horse riding

Take Me Back To Yesterday Once More

Benjamin3 Comments
5–8 minutes

The Farm That Built Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025

How Western Movies Perpetuate Harmful Stereotypes of Indigenous Peoples

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

3–4 minutes

I was watching an old Western on television this past weekend. You know, the kind—cowboys and Indians. Or, as we might say today, American Ranchers and Indigenous Peoples.

The film, likely made in the 1950s, had the signature gloss of that era’s post-war cinema. Still, something about it suggested it was possibly shot even earlier, maybe in the 1940s. It was only later spliced, refitted, and packaged for the screen. The costumes, dialogue, and scenery all hinted at a time when the stereotypes were deeply ingrained in the script. They weren’t even questioned.

I probably watched that movie as a kid. I was sitting next to my father, not giving it a second thought. Back then, it was just another Western. But this time around, with a different set of eyes, what I saw was jarring.

It followed the predictable narrative: the cavalry riding in to tame the West and keep the “Indians” under control. Two delicately dressed white heroines were caught in the middle of a brewing conflict. A white doctor stood out as the lone character who dared to see Native people as human beings. He was mocked and ostracized for his compassion. This was especially true when a malaria outbreak swept through the tribe. He insisted they deserved treatment.

At one point, he stood in a room full of fellow whites. He asked,

“Do you think Indians are not human beings? Human beings like you and me, who deserve to live and be healthy?”

And one of the prim ladies, her hair perfect and her face untouched by empathy replied:

“I don’t know… how could they be?”

To which others in the room nodded and added, 

“That’s right.”

“Of course, they’re not!”

“No way, in God’s name.”

I sat there stunned, wondering:

“How did a line like that ever make it into a movie script?”

Even more troubling:

“How did it get past editors, producers, censors—only to be broadcast, repeated, and absorbed by generations?”

It wasn’t just offensive. It was abusive. And it made me sad.

Is there a historical context to such language? Possibly. But what would a young Native American child feel sitting in front of that screen? Would they see their life reflected as something lesser—something not worthy of protection or dignity? Listening to the white characters, it certainly felt that way.

And it took me back to where I grew up.

I’m from the Kiowa and Comanche Counties area in Oklahoma—Caddo County, specifically. I was raised alongside Native American children, many of whom I called friends.

Later in life, I worked in law enforcement and came to know tribal members through both personal and professional relationships. I learned a great deal from them—about their culture, their pride, their pain.

When I started in law enforcement, the department had an initiation ritual. It involved arresting a man nicknamed Fifteen Thousand. He was a Native man, around 50 years old, who’d been detained countless times—hence the name. His real name was Thomas Kamaulty Sr.

He was the first person I ever arrested as an officer. 

And, in time, Thomas became the first person I ever saw get sober. That meant something.

Ira Hayes

I also think about people like Ira Hayes. He was a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira helped raise the flag at Iwo Jima during World War II. A hero by every standard. And yet, like Thomas, Ira suffered. Both carried the scars of discrimination and trauma. Both turned to alcohol as a way to numb the soul-deep wounds this country handed them.

We often ask why these cycles exist—but we rarely admit the truth: it’s because we’ve designed them to. We’ve placed people like Thomas, like Ira, into roles and systems. Their suffering can be managed. Their voices are diminished. Their lives are controlled. That was always the plan. And until we stop pretending it wasn’t, the script will keep playing—over and over again.

The Legend of Ghost Mound: A Heartfelt Tale

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

3–5 minutes

The Story of Ghost Mound

There’s a story my dad loved to tell. It was one of his favorites. He told it often to friends, family, and customers in his barber shop. He shared it with anyone who needed a good tale. He and his friend GH rode out on horseback one afternoon. They went to a little rise in northern Caddo County called Ghost Mound.

Ghost Mound – Caddo County – Oklahoma

Ghost Mound is one of those landmarks that doesn’t quite belong to any one town. It’s south of Hydro, north of Eakly, east of Colony, and west of the Sickles community. It’s a rocky, oddly-shaped hill. It looks like a miniature volcano. It is steep on one side and more gradual on the other. Back in the 1930s, it was open country. Kids would ride or walk out there on lazy afternoons. They climbed the rocks, explored the cracks, and wasted time in the best way.

On that particular day, my dad, JD, and GH set out. They had nothing more in mind than a good ride. They were also looking for a little adventure. GH had just celebrated a birthday and was proudly carrying a brand-new wallet in his back pocket. Before they saddled up, he showed JD the five-dollar bill. It was tucked inside and was quite a lot of money for a kid in those days.

Once they reached the Mound, the boys began to climb, making a show of how tough it was. About halfway up, GH lagged behind. Suddenly, he shouted:

“HELP! I’ve lost it!”

JD turned and saw GH crouched down, peering into a narrow crack in the rocks. Sliding back to him, he asked what was going on.

GH pointed. He said his birthday wallet had slipped out of his pocket and fallen deep into the crack. The wallet was whole with the five-dollar bill. The boys tried everything to retrieve it. They rolled up their sleeves, dug around, tried moving rocks, even tried widening the gap—but nothing worked. The wallet was gone.

From that moment on, the story of the wallet lost in Ghost Mound became family legend. I grew up hearing about it. Over and over, my dad would retell the tale. Sometimes it was a quick story; other times it grew with detail. Always, it ended the same way. The wallet was still there. It was wedged in the rocks with a crisp 1930s five-dollar bill, waiting to be discovered. He told it with such conviction, I was sure it had to be true. Dad told people whose hair he cut. Keeping an entire room of waiting customers spellbound. Sometimes GH would be there to re-enforce what dad was telling.

The day of my father’s funeral arrived. It was deeply emotional. The house was full of people who had known and loved him. Among them was GH. I had a chance to sit with him, and naturally, I asked him about the wallet. He threw his head back and laughed.

“Yeah,” he said, “the wallet did fall out of my pocket. But your dad was the only one with arms skinny enough to reach in and get it. We got it back that same day.”

I was stunned.

“Then why did you say it was still up there?” I asked.

GH grinned and said, “Because your dad was the biggest joker in the world. He made me promise not to tell anyone the truth. After that, we’d ride our horses out. We would just sit back and watch folks climb all over that Mound looking for that five-dollar bill. We’d laugh and laugh. If anyone had found it, they wouldn’t have brought it back to us anyway!”

