Morning Coffee: My Words Have Gone Traveling

So put me on a highway
And show me a sign
And take it to the limit one more time

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

October 9, 2026


Good morning, folks.

I was looking at the map showing where visits to benandsteve.com have come from, and something struck me: my words have been getting out more than I have.

person with coffee on retro newspaper on table
Photo by Tahir Osman on Pexels.com

Here I am in Arizona, putting together a few thoughts over coffee, while something I’ve written turns up halfway around the world.

Apparently, my stories don’t need a passport. They don’t even have to take their shoes off at the airport.

When I begin a piece, I usually have something fairly close to home in mind. A memory from Oklahoma. Something Steve said. An ordinary object that carries an extraordinary amount of history. Or a passing thought that refuses to leave until I give it a paragraph of its own.

I don’t generally sit down thinking, “I wonder how this will go over in Tanzania.”

Perhaps I should start.

In the recent figures I reviewed, approximately 45% of the recorded views came from China, while nearly 42% came from the United States. Canada accounted for about 5%, followed by the United Kingdom at roughly 2.5%.

The remaining views came from India, Pakistan, the Philippines, Tanzania, Tunisia, and the Netherlands. Together, those countries represented about 6% of the views in this snapshot.

That is quite a bit of traveling for thoughts that began here at home.

Visits to benandsteve.com from around the world

The shaded countries on the map made that reach visible in a way a column of figures never quite could. I found myself looking at places I hadn’t expected to appear and wondering how something I wrote had found its way there.

Of course, a map cannot tell me the whole story. It doesn’t tell me who stopped by, what brought them, or whether they stayed long enough to finish their coffee. But it does show recorded activity from parts of the world I never imagined would have any connection to my little corner of the internet.

And that gives me something to think about.

I grew up in a small Oklahoma town where you usually knew who was listening. Sometimes you knew their parents, their grandparents, and precisely who would hear about what you said before you made it home.

Writing online is a different experience. You put a story out there, and its next stop may be somewhere you’ve never been.

A recollection from my childhood might turn up in Canada. A bit of dry humor might make its way to the United Kingdom. Something about family, kindness, loss, or simply getting through the day might reach a place whose name I’ve known all my life without ever expecting my writing to arrive there.

I like that possibility.

So much of what I write begins with ordinary life. The details belong to me, but the feelings may be familiar to someone much farther away: missing a parent, remembering an old home, laughing at an aggravation, or finding comfort in a daily routine.

I cannot say what any particular visitor takes away. I can only hope that somewhere in these pages, they find something worth pausing over.

This map has reminded me that the circle around benandsteve.com may be wider than I realized. My stories are beginning to show up in regions I never expected them to reach, and I’m curious to see where they go next.

Wherever you happen to be reading this, thank you for stopping by.

Pull up a chair. There’s always room for another cup.

And if my words make it to your part of the world before I do, please tell them to behave themselves. I have a reputation to consider.


Morning Coffee: Good Morning, Folks

“Loving Folks Since 1982”

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

September 28, 2026


Good morning, folks. It’s Monday.

crop faceless women sitting at table with cups of coffee
Photo by Liza Summer on Pexels.com

I know. Some of you were getting along just fine until I reminded you.

Before we face the week, let’s settle an important matter: I like calling you folks. It’s a warm word. It leaves room for the people I know well, the people I’ve just met, and the person standing behind me at the coffee shop who can see that I still haven’t decided what I want.

“Friend” is different. Friendship takes time. We might get there, but if we’ve never met, please don’t greet me with “Hello, my friend” while reaching for my wallet or trying to sell me a new roof. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.

“Folks,” though? That works. It sounds like someone pulling out an extra chair at the table. No promises required. You can sit down, have a cup, and tell me how your weekend went. If Monday has already tested your patience, you can tell me that, too.

So good morning, folks. Pour the coffee. Find your shoes. Check that you have your keys before you close the door. We’ll get this Monday started together.

And if we become friends along the way, I’ll be glad to call you one.

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


Start Before You Feel Ready

Motivation does not always arrive before the work begins. Sometimes we must take one small step, interrupt the stillness, and give it a chance to catch up with us.

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

September 24, 2026


Motivation has a habit of arriving after the work begins.

Good morning, folks.

Steaming coffee beside an open handwritten journal on a wooden table

There are mornings when determination charges through the front door, throws open the curtains, and announces, “Let’s get something done!”

Then there are mornings when determination apparently has the day off.

The coffee is brewing. The sun is rising. The clock is moving. But we are sitting there waiting for some grand burst of motivation to lift us from the chair and carry us into the day.

Unfortunately, motivation can be terribly unreliable.

If we wait until we feel completely prepared, confident, rested, organized, and inspired, we may still be sitting beside the coffee pot when lunchtime arrives.

Sometimes we must begin before we feel ready.

Put on the shoes.

Make the telephone call.

Write the first sentence.

Open the door and step outside.

I have learned that life rarely sends a marching band to announce the proper moment to begin. There may be no drumroll, perfect weather, or encouraging voice from the heavens. Most beginnings arrive quietly, disguised as an ordinary decision:

“I suppose I had better get started.”

That sentence has launched more accomplishments than we will ever know.

You do not need to conquer the entire day before breakfast. You only need to interrupt the stillness. Give yourself one honest reason to rise, move forward, and show the world you have not surrendered your place in it.

The coffee cannot do everything.

It can warm your hands, clear a little fog from your mind, and perhaps make other people safer to be around. But eventually, you must set down the cup and take the first step.

So begin before you feel ready.

Motivation may be running late—but once it sees you moving, it usually hurries to catch up.

Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong…

—Benjamin Groff II
Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com


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

Morning Coffee: The Sausage Patties

Whatever the reason, I’ll be back next weekend. Our waitress can probably write down my order now.


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


Every weekend, usually Saturday or Sunday and sometimes both, we visit the same local restaurant. Our waitress looks for us. By the time we settle into a booth, she knows what I’m having, and our drinks are already on their way.

Three Sausage Patties, three eggs, wheat toast, hash browns, and a bowl of gravy. That is my order. Steve is more complicated. He studies the menu, makes a decision, changes his mind, and studies it again.

My order never changes. There’s comfort in that, especially at the end of a week when everything else seems to have demanded a decision.

I should explain the capital letters. Those Sausage Patties deserve them. They are, as we used to say when I was growing up, to die for. Back then, we said that about all sorts of things. These days, I’m happy just to get up on a weekend morning and go have breakfast.

I think fennel is part of what makes them so good. At least, that’s the word I intend to say. At the restaurant, Steve and I sometimes call it “fentanyl” by mistake. Then one of us catches it, and we both start laughing. Our waitress knows perfectly well what we mean, though I suspect she enjoys watching us try to get the word right.

The mix-up has become part of our weekend routine. I can forget the name of the seasoning halfway through a sentence, but I never forget how those patties taste. By midweek, I’m already looking forward to their return performance.

Of course, the sausage alone wouldn’t make this our place. Our waitress remembers us. Steve gets all the time he needs with the menu. I get to sit across from him while our breakfast arrives, knowing that for a little while, there is nowhere else we need to be.

It’s a simple pleasure. That may be why I keep coming back to it.

Next weekend, Steve will open the menu and consider his options. Our waitress will look at me, pick up her pen, and smile. She already knows. And if I happen to mention the wrong herb again, I know she’ll know what I mean. Her name? Christin-a.



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

Morning Coffee ––– There are mornings when the coffee seems heavier than usual.

We carry more into each morning than the coffee in our cup. Memories, worries, laughter, and yesterday’s unfinished thoughts often come along with us. But a new morning gives us another chance to decide what is worth carrying forward—and what might finally be time to leave behind.

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

September 7, 2026


vintage scale in kitchen setting with retro design
Photo by Alexander Popadin on Pexels.com

But sometimes what we bring with us to the table gives it a little more weight.

Not the cup, of course. The cup weighs exactly what it did yesterday.

We carry yesterday into the morning.

A conversation we wish had gone differently. A worry we never quite put down before going to bed. A name we have been thinking about. A memory that wandered in without knocking and decided to stay awhile.

Then there are the things we carry that feel a little lighter.

A laugh from yesterday.

Someone checking in just because they were thinking about us.

A dog stretched out nearby, perfectly content with life as long as breakfast eventually appears.

A familiar chair.

A quiet house.

And that first dependable cup of coffee.

Maybe mornings aren’t really about starting over. Life doesn’t erase itself while we sleep. The bills are still there. The problems haven’t packed their bags and moved out during the night. That stubborn thing we were worrying about yesterday may still be sitting right where we left it.

But morning does give us another chance to decide how much of it we are going to carry.

Some things need our attention.

Some things need our patience.

And some things probably need to be left sitting beside the road somewhere behind us.

We are not required to drag every disappointment we have ever known into every new day.

That may be one of life’s quieter lessons.

We can remember without remaining stuck.

We can care without carrying everything.

We can miss someone and still smile.

We can have difficult days and still believe there are good ones ahead.

So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, take inventory of what you brought to the table.

Keep the memories that make you smile.

Hold close the people who matter.

Take care of the things that truly need tending.

And perhaps leave a little room in your hands for something new.

coffee cup in hand for breakfast
Photo by Berna on Pexels.com

Because you never know what this day may be waiting to give you.

Sometimes all we need is enough room to receive it.

Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your burdens a little lighter, and your day give you something worth carrying into tomorrow.


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

Morning Coffee — Morning Coffee — August 21, 2026

“We are remembering our mother over coffee this year. It is her first birthday since she has been gone—the first birthday we have not been able to celebrate with her. But we will celebrate her, remembering the life she lived and the memories she left behind.”



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

August 21, 2026


This morning’s coffee tastes a little different.

We’re in Oklahoma.

Marjorie and her sister Opal Mae Burke

Yesterday, Steve and I carried my mother across the miles, with Otis faithfully keeping watch beside her. Somewhere along the way, the landscape began changing into something familiar.

Home.

It’s an interesting word, isn’t it?

We spend much of our lives deciding where home is. We move. We build lives elsewhere. We find people we love and create new homes with them. Yet there are places buried so deeply within us that merely seeing the countryside can awaken memories we didn’t realize were still there.

Today, Mom rests in Elk City.

It is a town woven into Steve’s and my story because this is where we met in 1982. We couldn’t have known then where the road ahead would take us.

And we certainly couldn’t have imagined that more than forty years later we would return together carrying my mother on the final miles of her journey.

Tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow we will travel through country filled with family history.

We will take Mom near Sentinel, past the land where her parents made their home during the 1930s. We will continue toward Cordell, where my own story began, and then east toward Binger—the community where so much of our family’s life unfolded.

Tomorrow, my mother’s journey ends beside my father.

But not today.

Today is for remembering.

Today is for another cup of coffee, another Oklahoma morning, and the realization that sometimes going home isn’t about returning to a house.

Sometimes it is simply about returning to the people and places that made us who we are.

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

— Benjamin Groff II
Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com




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

☕ Morning Coffee ––– The Detour May Be the Better Road

Not every road we travel is one we planned to take. Sometimes the detour introduces us to people, places, and possibilities we would have otherwise missed. Grab your coffee—we’re taking the scenic route this morning.

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

August 15, 2026


Most of us begin the day with some idea of how we expect it to go.

men sitting beside a brick wall having coffee
Photo by Daniel Nouri on Pexels.com

We know where we need to be, what needs to get done, and perhaps even what time we hope to have everything finished.

Then life puts up a detour sign.

Something changes.

A telephone call comes. Someone needs us. The car won’t start. The appointment runs late. A plan we were counting on falls apart. Suddenly, the road we expected to travel is closed, and we are headed somewhere we never intended to go.

I have traveled enough country roads in my life to know that detours can be frustrating.

But I have also discovered something else about them.

Sometimes the road you didn’t intend to travel shows you something you would never have seen otherwise.

You notice an old farmhouse sitting beneath a grove of trees. You cross a creek you didn’t know existed. You find a little town you have never visited. Maybe you meet someone you would never have met had everything gone according to plan.

Life works much the same way.

Some of the people who become important to us arrive because something else didn’t work out. Some of our greatest opportunities begin with disappointment. Some of the stories we eventually treasure started on days when we thought everything was going wrong.

That doesn’t mean every detour is pleasant.

Some are difficult. Some hurt. Some take us a long way from where we thought we would be.

But getting somewhere differently doesn’t always mean we are lost.

So, as you have your coffee this morning, perhaps there is something in your life that hasn’t gone according to plan.

You may be staring at a detour sign right now, wondering why the road ahead had to change.

Give it a little time.

Keep going.

Look out the window along the way.

There may be something waiting on this road that you could never have found on the one you originally planned to travel.

Sometimes the unexpected road becomes the one that takes us exactly where we needed to go.

Pour yourself another cup.

We’ve still got some traveling to do.

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

— Benjamin Groff II
Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com


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

☕ Morning Coffee ––– What If Today Is Enough?


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

August 13, 2026


Good morning, my friends.

Pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit with me for a few minutes.

cup of coffee on plate
Photo by Oğuzhan Karataş on Pexels.com

We spend a lot of time thinking about what comes next. Tomorrow’s plans. Next week’s worries. The things we still need to accomplish and the places we hope someday to go.

But what if, just for this morning, today is enough?

What if the cup of coffee in your hand is enough to enjoy without thinking about the next one? What if the people around you are enough to appreciate without waiting for a special occasion to tell them so? What if this ordinary Wednesday deserves to be enjoyed simply because we are here to experience it?

Not every day needs to become a milestone.

Some days are meant to be lived quietly—watering the flowers, calling an old friend, laughing at something silly, watching the sun move across the room, or sitting for another five minutes with a cup of coffee that has probably already gone cold.

There is a lot of life tucked inside those little moments.

So don’t ask too much of today. Give it your best, appreciate what it offers, and let that be enough.

You don’t have to make today extraordinary. Just be present for it. Sometimes that is what makes a day extraordinary after all.

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

— Benjamin Groff II
Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com


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

Eggcorns: The Funny Little Mistakes That Quietly Shape the English Language

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

May 20th, 2026

__________________________________________________________________

The Funny Lines That Become Twisted Over Time Making Life Interesting

Language is a strange thing.

Most of us grow up hearing phrases long before we ever see them written down. Over time, our brains quietly reshape words into something that sounds more logical, more familiar, or simply easier to understand. That is how we end up living in a “doggie dog world” instead of a “dog-eat-dog world.”

And honestly? If you stop and think about it, “doggie dog world” almost sounds nicer.

These kinds of verbal mix-ups are called eggcorns — a term linguists use to describe phrases that are mistakenly altered into something that still seems to make sense. The name itself came from someone hearing the word “acorn” and believing it was “eggcorn.” Strange as it sounded, the listener’s brain tried to make sense of it. An acorn is roundish. Egg-like. Corn-like. Thus, eggcorn.

The English language is absolutely filled with them.


The “Hard Road to Hoe” That Was Never About Walking

One of the most common examples is:

“A hard road to hoe.”

A hard row to hoe.
A hard roe to hoe!

Many people picture a difficult journey down a rough road. But the original phrase is:

“A hard row to hoe.”

It comes from farming. A “row” referred to a long crop row in a field. Hoeing it was backbreaking work under a hot sun. The phrase was never about roads at all. It was about labor.

But because modern ears hear “road” more often than “row” in everyday conversation, the phrase slowly drifted.

And that is what language does. It adapts itself to what people recognize.


“Hone In” or “Home In”?

Then there is the classic:

“Hone in on.”

Traditionally, the phrase was:

“Home in on.”

Like a homing pigeon or a guided missile finding its target.

To “hone” something means to sharpen it, like a blade. Yet over the years, “hone in” became so common that many dictionaries now accept it as standard usage.

That is the fascinating thing about language. If enough people say something long enough, eventually the language itself shrugs and says:

“Fine. We’ll allow it.”


Other Eggcorns We Hear Every Day

Some of these are so common people no longer realize they are technically incorrect:

  • For all intensive purposes
    instead of
    For all intents and purposes
  • Escape goat
    instead of
    Scapegoat
  • Old timer’s disease
    instead of
    Alzheimer’s disease
  • Nip it in the butt
    instead of
    Nip it in the bud     

    Nip It!
  • Tow the line
    instead of
    Toe the line
  • Wet your appetite
    instead of
    Whet your appetite

Some are humorous. Some are innocent misunderstandings. Others become so deeply rooted they eventually work themselves into everyday speech.


Why Eggcorns Matter

At first glance, this all sounds like harmless comedy. And it is. But it is also something deeper.

Eggcorns reveal how humans process language.

We are storytellers by nature. Our minds constantly try to turn confusing sounds into meaningful ideas. We reshape speech to fit our understanding of the world around us.

That is why a child hearing “dog-eat-dog world” might instinctively convert it into “doggie dog world.” The original phrase sounds violent and odd. The replacement sounds familiar and comforting.

The brain prefers familiarity over precision.

In many ways, eggcorns are tiny snapshots of human thought itself.


The Living Nature of Language

There was a time when scholars fiercely guarded “proper English” as though it were carved into stone tablets somewhere.

But language has never stood still.

Every generation changes pronunciation, invents slang, reshapes meanings, and occasionally mishears a phrase so thoroughly that the mistake becomes accepted truth.

That is not corruption.

That is evolution.

The English spoken today would sound almost foreign to Americans living in the 1700s. Likewise, the English of the future will likely sound strange to us.

And somewhere out there right now, a child is hearing a phrase incorrectly and unknowingly creating tomorrow’s accepted version of it.


Final Thoughts

Perhaps the beauty of eggcorns is that they remind us language belongs to ordinary people, not dictionaries.

It belongs to grandparents sitting at kitchen tables.

To tired workers talking over coffee.

To children trying to understand adult conversations.

To radio announcers, police officers, farmers, mechanics, teachers, and families passing stories along generation after generation.

Language is alive because people are alive.

And sometimes, even in a doggie dog world, that is something worth remembering.

MY FAVORITE?

There are actually three of them.

“Champing at the bit” often becomes “chomping at the bit.”
“Deep-seated” somehow turns into “deep-seeded.”
And perhaps my favorite of all is the argument-ending classic:

“You’ve got another think coming.”

Yet many people say:

“You’ve got another thing coming.”

Ironically, both versions now circulate so widely that most people never stop to question which one is correct. The original phrase — “another think coming” — was meant to suggest that someone needed to reconsider their thoughts because they were mistaken. Over time, “thing” sounded more natural to modern ears, and the altered version quietly marched its way into everyday conversation.

That is the magic of eggcorns. They are not just mistakes. They are little examples of the human mind trying to make language fit the world it understands.


For more reflections on language, culture, history, and everyday life, keep following benandsteve.com — where stories and memories continue to remind us that truth endures.

Viral “Human Jerky” Story Making the Rounds Again — But It’s Fiction, Not Fact

Regardless, You May Never Eat Beef Jerky With The Same Satisfaction Again.

Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Suspect Manipulator

Internet Claim: Man Used Missing Men’s Bodies To Make Famous Beef Jerky

Local authorities arrested Buckworth on suspicion of using human meat for the jerky he sold to the public, and police needed to find the source of the meat.


A grotesque story now circulating again on Facebook, TikTok, and other social media platforms claims a man from Wenatchee was arrested after investigators supposedly discovered his “best-selling jerky” was made from human meat. The post names a man called “Ross Buckworth,” claims missing workers were connected to the case, and attempts to present itself as a real criminal investigation.

There is just one problem.

None of it is true.

The story is a recycled internet hoax that has been reposted for years in slightly different versions. In some versions the suspect is named “Ross Buckworth.” In others, “Leslie Buckworth.” Sometimes the story claims the events happened in Washington state. Other times it says Montana. The details change because the story itself is fabricated. 

Fact-checking organizations previously traced earlier versions of the same claim to satire and fake-news style websites. Snopes labeled one widely shared version as satire. Another debunk pointed directly to a satirical source site that openly described itself as a humor publication. 

What appears to have confused many readers is that the hoax borrows pieces from a real Wyoming wildlife-poaching case involving illegal jerky sales. In that legitimate case, Wyoming investigators discovered a man had been selling jerky made from poached mule deer and antelope while marketing it as beef jerky. DNA testing confirmed the meat came from illegally killed wildlife — not humans. 

The actual Wyoming case involved wildlife violations investigated by the Wyoming Game and Fish Department. Authorities charged the suspect with poaching-related crimes, illegal sale of game meat, and hunting violations. No accusations involving human remains or cannibalism were ever part of the case. 

That real story appears to have been twisted into sensational clickbait.

The viral post also shows several classic signs of internet fabrication:

  • No legitimate law enforcement agency confirms the arrest. 
  • No credible newspaper or television outlet reported the story. 
  • The alleged suspect cannot be verified through official records. 
  • The details change depending on who reposts it. 
  • The story uses shock value designed to trigger emotional reactions and sharing. 

This is how many social media hoaxes survive. They blend one small piece of reality with outrageous fiction, then rely on people sharing before checking the facts.

In today’s online environment, shocking stories spread faster than verified information. The more disturbing the claim, the more engagement it receives. Algorithms reward outrage, fear, and disgust because people react emotionally before they pause to ask whether something is actually true.

That is exactly why stories like this continue to resurface every few years.

The “human jerky” story is not a hidden crime finally exposed to the public.

It is internet folklore dressed up as breaking news. And on this occasion, if you happen to see the story floating around Facebook, TikTok, or anywhere else online, you have the official blessing of benandsteve.com and GroffMedia©2026 — Truth Endures — to politely inform whoever is posting it that it is, without question, truly FAKE NEWS!


Groff Media ©2026 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

Something To Ponder…

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Today I wanted to leave something less hard hitting. Just a word or two to get the mental juices flowing like this first piece. Asking you what are the differences between the dogs and cats? I am hoping for some humor, serious, or even oddball statements to be posted. Next, is a piece I a pulling from my memoir and sharing with you. Just a piece of what I have been working on. It details One Decision That Completely Changed The Course Of My Life.


The Difference Between Dogs And Cats

What you leave today becomes someone’s answer tomorrow.

What is one small decision you made that completely changed the course of your life?

One small decision that completely changed the course of my life began with a simple answer:

“Sure… that sounds like fun.”

In 1982, a new friend asked if I wanted to ride along with him to Oklahoma City—about 200 miles away. His boss’s son needed a ride home after church the next day. He preferred not to make the drive alone. It sounded like nothing more than an overnight trip. A little road time. A small adventure.

Nothing important.

Just a ride.

But life has a habit of hiding its biggest turning points inside the smallest moments.

That night—October 23, 1982—something quietly shifted in my world. During that overnight stay, Steve and I discovered something in each other neither of us had planned for or expected. In the span of a single evening, two truths suddenly came into focus.

First, I had met the person I would spend the rest of my life with—Steve, my husband today.

Second, I understood something about myself that had never fully made sense before. I realized I was part of the LGBTQ community, something that had been quietly waiting for its moment of clarity.

Had I declined that invitation, or simply stayed home, my life would almost certainly have followed a very different road.

Instead, that one small “yes” set everything else in motion.

And it all became unmistakably clear with one simple kiss. In that moment, a clarity I had never known suddenly appeared. Life began making sense in ways it never had before. The confusion, the questions, the quiet sense that something was missing—all of it suddenly fell into place.

I had finally found what my heart had been searching for.

All because of a simple invitation.

All because I said yes.

And sometimes, when I think back on it, I realize something else.

The most important journey of my life began with a 200-mile ride I almost didn’t take.

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

2–3 minutes

The Hug That Changed Everything

Mina at the Farmer's Market
Mina hugging at the Market

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

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

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

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

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

But someone did.

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


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

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


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

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

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


By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Back-to-School Memories at the Local Drug Store

2–3 minutes

Back-to-School at the Drug Store

In our little town, back-to-school season wasn’t marked by glossy superstore aisles or online orders delivered in cardboard boxes. No, it happened right on Main Street. It was at the drug store tucked neatly between the barber shop and the movie theater.

That drug store was a place all its own. A long soda fountain stretched nearly the length of one wall. It had red-topped stools that spun in slow circles when you climbed onto them. Folks would stop in for a cherry Coke or a vanilla phosphate. The hum of the soda jerk’s mixer became as familiar as the sound of church bells on Sunday morning. On the north end of the store, up near the front window, stood a glass display case. Behind it sat neat stacks of paper bags. Each bag was carefully filled with the exact school supplies a child would need for a given grade.

Every August, families filed in, children buzzing with nervous excitement. You only needed to walk up to the counter. Puff out your chest and tell the lady behind it your grade number. With a kind smile, she’d hand over a brown paper bag with your future sealed inside. The bag contained pencils, crayons, rulers, and erasers. For the younger grades, it included that wide-lined treasure known as the Big Chief Tablet.

Kindergarten through third grade was the golden stretch, when opening that bag felt like Christmas morning in August. We’d tear into the packages of crayons. We tested the sharpness of new pencils. We imagined all the things we’d draw and write. But as the years went on, the thrill wore off. By fourth grade, the magic faded. We realized those paper bags didn’t just hold supplies. They carried us straight back into the dreaded routine of homework. There were also spelling tests and teachers who never gave you quite enough recess.

Still, that ritual mattered. The drug store had a soda fountain fizzing. Its shelves were lined with shiny notebooks. It gave us a sense of belonging. It tied the town together. The barber cut hair next door. The movie theater marquee changed weekly. Parents shepherded kids through one more milestone.

Every bag marked a fresh start, even if we grumbled about it. None of us would have admitted it then. Yet, there was comfort in knowing that behind that glass display case was a little brown sack of sharpened pencils. It was waiting for us every year with brand-new beginnings.


By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

What Will Happen If PLANS To End Social Security Happens?

