horses

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

Elias: The Man with an Animal Connection – Better Than Dr Doolittle And Wiser Than Dr Livingstone

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2–3 minutes

The Listener

Elias never thought of himself as special. He lived in a small cabin at the edge of the woods. There, he worked as a carpenter. In the evenings, he fed the stray cats that wandered in from the trees. He had always felt an odd comfort around animals. He attributed this to his quiet nature and patient hands.

It began with his dog, Rusty. One evening while Elias rubbed behind the old hound’s ears, he thought he heard a whisper. It wasn’t a sound exactly, but a clear impression: “Don’t stop, that feels good.” Elias froze, hand hovering mid-scratch. Rusty nudged him insistently, and the thought returned, playful and warm. At first, Elias dismissed it as his imagination. The barn cat slinked across the porch the next morning. Yet, he felt a sharp pang of hunger that wasn’t his own. He realized something impossible was happening.

At first, the animals spoke only in feelings. They expressed affection when he stroked their fur. There was annoyance if he pulled away too soon, and gratitude when he left out food. But as days passed, the impressions grew sharper, almost like sentences forming inside his mind. One afternoon, Rusty limped. Elias felt a jolt of pain in his knee. This was followed by the plea: “It hurts, please help.” He checked and found a thorn buried deep in the dog’s paw. A sparrow darted to his windowsill and flooded him with urgency: “Nest broken, chicks in danger.” Elias followed its pull and discovered a nest toppled in the wind. He rescued the hatchlings before the foxes found them.

Word seemed to spread, though Elias never understood how. Stray dogs lingered near his cabin. Deer stared at him without fear. Once, even a wounded hawk landed on his porch rail. Each brought with it a silent voice—requests for healing, warnings of predators, messages of danger to others of their kind. With every answered call, Elias felt the bond deepen.

Soon he realized this gift was more than companionship. It was responsibility. He can bridge a gap no one else: soothing fear, preventing harm, guiding creatures toward safety. A flood threatened the lower fields. He was awoken by the frantic voices of burrowing animals. He led the farmer’s family to higher ground just in time. Poachers crept through the forest one autumn night. The owls carried their presence to him in overlapping echoes. He alerted the rangers. Before long, his reputation surpassed even that of Dr. Doolittle, carrying an edge that would have made famed explorer Dr. Livingstone himself take notice.

Elias no longer saw himself as just a man in a cabin. He was part of a living chorus, every feather, paw, and claw connected through an unseen thread. And though it sometimes weighed heavy on him, he carried it gladly. For the first time in history, animals had found someone who truly listened. He had discovered a purpose greater than he’d ever imagined.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025

Life Without Stunt Doubles: Embracing Real Struggles

Benjamin2 Comments

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

2–3 minutes

There Are No Stand-Ins in Real Life

Benjamin Groff II

There’s a movie out there—The Fall Guy—that reminds us of a truth we often forget. In Hollywood, when the action gets dangerous, they call in a stunt double. Someone else takes the fall, gets bruised, and gets burned. Then, they step aside so the star can walk away without a scratch.

But out here, in the real world, there are no stand-ins.

I was raised on a farm. My stand-in never showed up when I fell off the back of a truck hauling hay. They didn’t when I landed wrong jumping a ditch with a bale slung over my shoulder. No one else was there to take my place when a horse threw me. A cow with more attitude than brains also decided I was in her way. Every bruise, every scar, every ache in my knees—those were earned the hard way, by me.

When I became a police officer, the stakes only got higher. I was the one in the scuffle, the one trying to wrestle control out of chaos. I went through a windshield once during a pursuit. Another time, I got clipped by a car while waving traffic around a wreck on a rainy night. I never saw it coming—but I sure felt it. I still do.

There were fires, chemical spills, panicked families crying out for help. I didn’t hand off the breathing problems that came after pulling someone out of a smoky building. There was no double standing in my boots, breathing what I breathed, lifting what I lifted, hurting where I hurt.

The human body doesn’t forget. It keeps the ledger. Muscles remember the weight. Bones remember the falls. Your mind moves on. But, your back doesn’t let you forget the day you lifted more than you should’ve. It also reminds you of the time you hit the ground harder than expected.

