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The Blizzard of ’78 and the Chetwood 500

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

The Blizzard of ’78 was no ordinary snowstorm. It howled through North America, blanketing rooftops and highways, erasing the horizon in a swirling fury of white. Santa Claus sat in his workshop. He held his red velvet hat in his hands. He stared solemnly at the weather reports brought in by the Weather Elves.

“It’s no use,” 

Santa said, his voice heavy. 

“We can’t fly in this. It’s too dangerous. The snow is too thick, and even Rudolph’s nose won’t cut through this blinding storm. I have to call off deliveries.”

Gasps filled the workshop. Elves dropped their tools, and Mrs. Claus paused her cookie baking. Cancel Christmas? It was unthinkable.

But one elf, a tinker named Chetwood, didn’t gasp. He didn’t drop his tools. Instead, he dashed to his workshop in the far corner of the North Pole. Odds and ends of toys from Christmases past piled high in organized chaos.

Chetwood had been working on a secret invention for years. He used discarded parts from electronic toys no child had wanted. These parts included remote-controlled cars, walkie-talkies, old circuit boards, and an outdated Etch A Sketch. He believed there had to be a way to guide Santa’s sleigh through anything, even the thickest fog or snowstorm.

Tonight was his chance.

For hours, Chetwood worked feverishly, soldering wires, tweaking circuits, and adjusting dials. The other elves whispered about his eccentricity. 

“Chetwood’s always been a dreamer,” 

One said.

“What could he possibly be doing now?”

At midnight, the storm raged on outside. Chetwood burst into the main workshop. He was holding a contraption resembling a patchwork of wires, gears, and blinking lights. He had painted it candy-cane red with a shiny silver antenna on top.

“Santa!”

He cried.

“I call it the Chetwood 500. A radar system can guide the sleigh through total darkness, blizzards, and even the densest fog. I made it from old toys that no one wanted—because one elf’s trash is another elf’s treasure!”

Santa raised an eyebrow but smiled warmly. 

“Chetwood, are you sure this will work?”

“With 100 percent accuracy,” 

Chetwood replied proudly.

The elves gathered around as Chetwood mounted the device on the sleigh. The radar emitted a soft, rhythmic beep, lighting up a screen that displayed glowing outlines of obstacles in their path.

Rudolph gave an experimental snort and trotted to the front of the sleigh, curious about the gadget. Santa climbed into the driver’s seat, gripping the reins tightly.

“All right, Chetwood,” 

Santa said. 

“Let’s see if your invention can save Christmas.”

The sleigh took off into the Blizzard, disappearing into the swirling snow. The elves held their breath, watching the radar screen from the workshop.

Minutes turned into hours. Soon, reports came in from children across the globe. Santa had arrived, gifts were under the tree, and stockings were filled. The Chetwood 500 had guided the sleigh flawlessly, even through the most treacherous conditions.

When Santa returned to the North Pole just before dawn, he lifted Chetwood onto his shoulders. 

“You didn’t just save Christmas, Chetwood. You’ve created something that will change the world. One day, your radar will guide airplanes and ships where they’ve never dared to go before!”

From that day on, Chetwood’s invention became a staple of Christmas lore. Every Christmas Eve, the Chetwood 500 sat proudly atop Santa’s sleigh. It served as a reminder. Even the most unwanted things can shine with purpose in the hands of a true believer.

How Santa Tackles a Sky Jam in Los Angeles

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

Santa Arrives In Los Angeles To A Bustling Scene:

Santa is cruising through a starry night, his sleigh packed with presents. The reindeer are soaring with precision, Rudolph’s nose shining bright as they approach the bustling skies over Los Angeles. Santa remarks on how the city glows more colorful each year, marveling at the dazzling lights below.

The Problem Arises:

Santa checks his list. He guides the sleigh toward his next stop. Suddenly, he encounters a startling sight: a line of airplanes backed up in the sky. The sleigh slows as Rudolph blinks in confusion, and Santa pulls out his magic map to see what’s going on.

The airspace gets crowded with jets circling LAX, cargo planes, and private airplanes. Santa tries to weave through the gridlock but quickly realizes he’s stuck in a “sky jam.”

Santa’s Reaction:

Santa, determined to overcome this unexpected obstacle, starts to worry. He’s never faced air traffic congestion before! His magical sleigh, while nimble, still must adhere to the rules of the sky to avoid being spotted. He radios an air traffic controller using a unique device from his sleigh—something he rarely needs to do.

The controller is startled but professional.

“Uh… Santa? Is that you?”

“Ho ho ho! Yes, indeed! And I’m afraid I need some assistance navigating this mess!”

A Helping Hand:

The air traffic controller, Mia, quickly gathers her colleagues. They realize the only way to clear Santa’s path is to redirect some planes. Mia cleverly uses holiday magic and persuasion to coordinate a temporary gap in the airspace.

Meanwhile, Santa and the reindeer entertain themselves by performing aerial stunts. They draw candy canes in the sky. They share cookies with passing pilots who radio in. Their voices are filled with disbelief and joy.

A Creative Solution:

Santa, ever resourceful, taps into his bag of tricks to make up for lost time. He uses his magic to make his sleigh move twice as fast once the path clears. He asks for help from local elves stationed in Los Angeles. They zip around on drones to deliver some gifts while he’s getting delayed.

Santa’s Resolution:

The airspace clears, and Santa takes off like a rocket. With a heartfelt

“Thank you!”

To Mia and the air traffic team, he speeds into the night. He catches up on his deliveries with minutes to spare.

Ending:

As Santa finishes his rounds, he reflects on the night’s chaos. He chuckles, imagining the stories pilots will tell about seeing a sleigh stuck in traffic.

“Ho ho ho!” 

He bellows as he heads back to the North Pole.

“Next year, I will just get a flight plan!”

The Bell That Retrop Forgot

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

4–7 minutes

Most people driving the stretch between Granite and Elk City never realize they’re passing over a ghost. The four-lane highway hums along smoothly. Underneath its concrete spine once stood a town with a name born from a clever workaround. The town was called Retrop, simply Porter spelled backward.

Back in the early 1900s, the community wanted its own post office. But Oklahoma already had a Porter, and the postal authorities weren’t about to sort through that confusion. So the folks along the dusty road west of Sentinel shrugged, flipped the name around, and mailed in the paperwork. Retrop got its post office, its school, and its place on the map—at least for a while.

RETROP, OKLAHOMA Visit Exploring Oklahoma to learn more!

The school sat at the center of it all. A sturdy brick building with wide windows and a playground carved out by decades of small feet. Children rode in from miles around, their lunches wrapped in wax paper, their futures unwritten. There were stories—quiet ones—of students who went on to big cities and bigger lives. A doctor in Chicago. An engineer for NASA. A novelist whose pen never found its way back home.
They carried Retrop inside them, even after the town itself faded away.

But Retrop’s beginning was clever. Its ending was swift.

When the new highway came through, the town didn’t stand a chance. Businesses folded. Families moved. The school closed its doors. The post office was shuttered. One by one, the foundations cracked and the roofs caved until only fields remained—fields pretending nothing had ever stood there.

Except for one detail people still talk about, though no one can confirm it anymore: the missing bell.

Retrop had its own Masonic Lodge in the 1940s

The school’s bell had hung proudly in the tower for decades. It called children in from recess and sent them home at day’s end. Then one year—a generation before the school closed—it vanished. Not stolen, exactly. Just gone. People assumed it had been taken for safekeeping. They thought it was stored in somebody’s barn for future repairs. Others believed it had been hauled away accidentally during a renovation.

The last families left Retrop. Then, bulldozers finally erased the last bricks of the school. Yet, the bell was still missing.

Some say the bell found another tower along the prairie. Others swear it sits buried beneath the highway, trapped in silence under thousands of cars a day. A few whisper that the bell rings on its own now and then—never heard, but felt. A tug in the chest. A memory rising like dust in a beam of sunlight. A sound from a place people forgot existed.

Most modern maps don’t show Retrop anymore.

But every once in a while, someone driving that long Oklahoma stretch will slow down for no reason at all. They will stare out toward the open fields. They swear they can sense something that has no business being there.

A town that isn’t.
A school that was.
And a bell—somewhere—still waiting to be found.

The Bell on County Road 7

No one knew who put the bell there. The old timers from the old school days at Retrop had all gone. Buried. The generation had died off. The families had sold their farms. Or, the farms had been handed down through generations. The old school bell had been forgotten. Until…

It appeared one Tuesday morning. It stood silent, rusted, and leaning a little to the left. The scene was at the far end of County Road 7, right where the asphalt surrendered to red dirt. The bell looked ancient, the kind you’d expect to find hanging outside a one-room schoolhouse or a long-gone prairie church. But there it stood, bolted to a cedar post that hadn’t been there the day before.

Folks in town had theories, of course. In places like Washita County, theories sprout faster than wheat after a spring rain.

