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The Trail Guardians – Chapter Three: Bruiser’s Stand
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
4–6 minutes
Let’s get back to our story. –– Benji stood in the middle of the woods, heart racing, with three feral hogs growling and snorting nearby. Jackie had lost the scent trail. She couldn’t find the way home. Benji had just thrown away his only peace offering: the beef jerky. The hogs tore through the jerky in seconds. Benji and the three dogs tried to figure out what direction to go. But, now those hogs had regained interest in something more satisfying—the boy.
Oggy circled and snapped at the first boar, trying to keep it distracted. Jackie stood stiff and alert. She barked furiously at the second one. Her tail was rigid and her fur was raised. She positioned herself between the beast and Benji.
But it was Bruiser who took the lead.
With a thunderous bark, he lunged at the second boar. The clash was brutal. Bruiser’s sheer size and strength gave him an edge. Still, the wild boar was enraged and dangerous. It slashed with its tusks.
Benji screamed,
“No! Bruiser!”
But Bruiser didn’t back down. He planted his feet and forced the boar back with muscle and fury. Oggy darted in to nip at the animal’s hind legs while Jackie’s relentless barking finally drove the creature into retreat.
Within moments, the two remaining boars, startled and overwhelmed, turned tail and vanished into the trees.
Bruiser limped back, a fresh gash on his shoulder. Benji dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around him, whispering,
“You saved us. You’re the bravest dog in the world.”
The three dogs surrounded Benji, panting heavily—not from fear, but from duty fulfilled. They had done their job.
The sun had dipped lower now, and the smell of distant cooking reminded Benji of home. He hoped Jackie would catch a scent that would guide them back—but no such luck.
They were still stuck in No Man’s Land.
Benji sighed and looked at his companions.
“Well, boys… looks like we’re gonna be here for a while. As well find a safe place to rest.”
The fading daylight painted the woods in long shadows. The path behind them had become a confusing tangle of trees and underbrush.
“I don’t know where we are,”
Benji admitted.
Oggy was licking his sore paws. Bruiser winced with every step. Jackie stood alert—ears perked, head rotating like a radar dish, listening for signs of danger.
Benji reached into his backpack and pulled out his trusty binoculars. Scanning the area, he spotted something—a cave etched into the canyon wall, not far off. It resembled an ancient hollow carved out of sandstone by the water long ago. If they can reach it safely, it can make a decent shelter for the night.
He pulled out a handkerchief. He tore it in half. He tied one piece to a high branch to mark the location.
Oggy took point. Bruiser limped beside Benji. Jackie stuck close this time and carefully marked her trail. They made their way to the cave.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at the entrance. The cave was shallow and quiet, with no signs of animal tracks inside. It looked safe—for now.
Benji gathered dead wood from the forest floor and built a small fire at the cave’s entrance. As the flickering flames grew, casting dancing shadows, the four of them settled in.
But Benji had a surprise.
He hadn’t given all the food to the hogs. He had two cans of Vienna sausages tucked in his backpack. They were beneath a rolled-up poncho. His dad always said to keep them in case of emergencies.
He popped open a can. Instantly, three sets of ears perked up.
Benji smiled and shared the sausages with the dogs, eating slowly and grateful that they had something to eat. But he couldn’t help wondering: How are we going to get out of this mess?
As night fell, the forest faded into darkness. The stars lit up the sky, and the wind rustled the trees outside. The cave offered shelter from the breeze, and the dogs took turns keeping watch while Benji dozed beside the fire.
At around three in the morning, a sharp, blood-curdling scream echoed through the canyon.
All three dogs leaped up, growling and tense. Benji jolted awake. The fire had burned down to glowing coals.
Another scream—closer this time.
Benji grabbed a long stick and jabbed it into the embers, trying to spark a flame. The dogs stood bristling, their fur raised, eyes locked on the darkness beyond.
This is the most dangerous moment yet—except maybe for the hogs.
Benji fumbled through his backpack and found a small flashlight. He switched it on and swept the beam across the canyon.
There, near a shallow watering hole, stood two full-grown wildcats—the biggest Benji had ever seen. Easily 130 pounds each. But the barking, the firelight, and the beam of the flashlight startled them. They bolted, disappearing into the trees.
Benji sat back down, heart pounding. Sleep was impossible now.
Thinking to himself –––
Was something else out there?
Has anyone even started looking for him yet?
He’d never been gone this long.
He sighed and pulled the blanket around him tighter.
“When I get back,”
he whispered to himself
“I’m gonna be in big trouble. For good this time.”
But for now, he is still in No Man’s Land.
And he is lost.
They called it No Man’s Land for a reason. Legend has it, no man who ever entered those woods was seen again. That little detail? It’s something Benji overlooked when planning his latest adventure. Rumor has it. No search party will go in after him. No one’s willing to take the chance they will not come back either. So maybe Benji ought to start thinking about an extended stay. Is anyone even organizing a search? Or will they just do a flyover, check a few boxes, and call it good? Check back tomorrow as the story continues—because things in No Man’s Land are only getting stranger.
