story telling

The Unlikely Friendship: Lessons in Kindness

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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!

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

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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 Once Was A Clown Named Ho Ho!

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

Ho-Ho the Clown, known to Oklahoma City children from the 1960s to the 1980s, was more than a TV character. Born Edward Birchall on July 16, 1923, in Colchester, Connecticut, he carried a heart of gold beneath his red nose and clown makeup. After serving in the Army Air Forces during WWII, Ed pursued his love of entertainment, eventually becoming the beloved Ho-Ho on KOCO-TV.

Behind the character, Ed Birchall was a regular dad raising six kids in Bethany, Oklahoma, with his wife, Beebe. Regina, one of his daughters, recalls him coming home with clown makeup smeared after a long day, trying to balance the unusual demands of being a full-time clown and father. His work often kept him away from family, but they later realized the personal sacrifices he made and how many lives he touched, instilling a deep sense of gratitude and respect.

For 29 years, Ho-Ho brought joy to children with shows like Lunch with Ho-Ho and Ho-Ho’s Showplace. His bright personality and whimsical sidekick, Pokey the Puppet, lit up local TV screens, helping him become a household name. Yet his role as an entertainer extended beyond the studio—Ed frequently visited children’s hospital wards, delighting patients with his warmth and humor. It wasn’t just his clowning that touched people; his kindness, dedication, and how he made every child feel seen.

When Ed passed in 1988, his funeral was a testament to his impact. It took three services to accommodate the thousands of well-wishers, including an honor guard of clowns. Ed Birchall’s legacy, carried on by his children and remembered by the community, continues to bring smiles to those who grew up with Ho-Ho’s charm, fostering a sense of belonging and shared memory among us all.

The Puppeteer Bill Howard Passed away On January 9th, 2013. Bill Howard, who entertained children as “Pokey the Puppet” on the Ho Ho the Clown show on KOCO in Oklahoma City, has died.

The Intestate Legacy of John Ellis, Esq.

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A Glimpsing Report By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

The name John Ellis, Esq. still echoes in the rolling hills and creeks of Deep River, North Carolina. To those who knew him, he was a stern yet fair Justice of the Peace, ruling his township with a measured hand, holding court in his modest home, and settling disputes with the wisdom of a man who had seen both war and peace. However, there was one mystery about John Ellis that no one could quite explain. For all his legal prowess and the order he brought to his community, John Ellis died without leaving a will—a fact unsettled his descendants for years to come and continues to intrigue history enthusiasts and those interested in legal history.

The year was 1812, and a biting winter frost clung to the edges of the Ellis estate, an imposing tract of land the Earl of Granville granted to John fifty years earlier. John’s death cast a long shadow on the west side of Deep River, where his 520 acres stretch over the rugged terrain. His wife, Mary Quinn Ellis, now widowed and frail, remained in their home in Fort Mill, York County, South Carolina, surrounded by memories of their eleven children and the life they had built together. John’spassing was not unexpected—he was 83—but the silence he left behind was.

It wasn’t just his absence that haunted those around him. It was the absence of something else—his final words, his will. John had settled countless estates during his time as Justice of the Peace, ensuring families were provided for, debts were settled, and the land was distributed correctly. And yet, he left no such document for his own family. Eighteen years would pass before his estate got probated in 1831, long after his burial in the family cemetery at Jumping Branch Creek. The delay gnawed at the Ellis children, especially William Quinn, the eldest son, who should have inherited the bulk of the estate. But the land was silent, locked in bureaucratic limbo.

In the years following John’s death, whispers swelled through the small towns of North Carolina and South Carolina, where his family had deep roots. The family cemetery where John and Mary would get buried became a place of whispered tales. Some said that John had left instructions hidden somewhere on his land—perhaps in a letter or beneath a cornerstone in his house. His children, it was said, spent months after his death combing through every inch of the property but found nothing. These rumors and folklore added a layer of fascination to the mystery of John Ellis’s intestate legacy.

The most curious rumor concerned the woods that bordered the Ellis estate. Hunters and travelers passing through Rowan and Tryon Counties spoke of a strange figure—an older man who resembled John Ellis, seen walking among the trees, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn. This figure, they claimed, seemed to be searching for something, bending low to inspect the ground or pausing by the river as if lost in thought. Others said the older man appeared near the family cemetery, wandering among the graves silently.

By 1831, when the estate was finally resolved and divided among the children, most of these tales had faded into local folklore. But there was one final piece of the story that remained unexplained. One autumn afternoon, shortly after the estate gets settled, a group of workers clearing trees from the property stumbled upon a small, hidden clearing by the river. There, beneath a heavy stone, they found a weathered leather-bound book half-buried in the soil. This discovery added a new chapter to the mystery of John Ellis’s intestate legacy, sparking curiosity and speculation.

“To those who come after, let the land be their guide. All answers will be revealed in the river’s flow and the earth’s turning. I leave my legacy to the water, where I once made peace.”

No one knew what John had meant, but the discovery only deepened the mystery surrounding his death. Had John left his will in the elements, knowing it would be lost to time? Or had he chosen, in his final years, to let go of the very legal structures he had spent his life upholding?

The land remained, of course, just as the family stayed. However, the legend of John Ellis, Esq. grew with each passing year. And those who ventured near Deep River, when the mist was thick and the air still, would sometimes swear they heard a voice, carried on the wind, speaking words too faint to be understood.

Perhaps, they said, John Ellis had finally found his will—hidden somewhere between the river and the earth, waiting for those brave enough to listen.
 

The End.

Resilience and Change: The Life of a Depression-Era Farmer

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

Benjamin Harrison Groff stood at the edge of his farmland west of Eakly, on Cobb Creek in Caddo County, Oklahoma, his weathered hands resting on his hips as he surveyed the fields. The sun was setting behind the Oklahoma hills, casting a golden hue over the land he’d come to love and toil. It was 1930, and though the country was heading into hard times, B.H. Groff had built a life here, one of stability and quiet perseverance.

Ben H and Florence Groff

He was 38 years old, married to Florence, and father to three children—Bennie, Dorothy, and JD. His modest but sturdy house had been their home for as long as he could remember. Its value was $3500, and though it wasn’t much compared to the sprawling estates some wealthier landowners had, it was theirs. They had a lodger, Lex Long, a 22-year-old man who had come to stay a while back. The Groffs didn’t need the money, but Lex had been good company with the world the way it was; having an extra hand around never hurt.

Draught Horses like those kept on Groff’s Farm.

B.H. had been a farmer for most of his life, following in the footsteps of his father, Ulrich Groff, who had immigrated from Switzerland in the late 1800s. B.H. remembered his father well—stubborn, proud, and meticulous about his work. Ulrich had come to America with nothing, finding his way to Illinois, where he built a life with Martha, B.H.’s mother, who hailed from Tennessee. Ulrich had passed a few years ago, but his values and work ethic lived on in his son. Farming had been the family’s lifeblood; Ulrich Groff is a name well known around Olney, Illinois, as the man who, along with his sons, built a barn without any metal, using only wood. It remained a place to see when people visited the town. Through the current day, but lately, B.H. has been reconsidering.

The census taker had come by not too long ago, scribbling down notes as B.H. answered the questions. He had explained that, while still farming, he had recently taken on a new role as an employer, overseeing other farms and workers. The long days of breaking his back were coming to an end. He felt more like a foreman now, guiding others and ensuring the crops were harvested on time. This transition was not just a change in his work but a step towards providing more stability for his family and the families of his workers.

Nearby Binger, Oklahoma 1930s

But still, something was unsettling in the air. The world was shifting—money was tight for many, and the Groffs, while not destitute, were careful with every penny. B.H. looked at their old house, and the absence of a radio set inside was a testament to their simpler lifestyle. He had thought about getting one, but Florence had insisted it wasn’t necessary. “We have each other,” she would say, “What more entertainment do we need?” The lack of a radio, a luxury many families could afford, was a stark reminder of the economic hardships of the time.

At dinner, B.H. would listen to Bennie, Dorothy, and J.D. chatter about school and life on the farm. Bennie, at 13, was getting taller by the day, eager to follow in his father’s footsteps, while Dorothy and J.D. still had a spark of youthful innocence. Florence, ever watchful, would smile softly, her hands always busy with mending or preparing food. The simplicity of their lives didn’t bother her—it was how she preferred it. Their home was a haven of warmth and contentment, a place where the simple joys of life were cherished. The family’s unity and resilience in the face of adversity were a beacon of hope, a testament to the strength of the human spirit during the Great Depression, uplifting those who hear their story.