3–4 minutes

If Social Security were eliminated, the effects would be wide-ranging. It would touch nearly every part of American life. This is especially true for retirees, people with disabilities, and survivors of deceased workers. Here’s how it would unfold:


Social Security now provides monthly benefits to over 70 million Americans, including retirees, disabled individuals, and surviving spouses or children. Without it, many of these households would lose their main or only source of income overnight.

  • Retirees: Many older Americans rely on Social Security for the bulk of their income—especially those without significant savings or pensions.
  • Survivors: Widows, widowers, and children who now get survivor benefits would lose critical support.
  • Disabled workers: People incapable of work due to disability would lose a major safety net.

Before Social Security, poverty among the elderly was extremely high—estimates put it at around 35–50%. The program cut that rate dramatically. Without it, poverty rates among older Americans will return to pre-1935 levels.


The financial burden of caring for elderly or disabled relatives would shift heavily to families. Those without family support be forced into underfunded state programs or charitable care.

  • Families need to delay retirement, take on extra jobs, or house multiple generations under one roof.
  • Local charities and churches would see rising demand for basic necessities like food and shelter.

Social Security benefits aren’t just “checks”—they fuel spending in local economies. Without those payments:

  • Rural and small-town economies (which often have higher percentages of retirees) see sharp declines in consumer spending.
  • Certain industries—especially healthcare, retail, and housing—would feel immediate impacts.

Because Social Security is one of the most popular federal programs, ending it would be politically explosive. It would lead to intense public backlash, large-scale protests, and significant shifts in voter behavior.

  • States try to create their own replacement programs, but poorer states struggle to fund them.
  • The wealth gap would widen sharply. Those without private retirement savings would be left with little to no safety net.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

August 2025 commemorates its 90th anniversary. It marks its unwavering commitment to the financial security and dignity of millions of Americans. President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed the Social Security Act into law on August 14, 1935. Since then, the program has grown into one of the most successful and trusted institutions in American history.

“For 90 years, Social Security has stood as a promise kept. It ensures that older Americans have the support they need. It also aids people with disabilities, as well as families facing loss,”

said Commissioner Frank J. Bisignano.

“As we honor this legacy, we are also building a future. This future is where service is faster, smarter, and more accessible than ever before. Through President Trump’s vision, we are protecting and preserving Social Security. We achieve this by delivering extraordinary customer service through technological improvements. Enhanced process engineering also plays a crucial role.”

In an open letter to the American people, Commissioner Bisignano emphasized the importance of Social Security. He highlighted his commitment to strengthening the agency. He also mentioned the significant improvements to customer service achieved in his first 100 days in office.

Read the Letter:  Commissioner Bisignano’s Open Letter to the American People

Today, Commissioner Bisignano also joined President Donald J. Trump at the White House. The President issued a presidential proclamation. He recommitted to always defend Social Security. He recognized the countless contributions of every American senior. They have invested their time, talent, and resources into our Nation’s future. 

Read the Proclamation: Presidential Proclamation: 90th Anniversary of the Social Security Act

The Secrets Behind Earl’s Brothers Benches

2–3 minutes

The Silent Partner

Everyone in town knew Earl’s Brothers Benches. The name was painted in hand-cut wooden letters across the weathered front of the shop. The scent of sawdust lingered in the air like an old hymn. Customers would often ask about the other brother—the one whose name they didn’t see behind the counter.

“Oh, he had to go away for a while,”

Earl would say with a small smile, never elaborating.

“I expect to see him again someday.”

Most people took it at face value, assuming the absent brother was traveling, sick, or otherwise tied up. No one guessed the truth—that “the silent partner” had been dead before the shop even opened. His name was there only out of love and respect. Earl had lost a sibling decades earlier in a winter tragedy. The boy fell through the ice on a frozen pond and never came back.

But the story of the missing brother was more tangled than anyone knew.

The boy who drowned wasn’t Earl’s only brother. Earl didn’t tell customers this. He didn’t even tell his closest kin. As a young man, Earl’s father had been married before. The union was brief and ended when he was drafted into the military. Afraid he would die in service, he’d released his young bride from her vows. She remarried while he was overseas, but not before giving birth to a son—his son.

That son grew up two cities away, unaware of his father’s new life and family. For years, the two boys—half-brothers—lived separate lives. Then, after the drowning, the surviving twin grew restless, convinced there was “someone else out there.” His persistence finally wore down their father, who told him the truth.

In secret, the two half-brothers met. They became friends, confidants—and eventually, quiet business partners. The late brother’s name went on the sign. The living half-brother kept his part in the business quiet. This was a private arrangement that suited them both.

The shop carried on for years until Earl’s death. Only when the will was read did the family learn of a “beneficiary” in another city. He was a man no one recognized. When he arrived, the room fell silent. He looked exactly like Earl.

The resemblance was uncanny—two men from different lives, bound by the same father’s face. Only then did the family start to piece together the truth: the “silent partner” they thought had been long dead had been right there all along…

And now, the other brother stood before them. He was alive and held the keys to a business. This business had carried both their names.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

Don’t Wait To Die When You Retire – If You Are 55+ The Time To Do It Is Now

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

3–4 minutes

Life, Sirens, and a 55+ Sense of Humor

As I write this, I am still in recovery—at least, I hope I am. Truthfully, this post was written before my surgery, so I can’t yet say how it all turned out. By the time you read this, several weeks will have passed since the procedure took place. It was scheduled to publish automatically, so here we are. If the doctors didn’t nick a major artery, I’ll be fine. If they didn’t accidentally close me up with a coffee lid inside, I’ll be okay. I will eventually get back to writing these posts daily. Until then, I’ve got a few stories lined up and ready to go.

The other day, I heard a siren blaring in my right ear. That startled me, since my left ear—damaged years ago in a police shooting—usually just rings nonstop. But this sound was sharp, insistent, and real. It kept getting louder, and I was sure it was headed into our neighborhood. I turned to my better half and said:

“Sounds like a house is about to go up for sale.”

He replied:

“Nope. I’m watching a police pursuit on YouTube.”

And we laughed—and I mean, really laughed. That’s the kind of exchange you’ll hear often in a 55+ community. Especially among those of us in the 55–65 age range, and certainly from our older friends beyond that. Because when sirens echo through the streets here, the conversation usually shifts to:

“Did you hear who it was?”

And yes, sadly, “was” is often the operative word. Sirens and flashing lights tend to signal more than just a medical emergency. They also draw a small parade of concerned neighbors. Curious drive-by observers and the always-early realtor, already imagining the next listing, gather quickly.

Now, don’t mistake this for a lack of respect for the sick or the departed. It’s really about staying informed. In a 55+ community, if you miss a couple of days, you could easily fall behind on who passed away. You might not know when the services are. This could affect your pickleball schedule. You could be waiting to play a doubles match that will never happen. The other team has quite literally checked out.

Even the golf course has its quirks. The back nine may suddenly open up if someone didn’t quite finish the front five. It’s the kind of morbid practicality that comes with age—and a bit of wit.

Social gatherings here often revolve around food, especially the cherished potluck lunch. And trust me, in a 55+ community, when they say potluck, they mean luck. You just hope enough actual pots show up to make it a meal by the time noon rolls around.

But all joking aside, living here has been one of the best choices we’ve ever made. Will Rogers once said, “If you don’t like the weather in Oklahoma, just wait a minute.” Well, in a 55+ community, the same could be said about neighbors.

We love this place. In the twelve years we’ve lived here, we’ve only lost three neighbors. This is a testament to the spirit and vitality of this community. Funny enough, when we first moved in, we were technically too young to qualify. But we were here to care for my then 83-year-old mother. After she moved in with my sister and never came back, we decided to stay. Eventually, we aged into the group ourselves and bought a home right here in the neighborhood.

It’s clean, quiet, and secure. There’s 24-hour security. Many of our needs are covered through a very affordable HOA. Less than $100 a month covers trash service, gym access, swimming and tennis. It also includes pickleball courts, a dog park, clubhouse use, and even a monthly newspaper.

So, if you’re nearing that point in life—my advice? Raise the kids and get them out of the house. Then consider moving to a 55+ community as soon as you can. The sooner you arrive, the more life you’ll have to enjoy it. You don’t have to work yourself into the grave. You can laugh your way there instead—one siren, one potluck, one sunrise at a time.

Reflections on the COVID-19 Pandemic and Its Legacy

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

3–4 minutes

A Note from the Pandemic

I was being driven to an appointment earlier this week when a reminder flashed on my phone. It was one of those “On This Day” memories—a flashback from five years ago. It was a note I had posted on social media during one of the darkest times I can remember.

It read:

Today, the national death toll in the United States reached 80,000. In the state where I live, the deaths are many. They have brought in refrigerated trailers to hold the bodies. The mortuaries have more bodies than they can carry. The coroner’s office is over capacity. It is being reported that 100 people died in the city where I live yesterday alone.

People separated by COVID-19. Pinterest

That note was one of millions posted by people around the world that day. It was part of a collective cry for help. It was a shared testimony during a global crisis. The crisis tested the very core of our humanity. The COVID-19 pandemic wasn’t just a health emergency—it was a historical reckoning.

The novel coronavirus (SARS-CoV-2), first identified in late 2019, swept through cities and countries with terrifying speed. It took the lives of the elderly and the young. It didn’t care about borders or status. It wasn’t limited by language, ideology, or belief. It was an indiscriminate invader—silent, invisible, and merciless.

Pinterest

Hospitals filled to capacity. ICUs ran out of beds and ventilators. Nurses worked 12–16 hour shifts in full protective gear. They returned the next day knowing more patients would be gone. They feared coworkers would be gone too. Some had to reuse PPE, others never had proper protection at all. Entire medical teams were decimated. The faces behind the masks—so many of them never seen again by their loved ones.

In some areas, morgues overflowed, and refrigerated trucks became temporary storage for the deceased. Funeral homes struggled to keep up. Families said goodbye to loved ones through screens or from behind glass, incapable of touching them one last time.

Pinterest

Masks became a symbol—of protection, of politics, of protest. While many wore them out of care for others, others rejected them, fueled by fear, misinformation, or political agendas. What should have been a unified public health response fractured along ideological lines.

The spread of disinformation only made things worse. Some media personalities claimed the virus was “just a flu.” Other public figures suggested it was a hoax designed for political or financial gain. Some of those very same people later contracted the virus. A few died from it—some reportedly urging others to take it seriously with their final breaths.

Pinterest

For me, it was personal. I knew approximately twenty—or more—people I had known for most of my life who died from COVID-19. Every day brought another notice: a friend from childhood, a neighbor, someone from church, a former coworker. Sometimes I would hear from relatives who lost someone. Other times, I’d check news from back home and learn that yet another familiar name had been claimed. In places I had once lived, people I had once shared moments and memories with—gone. The virus wasn’t abstract. It carved itself into the story of my life, my family, my friends, and their families.

Pinterest

Vaccines would eventually arrive, faster than any in modern history. But by then, millions had died, and countless others were left with long-term effects—some still suffering today. As of mid-2025, more than 1.1 million Americans have died from COVID-19. Globally, the death toll has surpassed 7 million, though some estimates suggest the real numbers were even higher.

That reminder on my phone was more than just a memory. It was a marker—a scar from a time we lived through together, yet each experienced in our own way.

Pinterest

Let it be said clearly: the virus was real. The loss was real. And for many, the grief still is.

Let that note stand as a record not just of tragedy, but of resilience. Of what we went through—and of what we must remember. Because forgetting invites the risk of repeating it all over again.

Leaving A Writing That Opens A Window To Their Souls

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

2–3 minutes

In Their Own Hand: How Handwriting Revealed the Soul of My Ancestors

I’ve been tracing my family tree for years, patiently tracking each lead and clue like breadcrumbs through time. Some discoveries came through census records, others through photographs or whispered family legends. But nothing has stirred my spirit more deeply than the sight of my great-grandparents’ handwriting—elegant, looping, unmistakably human.

The moment I first held a document written in their own hand, I felt something shift. Their penmanship, carefully practiced and beautifully formed, didn’t just tell me who they were—it revealed how they lived. It was a window to their character, their care, and their time.

The Lost Art of Penmanship

In the 19th and early 20th centuries, good handwriting was a matter of pride, discipline, and social standing. Penmanship was taught rigorously in schools. Techniques like the Spencerian script dominated in the mid-1800s. This was followed by the Palmer Method in the early 1900s. These systems weren’t just about communication—they emphasized grace, control, and personality in each letter’s curve and flow. A person’s handwriting was part of their reputation.

To write beautifully was to show respect: for the reader, for the message, and for oneself. That’s something we’ve largely lost in today’s age of keyboards and quick texts.

A Personal Connection

As I sorted through old family papers—birth certificates, letters, recipe cards—I found myself lingering over the handwriting. There was something intimate about it, something tender. These weren’t just names on a tree or dates on a ledger. These were real people, and here they were, writing. Their fingers once held that pen, their thoughts shaped these lines.

