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.
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.
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.
“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 Historical and Social Context
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.
Perceptions of “Make America Great Again” in Modern Discourse
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.
Discrimination and Political Messaging
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
Today, ultra-processed foods dominate the American food supply, making up over half of an American adult’s diet and two-thirds of an American child’s diet despite links to poor health.
Even as those numbers are likely to increase, and food technology develops at lightning speed, U.S. agencies have seemed to lag behind in updating the rules that regulate these foods compared to other countries.
CBS Reports examines why ultra-processed foods have become so pervasive in the American diet – and what filling the gaps in federal regulation can do to ensure Americans are fed and healthy.
Watch Ultra Processed: How Food Tech Consumed the American Diet on CBS News, Paramount+ or by downloading the free CBS News App.
Tom Richardson awoke one ordinary morning with an extraordinary conviction: he was the sole individual of significance. He did not consider himself to be isolated—others still surrounded him. However, in his perception, they were merely silhouettes, existing solely to fulfill his desires, frustrations, and caprices. The needs, emotions, and experiences of all others were simply ambient noise, inconsequential to the grand narrative of his existence. In this self-centered realm, Tom stood as the sole inhabitant, a solitary monarch in a realm of his own creation.
Tom was entitled, cutting to the front of lines, talking over people in meetings, and driving through red lights without hesitation. He believed the world should move at his pace, bulldozing through daily interactions with unchecked arrogance.
At work, Tom’s behavior was incredibly disruptive. His coworkers noticed how he monopolized conversations during meetings, often interrupting others and steering the discussions towards his own agenda. He frequently dismissed ideas he did not like, making it challenging for his colleagues to express their opinions freely. Additionally, Tom had a habit of taking credit for work he had not done, which created a toxic environment of mistrust and resentment among the team. His colleague Melissa, in particular, had spent months pouring her energy and creativity into a project, only to watch Tom take the spotlight during the presentation without acknowledging her contributions. Her face burned with frustration and disappointment, but Tom was already basking in the praise, completely unaware—or uncaring—of the hurt he had caused. As a result of his actions, the morale of the team suffered, productivity decreased, and valuable talent began seeking opportunities elsewhere. The tangible consequences of Tom’s behavior were felt deeply by those around him, and the weight of his actions continued to impact the work environment.
Outside the office, Tom’s interactions were just as callous. In a crowded coffee shop, he snapped at the barista for taking too long with his order. When the woman in front of him politely asked if she could move ahead to grab her drink, Tom scoffed and said, “Wait your turn, like the rest of us.” It never occurred to him that her child was crying in the car outside or that her day might unravel.
In relationships, Tom’s selfishness is all-consuming. His girlfriend, Kate, was initially patient, excusing his behavior as stress. However, as time passed, she realized that Tom’s wants and needs dictated every conversation, every plan, and every moment they shared.
“Can we ever do something I want?”
she asked one evening. Tom shrugged, dismissing her words as if they were background noise.
“It is not that important,”
he replied, flipping through the TV channels as she sat beside him, feeling smaller every second.
The world began to push back.
At work, Melissa and other colleagues stopped inviting Tom to meetings. His input was more a hindrance than a help. Projects moved more smoothly without his constant interruptions. The team thrived in his absence, but Tom remained blissfully unaware, believing that his exclusion was a sign of jealousy or resentment, never his behavior.
On the streets, strangers grew cold. People who once offered pleasantries started to avoid him. The barista, usually polite despite his rudeness, began greeting him with silent, stony indifference. Tom, of course, assumed they were having bad days.
“Not my problem,” ––– he muttered each time.
At home, Kate left. Her final words echoed through their now-empty apartment:
“You do not see me, Tom. Tom, never will you see me!.”
Tom stood in the doorway, confused and angry, unable to comprehend why she was so upset. As far as he was concerned, everything had been fine—because everything had always been about him.
However, despite the growing distance between him and the world, Tom did not connect the dots. The problem, as far as he was concerned, was not him. It was everyone else. Why didn’t people understand that he was in charge of his life? Why didn’t they see that his needs were urgent, his time valuable, his presence essential? His self-centeredness was creating a chasm between him and the rest of the world, a gap that was widening with each passing day.
The final straw came one quiet evening. Tom sat in a restaurant, dining alone —–– a common occurrence now. He waved the waiter over impatiently, complaining about the wait for his meal. The waiter, a man in his late fifties with graying hair and tired eyes, looked at Tom and sighed.
“You are not the only person in the world, you know,” the waiter said softly, his voice edged with exhaustion. “You act like we are all here just for you, but we are not.”
