My hope is that the surgery will go as planned. If so it will ease the constant, gnawing pain I feel. It affects me whether I’m walking, sitting, standing, or trying to sleep. The sharp, stabbing, burning sensations mostly travel down my left leg. Though, they sometimes jump to the right when they get bored. They’ve also been known to zap my arms and hands. This happens especially in the middle of the night. It leaves a tingling, numbing wake.

I still manage to write here and there. I try to sound semi-coherent. I cook the occasional meal. I do my best to avoid going completely coo-coo. This journey has been a slow burn, building over more than fifteen years of other health concerns.

Sometimes, I see people out in the world. They are screaming into the void. I think, Wow, what must it be like to be them? But then I look around at my home, my dog, and my better half. I realize they’re probably looking at me thinking the exact same thing.

Until then, I’ll keep doing what I do—telling stories, filing reports, and generally pretending everything is completely under control. I’ll keep you posted on the surgery prep as it unfolds. Yes, I’m still obsessively checking my doctors’ reviews on Healthgrades.com. So far, there are no red flags. There are just a few mildly worrying Yelp comments about cold hands and questionable playlist choices in the OR.

1753360200

days

hours minutes seconds

until

Ben’s Surgery!

Secrets of The Back Side Fishing Spot

May 7, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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

2–3 minutes

It was a humid summer evening. The air clung to your skin. The world glowed gold in the last light of day. My friend Bub and I stood at the edge of the old creek, just downstream from the dam. The concrete wall loomed behind us. Its spillway trickled like a broken faucet, feeding the deep pool below. The water turned slow and murky there. This was our favorite spot, a secret place we called “The Backside.”

Bub handed me a bank pole he’d rigged himself. It was a sturdy sapling shaved smooth. A heavy line was tied at the end. A fat hook was baited with a chunk of cut shad. We drove it into the muddy bank. We angled it over the swirling water. We tied it off with an extra rope to a thick root jutting out of the ground. Across the creek, Bub set another pole, whistling as he worked, his boots sinking deep into the silt.

We settled onto the bank, backs against the grass, watching the poles bend and sway with the current. The sounds of the night crept in: frogs croaking, cicadas humming, the occasional splash of a carp rolling. Somewhere distant, a train rumbled across the trestle.

“Think they’ll bite tonight?”

Bub asked, tossing a pebble into the water.

“They always do back here,”

I said, grinning.

“Big ones like the deep pool. They come up from the river, get trapped behind the dam.”

We waited in comfortable silence. Just as the moon began to rise, one of the poles gave a sudden, violent lurch.

“There!”

Bub shouted, scrambling to his feet.

I grabbed the pole, feeling the weight and fight of something strong on the other end. The bank pole bent double, creaking against the strain. Bub rushed over to steady the base. I worked the line by hand. I pulled and gave slack as the fish surged beneath the surface. The water boiled and flashed, silver scales catching the moonlight.

“It’s a big one!”

I gasped.

Together we fought it, step by muddy step. At last, Bub plunged his hand into the water. He grabbed the fish just behind the gills, hauling it onto the bank. It was a channel cat, fat and whiskered, easily ten pounds. We stood over it, grinning like fools, watching it thrash in the mud.

“Told you they always bite back here,”

I said.

Bub laughed and clapped me on the back.

“Best pole fishing spot in the county.”

We reset the pole. We rinsed our hands in the creek. Then, we sat back down under the stars. The dam hummed softly behind us. We didn’t talk much after that. We didn’t need to. The night surrounded us. The water flowed gently. The old dam spoke for us. They weaved our friendship into the quiet rhythm of the creek, one fish at a time.

Memories and Mischief: The Summer of 1980

March 12, 2025Benjamin3 Comments

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

2–4 minutes

The Summer of 1980

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

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

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

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

But it wasn’t all work.

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

Clem didn’t get mad. He got even.

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

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

The mischief didn’t stop there.

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

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

Juniper and Luma: A Tale of Unlikely Friendship

March 2, 2025Benjamin1 Comment

1–2 minutes

The Fox and the Firefly

The trees hummed with the wind in the Whispering Woods’s heart. The moon painted silver on the forest floor. There lived a fox named Juniper. She was sleek, clever, and always alone. Other animals whispered about her, calling her a trickster, a thief. She had learned that being alone was more manageable than fighting their expectations.

One evening, a tiny glow flickered near her nose as she padded along the riverbank. A firefly, tiny and trembling, hovered in the air.

“You’re in my way,”

Juniper said, flicking her tail.

“I’m lost,”

The firefly admitted its light dimming.

Juniper sighed.

“Lost? How do you lose your way when you can fly?”

The firefly hesitated.

“I followed my friends, but the wind carried me away.”

Juniper should have walked on. She wasn’t the type to help. She had grown used to being alone, and companionship was foreign to her. But something about the firefly’s quivering glow made her pause.