My great-grandmother’s cursive was especially elegant, delicate yet confident. Her capital “L” swept like a violin bow, and her lowercase “r” curled just so. She had taken her time. Her writing carried weight. And somehow, through the shape of her letters, I felt like I knew her.

Handwriting as Legacy

Before voice recordings or home videos, handwriting was how our ancestors captured themselves. They wrote love letters, grocery lists, prayers, and goodbyes. They signed their names to marriage licenses and land deeds, wills and war drafts—leaving behind a fingerprint of the soul.

Today, when we stumble across those scraps, they don’t just offer genealogical evidence. They give us a bridge—a real, living connection to the people who came before us. As the world moves faster, something sacred arises. It comes from slowing down to read their words in their own hand.

Preserving the Past

If you’ve begun your own family history search, don’t overlook the handwritten notes. Scan them, preserve them, study them. Teach younger generations about their significance. They may not understand the loops and flourishes right away—but they’ll feel the legacy behind them.

Because sometimes, a single line of cursive can carry more emotion than a thousand digital files.


Have you come across your ancestors’ handwriting? Share your story in the comments below—or better yet, share an image of it. Let’s celebrate the quiet beauty of those who came before us, one pen stroke at a time.

One Nation, Re-United, With Liberty And Justice For All…

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



It started with a single violin.

On a breezy Saturday morning in Kansas City, a young girl named Ava stood on the steps of Union Station. She was playing a melody her grandfather once taught her. It was soft, trembling, then bold. People stopped. A man on his bike pulled over. A mother hushed her toddler. A retired Marine tapped his foot.

Without a word, a banjo player joined in. Then a trumpet. Someone brought a drum. Across the plaza, a gospel choir leaving rehearsal couldn’t help but add their voices. Tourists lifted their phones, but eventually set them down, choosing instead to simply listen.

The news spread. Within days, public squares from Birmingham to Boise lit up with spontaneous concerts. There were folk and funk, jazz and country, hip-hop, mariachi, and bluegrass performances. No auditions. No politics. Just people showing up and playing.

The sound swept across the country. Arguments quieted. Strangers talked again. Community cookouts popped up. Elders shared stories. Kids danced. People stopped comparing flags and started waving them together.

A Simple Note

It wasn’t shouted or broadcast. It didn’t flash across screens or scroll across headlines.
It was just a single, simple note—played quietly on a porch in a small town.

No one knew where it came from at first. A child said it sounded like home. An old man wiped his eyes. A woman humming nearby forgot why she’d been angry. People paused. They listened.

The note turned into a song—one people didn’t realize they remembered.
Neighbors began to gather. Strangers smiled. Across the country, others started to hear it too.
Not through wires or speakers—but in hearts that had been waiting for something to believe in again.

It wasn’t about sides, slogans, or speeches.
It was about belonging.

One simple note…
And a nation began to find its way back to itself.

They called it the Harmony Movement—but there was no name when it began. Just one song, from one girl, on one morning, reminding a fractured nation what it still shared:

A rhythm.
A voice.
A chance to listen.
And something worth singing for.

The Grand Tour of Heartbreak and Hope: A Country Ballad in the Courtroom

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

3–4 minutes

That just about does it, don’t it? Step Right up Come On In!

The Honorable Judge Bledsoe peered over his glasses, clearly unimpressed. “Mr. Rawlins, you understand this is a legal proceeding, not the Grand Ole Opry?”

“Yes, Your Honor,”

Said Henry Rawlins. He stood tall in his dusty boots and bolo tie. One hand rested on a weathered Bible. The other clutched a crumpled lyric sheet.

Across the courtroom, his soon-to-be ex-wife, Sherry Lynn, sat rigid in her seat, her lawyer whispering furiously in her ear. Henry’s lawyer had already given up and was sitting down, his face red, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

Henry cleared his throat.

“But if the court will allow, I’d like to offer my final statement in my own words. I would also like to include the words of a few gentlemen. They helped me understand what went wrong.”

A murmur passed through the courtroom.

Judge Bledsoe sighed.

“Mr. Rawlins, continue—briefly.”

Henry nodded, unfolding the page.

“Your Honor, I ain’t a lawyer. But I know pain, regret, and how a man can lose his way. And those feelings are best told not in legal briefs but in country songs. So I offer my case—in three verses and a broken heart.”

He stepped ahead.

He turned to Sherry Lynn.

“I didn’t fight. I figured I’d already lost. And I didn’t blame her—not entirely. I hadn’t been easy to love.”

The courtroom was silent. Even the bailiff looked up from his crossword.

“Then,” Henry continued,

“I walked through what George Jones called ‘The Grand Tour.’ I opened the closet and saw her dresses hangin’ like ghosts. Our baby’s room still had the mobile spinnin’ slow. The smell of her perfume lingered like a memory that didn’t know how to leave.”

Judge Bledsoe adjusted in his seat, then motioned for him to finish.

“But, Your Honor, here’s the thing. I almost didn’t show up here today. I nearly signed the papers and walked away. But then I heard Randy Travis singing. He was singing ‘On the Other Hand… there’s a golden band.’ It reminded me of someone who would not understand.”

Henry looked again at Sherry Lynn, softer now.

“On one hand, I messed up. I got too comfortable. I stopped listening. I stopped holding her when she needed to be held. But on the other hand, I still believe in us. That golden band still means something to me. Maybe I’m a fool for sayin’ this here in court. I’d rather fight to fix it. I won’t stand here and let it all go to hell while quoting country songs.”

He folded the paper, tucked it into his jacket, and looked down.

“I rest my case.”

A pause. Then Judge Bledsoe leaned back in his chair.

“Well,” 

he said slowly,

“I’ve been on this bench for twenty-three years. I’ve heard lawyers argue using everything from scripture to Shakespeare. But, I’ve never heard anyone use Vern Gosdin.”

The judge turned to Sherry Lynn.

“Mrs. Rawlins, do you still wish to continue with the divorce?”

She was silent for a moment. Her expression softened as she looked at Henry—looked at him—for the first time in months.

“I… I don’t know,” 

She said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“But maybe we should talk. Not here. Somewhere real.”

Judge Bledsoe smiled faintly.

But, on the other hand…The George, Vern and Randy Plea.

“Court is adjourned.”

As the gavel fell, Henry turned to Sherry Lynn.

“There’s a little diner down the road,” 

He said.

“We used to get cherry pie there after church.”

She nodded.

“Maybe one slice… on the other hand.”

Braums Dairy’s Bold Move: Embracing Pride with Unexpected Gains

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

2–3 minutes

🌈 How Braums Dairy Supported Pride — Weathered Criticism, Reaped Major Rewards

1. Context: Logo on Plaza Sponsorship

In June 2025, Braums Dairy was unexpectedly in the spotlight. It is a beloved Oklahoma-based chain of ice cream shops, fast-food restaurants, and grocery markets. Their logo appeared on promotional flyers for “Pride on the Plaza,” a local Pride celebration in Oklahoma City (1). It served as part of a broader “Live on the Plaza” sponsorship package.

2. Initial Backlash

Conservative commentator and former state lawmaker Gabe Woolley reacted to the logo’s appearance. He tweeted that he would boycott Braums for allegedly funding a drag event. (2). His claims quickly gained traction among right-leaning Oklahomans, prompting calls for political reaction to this perceived advocacy.

3. Rebuttal & Clarification

Soon, voices with marketing skill pushed back. Braums was not directly sponsoring the Pride party. Instead, they were supporting the venue’s broader summer programming. Further investigation revealed that their sponsorship covered the entire weekend. This included the LGBTQ+ event. Still, it was not explicitly targeted at Pride.

This nuance shifted the framing dramatically: what was initially cast as a partisan act became clear as simple venue support.

4. The Social Media Surge

After the dust settled, reactions flipped. Social media buzz exploded on TikTok:

“@Braums could not have ENGINEERED this kind of positive publicity if they tried #oklahoma #braums #braumsicecream #drama” (3)

Citizens applauded the company’s unintended but visible support, demonstrating powerful brand alignment.

5. Tangible Business Upside

This wave of exposure translated into real-world gains:

  • Brand lift & awareness: Braums featured in news cycles, social feeds, and community conversations—as a business unafraid to be inclusive.
  • Customer engagement: LGBTQ+ supporters and allies publicly shared plans to patronize Braums. As a result, many new customers discovered the brand. Community loyalty soared.
  • Earned PR: Local outlets like The Lost Ogle covered the story. They humorously defended Braums. They also criticized the boycott efforts (4).

It became a textbook example of inclusive marketing with unexpected ROI.

6. Takeaways for Brand Strategy

Insight Lesson

Intersectional sponsorships matter. Even general licensing contracts (e.g., “Live on the Plaza”) can effectively link your brand to meaningful causes.

Backlashes can pivot positively When critics amplify your message, clear and direct messaging helps turn controversy into resonance.

Public support matters TikTok, and community praise can vastly outperform first negative attention.

Organic PR beats paid media. Media coverage and word-of-mouth about your brand can have a lasting impact and longevity that outlasts short campaigns.

7. Conclusion

Braums experience offers a powerful case study for businesses. Even inadvertent support of social causes can yield significant goodwill. It also brings loyalty and profitability. Through smart, clear communication and customer engagement, you can transform backlash into business-building buzz.

Building Peace: Steps Toward a Better Tomorrow

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

2–4 minutes

A Plan for Peace: One Step at a Time

I’ve been thinking a lot about peace lately.

Not the peace that lives only in headlines or history books—the grand treaties, the ceasefires, the official proclamations. I’m talking about the peace we build in our daily lives. This peace begins around kitchen tables. It is found in community meetings. It happens in the quiet moments when we choose to listen rather than shout.

What would it take to create a more peaceful world? That question sits heavy on my heart.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but I believe peace isn’t something we wait for others to deliver. It’s something we shape, step by step, together. And maybe, just maybe, it starts with a plan. Its not a perfect plan, but it’s a real one. It’s something we can reach for and return to, like a compass in uncertain times.

Step One: Start With Listening

Peace begins with the willingness to hear someone else’s story—especially when it challenges our own. We don’t have to agree on everything, but we do have to care enough to listen.

Imagine what would change if we listened without preparing to argue back. If we asked “What is it like to be you?” and waited long enough for a real answer.

Step Two: Make Room for Justice

There can be no true peace where injustice lives unchecked. That means looking closely at the systems around us—schools, courts, hospitals, policing, housing—and asking, “Who is being left behind? Who is being harmed? And what can we do to fix it?”

Justice isn’t about blame. It’s about repair. Peace doesn’t ask us to forget the past. It asks us to heal from it—together.

Step Three: Practice Kindness Like It’s a Skill

We talk about kindness like it’s something we either have or don’t. But I think it’s more like a muscle. You build it every day—with patience, with humility, and with a little humor when things get hard.

Sometimes, peace looks like biting your tongue. Sometimes, it looks like reaching out. And sometimes, it’s just not walking away.

Step Four: Educate for Empathy

To give the next generation a better shot at peace, we must teach them differently. Not just math and reading—but empathy, conflict resolution, critical thinking, and how to talk across differences without losing our humanity.

We should teach history honestly, too—not just the polished parts, but the painful truths that still echo today. Healing begins with honesty.

Step Five: Be Brave Enough to Hope

Hope can be a radical thing. Especially when the news is bleak and the divisions feel endless. But hope is not weakness. It’s strength disguised as belief. It’s faith in what we can build, even if we haven’t seen it yet.

A plan for peace isn’t a single event. It’s not something we sign and file away. It’s a lifelong effort. It’s showing up, over and over, with open hands and an open heart.

We will never achieve a perfect peace. But if we can bring peace into one more conversation, one more neighborhood, one more generation—then it’s worth everything.

So here’s my plan. It starts with me. It starts with you. And it keeps going—as long as we keep walking ahead, one small, hopeful step at a time.

Sharing A Story About “Cleaning Nana’s House” by KJ Stafford

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

4–7 minutes

My mother will turn 95 this August—if she makes it that far. Of the six siblings, only my youngest sister and I have cared for her in her old age. Two of the others gradually drifted away after our father passed. They chose, for their own reasons, to cut contact year by year. The two oldest brothers have both died in recent years.

My mother has always had a sharp mind and a strong, toned body. She was constantly on the move, always busy. Even into her 90s, she remained active and mentally alert. But over the past year, she’s started to slip. She now experiences episodes of sundowning. During these moments, she loses track of what she’s saying. She also becomes unaware of where she is or where she’s been.

She now lives far away from me. Our once hour-long phone conversations, filled with talk of daily life, have been reduced to five minutes or less. Her thoughts drift. She forgets what we’re discussing, where she is, or even who she’s speaking with.

The next is a piece shared with me by KJ Stafford, titled “Cleaning Nana’s House.” It resonated deeply. My sisters and I cleaned the house we’d all grown up in. This was before my mother moved in with me for several years. She later moved in with my sister, where she now lives. Stafford’s words capture an experience I believe many can relate to, and with her blessing, I’m sharing it here.