Tom bristled at the remark, ready to retort with something biting to remind the man of his place. However, the waiter’s words hung in the air momentarily, their truth unsettled. The weight of his words, heavy with truth, began to sink in, stirring something deep within Tom.
For the first time in a long time, Tom looked around. The restaurant was filled with people—couples sharing meals, families laughing, servers rushing between tables. Each of them had their own stories, struggles, and lives. They were not shadows. They were not here for him. They were living their own lives, just as vivid and real as his.
The weight of it settled on Tom like a cold wave. For years, he had moved through the world as if it were his stage, oblivious to the people around him. He had interrupted their lives, stepped over their feelings, and demanded their attention without a second thought. He had bulldozed his way through, never considering the damage he left behind.
And then, in a moment that would change his life, he saw it. For the first time, Tom indeed saw the world around him, not as a stage for his performance, but as a rich tapestry of lives, each as important as his own.
Tom left the restaurant without finishing his meal, the waiter’s words echoing in his mind. As he walked down the street, past people he had never noticed, a strange feeling stirred in him—something akin to humility, though he would not have called it that. It was a shift in his attitude and his perception of the world.
The world did not revolve around him—it never had. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, Tom realized just how much he had lost because of it.
As just as he did, not expecting for it to happen, Jesus Christ popped in and said he is going to vote for Kamala Harris!
In the late 1980s, in the heart of Philadelphia, there was a small, hole-in-the-wall cheesesteak joint called “Tony’s Grub Hub.” The scent of sizzling beef and onions filled the air, and the line for a classic Philly cheesesteak often wrapped around the block. Among the regulars was a local character named Chuck McCready, a fierce, well-loved figure in the neighborhood known for his larger-than-life personality and his deep, almost spiritual love for Philadelphia’s favorite sandwich.
Chuck was a man of principle and passion who never took kindly to the concept of “rules,” especially those that got in the way of a good meal. One fateful evening, Chuck was seated at his usual spot in Tony’s, about to dig into his third cheesesteak of the night—a massive, dripping monster of a sandwich stuffed with extra meat, onions, and a double helping of cheese whiz.
But as Chuck was about to take his first bite, a group of police officers entered the establishment. They had received reports of someone fitting Chuck’s description causing a disturbance in the area earlier that day. They approached Chuck, asking him to step outside for questioning.
Not one to back down, Chuck looked up from his cheesesteak, his hands still clutching the sandwich, and growled, “What’s the charge? Eating a cheesesteak? A succulent Philly cheesesteak?”
The officers, taken aback by his unexpected response, insisted he come quietly. Now fully immersed in the moment, Chuck stood up, holding his half-eaten cheesesteak high like a wand. “This is America, baby!” he bellowed, “Home of the free, where a man can enjoy his meal in peace!”
What happened next was a chaotic scene of Chuck getting dragged out of the restaurant, still holding his cheesesteak, shouting about his rights, and demanding to know why a man couldn’t enjoy a simple meal without being harassed. As the officers tried to force him into the squad car, Chuck continued his tirade: “Is this how we treat a cheesesteak lover in Philly? America is a democracy! My actions are freedom manifest!”
The incident was caught on camera by a passerby and quickly went viral. With Chuck’s impassioned defense of his right to eat a cheesesteak, the video resonated with people across the country. Memes of Chuck McCready declaring “This is freedom manifest!” while clutching a cheesesteak became an overnight sensation.
Years later, Chuck McCready became a folk hero, a symbol of defiance and the right to enjoy life’s simple pleasures. His story was told and retold, often with embellishments, but always with the same core message: no one comes between a man and his cheesesteak in America. His iconic catchphrase, “What’s the charge? Eating a cheesesteak?” became a rallying cry for those who valued freedom and a good meal.
Chuck McCready, the man who stood up for his right to enjoy a succulent Philly cheesesteak, became a legend in the city of brotherly love and is forever remembered as the Cheesesteak Defender.
He was the first to buy a Model T in a town east of his farm. I am referring to Benjamin Groff I. The guy everyone called “Pop” was my grandfather. He was not a flashy guy. He wasn’t wealthy. He was a farmer on the lower plains who had survived the Dust Bowl and made a living on the scant meager crops that grew in the 1930s; he battled through the shortages of provisions to provide for his family from 1911 to when his wife died in 1975.
Sometime before 1920, he rode a draft (draught) horse to a small town where a horse trader had just opened a Ford dealership. His mission was not to get a car. It was to sell his horse, get items for the farm, and maybe a pony in trade.
My grandfather was a talker just as quick in his elder years. He must have been a whiz when he was young. He could quietly engage you in a conversation and have you change your view on a subject without knowing how or when you did. And he was good at it. He must have done some slick horse trading because he left the Ford dealership with a New Model T, $100, and an unrestricted driver’s lesson.