Meet Benji and His Canine Companions: A Heartwarming Tale
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
Meet the Trail Guardians: A Boy, Three Dogs, and the Adventures That Bind Them
In the quiet stretch of Oklahoma back-country, the hills roll gently. The wind carries the scent of cedar and earth. A school bus door creaks open every afternoon at 3:35 p.m. Out steps a boy named Benji. He is full of curiosity and grit. He loves the wild places that lie just beyond the fence line. But he’s not alone. Waiting faithfully at the gate are his three loyal companions—Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.
To most folks, they’re just dogs. But to Benji—and anyone lucky enough to witness them in action—they’re guardians. Each has a purpose. Each with a soul as big as the land they roam.
Oggy is the scout. He is a lightning-fast border collie. His job is to stay out front. He sniffs out threats and leads the way with sharp instinct. Bruiser, the muscle-bound mastiff mix with a thunderous bark and a heart of gold, never strays from Benji’s side. He is the protector. And Jackie, the wise and steady golden retriever, always takes the rear. She remembers every twist and turn in the woods. She is the quiet navigator. She ensures they always find their way back home.
What begins as a simple after-school tradition—just a boy and his dogs hiking the countryside—becomes something far greater. These four face the untamed wilderness. They discover the secrets of the land. They defend each other against the dangers that lurk in the shadows. These include wild boars, treacherous terrain, and even the unpredictable spirit of nature itself.
But this story isn’t just about survival—it’s about trust and purpose. It’s about the powerful bond that exists between a child and the animals who would give anything to protect him. It’s about finding your place in the world, knowing your role, and honoring it with everything you’ve got. It’s about how the world can feel vast and uncertain. Having the right ones by your side can make all the difference.
The Trail Guardians is a heartwarming, adventurous tale set against the backdrop of rural America. It is perfect for readers who believe in the magic of animals. It also appeals to those who appreciate the courage of kids and the timeless rhythm of life in the country.
📅 Mark your calendars—Chapter One begins Tuesday, June 17th!
Watch for the first of five exciting chapters. Enjoy this engaging short read as we count down to the first day of summer!
Join Benji, Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie on their journey. They explore wild places where memories are made. Loyalty is tested, and legends are born.
This is only the beginning.
The story is growing, the trails are calling, and the dogs are ready!
Starting Tuesday June 17th, 2025!
The Grand Tour of Heartbreak and Hope: A Country Ballad in the Courtroom
How Vern, George, and Randy Saved a Marriage (Almost)
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–4 minutes
“The Country-Fried Defense”
The Honorable Judge Bledsoe peered over his glasses, clearly unimpressed. “Mr. Rawlins, you understand this is a legal proceeding, not the Grand Ole Opry?”
“Yes, Your Honor,”
Said Henry Rawlins. He stood tall in his dusty boots and bolo tie. One hand rested on a weathered Bible. The other clutched a crumpled lyric sheet.
Across the courtroom, his soon-to-be ex-wife, Sherry Lynn, sat rigid in her seat, her lawyer whispering furiously in her ear. Henry’s lawyer had already given up and was sitting down, his face red, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
Henry cleared his throat.
“But if the court will allow, I’d like to offer my final statement in my own words. I would also like to include the words of a few gentlemen. They helped me understand what went wrong.”
A murmur passed through the courtroom.
Judge Bledsoe sighed.
“Mr. Rawlins, continue—briefly.”
Henry nodded, unfolding the page.
“Your Honor, I ain’t a lawyer. But I know pain, regret, and how a man can lose his way. And those feelings are best told not in legal briefs but in country songs. So I offer my case—in three verses and a broken heart.”
He stepped ahead.
“First, Vern Gosdin said it best: ‘That just about does it. That’ll just about kill it, won’t it?’ That’s what I said the day Sherry left. I came home to an empty house and a note by the coffee pot. Ten years of marriage, and it ended in one quiet goodbye.”
He turned to Sherry Lynn.
“I didn’t fight. I figured I’d already lost. And I didn’t blame her—not entirely. I hadn’t been easy to love.”
The courtroom was silent. Even the bailiff looked up from his crossword.
“Then,” Henry continued,
“I walked through what George Jones called ‘The Grand Tour.’ I opened the closet and saw her dresses hangin’ like ghosts. Our baby’s room still had the mobile spinnin’ slow. The smell of her perfume lingered like a memory that didn’t know how to leave.”
Judge Bledsoe adjusted in his seat, then motioned for him to finish.
“But, Your Honor, here’s the thing. I almost didn’t show up here today. I nearly signed the papers and walked away. But then I heard Randy Travis singing. He was singing ‘On the Other Hand… there’s a golden band.’ It reminded me of someone who would not understand.”
Henry looked again at Sherry Lynn, softer now.
“On one hand, I messed up. I got too comfortable. I stopped listening. I stopped holding her when she needed to be held. But on the other hand, I still believe in us. That golden band still means something to me. Maybe I’m a fool for sayin’ this here in court. I’d rather fight to fix it. I won’t stand here and let it all go to hell while quoting country songs.”
He folded the paper, tucked it into his jacket, and looked down.
“I rest my case.”
A pause. Then Judge Bledsoe leaned back in his chair.
“Well,”
he said slowly,
“I’ve been on this bench for twenty-three years. I’ve heard lawyers argue using everything from scripture to Shakespeare. But, I’ve never heard anyone use Vern Gosdin.”
The judge turned to Sherry Lynn.