CLEANING NANA’S HOUSE

BY: KJ Stafford

In January of 2024 we moved my Nana into my parents house. Her health was failing, and so was her mind. She was no longer able to live alone anymore and she hated that fact. The woman had been independent her entire life. And now at 90 years old she was forced to be cared for. She could no longer take care of herself. I remember the thought hurting my heart. 


Fast forward to February 2025, I held her hand hours before she passed. I had never experienced death in that way before. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dealt with death- both grandpa’s, aunts, uncles… but this was different. It had never been so in my face the way this was. I had never been physically there, witnessing the deterioration every day, every hour. I had never actually watched death slowly take someone. They are memories that will be buried inside my brain until death comes for me. Descriptions that will never make it down on paper ––


April 25th 2025: We piled in our cars, drove the 7 hours to my Nana’s house and began the task of clearing out our memories to make room for someone else’s. My Nana had lived in that house for over 50 years. My mom grew up there. My siblings and I spent weeks there during the summer and until 2024 every Thanksgiving of my life was spent in that tiny dining room around the round, antique wood table. The kitchen looks as if it got stuck in the 70’s. Yellow countertops remind me of sunflowers. The floor is tiled and worn from years of cooking. Years of family gatherings. Years of love. There’s the iconic green couch that sits in the living room…or sat- now it will be given to another family. Moved into a different living room after sitting comfortably in it’s corner for all of these years.

We found love letters from my Grampy to my Nana, boxes of old black and white photographs, ancient toys, jewelry, coats that have somehow found their way back in style, antique glass and trinkets galore. Each find triggering a specific memory. Each find making me wish I could go back 15 years ago. When I was just coming up for the week to visit. Instead of it being the last time within these cozy walls. 


My Nana was by far the strongest woman I’ve ever met. She grew up in Canada, abandoned by her mother before she was 8 years old, left with an alcoholic for a father who was never around. She spent Canadian winters in their small, wooden shack often times by herself. Venturing out into the thick snow every so often to find more logs for the fire- the only thing keeping her warm enough to survive. Scavenging for scraps of food. Eventually being passed on and off to relatives, never having a home to call her own. Never truly feeling loved by a family….


Upon finally coming to America, she met her first husband. She married him when she was only 17 and had three children by the time she was 27. He was a drunk. He was a cheater. She deserved better. One night he got back a little too late, my Nana kicked him out. Divorced his ass. She was the talk of the town. It was unheard of at that time. What woman with three young children abandons her husband? A STRONG one, that’s who. 


She set goals for herself. She knew she wanted to work at the University. She knew that is where she would meet someone else. And she DID. She worked hard until she got hired. And shortly after, she met my Grampy. The sweetest man to ever walk this earth. Years later they had my Mom. 
Without my Nana’s strength. Without her knowing her self-worth, I would have never existed. Had she not followed her intuition. Had she not trusted her gut, there would be no me. No family. And for that, I am forever grateful. 


I like to think she gave me a little of that strength. I feel it within myself sometimes. It’s why I took Stafford as my pen name. I am so honored. Honored that I was able to grow up with her in my life. Thankful that I had her to teach me how to become a strong woman. I vow to live my life as my Nana did. Never accepting less than I deserve and never being afraid to put myself out there, take a risk, trust my gut and grow. 

To read the original story CLEANING NANA’S HOUSE by KJ Stafford click here.

Clicking the line above will also supply images that go with the story.

The Man Who Walked in Circles: A Journey of Acceptance

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

2–3 minutes

The Man Who Walked in Circles

Everett Langston was trapped in a perpetual orbit. He had been walking in circles for as long as he remembered. It wasn’t a choice, but a fate that had befallen him. Seeing a circular object, even if insignificant, would betray his feet. This sight led him into an endless loop.

Doctors had puzzled over his condition. Some called it a compulsion, others a neurological disorder. But Everett knew the truth: it was a curse.

It started when he was a boy. One autumn afternoon, he saw a pumpkin on his grandmother’s porch. Without realizing it, he walked around it once. Then again. And again. His grandmother, amused at first, soon grew concerned when he wouldn’t stop. His father physically picked him up and carried him inside to break the spell.

As he grew older, the compulsion became more disruptive. A simple trip to the grocery store became an ordeal. Aisles stocked with oranges would catch his eye. The wheels on carts made him spin them in his mind. The bakery’s showcase of bagels would pull him into endless rotations. He learned to avoid certain places. He refused to go near playgrounds. Merry-go-rounds were his nemesis. He avoided tire shops. He walked with his head down in parking lots to keep from spotting hubcaps.

But the world was an entire circle.

One day, Everett found himself in the city’s heart, caught in a storm of misfortune. A coin flipped onto the pavement—a round-the-clock hanging above a storefront. A drain cover was embedded in the sidewalk. He circled each one, his breath coming faster, his steps quick and mechanical. Passersby stared. Some chuckled. Others whispered.

Then he saw it.

In the middle of the city square stood an enormous fountain, its base a perfect, unbroken circle. Panic gripped him. His legs moved before he resisted, pulling him into a slow, deliberate orbit—once, twice, ten times. A police officer approached, asking if he was lost. But Everett only mutter, “I just have to finish.”

The sun dipped below the skyline. His legs ached. His vision blurred. But still, he walked.

And then—just as exhaustion took hold, something remarkable happened.

For the first time in his life, he stopped.

In the fountain’s reflection, he saw the stars above, scattered across the sky in celestial loops, infinite and unending. A smile of understanding crept onto his face. The world had been walking in circles all along, and he was just a part of it.

And so, he kept walking—not because he had to.

He continued to walk. It was not out of compulsion but from a newfound understanding. He accepted his place in the world.

No More Tomorrow’s Forever

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–4 minutes

Javier stood at the edge of the city park. Staring out at the bustling streets of his new home in America. The golden autumn leaves danced in the wind, starkly contrasting the memories of his war-torn homeland. Javier had come to the United States to find refuge and hope. Yet, the events unfolding around him now gave him an unsettling sense of déjà vu.

Back in his home country—a place he no longer dared to name aloud—Javier had watched the slow unraveling of society. It had once been a proud nation. Families like his owned small businesses. Children played freely in the streets. Communities were bound together by tradition and trust. Corruption spread throughout the country. Drug lords rose to power. Oligarchs infiltrated and bought influence with cold, hard cash. They sowed fear and discord, and before long, even the police and the government served their interests alone. The people were left with nothing but fear and silence.

He had fled that darkness, believing that America would offer something different. And for a time, it did. He found work, made friends, and even started to dream again. 

But the cracks were showing. The unchecked greed was too familiar. The political maneuvering was too familiar. The way drugs crept into the neighborhoods under the guise of prosperity was too familiar. He watched politicians make promises while corporations tightened their grip on the economy. He saw his neighbors losing faith, their voices drowned out by the same wealth-driven forces he had left behind.

“No more tomorrows forever,” 

Javier muttered under his breath, a phrase his grandfather used to say when hope felt like an illusion. He feared that history was repeating itself, that this land of opportunity was sliding down the same treacherous path.

One evening, Javier visited a local diner. He often met with his friend Michael there. Michael was an old war veteran who deeply loved the country he had served. Javier shared his concerns over cups of bitter coffee, finding solace in Michael’s understanding and wisdom.

“I’ve seen this before, amigo. Back home. The greed, the power, the division. It starts small, but it grows until there’s nothing left.”

Michael nodded, his tired eyes scanning the newspaper headlines. 

“You ain’t wrong, son. This country’s got its problems. But we fight. We speak up. That’s the difference.”

Javier wasn’t so sure. He thought of his own country. There, people had fought and lost. Bullets and bribes had silenced voices for freedom. Yet, deep down, Javier wanted to believe Michael. He tried to think that this place still had a chance, that people could push back against the tide.

Javier left the diner. He looked around at the city skyline. The shining towers and the streets were filled with life. The battle wasn’t over yet, and maybe—just maybe—he could do something to help stop history from repeating itself.

The next day, he enrolled in a local community initiative to support struggling neighborhoods. Passionate individuals like himself led this initiative. They aimed to give resources and support to those most affected by the societal issues he had observed. He would share his story. He shared a warning and his hope. He believed past mistakes didn’t have to define the future. America still had tomorrow’s worth fighting for.

But deep inside, a lingering voice whispered, 

“No more tomorrow’s forever!”

Understanding Blue Monday and Its Cultural Impact

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

4–6 minutes

Monday, January 20, 2025: Blue Monday – The Most Depressing Day of the Year

Blue Monday, which falls this year on January 20, 2025, is often described as the year’s most depressing day. It occurs on the third Monday of each January. Though its scientific validity is often debated, the concept has a significant cultural impact. It resonates with people who feel gloomy and lethargic during this time, creating a shared experience. Many can relate to it.

Several factors contribute to the widespread association of the third Monday in January with sadness and discouragement. After the holiday season, many individuals grapple with financial strain. They also face the challenge of returning to work or school routines. 

The excitement and anticipation of the new year have faded. Some feel unfulfilled or overwhelmed by the pressures of self-improvement. Shorter daylight hours in the Northern Hemisphere can affect people. These changes can lead to Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), a form of depression linked to reduced exposure to sunlight. Colder temperatures also play a role.

Despite its ominous reputation, Blue Monday serves as a reminder to rank mental well-being. It’s a day that allows individuals to acknowledge and counter the effects of seasonal melancholy. Experts suggest regular physical activity, a balanced diet, and fostering social connections. Many organizations use the day to promote mental health awareness, empowering people to seek support and focus on self-care strategies.

Blue Monday lacks a robust scientific foundation. Nonetheless, it serves as a reminder that mental health challenges are real and should be acknowledged. Addressing emotional well-being is crucial on Blue Monday and throughout the year. This can be done through minor lifestyle adjustments or by seeking professional help.

A Day of Reflection and Transition: Martin Luther King Jr. Day on January 20, 2025

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On January 20, 2025, the United States observes Martin Luther King Jr. Day. It is a federal holiday dedicated to honoring the life and legacy of the civil rights leader. He championed equality and nonviolent social change. This year, the day holds extra significance. It coincides with the presidential inauguration, marking a unique reflection and political transition intersection.

Honoring Dr. King’s Legacy

Communities nationwide engage in various activities to commemorate Dr. King’s contributions. The King Center in Atlanta leads the annual King Holiday Observance. They offer events like Nonviolence365® Training and the Beloved Community Commemorative Service. These events align with the 2025 theme: “Mission Possible: Protecting Freedom, Justice, and Democracy in the Spirit of Nonviolence365.” The King Center

The 48th Annual Martin Luther King Jr. Parade in Miami is in Liberty City. It features over 100 entries, including floats, marching bands, and community groups. Then, there is a parade and a Family Festival celebrating African and Caribbean heritage. MLK Parade And Festivities

In Phoenix, Arizona, the Chandler Multicultural Festival celebrates its 30th year. It honors the community’s diversity and Dr. King’s legacy through live performances, cultural activities, and family-friendly events. AZCentral

Civil Rights Leaders Mobilize

The convergence of Martin Luther King Jr. Day with the inauguration has prompted civil rights leaders and organizations to mobilize. They view the day as a critical call to action. Concerns over anticipated policies challenge progress in equality. In response, groups are organizing rallies. They also strategize with lawmakers to protect social service programs benefiting marginalized communities. Leaders emphasize the urgent need for legislative resistance and grassroots organizing, drawing parallels to historic civil rights movements. 

Global Observances

Beyond the United States, people worldwide will recognize the impact of Martin Luther King Jr.’s work. International events occur. Educational programs are held. Discussions consider his philosophy of nonviolence and his vision for a just society. These global observances underscore the universal relevance of Dr. King’s message and the ongoing pursuit of human rights and equality.

A Historic Inauguration

This year’s Martin Luther King Jr. Day is particularly notable as it coincides with the presidential inauguration, a rare occurrence that last happened 28 years ago. Donald Trump will be inaugurated for his second non-consecutive term as the 47th President of the United States. This makes history as he becomes the first convicted criminal to assume the office. He is also the oldest individual to do so. The inauguration will feature attendance by international dignitaries, including China’s vice-president, marking a first in U.S. history. Trump has asked for strippers to attend inaugural celebrations after the ceremony. Financial Times

Conclusion

January 20, 2025, is a day of profound reflection and significant transition. As the nation honors Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s enduring legacy, it embarks on a new political chapter. This convergence is a poignant reminder of the continuous journey toward equality, justice, and democracy. It urges individuals and communities to stay vigilant and proactive in upholding these ideals.

Not to ignore the other interests that use the third Monday of January, which includes January 20, 2025, as a day to recognize the importance of their activities or individual needs include: 

National Cheese Lovers Day

National DJ Day

National Penguin Day

Brew Monday

Camcorder Day

Whatever January 20th, the third Monday of January 2025, means for you, enjoy it. Celebrate its meaning and meditate on its cause. Share its reasoning with another. Share this story with others. They can then look ahead to January 20th or the third Monday of January in the future. Thank you for reading and visiting to learn more about Blue Monday.