There’s no editing room where the rough scenes get cut, no second take when a decision goes sideways. Every moment counts. Every choice echoes. That’s real life.

It’s not glamorous. You don’t get stunt bonuses. There is no applause when you get up off the ground with dust in your mouth. You have a limp in your step. But it’s yours. Every fall, every break, every bruise—it’s part of the story. And no one else gets to claim it.

The movies make heroes out of actors. But out here, the real stories are written in blood, sweat, and healing bones. No stand-ins. Just you.

A Close Encounter: Horseback Riding and a Snake Surprise

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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

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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

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

4–5 minutes

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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

She replied,

“in a heartbeat!”

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

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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

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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.

A Journey Through Fields: Life Lessons from Uncle Neb

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

An Uncle’s Field of Memories

The older man rocked back and forth on the porch swing, the wood creaking under his weight. His nephew, Jake, sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, listening intently. The evening sun stretched its shadows long across the yard, the golden light flickering through the trees.

“You ever run through a plowed field, boy?” 

Uncle Neb asked, a slow grin spreading across his weathered face.

Jake wrinkled his nose. 

“Why would I do that?”

Ole Neb chuckled.

“Ah, you don’t know what you’re missin’. When I was your age, runnin’ through a fresh-plowed field was the best thing in the world. The dirt was soft, the furrows deep. Felt like jumpin’ across waves in the ocean—only, it was earth beneath your feet, not water.”

Jake smirked. 

“Sounds messy.”

“Sure was!”

Uncle Neb laughed. 

“And I’d get a good whuppin’ from your grandma for trackin’ mud in the house, too.”

He leaned back, sighing. 

“Every spring, my daddy plowed and prepared the land to plant maize and oats. That was our winter feed for the livestock. Down at the bottom of our place, we had an alfalfa field. Grew some of the best in the county, thanks to the floods from the neighbor’s lake.”

“Wait—you let your field flood on purpose?”

Jake asked, wide-eyed.

“Didn’t have a choice, boy! The heavy spring rains would swell that lake, and the water would just roll over into our land. But let me tell you, that soaked ground made the alfalfa thick and green. We never had to worry about our cattle goin’ hungry.”

Jake traced a knot in the porch wood with his finger. 

“You had cattle?”

“Sure did. Horses and chickens, guineas, goats—you name it. Had a big ol’ barn on the west side of the place where we kept ’em. But there was one animal I couldn’t go near—one of our milk cows. It is the meanest thing you have ever seen. That cow would lower her head and charge at me as soon as she spotted me.”

Jake grinned. 

“You were scared of a cow?”

Uncle Neb narrowed his eyes playfully. 

“You woulda been too, boy! Kids had tormented that cow before she came to us. Made her mad as a hornet. Your grandpa had to milk her himself ’cause she wouldn’t let nobody else close.”

Jake laughed. 

“Sounds like she had a grudge.”

“That she did. But that was life on the farm, son. You learned to work with what you had, respect the land, and steer clear of mad cows.”

Ole Neb winked. 

“Now come on, let’s go walk that field out back. Maybe you’ll see why runnin’ through dirt felt like flyin’ to a boy like me.”

Jake hesitated, then hopped up.

“Alright, Uncle Neb. But if I trip, you owe me ice cream.”

Neb laughed, his voice warm as the setting sun. 

“Deal, boy. Deal.”

And together, they walked toward the fields, the past and gift blending with every step.

Toby and Spitfire The Horse That Had Never Been Rode!

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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!

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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

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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!

From A Horse Sale To A “CB” Coffee Break”

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

Join Us For a Coffee Break!

If you’ve read previous stories about my dad and me heading to horse sales during my youth, you’ll know it was a ritual we performed every Friday and Saturday night. It wasn’t just about the horses but the time we spent together and the bond we shared. Somewhere, someplace, we could always find a horse sale. And if the horse sales took a break in the summer, we’d catch a rodeo, no matter how far we had to drive.

I saw more of Oklahoma at night than I ever did during the day. That’s when my dad and I would drive the state highways, venturing wherever the road took us. But this particular trip was different. We were going to our regular sale in the city, about 30 miles from home.