“Mrs. Rawlins, do you still wish to continue with the divorce?”
She was silent for a moment. Her expression softened as she looked at Henry—looked at him—for the first time in months.
“I… I don’t know,”
She said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But maybe we should talk. Not here. Somewhere real.”
Judge Bledsoe smiled faintly.
“Court is adjourned.”
As the gavel fell, Henry turned to Sherry Lynn.
“There’s a little diner down the road,”
He said.
“We used to get cherry pie there after church.”
She nodded.
“Maybe one slice… on the other hand.”
Braums Dairy’s Bold Move: Embracing Pride with Unexpected Gains
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
🌈 How Braums Dairy Supported Pride — Weathered Criticism, Reaped Major Rewards
1. Context: Logo on Plaza Sponsorship
In June 2025, Braums Dairy was unexpectedly in the spotlight. It is a beloved Oklahoma-based chain of ice cream shops, fast-food restaurants, and grocery markets. Their logo appeared on promotional flyers for “Pride on the Plaza,” a local Pride celebration in Oklahoma City (1). It served as part of a broader “Live on the Plaza” sponsorship package.
2. Initial Backlash
Conservative commentator and former state lawmaker Gabe Woolley reacted to the logo’s appearance. He tweeted that he would boycott Braums for allegedly funding a drag event. (2). His claims quickly gained traction among right-leaning Oklahomans, prompting calls for political reaction to this perceived advocacy.
3. Rebuttal & Clarification
Soon, voices with marketing skill pushed back. Braums was not directly sponsoring the Pride party. Instead, they were supporting the venue’s broader summer programming. Further investigation revealed that their sponsorship covered the entire weekend. This included the LGBTQ+ event. Still, it was not explicitly targeted at Pride.
This nuance shifted the framing dramatically: what was initially cast as a partisan act became clear as simple venue support.
4. The Social Media Surge
After the dust settled, reactions flipped. Social media buzz exploded on TikTok:
“@Braums could not have ENGINEERED this kind of positive publicity if they tried #oklahoma #braums #braumsicecream #drama” (3)
Citizens applauded the company’s unintended but visible support, demonstrating powerful brand alignment.
5. Tangible Business Upside
This wave of exposure translated into real-world gains:
- Brand lift & awareness: Braums featured in news cycles, social feeds, and community conversations—as a business unafraid to be inclusive.
- Customer engagement: LGBTQ+ supporters and allies publicly shared plans to patronize Braums. As a result, many new customers discovered the brand. Community loyalty soared.
- Earned PR: Local outlets like The Lost Ogle covered the story. They humorously defended Braums. They also criticized the boycott efforts (4).
It became a textbook example of inclusive marketing with unexpected ROI.
6. Takeaways for Brand Strategy
Insight Lesson
Intersectional sponsorships matter. Even general licensing contracts (e.g., “Live on the Plaza”) can effectively link your brand to meaningful causes.
Backlashes can pivot positively When critics amplify your message, clear and direct messaging helps turn controversy into resonance.
Public support matters TikTok, and community praise can vastly outperform first negative attention.
Organic PR beats paid media. Media coverage and word-of-mouth about your brand can have a lasting impact and longevity that outlasts short campaigns.
7. Conclusion
Braums experience offers a powerful case study for businesses. Even inadvertent support of social causes can yield significant goodwill. It also brings loyalty and profitability. Through smart, clear communication and customer engagement, you can transform backlash into business-building buzz.
Building Peace: Steps Toward a Better Tomorrow
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–4 minutes
A Plan for Peace: One Step at a Time
I’ve been thinking a lot about peace lately.
Not the peace that lives only in headlines or history books—the grand treaties, the ceasefires, the official proclamations. I’m talking about the peace we build in our daily lives. This peace begins around kitchen tables. It is found in community meetings. It happens in the quiet moments when we choose to listen rather than shout.
What would it take to create a more peaceful world? That question sits heavy on my heart.
I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but I believe peace isn’t something we wait for others to deliver. It’s something we shape, step by step, together. And maybe, just maybe, it starts with a plan. Its not a perfect plan, but it’s a real one. It’s something we can reach for and return to, like a compass in uncertain times.
Step One: Start With Listening
Peace begins with the willingness to hear someone else’s story—especially when it challenges our own. We don’t have to agree on everything, but we do have to care enough to listen.
Imagine what would change if we listened without preparing to argue back. If we asked “What is it like to be you?” and waited long enough for a real answer.
Step Two: Make Room for Justice
There can be no true peace where injustice lives unchecked. That means looking closely at the systems around us—schools, courts, hospitals, policing, housing—and asking, “Who is being left behind? Who is being harmed? And what can we do to fix it?”
Justice isn’t about blame. It’s about repair. Peace doesn’t ask us to forget the past. It asks us to heal from it—together.
Step Three: Practice Kindness Like It’s a Skill
We talk about kindness like it’s something we either have or don’t. But I think it’s more like a muscle. You build it every day—with patience, with humility, and with a little humor when things get hard.
Sometimes, peace looks like biting your tongue. Sometimes, it looks like reaching out. And sometimes, it’s just not walking away.
Step Four: Educate for Empathy
To give the next generation a better shot at peace, we must teach them differently. Not just math and reading—but empathy, conflict resolution, critical thinking, and how to talk across differences without losing our humanity.