A Letter From Paul Harvey, To His Grandchildren

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

I am sharing a writing listed as “Paul Harvey’s Letter To His Grandchildren. It has been tucked away in a drawer. Finally I pulled it out and made use of it.

Paul Harvey was a news commentator for ABC NEWS in the United States and has been heard worldwide. He was known for “The Rest of The Story” and his Noon News Broadcast from the 1960s through the 1990s.. He provided updates well into his elder years, working from home a lot of the time. His son had built a studio in the Harvey Home. This studio allowed him to work as if he were in the News Room. Paul is always dressed in a suit and tie to report the news. Saying he had to look professional to sound professional.

Here is the letter that is attributed to him.

Grandchildren,

We tried so hard to improve our kids’ lives that we made them worse. I’d like better for my grandchildren.

I’d like them to know about hand-me-down clothes, homemade ice cream, and leftover meatloaf sandwiches.

I hope you learn humility by being humiliated and honesty by being cheated.

I hope you learn to make your bed, mow the lawn, and wash the car.

And I hope nobody gives you a brand-new car when you are sixteen.

It will be good if at least one time you can see puppies born. You should also witness your old dog being put to sleep.

I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in.

I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother or sister. It’s all right if you have to draw a line down the middle of the room. But, when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he’s scared, I hope you let him.

You want to see a movie. If your little brother or sister wants to tag along, I hope you’ll let them.

You must walk uphill to school with your friends and live in a town where you can do it safely.

I hope you don’t ask your driver to drop you two blocks away on rainy days. It would be unfortunate if you didn’t want to be seen riding with someone as uncool as your Mom.

If you want a slingshot, I hope your Dad teaches you how to make one instead of buying one.

I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books.

When you learn to use computers, I hope you also learn to add and subtract in your head.

I hope you get teased by your friends when you have your first crush on a boy or girl. When you talk back to your mother, I hope you learn what ivory soap tastes like.

Try to skin your knee climbing a mountain. By accident burn your hand on a stove. Playing around try to you stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole.

I don’t care if you try a beer once. I hope you don’t like it. If a friend offers you dope or a joint, realize they are not your friend.

I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your Grandma or grandpa. I also hope you go fishing with your Uncle.

You will feel a mixture of emotions. Sorrow and joy will arise during the holidays at a funeral. You should stop and understand why.

I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through your neighbor’s window. I also hope she hugs you at Christmas. I hope she kisses you when you give her a plaster mold of your hand.

I wish you tough times and disappointment, hard work, and happiness. To me, these are the only ways to appreciate life!

The End.

Portions of this entry was edited to allow for space and grammar.

THE LAST RIDE FOR THE MAN FROM PLAINS GEORGIA

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2–3 minutes

In the early hours of January 4, 2025, a somber hush fell over the rolling plains of Georgia. The sun shone gently over the landscape. A motorcade departed from Phoebe Sumter Medical Center in Americus. It bore the flag-draped casket of the 39th President of the United States, Jimmy Carter. The journey marked the start of a six-day tribute. It honored a man who dedicated his life to service, peace, and humanity.

The procession moved through Carter’s hometown of Plains, passing by his boyhood home in Archery. Here, the old farm bell tolled 39 times. Each chime resonated with the years he had served as the nation’s leader. It symbolized each year of his presidency. Family members, including his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, accompanied the casket, their faces reflecting both sorrow and pride. Former Secret Service agents had once protected him. They now served as pallbearers. They honored their final duty to the man they had revered.

Along the route, admirers gathered. Some held flowers. Others wore commemorative pins. They were all united in their wish to pay homage to a beloved figure. The motorcade continued to Atlanta. There, Carter’s body would lie in repose at the Carter Presidential Center. This arrangement provided the public with the opportunity to offer their respects. 

On January 7, the casket will be transported to Washington, D.C., where President Carter will lie in state at the U.S. Capitol. A state funeral is scheduled for January 9 at the Washington National Cathedral. Dignitaries will honor his legacy there, including President Joe Biden. The funeral will be a solemn event. There will be a military honor guard. A close family member will deliver a eulogy.

Carter’s journey will reach its conclusion after the national ceremonies. He will return to Plains, Georgia, for a private funeral service at Maranatha Baptist Church. He will be laid to rest beside his beloved wife, Rosalynn. This is the place where his remarkable journey began. It would now conclude there.  

As the week unfolds, the nation will ponder on the life of a president who remained a humble servant. Jimmy Carter’s final ride is not just a passage from life to death. It is a testament to a legacy that will endure in the hearts of the people he has touched. This marks the end of a remarkable journey.

The Nation Honors Former President and man Jimmy Carter!

References:

New York Post

Former President Jimmy Carter’s funeral procession begins in Georgia

Today

Politico

Jimmy Carter’s 6-day state funeral begins with a motorcade through south Georgia

Today

AP News

Jimmy Carter’s flag-draped casket is on its way to Atlanta as the 39th president’s state funeral begins

Today

Jimmy Carter: A President’s Quiet Resolve

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2–3 minutes

Jimmy Carter
– The Carter Center Photo

Jimmy Carter served as the 39th President of the United States from 1977 to 1981. He brought a quiet and deliberate resolve to the Oval Office. Carter was a former peanut farmer and Georgia governor. His presidency was shaped by his outsider status. He was known for his Southern charm and deep sense of morality. This quiet resolve was tested by the significant challenges he faced, but it never wavered.

Carter inherited a nation grappling with inflation, an energy crisis, and a faltering trust in government post-Watergate. Undeterred, he tackled the energy crisis head-on. He donned a cardigan during televised addresses to encourage Americans to conserve energy. He also urged Congress to pass legislation for renewable resources and energy independence. His solar panels on the White House symbolized a progressive-thinking approach that would resonate decades later.

On the international stage, Carter championed human rights, placing them at the core of U.S. foreign policy. His leadership during the Camp David Accords remains a hallmark of his presidency. It was a historic peace treaty between Egypt and Israel. This significant achievement demonstrated his commitment to diplomacy and peace. It marked the first time an Arab country formally recognized Israel.

Jimmy Carter
– The Carter Center Photo

Yet, Carter’s term was also marred by challenges. The Iranian hostage crisis cast a long shadow as 52 Americans were held captive for 444 days. The crisis tested his patience. It also tested his diplomacy. The eventual release of the hostages coincided with Ronald Reagan’s inauguration. This became a bittersweet moment in his legacy. Carter showed resilience during this crisis. It proved his unwavering commitment to his duties as President.

Jimmy Carter – The Carter Center Photo

Carter served only one term. His presidency reflected his unwavering belief in doing what was right. He did this regardless of political consequences. His tenure laid the groundwork for a post-presidential humanitarian service life, earning him the Nobel Peace Prize decades later. This continued commitment to the greater good is a testament to the lasting impact of his presidency.

Jimmy Carter’s time in office was not marked by soaring rhetoric or overwhelming popularity. Still, it was defined by integrity, resilience, and a steadfast commitment to the greater good.

Jimmy Carter and the Little Peanut Stand

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2–3 minutes

Earl Carter and Children

The summer in Plains, Georgia, was hot and humid. Young Jimmy Carter, no more than ten years old, sat under the shade of an old pecan tree. Beside him stood a makeshift wooden stand crafted from spare planks his father had discarded. A hand-painted sign read, “Peanuts 5¢ a Bag.”

Jimmy’s father, Earl, suggested selling peanuts after the latest harvest.

“You’ll learn the value of hard work,”

Earl had said, his weathered hand resting on Jimmy’s shoulder.

“And how to talk to people. That’s important.”

Jimmy Carter

Jimmy took the advice seriously. He woke early each morning to bag the peanuts. He carefully measured each part to guarantee every customer got their money’s worth. Then he’d march down the dirt road to the little stand. He would sit there until the sun dipped low in the sky.

On this particular day, business was slow. The air was thick with the buzz of cicadas, and Jimmy’s mind wandered as he stared down the empty road. He thought about the world beyond Plains. It was a world he’d only glimpsed in books. Travelers passing through town also told him stories about it.

As he mused, a car sputtered to a stop nearby. It was an old Ford, its green paint faded and dust-caked. A man stepped out, dressed in overalls and a straw hat. He approached the stand with a friendly smile.

“Afternoon, young man,”

the stranger said, his voice tinged with a twang.

“How much for a bag of those peanuts?”

“Five cents, sir,”

Jimmy replied, standing up straight.

The man chuckled.

“You drive a hard bargain, but I reckon it’s worth it.”

He handed Jimmy a shiny nickel, and Jimmy passed him a bag of peanuts in return.

The man lingered, munching on the peanuts as he leaned against the car.

“You’re Earl Carter’s boy, ain’t ya?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you got his knack for business. Ever think about what you wanna do when you’re older?”

Jimmy hesitated, then spoke with quiet determination.

“I think I’d like to help people. Maybe be a farmer like my dad, or –– maybe even something bigger. Like a teacher or someone who solves problems.”

The man nodded thoughtfully.

Jimmy Carter was a teenager then. He was number 10 in a group portrait of the Plains High School basketball team. The photo was taken in Plains, Georgia, around 1940.

“That’s a fine ambition. Keep that kindness in your heart, boy. The world can use more folks like you.”

Jimmy smiled, his youthful confidence bolstered by the stranger’s words.

Years later, as President of the United States, Jimmy Carter often recalled that summer by the peanut stand. There, under the pecan tree, he first learned the value of hard work. He also learned humility and the simple power of connecting with others. These were lessons that would guide him throughout his life.

The stand was long gone. But, the spirit of that little boy with big dreams remained. It was forever rooted in the red soil of Plains.

Learn more about Jimmy Carter in photos. Got to the source for photos used in this writing by clicking here.

Pehr Gustaf Gyllenhammar, Former CEO and Chairman of VOLVO –––– ––– April 28, 1935 – November 2024 ––– 

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2–3 minutes

Pehr Gustaf Gyllenhammar, a visionary Swedish businessman whose leadership and influence extended across industries and continents, passed away in November 2024 at 89. Born in Gothenburg, Sweden, on April 28, 1935, to Pehr Gyllenhammar Sr. and Aina (née Kaplan), Pehr G. Gyllenhammar was a man of profound intellect, ambition, and a global vision that inspired many. 

Gyllenhammar is best remembered for his transformative tenure as CEO and chairman of Volvo from 1970 to 1994, during which time he led the company through a period of dynamic growth and innovation, leaving an indelible mark on the automotive and industrial sectors. His bold attempt to merge Volvo with Renault in the 1990s exemplified his forward-thinking, even as it marked the end of his career with the company.  

Beyond Volvo, Gyllenhammar’s career spanned various leadership roles, including Aviva’s chairman and Rothschild Europe’s vice chairman. A fervent advocate for European industrial collaboration, he co-founded the European Round Table of Industrialists, promoting cooperation among the continent’s leading companies.  

His contributions were recognized with numerous accolades, including France’s *Ordre National du Mérite* in 1980 and the *Legion of Honour* in 1987. In 2001, he was named an Honorary Master of the Bench of the Inner Temple in London.  

Gyllenhammar’s intellectual curiosity and political engagement made him a public figure beyond the boardroom. An early proponent of social liberalism, he championed the Scandinavian model of governance and was a vocal advocate for European unity. His political views and engagement with social issues often influenced his business decisions, making him a unique and influential figure in both the political and business spheres. At one point, he was even considered a potential leader of Sweden’s Liberal People’s Party.  

He balanced his professional endeavors with a rich personal life. He married Christina Engellau, the daughter of Volvo’s former CEO, in 1959 and shared nearly five decades with her until her passing in 2008. Together, they raised four children—Cecilia, Charlotte, Sophie, and Oscar—each of whom carved out successful paths in the arts, business, and design. Later in life, Gyllenhammar found love again, marrying Lee Welton Croll in 2013, with whom he welcomed a child in 2016.  

A man of deep conviction, Gyllenhammar exemplified leadership and resilience, leaving an indelible mark on the business world and the communities he served. His resilience in the face of challenges is a testament to his character and the impact of his legacy. He is survived by his wife, Lee, his five children, and a legacy that will inspire future generations.  

A private family service will honor his memory. The service, which will be held at a private memorial, and will be a time for family and close friends to share their memories of Gyllenhammar and celebrate his life. In place of flowers, the family requests donations to causes reflecting Gyllenhammar’s dedication to innovation, education, and European unity.

Otis The Dog That Trouble Finds

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© 


One sunny morning, Otis, a slick Jack Russell Terrier with a gleam in his eyes

and mischief in his heart, woke up. His fur was a brilliant shade of gold, shimmering in the sunlight, and his tail wagged with such enthusiasm that it could power a windmill. The day started innocently enough; we had breakfast at our favorite restaurant and came home. With his wagging tail and big, innocent eyes, Otis welcomed us home and helped us as we tidied up around the house. But Otis is no ordinary dog—trouble seems to find him as a squirrel finds an acorn. He gets these spurts of energy known well as zoomies.