And suddenly, a memory clicked. Every time we’d drive past Ghost Mound, we’d see someone out there climbing. It was usually someone who had been in my dad’s barber chair just days before. My dad would start laughing to himself. I never understood why. Not until GH let me in on the real story.

So maybe there’s no wallet up there after all. But the legend my dad spun from that day? That’s still very real. And just like Ghost Mound itself, it’s stuck with me for good.

A Memorable Day: Taking My Dad Fishing

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

4–6 minutes

Taking Dad Fishing

When I was a child, my dad and I did countless things together.

We rode horses nearly every weekend if not every evening. We went to rodeos and parades—not just as spectators but as participants. We traveled to horse sales, chasing his dreams of new bloodlines, no matter how far away they seemed. Of course, I realized when I grew up that they weren’t all that far.

A lake at the south end of our property teased me year-round. I saw cars creeping across its dam, people scrambling down its rocky banks, casting lines into its blue water. I dreamed of fishing with my dad. But he never seemed interested.

We had more important things to do. We needed to haul feed for the horses, cut hay, stack bales in the barn, and care for the animals. The farm and all our other activities consumed all our time. There was no time for anything else. School and sleep were crammed in the margins of my day.

Eventually, I grew up and moved away. After a chlorine gas leak injured my dad, he had to sell the last of his horses. He became tethered to the living room; his body slowed, but his mind sharpened. On my days off, I would come home. We would sit on the back patio, drinking iced tea and talking. We watched that same blue lake that had taunted me for so long.

One afternoon, while I was visiting, he said,

“Come look at what I found in the storage shed.”

Out back, he pulled a polished rod from a rack. It was old but cared for. The line had to be a 100-pound test.

“Used to fish with this before you were born,” 

He said. 

“Put it away after you come along. So many kids were drowning in lakes back then… I couldn’t take the chance.”

And now, decades later, he held it out like an invitation.

“Will you take me fishing?”

“Of course,” 

I said.

He smiled, took a puff from his nebulizer, and told me to wait while he got his hat.

“Dad, you need a fishing license.” 

I reminded him, hoping it would buy me time. I needed to figure out how to care for him in a setting I didn’t control.

From the kitchen, Mom called out,

“He got one last week! He’s been waiting for you to come home. Can’t drive that far by himself.”

That settled it. I grabbed my gear from behind the seat of my truck. Then, I loaded Dad up. Finally, I drove us to my secret fishing spot.

The fish were practically leaping from the water. Dad was giddy, casting with the energy of a man half his age. 

He kept asking how I found such a remote place and marveling at the size of the fish we caught.

I thought I had waited 24 years to go fishing with my dad. I didn’t want to use up all my time in one afternoon.

Eventually, the stringer was full, and the sun started slipping.

“We’d better get you home,” 

I said. 

“Mom said you’ve got to be back by two for a breathing treatment.”

He frowned but nodded, and we packed up our catch.

When we got home, the house was empty.

“Was Mom going out today?” 

I asked.

“I think your sister was taking her shopping,” 

He said, unconcerned.

I got Dad set up with his treatment. The hum of the machine had just started when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Benji?” 

A familiar voice—my sister’s mother-in-law. Using my childhood name.

“Where have you and your daddy been? We’ve been trying to find you.”

“We went fishing.”

“Fishing? You took JD fishing?”

“Yeah—we caught a nice stringer full.”

There was a pause.

“You’d better put them on ice. Your mother and sister were in a bad accident. A truck hit them head-on out on the bridge. They’re at the hospital in Chickasha. You need to get your daddy down there.”

I turned to him and broke the news gently. He took it quietly, still holding onto the joy of our day. Maybe it hadn’t fully sunk in, or he didn’t want to let go of the moment.

At the hospital, Dad was the first to go in and check on Mom. My sister waited in the hall, shaken but okay. When Dad came out, he looked as calm as ever.

“She’s going to be fine.” 

He said. 

“They’ve got her so doped up she thinks she’s on the moon.”

Catch of The Day

Then someone asked him where he’d been. He grinned.

“Fishing. Caught the biggest fish you’ve ever seen. I swear, some were as long as my arm!”

Everyone laughed.

“That’s a fish story if I’ve ever heard one!”

“Sure, JD. Whatever you say.”

I backed him up, grinning.

“We’ve got them at home. Put them on ice. Big stringer full.”

My oldest sister chimed in, skeptical.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. Slid them into a plastic bag first, then put them in the freezer.”

It was true.

Grandson Raymond, and JD Groff

And that fishing trip wasn’t the last. That summer—his last summer—I ensured we went out as often as possible. Sometimes, it was just the two of us. I had always dreamed of this as a boy, watching the lake from our back porch. Other times, I brought my brother and my nephews along. Dad would hold court on the bank. He told stories and gave advice. He cast his line with the patience of someone who knew the water well. He knew the time was short.

We laughed, caught fish, and built memories like campfires—small moments that glowed long after sunrise.

That summer was magical.

It was the summer, and I finally got to take my dad fishing. And it was everything I had waited for.

A Close Encounter: Horseback Riding and a Snake Surprise

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

3–5 minutes

When a Snake Crosses Your Path

Photo by Turuncu Sakal on Pexels.com

I was nine when my dad, sisters, and I rode horseback along the four-mile-long road circling our property. My dad liked the longer ride of four miles. He guided the horses through the deep sand that had accumulated in the red dirt of Western Oklahoma.

It was a bright, crisp spring afternoon. The season had warmed the land for several weeks. Still, I wore a light jean jacket to ward off the lingering chill.

Riding with my dad was always a solemn occasion. We never spoke much; we rode. Yet, when we returned home, we understood each other completely. Words weren’t necessary—the simple joy of riding together across the open land spoke directly to the soul.

Like my sisters, I had been on horseback since I could remember. My dad had propped me up in the saddle before I could sit upright. I considered myself a decent rider. Still, I was nowhere near my father’s skill. He seemed to move with his horse as though they were one being.

That afternoon, I sensed that my sisters were there more out of duty than enjoyment. Their smiles felt forced, their laughter shallow. Though they didn’t do it outright, I could tell their hearts were elsewhere. I didn’t think this would be the last time they rode with us. They were growing up. My sisters were drawn to other interests. They were leaving behind the horses that had once been a central part of our childhood.