Old Mrs. Peabody said it was a sign from the Lord. Hank Ballard at the feed store claimed it was an art project. College kids with too much time and not enough sense created it. Deputy Collins figured someone dumped it there after cleaning out a barn.

But no one claimed responsibility. And no one can explain what started happening a week later.

Every morning at exactly 5:17 a.m.—never a minute sooner, never a minute later—the bell rang.

Just one tone.

Clear. Strong. Impossible to ignore.

At first people thought it was a prank. Someone out there at dawn, pulling a rope and having a good laugh. But when a few curious souls drove out at that hour, no one was ever there. They’d wait in their cars or stand beside the fence line with coffee steaming in cold hands. The prairie would hold its breath. Coyotes would go quiet.

And then the bell would ring.

The sound didn’t vibrate through the metal—folks swore it vibrated through them. It was as if it reached down and stirred up something old they’d forgotten. It is a memory, a regret, or a promise left sitting too long on a dusty shelf.

For some, the mornings changed them.

Mr. Conway, who hadn’t spoken to his brother in twenty years, drove to Elk City and patched things up. Annie Lucas finally mailed the letter she’d been writing and rewriting for a decade. Deputy Collins insisted the whole thing was nonsense. Despite this, he found himself stopping by a certain headstone in Sentinel more often.

But on the eighth morning, the bell didn’t ring.

Not at 5:17. Not at all.

When people went to check, the bell was gone—post and all. As if erased. Only a square of red earth remained. It was freshly disturbed. It was like someone had quietly lifted a piece of the world and carried it away.

The next day, life went on. Coffee brewed, trucks rumbled to work, and theories fluttered around like tumbleweeds. But every now and then, people found themselves glancing toward County Road 7, half-expecting a sound that no longer came.

Still, there are some who swear, when the wind blows just right across the prairie, they can hear it faintly in the distance:

One clear, steady ring.

A reminder of something they’re still meant to do.

Never forger RETROP!

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Old-School Policing: Stories From the Days Before Body Cameras

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025

3–5 minutes

Going Into Service

Police work operated on instinct, humor, and gritty common sense before body cameras. Every arrest didn’t turn into a viral upload back then. This approach belonged to another era. Officers learned from veterans who passed down unwritten rules — some practical, some questionable, and some downright hilarious. These stories aren’t a manual. They’re memories from a world that helped shape the officers we later became.

Don’s Lessons for Rookie Officers

Don was a seasoned officer whose wisdom mixed patience with a dry, knowing humor. He often told rookies about the prisoners who would scream for an entire transport ride. These are the same kind you see in fifteen-minute viral videos today.

He’d tell the infamous alum-powder story with a wink.

“Keep a plastic bag of it in your shirt pocket.

If you get a screamer, take a pinch and flick it – they will shut up!”

This always left rookies unsure whether he was pulling their leg. Or, was he sharing some relic from an era with fewer rules and more noise? His message was never about techniques. It was about the mindset: don’t let chaos set the tone. And always keep your humor intact.

The “Dog!” Brake Test

Another bit of old-school folklore involved the rowdy back-seat prisoner who wouldn’t stop cussing or kicking. Officers had a classic trick:

Get the patrol car up to about forty-five miles an hour.

Slam on the brakes.

Yell,

“Dog!”

The prisoner would slam into the cage divider and go silent. This silence would last until the second dog ran across the road. By the time they arrived at the jail, the only thing left in them was concern for the imaginary dogs.

It wasn’t policy. It wasn’t pretty. It was one of those stories officers shared over coffee. They shook their heads at “the way things used to be.”

The Gilligan’s Island Sobriety Test

DUI stops had their own brand of comedy. When you already knew the drunk driver was going to jail, the roadside field tests became… creative.

The “Gilligan’s Island Test” was a favorite:

Place your left hand over your head. Hold your right ear with your right hand. Balance on one foot. Sing the theme to Gilligan’s Island.

Most never made it past “a three-hour tour.”

It broke the tension. And after a long, cold night, sometimes everyone needed that.

Jurisdiction and the Art of Paperwork Avoidance

Jurisdiction lines used to shift like sand depending on who wanted — or didn’t want — the call. If the incident required endless paperwork, officers suddenly cared very deeply about city-limit boundaries, council-meeting notes, and outdated maps.

Veterans avoided calls they weren’t dispatched to, knowing the penalty: days off lost to court subpoenas. Midnight-shift officers often clocked out at dawn. They then sat in a courtroom until midafternoon. They did this while waiting for cases where they never said a word.

It was exhausting, but it was part of the rhythm of old-school policing.

A Time Before Cameras — And a Time With More Witnesses

These stories sound wild today, but much of policing back then was driven by common sense and community trust. People knew officers, and officers knew their people.

Citizens were often the first to speak up if an officer crossed a line. This happened long before social media or body cams existed. Even without technology, accountability came from individuals who believed in keeping standards high.

Most officers didn’t stop someone without a genuine reason. Those who abused that privilege rarely lasted. It was an unwritten rule — understood, enforced, and expected.

Closing Reflection

Old-school policing wasn’t perfect — not by a long shot. But it existed in a different world with different expectations. Humor softened harder edges. Community relationships carried more weight. And the job, for better or worse, relied on improvisation.

Today’s policing is built on transparency and technology, and that’s a good evolution. But these stories stay important. They are reminders of the human side of the badge, the long nights, and the strange solutions. These stories also recall the characters who trained us and the moments that shaped us along the way.

One persistent problem is untruths. Misinformation continues to mislead the public. These actions make the police look unfavorable.

Groff Media ©2025 benandsteve.com Truth Endures By: Benjamin Groff

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

Binger Oklahoma Home Of Johnny Bench – The slow vanishing of the heartland!

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

7–10 minutes

The next photographs depict an small town in Oklahoma from its birth through current day.

Going to town. Getting groceries, supplies and other needed items were essential trips in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Towns like Binger, Oklahoma were places where such trading centers would become popular. Train depots and later bus lines would bring needed connections to the area.

The above photos capture buildings that no longer stand. They were lost in one of the early fires that shaped the town’s history. The original downtown was once located near the area now known as the Johnny Bench Ball Park. This is at the Fair Grounds. After each fire, the town slowly shifted north. It rebuilt itself one block at a time. Eventually, it settled into its current location. The Post Office was a major accomplishment for any community to achieve. When a post office came, it marked the community’s success. The community became a reliable base for investors, visitors, and tourists.

State Highway 152 now runs through the center of town. Locals know it as Main Street. This familiar stretch has quietly observed generations pass through. This place is not what I call my hometown. But, it remains part of my associations. It is woven into the landscape of where I grew up and the memories that shaped me. During the 1950s to 1980s, hundreds of teenagers gathered on Binger’s Main Street. They saw it as the Main Drag on Friday and Saturday nights. It was as hot as a radio station spinning its latest hit. Both tunes filled the air from the City Hall. Tires spun all the way to the east end by the CO-OP. Button Williams, the towns Police Chief, watching carefully over the towns teen as he had since God’s creation. His Assistant Chief Jerry Wright there to catch calls on off nights.

Binger has always felt like one of those places where sports held the town together. The fields and courts were filled with tough farm kids. They were shaped by long days and dusty roads. Life taught them strength early. Many came from the Caddo and Kiowa Nations. People from other tribes joined them. Together they formed a close-knit spirit. This made every game feel like a community event.

From those humble beginnings came Johnny Bench. He was a local boy who carried his talent all the way to the Cincinnati Reds. He proudly wore number 5. The town still honors him with a small museum. It serves as a quiet reminder of how far a dream can travel from a place like this. And then there was Robert Johnson Jr., who tasted professional baseball but chose the familiar comfort of small-town life instead. In these memories, the heart of Binger lives on. It resides not just in its history. It also lies in the way it shaped those who once called it home. My grandfather bought the first Model T Ford from the town of Binger’s Ford dealership. They came to town to sell them when the Model T’s came out. “Pop” described the Ford outfit as being near where an old Caddo Electric building sets today. If you drive through the town, you will see the big white building. It’s on the corner near US281 and SH-152.

The above photo shows Main Street in Binger, Oklahoma, in 1932. It captures a quiet moment frozen in time. After the town burned twice, it rose again each time. It was rebuilt about a block north of its original location. This carried with it the stubborn spirit of those who refused to let it disappear. This image shows what became the final resting place of that rebuilt heart of town.
When the sidewalks were poured, metal rings were set into the concrete. They were meant to tether horses and wagons. Townsfolk stepped inside to conduct their daily business. For decades, those rings remained. They served as humble reminders of a slower pace and simpler life. In the mid-1970s, new federal accessibility requirements called for lower ramps and fresh pavement. With that change, the old sidewalks were replaced. The iron echoes of the past quietly vanished. Now, only memory and photographs tell their story.
This photo was found behind a old counter in the back of a business in the 1970s. Its dated as being in the 1920s. Which is a possibility. The name of the business is unknown. Yet longtime residents at the time did recognize the business as belonging to the town.
Binger once hosted three cafes and a hardware store. It also had two barber shops, a bar, and a propane company. There was a drug store, a movie theater, and two grocery stores. Additionally, it featured two laundries, a plumbing company, and a funeral home. The town included a post office, an electrical repair shop, a junk-pawn shop, and a pool hall. Binger also had two dry goods stores and a Western Auto. It had a Chevrolet Dealership, a TV Repair Service, and Three Service Stations. These were a Sinclair, a Gulf, and a Git-N-Go. There was also a dress shoppe. There was even a healthy farmer’s Co-Op. There were many other businesses that came and went in between the years. The public school was well respected in the County and had been given financial support to meet its needs.