It was the 1970s, and Citizen Band (CB) radio had become all the rage. I had three older brothers, all grown, who installed CB radios in their vehicles, catching my dad’s attention. Before long, we also had one in our pickup, tuned in, and received signals from all over. Dad outfitted our rig with twin whip antennas and a power mic; he even considered adding an amplifier but decided against it after hearing the FCC might crack down on him. My dad always did things by the book. So we were content rolling down the highway, our handles “Big Jake” for him and “Gentle Ben” for me.

We’d pick up reports about ‘Bears in the Air’ and ‘Bear Setups’ just down the road. Although we were doing the speed limit, Dad would ease up on the accelerator to humor me, making me think those reports were helping. On our way to the horse sale that night, we heard a spectrum of new voices on the air—voices we’d never heard before.

I told my dad they were coming in too consistently and clearly to be skip signals; they had to be close.

He said, “Let’s listen to them a minute.”

As we tuned in, these voices discussed being in Indian City and staying set up all night. They invited anyone to come by, mentioning they were at the Coffee Break on the east side of town, near the rodeo grounds. The ‘Coffee Break’ was a popular gathering spot for CB radio enthusiasts to meet, socialize, and share their experiences.

Indian City was the nickname for Anadarko, where we were headed for the horse sale. The town was known for its tourist attraction, Indian City, USA, with teepees and all—a gimmick that drew in visitors.

Dad keyed up the mic and gave a breaker. One of the new voices responded. Dad explained we were headed to a horse sale and might drop by for a cup if the horses weren’t any good later.

They said,

“Come on by! Have you ever been to one of our Coffee Breaks?”

Dad replied,

“That’s a big negatory!”

Well then,” they said,

“park wherever you can and find Booth 12—that’s where we’re set up.“

We went to the horse sale, and I spied a horse or two I thought Dad might be interested in. But around 11:00 PM, he nudged me and said,

“Let’s go to the Coffee Break. I want to see what it’s about, and I’m sure you do, too.”

I wanted to say yes, but those two horses had not come up. We had a herd of horses back home, so missing one or two wouldn’t matter. Besides, I was curious about what we’d get into at this place.

When we arrived at the rodeo grounds, the area was full of campers, RVs, and tents—huge tents, at least to me. The tent poles seemed massive, with lighting strung throughout by wire. I wasn’t sure if it was safe, but I trusted my dad as he led the way.

We found what we thought was Booth 12, where a lady sat in a folding lawn chair. She looked up at me and said, 

“Hi, sweetie. You run away from home?”

I quickly replied,

“Oh no, I’m here with my dad; we’re looking for Booth 12.”

She smiled, a crooked grin on her face, and said,

“You’re looking for Honey Badger! HONEY BADGER, GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!”

From around the corner came a short man with a balding head and a potbelly. He hadn’t shaved in a week and said,

“What is it, Wilda? You don’t have to yell! Oh, hello.”

I whispered to my dad,

“The lady’s name is Wilda,”

Mimicking the style of Sgt—Friday and Officer Bill Gannon on Dragnet.

My dad looked down at me and used his favorite phrase when I tried to do impressions: 

“Don’t be stupid.”

Honey Badger had sharp ears because when he heard Dad’s voice, he said, 

“I know him—that’s Big Jake. We talked to you a few hours ago, and I’ve heard you before when we passed through these parts. I’m Honey Badger. Let me show you around. Wilda, you want to watch the boy?”

Dad told me to stay with Wilda, promising he’d be right back. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I decided to start searching if I didn’t hear from him by the top of the hour. For all I knew, these could be aliens from another planet up to something strange. I had just turned ten, and the year before, my dad and I had to walk home after the truck we test-drove broke down on our way home from a horse sale. I could take on whatever might be behind those dark tents—or at least that’s what I told myself.

In the meantime, Wilda and I managed to strike up a friendship. She told me they were from Kansas and had retired. Honey Badger worked with honeybees as a hobby, hence his CB name. She said,

“And I’m the Queen Bee; I get on that radio and just Buzz.”

Wilda looked like a much older Ms. Kitty—a short, broad, ancient Ms. Kitty. Her voice reminded me of one of the blonde girls on The Andy Griffith Show who gave Andy and Barney a hard time. She was a sweet soul who must’ve lived quite a life. She got me a hot cup of Pepsi and talked about missing her TV show to come on this trip with Honey Badger. But she said, –––

“It’s worth it. You don’t know when one of you is going to die. You want to do all the things in life you can before you call it quits.”