Ulrich Groff & Family

B.H. often wondered what his father would think of the life he’d built. Ulrich had been proud of his roots, reminding B.H. of the Groff family’s journey from Switzerland to America. Now, with Ulrich gone, B.H. felt the weight of his legacy. He wanted to honor it, but times were changing. Ben wasn’t just a farmer anymore but a man responsible for more than his land. He was an employer now, managing men who had their own families. This shift in his role was a sign of progress and a departure from his father’s more straightforward life, reflecting the uncertain and changing dynamics of the farming community during the Great Depression.

The fields stretched out before him, endless and full of promise. As the sun dipped below the horizon, B.H. looked at the land. He knew that whatever the future held, it would be shaped by hard work, perseverance, and the simple joys of family. And perhaps there was room for a bit of change along the way. The future was uncertain, but B.H. was ready to face it with the same determination that had guided him so far.

Potbellied Pig Sheriff Ensures Peace: A Story from Lost Animals Farms

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

In the small, dusty town of Lost Animals Farms, nestled in the Arizona desert, Sheriff Leroy trotted proudly along, his hefty belly swaying side to side as he made his rounds. With a shiny badge on his chest, a snout that could sniff out trouble from miles away, and a well-worn cop hat resting above his beady eyes, Leroy was the heart of this farm town. The Sheriff’s trusty tool? A yellow Club Cadet golf cart that purred across the dusty paths, a squeaky siren perched on top. At the wheel sat Peppy, a scrappy border collie with a knack for precision driving.

Leroy and Peppy patrolled Lost Animals, a sprawling farm with over five hundred animal residents. From the cows in the meadow to the chickens in the coop, Leroy knew every critter by name, and they all knew Leroy.

“Leroy! Good mornin’!”

A sheep called out as the cart hummed past.

“Howdy, Shirley!”

Leroy tipped his hat, his deep voice carrying through the air like a calm breeze.

“Everything good on your end?”

“Couldn’t be better, Sheriff!” 

Shirley baaahed back with a cheerful nod.

Lost Animals Farms had been a peaceful place under Leroy’s watch for years. Every day, he visited homes, ensured the animals were doing fine, and dealt with the occasional squabble over whose turn it was to drink from the watering hole. But today felt different. As Peppy skillfully maneuvered the golf cart down Main Trail, a sense of unease hung in the warm Arizona air.

The call came just after noon.

“Sheriff! Sheriff Leroy!”

 Rufus, a frantic rooster, flapped his way to the station, feathers flying everywhere.

Leroy raised his snout from his snack, eyeing Rufus beneath his hat.

“What’s the ruckus, Rufus?”

“Crimewave! Crime wave!” 

Rufus crowed, jumping in circles.

“Some animals’s been breaking into homes! First, it was the chicken coop, then the rabbit hole, and now someone’s in the barn!”

Leroy’s small eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Break-ins? CRIME! It wasn’t the kind of thing Lost Animals was known for. Peppy jumped into the cart and started the engine with a low growl. “Let’s roll, Sheriff.”

The cart zipped off, dust kicking up as they sped to the barn. Leroy adjusted his gun belt, making sure his handcuffs jingled in place. Peppy barked at the animals scattering in the path, the word “crime” spreading like wildfire.

When they arrived, the barn doors were wide open. Inside, chaos ruled. Hay bales were scattered, feed buckets overturned, and a shadowy figure rifled through Farmer Brown’s old toolbox in the corner.

“Freeze!”

 Leroy hollered, his voice booming.

“You’re under arrest!”

The figure spun around, revealing none other than Slick Ricky, the sly raccoon known for his sticky paws. He’d been caught in minor mischief before, but this was bigger.

Ricky smirked, raising his little hands as he slowly backed toward the barn door.

“Well, well, Sheriff. Looks like you’ve caught me red-pawed.”

Leroy wasn’t about to let Ricky get away this time.

“Peppy, block the exit!”

With a sharp bark, Peppy sped the golf cart in front of the barn doors, trapping Ricky inside.

Ricky darted left, then right, his beady eyes darting for an escape, but it was useless. Leroy lumbered forward, his massive frame intimidating despite his plump size. He pulled out his handcuffs with a snouty snort.

“Ricky, you’re done here. You’ve caused enough trouble in this town.”

Just as Leroy was about to slap the cuffs on, Ricky dropped a bag of stolen goods and – out spilled carrots, apples, and even some shiny trinkets from the horse stalls.

“It was just a little fun, Sheriff,” 

Ricky sneered.

“No harm in swipin’ a few things here and there, right?”

“Wrong,” 

Leroy said firmly.

“Lost Animals is a peaceful place, and we won’t tolerate thievin’ here.” 

With one quick motion, Leroy cuffed Ricky’s tiny paws.

As Peppy wagged his tail in approval, the animals gathered outside the barn, murmuring. Word of the break-ins had spread fast, and now they watched as Leroy marched the criminal out of the barn and toward the golf cart.

“Good riddance, Ricky!” 

a horse neighed from the crowd.

“About time!” –  squawked a chicken.

Leroy loaded Ricky into the back of the golf cart, keeping a firm eye on him. As they drove back to the station, Peppy turned and winked at Leroy.

“Another job well done, Sheriff.”

Leroy chuckled, his potbelly bouncing as they cruised down the trail.

“Yep, another day, another collar.”

With peace restored once more, Leroy, the potbellied pig sheriff, continued his patrol, knowing that as long as he was around, Lost Animals Farms would stay safe for everyone who called it home.

The End.

Freddy the Frog: Embracing Adversity with Grace and Grit

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

Once upon a time, a frog named Freddy lived in a quiet woodland pond nestled at the edge of a neighborhood. Freddy’s life was simple and peaceful. His favorite spot was a cozy little lily pad shaded by tall reeds. Each morning, Freddy would wake to birds chirping, the soft rustle of leaves, and the shimmering sunlight dancing on the water.

That all changed one day when loud machines rolled in, and men in hard hats began building a new home next to the pond. Freddy watched in horror as the construction grew closer and closer until, one day, his beloved lily pad was torn from the water, and the pond shrunk into a muddy puddle.

With his home destroyed, Freddy had no choice but to leave. He hopped through the woods, searching for a new place to live. Days passed, and Freddy grew tired and hungry. Then, just as he was about to give up, he stumbled upon a lush, green golf course. In the middle of a pond sat a large and perfect lily pad, just waiting for a frog like him. Freddy couldn’t believe his luck.

Excitedly, he leaped onto the lily pad and settled in. The pond was clear, the grass was trimmed, and the sun shone warmly on his new home. Freddy thought he had found paradise—until the first golf ball landed in the water with a loud plop.

Startled, Freddy dove underwater, only to resurface to see a man with a long club fishing the ball out. “Hmm, must’ve sliced it,” the golfer muttered as he walked away.

Freddy shrugged it off and continued his day, but the peace didn’t last long. Soon, more golf balls began raining down from the sky, thudding into the water and onto his lily pad. Some would bounce off with a dull thud, while others would send ripples through the pond, unsettling everything around him.

Every day, Freddy’s new lily pad became a target. No matter how much he tried to ignore the golf balls, they kept coming. He would sit quietly, only to be startled by a ball splashing into the water inches away. Some days, the barrage was so constant that Freddy could hardly rest, his nerves frazzled from dodging incoming projectiles.

At first, Freddy thought about leaving again, but where would he go? The golf course pond was the only place he could find, and despite the constant bombardment, it was still a safe place to sleep. So, Freddy decided to adapt, showing a determination that inspired all who witnessed his struggle.

One evening, after narrowly avoiding yet another ball, Freddy had an idea. He gathered twigs, leaves, and small stones, building a tiny fortress around his lily pad. With each piece he added, the pad grew sturdier, able to withstand the impact of the golf balls.

Days turned into weeks, and Freddy became a master at navigating his chaotic new world. He could now sense a golf ball before it hit, leaping into the water just in time or taking cover behind his makeshift shield. Strangely, he began to enjoy the challenge. The golf balls that once terrorized him now felt like a game—a test of his agility and wit. His transformation from fear to enjoyment was a powerful testament to the resilience of the mind.