This is a photo of the buses traveling both directions along Main Street in Binger. I’ve carried it with me for years. I have shared it many times. It always stirs the same familiar sense of remembering. This photo was taken while looking west. It captures the gentle rise at the end of the street — Binger Hill. For generations, this slope has slowed heavy trucks. It becomes unforgiving during icy winter storms.

On the right side, the white building stands just before the line of trees begins. It once served as City Hall. Inside were the fire department, water department, and city clerk. The building also housed a small police office. There was a jail that I can assure you no one was eager to test. The bars were thick, cold steel, reinforced and unyielding. I saw more than a few individuals placed there by the town’s two-man police force. This pair quietly carried more responsibility than most ever realized.

This photograph isn’t just about traffic or buildings. It holds a piece of a time when Binger moved at a gentler pace. The town watched over its own. Every corner held a story waiting to be remembered.

Johnny Bench rode home with the Binger High School baseball team on April 1, 1965. They had just played a game in nearby Riverside. This was a routine trip. It would become a moment forever etched into the town’s history. As the bus crested a hill, the coach suddenly realized the brakes had failed. The vehicle couldn’t slow down. It careened into a curve at dangerous speed. It burst through the guardrail and plunged nearly fifty feet into a ravine below.

The accident claimed the lives of two young teammates, Harold Sims and Billy Joe Wylie. This loss rippled through a small community that mourned deeply. Amid the chaos, Bench survived. He was guided by advice once given by his father. His father was a propane truck driver who understood the dangers of the road. He had told his son that in such a situation, the safest place was the floor of the vehicle. Remembering those words, Johnny dropped down. He instinctively pulled teammate David Gunter with him. This act well have saved both of their lives.

What followed was not just a tale of tragedy. It was also a story of instinct and survival. There was a quiet strength carried forth from a small Oklahoma town into the story of a legendary career.

Johnny Bench, the legendary Cincinnati Reds catcher, was known for the remarkable size and strength of his hands. Many claim he can palm as many as five baseballs in one hand. He famously demonstrated this skill on the television program This Is Your Life in the early 1970s. This moment is still remembered by many longtime fans.

Today the state highway runs right through the town’s middle section. What once was a Main Street with shops and store fronts bustling with shoppers and townspeople is now empty. It is nearly deserted.

Opitz Cotton Gin is no longer open
Cart’s Lumber on the Town’s East side is one of the few businesses providing services to the town.
The Medical Center reportedly closed some years ago.

There are a few businesses still open in the town. A dollar store, a satellite bank of a local branch is located on the hill. There is one diner. A convenience store. A bar and the Post Office. But for most part, the buildings you find will be empty, boarded up and closed. In the 1970s, the town’s streets were packed with people parking to go shopping on Main Street. Now, the streets are wide open. Many contribute the towns rundown to the Caddo Electric Headquarters moving it’s headquarters three miles east of town. It caused many doing business with the Electric Cooperative to avoid stopping in Binger. It was the first set of nails in the towns casket. The others were placed there when too much faith was placed in the oil industry. Then as shops began to close, people began to move, and the towns center stopped functioning. I know because I was there and watched it. This was the town closest to our farm. I graduated from a school some fifteen minutes away, a place called Lookeba-Sickles. And that place is story for another day!

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

The Wound That Would Not Heal

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

3–5 minutes
In a quiet town where truth was inconvenient and denial came easily, a single gunshot fractured reality itself. A woman vanished, a neighbor unraveled, and time began to twist like a crooked dream. Somewhere between rumor and retribution, between silence and scream, lies a story where justice does not knock… it whispers — and waits.

No one remembers precisely when the truth first slipped away. They only knew it had happened quietly. It occurred somewhere between the gunshot and the bandage.

Mara Ellison had lived beside Harold Pike for seven years without incident. They exchanged polite nods, sometimes a forced smile across the narrow strip of gravel separating their properties. So when the bullet tore into her foot one late afternoon — fired inexplicably from Harold’s back porch — she assumed the world would respond with reason.

It did not.

The police arrived within minutes, yet their questions drifted strangely away from the obvious. Why had she been standing there? Had she provoked him? Were there prior disagreements she had neglected to mention? Harold, calm and unsettlingly sincere, claimed the gun had “gone off on its own.” Soon, the incident was reclassified as an unfortunate misunderstanding.

Mara limped through the next weeks on swelling and disbelief. Her foot healed slowly. But the real pain settled elsewhere. It lingered in the way neighbors crossed the street to avoid her. It was noticeable in the whispers that followed her like dust. She was suddenly labeled unstable. Dramatic. A troublemaker.

She filed complaints. She documented every detail.

Each report vanished like breath on cold glass.

Harold began mowing his yard at odd hours, staring straight ahead, humming tunelessly as though nothing had happened. His friends brought casseroles. People clapped him on the back. Someone even hung a banner on his fence that read:

WE STAND WITH HAROLD.

Mara woke one morning to discover a court summons slid beneath her door. Harold claimed she had injured herself deliberately. He said it was to ruin his reputation.

The town agreed.

Reality itself began to warp. The scar on her foot throbbed while local newsletters praised Harold for his patience and “strength of character.” A small feature in the paper framed Mara as a disturbed woman seeking attention. Her own name felt foreign in print, warped by accusation.

Street signs near her home began to shift. Directions pointed nowhere. Familiar shops closed overnight. Conversations dissolved mid-sentence when she approached.

One night, she saw herself on the evening news. She looked laughing, cheerful, and perfectly fine. In reality, she sat alone. She stared at the bandage that never quite came off.

The bullet wound refused to disappear.

Nor did the silence that followed everyone’s denial of it.

On the final day anyone heard from her, Mara stood before the cracked mirror of her hallway. She whispered,

“If the world insists I am wrong, then what am I supposed to become?”

Outside, Harold watered his flowers with careful devotion.

Inside, Mara stepped into a reality no longer willing to recognize her. She vanished into a story written by others. This story never spoke the truth. Yet it was repeated loudly enough to become law.

Some said the house stood empty.

Others swore that if you passed it at dusk, you hear the faint echo of limping footsteps. They claimed to hear a voice pleading, again and again, to simply be believed.

Harold, meanwhile, withdrew mysteriously from society after Mara disappeared. He became a recluse, a shadow of the man the town once defended so fiercely.

Mara, in time, became folklore — “the woman no one believed.” Some claimed she had simply self-immolated. Others said she cried herself into nothing. A few insisted they saw her walking away from her home. She moved slowly toward the setting sun. She never once looked back.

Then, exactly ten years to the day of Mara’s shooting, Harold was found dead.

His body bore the evidence of prolonged torment . — Gunshot wounds in both feet, knees, hips, abdomen, hands, elbows, and upper arms. Each injury, save for the final one, had healed. The coroner confirmed a chilling pattern: Harold had been shot, treated, allowed to recover ––and shot again. Repeatedly, over the span of a decade.

The final bullet entered the right side of his head.

Nearby, written in a trembling hand, were the words:
“I can’t take it anymore.”

Had Harold been punishing himself for the truth he buried?
Had Mara’s spirit delivered a slow and deliberate reckoning?
Or had she never left at all — only waited?

Silence and shadows enveloped the town. It learned a lesson far too late: When truth is denied long enough, it finds other ways to speak.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Photos From Journey’s and Images To Memories

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

4–6 minutes

Home Is Where The Heart Is

This ditty is possible using a lighting trick. A photo of our home in Arizona on a full moon night in October 2025

Over the years, I’ve taken countless photographs during my travels across the United States. They are not professional grade. Together they tell a story of moments, places, and memories I felt worth sharing. This is the first collection I’m beginning with, and over time I will add more as the journey continues. Depending on how these are received, future sets will follow. For now, I invite you to enjoy this glimpse through my lens.

THE COURT HOUSE

The Washita County Court House. In Cordell, Oklahoma where my
Grandparents hailed from when I was a child.

The Washita County Courthouse, located in Courthouse Square in New Cordell, is the county courthouse serving Washita County, Oklahoma. The Classical Revival courthouse was built in 1910. It was added to the National Register of Historic Places on August 24, 1984. Wikipedia

 111 E Main St, New Cordell, OK 73632

Opened: 1910 Area: 43,560 ft²

Architectural style: Neoclassical architecture

I first attended holiday events with my grandparents here. Later as a police officer I testified at murder trials in the historic court room.