We should teach history honestly, too—not just the polished parts, but the painful truths that still echo today. Healing begins with honesty.
Step Five: Be Brave Enough to Hope
Hope can be a radical thing. Especially when the news is bleak and the divisions feel endless. But hope is not weakness. It’s strength disguised as belief. It’s faith in what we can build, even if we haven’t seen it yet.
A plan for peace isn’t a single event. It’s not something we sign and file away. It’s a lifelong effort. It’s showing up, over and over, with open hands and an open heart.
We will never achieve a perfect peace. But if we can bring peace into one more conversation, one more neighborhood, one more generation—then it’s worth everything.
So here’s my plan. It starts with me. It starts with you. And it keeps going—as long as we keep walking ahead, one small, hopeful step at a time.
What the world needs now? Is Love Sweet Love! It isn’t too late for the United States?
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
The most significant cultural threat to occur in my lifetime is occurring as I write today. It deals with our nations stability. The threat to our democracy doesn’t come from a single event—it happens every day. It happens when we ignore what’s unfolding in our city councils, our state legislatures, and in the halls of Congress. It happens when we assume that honorable people are safeguarding our federal institutions.
That complacency is how we arrived at the crisis point we face in 2025.
In the early 1970s, President Richard Nixon was implicated in one of the greatest political scandals in U.S. history: Watergate. His aides admitted to orchestrating a break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters. They attempted to steal information to sabotage a political opponent. The House of Representatives held impeachment hearings. Nixon was on the brink of being impeached. He resigned before the Senate took up the case. He was never prosecuted—pardoned instead by his successor, Gerald Ford. That decision set a precedent: presidents commit crimes without real consequence.
Had Nixon faced justice, we wouldn’t be watching the unraveling of the United States today. In 2025, we are witnessing a troubling surge of pro-white nationalist influence within our government. Supremacist ideologies are fueling misinformation campaigns and choking the truth that help heal and unite our country. This is one of the most perilous chapters in our nation’s history. It spells the end of the United States as we have known it.
Ironically, the Groff family once fled an oppressive regime in the 1850s, seeking liberty and justice in America. Now, in a cruel twist of history, a direct descendant of Ulrich Groff I —faces a difficult consideration. Will he see himself returning to the very region his ancestors left in search of freedom. Or hope for a miracle. We must not allow the hard-won promises of our democracy to slip away through silence and inaction.
What the world—and especially the United States—needs now is love, sweet love. Not the kind that’s fleeting or sentimental. It should be the steady, courageous kind that listens more than it lectures. It seeks understanding over dominance. Our nation was once bound together by a shared belief in the promise of unity. Now, it is splintered by division. Mistrust and fear further divide us. Political rage, social distrust, and cultural isolation have made enemies of neighbors and strangers of friends.
But love, in its truest form, has the power to mend what anger tears apart. It begins with kindness in daily life—treating others with respect, even when they disagree with us. It grows in empathy—stepping into anothers shoes rather than judging them from afar. If we can choose love over fear, we can start to heal this fractured country. Hope must prevail over hate. Connection should be preferred over separation. This healing won’t happen overnight. It will occur heart by heart, one act at a time.
Understanding U.S. Immigration Raids: Obama vs. Trump
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–4 minutes
I received a question yesterday about the United States. They asked why so many people are up in arms over the current immigration raids taking place across the country. Especially after President Obama, during his term in office, removed over 3 million undocumented individuals. Many of whom they claimed never had a hearing.
I wanted to conduct some research to learn more about it for myself.
Understanding Immigration Enforcement: Obama vs. Trump
During his eight years in office (2009–2017), President Barack Obama led an administration that deported over 3 million noncitizens. These deportations were conducted through formal removal proceedings. A formal removal involves a legal process. This process results in a court order for deportation from the United States.
If we include “returns”, the total number of departures exceeds 5 million under the Obama administration. These returns are cases where individuals either voluntarily left the country or were denied entry at the border. They agreed to withdraw their application to enter. Many of those individuals were turned away at the border before ever entering the U.S. Because they were not formally admitted into the country, they were not entitled to a court hearing. These actions, while recorded as enforcement events, differ significantly from deportations after internal apprehensions.
It’s important to note that Obama’s enforcement focused heavily on border security. It prioritized the removal of individuals with serious criminal records. Despite this, he faced criticism from immigrant rights advocates for the high number of deportations. At the same time, Republicans attacked him for not doing enough to secure the border.
In contrast, the Trump administration adopted a far more aggressive and indiscriminate approach. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents under Trump routinely apprehended individuals from homes. They were also taken from workplaces, schools, churches, or even while walking with family. Many were detained without prompt access to legal counsel. They were transferred long distances from their communities. In some cases, they were deported without ever appearing before a judge. This represented a sharp departure from the enforcement priorities of earlier administrations.
It’s worth remembering that President Obama did not pursue mass interior deportations without due process. He implemented programs like DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals). These programs offer relief to specific undocumented individuals who were brought to the U.S. as children.