Photo by Darya Sannikova on Pexels.com

I was the fourth rider in our single-file procession, coming behind my dad and sisters. We had traveled this route countless times. I knew the landmarks well. There was an oil well pump that sometimes startled the horses. Barking dogs lived at a neighbor’s line. A tattered rag flapped from a barbed-wire fence. These were the things that made a horse shy, and I took note of them with each ride.

We had covered nearly three miles when I noticed my dad and sisters had gained some distance ahead of me. It was just a few lengths, nothing unusual. But as I would later learn, riding close together has its benefits.

As we neared a mainly sandy stretch of road, my oldest sister turned in her saddle. She glanced back at me. Her expression was unreadable, but how she looked made my stomach tighten.

And then I saw it—a six-foot black bullsnake slithering onto the road.

It had watched the first three horses pass, believing the coast was clear. But I was still coming. Just as my eyes locked onto the snake, my horse saw it, too.

Photo by hayriyenur . on Pexels.com

His reaction was immediate—dodge and run.

My horse reared before I knew what was happening, jerking to the left while I pitched to the right. The world tilted, and sand rushed up to meet me. Then, there was an impact. I hit the ground hard, my breath escaping in a sharp gasp.

I hated snakes. At that age, I was convinced they were all out to kill me. I was lying in the dirt. My heart pounded as I scrambled to my feet, half-expecting the snake to strike. But my faithful horse hadn’t abandoned me. The horse trotted back, ears flicking, nostrils flaring with the same nervous energy I felt.

Ahead, my dad turned in the saddle, completely unaware of what had just happened. He saw me standing there, dust-covered and rattled, and called out in his usual no-nonsense tone:

“Would you quit fooling around and get back on your horse?”

Photo by Bozan Gu00fczel on Pexels.com

I was “fuming.” I muttered curses under my breath—at my horse, my dad, and that wretched snake. And at myself for not anticipating the spook that can send a horse sideways.

I climbed back into the saddle. I was convinced the snake would follow us up the road. It would try its luck again. It didn’t. But my horse remained, shying at every stick and shadow for the rest of the ride.

When we finally arrived home, I unsaddled and brushed him down, smoothing his coat and murmuring reassurances. He had been just as much a victim in the afternoon’s chaos as I had.

That afternoon was the second time I was ever thrown from a horse. The last time came when I was twenty. I was riding a high-spirited horse that my dad no longer handled. That horse was downright mean—no snakes needed to send him bucking.

The Last Drop: A Cowboy’s Journey of Sacrifice

BenjaminLeave a comment

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

2–4 minutes

The Last Drop

The desert stretched endlessly before him. A sea of golden sand and jagged rock shimmering under the merciless sun. Nathan Calloway, a weathered cowboy, pulled his bandanna higher over his nose. He squinted against the glare. Nathan’s loyal companion, Dusty, plodded steadily ahead, hooves sinking into the loose sand. It had been days since they left the last water hole. The journey across this godforsaken land felt like it would never end.

Nathan had one canteen slung across his saddle. He’d filled it to the brim at the last watering hole, which seemed a hundred miles behind them now. Each time Nathan drank, he made sure Dusty drank, too. He’d pour water into his old, sweat-stained hat, holding it steady while the horse lapped it.

Miles passed, the sun crawling toward the horizon without relief. Nathan should’ve run dry by now. His canteen weighted it, sloshing like he had just filled it. He didn’t question it—just kept pouring for Dusty, letting the horse drink before taking a sip himself.

By the time they reached the halfway mark, the world felt different. The heat played tricks on Nathan’s mind, distorting the horizon and bending the sky. The rhythmic clopping of Dusty’s hooves became a heartbeat against the silence.

Then, Dusty spoke.

“Thanks, partner,” 

The horse said, his voice deep and smooth as rolling thunder.

Nathan blinked hard, his throat tightening. 

“What was that?”

“For the water,”

Dusty said, shaking his mane. 

“I appreciate it.”

Nathan swallowed. He knew heat can make a man see things and hear things that weren’t real. But this felt different. He’d spent years with Dusty—maybe it just took this long to finally listen to him.

“You’re welcome, old boy,”

Nathan murmured, tipping the canteen over his hat again. Dusty drank, his dark eyes filled with something knowing, something grateful. The horse seemed to understand the sacrifice Nathan was making for him. Nathan, in turn, felt a deep sense of responsibility and care for his companion.

The two trudged on, man and horse, surviving together. The sun burned down. Their shadows stretched thin. The canteen never emptied as long as Nathan gave to Dusty first.

Then, just as the town rooftops shimmered into view, something changed.

Nathan stopped. His body ached, exhaustion weighing him down. The canteen felt lighter now. The end was so close—only a half-mile to go. He took a long, deep drink, the first he hadn’t shared. The water was warm but pure, sliding down his throat. Nathan’s hands trembled as he lowered the canteen.

Dusty faltered. The horse’s breath came shallow, his steps unsteady.

Nathan hesitated. He looked at the canteen, now feeling light as air. Nathan shook it—nothing.

The world spun. The last stretch of desert blurred. Nathan swayed in the saddle.

A mile outside town, they found him. The townsfolk rushed ahead, lifting the man from his horse, but Nathan Calloway was gone. Dusty stood by, head bowed, his sides heaving. The canteen dangled empty from the saddle, not a drop left inside.

“You almost made it,”

Someone whispered.

No one noticed Dusty raise his head slightly, his dark eyes glistening with something almost human. He looked toward where his rider lay, then toward the empty horizon.

Deep in the desert’s silence, a voice like rolling thunder whispered,

“We made it.”

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

BenjaminLeave a comment

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

4–5 minutes

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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

She replied,

“in a heartbeat!”

Elmer’s Tough Ride: A Journey Through the Dust Bowl

BenjaminLeave a comment

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

4–6 minutes

Pa Elmer’s Ride

The winter had been relentless. The worst sandstorm in memory had swept through the region the year before. It buried the land in towering drifts of dust and sand. In some places, these drifts were waist-deep.

It marked the beginning of the Dust Bowl. This was a devastating era of dust storms. These storms crippled agriculture and reshaped life across the American and Canadian prairies in the 1930s.

Few families had stored enough food from the past year’s harvest. Even fewer were sure how long this disaster would last.