She shared stories about her and her husband’s adventures, and I did my best to look interested, though I only sometimes followed along.

Dad must have been gone for thirty minutes. I had no idea what he was doing, but I sure had a lot of intelligence gathered from Queen Bee to share with him.

When he finally returned, he scooped me up, thanked Queen Bee for having us over, and assured her we’d made friends on the southern plains that stretched far north.

As we got into the pickup and headed home, I noticed Dad pushed his hat back on his head, just like he did at Christmas when he and one of my uncles secretly toasted shots at my grandparents. He was in such a good mood, so I shared my findings. –––

“So,” I began, “Wilda—or Queen Bee—said they’ve been to several states doing Coffee Breaks because she can’t have kids, and he doesn’t want any. He also has some car problems that he can’t fix. She told me he lost his left nut in the war. But I don’t think he’s still driving the same car he had when he was in the war.”

At the time, I thought whatever Dad had been up to must’ve been a lot of fun because he laughed all the way home. Within a year or two, I realized Honey Badger hadn’t lost a lugnut at all—but maybe it was better when he had.

There are Memorials left behind for those CB Radioer’s who’ve met up and passed on by clicking here.

Me And My Dads Long Walk Home

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


My dad gently nudged her and whispered, –––

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

Echoes of Laughter: Nights at the Red Barn Café. ~ Cordell, Oklahoma 1968

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

The sun dipped low over the plains, painting the sky with hues of yellow and burnt orange. As dusk embraced the town, a familiar buzz began to build around the old auction barn. Trucks and trailers, caked in red dirt, lined the gravel lot. The air was thick with the mingling scents of hay, leather, and anticipation. But as the final gavel fell and the last winning bidder of the last horse to sell walked up to the young gelding and led him away, the real excitement shifted just east of the heart of Cordell: The Red Barn Café.

Perched on the corner of Main and Elm, the café’s crimson façade glowed warmly under the neon sign that blinked “Open.” Its rustic wooden doors beckoned the weary and the jubilant alike. A symphony of clinking glasses, spirited chatter, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the room.

Photo is simulated image, it does not represent the actual design of the actual Red Barn in Cordell.

Tonight was no different.

Big Jake JD Groff, a seasoned auction hand with a penchant for tall tales and horse trader, sauntered in, his boots echoing on the worn wooden floor, followed by his son, Benjamin, age 6. Jake tipped his hat to Mary Lou, the ever-smiling waitress who’d been serving slices of pie and pots of coffee since anyone could remember.

“Evenin’, Mary Lou. Got any of that pecan pie left?” Jake drawled.

“For you, Two-Bit? Always,” she winked, scribbling his order.

At the corner booth, a group of cowboys huddled close, their hats resting on the table, revealing sweat-stained brows and sunburned necks. Among them was young Delmer Scott, with a bearded-faced and eager, attending his 100th auction. His eyes sparkled as he recounted his purchase. He was known to everyone as “Scott!”

“Got me a real beauty tonight,” Scott boasted, his voice brimming with pride. “A chestnut mare, strong legs, and a spirit that’d make the wind jealous.” 

Jake, his best friend, said to him,

“‘You SOB, you bought a goddamn jackass, and you know it!”

Scott shot back, Groff,

“you lying bitch, you’re just jealous because you bought a goddamn nearly dead 30-year-old plow horse that is about to keel.”

Old Man Harris, a legend in these parts, chuckled softly, his grey mustache twitching.

“Son, every horse looks like a winner under those auction lights. Wait till you’re trying to saddle her on a cold morning.”

The table erupted in laughter, the kind that warms the soul. This type of banter draws crowds to the Red Barn after auctions every Saturday Night. The food and service are the icing on the cake.

Near the jukebox, which softly crooned Patsy Cline tunes, a group from out of state compared notes. They’d driven from Texas, lured by tales of the Cordell auctions. Amid shared stories and friendly ribbing, they marveled at the community’s camaraderie.

“It’s like we’ve known y’all our whole lives, if we may; it’s the damnest thing we ever saw!” 