One afternoon, a young boy approached the pond as Freddy sat on his pad, watching the golfers. He had lost his ball, and as he peered into the water, he noticed Freddy sitting calmly on his lily pad fortress. “Hey, look!” the boy called to his dad. “A frog is living here!”

The boy and his father stood by the pond, smiling at Freddy. The father chuckled, “Seems like he’s figured out how to deal with all the golf balls, huh?” His admiration for Freddy’s resilience was evident in his tone.

Freddy, proud of his resilience, croaked contentedly. His new home wasn’t perfect, but he had made it his own. No matter how many golf balls came his way, Freddy the Frog would always find a way to bounce back.

And so, Freddy lived on his golf course lily pad, a small but mighty frog who turned adversity into adventure, embracing his unpredictable new life with grace and grit. His story serves as a reminder that no matter what life throws at us, with resilience and adaptability, we can always find a way to bounce back.

The end.

Happy 240th Birthday To Marie Laveau

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Posted by Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

One has undoubtedly heard the story about the great voodoo queen Marie Laveau from down in Louisiana. Bobby Bare sang about her in his hit song from 1973. The Lyrics were –––

  • The most famous of the voodoo queens that ever existed
  • Is Marie Laveau, down in Louisiana
  • There’s a lot of weird ungodly tales about Marie
  • She’s supposed to have a lot of magic potions, spells and curses
  • Down in Louisiana, where the black trees grow
  • Lives a voodoo lady named Marie Laveau
  • She got a black cat’s tooth and a Mojo bone
  • And anyone who wouldn’t leave her alone
  • She’d go-, another man done gone
  • She lives in a swamp in a hollow log
  • With a one-eyed snake and a three-legged dog
  • She’s got a bent, bony body and stringy hair
  • And if she ever seen why y’all messing ’round there
  • She’d go-, another man done gone
  • And then one night when the moon was black
  • Into the swamp come handsome Jack
  • A no good man like you all know
  • He was looking around for Marie Laveau
  • He said, “Marie Laveau, you handsome witch
  • Give me a little a little charm that’ll make me rich
  • Give me a million dollars and I tell you what I’ll do
  • This very night, I’m gonna marry you”
  • Then it’ll be, hmm, another man done gone
  • So Marie done some magic, and she shook a little sand
  • Made a million dollars and she put it in his hand
  • Then she giggled and she wiggled, and she said, “Hey, Hey
  • I’m getting ready for my wedding day”
  • But old handsome Jack, he said, “Goodbye Marie
  • You’re too damned ugly for a rich man like me”
  • Then Marie started mumbling, her fangs started gnashing
  • Her body started trembling and her eyes started flashing
  • And she went-, another man done gone
  • Oh, if you ever get down where the black trees grow
  • And meet a voodoo lady named Marie Laveau
  • If she ever asks you to make her your wife. Man, you better stay with her for the rest of your life
  • Alternatively, it will be another man done and gone.
  • Writer/s: Baxter Taylor, Shel Silverstein 
  • Publisher: T.R.O. INC.
  • Lyrics licensed and provided by LyricFind

Hell! Bobby Bare is taking off on his 1973 Hit Marie Laveau, courtesy of a YouTube posting. Following this sing-a-long, learn the factual story about the real Marie Laveau. As close as what people have been able to trace.

THE STORY ABOUT THE SONG ORIGINS – Supposedly…

On September 10, 2024, her 240th birthday is recognized, and while this will get published the day after it is getting done, so with the notion that it will get a presented avoiding any voo doo spells that could be associated with the partaking of celebrating a late witches birthday. There is more to the story than the song. The lyrics had a backstory that contained information about a man who was about to go on trial in New Orleans for murder. He was a wealthy business owner and had the means to buy the best attorney. However, the case appeared airtight, and his life looked to be going to the gallow. He visited a witch named Marie Laveau, who was known to cast spells on people and could control them. He told her he would give her his earnings for a year and even agreed to marry her if she could sway the jury to find him innocent. She collected items like a black cat’s tooth, a Mojo bone, and other questionable items from around the woods, placed them into a tobacco pouch, buried them beneath a tree for three nights, and then dug them up and gave them to the man. She told them not to go to court without them, and he would be found innocent. Sure enough, when the trial was over, despite the eyewitness’s murder weapon and even the man’s confession, the jury returned an innocent verdict. The man refused to pay Marie Laveau and refused to marry her and laughed at her when she told him he would die by the end of the week if he did not change his mind. It was Monday. On Friday, the man had not returned to pay Marie and was in a local tavern, bragging about his innocent verdict and how he got away with not paying the old lady. As he left his table to go to the bar for a drink, a chandelier fell from the ceiling and hit him, killing him instantly. 
Whether or not that story is true is still being determined. However, history has recorded Marie Laveau in other areas, has a lengthy record, and she appears to have had a healthy marital life. Bobby Bare has told a similar story during interviews. There have been similar accounts from people in New Orleans. However, fact-finders looked for records, and this is what they found for Ms. Laveau.

Marie Laveau

An Article by Frank Schneider

The enigmatic Marie Laveau (September 10, 1794 – June 15, 1881), the most famous voodoo queen in the South, has a background that still seems to be vastly under-researched. Her story of resilience begins with her grandmother, Catherine Henry, who, after a long procession of different owners, was finally emancipated by her last one, a free woman of color. Catherine’s original master was the white Creole Henry Roche Belaire, whom Catherine later took his name as her surname. Catherine’s daughter and Marie’s mother, Marguerite, remained with Roche until his death and was sold to another owner who then gave her freedom. After gaining independence, Marguerite became the placée of the Frenchman Henri D’Arcantel. The exact date that marks Marguerite’s relationship with Charles Laveaux is unknown, but the result of this couple was the birth of a daughter, Marie. On September 10, 1801, Marie was born as a ‘free mulatto.’ Her father, Charles Laveaux, is sometimes referred to as a wealthy white planter, but leaders had discovered he was a free person of color (gen de couleur libre) whose mother’s name was also Marie Laveaux. Nothing is certain of Marie’s childhood, but she may have lived in the St. Ann Street cottage with her maternal grandmother, Catherine Henry.

Marie was a striking figure dressed like a gypsy with a bandana on her head, flashy rings on her fingers and ear, and gold bracelets on her wrists. Her dress was always dark, long, and complete, hanging gracefully from her shoulders. Her eyes, which were large and hazel, sparked like emeralds against her dark skin. This unique appearance, along with her charming personality, contributed to her mystique and influence in New Orleans.

Archival records show that Marie Laveau entered into a marriage contract with Jacques Paris on July 27, 1819. They were married on August 4, 1819. It is widely believed and affirmed that no children came to the marriage. However, some discoveries suggest that two daughters were born of this union; these claims lack concrete verification. The fate of Jacques Paris remains unknown, and his death was never documented. Whatever truly happened to her husband, Marie was still officially known as the “widow Paris.” The marriage mass was performed by Father Antonio De Sadella, the Capuchin priest known as Pere Antonio. After becoming a widow, Laveau became a hairdresser who catered to wealthy white families.

After Jacques Paris, Marie began a relationship with Louis Christophe Dominic Duminy de Glapion that lasted until he died in 1885. All credible records indicate that he was born in Louisiana as the legitimate son of white parents and the descendant of an aristocratic French family. Christophe Glapion was a veteran of the Battle of New Orleans, which occurred below the city at Chalmette on January 8, 1815. It is unclear when or how these two met. Christophe Glapion died on June 26, 1855, and the cause of his death is unknown. Marie Laveau and Christophe Glapion were a together for nearly thirty years. Marie lived for another twenty-six years and is not known to have taken another partner. It is widely thought that fifteen children came from this union, but there is only records to confirm that there were seven. Marie and Christophe’s first child, Marie Heloise, was born on February 2, 1827. She is the daughter who became known as Marie II. At a young age, Marie II entered a relationship with Pierre Crokere, a free man of color. Pierre was a commission broker, builder, and architect. Pierre was twenty-four years older than Marie and died in 1857 at fifty-six. 