They say two things in life are certain: death and taxes. And for Elmer, tax time had come knocking. He had no choice but to ride nearly forty miles to the courthouse. He needed to pay his property taxes in person. He risked default if he didn’t. Despite the hard times, he had always kept his land in good standing. He intended to do so now, even with their dwindling savings. With three young children to feed, responsibility was heavily on his shoulders. His two sons and daughter were too young to fully grasp the hardship that had taken hold of the land. The struggle was real for Elmer and his wife, Ma Ma.

The night before his journey, Elmer told Ma Ma,

“I’ll be up by 3:30 and gone before sunrise. There’s no need to let anyone know I’m carrying money. Hard times make people desperate.”

While he trusted his neighbors, he wasn’t about to take unnecessary risks. He planned to make it halfway and camp near the Washita River before reaching the courthouse the next day.

At dawn, Pa Elmer saddled his pony, Smokey. Ma Ma handed him a small bundle—a few slices of fresh bread and beef jerky from the smokehouse.

“It’s not much,”

she said, touching his knee as he mounted up,

“but it’ll hold you over till you’re back. Ride safe, and don’t take any risks. Smokey can outrun any trouble that comes your way.”

Pa Elmer bent down in the saddle and kissed her.

“Two days there, a day and a half back. I’ll be fine.”

The parents didn’t know it. Their three children watched from behind the screen door, their little faces pressed against the mesh. As Ma-Ma gave Smokey a firm slap on the hip, Pa clicked his tongue and hollered,

“Yaw!”

The journey had begun.

Back inside, Ma Ma found the children still watching. She shooed them back to bed. Then she settled into her rocking chair with the Bible. It was her source of comfort through times of uncertainty.

The Ride to Town

Pa made good time. Smokey, eager for the open trail, trotted strong beneath him. By evening, they had covered thirty miles. Elmer found a spot near the Washita River where the grass was matted down—a daytime swimming hole. He unsaddled Smokey. Then, he tied him to a long rope to graze. Elmer stretched out beneath a tree, using his saddle as a pillow.

Sleep took him fast; it was a blessing he had dozed off facing east. The first light of dawn warmed his face, stirring him awake. After a quick breakfast of beef jerky, he saddled Smokey and continued.

By mid-morning, he reached the county seat. He tied Smokey to the hitching rail and strode into the courthouse. The county clerk barely glanced up from her papers.

“You here to ask for an extension on your taxes like everyone else?”

she asked.

Elmer tipped his hat.

“No, ma’am. I’m here to pay my taxes for this year and next.”

The clerk blinked, then scribbled out a receipt, her expression unreadable.

Paid this date: $28.33 for two years of property taxes.

Elmer folded the receipt and tucked it into the same safe spot where his money had been. Simply saying ––––

“Thank you, Mam!”

Pa had finished his business.

Trouble in Town

As he walked back to Smokey, a man loitering nearby gave a slow nod.

“That’s a fine-looking horse you got there. I’d buy him off you for $25.”

Elmer stiffened.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

The man’s eyes darkened, and his tone shifted.

“Maybe I just take the horse for nothin’.”

Elmer didn’t flinch. He met the man’s stare with steely resolve.

“No, you’d be lyin’ dead if you tried.”

A tense silence hung between them before the man forced a crooked smile.

“Mister, I was just jokin’.” 

He backed away.

“You have yourself a nice day.”

Elmer wasted no time. He swung into the saddle and galloped out of town.

The Journey Home

The Journey Home

Elmer has made the ride back in a day. Still, he took his time. He stopped by a few relatives along the way. In this part of the country, it was tradition—when you passed by kin, you paid a visit.

Late in the afternoon, as he approached home, he saw Ma Ma and the kids waiting at the gate. The children ran to meet him, full of questions.

“Well, Pa? How’d it go?” 

Ma Ma asked, relief washing over her face.

Elmer grinned and swung down from Smokey.

“Would’ve been home sooner,” 

he said, stretching his legs,

“but I kept runnin’ out of pipe tobacco.”

Ma Ma shook her head with a chuckle. As the family led him inside, the weight of the journey melted away. Home had never felt so good.

The Wild West Legacy: Tim’s Cattle Drive Experience

Benjamin4 Comments

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

4–6 minutes

Sitting in the large living room, Tim’s father called him down from his upstairs bedroom. As Tim entered, he wondered if he had forgotten to do his chores properly. He also thought about whether his father had bad news to deliver.


Sitting on the fireplace ledge, he faced his father, who sat in his favorite chair.


“I’m helping Jess Paul tomorrow down south of Mingo for Doc. We must drive cattle up from their southern pasture. Then, we will move them into holding pens for transport to the sale barns. We need a third rider to keep the point in key areas, and I’d like you to come with us.”


Tim’s heart leaped. He had never been to Mingo but had always heard about the town. It was one of the last places with a 19th-century reputation. It was known as a wild, lawless settlement. Gunfights on the main street occurred weekly. Jess Paul often talked about how the local cowboys were descendants of the originals who roamed the territory before statehood.


Jess Paul was one of his father’s closest friends. Ten years ago, he lost both legs below the knee in a farming accident. Despite this, he rehabilitated himself and learned to walk using only a cane. Jess Paul can mount a horse and ride all day without showing pain or discomfort. With his two wooden legs, he can break a wild two-year-old stud just as well as any other cowboy. To Tim, Jess Paul was the toughest man Tim had ever known. His hands were massive, and he had a story for every place they went.


Tim’s father instructed his older sister to stop by his school and collect any assignments he’d miss.


“Tell his teacher I need him to work cattle,”

he said matter-of-factly.


The next morning came early. At 4:00 AM, Jess Paul was already up, having slept in his truck’s camper parked in front of their house. Jess Paul’s horse had been kept with the others on Tim’s father’s farm. While his father and Jess Paul gathered saddles and horses, Tim hitched the stock trailer to his father’s pickup.


Jake, Tim’s father, rode his horse, Red Man. Tim mounted Sam, his temperamental gelding, while Jess Paul rode Sonny. With the horses loaded, they set out for Mingo—a journey of over 150 miles. Another 20 miles beyond the town lay the range land where the cattle waited.


Jess Paul talked nonstop during the long drive. Tim had heard some of his stories several times before. Each time, Jess Paul added a new detail to keep them fresh. This made the stories engaging.


After three hours on the road, they arrived and unloaded the horses. Tim dreaded the ride on Sam. The weather was unseasonably cool, and Sam was known for taking off bucking at the worst possible times.


“No cowboying,”

Jake warned.

“We want these cattle to walk to the pens. Just guide them—don’t rush them or get them running.”