Obama never had to use the military. He deported nearly 8 million non-documented individuals. This includes those he sent back and others never allowed in through customs at airports, ports of entry and borders. He used the border patrol and immigration officials on a budget provided by Congress. Trump has spent more on advertising. He talks about what he is going to do or what he has done. This spending is more than any earlier administration spent deporting a person. He has had to send in the National Guard and Marines. As of this report, 118 immigrants have been apprehended in Los Angeles. It is true they will not get a hearing if their incarceration follows the path of others.
I want to thank the person who asked to stay anonymous for bringing this issue to our attention. It’s vital to understand the differences in immigration enforcement approaches. While no administration is perfect, how a President handles immigration reflects not just policy but a nation’s values.
There has to be a better way!
The Story Behind Operation Lawn Flamingo
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
“Operation Lawn Flamingo”
In the summer of 1963, the hottest thing in the small town of Hickory Bluff wasn’t the weather—it was Mrs. Bonnie Ledbetter’s yard.
She’d just returned from a week in Florida. She unveiled her latest acquisition with grand ceremony. In one hand, she held a glass of instant iced tea. Her latest acquisition was a pair of bright pink plastic flamingos. They were staked proudly beside her birdbath like sentinels of suburbia.
“They’re classy,”
she declared.
“Very Palm Beach.”
This declaration ignited a cold war of lawn decor on Dogwood Lane.
Mr. Gilmore, her neighbor, responded with a gnome holding a fishing pole. Mrs. Thornton countered with a ceramic frog playing a banjo. By August, the entire block looked like a cross between a garden center clearance bin and a fever dream.
But it was eleven-year-old Joey Timmons who took things to the next level.
Armed with a flashlight, a wagon, and a deep appreciation for chaos, Joey launched what he called “Operation Lawn Flamingo.” On a moonless night, he crept from house to house, relocating Mrs. Ledbetter’s flamingos in increasingly absurd places. One was discovered straddling the mailbox. The other was found lounging in the birdbath, wearing doll sunglasses.
Mrs. Ledbetter was baffled but undeterred. She blamed squirrels.
Joey’s nightly missions escalated. The flamingos were soon photographed perched on the church steeple, tied to Mr. Gilmore’s TV antenna, and once—legend says—riding tandem on a neighbor’s Schwinn. Each time, they were quietly returned to the yard by sunrise.
But one morning, they were gone.
Panic swept Dogwood Lane. Mrs. Ledbetter posted hand-drawn fliers. Mr. Gilmore offered a $5 reward. The town paper ran a headline: “Fowl Play Suspected in Flamingo Heist.”
Days later, on Labor Day, the mystery was solved. A float in the town parade rolled by, sponsored by the hardware store. There they were—Bonnie’s flamingos—crowned with tinsel, waving from a kiddie pool atop a hay wagon.
Joey Timmons was soaked in sweat and joy. He rode behind them in a cowboy hat. He was grinning like a kid who had just outwitted the world.
Mrs. Ledbetter crossed her arms and muttered,
“Well, I suppose they are getting some sun.”
After the parade, she let Joey keep one of the flamingos. The other still stood guard in her yard until the day she died.
Joey’s been mayor of Hickory Bluff for twelve years now.
Some say he still keeps the flamingo in his office.
DONKEY MILK – YOUR NEXT BIG SUPERFOOD AND SKINCARE CRAZE! HEE HAW. SERIOUS!
There is talk about the next big craze. Is it real? According to the report, yes!
Donkey Milk has plenty of nutrients and more! Visit the World Farmer Story to learn more!
THE TOWN OF SERENITY – Chapter Nine: A Predator in the Garden
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–4 minutes
Chapter Nine: A Predator in the Garden
Braddock Cain sat alone in The Assembly, a chessboard in front of him, half-played.
It was something he did when the whiskey wore off, and the world got too quiet. He played both sides of the board. He always made sure black lost.
Tonight, black wasn’t losing.
He moved a knight, sat back, and scowled.
The vault trap should have buried Finch and the girl. He’d received no word from Poke, which was unusual. Too unusual.
A low, sharp knock came at the door—three short raps.
Then silence.
His eyes narrowed.
“Enter,”
He growled.
The door creaked open, and the man who stepped inside wasn’t Poke. Wasn’t anyone from Serenity? His clothes were clean, military-cut. His boots were dustless. He didn’t wear a hat—but his shadow felt longer than the room allowed.
“Mr. Cain,”
The stranger said.
“I presume.”
Cain stood, hand already on the grip of his pistol.
“You don’t walk into this room without an invitation.”
“I didn’t walk,”
The man replied.
“I arrived.”
He stepped ahead and set a file down on Cain’s table. The name ASHWOOD was stamped in red across the top.
Cain didn’t move to open it.
“You’re Gallow,”
He said flatly.
“That’s what they used to call me,”
The man replied.
“In certain circles. Not the ones you buy into.”
Cain sat back slowly.
“What do you want?”
Gallow smiled faintly.
“Let’s call it… clarity. You’ve grown fat on rot, Cain. But rot attracts insects. I’m here to burn the carcass clean.”
Cain let out a cold laugh.
“You think you can walk into my town and—”
Gallow was suddenly in front of him.
Cain hadn’t even seen the movement.
A knife gleamed under Cain’s chin.
“I don’t think,”
Gallow whispered.
“I replace. You’ve become a liability to men far above either of us. The vault was never your property. The tapes, the ledgers, the names—you were supposed to manage them, not flaunt them.”