He was the first to buy a Model-T in Binger, Oklahoma, and drive to a farm West of Eakly, Oklahoma, in Caddo County. His wife, Florence, who everyone affectionately referred to as “Mom,” stepped out of their kitchen door and pouted out,
“Oh Lord, what have you done now, Pop?”
Replying proudly, Pop said –––
“Ma Ma Mom, I went and traded that dead head for us a motorized buggy and a way to get around where we will be warm and dry!”
News of Pop’s new car spread like wildfire in the countryside. Their kids had already dashed out of the house and clambered into the vehicle. The oldest had sprinted down the road to the neighbors, proudly announcing their newfound ‘riches ‘. As the news rippled from home to home, a sense of shared excitement and anticipation filled the air. Everyone wanted Pop to accompany them for horse trading, to help them secure a car. It was the start of a bustling Spring, filled with shared goals and a united sense of purpose.
The request for bartering went on for months, and finally, Pop had to stop people coming over and say look, I have to get my crops in for the summer; if you want to help me plow my fields and get my livestock ready for sales I will be glad to catch your bartering, but I am so far behind I won’t be able to feed my family. So when do you want to come over? The calls stopped except for one.
A lady named Loranne had six children and was single. The oldest child was a boy about 15, then a girl about 13, another boy about 10, a boy about 8, a boy about 6, and a baby girl about 2. Her husband had died in a farming accident two years ago. She lived alone with them and had no means of support except for the work she took in from neighbors, such as ironing, washing, helping with food, watching children for families, etc.
Loranne said –––
“If you can help me get a car, I will plant your fields and care for your animals. You won’t have to do anything.”
Pop said to her –––
“You won’t do no such thing; your two oldest boys and mine and I will get the crops and livestock taken care of; you can help Mom around the house and do whatever you need for your home. You take care of your children!”
Loranne was grateful for the opportunity and agreed to begin working bright and early the following day. Pop’s farm, once a quiet expanse of land, now buzzed with life and activity. Loranne’s boys, alongside Pop’s children, worked tirelessly in the fields. Their laughter and shared experiences brought a renewed sense of hope and camaraderie to the farm. Under Pop’s wise guidance, the boys learned the intricacies of farming, infusing the farm with fresh energy and determination. The farm had transformed into a vibrant community hub, a testament to the power of collaboration and shared goals.
Mom and Loranne quickly formed a close bond. While the boys were out in the fields, the women would work together in the house, preparing meals, mending clothes, and sharing stories. Mom’s gentle nature complemented Loranne’s resilience; together, they created a warm and welcoming home for all the children.
Days turned into weeks, and the farm began to flourish. Pop and the boys plowed the fields and planted the crops, and the livestock was well cared for. The hard work and cooperation paid off, and the farm soon thrived once again. Pop kept his promise to help Loranne get a car. After a successful summer harvest, he took her to the Ford dealership, and with his keen negotiating skills, he secured a reliable Model T for her and her children.
The day Loranne drove her new car back to her home was a moment of triumph for everyone involved. The children cheered and joy filled Loranne’s eyes as she thanked Pop and Mom for their generosity and support.
Pop smiled and said, –––– “We’re all in this together, Loranne. That’s what neighbors are for.”
As the years passed, the bond between the two families grew stronger. The children grew up, and the farm continued to prosper. Pop’s act of kindness had a lasting impact, changing the lives of Loranne and her children. It also brought the community closer together. His legacy of compassion, hard work, and generosity lived on through the stories passed down by those who knew him, a beacon of hope and inspiration for future generations.
And so, the tale of Pop, the first man in town to buy a Model T, became more than just a story about a car. It was a testament to the power of community, the strength of the human spirit, and the enduring impact of one man’s kindness.
It’s not just the tender chicken, the perfectly cooked noodles, or the savory broth that make it special; it’s the way this humble soup stirs memories of cherished family moments, rainy days spent indoors, and the simple, comforting presence of loved ones.
As the sun rose over the small town of Oakwood, its warm rays illuminated the rows of white headstones in the Oakwood Cemetery. The city, steeped in a rich history of honoring fallen soldiers, had always observed Memorial Day with solemn pride. This day, originally known as Decoration Day, was established after the Civil War to commemorate the Union and Confederate soldiers who died in the war. It has since evolved to honor all Americans who have died in military service.
Sarah Thompson stood at the cemetery’s gate, holding a bouquet of red, white, and blue flowers. She was in her late thirties, her eyes reflecting sorrow and strength. Visiting the cemetery was her yearly ritual—a pilgrimage to visit the grave of her brother, Daniel, who had died in Afghanistan a decade ago.