Tim nodded. He understood why. Running the cattle would make them lose weight, reducing their value at the auction.


No cattle were in sight from the truck. The trio mounted up and rode south across the prairie. Half an hour later, they spotted the herd—about two hundred head—gathered in a valley, sheltered from the cold north wind. Jake moved wide to one side of the herd. Jess Paul took the opposite side. Tim took position on the hill. He was ready to steer the cattle north toward the pens.

Tim fought to keep Sam still as the cattle approached. The horse was itching to jump, and Tim braced himself, expecting a sudden bucking fit.


The first two turning points went smoothly. Tim maneuvered between the cattle and the next position with ease. But at the final turn, he noticed a devil’s claw tangled around Sam’s hind hoof. The dried-up weed flower was notorious for driving horses wild, making them kick and thrash to free themselves. Tim knew he had to stay calm.

Devils Claw
Proboscidea louisianica


Slowly, he dismounted, working his way around Sam. He reached down with deliberate care. Then, he grabbed the devil’s claw and pulled it free. Using his boot, he brushed it away. Miraculously, Sam stood still.


Tim half expected the horse to explode at any moment. The last time Sam went full rodeo, they had been riding a narrow trail along a canyon. On one side was a dirt wall; on the other, a hundred-foot drop. Sam had bucked the entire way down to the canyon floor. Tim had held on for dear life. He cursed the horse with every bounce. Tim’s father scolded him for not stopping the horse. Tim never dared argue back. He had just been trying to survive the ride.


Now, with Sam behaving, Tim remounted and guided the cattle through the final turn. The herd moved steadily into the holding pens, where hay and grain had been spread.
After the last cow entered, the trio loaded their horses back into the trailer, and the gates clanged shut. The job was done. They had answered the call south of Mingo, and now it was time to head home.

Riding home meant Jess Paul would tell more stories.

Toby and Spitfire The Horse That Had Never Been Rode!

BenjaminLeave a comment

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro.

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© 

Ranch Hands told stories of Spitfire on the Whispering Pines Ranch—a wild and untamable horse that earned his name with every snort and stomp. Cowboys from every corner of the county had tried to ride him, only to find themselves airborne within moments, landing with bruised pride and sore limbs. Spitfire’s eyes would glimmer with a defiant fire as if daring the next rider even to try.

But one summer day, the world shifted on its axis when a nine-year-old boy named Toby visited the ranch. Toby’s light frame was offset by the quiet resilience of a child who had learned to conquer more obstacles than many seasoned ranchhands. Born with legs that didn’t work like other kids, Toby’s movements were careful and deliberate, assisted by crutches that clinked softly with each step.


Drawn by a gentle breeze and the soft nickering sounds, Toby found himself near Spitfire’s corral. The horse stood apart, tossing his white mane like a storm cloud, eyes wary and sharp. But as Toby watched, something stirred in Spitfire’s gaze; a flicker of curiosity outshone his usual mistrust.


Before anyone could stop him, Toby set his crutches by the fence and used the railings to hoist himself. Spitfire’s ears flicked, muscles tensed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he watched the boy with an intensity that made time pause.


With tiny movements, Toby approached. He whispered soft words that only the horse could hear, offering no challenge, only companionship. Spitfire took a cautious step forward, then another. The horse’s powerful head bent down a moment later, and his breath warmed Toby’s outstretched fingers.


The ranchhands who came running, yelling warnings, froze as they witnessed the impossible: Spitfire, the proud, untamable beast, knelt in the dust as if making a silent vow. Toby’s smile lit up his face as he settled onto Spitfire’s broad back, and for the first time, Spitfire carried a rider not with rebellion but grace.

They could remember when the horse was born in a south pasture four springs ago and got herded into the corrals for the first time. That someone had got that close and made peace with the critter.


“You couldn’t get close enough to feed him,” ––– said Harland the leadhand.

“Given how cantankerous he is, how could the kid get that close to him?” ––– said Orville, an outfitter.

The stunned onlookers could only watch in awe as they moved in perfect harmony. Toby, the boy who faced each day with quiet determination, had found his match in the fierce spirit of a horse that would allow no other. And Spitfire, known for his wild, unbroken heart, found a rider worthy of his trust in a child who saw him as a friend. Not as a challenge. Teaching the ranchhands, as opposed to spurs and whips, a gentle touch can go a long way!

The Days Of My Youth, When The West Was Really Wild!

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

When the West was wild, and I was nine years old. Strapped on my waist were two silver cap guns and a gunslinger belt. My horse was a pony named Little Bit, named so because of the bridal’s bit size for the horse. On Saturday mornings, my youngest sister and I would watch the antics of Roy Rogers and Del Evans on black-and-white television. During the rest of the weekend and after school, we did our best to live out what we had seen in real life.

My sister’s horse was named Sugar and slightly bigger than mine. Still, mine was fast and could run at a lope, making the breeze hitting my face seem as though we were going at the speed of light. On our farm near a hill south of our home, there were miniature bluffs where my sister and I would ground tie our horse, hide behind, and carry out a shootout with the invisible villains we imagined approaching and trying to steal the farm. We lived miles from town, and this would be our entertainment. Our parents were aware of our riding trips, and while our dad would rather be present, he trusted us to be responsible and safe.

As we roamed the hills on those long, dusty afternoons, it felt like we were the only two kids in the world with such grand adventures. The bluffs were our fortress, the sky our ceiling, and the occasional hawk circling overhead became a witness to our endless battles against make-believe outlaws. The smell of fresh earth, mingled with the sweat of our horses, was intoxicating. It was freedom, pure and simple, a feeling that inspired us and now fills us with nostalgia.


Sometimes, when the wind would shift just right, I’d catch the faint scent of Mom’s cooking from the farmhouse and know it was nearly time to head home. But in those moments, I was Roy Rogers, protector of the ranch, with Little Bit galloping beneath me as we chased the bad guys across the plains.


One day, after an especially exciting shootout, our father must have noticed we’d been gone a little too long. We saw him standing on the front porch as we rounded the bend toward the house. Dad crossed his arms, and his face was stern—Dad always believed in knowing where we were, and he didn’t much like the idea of us riding off without him. But as we neared, I saw the corner of his mouth twitch and a glimmer of pride in his eyes. His silent support reassured us and made us feel more connected to him. Maybe he recognized some of the cowboy spirit in us, or perhaps it was the sight of two kids who had spent the day living their version of the Wild West.