Cain’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re not just here for Finch.”
“I’m not here for Finch at all,”
Gallow said softly.
“He’s just a broken piece. You’re the engine.”
He pulled the knife away and tucked it back into his sleeve.
“I won’t kill you tonight. That would be –– premature. But I will leave you with a choice.”
Gallow tapped the Ashwood file.
“Burn this. Leave town. Or wait for me to come back.”
Then he was gone.
Cain sat still for a long time, listening to the echo of Gallow’s departure. When his hand finally moved, it wasn’t for his gun.
It was for the bottle.
Elsewhere in Serenity
Poke’s body was found behind the saloon—face down, no bullet wound, no blood.
Just two coins were placed over his eyes.
Wren and Chester stood over him in silence.
“Gallow’s here,”
Wren said.
“And he’s not working for Cain. He’s cleaning the house.”
Chester looked toward the west horizon, where dust clouds rolled in from the direction of the rail line.
He pulled the badge from his coat and stared at it.
“Time to decide,”
He muttered.
“Do I play Marshal—or outlaw?”
Well now, Gallow is certainly making his presence known! And Cain clearly has a big decision to make—but will he actually leave town? If so, he better start packing snacks for the road. But if he’s thinking about staying, he’ll want to give Jonathan Lawson a call. He should secure himself a Colonial Penn Life Insurance policy. It’s unfortunate Poke didn’t think ahead. Maybe those two coins over his eyes are enough to cover a plot in the nearest potter’s field.
As for Marshal Chester Finch, he’s defied the odds and made it to Chapter Ten. And it looks like this final chapter will finally answer the big mystery: the moped. Where has it been? Who hid it? Why wasn’t it tampered with? What was it originally bought for? And when did Chester decide it would be his official Marshal’s ride?
All of this—and more—will be revealed in Chapter Ten. ~ WE Hope ~
The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Eight – The Devil Knows The Way Out
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–4 minutes
Chapter Eight: The Devil Knows the Way Out
The blast had sealed the main vault door and collapsed part of the tunnel behind them. Smoke choked the air. Brick and metal groaned under stress. Chester blinked through blood and dust, pulling Wren up from the rubble.
“You alright?”
He asked, coughing.
“Been worse,”
Wren muttered, cradling her left arm.
“Dislocated, not broken. I’ll pop it back.”
Chester pulled out a penlight and scanned the room.
“No exit. That was the only way in.”
Wren smiled through the pain.
“You thought it was.”
She limped to the far wall. A section of decorative tiling was there—old, Spanish-style. It jutted out from the stone like it didn’t belong. She knocked three times in a rhythm that echoed deeper than it should have.
A hollow click responded.
“Cain didn’t build the vault himself. He took it from a man who did. The original owner had escape routes.”
She traced a tile shaped like a broken star and twisted it counterclockwise. With a faint hiss, the tile wall slid inward, revealing a narrow stone chute, half-collapsed and riddled with centipedes.
Chester stared into the black.
“I don’t suppose you brought rope,”
He said.
“Nope.”
“Alright then,”
He grunted, and they vanished into the dark.
In the Streets Above
Petal stood at her shop counter grinding roots when the front door exploded inward.
She ducked instinctively, drawing her old revolver, but it was too late.
Two men in black tactical gear moved in fast, grabbed her arms, and yanked her across the counter. The third figure entered last—calm, silent.
Mr. Gallow.
He picked up a vial from the shelf, sniffed it, and set it down.
“I’ve read your name,”
He said, voice flat.
“You’re a known associate of Wren. Harboring her. Aiding a rogue federal.”
Petal spat blood and smiled.
“You got a badge?”
“No. I have jurisdiction.”
He signaled.
The men dragged her out.
They disappeared down the street. Julep Jake watched from his cell window. He was whittling a miniature guillotine from an old broom handle.
“And now the harvest begins,”
He muttered.
The Long Climb
Chester and Wren emerged two hours later through a rusted maintenance grate behind the abandoned Serenity Theater. They were scratched, covered in brick dust, and exhausted—but alive.
Wren wiped grime from her face.
“He set us up. Knew we were coming.”
Chester nodded grimly.
“Means we rattled him.”
She held up the two ledgers she’d saved—one in each hand.
“He loses if these go public.”
Chester took them, tucking them into his coat.
“Then let’s make sure they do.”
Suddenly—gunfire cracked in the distance. Three pops.
Wren froze.
“That was near Petal’s.”
Chester’s face hardened.
“We’re not the only ones he’s playing.”
They moved quickly down the alleys. Even as they ran, Wren stopped cold. She saw the mark scorched onto the alley wall: a circle with a horizontal line through it.
She grabbed Chester’s arm.
“That’s not Cain’s symbol.”
“What is it?”
Wren’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“It’s Gallow’s.”
Chester turned, scanning the rooftops.
“Then we’re out of time.”
What exactly did the symbol mean? Chester had the answer—or at least a regulation book with the answer—tucked away in the saddlebags on his moped. The problem? He didn’t bring it with him. And it’s too far to walk back now. Truth is, he hasn’t laid eyes on that moped since he rolled into town. So, is it hidden so well that he forgot where it is? Or is he protecting a strategic location he’s not ready to reveal? With only two chapters left, the Marshal better get moving!