As Sarah walked along the gravel path, she remembered the day they received the news. It had been a bright summer afternoon, much like today. Daniel had always been a source of light and joy in their family, with his infectious laughter and boundless energy. The knock on the door that day had shattered their world.
Sarah reached Daniel’s grave and knelt, gently placing the flowers in front of the headstone. She traced her fingers over his name etched in the cold stone and whispered a prayer. Memories flooded back—playing tag in the backyard, late-night talks about their dreams, and the tearful goodbye when he left for his final deployment.
The cemetery, a place of collective grief and remembrance, began to fill with others who had come to pay their respects. Families, friends, and fellow veterans moved among the graves, their shared sorrow palpable in the air. Some walked in silence, their thoughts a private tribute, while others shared stories, their voices a collective echo of the lives lost.
A familiar voice broke Sarah’s reverie. “Hey, Sarah.”
She turned to see Tom, one of Daniel’s best friends from high school, standing nearby. He held a small American flag, which he placed at the base of the headstone. Tom had served alongside Daniel and had been with him during his last moments.
“It’s good to see you, Tom,” Sarah said, her voice soft.
Tom nodded, his eyes filled with shared grief. “I come here every year. Feels like the least I can do.”
They stood in silence for a moment, their hearts heavy with the weight of their loss. Each lost in their thoughts, memories of Daniel flooding their minds. Then Tom began to speak, his voice steady but emotional, his words a testament to the bravery and selflessness of their fallen friend. ‘Daniel was the bravest person I knew,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘He always put others before himself. Even in the end, he worried more about us than his safety.’
Sarah smiled through her tears. “That sounds like him.”
The morning wore on, and more people arrived, each carrying their own memories and gratitude. A group of children from the local school, accompanied by their teachers, placed flags on the graves of all the fallen soldiers, a symbol of their respect and understanding of the sacrifices made. The town’s mayor gave a short speech, his words echoing with the collective gratitude and remembrance of the community. A local choir sang ‘America the Beautiful,’ their voices a poignant reminder of the unity and strength that comes from shared values. The collective remembrance was a powerful testament to the sacrifices made by so many.
As the ceremony ended, Sarah and Tom lingered by Daniel’s grave a little longer. They shared stories, laughed, and cried, finding comfort in each other’s company.
“Thank you for being here,” Sarah said as they prepared to leave.
“Always,” Tom replied. “He was my brother, too.”
They returned to the cemetery gate together, the sun now high in the sky. As Sarah looked back one last time at the sea of white headstones, she felt a sense of peace. Memorial Day was not just about remembering the fallen; it was about celebrating their lives and the values they stood for.
Driving home, Sarah contemplated the significance of this day and how she would pass on its importance to her children. She understood that as long as they remembered, Daniel’s spirit would continue to live on. Every Memorial Day, she would return to this hallowed ground, ensuring that the memory of her brother and all those who had made the ultimate sacrifice for their country would never fade.
In checking references part of this story may include referencese similar to others found on the internet. The simularities are incidential and are not included intentional. You can find more these simularities RE: New York. Memorial Day. Monument. Dead Soldier. Wheelchair. Handicapped Boy. | Didier Ruef | Photography. https://www.didierruef.com/gallery-image/Aura/G0000Is39GN2Av9w/I0000aHlCvWVZLNc/C0000EU0LcXmMzWo/
The city of Riverton never slept, nor did Detectives Jake Harris and Sam O’Reilly. Partners for over a decade roamed the nocturnal streets with the kind of synergy only best friends could muster. Their squad car, an unremarkable blue-and-white cruiser, was a beacon of hope for some and a symbol of fear for others.
Jake, with his gruff exterior and piercing blue eyes, was the kind of cop who could read a crime scene like a book. Sam, a lean figure with a quick wit and a knack for defusing tense situations, complemented Jake perfectly. Together, they led the department in felony arrests, arriving at calls faster than anyone else and building relationships with the community that others could only dream of.
One brisk autumn night, their radio crackled to life with a call that made their hearts race: an armed robbery in progress at the 24-hour diner on 5th and Maple. Without a word, Jake hit the lights and sirens, and they sped through the dimly lit streets. They arrived in just under three minutes, a record even for them.
The diner was eerily quiet as they approached, save for the distant hum of neon lights. Inside, a masked man brandished a gun, demanding cash from the terrified cashier. Jake motioned for Sam to flank the back entrance while he took the front.
Jake entered slowly, his voice calm but authoritative. ––––
“Riverton PD, drop the weapon and come out with your hands up.”
The gunman whipped around, eyes wide with panic.