He never scolded us that day, though he didn’t have to say much. With a smile, he helped us unsaddle our horses, and as the sun dipped low behind the hills, we knew our adventures would have to wait until the next day.


But deep down, I think Dad knew, just as we did, that the West wasn’t so wild after all—it was just our way of making the world a little bigger, a little braver, and a whole lot more fun. As the sun dipped low behind the hills, we knew our adventures would have to wait until the next day, filling us with excitement and anticipation for the next chapter of our Wild West escapades.

Elmer’s Forgotten Ending

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

At 85, Elmer had circled the globe twice, a testament to his adventurous spirit. He was known as a reliable friend to his neighbors, colleagues, and family, earning their trust and respect. His life was a rich tapestry of experiences woven from the people he met and the challenges he overcame.

No one knew that since 80, Elmer had been slowly forgetting things. Elmer lived alone, having never had children. The love of his life, Bill, had been his husband. Together, they built a home and a life they had fought for since the 1960s. But Bill had died in the 1990s of AIDS, leaving Elmer to quietly close himself off from the world, no longer inviting people into his home.

In the last five years, Elmer had taken to raising quarter horses, finding solace in their company. But as time passed, he needed help to keep up with them. Elmer would leave gates open and have to chase the horses down or forget to feed them on time. Once, after a late ride, he left a horse saddled overnight. The guilt he felt was overwhelming, and he knew something was wrong. 

A visit to the doctor revealed a possible explanation: lack of sleep and depression, likely linked to his grief over Bill’s passing.

Determined to regain control, Elmer began taking medication to lift his spirits and help him sleep. He convinced himself he could manage. On Wednesday, Elmer had an appointment with a buyer interested in purchasing two of his horses. He thought selling them might relieve some of the pressure, leaving him with only one horse to tend to.

But Elmer had other concerns. He now shared his home with a group of stray cats that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, along with his faithful companion, Roger, a golden-eyed Saint Bernard. Roger was more than just a pet; he was Elmer’s protector, especially when the owner began drinking whiskey.

Elmer tried to manage his responsibilities—his horses, cats, dog, and the home he had shared with Bill—but his mind kept slipping. He believed that Bill might still come home, even calling Bill’s sister, Matilda, to ask if she’d seen him. Matilda gently reminded him that Bill had passed away years ago.

Realizing he had let his secret slip, Elmer quickly covered by asking if she had seen a particular picture of Bill. 

Matilda, sensing something was wrong, insisted on visiting.

“Elmer, damn it, I need to see you. I haven’t been over in two years, and it’s time we have dinner!” 

Matilda demanded.

Caught off guard, Elmer couldn’t refuse.

“In the morning would be fine,”

He replied, resigned to the visit.

After hanging up, Elmer sorted through his mail and found a late notice from the electric company. He had forgotten to pay his bill, and the power got scheduled to be disconnected the next day. Frustrated, Elmer called the company, only to learn he had missed several payments. He assured them he would take care of it first thing in the morning.

Elmer hung up the phone, the weight of the day pressing down on him. His forgetfulness had become more frequent and more troubling. Once, he ended up in a faraway town, wondering how he got there. He had forgotten the names of his horses, even his dog Roger, and once needed help figuring out what his car keys were for.

That evening, Elmer and Roger settled into the family room to watch a news program, a series on Alzheimer’s. The more Elmer watched, the more convinced he became that he was suffering from the disease. The thought terrified him. He looked at Roger and grumbled, 

“I’ll be damned if I’m going out like that! I’m going out on top, not lingering around aloof and half-quacking!”

Determined to end his life on his terms, Elmer went to the liquor cabinet, packed five large bottles of whiskey into a box, grabbed some water, and called for Roger to get into the truck. He was visiting their favorite spot to watch the sunset—his and Bill’s particular spot. There, he planned to drink himself into oblivion and end his life.

As they arrived at the overlook, Elmer realized with a bitter laugh that he had forgotten the gun he intended to use. 

“Shit! I forgot the gun to shoot myself with!”

He muttered. Searching for an alternative, he looked for a rope to hang himself, but that too was missing. 

“Well, shit, Roger! I don’t have a rope.”

Roger, ever loyal, had been trained by a local bartender to remove the keys from Elmer’s truck whenever the pet’s master started drinking heavily. As Elmer continued drinking, Roger did just that, hiding the keys.

Now thoroughly drunk, Elmer looked at Roger and slurred, 

“What the hell did we come out here for?” 

He was confused, unable to remember his grim plan. By 

2:00 AM, the sky was pitch dark, and both man and dog were asleep in the truck.

Back at Elmer’s home, the morning brought concern. 

Matilda arrived, along with the horse buyer and the electric company. But Elmer was nowhere to be found. Sensing something was wrong, Matilda called out to the others, 

“Elmer would never allow a cat inside his house; something is wrong here!”

The electric company worker radioed his office to report a possible missing person, while Matilda assured them she would cover the bill to keep the power on. Their primary concern was finding Elmer.

The horse buyer suggested, 

“I figure Elmer’s out at the overlook like he is every year at this time. He and Bill went there every year on the 15th of this month for their anniversary.”

Meanwhile, Elmer was waking up at the overlook, groggy and disoriented. Roger, ever the guardian, brought him the truck keys. 

Elmer looked at the dog, 

“Roger, ‘ole boy, why in the hell are we out here? And who brought all these damn whiskey bottles?”

With no recollection of his plan, Elmer drove home, where a flurry of activity awaited him. 

As he approached the gathering, he overheard someone say, 

“A homeowner has gone missing, and everyone’s looking for him.”

Elmer, confused, asked, “Why are they doing it here?”

“They think this is where it happened,” came the reply.

“They think he went missing here? 

I was here until 10 PM last night and didn’t see anything,” Elmer responded.

The man shouted to the Sheriff, “This man says he was here until 10 PM last night and didn’t see anything!”

The Sheriff called back, “What’s his name?”

Elmer, finally realizing the situation, shouted,

“ELMER!”

You’re on my damn land, damn it!”

Matilda reached Elmer, talked to him, and promised he would never be alone. She would ensure he did not get treated like others he had witnessed on television. 

Matilda said, 

“Elmer, you are 85. Other parts of you are more likely to take you out before the mind takes you!”

Elmer, looking around, remarked, 

Matilda, you have a way of comforting the soul. Are you the one who brought all these damn cats out here and turned them loose in my house?