Britten USA

Every time we travel east to visit relatives we pass this landmark in Groom Texas. On this particular day we were heading west hurrying home. A ice storm had been predicted and we were trying to beat it over the mountains.

“Britten USA” most commonly refers to the Britten U.S.A. Leaning Tower of Texas in Groom, Texas, a roadside attraction on Route 66 created by Ralph Britten. Alternatively, it can also refer to Britten Inc., a marketing and branding company that specializes in visual engagement solutions for events and advertising. 

The Leaning Tower of Texas

Current status: It remains a popular tourist attraction and a landmark on historic Route 66. 

What it is: A roadside water tower that is tilted about five degrees from vertical.

Location: Groom, Texas, along the westbound frontage road of Interstate 40 near the historic Route 66 path.

History: Ralph Britten bought the tower from a nearby town. He installed it as a marketing tool for his truck stop and restaurant in the early 1980s. An electrical fire later destroyed the buildings, leaving only the tower.

Oklahoma Windmills

Windmills in Oklahoma. A field in Western Oklahoma to be exact.

Windmills stretch across the American landscape. They stand quietly in a field of Western Oklahoma — steady sentinels of what renewable energy can represent. Yet in the current political climate, the future of clean energy in the United States feels increasingly uncertain. Progress once promised innovation and leadership. Now, it risks being slowed by shifting priorities. Resistance at the highest levels of government contributes to this challenge, particularly within the current administration and Republican leadership.

Each pause in advancing renewable energy costs more than time; it costs momentum, opportunity, and global standing. Other nations continue to move ahead. They invest in sustainable solutions and future infrastructure. Meanwhile, America risks falling further behind. This gap is not by years, but by decades. Every delay today echoes as missed potential tomorrow.

MOUNTAINS OF UTAH

This black-and-white industrial scene was captured many years ago. I was accompanying my better half on a business trip to Salt Lake City, Utah. Somewhat surprisingly, the photo was taken from the third-floor window of our modest motel room.

As I looked out, the contrast of rigid industry against the soft sweep of snow-capped mountains stirred something in me. It was a moment that begged to be preserved. It served as a quiet reminder of winter’s presence. This was rare compared to the sun-baked valley we call home near Phoenix. Instinct took over, and I froze the memory in time with a simple click.

The photo above comes from a much earlier time. It is a fleeting capture of two vultures perfectly perched on weathered fence posts. This scene is in the desert near our old Road’s End Ranch, west of Phoenix, Arizona. We lived there for nearly eleven years, and it remains one of the richest chapters of our lives. Open range, endless sky, and a wildness that felt both rugged and beautiful.

Cattle wandered freely into our yard, trailing no rules but their own. Coyotes called at dusk. Javelina passed through like restless shadows. Rattlesnakes reminded us daily that we were sharing their world. The Western Diamondback (Crotalus atrox) was among the most common. The Mojave Rattlesnake (Crotalus scutulatus) and the Sidewinder (Crotalus cerastes) were also frequent visitors. They were constant guardians of the desert floor.

This particular moment was captured on the fly — literally. We sped through the desert in a golf cart. I clung to the passenger seat. At the same time, I attempted to steady a camera. The vultures sat motionless, almost statuesque, watching over some unseen feast just beyond the fence line. A raw, unplanned moment — and yet one that perfectly reflects the untamed spirit of the life we cherished there.

Sunset at Road’s End Ranch. It was one of the last we were fortunate enough to witness before selling our desert home. We moved to the city in 2013. The White Tank Mountains stretch softly across the western horizon. They catch the fading light in a way only the desert can offer.

This marks the close of the current collection. Many more photographs will be shared in the days, weeks, and months ahead. Thank you for your thoughtful comments, memories, and kind suggestions along the way.

The Day He Lost The Ability To Speak English

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

3–4 minutes

Arthur P. Calloway had built a reputation for saying exactly what he thought — and what he thought was rarely kind. He had campaigned against “outsiders.” He railed at city council meetings. He spoke with a confidence born not of wisdom, but volume. English, he often boasted, was the only language this country should ever need.

Arthur opened his mouth one Tuesday morning. He heard flawless Portuguese spill into the quiet of his kitchen. He thought it must be a joke. He assumed it was a trick of the television. It was a dream he had not yet shaken. He tried again. Perfect Mandarin. Then French. Then something that sounded like Arabic, rolling and melodic and utterly foreign to his ears.

“Stop this nonsense,” he commanded himself — only it came out in rapid German, sharp and precise. His heartbeat climbed into his throat.

“Hört auf mit diesem Unsinn!”

Arthur spent the day marching through town in bewilderment, attempting to explain his crisis to clerks, police officers, and neighbors. Every word that escaped him was eloquent and unfamiliar. Some laughed. Some filmed him. A few shook their heads and muttered that he was finally “losing it.”

By afternoon, humiliated and exhausted, he wandered into the small international grocery store he had once tried to shut down. A young woman stood behind the counter. He recognized her instantly. It was Marisol Reyes. She was one of the very people he had publicly accused of “changing the town.” She watched him carefully as he stammered in perfect Spanish.

Her eyes widened. “You never spoke to us before,” she said quietly. “Now you talk like you were born somewhere else.”

“Nunca antes nos habías hablado, ahora hablas como si hubieras nacido en otro lugar.”

Arthur understood.

Arthur’s face burned, but for the first time in years, something softer stirred beneath his anger. Through a strange miracle or curse, he explained everything. He shared his confusion and his fear. He talked about his inability to produce even a single English syllable.

Marisol listened. Not because she owed him kindness, but because she chose it.

Word spread quickly. People from other communities began visiting Arthur, testing his strange gift. He spoke Tagalog with nurses, Swahili with truck drivers, Italian with the old baker whose accent now made perfect sense. Each conversation chipped quietly at the fortress he had built around himself.

Weeks later, as suddenly as it had come, the spell broke. Arthur awoke to find English restored, sitting comfortably on his tongue like an old coat.

But something within him no longer fit.

He returned to Marisol’s store, this time with a hesitant smile and a humility unfamiliar even to himself.

“I don’t deserve it,” he said, at last understanding the weight and privilege of those simple words. “But I want to learn. Not just the words. The people.”

Marisol nodded once. Then she gestured to a small bulletin board near the door. It displayed community language classes, cultural nights, and shared meals.

Arthur signed up for every one of them.

The town never quite knew what had caused his transformation. Some called it divine intervention. Others laughed it off as a nervous breakdown. Arthur never explained. He listened more. He spoke less. He walked daily past a world he once hated. Now he heard it. He truly heard it. He listened in every language he had once refused to respect.

And for the first time in his life, he found peace not in being understood… but in understanding.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Alice Kessler & Ellen Kessler — Twin Lives, Shared Stardom, and a Final Choice Together

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

3–4 minutes

Alice and Ellen Kessler were born on August 20, 1936, in Nerchau, Saxony, Germany. From early childhood, they trained in ballet and performance, eventually emerging as a dazzling twin act in post-war Europe. They became known internationally for their synchronized dancing, singing, and television appearances. They found particular fame in Italy, where they were dubbed “Le gemelle Kessler”.  

They appeared in films like Love and the Frenchwoman and Dead Woman from Beverly Hills . Their careers expanded beyond dance into acting. 

Shared Career, Shared Life 

For decades, they performed as a unit—twins inseparable both on and off stage. Their image of elegance, glamour, and synchronized precision made them icons of entertainment in the 1950s and 1960s. Their bond remained strong even as they stepped away from the spotlight, ultimately returning to Germany and settling near Munich.

Their Final Days & Decision

On November 17, 2025, both Alice and Ellen passed away in Grünwald, Bavaria, Germany, at the age of 89.  Their cause of death is reported as assisted suicide. They made this decision together. It reflects how they had lived life: side by side. 

The sisters had long ago expressed the wish to be cremated together. They wanted their ashes placed in a single urn, according to reports. They had indicated they no longer wished to continue their current life. They chose to end their lives together. 

Why They Made That Choice

While the intimate details of their decision stay personal, the public record suggests the following contributing factors:

  • Age and quality of life: At 89, they faced the realities of aging. Having lived their whole careers, they wished to face death by choice rather than decline.
  • Deep bond: Their identity had been formed around always being together—professionally and personally. The decision to depart together echoes the unity they maintained for nearly nine decades.
  • Autonomy in the final act: In Germany, since 2019, medical aid in dying has been legal under certain conditions. This involves an individual administering prescribed medication themselves. They chose the timing, setting, and manner—affirming their autonomy to the end.

Legacy and Reflection

Alice and Ellen stay symbols of an era of variety-show glamour. They epitomize cross-European entertainment. Their twin synergy is unmatched by few acts. But beyond their performance, their final act raises profound questions about dignity. It also questions companionship and the nature of choice at the end of life.