Voodoo thrived in Haiti and Louisiana, and over the years, it absorbed influences from French and Spanish Catholicism, American Indian spiritual practices, and even Masonic tradition. Voodoo is not just a religion. It is about finding ways to survive conflict and has yet to be verified. Voodoo involved singing, dancing, chanting, and drumming. Voodoo comes from enslaved people who brought it to the Americas from West Africa. Marie began her Voodoo (sometimes spelled Voudou) career sometime in the 1820s, and she is sometimes said to be a descendant of a long line of Voodoo priestesses, all named Marie Laveau. Marie is said to have given private consultations and made and sold gris-gris. Later in life, Marie turned away from her Voodoo practices to dedicate her life to the Church and charitable works, a decision that commands respect. However, it is affirmed by the scholarly community that Marie Laveau was a devout Catholic her entire life.

Marie continued her charitable work during her final years and surrounded herself with her family. One was her youngest daughter, Marie Philomene Glapion, and her children. Philomene entered a relationship with a white man, Emile Alexandre Legendre, who was thirty-two years older than her and married. Philomene and Emile had seven children together, all classified as “colored,” they remained a couple until he died in 1872. Marie died at home in her sleep on June 15, 1881, in her cottage on St. Ann Street, where she had spent more than half a century. Marie’s daughter Philomene made funeral arrangements for the following evening. Her funeral performance provided guidelines to the dignified structure of the Catholic Church without sign of any voodooist demonstration.

The Cat On The Pole

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

In a quiet little neighborhood, there lived a curious cat named Whiskers. Whiskers was the cat who couldn’t resist exploring every nook and cranny of the world around him. From chasing butterflies in the garden to sneaking into open windows, there was nowhere Whiskers wouldn’t go.

One sunny afternoon, Whiskers spotted something new and intriguing: a tall, wooden utility pole standing proudly in the middle of the neighborhood. Its wires stretched from its top, leading off in every direction like a spider’s web. With his insatiable curiosity, the pole towered high above everything else, and Whiskers decided that he just had to climb it.

With a spring in his step, Whiskers leaped onto the base of the pole and began his ascent. He dug his claws into the rough wood, inching higher and higher. As he climbed, he felt the breeze tickling his fur, and the view of the neighborhood became more expansive. He could see the tops of trees, the roofs of houses, and even a distant hill he had never noticed before.

But as Whiskers reached the halfway point, something changed. Whiskers looked down and realized just how high he had climbed. The ground seemed so far away, and the pole suddenly felt narrow and precarious. His heart started to race, and Whiskers felt a twinge of fear for the first time.

He tried to turn around and head back down, but climbing down was more challenging than going up. His claws struggled to find a grip, and the pole seemed to sway slightly beneath him. Whiskers froze, unable to move up or down, his tiny body clinging to the pole in desperation.

Below, a few neighbors noticed the little cat stranded high above the ground. They gathered around, their faces filled with concern and their voices hushed in worry. One of the children shouted, “Look! A cat’s stuck on the pole!”

Word spread quickly, and soon, the entire neighborhood had gathered. Some suggested calling the fire department, while others considered using a ladder to rescue Whiskers. But the pole was too high, and the cat was too scared to move.

Finally, old Mr. Thompson, who lived in the corner house, shuffled to the scene. He was known in the neighborhood as the “Cat Whisperer” because he had a way with cats that no one could explain. With a calm and gentle voice, he looked up at Whiskers and said, “Come on down, Whiskers. It’s okay.” His presence alone brought a sense of hope to the worried crowd.

Whiskers recognized Mr. Thompson’s voice. He had often visited Mr. Thompson’s garden, where Whiskers always got greeted with treats and soft pats on the head. The familiar voice gave him a sense of comfort, and he slowly turned his head to look down.

Mr. Thompson continued to speak softly, coaxing Whiskers with soothing words. He knelt, holding his arms as if to catch the little cat. “You can do it, Whiskers. Just take it one step at a time.”

With newfound courage, Whiskers began to inch his way down the pole. It was slow and nerve-wracking, but Mr. Thompson’s voice kept him calm with every step. The neighbors watched silently, holding their breath as the cat descended. His bravery was a sight to behold, and it filled the onlookers with a sense of pride.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Whiskers finally reached the pole’s bottom. As soon as his paws touched the ground, he dashed into Mr. Thompson’s arms, trembling but safe. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, relieved that the brave little cat was back on solid ground.

Mr. Thompson patted Whiskers gently and whispered, “There you go, little one. Safe and sound.”

From that day on, Whiskers stayed close to the ground, content to explore the gardens and alleys instead of the towering heights. And every time he passed the old utility pole, he would glance at it but never again feel the urge to climb. After all, he had learned that some adventures are best left untried.

An Old Truck For The Twins – A Promise From The Farm

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

Jessie and Frank, twin brothers, were not just ordinary farm boys. They were the backbone of their father’s farm, taking on the most challenging tasks that even grown men often avoided. They hauled hay, built fences, chopped wood, and tended to the livestock. Their relentless dedication and resilience inspired all who knew them. As they reached high school, they dreamt of a future beyond the farm, envisioning themselves attending an out-of-state university on agriculture scholarships.

At 17, the twins were nearly indistinguishable in appearance, voice, and mannerisms. Their mother, Ann, often found herself confused by their playful antics, while their father, James, could always tell them apart with a steely blue-eyed gaze that seemed to pierce straight through to their souls.

The boys had always known that their father had set a challenge for them: the one who excelled in school, worked hardest on the farm, stayed out of trouble by the time they turned 18, and would inherit their grandfather’s old truck. This truck, a symbol of their grandfather’s dedication to the farm, had been kept out of sight, locked away in a shed the boys were forbidden to enter. James had made it clear that if they ever crossed that line, the promise of the truck would vanish.

The truck was not extravagant, just an old farm pickup—a 1972 Chevrolet Cheyenne. Yet, in its prime, it was the epitome of rugged style, loaded with air conditioning, an AM radio, tilt steering, and optional cruise control. The dimmer switch was a silver push knob, and the wipers had three speeds: delay, slow, and fast. Its 350-horsepower engine with a four-barrel carburetor and dual exhaust pipes made it rumble in a way that the twins found irresistibly cool.

The story goes that their grandfather bought a brand-new truck when the twins were still in grade school. Disappointed, he told James to lock it away for one of the boys and returned to his old Cheyenne, never repurchasing another vehicle. He swore that nothing could replace the reliability and charm of that old truck.

As graduation approached, Jessie and Frank received their final transcripts and were thrilled to learn they both got accepted to their dream college. They had met all of James and Ann’s conditions, and the day of reckoning arrived on a Sunday before Memorial Day. The family gathered for a noon meal when Frank, unable to contain his excitement, suggested they finally see who would inherit the shed’s contents. Little did they know, the surprise of a lifetime was waiting for them.

James, with a knowing smile, opened both transcripts. –––

“Boys, you’ve always given your best on the farm and never brought shame to our family. But as you grow older, you’ll realize that in an instant, you can destroy everything your name stands for. You must protect it with everything you have by always being your best. Now, about these school results…”

Jessie and Frank exchanged curious glances. They knew they had done well in school, but their father’s words left them on edge. As James continued, his grin widened, and he looked at Ann and their grandfather. –––

“Damn it, I told both of you this would happen. I knew it!”

Ann, perplexed, interrupted. –––

“What are you talking about, James? You knew what?”

James continued with his monologue –––

“Ten years ago, when we locked that shed, I told you this would end in a tie. Those boys are identical in everything they do, even when they take different courses. And sure enough, they tied on their transcripts!”

Their grandfather chuckled. –––

“Well, it’s good I had another shed at my place, too. I knew they’d tie, and what was in that one shed wouldn’t be enough for both of them.“

Jessie and Frank, quietly processing the unfolding events, began to understand the lesson their family had taught them all these years—hard work, equality, and family values.

James asked, –––

“Ann, did you know Pop had another shed down at his place?”

Ann shook her head, still in disbelief. –––

“No one told me a thing! You’d think someone would, but no—never a single word.”

James, towering over the dining table, spread his arms wide and declared, –––

“Let’s put an end to this and see what’s in the shed.”

Their grandfather suggested waiting until morning, but James insisted –––

“No, Pop. Let’s show the boys what’s in my shed. It may not be what they’re expecting, but it is what it is.”