One of them mused, raising a mug of steaming coffee.

As the night wore on, tales grew taller. Jake recounted the time he supposedly outbid a millionaire from Tulsa with just “a wink and a handshake,” while Mary Lou swore she saw Elvis pass through town once, stopping by for a slice of her famous pie.

But beneath the banter and jest, there was an unspoken understanding. These nights at the Red Barn Café were more than just post-auction gatherings; they were the threads that wove the community together. In a rapidly changing world, where traditions faded, and new ways emerged, this little café stood as a testament to simpler times.

By 2:00 AM, as the crowd began to thin and the neon sign’s glow dimmed, the stories had been told, deals celebrated, and friendships fortified. Clutching a worn napkin filled with advice scribbled by his newfound mentors, Scott loved the warmth that had little to do with the strong coffee, but be damned if he’d ever say anything about it around Jake!

Benjamin stepped out into the fantastic night with his dad, Jake. He glanced back at the Red Barn Café, its silhouette etched against the starlit sky. Like so many before him, he knew those smoking, cussing, and storytelling friends who gathered had memories forged within their souls that would be cherished for a lifetime.

Decades later, the tales of Saturday nights at the Red Barn Café in Cordell, Oklahoma, would become legends as the world moved on. Stories of laughter, camaraderie, and the indelible spirit of a community bound by shared passions and dreams were only folktales of a time gone by; the Red Barn had been torn down, and its memory erased for generations. The true legends of those days are left to a few who remember Saturday Nights at the Red Barn Cafe in Cordell, Oklahoma!

Riding For Their Lives, Two Cowboys Find One Another On The Way Home

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A Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media2024©. Truth Endures

In the rugged expanse of the 1870s, the badlands of old Mexico were no place for the faint of heart. The sun beat down relentlessly on the arid landscape, casting long shadows as two figures galloped toward the distant border of the United States. Dust rose in their wake, marking their desperate flight from a fate they did not deserve.


Thomas “Tommy” Bellamy and Javier “Javi” Morales were not hardened outlaws, but the cards got dealt against them. In a dimly lit cantina, they had accused two desperados of cheating at poker—a claim that sparked a barfight and ended in gunfire. The local sheriff, a man of questionable integrity, saw an opportunity to pin the shootout on Tommy and Javi, branding them as evil men. With the threat of hard labor or the horrors of Mexican prisons looming, their only hope lay in reaching the safety of the U.S. border.


The journey was fraught with challenges. The badlands were an unforgiving terrain with little water and less mercy. Their horses, Midnight and Sol, were their only companions in the vast, empty wilderness. Days blended into nights as they pushed on, driven by the fear of capture and the promise of freedom.


As the miles stretched on, so did Tommy and Javi’s bond. In the quiet moments between the relentless pursuit, they found solace in each other’s company. Around the campfire, under a canopy of stars, they shared stories of their pasts—Tommy, the son of a Tennessee farmer, and Javi, the orphaned child of a Mexican peasant. Their differences faded in the face of their shared struggle, and a deep, unspoken connection began to blossom.


One night, as the embers of their fire glowed softly, Tommy glanced over at Javi. The flickering light cast shadows across Javi’s face, highlighting the weariness and determination etched into his features. Tommy felt a pang of emotion he could not quite place—a mix of admiration, respect, and more.


“Javi,” Tommy began hesitantly, “I don’t know what I’d do without you out here.”
Javi looked up, his dark eyes reflecting the flames. “We’re in this together, Tommy. Always have been, always will be.”


Their eyes locked, and the world around them seemed to fade away at that moment. Tommy reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and Javi met his touch with a quiet intensity. It was a tentative gesture, a bridge between fear and hope, and it spoke volumes more than words ever could.


As the days turned into weeks, their bond grew more pungent, transcending the physical hardships they faced. They encountered hostile landscapes, battled exhaustion, and evaded pursuers while drawing strength from each other. In a land where trust was scarce and betrayal familiar, they had found something rare and precious—unwavering loyalty and love.
One evening, as they neared the border, they found a small, abandoned shack. Exhausted and hungry, they decided to take shelter for the night. Inside, the air was cool, and the silence was broken only by the distant howls of coyotes. They sat close, their shoulders touching, as they shared a meager meal.