Their journey is a full-circle narrative for fans, historians, and those intrigued by human stories. They start as childhood ballet students. They become international stars. Finally, they become co-authors of their own end. It shows how life can be lived. It also demonstrates how life can be shared and completed on one’s own terms.

Closing Thoughts Remembering The Kessler Sisters

How many partnerships in life are built to last so long, and so deeply? 

The Kessler twins remind us of devotion not only to craft, but to each other. In their final act, they teach us something tender and unsettling. They reveal the power of choice, the weight of togetherness, and the mystery of closure.

Latest on the Kessler Twins’ passing –

NEWS BULLETIN. TUESDAY NOVEMBER 19, 2025

The Kessler Twins have left this world together.

Alice Kessler and Ellen Kessler—German twin sisters who performed as a variety entertainment duo—died by joint assisted suicide at their home in Gruenwald, Germany, on Nov. 17, according to the German Society for Humane Dying (DGHS).

“They had been considering this option for some time,” the association, which advocates for the right to a self-determined death, said in a statement to NBC News. “They had been members of the organization for over a year.”

Explaining that those “who choose this option in Germany must be absolutely clear-headed, meaning free and responsible,” the organization noted that the sisters engaged in thorough discussions with a lawyer and a doctor before setting on this path.

“The decision must be thoughtful and consistent,” the DGHS added, “meaning made over a long period of time and not impulsive.”

Assisted dying is legal in Germany, with the country’s constitutional court ruling in 2020 that an individual has the right to end their life and seek help from a third party under certain circumstances.

MEMORIAL: VIDEO – NOT A DRY EYE IN THE HOUSE

Groff Media ©2025 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

🎬 The Emperor of the North (1973)

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

2–3 minutes

Original title: Emperor of the North Pole

Running time: 1h :58m Rating: PG Genre: Period Drama / Thriller

Director: Robert Aldrich Writers: Christopher Knopf, inspired by the works of Jack London

A Ride Through the Great Depression — and Through Human Grit

The film is set in 1933. The Emperor of the North takes place against the backdrop of the Great Depression. During this time, the rails served as a lifeline for the desperate. They also became a battlefield for survival. Ernest Borgnine plays Shack. He is a brutal railroad conductor. Shack rules his train—the Number 19—with an iron fist and a hammer to match. His sworn enemy is the legendary hobo A No. 1, portrayed by Lee Marvin. A No. 1 rides the rails with the confidence of a man. He is cunning and refuses to be beaten by either poverty or authority.

The story becomes a symbolic duel between two men: the enforcer of order and the champion of freedom. Their rivalry becomes a metaphor for a country divided. Some cling to what little control they have. Others have lost everything but their pride.

A Director Who Keeps the Train on Track

Director Robert Aldrich (The Dirty Dozen, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?) gives the film a muscular rhythm—every whistle blast and rattling wheel pulse with tension. When you think the film will slow, Aldrich revs it up with a fight. He adds a chase or introduces a moment of quiet resolve. His pacing keeps Emperor of the North from ever running off the rails. It balances moments of raw brutality with haunting glimpses of camaraderie among the downtrodden.

A Cast as Strong as Steel

Lee Marvin and Ernest Borgnine headline a powerhouse ensemble. The cast also includes a young Keith Carradine as Cigarette. He plays the eager, inexperienced hobo who idolizes A No. 1 but still has much to learn about survival and respect. The supporting cast, featuring Malcolm Atterbury, Simon Oakland, Sid Haig, Matt Clark, Elisha Cook Jr., and others, adds authenticity to the Depression-era world. Each actor feels carved from the same rough wood as the era itself—grimy, determined, and vividly alive.

A Story About Class, Pride, and the Price of Survival

Though marketed as an adventure, the movie is a study in pride and power. Shack’s tyranny is born out of fear and obsession; A No. 1’s rebellion comes from principle. The screenplay is inspired by Jack London’s tales of survival and the human spirit. It weaves geography and movement into a dance. This dance stretches across boxcars, over bridges, and into the soul of a broken nation.

“Only one man rides the rails — the other rules them.”

By the film’s climax, we’re left asking who truly wins. Is it the man who guards the system, or the man who defies it? Both emerge scarred by the journey. That’s the real message of Emperor of the North. Survival during desperate times demands both strength and sacrifice.

Verdict: ★★★★☆

A rugged, violent, and beautifully shot Depression-era thriller. Borgnine and Marvin deliver performances as fierce as the clanging of the rails themselves. It’s a story about pride and power. It also explores the peril of trying to be “Emperor” when the world has nothing left to give.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

🩸 The Making of a Nightmare

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When Progress Buried the Past Beneath Big Canyon Lake

By Benjamin Groff II | The Story Teller – benandsteve.com.

3–5 minutes

As The Story Goes –––

No one had seriously thought it would be real. They all thought what they were doing would be forgotten in only a few weeks. But what followed would go on, and on, and on. And not even those with the worst of intentions have predicted the outcome.

It was the summer of 1941, and spring had brought heavy rains to the Big Canyon, flooding the valley below. The farmers had not yet seen the completion of the WPA projects. These projects began in the late 1930s across most of the country. With those projects came new schools, highways, bridges, and community centers. The last of the projects here was the shoring up of valleys. This involved building dams to control runoff waters from creeks, rivers, and streams. When the heavy rains came, the floods were tamed through a spillway cut deep into the earth.

Now that summer was upon them, workers from the CCC and WPA joined forces. They were building what would be known as the Big Canyon Watershed Project. They used mules and draft horses. With these animals, they pulled wedges and plows. The team cleared the valley floor that would soon disappear beneath the rising water. Every blow of an axe and every groan of timber was heard in the thick air. These sounds seemed to signify progress—or so they thought.

The men bunked in rough-hewn cabins and ate in a mess hall that smelled of kerosene and sweat. They joked about ghosts that will one day swim through the drowned cottonwoods or the abandoned family homesteads. But there was one homestead no one wanted to talk about—the Miller place.

The Miller Mystery

The Millers had lived at the base of the canyon for as long as anyone remember. Their house sat crooked beside a spring-fed creek that never dried, even in the harshest drought. Locals said the spring was sacred to the Washita people long before white settlers arrived. When the government bought out the land for the dam, every family took the offered payment—except the Millers.

Old Henry Miller refused to leave. “This land don’t belong to the government,” he told the surveyors. “It don’t even belong to me. It belongs to the water, and she’ll take it back when she’s good and ready.”

They said he vanished one night in late October, just before the final clearing began. The official report listed him as relocated. But the men who worked the next week swore. They heard hammering at night. They saw a lantern flickering deep in the canyon where the Miller house had stood.

When the first rains came that winter, the spillway gates were opened. The lake began to rise. Within days, the Miller place—and whatever was left of it—was gone.

The Haunting of Big Canyon Lake

By the next summer, Big Canyon Lake became a local attraction. Families came from nearby towns to picnic along the shore and marvel at the engineering wonder. Fishermen swore the lake was bottomless. Divers who dared to explore near the old creek bed spoke of hearing faint knocking under the water. It sounded as if someone were still hammering boards together.

A maintenance crew was at the spillway in 1947. They were inspecting it by draining part of the spillway. During the inspection, they found something jammed in one of the lower gates. It was a section of cabin timber—weathered, darkened, with three hand-carved letters burned into it: H. M.

The lake was drained once more in the drought of 1954. When it receded far enough, the foundation of the old Miller place appeared, blackened but intact. And at its center, where the spring once bubbled up, was a hole—dark, deep, and breathing.

No one went near it. The Army Corps sealed the area, and within weeks, the water rose again.

The Nightmare Endures

Locals say Big Canyon Lake is cursed. On calm nights, when the moon hangs over the still water, you can see a lantern light. It flickers beneath the surface. Fishermen have reported hearing someone tapping on their boats, like a muffled warning.

The government calls it folklore.
The people who live nearby call it memory.

As for the Miller land, they say the water finally took it back. It also took the man who tried to keep it.

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

Tornado Activity in Paraná, Brazil: How Common Is It?

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2–4 minutes

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Damage caused by tornado strike in Parana’, Brazil November 6, 2025

The state of Paraná, in southern Brazil, does not experience tornadoes as often as North America’s “Tornado Alley.” In contrast, it is one of the more active regions for severe weather. It experiences more frequent severe weather compared to the rest of South America. Tornadoes here are not everyday events, yet they occur often enough to be taken seriously.