The twins were baffled, unsure of what to expect. At the shed, James paused before unlocking the door and turning to Ann. –––

“What if they aren’t pleased? We’ve only fed, schooled, clothed, and sheltered them for 18 years. What if they don’t like what’s inside?”

Jessie, ever the joker, quipped, –––

“Well, only one of us will be disappointed, so you’ve got that going for you.”

As the shed door creaked open, lights flickered on inside, and their grandfather exclaimed, –––

“Hey! You’ve brought the stuff from my shed down here! How’d you do that?”

Inside were the old truck and two brand-new pickups—precisely like the ones Jessie and Frank had admired recently at a local dealership. The old truck, as promised, would go to both boys on one condition: they had to promise to keep farming the land when they returned from college.


True to their word, Jessie and Frank returned after college, not just as graduates, but as committed farmers. They continued the legacy of their family, working the land with the same dedication and resilience they had shown in their youth. They went into business together, selling signature meats and grains. The old truck became the symbol of their brand, preserved in pristine condition in a showroom at their farm headquarters. With under thirty miles on the odometer, it remains as good as new, touched only by the twins. Anyone else wanting that privilege must work on their farm for over ten years without complaint, earn top grades, and uphold the family’s good name.

Winning Big, By Realizing How Not To Spend It – A Jackpot In Vegas

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A Story by: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media2024© Truth Endures

Vernon and Bernice had traveled from Pumpkin Center, Oklahoma, to Las Vegas to attend a conference paid for by Bernice’s employer, the Magic Pipe Copper Company. The company was not involved in magic, pipes, or cups despite its name. Its primary function was to handle hotel bookings, changes, and cancellations. Any calls unrelated to these services got transferred to another company, Heads Turning Company, which was not affiliated with the Magic Pipe Copper Company.

Bernice’s conference was to begin tomorrow, and Vernon had saved for his part of the trip for nearly a year, knowing he would get to go about Las Vegas alone while Bernice attended the conference during the daytime. Bernice had told Vernon that she didn’t mind if he gambled but didn’t want him to go overboard and go broke. He promised her that he would tell her immediately if their finances changed. She told him that if you win something big, it better be enough for us to live forever because the company would probably fire me for it. She was kidding, but Vernon thought she was serious. He had read about a company in Russia that had all but killed an employee who won big in Las Vegas and tried to stay in the USA with their winnings. Vernon was from a small town and never caught on to the more significant influences of life.

As Bernice left for her conference, she kissed Vernon and said,

“You behave today, and we will go to the all-you-can-eat buffet tonight!”

He agreed and returned her kiss. After she left, Vernon hurried around, finished dressing, and checked his cash. He was sure he kept his big bills hidden. Some were in his zipper-hidden belt; some were in his socks under his feet and inside his shoes, and some were in a pocket hidden inside his waistband. Then he had a hundred and fifty folded into a money clip. In his wallet, he kept fifty-ones. To make it look like that was all his money should a robber hold him up. He checked the news for a quick update, and the headlines reported that a horse was blocking Fremont Street near downtown Las Vegas. Suitable for Vernon, he had planned to stay inside the casino most of the morning.

As Vernon left the couple’s hotel room, he double-checked to ensure he locked the room door and had the key card to get back in. Check. Everything was in order. Vernon walked to the elevator and proceeded to the ground floor.

The doors opened onto the Gaming Floor, and one-armed bandits were ringing and rolling, lights were flashing, and loud sounds were banging. All of the attractions caught Vernon’s attention and drew him in closer.

A lady sitting behind one of the machines screamed,

“I just won $1000!” and began jumping up and down.

A man a few rows over hollered,

“I won $100!”

Vernon thought, here I am with my money clip and $150. I have to see what I can win. Vernon sat down, put $20.00 in a slot machine, hit ‘bet everything,’ and rolled suddenly. The screen lit up with “JACKPOT,” and the machine went wild. Nothing came out of the machine, but the sounds were incredible. And people began crowding in around Vernon. People were making all kinds of gestures and comments; Vernon, not knowing what he had just done, said, I don’t know what happened; did I break it? A lady in the crowd said,

“Did you break it? Ha! HE WANTS TO KNOW IF HE BROKE IT”

The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers, their excitement palpable.

The lady replied to Vernon,

HONEY, you didn’t break it. You might have broken the house but didn’t break the machine. You just won a bunch of money—from the looks of things, you just won about Fifty Million Dollars!

Vernon was left in a state of shock. How did a mere $20 bill transform into this? And how was he going to break the news to his wife? He still needed to collect the money, but should he? These thoughts raced through Vernon’s mind when a man in a suit suddenly approached him.

Are you the one who played this machine?

Vernon replied,

Yes, I put in $20 and played, and it started doing this.

The man put a key into the machine, printed a paper, and told Vernon to come. The crowd cheered him as he left. The man took Vernon to the Hotel’s office and asked him to be seated. He then told Vernon that he had just won $92 million and asked if he would like that paid out in cash, check, or wired to his bank. The man told him the law requires him to pay taxes on the winnings, which the bank had already performed. That is why he was only getting $52 million. Vernon was speechless. He said his wife was attending a conference and asked if she had to pay her share too, and the man said no, this takes care of everything. Vernon said how about the business that she works for? Will they get any of it like the guy from Russia had to? The man laughed and said no, this is the United States; for now, with our form of government, those things do not happen here. However, if we allow the wrong people into leadership, that could easily change. So be careful of who you support when you go to vote.

Vern told the man he wanted all but twenty thousand deposited in their home banking account and would take the twenty thousand in cash. Vernon liked it in a bag that wouldn’t draw attention. So the man went to the casino and obtained shopping bags for children’s toys. He returned to the office and showed it to Vernon, letting him pick which bags he wanted to put money in. Then, Vernon left carrying twenty thousand dollars out of the office in children’s toy bags. Vernon returned to the hotel room and waited for Bernice to return from her conference.

At 4:00 PM, Bernice returned from her conference. Vernon asked if she was attending the sessions the next day. She said she was. He told her he had seen all he wanted of Las Vegas and was about ready to go home. She suggested he could surely play poker or slots tomorrow, or wondered if he might have lost all his money. Vernon explained he had not lost all his money, but they would be going home with more than they came with, and that is where he wanted to leave it.

Bernice said,


Let me go to the morning session, at least. There will be a bonus for us doing that. Lord knows we can use the money.

Vernon replied

You know we have all the money we need. More than we will ever need.

Bernice suggested he must have fallen and hit his head. Or he had been drinking the tall drinks the bartender was trying to sell because they always needed more cash come payday.

Vernon explained to her that has changed.

Today, Bernice, that all changed. I won a jackpot, and they put $52 million in our checking account and looked in these toy bags. That is the cash I kept for us to go home on.

Bernice nearly fainted as she looked at the cash and suggested he must have robbed a bank. He explained to her he had won on the first spin of the one-armed bandit and showed her a photo of him accepting the winnings at the hotel lobby. She pointed out they offered an increase in comfort for the two to experience, like a suite, free meals, and bar service. They were giving you a complete complimentary setup.

Vernon dryly said –––

They did, but I told them we already had this one paid for.

Bernice, shockingly looking amazed, –––

You know they would give you a suite and a nice upgrade for free.

Vernon, in his state of innocence, pleaded –––

You are the only sweet I want, and I don’t need to upgrade.

Bernice, looking defeated, thinking out loud –––

What do we need all that money for? You will always need help understanding how to use it.

Vernon agreed with her.

The moral of this story is that the people who win jackpots are rarely the ones who truly have any business access to one.

The Secret of Willow Woods

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A Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media2024© Truth Endures

Tommy was a curious little boy who loved exploring. One summer afternoon, he ventured deep into Willow Woods, a place he had always wondered about. As he wandered through the dense trees, he stumbled upon something extraordinary: a hidden community of miniature people no more significant than his pinky finger.

They lived in tiny homes nestled in the roots of trees, complete with a store, a church, and a post office. There were no cars, for they had not mastered making them so small. Instead, they traveled on foot or used small carts pulled by squirrels.

Tommy was amazed and approached cautiously. The miniature people, initially startled, soon realized he meant no harm. Among them was a little person named Nolin, who became fast friends with Tommy. They spent hours together, sharing stories and learning about each other’s worlds.