“Tommy,” Javi said softly, “do you ever think about what we’ll do once we cross the border?”
Tommy nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Yeah, I do. We’ll find a place to start fresh. Somewhere we can be free.”


Javi smiled, a rare sight that lit up his face. “As long as we’re together, we’ll make it.”
The border was within reach, but the journey was far from over. The two men knew the dangers that awaited them on the other side, but they faced them with a newfound determination. They were not just running from a past they did not deserve but running toward a future they could build together.


As dawn broke, they saddled their horses and got ready for the final leg of their ride. Tommy glanced at Javi, his heart swelling with pride and affection. They were outlaws by circumstance, but they had found something true and pure in each other.


With a shared nod, they spurred their horses forward, leaving behind the badlands of old Mexico and riding toward the promise of a new life. Their path was uncertain, but their bond was unbreakable, forged in the fires of adversity and tempered by the strength of their love.

Pride Parade Heroism: Bud and Jake’s Unbreakable Bond

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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.

Cowgirls Mae and Rosie: A Love Story Spanning Time and Place

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In the late 1890s, the vast expanse of the American West stretched endlessly, a sea of golden plains and towering mountains. Two cowgirls named Mae and Rosie, not just friends but soulmates, called home in a remote corner of this wild land. Mae, with her fiery red hair and fierce spirit, and Rosie, with her raven-black braids and gentle demeanor, were an inseparable pair, bound by a love that defied the conventions of their time. In a world where their love was deemed unconventional, they found solace and strength in each other.

One crisp autumn morning, they saddled their horses and rode out, the sun casting long shadows across the rolling hills. Their journey led them to an old wooden fence gate, weathered by years of harsh winds and blazing sun. They spurred their horses forward with a shared glance and a mischievous smile, pushing the gate open and galloping through.

As they rode, the familiar landscape began to change. The dirt road beneath their horses’ hooves transformed into smooth pavement. The rolling hills flattened, and in the distance, a faint hum grew louder, evolving into the roar of engines. The world around them seemed to blur and shift, the sky darkening and then brightening again until suddenly, they found themselves on the edge of a bustling highway. In the face of this bewildering transformation, Mae and Rosie’s courage and resilience shone through, inspiring all who witnessed their journey.

The year was no longer 1898 but 1972. Mae and Rosie reined in their horses, staring in awe at the sight before them. Towering skyscrapers pierced the sky, cars zipped by at dizzying speeds, and people hurried along sidewalks, oblivious to the two cowgirls who had just crossed time itself.

Confusion and excitement swirled within them. They rode cautiously along the highway, their horses nervously stepping onto the strange new surface. They marveled at the colorful billboards advertising things they’d never seen before and the neon lights that promised adventure. It was a journey that was not just physical but emotional, as they navigated the unfamiliar terrain of a world that was changing at a rapid pace.

As they entered the city, the clamor of modern life enveloped them. Mae’s eyes sparkled with curiosity while Rosie gazed wonderfully at the people dressed in fashions so alien to their own. They stopped outside a diner, its large windows showcasing a scene of laughter and warmth. The sign above the door read “Betty’s Diner.”


Mae and Rosie dismounted, tethering their horses nearby. They walked into the diner, the door jingling as they stepped inside. Heads turned, and the chatter ceased momentarily as the patrons saw the two cowgirls, their clothes and demeanor a stark contrast to the modern setting. Some stared in curiosity, others in judgment, but a few smiled warmly, recognizing the courage it took for them to be there.

Betty, the diner’s owner, approached them with a friendly smile. “Welcome, ladies! What brings you to these parts?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.
Mae and Rosie exchanged a glance, unsure of how to explain their journey. “We’re just passing through,” Mae said, her voice steady.

Betty nodded, sensing there was more to their story. She led them to a booth and handed them menus. As they sat, they began to notice the small but significant changes around them—the music playing from a jukebox, the variety of food on the menu, the freedom in the air. Mae and Rosie exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with wonder and a hint of apprehension, as they realized they were witnessing a world that was vastly different from the one they had left behind.