Matilda asked Elmer where he had been and what he had been doing.

Elmer said,

Truthfully, I don’t know. Roger and I just woke up at the overlook, and it was yesterday, today, and the 15th all coming together. I didn’t realize it. 

Matilda confronted Elmer, saying, “Well, Roger had more to say about. In fact, a lot more. You see, he gave me this note you gave him. It is a goodbye note you put on his collar last night.” 

Elmer’s face brightens as if a light bulb had gone on, responds,

Now I remember what I went out there for, but I just remembered that I need to bring—ugh, ice.

Matilda snaps back

Nice try, old man. I know what you are thinking, and it can’t happen. You still have a reason. And you can’t die until you no longer have a reason, like it or not. Your reason is not up yet! So get used to it. You still have a Reason

For more information on Alzheimers and Dementia Illnesses visit https://www.alz.org Also check when you can participate in the walk to prevent Alzheimers 2024!

Me And My Dads Long Walk Home

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


My dad gently nudged her and whispered, –––

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

Pride Parade Heroism: Bud and Jake’s Unbreakable Bond

FeaturedLeave a comment

Bud and Jake, two inseparable friends since childhood, shared a bond that was as strong as the fields and stables of their small hometown. As the sun came up on a crisp Saturday morning, they loaded their old pickup truck with supplies and hitched up the horse trailer, ready for the adventure ahead. Inside the trailer, their beloved horses, Star and Blaze, stood patiently, saddled, and prepared for the parade in Cleo Springs.


The air was charged with anticipation as Bud and Jake embarked on their journey, the Pride Flag they’d carefully packed fluttering in the wind. This year, they were resolute in their decision to ride in the parade and demonstrate their unwavering support for equality and love in all its forms. The flag, a beacon of their indomitable spirit, symbolized their commitment to standing up for what they believed in, no matter the odds.


As they drove along the winding country roads, their conversation was light and full of laughter. They reminisced about past adventures and planned the day ahead. However, their joy was short-lived. Out of nowhere, a car screeched to a halt in front of them, forcing Bud to slam on the brakes. Before they could react, two men with hardened faces and a menacing air approached the truck, guns drawn.


“Out of the truck, now!”

One of the thugs barked, his voice rough and commanding. Bud and Jake exchanged a glance, understanding the gravity of the situation. They complied, stepping out slowly with their hands raised.


“We don’t want any trouble,” Jake said calmly, trying to diffuse the tension.

The second thug, his eyes cold and calculating, shoved Bud roughly against the truck.

“We need a ride, and this truck and trailer will do just fine, the first thug snarled.

“Get in the back, and don’t try anything funny.”


With their hands tied behind their backs, Bud and Jake were forced into the truck’s bed, their hearts pounding with fear and uncertainty. The thugs climbed into the cab, and the old pickup roared back to life, veering off the main road and onto a remote, deserted path.


As the miles stretched on, Bud and Jake’s minds raced, searching for a way out of their predicament. They knew they couldn’t let these criminals escape, especially not with their horses. Bud caught sight of the Pride Flag, still within reach in the truck bed. An idea began to form.

“Jake,”

Bud whispered, his voice barely audible over the engine’s rumble.

“When I give the signal, we need to act fast. Trust me.”


Jake nodded, his eyes filled with determination. As the truck slowed to navigate a particularly rough patch of road, Bud made his move. With a swift motion, he grabbed the flag and lunged at the nearest thug. Jake followed suit, using his body to knock the second thug off balance.
The struggle was fierce but fleeting. Bud and Jake, fueled by adrenaline and their unbreakable bond, managed to overpower the thugs and secure them tightly with the Pride Flag. Panting and bruised, they confined the criminals in the back of the truck, a testament to their courage and resilience.


Bud climbed into the driver’s seat, and Jake took a moment to check on the horses, who, though agitated, were unharmed. With renewed purpose, they headed back toward the main road, the thugs’ angry curses silenced by the engine’s roar.


As they neared Cleo Springs, the sight of the parade brought a wave of relief and triumph. They pulled up to the sheriff’s station, where sheriff’s deputies quickly took the thugs into custody. Hearing of their harrowing ordeal, the townspeople greeted Bud and Jake with cheers and admiration.


With the crisis behind them, Bud and Jake joined the parade, and their Pride Flag symbolized their resilience and courage. Riding side by side on Star and Blaze, they waved to the crowd, their hearts full of pride not just for who they were but for what they had overcome together. The parade continued to celebrate love, unity, and the indomitable spirit of friendship.

George’s Story About Going TO A Horse Sale With His Dad And Friend Maynord

FeaturedLeave a comment

George was a happy-go-lucky sort of kid. His father raised quarter horses, and together, they were buddies. They go nearly everywhere together. George and his father’s friend Maynord, an older gentleman, probably a few years older than George’s father, spoiled George, treating him especially grandly. George didn’t emphasize the letter ‘s’ in some of his words, and some words he would say might need to be clarified. His father was known as a horseman and stern man, yet respected by most people, eyebrows raised to the bible-toting folks.

Maynord had a grown daughter who had already left home, but he and his wife had never had a son. With George, Maynord had the time of his life. As did George. The two were better buddies than Maynord, and George’s father became. But George would never say that to his father. Maynord treated George to parades, cheeseburgers, and ice cream cones and even got him a dog. George named the pooch, Ryder after Maynord’s last name.

The two looked forward to Friday and Saturday nights. That is when George’s dad would take George and Maynord to auction barns in nearby cities where horses were sold. There, they would watch the many horses come through the sale ring, and the owners talk them up, saying how great of an animal the horse is, and try to sell it for top dollar. Of course, George’s father had always arrived before the auction to watch the horses lead in so he could see how they handled it and whether they were challenging to work with in getting to holding pens. He could also see if any auction workers tried to ride the horses before entering the sale ring and if the horses handled well. There were always little mishaps in the sale ring, a rider losing his grip and falling off, or a horse doing what the owner said it would not do. Or donkeys would be brought in, which always made George and Maynord laugh. They would jokingly suggest George’s father buy several to go with his quarter horses. The biggest thrill of the sales barn adventures was the cafe located within; that is where, halfway through, George and Maynord would slip away and eat cheeseburgers and drink soda pop.