Frequency and Historical Records

  • The southern region of Brazil (Paraná, Santa Catarina, and Rio Grande do Sul) records the majority of the country’s tornadoes.
  • A comprehensive meteorological study found around 310 tornado occurrences in southern Brazil. Approximately 87 of those took place in Paraná during the recorded period.
  • (Source: Universidade Federal de Santa Maria – Ciência e Natura Journal)
  • Another catalog lists at least 106 tornadoes that have historically occurred in Paraná alone. Nonetheless, researchers agree that the actual number is probably higher. Many rural or short-lived tornadoes go unreported.
  • (Source: Wikipedia – List of Brazil Tornadoes)

When and Where Tornadoes Occur

  • The peak season runs from September through March or April, corresponding to the warm, storm-prone months in the Southern Hemisphere.
  • Tornadoes in Paraná are typically linked to cold fronts. They are also linked to severe convective systems (supercell thunderstorms). These systems move north from Argentina and Paraguay across southern Brazil.
  • The western and central portions of the state, especially open agricultural regions, experience the highest number of reported events.

Risk and Impacts

Tornado damage
Nov. 6, 2025
  • While far less frequent than in the U.S. Midwest, Paraná tornadoes can still be destructive.
    • One notable event occurred in 2015, when a tornado struck Marechal Cândido Rondon, destroying homes and injuring residents. Meteorologists later classified it as an EF-2 tornado.
      • Damage paths in Brazilian tornadoes are often shorter. Building standards and awareness levels are low. This means that even small tornadoes can still cause significant losses.
  • Meteorologists note that the public’s perception of tornado risk in Brazil is low. This can make isolated events more dangerous due to a lack of preparation or warning infrastructure.

Summary

Aspect Description

Frequency: Dozens recorded over several decades; under-reported

Peak Season September–March (Southern Hemisphere spring to early autumn)

Most Active Areas Western/Central Paraná

Typical Intensity EF-0 to EF-2, occasionally stronger

Risk Level Low overall, but real — capable of significant local damage

In Perspective

Parana’, Brazil Nov. 6, 2025

Tornadoes in Paraná are uncommon but not rare. They sporadically, mostly during severe summer thunderstorms. For locals, this means staying alert during major storm fronts — not living in fear, but with awareness.

Compared to global hotspots, while Paraná’s tornadoes seem minor. In a region better known for lush farmland and waterfalls, a twisting funnel cloud is a striking sight. It remains one of nature’s most potent spectacles. It is also among the most sobering spectacles.

Late on Friday night, a ferocious whirlwind ripped through the southern Brazilian town of Rio Bonito do Iguaçu. It left behind a scene described by officials as “like a war zone.” With winds exceeding 250 km/h (155 mph), the twister flattened homes. The tornado overturned vehicles and claimed at least six lives — including a 14-year-old girl — while injuring hundreds more. Source (Al Jazeera+2AP News+2)

As emergency crews sift through the rubble, the people of this tight-knit community face an uncertain morning. They wonder where to sleep. They consider how to rebuild. They must reckon with nature’s sudden fury. Source (ABC News+1)

This is not just a storm. It’s a stark reminder of how swiftly life can change. This happens when the skies unleash their full power.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Winning the Battle for Health, Security, and Equality in America

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By Benjamin H. Groff II

3–5 minutes

We are living in a time when critical issues are being tossed around like poker chips in Washington. These include health care, Social Security, disability support, and the rights of the LGBTQ+ community. The game has gotten meaner, the stakes higher, and the players more reckless. But if history teaches us anything, it’s that ordinary Americans can outshine the biggest machines of power. They can outlast them when they work smart and stay focused.

This isn’t about red or blue. It’s about who gets to live with dignity and who doesn’t.

1. Protecting What We’ve Paid For

Let’s start with the basics: Social Security and Medicare are not entitlements—they’re earned benefits. Working Americans paid into them every payday of their lives. Yet, each election cycle, someone in Congress floats the idea of “sunsetting” or “restructuring” them. That’s political code for cutting.

The smart move? Make every elected official—Republican or Democrat—go on record promising no cuts to Social Security and Medicare. It’s a winning issue across party lines because nearly every voter depends on it, or soon will. The average monthly advantage for retirees is about $2,000. You can’t afford to lose that—and neither can your parents.

2. The Health Care Frontline

Medicare drug price negotiations are already law, and they’re starting to bite down on Big Pharma. Those savings need to be expanded and defended. Keep the issue local—talk about your neighbor’s insulin cost, your pharmacy’s long lines, and your doctor’s limited hours. These stories hit harder than any campaign ad.

If you live in a state that still refuses Medicaid expansion, that’s another battle worth fighting. States like Oklahoma and Missouri proved that when citizens put Medicaid expansion on the ballot, it wins—even in conservative territory. It keeps rural hospitals open and saves lives. Simple as that.

3. Disability Rights Are Human Rights

For millions of Americans, especially seniors and people with disabilities, Medicaid is the real safety net. It funds long-term care, home health aides, and community services. Most people don’t realize that these programs face constant threats. This occurs at both the state and federal levels.

It’s time to make disability policy visible again. Discuss the waiting lists. Talk about the family caregivers working without rest. Tackle the closures of group homes that once kept people safe. Every one of those stories is a vote for compassion and common sense.

4. Standing Up for the LGBTQ+ Community

Across the nation, hundreds of anti-LBGTQ+ bills have been introduced under the banner of “protecting children.” But what they really do is threaten the safety and rights of already vulnerable people—students, families, and workers.

The answer isn’t more shouting matches. It’s telling real stories. These are parents who want their trans kid to live without fear. There is a teacher who wants to keep their job. Or a couple wants the same hospital visitation rights as anyone else. When the conversation becomes personal, hearts shift—and politics follows.

5. Building Alliances That Win

You don’t win these battles alone. You build coalitions that surprise people. Seniors and veterans defend Social Security. Small business owners back drug price reform. Nurses and church groups advocate dignity in care. That’s how movements grow—through unexpected allies who realize they’re all fighting for the same thing.

The revisionist thrives on division. A winning strategy thrives on unity.

6. How to Get Loud, Smart, and Effective

  • Use your voice locally. County health boards, school boards, and hospital districts make real decisions about care and coverage. Attend those meetings.
  • Tell your story. A 30-second video of your experience with health care or benefits will reach more people than a dozen speeches.
  • Learn it. Agencies post new rules all the time—public comments matter. Gather friends, go to Regulations.gov, and leave thoughtful, factual remarks. Bureaucrats read them.
  • Stick to clear messages:
    • “Protect what we’ve paid for.”
    • “Keep care close to home.”
    • “Freedom to make personal medical decisions.”
    • “Dignity for every family.”

7. The Bottom Line

The fight for affordable health care, strong social programs, and equal rights isn’t about party loyalty—it’s about survival. You can’t eat ideology, and you can’t pay for prescriptions with political slogans.

The people who built this country deserve to live out their years in peace, not fear. The next generation deserves to inherit something more significant, fairer, and more human.

That’s how we win. We don’t hate what’s broken. Instead, we protect what still works. We fight like hell to fix what doesn’t.

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

Carol Jane “Penny” Pence Taylor * May 11, 1929 – November 4, 2025

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2–3 minutes

Groff Media ©2025 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

Carol "Penny" Pence Taylor
Carol Jane “Penny” Pence Taylor

We are deeply saddened to announce the passing of Carol Jane “Penny” Pence Taylor. She was born on May 11, 1929, and passed away on November 4, 2025. Penny was a pioneering American swimmer, Olympian, mentor, and coach. She was also a beloved figure in the sport of swimming. She died in New Orleans, Louisiana, at the age of 96. 

Life & Accomplishments

Penny Pence was born in Indianapolis, Indiana, and as a young woman rose to national prominence as a breaststroke specialist. She represented the United States at the 1948 Summer Olympics in London. She competed in the women’s 200-metre breaststroke at the age of 19. 

In that era, women’s competitive swimming was still evolving. Swimsuits were made of cotton. Goggles were not yet in regular use. Lane lines and pool technology were far less advanced than today. As noted in

Beyond the Olympics, she achieved multiple national titles in breaststroke and medley relay events. At the 1951 Pan American Games, she won gold in the 3×100 m medley relay. She also secured bronze in the 200 m breaststroke. Which is noted in Olympedia+1

After her competitive career, Penny turned to coaching and leadership. She spent more than three decades as a swim coach in the St. Louis area. She served in various roles with U.S. Swimming organizations. She was a team leader at the 1984 and 1992 Olympics. She worked as a deck marshal at the 1996 Games. She was also the chef de mission at several FINA World Championships. Her backgrounds are well documented on Wikipedia

Legacy

At the 1951 Pan American Games, she won gold in the 3×100 m medley relay. She also secured bronze in the 200 m breaststroke.

Penny Pence’s legacy lives on in many ways. She helped lay the groundwork for women’s competitive swimming in the United States. Her efforts bridged the post-war era into the modern age of the sport. Her dedication as an athlete, coach, administrator, and mentor touched countless swimmers. She had the rare perspective of having raced in the era when the butterfly wing-style was emerging in breaststroke events. Later, she guided new generations. 

A Life Remembered

Penny was admired for her determination, her attention to detail, and her lifelong commitment to the sport she loved. She stayed involved with swimming well into her later years. She attended major events. She offered counsel and shared stories of an era when competitive swimming was very different from today. 