“Stay back! I’ll shoot!”
From the rear, Sam’s voice cut through the tension.
“No, you won’t. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Put the gun down, and we can talk.”
The gunman’s grip on the weapon faltered. In that split second, Jake lunged forward, disarming him with a swift, practiced motion. Sam was at his side instantly, cuffing the man and guiding him to the squad car.
As they processed the scene, the cashier, a young woman named Maria, approached them with tears in her eyes.
“Thank you. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come.”
Jake gave her a reassuring nod. “Just doing our job, ma’am.”
The rest of the night was a blur of paperwork and patrols. But their most memorable interaction came just before dawn. While cruising through a quieter part of town, they spotted a boy sitting alone on a bench, clutching a backpack to his chest. They pulled over, and Sam approached him gently.
“Hey there, buddy. Everything alright?”
The boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten, looked up with tear-streaked cheeks.
“I ran away from home. My parents are always fighting.”
Sam sat next to him, listening with the patience of a father and says –––
“I get it, kid. Sometimes, home can be tough. But running away won’t solve anything. Let’s get you back home and see if we can help sort things out.”
Jake contacted the boy’s parents while Sam spoke with him. The sun was peeking over the horizon when they returned the boy home. Now more worried than angry, the parents hugged their son tightly and thanked the officers.
As they drove back to the station, Jake glanced over at Sam, sighs then says –––
“Another night, another set of stories, huh?”
Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
In Riverton, one could become a legend in the shadows, and for Jake and Sam, every night was another chance to protect and serve, forging connections and fighting crime in ways that others could only admire.
Harrison, a young boy with a mop of unruly hair, was not yet old enough to attend the local school with his siblings. For that, he was delighted. The thought of shuffling off to a gloomy classroom with many kids making noise and a teacher telling him what to do was a nightmare. He’d rather be where he was, in his dad’s bustling barber shop, sitting high on the shoeshine chair overlooking the men sitting and waiting for a haircut. His dad, a tall and burly man with a booming voice, had three barber chairs, but he was the lone barber in the shop and wanted to keep it that way. The two extra chairs were great for the overflow customers who missed their chance to sit in one of the chairs against the wall. Harrison, always curious, wanted to ask the group if they were getting haircuts for a Sunday funeral, which usually draws such a crowd to his dad’s shop. But he didn’t dare ask such a question, knowing his father would object.
An older gentleman sitting in one of the chairs waiting for his turn in the barber’s chair spoke up –––
“There’s a grand parade coming down Main Street this afternoon, right in front of your shop, Harrison. The Governor and a Star Baseball Player from the Yankees are expected to ride in the banker’s convertible Cadillac. It’s going to be quite a spectacle,”
the man in the chair shared, his voice filled with anticipation.
Only Harrison’s dad remarked,
“I guess they’ll have to do it without my help; I have hair to cut.”
His dad’s voice was dry, and his humor was just as much, and the tone in which he laid out the line caused those waiting for a haircut to laugh. He pulled the towel from around the neck of the main sitting in his chair, removed the barber cape covering him, shook it out, and said –––
That’ll be a buck! Next!
Harrison watched as the man in the chair, a middle-aged man with a kind smile and a twinkle in his eye, smiled and handed his dad a crisp dollar bill. They exchanged pleasantries, their voices filled with warmth and familiarity, before the man stepped down from the chair, revealing a fresh, neatly trimmed haircut. As the man left the shop, the doorbell jingled behind him, the sound echoing in the empty space.
The following customer shuffled forward, settling into the vacated barber chair. He was a tall, lanky man with a worn-out cowboy hat perched atop his head, his face weathered and etched with lines of a life spent outdoors. Harrison recognized him as Mr. Jenkins, the ranch owner just outside town, a man known for his quiet wisdom and his love for his horses.
“Hey there, Mr. Jenkins,”
Harrison’s dad greeted warmly, draping the striped barber cape around his shoulders.
“What’ll it be today?”
Mr. Jenkins leaned back in the chair, adjusting his hat slightly.
“Well, I reckon I need a trim for the Missus’s birthday dinner tonight. Can’t be looking like a tumbleweed on such an occasion,”
He chuckled.
Harrison grinned from his perch on the shoeshine chair, enjoying the banter between his dad and Mr. Jenkins. As his dad began clipping away at Mr. Jenkins’ hair, the old rancher glanced over at Harrison with a twinkle in his eye.
“You excited about that parade, son?”
he asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.
Harrison nodded eagerly.
“Sure am, Mr. Jenkins! I heard the Governor and a Yankees player will be there.”
Mr. Jenkins chuckled, nodding in agreement.