Over the next few days, Mae and Rosie explored the city, learning about the incredible advancements and the cultural shifts that had occurred in the seventy-four years they had seemingly leaped over. They discovered a vibrant community of people who defied conventions and lived openly and proudly like them. They learned about the women’s suffrage movement, the civil rights movement of 1964, and the sexual revolution, all of which had reshaped the society they now found themselves in.


One evening, they attended a gathering at a local community center. It was a celebration of love and identity, filled with people from all walks of life. Mae and Rosie felt a deep connection to the stories they heard, the struggles and triumphs resonating with their own experiences.

As they danced under the disco ball, surrounded by newfound friends, they were overwhelmed with a sense of joy and liberation. They realized that they had found a place where their love was not only accepted but celebrated. With all its noise and chaos, the city had given them a glimpse of a future they had never imagined, a future filled with hope and optimism for societal change.

Mae and Rosie decided to stay, embracing the new world with open hearts. They found work, made friends, and built a life together. Their love story began in the wild, untamed West and flourished in the bustling, vibrant city of the 1970s. It was a decision that was not without its challenges, but they were willing to face them for the chance to live and love freely in a world that was slowly but surely becoming more accepting.


Years later, as they sat together on a bench overlooking the skyline, they often spoke of that old wooden fence gate and the magical journey it had taken them on. The city had become their home, where they could live and love freely, forever grateful for the lucky ride that had led them to this extraordinary new chapter in their lives. They reminisced about the changes they had witnessed, the challenges they had overcome, and the love that had remained constant throughout it all.

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

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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 (Continued – Ending.)

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If there was anything Bud hated more than waking up to catch the school bus, it was getting to school and sitting in a classroom all day long. He couldn’t keep his mind on anything in a book. He could often find himself gazing out a classroom window and dreaming of riding his horse: anything but reading, writing, or arithmetic. His teacher knew his fondness for drifting into daydreams and would call his attention back to reality, usually asking if he knew what they were discussing. He didn’t, but he tried to fake it, bringing laughter to his classmates. It was test time, and it mattered, so he tried hard to pay attention because Bud didn’t want to be held back a year and have to repeat a grade level.

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The week came for the test, and Bud had tried hard to study, fitting time between his farm chores and breaking his new horse, Rose. Unlike any horse Bud had ever owned, she was a delight to have. She even became friendly with Bud, meeting him at the pen gate and following him around as he cleaned out the barn. Staying in the pen was unusual; typically, horses would take to the pasture when the gates were open and get their exercise and run. She might go out for a spin, but she would return and spend most of the time with Bud, nudging him as he did his work. Which sometimes became a nuisance since scooping out the barn required much physical work, and she wanted his attention. After his chores, he always gave her a rub down, which Rose seemed to eat up. As he took the brush and rubbed down her back and hips, she would extend her neck into the air and twist her upper lip in a pleasing gesture. Bud thought this was strange for a horse someone had never touched until a few months ago. But what Bud doesn’t know is Rose would only let his father and Bud have anything to do with her. 

Bud finished the rub down and told Rose,

“Well, girl, I have to take tests tomorrow, and I won’t be here on time, so don’t give up on me. I will be here, but I will be late.” 

Rose nudged Bud’s shoulder; he thought maybe she understood.

The next day, Bud hated getting up at sunrise to catch the bus and go to school. He could do so many better things, but he did anyway. At school, those tests were waiting. He managed to get through all the day tests and, thanks to the new testing system, learned he had passed them all. He hoped the teacher would pass him on to the next grade. It depends on more than just grades at the school; it also includes conduct, attendance, and interests in subjects. The school would only send that notification in the middle of the summer. The excellent news for Bud is the last test meant that school was over for the season, and he was free for the summer. Once he got home, he didn’t have to catch that school bus for another three months.

It was later than usual when Bud rolled in on the school bus; it had run the route backward due to it being the last day of school and letting the students at the end of the route get home first for the last day of school. It was a trade-off for getting home first all the other days of the year for Bud. She was angry when he got to the Barn and Rose’s pen, nickering up a storm. Bud came in with hay, a gallon of oats, and a brush. He put the oats and hay in her feed bin, and as she began to eat, he gave her a rubdown. Which she immediately melted into.

Bud said to Rose as he calmed her,

“There, I told you I was going to be late. Calm down. I have a few more horses to take care of, too. I always come to you first!” 