You will find many references to her through Swimming World Magazine

In Tribute

A private celebration of her life is being planned.

Her family requests donations in her name instead of flowers. These can be made to a local swim club. Alternatively, they can be directed to a scholarship fund supporting young swimmers.

Her memory reminds us of the value of perseverance, service, and passion for the sport.

Penny Pence has left the pool. Still, her ripple effect continues in the lanes. It also continues in the lives of all whom she touched. She will be deeply missed and fondly remembered.

A service provided by By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

What Is Antifa And Do You Belong To It?

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3–4 minutes

ANTIFA BACKSTORY

Antifa, short for “anti-fascist,” is a decentralized, far-left political movement that opposes fascism, racism, and other forms of far-right extremism.

It is not a single, unified organization with a national leader or headquarters. Rather, it is a loose network of autonomous local groups and individuals. They share a common ideology. 

History

  • European origins: Modern anti-fascist movements have historical roots in early 20th-century Europe. Groups like Germany’s Antifaschistische Aktion fought against rising fascism and Nazism in the 1920s and 1930s.
  • American development: In the United States, groups like the Anti-Racist Action (ARA) influenced the modern movement in the 1980s. They confronted Neo-Nazi skinheads at punk rock concerts.
  • Resurgence: Antifa gained significant public attention and saw a revival in activity after the 2016 U.S. presidential election. This was especially true during clashes with far-right groups. These occurred at events like the 2017 “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville, Virginia.

Beliefs and ideology

  • Anti-authoritarianism: Adherents subscribe to a range of left-wing views. These include anarchism, socialism, and communism. They hold anti-authoritarian and anti-capitalist positions.
  • Direct action: The movement prioritizes direct action over electoral politics. They believe it is necessary to disrupt what they see as hateful and oppressive activities. These disruptions are crucial before such activities can grow.
  • Confrontation: Supporters believe that hate speech is not free speech and advocate for the active suppression of fascist organizing efforts. 

Tactics

Antifa tactics range from nonviolent to militant and vary widely among autonomous groups. 

  • Nonviolent techniques: These include community organizing, publicizing the activities of far-right groups (“doxing”), and distributing flyers.
  • Militant techniques: Some adherents use confrontational tactics, including physical violence and property damage, which critics condemn as counterproductive and dangerous.
  • “Black bloc”: During protests, some activists engage in “black bloc” tactics. They dress in all black with their faces covered. This is done to keep anonymity and solidarity.

Controversy and criticism

  • Terrorist label: For several years, President Donald Trump has said he would label Antifa as a terrorist organization. As recently as September 2025, he reiterated this stance. Still, legal and civil rights experts have stated such a designation would be unconstitutional. They argue it is challenging to apply to a decentralized movement rather than a structured group. Former FBI Director Christopher Wray has also described it as an ideology rather than an organization.
  • Use of violence: Antifa’s use of violence has been condemned by both Republican and Democratic politicians. Some critics draw false equivalencies between Antifa violence and far-right extremist violence.
  • Misinformation: The movement has often been the topic of persistent disinformation campaigns. Right-wing groups and social media accounts promote false rumors and hoaxes about its activities. 

Right now in U.S. politics, “Antifa” is not a formal organization. Instead, it is a loosely applied label meaning “anti-fascist.” It refers to people who oppose far-right extremism. In recent years, some political figures have used the term as a catch-all. Donald Trump is included among those who use it this way. They apply it to anyone who protests or opposes their policies. That means the word is often used more as a political weapon than a precise description.

If someone opposes the GOP or criticizes Trump’s policies, that alone does not make them “Antifa.” Certain media outlets or political figures call them that. It’s a rhetorical strategy to stigmatize opposition. This labeling is not a reflection of an actual membership or affiliation. Historically, in the U.S., dissent against a party or president has always existed without being automatically labeled as extremist.

So, in short: at the “current rate” of framing, you are called Antifa if you oppose Trump. Nonetheless, that’s a label applied by others. It is not an actual classification or legal designation. It’s essential to recognize the difference between rhetoric and reality.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Why Language Choice Is Crucial in Events

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3–5 minutes

Words Matter: 10 Phrases We Should Rethink in Events—and Beyond

(inspired by Daria Knupp’s piece at Personify)

We all know words can inspire, connect, and excite—but they can also alienate, offend, or sound tired. Daria Knupp, Sr. Content Marketing Manager at Personify, recently published a thoughtful article. It lists 10 words and phrases we should stop using in the events industry. We should consider avoiding them everywhere. Her list stopped me in my tracks—and it will surprise you, too.

We use these terms often at conferences, in meetings, and in our everyday work to convey intelligence, wit, and creativity. Nevertheless, some have roots in stereotypes, outdated social theories, or even deeply offensive historical contexts. Here are highlights from Knupp’s list. I also include my own reflections on why they matter. Additionally, I explore how we can do better.

Phrases Worth Rethinking

  • “Guru” Originally, the title of the highest spiritual leaders in Hinduism and Buddhism. Using it casually—“event planning guru”—can trivialize a sacred role. Try “expert” or “specialist” instead.
  • “Pow Wow” is not just a “quick meeting.” It’s a sacred Native American gathering of community and celebration. Try “meeting” or “collaboration.”
  • “Tribe” is often used to describe a network or support, but it is tied to outdated and harmful stereotypes. Swap in “team,” “group,” or “cohort.”
  • “Nitty Gritty” Commonly meant “the essentials,” but it was rooted in references to the slave trade. Use “details” or “essentials” instead.
  • “Hold Down the Fort” Seems harmless, but it was initially tied to colonial conflicts with Native Americans. Consider “supervise” or “manage.”
  • “Tipping Point” was popularized by Malcolm Gladwell, but historically referred to racial “thresholds” in neighborhoods. Try “pivotal moment” or “milestone.”
  • “Rule of Thumb” Linked—to wife-beating folklore. Safer to say “general guideline” or “industry standard.”
  • “Crazy” or “Insane” Using mental illness terms casually undermines efforts to destigmatize. Replace with “absurd,” “outrageous,” or “ridiculous.”
  • Buzzwords like “Synergy,” “Leverage,” and “Bandwidth” Overuse makes you sound like a cliché. Switch it up with plainer language.
  • Hyperboles. Nothing wrong with exaggeration—but when overdone, it can make you less credible. Mix in metaphors or puns for variety.

Personal Reflection: A Lifelong Connection

I’ve had very close Native American friends who have been like family to me for nearly fifty years. Through countless conversations, shared meals, and life’s ups and downs, similar concerns about language never arose. We always spoke openly and comfortably with one another, and I thought we understood each other fully.

Now, reading about the origins of these words and their potential to harm, I have to ask myself—was I wrong? Did I unintentionally cause pain, even to the people I love and respect? This personal reflection can make the audience feel empathetic and introspective. Did my long-held assumptions give me a sense of being “above” the issue when in reality I wasn’t?

This is why articles like Daria Knupp’s matter. They challenge us to reevaluate. They help us check our blind spots. They make us confront how easy it is to inherit language without questioning it. This can make the audience feel motivated and empowered. I hope that in sharing this, readers will pause. I hope they think: if language is so powerful, what can we do to use it better?

Why This Matters

As Knupp points out, we interact with thousands of attendees, exhibitors, colleagues, and friends. Every word choice carries weight. Being mindful of language isn’t about being “too sensitive”; it’s about making sure everyone feels respected and included. And honestly? It makes us sound more intelligent and up-to-date.

For me, this list was surprising because so many of these phrases have been normalized. Seeing their origins laid out in one place makes me rethink my own habits. It also makes me curious—what other everyday expressions are we using without realizing their history?

The Takeaway

Language evolves, and so can we. By phasing out these outdated or offensive terms, we show ourselves as thoughtful professionals and better human beings. Words shape experiences. They can also change them—for the better.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

NOTE: We live in a time when there’s a relentless push to roll back equality. Efforts aim to undo hard-won progress toward balancing the scales between the haves and the have-nots. Reports like this stand as a vital reminder. There will always be voices, somewhere, willing to rise for decency, fairness, and moral courage.

Detective Roff’s Unusual Suspect: The Furry Bandit

Benjamin2 Comments
3–5 minutes

Surveying the town, the Detective realized he was facing a unique challenge. His task was to apprehend the suspect responsible for the laundry mat break-in. Some witnesses described the suspect as an unusual figure. He towered at 6’5 and had distinctive pointy ears. His face was furry.

Wanda, the laundry mat attendant, was first to be interviewed by Detective Jim Roff. She told him the suspect had furry knuckles, too. She had watched through the office’s one-way mirror. He pried open washing machines’ coin boxes. Then, he filled a pouch in his front coat pocket. A coat, she said, was very blue and sparkly.