It’s like he’s a magnet for mishaps, a walking comedy show. Wherever he goes, calamity follows. He’s so adorable that it’s impossible not to chuckle when his wrecking ball hits.

It wasn’t long before Otis’s nose led him to the kitchen. The scent of freshly baked bread cooling on the counter was just too tempting. He stood on his hind legs, stretching his neck as far as it would go. Just then, a slight breeze blew through an open window, knocking a paper off the fridge and startling Otis. He yelped and bumped into the counter in a flurry of fur and paws. The bread tumbled down, landing squarely on the floor.

When we walked in, Otis stood over the fallen loaf, his big, brown eyes looking up at us with a mix of innocence and apology. His expression seemed to say, “I didn’t mean to!” It’s hard not to forgive him when he looks at you like that.

We sighed but couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips. Before picking up the bread, Otis had darted out of the room, ears flapping, tail wagging like a flag, and disappeared into the yard.

As the day went on, Otis’s streak of bad luck continued. While exploring under the porch, he got tangled in a ball of twine that a handyman had left behind. Emerging from the shadows, he looked wide-eyed and confused, like a dog-sized spider web. The neighbors couldn’t help but chuckle when they saw him, tangled and guilty-looking. One even offered to help untangle him, but Otis, being Otis, managed to free himself in a comical fashion.

Capping off his day – Otis’s curiosity got the best of him once more when he found a potted plant by the front door. It only took a nudge from his nose for the pot to tip over, spilling soil all over the welcome mat. He sniffed the dirt, sneezed, and left tiny paw prints leading to his bed, where he flopped down, exhausted.

When found, he looked up with that sweet, guilty face as if saying, I swear, I don’t know how it happened!

Despite the chaos, we knelt and scratched behind his ears. Otis nuzzled into my hand, eyes closing in contentment. As much trouble as he got into, he was ours, and those mishaps only make our days a little more memorable—and a lot more fun. His presence, filled with joy, even amid his mischievous adventures, is a constant reminder of the happiness pets bring into our lives.

The Phrase “Make America Great Again” and Its Social Implications

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© 

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro.

“Make America Great Again,” popularized as a political slogan, has become highly polarizing. To supporters, it often symbolizes a call to return to a time of perceived economic strength, national pride, and social stability. However, for many others, it has come to signify a darker undertone: a desire to revert to an era when certain marginalized groups—such as African Americans, LGBTQ+ individuals, Jewish people, Hispanics, and other minorities—lacked complete protection under the law.

The slogan evokes an ambiguous sense of “greatness,” sparking questions of when America was indeed “great” and for whom. Many point to the slogan as a reference to a mid-20th century America, a period before civil rights advancements began to reshape the nation’s legal and social landscape. This era, regardless of its association with post-war prosperity and expanding economic opportunity, was also marked by segregation, widespread discrimination, and limited civil rights protections for racial and ethnic minorities, women, and LGBTQ+ individuals.

Civil rights legislation and landmark court decisions have progressively addressed these disparities in the past fifty years. The Civil Rights Act, Voting Rights Act, Roe v. Wade, Obergefell v. Hodges, and the repeal of the Defense of Marriage Act represent some of the significant strides made in affording marginalized groups equal rights and protection under the law. Critics argue that calling for a return to pre-1960s values implies a desire to dismantle some of these protections and regain a hierarchical social order that was deeply exclusionary.

The MAGA slogan is seen by many as a coded message suggesting that the progress made by minorities threatens traditional values or destabilizes society. Rhetoric often associated with the slogan—such as fear of “radical left” agendas, immigration restrictions, and questioning of affirmative action—has exacerbated this perception. For example, according to surveys and sociopolitical analyses, minority groups and their advocates often interpret the slogan as a form of resistance against multiculturalism and diversity. This view became reinforced by incidents in which white nationalist groups appropriated the slogan to promote exclusionary ideologies.

Political messaging using the phrase has stirred debates over whether it subtly promotes a return to exclusive societal norms. Advocacy groups for racial, ethnic, and LGBTQ+ rights warn that MAGA rhetoric has indirectly contributed to policy decisions that undermine or reverse hard-won civil liberties, such as efforts to restrict voting access, challenge affirmative action, limit LGBTQ+ protections, and enact immigration controls targeting specific nationalities or religions.

Conclusion

The “Make America Great Again” slogan has thus come to represent more than a call for economic or national rejuvenation; it embodies a divisive struggle over America’s values and the inclusivity of its future. For critics, it suggests a rollback on the inclusivity and rights advancements achieved over the past five decades. It serves as a reminder that the interpretation of slogans in political discourse can carry implicit biases and, in doing so, perpetuate exclusionary beliefs that impact marginalized communities.


The term “Make America Great Again” has a different meaning, and it stands on the grounds that to make America Great Again, there has to be the revoking of rights that have been attained by groups over the last fifty years. Those groups include blacks, Native Americans, Hispanics, Asians, the LGBTQI+ Community, and others. Because of that angle, this space will discuss the topic in the November 1st, 2024 posting.

Understanding the range of meanings attributed to “Make America Great Again” offers insight into the complexities of contemporary American identity and the societal debate over what “greatness” truly entails in an evolving multicultural landscape.

The Unlikely Friendship: Lessons in Kindness

By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

It was a quiet Sunday morning. A knock came at the door as the man leafed through the morning paper. He answered it, and there stood a stranger, looking road-worn but determined. ––––

“Is this where Benjamin Groff lives?”

the stranger asked.

“Yes, it is,”

the man replied, studying the stranger’s face.

“You must be his father,”

the stranger ventured his smile kind and knowing.

“Yes, I am,”

the man replied, both curious and wary.

The stranger introduced himself.

“My name is Samuel Johnson. I’ve driven over seventy miles to meet you, sir. You must have been one remarkable man to raise a son like Benjamin.”

The father, his heart swelling with pride, felt a mix of emotions.

“Thank you, Samuel,”

he said.

“But, please, how do you know my son?”

Samuel nodded as though expecting the question.

“I met Ben at the Oklahoma State Fair last fall. I was just there to do a job—keeping an eye on one of the old buildings. Some local boys had been giving me trouble, but Ben stepped in. Out of all the things he could have done at the fair, he chose to sit down and talk with me. We spoke for hours. Your son has a way of making people feel seen, of looking out for folks. He even asked me if anyone was bothering me, and from that moment on, I felt I wasn’t just working the fair—I was spending time with a friend.”

The father listened, deeply touched.

“That sounds like Ben,”

he said softly, gesturing for Samuel to take a seat.

“Let me wake him—he’ll want to know you’re here.”

Ben’s father went to his son’s room and gently shook him awake.

“Ben, you’ll never guess who’s here to see you,”

he said.

Still half-asleep, Ben slowly got up and followed his father into the living room. To his surprise, there sat Samuel, his old buddy from the State Fair. A smile of joy spread across Ben’s face as memories flooded back.

On that day at the fair, Ben had already taken in the sights, ridden the rides, and wandered through the livestock shows, which, to his surprise, had lost their charm despite his upbringing on a farm. He was winding down, simply walking, when he happened upon Samuel’s post.

Samuel was friendly, the kind of person who seemed to carry his life’s story in the lines of his face. Ben had sensed the man’s kindness right away, trusting him instinctively. They talked for hours, sharing stories. Samuel had offered him cold water from the employee stash and even let him use the private restroom in the back, which felt like a luxury compared to the crowded ones across the fairgrounds. Ben could still recall their easy camaraderie, even though much of what they’d discussed had faded over time.

Before parting, Ben had written down his number and directions to their home, saying,

“If you’re ever in town and need anything, look us up.”

Now, here was Samuel, having made good on that invitation.

After they caught up for a while, Ben suggested a tour of the campground where his father worked as a Ranger. The sprawling property had over 350 acres, six cabins, and a large recreation hall. As they rode around, they laughed about old times and marveled at the twists and turns that brought two unlikely friends together again.

Finally, as the afternoon sun started to wane, Samuel turned to Ben with a smile.

“I’d better head back to the city,”

he said, patting Ben on the shoulder.

“I’m grateful to have met your folks and seen your home—it’s even better than I’d imagined.”

He climbed into his Lincoln Continental, waved as he pulled away, and drove down the dusty road until he was out of sight. That was the last time Ben saw Samuel. But in the years that followed, he often recalled the kindness they’d shared, proof that a simple act of friendship could reach far beyond the boundaries of a single day.

Benjamin stood on the porch as Samuel drove off, watching the dust settle behind the Lincoln. He thought about how Samuel’s visit had bridged two worlds—a fact that didn’t escape him in a town where Black residents were often confined to the southwest corner, seen more as a separate community than as neighbors.


Growing up, Benjamin noticed the prejudices that ran through many families in town but never took root in his heart. His father, a man who saw people for who they were, not where they came from, profoundly influenced him. Samuel’s visit was a powerful reminder of how simple kindness could defy those boundaries, how a shared afternoon at a fair could lead to a journey across miles.

Though he never saw Samuel again, Benjamin often recalled those two encounters. They left him with a lesson he carried into adulthood and his career—a quiet but powerful truth about compassion. Samuel had come to honor Benjamin’s father. Still, Benjamin always remembered Samuel for showing him how friendship and decency could surpass any divide, leaving an enduring mark on his life.

In a way, Samuel had gifted him a legacy of his own: the reminder that sometimes, the connections we make in unexpected places leave the most enduring marks on our lives.

In Memory of Samuel!

The Pig That Hid Under The Table

By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Growing up, my trips to see my grandparents were always a highlight. We had moved to a farm about forty miles east of where they lived, and at least one weekend a month, I’d take a trip west on the Trailways bus. The bus, winding through the state highways, carried passengers to towns large and small, connecting lives along the way.

Fridays were my day of escape. School let out promptly at 3 PM, and I’d head straight to Mills Cafe to buy my bus ticket for $1. That single dollar bought me a ride and a weekend of stories, comfort, and understanding from my grandparents. After securing my ticket, I’d walk down the street to my dad’s barber shop, four doors from the cafe, to wait. Watching for the bus was a serious affair for me. I kept my eyes trained on the road, anxious I might miss it if I blinked. No bathroom breaks, no distractions. I had a mission: get to my grandparents.

Sometimes, folks in the barbershop would try to chat with me, but I was reserved, even standoffish. Sensing my focus, my dad would beam with pride as he explained to his customers,–––

“He’s waiting on the bus. He’s off to check on his grandparents for the weekend, ensuring they’re okay!”

The shop patrons would smile and nod, giving me a knowing look and sometimes adding, –––

“Well, you can’t interrupt a man on a mission.”

But there was another reason I didn’t engage in those conversations. I had a speech impediment that followed me until I was nearly twelve. My words tumbled out wrong, twisted by a thick Eastern accent that stood out in our small Oklahoma town. I’d say “Wooster” instead of rooster or “wise” instead of raise. It sounded right to me, but I was hard to understand to everyone else. My trips to my grandparents were a refuge from the teasing I often faced. They spoke like me, with the same accent, and they took the time to listen.

Bedtime with my grandmother always meant stories—real ones. One of my favorites was her early days with my grandfather when they lived on a farm in Illinois with his family. Not long after their wedding, my grandfather bartered with a neighbor, offering to harvest an acre of corn for a pig and a cow. The pig was young, newly weaned, and just learning to eat regular feed. The neighbor’s wife, however, was a bit unstable, though harmless—or so everyone thought.

One afternoon, while my grandfather and his brothers were out in the fields, my grandmother saw the neighbor’s wife marching down the road toward their home. In one hand, she held a knife, her face twisted in rage as she screamed, –––

“I want my pig!”

My grandmother was still young, not much older than a teenager, and alone in the house. Thinking quickly, she grabbed the little pig, rushed inside, and locked the door behind her. Huddling under the kitchen table, she threw a cloth over the pig, praying it would stay quiet. Outside, the woman’s footsteps grew closer, and her voice turned from angry to menacing.

“I’m going to kill you! I want my pig! Give me my pig!”

The door rattled under the force of the knife stabbing into it, and my grandmother could hear the woman’s curses, slurred with madness. Terrified, she clutched the pig tighter, knowing there was no way she’d give it up—not after my grandfather had worked so hard for it. The pig squirmed in her arms, and she whispered a desperate deal, promising it that if it stayed silent, it would never end up on the dinner table.

The minutes they stretched on like hours. It was sweltering in the kitchen, and my grandmother and the pig were sweaty. The woman outside kept up her assault, pounding on the door and shrieking threats. But the pig, to its credit, didn’t make a sound.

Finally, after an eternity, the woman’s husband happened by in his horse and buggy. He saw her crazed state and managed to coax her away, pulling her back home. My grandmother never saw her again, but for years afterward, she went out of her way to avoid passing that house. And as for the pig? It kept its end of the bargain—staying quiet—and lived to see another day, far from the breakfast table.

Hearing that story as a child gave me courage. Just as my grandmother had faced her fear, hiding under a table with a pig, I could face my challenges, too. Whenever I struggled with my speech, I thought of her and that pig. It gave me the strength to keep pushing forward, knowing that silence—and resilience—could sometimes be the best defense.