“Yep, quite the spectacle, I reckon. But you know what they say, Harrison, sometimes the best show in town ain’t the one with the fanciest floats. There’s more to this parade than meets the eye,”
Mr. Jenkins said, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mystery. His words hung in the air, leaving Harrison with a sense of intrigue and a thousand questions.
Harrison furrowed his brow, intrigued by Mr. Jenkins’ cryptic comment. Before he could inquire further, his dad finished the haircut, removing the barber cape with a flourish.
“All set, Mr. Jenkins. That’ll be a buck,”
He said with a grin.
Mr. Jenkins handed over the payment with a tip, tipping his hat to Harrison and his dad before heading out the door confidently.
Harrison’s dad turned to him with a smile.
“Well, son, it’s your turn to shine. How about you polish those shoes while I tidy up here?”
Harrison’s heart raced with excitement as he reached for the Polish brush, his mind buzzing with anticipation for the parade and Mr. Jenkins’s mysterious words. He couldn’t help but wonder what the old rancher meant. Was there something more to this parade than just a grand spectacle? Little did he know, this ordinary day in the barbershop would soon become an extraordinary adventure he would never forget.
After Mr. Jenkins left the barber shop, Harrison’s dad glanced at the clock on the wall and realized it was almost time for the parade. With a quick sweep of the broom, he tidied up the shop and then turned to Harrison with a grin.
“Looks like we’ve got a front-row seat, son. Let’s go see what all the fuss is about,”
He said, grabbing his coat from the hook by the door.
Excitedly, Harrison followed his dad outside, his steps quick and light. He joined the growing crowd lining Main Street, his eyes scanning the area for the best view of the parade route. The air was charged with anticipation as people jostled for the best view of the parade route. Harrison’s heart raced with excitement as he tried to catch a glimpse of the Governor and the Yankees player, his eyes darting from one end of the street to the other.
Harrison’s eyes widened with wonder as the first drumbeats echoed in the distance, signaling the parade’s approach. The air was filled with the scent of freshly popped popcorn and cotton candy, and the sound of children’s laughter mingled with the lively tunes played by the marching bands. Colorful floats adorned with balloons and streamers rolled by in a kaleidoscope of colors. Marching bands played lively tunes, their music filling the air. Costumed performers danced along the street, their movements a blur of energy and excitement.
But amidst the fanfare, Harrison noticed something unusual. At the back of the parade, a group of riders on horseback trotted along, their faces obscured by bandanas, their horses sleek and powerful. They were followed by a wagon covered in a tarp, pulled by a team of sturdy horses. The air around them seemed to crackle with an energy different from the rest of the parade, a sense of mystery and intrigue. Harrison couldn’t help but wonder who they were and what they were doing in the parade.
Curiosity piqued, Harrison tugged on his dad’s sleeve.
Unable to suppress his curiosity, Harrison tugged on his dad’s sleeve, his eyes fixed on the enigmatic riders. His voice was filled with a mix of excitement and intrigue as he asked his dad about them.
He asked, pointing to the mysterious riders.
His dad frowned, scanning the procession.
“I’m not sure, son. They don’t look like part of the official parade.”
Just as the parade climaxed, a sudden turn of events caught Harrison’s attention. A wagon, covered in a mysterious tarp, veered off the parade route, rumbling down a side street.
Instinctively, Harrison’s dad grabbed his hand, his expression grave.
With a sense of foreboding, Harrison’s dad grabbed his hand, his expression grave.
“Stay close, Harrison. Something doesn’t seem right here,”
he said, his voice filled with concern.
With a sense of foreboding, Harrison and his dad followed the wagon, their footsteps echoing through the side streets and alleyways. The sound of the parade grew fainter with each turn, replaced by the distant hum of the town. Eventually, they emerged into a deserted square on the outskirts of town, where the wagon had come to a stop.
As they approached cautiously, they heard muffled voices and metal clinking. Peering around a corner, Harrison’s heart raced as he witnessed a group of masked figures unloading crates from the wagon, their faces twisted in sinister determination.
Harrison realized that the mysterious riders were thieves and were about to commit a robbery right under the town’s nose.
Harrison’s dad pulled him back into the shadows without hesitation, his eyes darting urgently.
“We need to get help, son. Stay here and stay quiet. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Harrison’s mind raced with fear and adrenaline as his dad sprinted into the night. Alone in the darkness, he knew he was the only one who could stop the thieves and save his town from disaster.
Summoning his courage, Harrison crept closer to the scene, his heart pounding. Little did he know, this chance encounter at his dad’s barbershop would thrust him into the heart of an adventure filled with danger, bravery, and the true meaning of heroism.