“Fine,”

She said,

“I’ll help you, but only because I know these woods better than anyone.”

The firefly buzzed with gratitude.

“Thank you! I’m called Luma.”

For the first time in a long while, Juniper felt a glimmer of companionship. As they traveled together, Luma lit the dark paths. She guided Juniper through the thickest parts of the forest. Juniper used her sharp nose to avoid danger.

They spent the night talking. Luma didn’t fear or expect her to be anything other than what she was.

By dawn, they reached a clearing filled with twinkling lights—Luma’s family.

“Stay,”

Luma said.

Juniper almost did. But she was a fox, a creature of the earth, and Luma belonged to the sky.

Still, as she turned to leave, Luma promised,

“Whenever you walk the woods at night, look for my light. You’ll never be alone.”

And so, every night, as Juniper wandered, a tiny flickering glow followed her—an unlikely friendship that lit the darkness forever.

Maintaining Integrity Amidst Conflict

February 12, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

2–3 minutes

Keeping Your Side of the Street Clean

The smell of fresh rain lingered as Mark walked down Elm Street toward his favorite café. It was his usual morning routine, a quiet moment before the day unraveled. He reached the entrance. Then he saw him—Greg Turner. Greg was leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed. He was watching him with a smirk that dripped with disdain.

Greg had never made it a secret that he disliked Mark. Their history goes back to a business deal gone wrong. Mark handled it ethically, but Greg saw it as a betrayal. Since then, Greg had made it his mission to smear Mark’s name. He spread rumors and whispered doubts into the ears of anyone who would listen.

Mark adjusted his posture, exhaled slowly, and kept walking. He knew better than to engage.

“Hey, Mark,”

Greg called out loud enough for people at the café’s outdoor tables to turn their heads.

“Still fooling people into thinking you’re the good guy?”

A few customers looked up from their coffee, eyes shifting between them, waiting for a response. Mark felt the moment’s weight pressing against his back, the temptation to defend himself bubbling under the surface.

But he had learned something long ago—some battles weren’t worth fighting. Not in the mud. Not at the expense of his peace.

He turned slightly, just enough to meet Greg’s gaze, and nodded.

“Good morning, Greg.”

His voice was even, void of malice, but firm. Then, without another word, he stepped inside the café.

The barista, Sarah, greeted him with a warm smile.

“The usual?”

Mark nodded as he took out his wallet.

“Yep. And maybe an extra shot of patience today.”

Sarah chuckled as she prepared his coffee.

“Don’t let him get to you.”

He shook his head.

“I won’t.”

Moments later, as he stirred his coffee, he glanced outside. Greg was still there, now talking to someone else, his hands animated, spinning another version of his tired tale. Mark took a sip, savoring the rich warmth of his drink, and let the moment pass.

There was no need to wade into the mess or wrestle with the bitterness that wasn’t his to carry. His conscience was clear. His integrity was intact.

He walked out of the café with his head high. His side of the street was clean. Mark was guilt-free and ready to face his day. He had not gotten down to Greg’s level; even better, he showed respect for doing so.

Loneliness and Connection: The Maple and the Crow

February 3, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

2–3 minutes

The Maple and the Crow

In the quiet corner of Oakridge Park stood an old maple tree. Its branches stretched wide, offering shade to picnickers in the summer and a golden glow in the fall.

It had seen many seasons pass and many creatures come and go, yet it always felt lonely. It never had a friend to share its days with.

Then came the crow.

The bird arrived one blustery afternoon, perching on the maple’s lowest branch with a ruffled look. Its wing drooped slightly, and its usual subdued sharp claws.

“Shoo!”

The tree whispered as the wind rustled through its leaves. It was not quite ready to accept this new presence in its life.

But the crow did not move.

Day after day, the crow lingered.

Caw Caw!

It hopped from branch to branch, picking at the bark, watching the world below. It cawed at passing dogs and tilted its head at children chasing kites.

“Why are you still here?”

The maple finally asked.

“Nowhere else to go,” the crow replied. Its voice carried a hint of resilience. The tree had never heard this before.

The crow replied.

For the first time, the tree understood what it meant to be lonely. The Maple had never considered this feeling before. The sun rose, the rain fell, and its roots dug deep. But watching the crow, it felt something new—a quiet companionship.

The maple began to enjoy the crow’s presence. It let its leaves shiver in the wind to make music for the bird. When the crow felt strong enough to fly, it still returned, perching in the same spot.

Seasons passed. The maple grew older, and its branches were not as strong as they once were. But the crow remained. It brought stories of faraway places. These places had mountains that touched the sky and rivers that sang in the moonlight.

And when winter came, and the tree stood bare, the crow nestled close against its trunk.

“I will stay,”

The crow promised.

“I know,”

The maple replied.

And so they remained, an old tree and a watchful crow, an unlikely friendship rooted in time.