One day, Tommy had an idea. He brought a toy car from home and showed it to Nolin. The little vehicle fascinated the miniature people. With Tommy’s help, they began to design tiny vehicles that ran on water. Using miniature engines and the natural resources around them, they created a fleet of small, eco-friendly cars.

The community also harnessed wind and solar power to produce electricity. Tiny windmills spun in the breeze, and miniature solar panels soaked up the sun’s rays. The town flourished, becoming a model of sustainable living.

Their actions not only protected their community but also had a positive impact on the environment, inspiring others to follow their lead.

However, Tommy knew he had to keep their secret safe. He feared that if the grown-ups found out, they might destroy everything the miniature people had accomplished. This responsibility weighed heavily on him.

One day, as he was leaving the woods, he overheard some adults talking about expanding the nearby town, which would infringe on the woods. Tommy’s heart sank. He knew he had to act.

Tommy went back to the miniature town and shared his worries with Nolin. Together, they devised a plan. They would build a protective barrier of thorny bushes around the community, making it difficult for anyone to venture close. The miniature people worked tirelessly, and a dense wall of thorns soon surrounded their town.

The adults did start to clear some of the woods, but they stopped short when they encountered the thorny barrier. Declaring it too much trouble, they left that part of the forest untouched.

Tommy was relieved but knew the barrier was only a temporary solution. He solemnly promised Nolin and the miniature people that he would always protect their secret. This promise was not just a word, but a commitment that he upheld throughout his life, visiting them often but never telling anyone about the wonders hidden in Willow Woods.

In the end, there were no winners and no losers. The miniature community continued to thrive, hidden from the world. Tommy grew up, but he always remembered his tiny friends and the promise he made. His word was his bond, shielding the secret community, allowing it to remain a beacon of what the world could be—sustainable, harmonious, and thriving—hidden safely in the heart of Willow Woods. This story is a testament to the power of promises and the impact of small actions on a larger scale. 

The story would have ended there if not for the promise so many years ago. The one Tommy gave said he would always shield the little people from the significant adults and intruders wanting the land for greed. Tommy, a successful businessman who had made millions in his dealings, bought the little people’s world’s land and built a protective barrier around the property. He then placed the property in a revolving Trust that would remain untouched, assuring the little people’s world would always be safe from intruders. This time, Tommy returned to tell Nolan, now an elder of the community getting to say,

“WE WON!”

The First Man To Buy A Car In Town – The Model T Pioneer of Binger, Oklahoma

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A Story by Benjamin Groff©II – Groff Media2024© Truth Endures

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.

Being Blindsided By Two Of The Craziest Drivers In Town ––– Leaves Everyone Jumping Out Of The Way.

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A Story By Benjamin H Groff© Groff Media Copyright 2024©

In the quaint town of Willow Springs, the residents were known for their simple and predictable way of life. It was a place where everyone knew everyone, and the townspeople tended to accept change skeptically. That is, until the day Leonard and Frank, two elderly blind men, decided to shake things up with an adventure that would change the town forever.


Leonard and Frank, with their mischievous humor and lighthearted attitudes, had been best friends for decades, bonded by their shared experiences and a mutual love for adventure. Despite their blindness, they were known for their spirited attitudes and naughty humor. So, when they heard about the new self-driving car, they were immediately intrigued.


“Frank, can you believe it?”

Leonard exclaimed one morning over tea.

“A car that drives itself! Imagine the freedom it would give us!”


Frank, equally excited, nodded vigorously.

“Let’s do it, Leonard. Let’s buy one!”


The townsfolk of Willow Springs were accustomed to the sight of Leonard and Frank navigating the streets with their canes, always laughing and chatting animatedly. So, the entire town was curious when a shiny, futuristic self-driving car appeared in front of their modest home.


“Have you heard? Leonard and Frank got one of those new self-driving cars!”

Mrs. Thompson whispered to her neighbor.


“Those two? In a car? The two driving, I’ve got to see,”

her neighbor replied.


On a sunny Saturday morning, Leonard and Frank decided to take their new car, which they affectionately named “Freedom,” for its maiden voyage through town. As they settled into the plush seats, the car’s AI voice greeted them.


“Good morning, Leonard and Frank. Where would you like to go today?”


“To the park, please,”

Leonard said confidently.


As “Freedom” smoothly pulled away from the curb, the neighbors watched in a mix of astonishment and amusement. Some cheered, others gasped, and a few crossed themselves, praying for the safety of everyone involved. A dog barked, a child pointed, and a few people even dropped their groceries in shock.


The car moved gracefully through the streets, impeccably adhering to all traffic laws. Leonard and Frank laughed heartily, relishing the novelty of their adventure. They waved to passersby, who stared in disbelief at the sight of two blind men being chauffeured by a car without a driver.


However, things turned unexpectedly when “Freedom” encountered a detour due to road construction. The car, programmed to follow alternative routes, led Leonard and Frank on a scenic drive through the unfamiliar backstreets of Willow Springs. The residents, already on edge, began to panic.


“Where are they going? They don’t know those roads!”

Mr. Jenkins shouted, hopping on his bicycle to follow them.


As word spread, more townspeople joined the impromptu parade, trailing behind Leonard and Frank’s self-driving car. Some were on foot, others on bikes, and a few even in their cars, all trying to keep up with the unexpected journey.


Oblivious to the commotion behind them, Leonard and Frank were having the time of their lives. “Freedom” took them past the old mill, the blooming orchards, and even down the riverbank. It was a tour of Willow Springs like they had never experienced before.


Meanwhile, the crowd grew more extensive and more frantic. Children pointed and laughed, dogs barked, and a few people even attempted to flag the car down, worried about the safety of their beloved town characters. The mayor, Mr. Roberts, received dozens of calls and texts demanding he do something about the situation.


Finally, “Freedom” brought Leonard and Frank to the town square, where the weekly farmer’s market began. As the car came to a gentle stop, the two friends stepped out, greeted by a mixture of cheers, applause, and sighs of relief.


“What a ride!” Frank exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear.


Leonard nodded, equally ecstatic.

“I haven’t had this much fun in years!”


The mayor approached them, catching his breath from running to the square.

“Gentlemen, you certainly know how to cause a stir,”

he said, trying to suppress a smile.


Leonard and Frank looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“We didn’t mean to cause any trouble,”

Leonard said.

“We just wanted to explore a bit.”


“And explore you did,”

The mayor replied.

“But perhaps giving us a little warning would be appreciated next time.”


From that day on, Leonard and Frank became local legends. The story of the two blind men and their self-driving car spread far and wide, bringing a newfound sense of pride and unity to Willow Springs. Initially thrown into chaos, the community embraced the spirit of adventure and innovation, inspired by their two beloved residents.


And Leonard and Frank? They continued to explore, always ready for their next adventure, with “Freedom” leading the way and a town full of friends cheering them on.

Night Shift, And Getting Behind The Radio

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A Story By Benjamin H Groff© Groff Media Copyright 2024©

It was time to begin his night shift, and now the boy known as the Comm Commander by the ladies he worked with and his Captain who worked the day shift was about to take the helm, operating the phones, radio, and teletype.

The Comm Commander’s mastery of the system was a feat that only a select few could achieve. He was among the elite, efficiently managing five or more radio cars and several county and state patrol units on different radio frequencies. His use of a foot pedal to operate the radio microphone set him apart, allowing him to handle phone calls and type information into the telecommunications system with his hands-free.

He could track information on vehicles that officers were making contact with and let them know if a car was stolen or not before they ever left their vehicle. A treatment they become spoiled by when he is on duty.

His ability to check vehicle registrations and local warrants, and his quick response to requests for driver’s license checks or background and warrant checks, was instrumental in providing critical information to officers in the field, significantly enhancing their operational efficiency and safety.

His experience and interactions with law enforcement agencies around where he grew up, which spanned years, were the foundation of his expertise. This was evident when officers would make vehicle stops, and he would send them back up before giving them a coded message of 10-48, an alert that the vehicle they were stopping in the National Crime Information Computer was a wanted felony subject.