The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Seven – The Hollow Vault
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
Chapter Seven: The Hollow Vault
Two nights later, Chester and Wren moved through the back alleys of Serenity like smoke.
The plan was simple: infiltrate the vault below The Assembly using the abandoned mine shaft Wren had mapped out. Inside, Cain kept more than just gold and guns—he kept records. Blackmail. Ledgers. Evidence.
Evidence that could break him!
Wren led them to a rusted grate hidden behind the collapsed ruins of an old hardware store. Beneath it: a shaft covered in rotted boards and bad intentions.
“Down there?”
Chester asked.
“Unless you’d rather try the front door.”
They climbed down slowly, their boots sinking into decades of dust and discarded bones. Lantern light flickered over graffiti scratched into the stone. Old names. Gang signs. Some symbols are older than either of them recognized.
They crawled through two hundred yards of tight rock. They ducked under fallen beams and crossed a flooded tunnel chest-deep in cold water. Finally, they came to a narrow corridor with smooth brick walls.
“This was built after the mine closed,”
Chester said.
“Cain built it,”
Wren confirmed.
“To smuggle in shipments during the lockdown years. It goes straight to his vault room.”
Chester’s hand rested on his revolver.
“We go in quiet. No guns unless we’re cornered.”
They reached the door—an iron-bound, reinforced, and sealed structure with an old code lock. Wren pulled a tiny folded paper from her coat.
“Petal gave me this,”
She said.
“It’s the combination. She wrote it down after Cain got drunk and showed off.”
Chester raised an eyebrow.
“I’m beginning to like that woman.”
Wren punched in the numbers. The lock hissed. The door creaked open.
Inside, the vault glimmered like a serpent’s nest: stacks of cash, boxes of documents, safes within safes.
But the prize wasn’t money.
It was the black books.
Wren went for the ledgers. Chester opened a crate and pulled out a collection of old film reels labeled with names—judges, mayors, even a U.S. senator.
“This is it,”
He whispered.
“This is Cain’s Kingdom in a box!“
“This is Cain’s kingdom in a box.”
But then, from behind them—a faint click.
Wren froze.
“Did you hear—”
Chester tackled her just as the explosion hit.
The vault door slammed shut.
Dust and debris rained down. A trap. It had been rigged.
From above, in a hidden observation room, Braddock Cain watched through a spyglass.
He turned to Poke and said,
“Let them cook. They wanted into my house. Now they can die in it.”
But neither he—nor Chester—knew that Wren had already mapped another way out.
And worse, Mr. Gallow had just entered Serenity.
Cain’s Kingdom In A Box? Sounds like evidence that sews up this case! But, now Mr. Gallow is in town, and this brings a whole new suggestion for more trouble. Or a solution. It is too early to tell. Maybe Mr Gallow came for the moped. What if the Marshal’s service issued the moped to Chester, and they want it back?
The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Six – Ashwood
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
1–2 minutes
Chapter Six: Ashwood
The file on Chester Finch wasn’t stored in any digital archive. It was handwritten, double-sealed, and stored in a fireproof vault in Washington, D.C., under a codename known only to four men who still remembered it.
Operation Ashwood.
Eight years ago, Chester was part of a black-bag unit inside the U.S. Marshal Service—officially unrecognized, unofficially unstoppable. The team was created to root out systemic corruption in rural American towns with privatized law enforcement and cartel-backed leadership. The mission was simple: infiltrate, destabilize, expose.
Ashwood’s first three targets were textbook. The fourth—Gulch County, Texas—was different.
Chester had made the call. He exposed the sheriff, three council members, and a judge and brought them down with a clean sweep.
But the blowback was lethal.
Three of Chester’s team were ambushed at the exit. A safe house was burned down—with a whistleblower’s daughter inside. The press got hold of fragments, but the whole truth? That was buried in a sealed report and heavily redacted.
Chester took the blame. Not officially. But quietly. They let him keep the badge—under the condition that he’d never be given another high-profile operation again.
Until now.
Serenity was never meant to be his assignment. Someone had slipped his name into the dispatch. Someone with a more extended memory than the agency admitted to.
And now Gallow, the last surviving Ashwood “fixer,” was on the trail.
Now, remember this is only a pause between Chapters Five and Seven. This moment is to clarify what was happening. It serves to show what brought Chester Finch to these parts. When Chapter Seven opens, it will seem like only a few days have passed. That will be just enough time for Finch to remember his past, whether he likes it or not. Still, there is no word where he has left the moped. Surely, it would have been used as a bargaining chip with him by now.
The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Five – The Clock In The Dust
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–5 minutes
Chapter Five: The Clock in the Dust
The bell above Petal’s shop rang twice—slow and deliberate.
That was the signal.
Wren waited until the third cloud passed over the moon before sliding off the schoolhouse roof. She moved like a whisper down the alleyway, avoiding the creaky boards and broken glass with practiced ease. She paused behind the horse trough near the sheriff’s office and whistled once—two notes, flat and low.
Chester was sitting inside the dim jailhouse with his boots propped up on a barrel. His bruised rib was bandaged with a strip of curtain. He heard the sound and stood up.
He opened the door.