Merle was standing on the sidewalk outside. He was picking up cigarette butts along the walkway. He said the thief bumped into him while making his getaway. A few of the coins managed to roll down into the parking lot, where Merle had captured them.

“Fifty cents,”

Merle said.

Detective Roff asked Merle if he knew the person who had broken into the machines. Merle told the Detective that the suspect was known on the streets as Carpet Face.

Merle told the Detective,

“The dude used to work for a local carpet layer.” He got right down to his face, stretching the carpet across the floor. They called him Carpet Face. But I don’t think that is why he was named Carpet Face.”

The Detective asked out loud,

“Then why did he have such a furry appearance?”

A doctor who had seen the incident spoke up,

“It’s because of his genes.”

Detective Roff replied,

“His Blue Jeans?”

The Doctor laughed,

“No, his g-e-n-e-s”. “

“Oh,”

Roff said,

My bad.”

“That is ok, he should have been nicknamed Furboy. His real name is Lickery Nickery. He lives on the south side of town. His home is in an alleyway near an old garage. This garage is falling off Hickery Street.”

Doctor Badd, sadly proclaimed, Dr. Badd listed in the phone book as ‘Badd Doctor,’ played a significant role in the case. He informed the Detective that he had been discreetly treating Nickery, attempting to help him achieve a more conventional appearance. Yet, all his efforts with various medications had been in vain.

Detective Roff got into his police car and drove to the area where Nickery was supposed to live. Sure enough, there stood the suspect. Tall, furry, and stirring outside an old garage in an alleyway. Nickery still had a pouch attached to his waist just below a bright blue coat. As the Detective approached, Nickery stood in an offensive position. Detective Ross had brought Dr. Badd with him. This was in case medical attention was required. It would be needed as a result of the pending arrest of either the suspect or the Detective.

Nickery almost instantly stood ready for the capture. He told the Detective he had broken into the machines and taken the coins. It was his only way to get funds to buy food. The Detective asked him about his old carpet-laying job. Nickery told him he was fired after the clients saw him stretching carpet in their home. This frightened them.

The Detective asked Nickery.

“So you thought a life of crime was the answer?”

Nickery -ugh Carpet Face replied in kind,

“Not really, I thought it was a way to get food.”

Dr. Badd chimed in at this point and said,

“I have literally tried everything and can’t get anything to work.”

Detective Roff looked at Nickery, then at Dr. Badd, and finally at the furry blue coat.

The Detective, after a moment of contemplation, shared his insight with the others. He said, “Gentlemen, sometimes the most straightforward solution is the one we fail to see.”

Both stared back at him, puzzled. That’s when Roff pulled a small electric trimmer from his pocket.

“Try this.”

The hum of the clippers filled the alley. Within minutes, Carpet Face began to look less like a legend and more like a man. The crowd that had gathered gasped. Children laughed. Wanda from the laundry mat even clapped.

Nickery blinked at his reflection in a car window and whispered,

“I… I look normal.”

“You look like yourself,”

Roff corrected.

“Now go make something of it.”

And he did. Lickery Nickery was once the scourge of washing machines everywhere. He became a barber’s apprentice. Then he became a shop owner. Finally, he became a beloved mayor. His campaign slogan?

~ Sometimes the simplest solution is the one we overlook. ~

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

From the Plains to the Pavement: Agent Bill Johns’ Journey from the Wild West to Philadelphia’s Dark Alleys

Benjamin2 Comments
4–5 minutes

Bill Johns: The Bureau’s Man in the 1940s

It was the 1940s, and the Bureau had just transferred Bill Johns to the Philadelphia office. He arrived with a reputation built out west. The cases there were more challenging. The distances were longer, and the suspects were meaner. Officially, he was sent to cover Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico. Unofficially, he’d become “the best investigating chicken thief agent in the West.” His fellow agents gave him this nickname with a wink.

But Bill Johns had investigated far more than stolen hens. His most significant case had been in Osage County, Oklahoma: three Indian women, each murdered after marrying into money. For nearly three years, Johns chased a trail of false alibis, hidden bank accounts, and hired killers. He and another agent narrowly escaped ambushes five different times. By constantly dropping low and drawing faster than the men who wanted them dead.

Johns wasn’t flashy, but he had something rare—an intuition that couldn’t be taught. He would size up a suspect the way a rancher sizes up a horse. He knew when someone was lying about a bloodstain on a shirt. He knew this the same way he knew when a horse trader was covering up a limp. He followed the tiny clues that led from stolen goods to the back rooms where the real deals happened. He also traced a murder weapon to the man who’d hidden it.

What the Bureau didn’t understand—and still doesn’t—is that this ability isn’t in a handbook. It isn’t taught at the Academy. It’s a gift, as fragile as it is powerful. Use it or lose it. And only a few men like Johns ever had it.

In Philadelphia, this instinct would serve him just as well. He found himself involved with city syndicates. He encountered labor racketeering and noticed spies slipping through the docks at night. The same gut feeling had kept him alive in Osage County. Now it helped him spot the double-talkers in the bars. It also identified the men who lingered just a second too long at a back door.

Johns became known for something unusual—he rarely needed his gun. He’d walk into a situation, lean against a doorway, and just talk. By the time he left, the suspect had revealed more than he intended. John had already secured the evidence. He was no saint. He wasn’t perfect either. Nonetheless, he was a quiet professional in an era when crime was changing. The country was changing too.

The Last Case in Philadelphia

It was a rainy October night in 1947 when Johns’ instincts jolted him awake. An informant had whispered about a shipment coming into the Delaware River docks. This shipment was not whiskey or smuggled textiles. It was microfilm from Europe that would compromise national security. By dawn, he was leaning against a warehouse door. He pulled his collar up against the mist. He watched the shadows move across the slick cobblestones.

Later, back at the Bureau’s office, his supervisor shook his head. “How’d you know?” Johns simply shrugged. He never talked about instinct. He never mentioned gifts. He didn’t say how he’d been listening to his gut since his days chasing killers in Osage County. But he knew this: it wasn’t about being the fastest shot or the toughest agent. It was about reading people, seeing the truth they were trying to hide, and moving before they did.

When the men finally appeared, Johns didn’t draw his gun. Instead, he stepped into the light. Placing his hands in his overcoat pockets. He spoke in the calm, level tone that had unnerved more suspects than handcuffs ever would. One man slipped, trying to hide a satchel, and Johns pounced on him. In seconds, the microfilm was in his hand. The men, rattled and unsure how he’d seen through their plan, dropped their smokes and bolted.

That was Bill Johns’ legacy — an unassuming agent who became legendary not for force, but for foresight. His name rarely made headlines. Still, his quiet successes became the stories younger agents told each other. They shared these stories when they needed courage. Stories that remind you some people are born to find the truth, no matter where it hides.

Even today, his old case files are dusty, brittle, and overlooked. They still read like short stories of the American frontier meeting the modern city. Behind each one is the same simple truth. There’s no substitute for knowing people. No training can replace genuine instinct.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

“Don’t Go Where You Don’t Know Where You’re At” — A Lesson from My Father

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2–3 minutes

A Memory That Ignites Each Year

Every year when All Hallows’ Eve rolls around, I think about a specific night. I remember it vividly. It was when I was sixteen. I was getting ready to go out with friends—excited, dressed up, and ready for a night of harmless fun. As I reached for the door, my father stopped me with a hand on my arm.

He’d never done that before. I was the youngest of six children. By the time I reached my teens, my parents had weathered every imaginable crisis. Their only standing rule was simple: “Be safe and be home before daylight.” But that night was different. Dad’s grip was firm, his eyes serious.

He said quietly, “Look—your Uncle Bennie came upon a man whose head had been cut off and left on a dirt road near our house when I was about your age. They never found who did it.”

I froze. Uncle Bennie had passed away before I was born, so I never had the chance to ask him about it. Dad didn’t offer more details. He only mentioned that Bennie had called the deputies. Bennie told them everything he knew. Then he lived with that memory for the rest of his life.

My father’s next words have stayed with me for decades: “I just want you to be safe. Don’t go where you don’t know where you’re at.”

Those words became a rule for me, a compass I’ve carried ever since. If my gut or my soul told me something wasn’t safe, I backed away. That simple warning guided me through my teenage years. It also helped me during my law enforcement career. Instincts and situational awareness can mean the difference between life and death in that field.

Even today, I don’t know much more than that chilling story about the headless man. But my father’s advice has saved me countless times. It’s taught me that safety isn’t just about the rules of the road. Safety is not limited to the places on a map. It’s about trusting the quiet warnings within yourself.

I share this story with you because maybe it can help someone else, just as it helped me. We live in a world full of distractions, routes we don’t know, and situations that feel uncertain. If you find yourself heading into something that doesn’t feel right, listen to that inner voice. Step back. Choose another path.

Because sometimes, the oldest lessons are the truest: Don’t go where you don’t know where you’re at. Your instincts know the terrain long before your eyes do. And that wisdom—passed from a father to a son—can save your life, too.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025