He had volunteered as a youth in his hometown when the town was given an old radio and placed a short antenna outside their city hall. He would get his dad to drive him to town, where he’d sit in the evenings and dispatch calls from the phone to the local police unit. Sometimes, there would be no one call, but the interaction with the law enforcement community that came through would gift him with bits of information he stowed away. Later, during that Senior year of high school, when he went to work for the police department, he met the police chief, JR Toehay, at a gas well blowout he attended with an area police officer. The introduction led to the dispatching and jailing position. JR became a lifelong coach and confidant. He was a Kiowa Indian and Chief of a 9-man police department. His guidance and trust in the boy guided the way for the path that had led to the Comm Commander being in his seat operating so well.

The ladies he worked with had questions and wanted to know where he came from, who he was, and what brought him out west. Those stories were there to tell, and he had them; some, however, he wondered if it would be safe. Officers he had worked with told him to be careful; one of the stories could get him in a fix if the wrong people heard about it and wanted to settle any score they felt needed to be. He told them, I’ll let you know all about me, but first, it needs to be when this radio traffic slows down because you guys will be in for a story of your lives.

A Young Officer Finding Law Enforcement

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A Story By Benjamin H Groff© Groff Media Copyright 2024©

It was the early 1980s, and he rolled into the city from the South. The police department was easy to find. The radio tower extended high above the building and be seen from miles away. Pulling up in front for the first time as an officer gave him a true sense of purpose. He felt independence because he was on his own for the first time since graduating.

He entered the building to be fitted for uniforms. He also received his equipment there. During this time, he met two officers who would feature prominently in his future years. One he met right away. His name was Lee. Lee provided him with a resource for his first housing solution. This was in a town that the oil boom had overrun. People lived in tents in the town park and alongside the road. The other officer was Eddie. He was a Deputy from Cheyenne. Eddie had the actual house, a three-bedroom mobile home in a city-owned trailer court. The jurisdiction provided this to city employees to live. The rent was cheap by local standards and answered an immediate need. It did, though, come with a police K9 and two roommates who have been more neat and orderly.

The police department operated out of a building shared with the fire department. The jail was on the second floor above the communications center. The fire crew slept across from the jail cells on the second level. This raised issues for a city that had doubled in population and area due to annexation. Voters approved a tax proposal to build a new police station and jail. They also planned to rebuild the fire station. Blueprints for the new station were in place, though its construction was several years away.

In court cases, Chicago judges had pointed to the city defendants. Elk City, Oklahoma was a place where they can get a one-way bus ticket. Or pick the choice to get six months in jail. Most people opted to take the bus ticket. The type of characters sent to the area ranged from criminals to mentally unstable to socially dysfunctional. It would be years before the area recovered from the judge’s poor decisions in making such a move. Before then, there would be murders, rapes, and worse.

The city was busy 24 hours a day. Calls for patrol unit service were backed up by three to four calls at a time. When calls did get caught up, it didn’t last long. The shifts were rotational. In that, there was never an entire shift on and off at the same time. Night shifts changed at 6 AM and 8 AM, and Day shifts changed at 4 PM and 8 PM. A mid-shift operated from 2 PM to 2 AM. Each officer worked ten-hour shifts with three days off. The schedule permitted officers to work extra assignments at security posts. This was necessary when gas wells blew their tops out. Roadblocks also had to go in place out in the county. Officers earn as much as $300 on their days off, pulling such assignments. And if there weren’t such assignments, you always pull OT. You take comp time. An officer used this later instead of vacation or sick days. An advantage that the city offered other municipalities didn’t.

The allure of lights, excitement, and action made Elk City, Oklahoma’s bustling oil town so attractive. It captivated an 18-year-old just out of high school. It also kept him there for many years, leading him through years of service. The young officer had already been briefed well in law enforcement with his earlier departments. There are histories from those days. They will come alive in the future. They will tell of his Elk City Days and how he became known throughout western Oklahoma.

In the next few weeks, he will watch the front door. He needs to see if he must duck bullets coming through the station’s windows.

The Gorb Touch: Continuing the Tradition of Personalized Farewells in Elderton

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A Story By Benjamin H Groff© Groff Media Copyright 2024©

In the small town of Elderton, nestled between rolling hills and dense forests, there lived a man named Mr. Gorb. Mr. Gorb was a meticulous man, a perfectionist in every sense. His business dealings were unique, for Mr. Gorb was the town’s undertaker. However, unlike others in his profession, Mr. Gorb went above and beyond to ensure each client received a personal touch.


Although Mr. Gorb’s clients were all deceased, that didn’t mean they deserved any less care. He believed that everyone deserved a final sendoff that reflected who they were. This philosophy became known as the “Gorb Touch,” a term that resonated deeply within the community.


When someone in Elderton passed away, Mr. Gorb would embark on a journey to recreate their likeness as closely as possible to how they appeared when they last walked down Main Street. He would search the town for the most recent photographs of the deceased, often speaking with family members and friends to gather any images they had. He delved into the history of his clients, learning about their favorite outfits, their unique hairstyles, and any other defining features that made them who they were.

Mr. Gorb’s dedication was unparalleled. He would spend hours carefully applying makeup, arranging hair, and selecting the perfect attire for each individual. His attention to detail was astounding, and the results were always breathtaking. The people of Elderton loved Mr. Gorb for his personal touch and the comfort it brought them during their loss.


One crisp autumn morning, the townspeople awoke to shocking news. Mr. Gorb had passed away in his sleep. The entire town was at a loss. Who would now carry on the tradition of the Gorb Touch? Who would prepare Mr. Gorb himself for his final farewell?

Unbeknownst to the townspeople, Mr. Gorb had been quietly training an apprentice. A young man named Thomas had come to Elderton a few years prior, seeking guidance and a place to belong. Mr. Gorb had seen potential in Thomas and had taken him under his wing, teaching him everything he knew about the delicate art of caring for the deceased.


Thomas had learned well. He had absorbed every lesson, technique, and philosophy Mr. Gorb shared with him. And now, as the town mourned the loss of their beloved undertaker, Thomas stepped forward to fulfill his mentor’s legacy.


With a heavy heart, Thomas prepared Mr. Gorb for his final journey. He meticulously followed the same process Mr. Gorb taught, ensuring that every detail was perfect. The townspeople watched in awe and gratitude as Thomas recreated Mr. Gorb’s likeness with the same dedication and care that had become synonymous with the Gorb Touch.


The funeral was a beautiful tribute to Mr. Gorb’s life and work. As the townspeople gathered to say their final goodbyes, they saw the continuation of a tradition that had brought them so much comfort and peace in Thomas. They knew that Mr. Gorb’s legacy would live on through his apprentice and that the personal touch that had defined their community would never be lost.

~ THE GORB TOUCH WILL LIVE ON ~


Thomas continued to serve the people of Elderton with the same compassion and attention to detail that Mr. Gorb had instilled in him. As the years passed, the Gorb Touch remained a cherished tradition, a testament to the enduring impact of one man’s dedication to his craft and community.

Heroic Night in Cedar Hollow: The Legend of Fred Harper

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A Story By Benjamin H Groff© Groff Media Copyright 2024©

Fred Harper was a man of simple routines. The mild-mannered police officer of Cedar Hollow, a quaint town of 700 nestled between rolling hills and dense forests, had a nightly patrol route that rarely changed. He preferred it that way. Cedar Hollow was a peaceful place where not much happened, and Fred liked it that way.

His nightly rounds consisted of checking the locked doors of businesses, shining his flashlight into the occasional darkened alley, and waving at the few night owls who might be walking their dogs or taking a late-night stroll.

But on this particular night, the tranquility of Cedar Hollow was shattered by a series of unexpected events, disrupting Fred’s usual routine.
It all began with a frantic call from Mary Jenkins, the usually composed wife of the mayor. Her voice was filled with urgency as she relayed the news about Helen’s labor.

Fred’s heart raced. He’d never delivered a baby before. He rushed to his squad car and sped to Helen’s house. When he arrived, he found Helen in the living room, breathing heavily, with Mary by her side. The tension in the room was palpable, and Fred could feel the weight of the situation on his shoulders.

Upon Fred’s arrival, Mary’s relief was palpable. “Fred, thank God you’re here,” she exclaimed, her face a picture of relief. “You need to help her. Now.”

Fred took a deep breath, remembering the emergency childbirth training he’d received years ago. With Mary’s assistance, he coached Helen through the contractions. After what felt like an eternity, but was in reality only a few intense minutes, the cries of a newborn filled the room. Fred cradled the baby in his arms, his uniform shirt now soaked with sweat.