It Was A BedTime Story My Grandmother Would Tell Me, But It Was The Weekend That I Loved To Spend!

By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

It was a bedtime story my grandmother used to tell me when I visited their home on weekends. They lived about forty miles west of the farm we had bought, but they had been farmers in the same area. As they grew older, they sold their place and moved to a larger town, closer to conveniences like supermarkets, doctors, hospitals, and stores. I visited them at least one weekend a month, sometimes more, either hopping a westbound Trailways bus or catching a ride with one of my dad’s friends heading out to Texas. On travel days, I dressed to the nines, careful not to show up looking like a bum, especially since people back then still took pride in looking sharp for such things. Times were changing, though. In the sixties, you started seeing folks on the bus with beads, bell bottoms, and cut-off t-shirts, their hair long, male or female.

I was five years old when I first started traveling with my grandparents, and it became a cherished tradition until my grandmother passed when I was eleven. Even as times changed, my routine remained the same. My grandfather would always park in front of the local drugstore that served as the bus stop in their town. A large courthouse sat in the center of the square, and the bus had to make a loop around it before stopping. The airbrakes would hiss, and I was always be the first one off. The bus driver ensured it, especially since I sat beside him on my suitcase for the whole ride.

My grandfather, whom I called Pop, would be waiting by the trunk of his 1952 Chevrolet Coupe. As I stepped down those bus steps, the driver would already have handed my suitcase to Pop, who would smile and say, ––––

“Let’s scoot. Mom’s got dinner about ready at home!”

And it was home. My home away from home. I often dreamed of moving there, living with them, and even telling them so. I wanted my dad and our horses to come too because, in my child’s mind, my grandparents loved me so much that they’d love my dad and our horses too.

Pop had a habit of smoking a pipe—or rather, puffing on one. I could spend hours watching him puff smoke into the air in their cozy den. He liked to mix cherrywood tobacco with Prince Albert, and the sweet scent lingered long after he finished, complementing the smells of my grandmother’s cooking, making you want to eat whatever she was making. There was no television after dinner on most evenings. Instead, we’d listen to the ticking of the clock and talk. It was simple, but those talks meant more to me than the grandest concerts I’ve ever attended.

There were exceptions, though. Saturday evenings, we’d watch the news, then Lawrence Welk and Porter Wagoner, followed by a local music show hosted by a furniture store owner. But the TV was always off once Pop went to bed. That’s when my grandmother and I would click it back on for our secret ritual—watching championship wrestling from Oklahoma City. She loved it, getting so worked up that she’d tear tissues to pieces while her favorite wrestlers fought. I’d hand her a new tissue each time she shredded the last one. No one knew about this passion of hers except me, and she confided that she only got to watch wrestling when I visited. It made me feel needed by these two people I loved so much.

At night, I slept on a cot in their bedroom. It was as comfortable as any five-star hotel bed. But before I bedded down, my grandmother would let me crawl between her and Pop in their bed while she told me stories. One of my favorites was when she grew up in East Texas. She’d laugh so hard telling it, tears streaming down her face. It always made me laugh, too.

“Mom, Florence Lula McElroy, Groff” 1914

She and her sister Ethyl were watching their little brother, Sam, who had just turned four. The rest of the family worked in the fields when the weather worsened. A funnel cloud was forming in the west, and the sisters, frightened, grabbed Sam and rushed into the farmhouse. Back then, there was no electricity, phones, or fundamental utilities, let alone cars. The girls did the only thing they could think of: they got under the heavy kitchen table, crying as the storm approached.

Not understanding what was happening, Little Sam asked, ––– “What should I do?”

My grandmother told him, ––– “Sam, you should pray!”

But the only prayer the boy knew was the table grace, so he began, ––– “Dear Lord, we thank you for what we are about to receive…”

That’s where the story always stopped because my grandmother would laugh so hard she couldn’t go on. I never knew if the house got hit or the storm blew the farm apart. All I remember is her laughter and how I’d move to the cot, hugging her and giving her a sloppy kiss goodnight.

Years later, I asked my Uncle Sam about that storm. He chuckled and said, ––– “Pots and pans were flying everywhere, and the two sisters were laughing like tea parties. We didn’t lose the house, but it scared me.”

Uncle Sam became my favorite great uncle after that.

I loved hanging out with Aunt Ethyl at family reunions. She dipped snuff—real tobacco, not the stuff you see now. She’d sniff it and tuck some into her upper lip. I could never keep up with her, and my grandmother would have been after me if she ever caught me trying.

On Sunday afternoons, my dad drove to pick me up from the farm. I was always happy to see him but hated leaving my grandparents. I didn’t want to return to the town near our farm—it was never as pleasant as the time spent with Mom and Pop. When I was five, I never imagined that they’d leave this world or that I’d grow up. Life takes the airplane, and time takes the train.

There Goes Patti McGee! Skateboardings First Lady! (1945-2024)

There Goes Patti McGee – An Essay

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Patti McGee was not just a skateboarder; she was a trailblazer, a pioneer, and a symbol of inclusivity in a sport rapidly emerging in the 1960s. Her journey, which began with a skateboard built by her brother, evolved into a legendary career that broke barriers for women in skateboarding and cemented her place in history as one of the most iconic figures in the sport. She was not just a name in the history books but a person with a passion for skateboarding that was infectious to all who knew her.

Despite the challenges and the sport’s male-dominated nature, Patti’s resilience and determination shone through. Her first skateboard, a humble creation from her brother’s wood shop project, began a journey that would see her rise to national prominence.

In 1964, Patti won the Women’s National Skateboard Championship in Santa Monica, California. Her smooth style, grace, and technical ability on the board distinguished her as a force in the early skateboarding community. Her victory was a breakthrough moment for women in the sport, demonstrating that skateboarding was not just a boys’ game but one where women could excel and lead.

Patti’s career reached heights when she became the first professional female skateboarder, sponsored by Hobie Skateboards and Vita Pak. She traveled the country, performing skateboarding demonstrations, showcasing her talent, and spreading the love of the sport to a broader audience. Her influence was undeniable, helping to popularize skateboarding during its first wave of mainstream attention between 1959 and 1965. As a spokesperson and ambassador, she promoted the sport with passion and determination, ensuring that girls and women also saw skateboarding as a place for them.

In 1965, Patti made history again, becoming the first female skateboarder to appear on the cover of Life magazine. Her iconic photo, smiling while riding a skateboard in mid-air, is still considered one of the most memorable images of early skateboarding culture. Patti’s presence in the media helped legitimize skateboarding as a serious sport, and her charm and skill made her a role model for countless young skaters.

Patti’s contributions to the sport were officially recognized in 2010 when she became the first woman inducted into the Skateboarding Hall of Fame. Her induction was a celebration of her achievements and a reminder of her lasting impact on the sport and the many skaters who followed in her footsteps. Patti’s legacy is a testament to the importance of inclusivity, showing that skateboarding is for everyone, regardless of gender.

Beyond her professional accomplishments, Patti’s impact on the skateboarding community was profound. She continued to inspire new generations of skaters, sharing her love for the sport and advocating for the inclusion of women. Her spirit, determination, and dedication to her craft left an indelible mark on the skateboarding world, connecting her to skaters of all ages and backgrounds.

Patti McGee passed away on October 16, 2024, after suffering a stroke and subsequent complications. Her death marked the end of a remarkable life that helped shape the skateboarding world. As a champion, a role model, and a pioneer, she will be remembered as the matriarch of skateboarding, someone who paved the way for women in the sport and left an enduring legacy of passion and inclusivity. Her absence leaves a void in the skateboarding community that will be felt for years.

Obituary: Patti McGee (1945-2024)

Patti McGee, the world’s first professional female skateboarder and an iconic figure in skateboarding history, passed away on October 16, 2024, following complications from a stroke. She was 79 years old.

Born on August 23, 1945, Patti grew up in the United States, where she developed a love for skateboarding early in life. She first gained national recognition in 1964 when she won the Women’s National Skateboard Championship. Her victory established her as a pioneer in the sport and a role model for future generations of female skaters.

In 1965, Patti became the first woman to appear on the cover of Life magazine, an iconic moment that showcased her talent and helped popularize skateboarding. That same year, she became the first professional female skateboarder, sponsored by Hobie Skateboards and Vita Pak, traveling the country to perform and promote the sport.

Her contributions to skateboarding were formally recognized in 2010 when she became the first woman inducted into the Skateboarding Hall of Fame. Patti’s induction was a crowning achievement in a career filled with groundbreaking moments, solidifying her status as a trailblazer in the sport.

Throughout her life, Patti remained a beloved figure in the skateboarding community. She inspired skaters of all ages and advocated for women’s participation in the sport. Her passion, talent, and dedication left an enduring legacy that will continue to influence the skateboarding world for years.

Patti goes on before her daughter, Hailey, and countless friends and admirers in the skateboarding community. Her life is a remembering of her exceptional achievements, vibrant spirit, and commitment to promoting inclusivity in the sport she loves.

We are grateful for Patti McGee’s life and legacy. She was a true pioneer, a legend, and an inspiration to all who followed in her footsteps. Missing her presence in the world will continue forever, but her legacy will continue to roll on, just like the wheels of the skateboards she rode so gracefully.

May she rest in peace.

Meeting Mendez

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

Ralph and Kevin had been friends for over twenty years, sharing a modest two-bedroom apartment in a cozy part of the city. Both were in their fifties and lived parallel lives, working different jobs—Ralph as a graphic designer and Kevin as a financial advisor—but always finding time for each other. They joked about finding “the one” someday, but their hope had always been tinged with sarcasm. At their age, they felt the ideal guy might never show up.

But then something shifted.

It started on an ordinary Monday morning. They sat at the kitchen table, sipping their coffees, when Kevin casually mentioned he had met someone the night before. “His name is Mendez,” he said, a sly smile across his face. “And Ralph, he’s… everything.”

Ralph’s stomach did a somersault. He had indeed met someone, too. Just last night, after his art gallery event, he found himself in a dimly lit bar, the kind that seemed to exist in a world of its own. And there, perched at the corner of the bar, was Mendez—a man who could only be described as strikingly handsome, with dark eyes that seemed to hold a universe of secrets, a soft-spoken charm that was as disarming as it was alluring, and a smile that could light up the darkest of rooms.

“Funny you say that,” Ralph replied. “I met someone, too. His name’s also Mendez. We hit it off.”

Kevin chuckled, taking a long sip from his coffee. “What are the odds?”

Their conversations in the following days were filled with similar stories of their encounters with Mendez. Kevin would describe how they had shared a romantic evening stroll by the river, and Ralph would excitedly mention how they had gone dancing the same night. Their descriptions of this enigmatic Mendez were eerily similar—his chiseled jawline, his gentle laugh, the way he seemed to know exactly what to say to make them feel like the only person in the room. Yet neither of them suspected anything was off. After all, Mendez was a common enough last name, right?

But as the weeks passed, their mutual friends noticed something strange. At morning coffee with their usual crowd, Ralph and Kevin would each gush about their dates from the night before. They discussed romantic dinners, late-night jazz clubs, and private rooftop moments. Their stories mirrored one another so closely that their friends couldn’t help but wonder—were they seeing the same man?

“Wait a minute,” said Lisa, a close friend, during one of their coffee meetups. “You both met this guy named Mendez? And you’re telling me he took you both to the same jazz club on different nights?”

The group laughed, but the tension between Ralph and Kevin grew. Were they falling for the same guy? They started to second-guess every detail—his favorite wine, his weekend plans, the way he called them “his secret muse.”

Still, neither wanted to believe it. Kevin would ask, “Did your Mendez talk about his job?”

Ralph would reply, “Yeah, he mentioned something about being in real estate.”

“Same here. But, come on, we’re seeing different guys. That’s impossible.”

Finally, the tension reached a breaking point. One Saturday night, the two friends finally agreed to go out together to introduce themselves to their respective Mendez. They picked a lively nightclub known for its cool vibe and easy conversation. Ralph’s heart raced as he considered the possibility of confronting the truth.

When they arrived, they scanned the crowd, both eager and nervous. And then, there he was—Mendez, standing by the bar, smiling warmly at them.

Only to their utter surprise, there were two of them.

Ralph and Kevin exchanged bewildered glances as the two men, identical except for subtle differences, made their way over. The Mendez brothers—Marco and Luis—stood side by side, charming as ever.

Kevin burst into laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he exclaimed, his amusement contagious.

Ralph shook his head, grinning in disbelief. “Twins? Really?”

The four sat down, exchanging stories and laughing about the coincidence. As it turned out, Marco had met Kevin at one bar, and Luis had met Ralph at another. They had no idea their new romantic interests were roommates.

It wasn’t the love triangle they had feared—it was something far better, a delightful twist that brought them closer.

And just like that, Ralph and Kevin realized that sometimes, the universe works in mysterious—and surprisingly humorous—ways, leaving them and their friends in fits of laughter.