The horse sales, as George and his father referred to them, caused the problem. Maynord didn’t help with the situation because he referred to the auctions as horse sales. And he had never referred to the auctioning of horses as anything else.

It was in the classroom one Monday morning when the third-grade teacher asked the class for each student to stand and say what the most fun activity they took part in over the weekend was. The town had just had a fair, and the teacher expected the students to explain their actions while visiting the celebration. And that is what the students did until coming to George. 

George stood and said –––

“My dad and our friend Maynord took me to the city horse sale, and my dad bought two. 

While George was speaking about horses, the teacher heard ‘whore sale.’  

The teacher said –––

“George, you went where, and your dad what?”

George replied –––

“My dad took me to a horse sale and bought two. His friend Maynord helped with one of them. They made me watch from the pickup.” 

The teacher, turning pale, said –

“George, stop talking; that is enough! Class, that is enough of what we enjoyed this weekend. I will have George explain what he did to the principal.”

George was perplexed. Hasn’t anyone ever watched a horse being sold and loaded into a livestock trailer? Why would the principal need to hear about it? Indeed, he knows about people selling horses.

In the office, the principal was being informed by the teacher about what she had heard and how terrible it was that this father and his friend had taken an 8-year-old boy to whore house and had him watch the goings on with two women. The principal then asked George what exactly did you say to your teacher? 

Which George explained –––

“I just told her ––– My dad, Maynord, and I went to a horse sale, where my dad bought two horses. They made me get in the pickup and watch them while loading the horses so I wouldn’t get hurt or in the way. There have been days, I have even held on to some guys horse when he had too many to handle. But I didn’t get to explain it in such detail because the teacher told me to stop talking before I could tell more about what I was talking about. We go to horse sales every weekend. I don’t know what the big deal is!”

The principal and now the school’s superintendent were both in the office. Their faces were beet red, and they were trying to keep from laughing. The teacher, now understanding the situation, felt overreactive and apologizing. 

Meanwhile, George is confused and asks everyone in the room –––

“Haven’t you all ever heard of horse sales? Horse sales? Horse Sales! A Place where a man can sell his horse? My dad, Maynord and I go to them every Friday and Saturday night, you should come with us and see what it is all about. If you get bored with the horse sale, you can get a cheeseburger, as I sometimes do. I don’t understand what this is all about just because I told my story about going to the horse sale with my dad and Maynord.”

George’s dad, the town barber, was called and told of the situation. He later held court in his barber’s chair with his shop’s regulars. There, they had the bursts of laughter the school officials experienced.

Leaving the office, it was the loudest laughter George can ever remember hearing to this date. It wasn’t until he was older did he understand the rhyming of the words between horse and whores and how it could sound to others when saying to them ––– 

“You are headed to a horse sale to see what you can find.”

~ ROSE ~ A WILD HORSE FOR A SUMMER WITH BUD

BenjaminLeave a comment
Photo by David Dibert on Pexels.com

Bud was only 14 when he first met what would become his best friend for the summer. She had never been around people running wild in a pasture since birth. A 3-year-old Dunn filly, a horse commonly referred to in the region as a Red-River-Dunn for its color, a reddish tint coat with black stockings, mane, and tail. She had darker red hair around her mane and ears, slicked down her jacket, and features made for a beautiful horse.

Bud’s dad bought her at a horse auction, and he and Bud went to load Rose; she had never been touched. Getting a rope to place a halter on her was a rodeo of itself in the lots behind the auction house. Getting her loaded into a trailer was a site to see. She reared and fought, tearing the trailer’s tail lights, clearance lights, and various fixtures off the trailer before finally getting into the trailer, most likely tiring from repeated attempts to load. No whips or harsh attempts were made to get Rose into the trailer; she never saw such strange things and was frightened by their appearance.

After a ride home, Bud wondered if the new horse would still be standing; it was long after midnight when they arrived back at the farm. As they pulled into the barnyard, Bud’s dad backed the trailer into an empty pen and unloaded the horse. The father and son gave the horse some hay and water and a gallon of oats. Then, the two went to the house; it had been a long night.

A technique known as plow-driving or plow-reining

A few hours later, which most people would describe as the following day, Bud and his father were up with sunrise. That is the way you work on a farm. They went to do their chores. By the time Bud got to the barn where the new horse was, he was shocked to see his dad had a saddle on it and was behind it, plow-driving it. Plow-driving is a process where one runs a rope from each side of the bridal through the stirrups of a saddle to about ten feet behind the horse to teach it reign before mounting it and training it at riding; it is very similar to what you would see a farmer doing to guide his draw-horse behind a plow on a farm.

Bud had always heard of how his dad had a magic touch with horses but never witnessed the gift so many spoke about. What happened next would deepen the mystery even greater.

Bud’s dad saw him entering the pen and said,

“I am glad you are here; it is time for you to get on her. I think we will call her Rose.”

The father then proceeded to gather the reigns in his hands and walked up to steady the bridal and hold the horse steady. As he did, he angled the horse’s head, and Bud could see his father quietly speaking into the horse’s ear. Then his father said,

“It is ok now. You can get on.”

Bud stood there thinking that not 8 hours earlier, they had watched this horse, which a human had never touched, nearly destroy an endgate on a stock trailer, taking over an hour to load from a dock where it usually takes five minutes for the most problematic cases. But Bud trusted his dad and knew he would never place him in danger, so he went up. He was expecting to be going for an 8-second Bronco ride.

After Bud settled in the saddle, he first experienced what he would describe to friends and family as the Cadillac ride. Using just two leather reins from a halter and not a bridle, he clicked his mouth for Rose to go, and she began walking. He reigned her using the plow-rein system; he gradually began using neck touch reining by letting the rein on the neck tell the horse which direction you wanted it to go. Rose was incredibly talented, a fast learner, and became acquainted with people fast. On the first day, the father and son had the horse performing levels of training that typically take weeks or months for other horses.

Bud’s dad said, as the day progressed,

“Rose will be yours for the summer. We sold Sam, which was your horse, so I wanted to buy this green horse to get you something to work on.”

A green horse needs training in horsemanship, riding, leading, mannerisms, and behavior. Bud feared Rose would be a challenge if she had any flashbacks and wanted to return to her before human days. 

The next day, Bud’s biggest concern was the end of school before Summer break. He had fourth-quarter tests to pass. Rose would have to hold until he had his schooling squared away, but he knew she’d be waiting for the summer that was about to come.

Watch for part 2 tomorrow!