Just as he handed the baby to a tearfully grateful Helen, his radio crackled to life. “Fred, we need you at the fire station. There’s a fire behind the building, and no one can start the engine.”

Leaving Helen and the baby in Mary’s capable hands, Fred raced to the fire station. Flames were licking the sky, dangerously close to City Hall. Fred jumped into the fire engine, praying his training would return to him. He managed to start the engine and drove it to the blaze. With no other firefighters in sight, he took hold of the hose and aimed it at the inferno. Neighbors, awakened by the commotion, formed a bucket brigade to help douse the flames. Together, they managed to keep the fire from spreading and saved City Hall.

As the last embers got extinguished, Fred’s radio buzzed again. “Officer Harper, there’s a break-in at the bank. Thieves are trying to rob the place.”

Exhausted but determined, Fred headed to the bank. He found a group of masked men attempting to pry open the vault. Drawing his service weapon, he shouted, “Freeze! Cedar Hollow Police!” The thieves, startled by his sudden appearance, attempted to flee. Fred, with unwavering courage, managed to subdue two, but the others escaped into the night. He secured the captured thieves and called for backup from neighboring towns.

The thieves, startled by his sudden appearance, attempted to flee. Fred managed to subdue two, but the others escaped into the night. He secured the captured thieves and called for backup from neighboring towns.
Just as he thought the night couldn’t get any worse, the call came in: “Fred, there’s been a four-car accident at the intersection. Significant injuries reported, and the town’s ambulance is thirty miles away.”

Fred’s mind raced as he arrived at the scene of the collision. Cars were crumpled, and injured people strewn across the road. He did what he could, providing first aid and comforting the victims while calling for an ambulance from a neighboring town. The ambulance, however, got lost on the way, and Fred’s patience became stretched to its limit.

As the first rays of sunlight lit up the sky, Fred finally saw the flashing lights of the neighboring town’s ambulance. He directed them to the injured, ensuring everyone received their needed care. The lady and her newborn, the fire at the station, the bank heist, and now the accident had been the most eventful night in Cedar Hollow’s history.

When the town woke up to a new day, Fred was utterly exhausted. His uniform was torn and dirty, and his body ached from the night’s exertions, but he was filled with a sense of accomplishment. He had faced every challenge alone and come through for his community.

As the townsfolk learned of the night’s events, they became filled with deep admiration and gratitude for Fred. They hailed him as a hero, their voices echoing through the streets of Cedar Hollow. But Fred, the humble officer, just smiled and said, “I was just doing my job.” His modesty only added to the townsfolk’s reverence for him, strengthening the bond of respect and unity within Cedar Hollow.

And Fred Harper, the humble police officer of Cedar Hollow, became a legend. In a town where life was usually quiet and uneventful, the night of chaos and heroism is a stark contrast, etching Fred’s name into the town’s history and leaving a profound mark on Cedar Hollow’s narrative.

The Unforgettable Story of Ethan: A Three-Legged Hero’s Courage and Sacrifice in Willowbrook

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A Story By Benjamin H Groff© Groff Media Copyright 2024©

A man named Ethan lived in the quaint village of Willowbrook, nestled among rolling hills and serene landscapes. Ethan was unlike any other in the town; he was born with a third leg. Though some initially viewed him with curiosity and even pity, he became an integral part of the community, his unusual limb symbolizing resilience and strength.


The village cherished its traditions, and none was more beloved than the annual Christmas service held in the old stone church at the heart of Willowbrook. On Christmas Eve, every villager would gather for a night of songs, stories, and the sharing of a festive feast.
However, one fateful Christmas Eve, the peaceful village was disrupted by a band of ruthless hoodlums. Known for their brutal raids, they had been terrorizing nearby towns, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. The villagers of Willowbrook had heard whispers of their approach but hoped their remoteness would spare them.


As the service commenced, distant hoofbeats grew louder, echoing ominously through the church. Panic spread among the villagers as the doors burst open, revealing the menacing figures of the hoodlums. They forced everyone into the central aisle, threatening violence and demanding valuables.


Ethan, seated near the back, watched the chaos unfold. His heart pounded, not out of fear for himself but for his friends and family. He knew he had to act. As the hoodlums corralled the villagers, Ethan stumbled and fell in the narrow central aisle, his third leg jutting out awkwardly.


Shouts of anger and confusion erupted from the hoodlums as they tripped over Ethan’s leg, one after another. Understanding Ethan’s silent signal, the villagers began to leap over his third leg with practiced ease. The invaders, unfamiliar with the anomaly, continued to fall, rendering themselves unconscious as they hit the stone floor.


Ethan’s bravery gave the villagers the precious moments they needed. The stronger men and women quickly disarmed the stunned hoodlums, binding them with whatever they could find. The church that had been a place of sanctuary became a fortress of courage and quick thinking.
In the aftermath, the village celebrated Ethan as a hero. His act of selflessness and his unique third leg had saved them all. Yet, Ethan, who had always been modest and kind-hearted, succumbed to injuries sustained in the struggle. He passed away that night, surrounded by those he had saved.


Ethan’s story became a legend, and when the townspeople spoke his name, it was done so with reverence and gratitude. A statue was erected in the village square, depicting him with his three legs, a testament to his bravery and the night he saved Willowbrook. Every Christmas Eve, the villagers would gather at the church, now with a plaque dedicated to Ethan, and recount the tale of the man whose unique gift had become their salvation.
The legend of Ethan, the three-legged savior of Willowbrook, lives on, symbolizing how even the most unexpected traits can be the greatest of blessings.

City Mice Max and Lily’s Countryside Picnic Adventure

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In the summer of 2024, two city mice, Max and Lily, took a break from their bustling urban lives. Yearning for fresh air and tranquility, they planned a weekend getaway to the serene countryside. They packed a delightful picnic basket filled with cheese, bread, and a selection of berries and set off for the rolling hills and meadows.be

After a few hours of travel, they found the perfect spot—a grassy knoll overlooking a gentle river winding through the valley. The beauty of the countryside was breathtaking, with the sun casting a golden glow above the rolling hills. They laid out their blankets, unpacked their baskets, and enjoyed their feast under the warm sun, surrounded by the serene beauty of nature.

As the day went on, dark clouds began to gather on the horizon. Max, ever the cautious one, suggested they pack up and head back to the cottage they had rented. But Lily, captivated by the beauty of the countryside, convinced him to stay a bit longer. “It’s just a little rain, Max. We’ll be fine,” she said with a reassuring smile.

However, the little rain quickly turned into a torrential downpour. The river, once calm and serene, began to swell and rage. Realizing the severity of the situation, Max and Lily quickly gathered their belongings and started returning to the cottage. But the water rose faster than they could move, soon turning the meadow into a swirling expanse of water. The danger was palpable, and their hearts raced with fear as they struggled to reach safety.

They spotted an old, hollow oak tree on a small hill with nowhere to go and the floodwaters rising around them. “There!” shouted Max. “We can take shelter in that tree!” They waded through the water, which was now waist-deep, and climbed into the hollow trunk just as the floodwaters swept over their picnic spot.

Max and Lily huddled inside the tree, shivering from the cold and damp. The hours dragged on, and the rain showed no sign of letting up. They could hear the river’s roar and the crashing of debris being swept along by the flood.

Just as they were beginning to lose hope, the rain finally stopped. The relief was palpable, and they felt a surge of hope as the floodwaters started to recede, leaving a landscape transformed by the storm. Cautiously, Max and Lily emerged from their shelter. The meadow was a muddy mess, and their picnic spot was nowhere to be seen. But they were safe.

Determined to make the best of their situation, Max and Lily set to work. They used their city smarts to fashion a makeshift raft from fallen branches and debris, which they used to navigate the still-swollen river. Eventually, they reached the cottage, which had miraculously remained untouched by the flood.

Tired but relieved, Max and Lily dried off and warmed themselves by the fire. They reflected on their adventure and the dangers they had faced. “Maybe next time, we’ll check the weather forecast before our picnic,” Max joked, eliciting Lily’s tired but genuine laugh.

Their countryside picnic had turned into an unexpected adventure, strengthening their bond and reminding them of the importance of being prepared. As they settled in for the night, they were grateful for their safety and each other, ready to face whatever future adventures might bring.