As Harrison watched the thieves unload their crates in the deserted square, he knew he had to act fast. With a steely resolve, he devised a plan to thwart the robbery and protect his town.
Silently, Harrison slipped through the shadows, keeping his movements as quiet as possible. Drawing upon the skills he had learned from listening to his dad’s stories of bravery and courage, he maneuvered closer to the thieves, carefully avoiding detection.
Harrison quickly glanced around the square and spotted a stack of crates nearby. Acting swiftly, he grabbed a handful of pebbles from the ground and began to hurl them toward the crates, creating a diversion.
The thieves, startled by the sudden noise, turned towards the sound, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. Seizing the opportunity, Harrison sprang into action, darting towards the wagon with lightning speed.
With a burst of adrenaline, Harrison leaped onto the back of the wagon, his heart pounding in his chest. Ignoring the shouts of the thieves behind him, he frantically searched for something to use as a weapon.
His eyes fell upon a coil of rope lying in the corner of the wagon. Without hesitation, Harrison grabbed the rope and began to lash out at the thieves, swinging it with all his might.
Caught off guard by Harrison’s unexpected attack, the thieves stumbled backward, their faces contorted with shock and surprise. Sensing their momentary confusion, Harrison seized the opportunity to disarm them, knocking their weapons out of their hands with well-aimed blows.
As the tide of the battle turned in his favor, Harrison felt a surge of triumph and adrenaline coursing through his veins. With a determined resolve, he fought with all his strength, refusing to back down in the face of danger.
In the end, it was Harrison’s bravery and quick thinking that saved the day. With the help of his dad and the townspeople, he apprehended the thieves and prevented the robbery from taking place.
As he stood victorious in the square, surrounded by cheers and applause from the grateful townsfolk, Harrison knew that he had discovered the true meaning of heroism. And though his adventure had been filled with danger and peril, it had also taught him the importance of courage, resilience, and the power of standing up for what is right.
Kick off Pride month with a 5-day festival celebrating our community’s legacy and exciting contemporary stories Showcasing film premieres, filmmaker Q&A’s, and social events May 30 – June 3, 2024
NewFest Pride has it all — premieres of the year’s most anticipated queer films, conversations, parties and outdoor screenings! Check out the full lineup below.
Get A Pass
Membership Plus Members + above get free Virtual Passes.
A HOUSE IS NOT A DISCO (Opening Night Film & Party)
Dir. Brian J. Smith
A compelling, lovingly-captured portrait of Fire Island as queer paradise that sees past and present blur within the iconic beach town as it celebrates its collective legacy and redefines itself for a modern era.
Ticket includes entrance to Opening Night Party at Slate.
MY OLD ASS
Dir. Megan Park
In this fresh coming-of-age story, an 18th birthday mushroom trip brings free-spirited Elliott (Maisy Stella) face-to-face with her wisecracking 39-year-old self (Aubrey Plaza).
HAZE
Dir. Matthew Fifer
A young journalist returns home to investigate the unsolved deaths at an abandoned psychiatric center in this eerie, evocative psychological thriller from writer/director Matthew Fifer (CICADA)
CLOSE TO YOU
Dir. Dominic Savage
Producer and co-writer Elliot Page stars in this emotionally observant drama about returning home as yourself and finding hope in potentially rekindled relationships
FANTASMAS (Episodes 1 & 2)
Dir. Julio Torres
A delightfully wry new series from the imagination of creator, star, writer, and director Julio Torres (LOS ESPOOKYS, PROBLEMISTA)
THE QUEEN OF MY DREAMS
Dir. Fawzia Mirza
Grad student Azra feels worlds apart from her seemingly rigid mother yet uncovers their unexpected connections on a trip to Pakistan in this vibrant festival favorite (TIFF, SXSW) from writer/director Fawzia Mirza. Ticket comes with entrance to Women’s Afternoon Out pre-screening reception
SEBASTIAN
Dir. Mikko Mäkelä
A freelance writer and aspiring novelist on his way to ostensible success in London’s cultural spheres finds a different kind of exhilaration as a sex worker in this Sundance sensation.
AM I OK?
Dirs. Tig Notaro & Stephanie Allynne
Dakota Johnson stars in this uplifting comedy from co-directors Tig Notaro & Stephanie Allynne about self-discovery, life changes, and friendship.
BLACK QUEER PRIDE SHORTS WITH VIMEO
Join NewFest & Vimeo for a celebratory short film showcase by and about Black LGBTQ+ lives, joys, and experiences.
COMING AROUND
Dir. Sandra Itäinen
A young queer woman stands at a crossroads with her devout Muslim mother in a clash between identity and tradition.