She gave him a gentle nudge, burying her head into his shoulder. He scratched her forehead. She closed her eyes and buried her head in his chest. Bud fed the other horses, returned to Rose, gave her another quick rubdown, and ensured she had fresh water. 

Bud said to Rose patting her on the hips,

“I have to eat too –– so I will be here first thing in the morning. We have work to do!”

He closed the pen gate and went to the house. The day was about to come to a close. Now, he was looking forward to waking up at sunrise; he had Rose to get to and a day of riding.

Sunrise came sooner than Bud thought it would, and it was a bit tougher to get up than he thought it would, but he managed to get to the floor and get going the following day. He grabbed a quick bite of breakfast and was off to the barn and Rose’s pen. Bud found his horse ready to see him; Bud gave her a brush down and then saddled her up. He told her we leave the riding arena today and go to work.

Bud slipped on a bridal and a new set of roping reins that lightly touched Rose’s neck. She noticed that the thick plow reins were gone and that the light touch of the new reins seemed more to her liking. As Bud stepped into the left stirrup, rounded his right leg over Rose’s back, and settled into the western-made saddle, Rose shifted her feet and became comfortable with his mount. Having him aboard brought a prance to her step. When the two rode with others, comments were being made about how the Rose and Bud appeared so confident together, and the Rose’s stride was so prideful. She had a specila gate, rather than at a walking pace or when she loped. Rose had a trot that went a step beyond that of a fox trot and a lope that didn’t bounce Bud. She was the Caddilac ride!

On the first day, Rose proved to be as great of a horse as those riding five- and six-year-olds. She took every step. Rose never shied away from anything, and in every task Bud asked of her, Rose met. Bud even got off her several times to fix a fence post or pull up a wire along a fence line, and she never left his side; the other riders had to tie their horses off and walk back to them after fixing fence lines, but Rose, stayed right along wherever Bud went. 

A month into summer, Bud’s father suggested he begin training Rose to cut cattle. To do so, Bud would begin having Rose train on turning goats in the roping arena. Rose took to it like she was born to do it. She was so swift at turning with the goats that she nearly caused Bud to lose his mount several times. However, Bud learned to sit with Rose, and the two became masters in cutting goats, cattle, or dogs if needed. 

By the end of summer, Rose had become well-muscled and was turning four years old. She had begun to fill out. Bud’s father suggested that he breed the horse and get a colt from the horse for next spring, saying that he had a good horse. So Bud’s father made arrangements with a neighboring horseman to have Rose visit his stud, and a few weeks later, the news came that Rose would be expecting a colt next spring. While waiting, Bud began getting Rose ready to show in the upcoming county fairs.

Rose stood proudly in the county and several city fairs, and walking alongside Bud, she won several Blue and Red ribbons. It was a great experience to prepare her for riding in parades and rodeos. Bud did bring Rose to town several times; she walked proudly and enjoyed the crowds of people who looked on as she pranced down the streets or through the rodeo arenas.

Bud grew up fast, and so did Rose; she had several colts over the years. Bud would train them like he had Rose, usually selling them and putting them in a savings account when he got older. Rose remained loyal to Bud, and they rode nearly daily, even with school going on. It was something for Bud to look forward to after getting out of school. Living so far out in the country, neighbors weren’t nearby, and Rose was his best friend, at least closest to home.

When Bud turned 17, he got a pickup with the money he had saved. This was also the time his father began downsizing his horse farm. Rose was one of the last horses left in the place. One morning, Bud’s father came to him and said ––

“You know, Rose is at a good point for selling, and you will be moving away in a few months. You should think about selling her to your brother. And your saddle, too.”

Bud was heartbroken because he knew his father was right. He had been thinking about what to do for months. He knew that he would be leaving home for his first job in a few months, one that would require him to move away and that would not allow him to have Rose. Plus, his father had aged and was becoming unable to care for horses. That was the reason for the downsizing. Bud’s father had already sold all his horses and saddle. Something Bud never thought he would see happen.

Bud slept on it overnight; the following day, he talked to Rose, and she didn’t nudge him back when he spoke to her. He knew she understood. And she, too, was heartbroken. He closed the gate on her pen and walked away.  

The End.