THE SUMMER WITH CARMEN
Dir. Zacharias Mavroeidis
While enjoying a day at a clothing-optional queer beach, an aspiring filmmaker and their handsome friend collaborate on a screenplay in this whimsical summer treat.
WE’RE HERE (Season 4 Finale)
Dir. Peter LoGreco
Join NewFest and HBO for an advance screening of the Season Four finale, followed by an exclusive virtual conversation with creators and cast.
TRIXIE MOTEL: DRAG ME HOME (Series Premiere)
Tune in for an advance screening + exclusive virtual Q&A as Trixie and her partner David explore and design a dream home fit for two!
TO WONG FOO, THANKS FOR EVERYTHING! JULIE NEWMAR (Outdoor Screening)
Kick off NewFest’s new partnership with Universal Pictures – “Pride Summer Movie Nights at Rockefeller Center”
IN-PERSON + STREAMING VIP All Access Pass — $185 Discount for NewFest Members All in-person screenings and events (including Opening Night Film & Party, and Women’s Afternoon Out) and virtual screenings. Early access to theater and reserved seats. Learn how to fulfill passes here.
IN–PERSON Individual Film Ticket – $19.50 Discount for NewFest Members In-Person access to a single screening. Does not include A HOUSE IS NOT A DISCO or Women’s Afternoon Out Tickets.
Opening Night Film + Party Ticket – $50 Discount for NewFest Members In-Person access to the Opening Night Film A HOUSE IS NOT A DISCO and the following party.
In-Person All Access Pass — $115 Discount for NewFest Members Includes all in-person screenings, including Opening Night Film & Party, and Women’s Afternoon Out. Learn how to fulfill passes here.
STREAMING Virtual Pass — $30 Discount for NewFest Members Virtual access to select screenings. Does not include in-person Q&A’s, however there are a select number of virtual Q&A’s available. All films screening virtually are available May 30 at 12 PM EST through June 3 at 11:59 PM EST. Streaming anywhere in the United States. Individual tickets are only available for WE’RE HERE and TRIXIE MOTEL: DRAG ME HOME.
Not too long ago, in the quaint town of Willowbrook, there were three inseparable friends: Alex, Maya, and Jake. They worked at the same bustling marketing firm, where Mondays were universally dreaded. However, these three had a secret pact to evade the Monday blues.
On Monday morning, as the sun peeked through the curtains, Alex, the creative genius of the trio, concocted a plan over breakfast. “Guys, I’ve got it! Let’s go on a spontaneous road trip!” Alex exclaimed, a mischievous glint in their eyes.
Maya, the adventurous spirit, beamed with liberation. “Yes! Let’s break free from the chains of mundane Mondays and create unforgettable memories instead!”
“Guys, I’ve got it! Let’s go on a spontaneous road trip!”
Jake, the pragmatic one, hesitated momentarily before a smile spread across his face. “Alright, but let’s make it epic.”
With that, they hastily packed their bags, loaded the car, and set off on an impromptu adventure. They drove through winding country roads, the sun’s golden rays filtering through the lush green trees, belting out their favorite tunes, stopping only for roadside attractions and delectable diners.
As they reached the picturesque town of Willow Grove, they stumbled upon a quaint bed and breakfast nestled amidst rolling hills. The owner, an eccentric but kind-hearted elderly lady named Mrs. Maple, welcomed them with open arms. “You must be tired from your journey,” she said, her eyes twinkling with warmth. “Come in, I’ve prepared some fresh lemonade.”
“We’re on the run from Mondays,” Maya confessed with a wink, and Mrs. Maple chuckled knowingly. “Well then, you’ve come to the right place, my dears. Here, every day feels like a Sunday.”
Their days were filled with laughter, exploration, and newfound friendships. They hiked through lush forests, discovering hidden waterfalls and secret clearings. They picnicked by sparkling streams, the sound of the water providing a soothing backdrop to their conversations. And they shared stories under the starry night sky, the twinkling lights above mirroring the joy in their hearts.
Meanwhile, back at the office, their absence raised eyebrows, but their colleagues couldn’t help but envy their spontaneous escapade. As they stepped back into the familiar hustle and bustle, a mix of nostalgia and determination filled their hearts. They were ready to face the challenges of the week, armed with the memories of their adventure and the strength of their friendship.
As the sun dipped below the horizon on Friday evening, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Alex, Maya, and Jake reluctantly bid farewell to Willow Grove. With hearts full of memories and souls rejuvenated, they returned home just in time for the weekend.
And though Monday morning loomed on the horizon, they faced it with a newfound resilience, bolstered by the strength of their friendship. They knew that with friendship and adventure, they could conquer anything—even the dreaded Mondays.
benandsteve.com 