Wren stepped into the lamplight. She was small and wiry, wrapped in an oversized coat that had seen better days. Her eyes were dark and deliberate, scanning the room, the exits, the Marshal.
“I watched you fight the Gentlemen,”
She said without greeting.
Chester gave her a nod, cautious but not cold.
“You’re the girl from the roof.”
“I’m the girl from everywhere,”
She replied.
He gestured to a stool.
“You hungry?”
She hesitated, then sat.
“I want something else.”
“Alright.”
“I want Cain gone.”
Chester leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.
“That makes two of us. But wantin’ it and surviving it are two different things.”
Wren pulled her notebook from her coat and opened it. She showed him a crude map—of underground tunnels, secret entrances, schedules.
“I’ve been tracking his movements for six months,”
She said.
“He’s gotten sloppy. He trusts the wrong people. There’s a weak point—down in the old mines under the vault. He thinks no one remembers it exists.”
Chester raised an eyebrow.
“And you want to hit him there?”
“I want to expose him first. Show Serenity what he is. Not just a tyrant. A liar. A coward. I can get you inside. You have to decide if you’re willing to break the rules you came here to enforce.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“You ever worked with a marshal before?”
“No,”
Wren replied.
“You ever work with a kid who knows where all the bodies are buried?”
Chester smiled.
“Can’t say that I have.”
She closed the notebook.
“Then we’re even.”
They shook hands—hers small and cold, his calloused and warm. In that moment, something changed. Not in Serenity. Not yet.
But it had started.
Meanwhile –––
Five miles west of Serenity, in a ravine that didn’t show on most maps, a boxcar shuddered to a halt. It stopped on rusted rails.
A figure stepped out—tall, dressed in black, face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Beside him, four others disembarked—mercenaries, by the look of them. Not local. Not from this state. Not from this country, maybe.
They called him Mr. Gallow.
No one knew if that was his real name. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, people obeyed—or disappeared.
Gallow held up a leather-bound dossier stamped with the faded seal of the Bureau of Internal Affairs. Inside was a photo of Chester Finch, clipped to a thick file marked:
“CLASSIFIED – OPERATION ASHWOOD.”
He flipped the page and revealed a second file—one that bore the name Braddock Cain.
And then a third.
Subject: WREN (Alias Unknown).
Status: Missing / Witness Protection Violation.
Gallow smiled faintly.
He turned to his team and said only two words.
“Kill quietly.”
They vanished into the desert night like wolves on the scent.
Back in Serenity
Petal watched the train lights fade on the horizon, her face tense.
She reached behind the counter, pulled out a dusty revolver, and said to herself,
“They’re all waking up now.”
And somewhere, far below, in the tunnels beneath Serenity, a clock that had long stopped ticking began to turn again.
So, Chester’s past is coming back to haunt him. What exactly are contained in the files OPERATION ASHWOOD Files? And, how much of it did Chester do or not do? He now cares less about the moped. If the contents of the file sees light of day, what would it mean for our Marshal? The man trying to cleanup this dirty town? And the tunnels, are another thing? Just a quick way to get about town or something more sinister?
The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Four – Pieces on the Board
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–5 minutes
Chapter Four: Pieces on the Board
Braddock Cain stood in front of a pool table inside The Assembly, lining up a shot with surgical calm. His eyes didn’t leave the cue ball even as Poke relayed the report.
“He bloodied Silas’s nose, bruised Dutch’s ribs, broke Miles’ fiddle, and made Jonas fall on his ass,”
Poke said, leaning against a cracked marble column.
“Didn’t even draw his gun.”
Cain took the shot. The cue ball clicked sharply and sank the eight-ball in the corner pocket.
He stood slowly, placed the cue stick back on the rack, and poured himself a drink.
“And the town?”
“They watched,”
Poke replied.
“They didn’t help, but they didn’t laugh either. Some of ’em even looked –– curious.”
Cain stirred his drink with one finger.
“That’s the worst part.”
Poke blinked.
“Sir?”
Cain turned toward the window.
“Fear keeps Serenity in check. When people get curious, they start to hope. And hope’s just a prettier way of saying ‘trouble.'”
He walked back to his velvet chair, every step echoing in the hollow room.
“I want to know everything about Marshal Finch. Where he came from. What he’s running from. Who sent him? And,”
He added, narrowing his eyes,
“who he’s willing to die for.”
Poke nodded and disappeared.
Cain sipped his drink and muttered to the empty room,
“Let’s see what kind of man rides into Hell on a scooter.”
Across the Rooftops
Wren sat cross-legged on the corrugated roof of what had once been Serenity’s schoolhouse. The sun was setting in a blood-orange smear across the sky. She held a spyglass in one hand and a half-sharpened pencil in the other. A leather-bound journal rested in her lap.
Inside were names. Maps. Notes.
She turned to a fresh page and wrote:
Chester Finch – Marshal – Took a hit, didn’t fall. I watched the Gentlemen leave bruised. He won’t last a month. He might last longer.
Beside her sat a worn revolver wrapped in canvas, untouched. Wren didn’t shoot unless necessary.
Observation was safer.
She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a newspaper clipping, old and faded:
“LOCAL DEPUTY DIES IN FIRE — WIDOW, CHILD UNACCOUNTED FOR”
She stared at it for a long moment before tucking it away again.
Wren wasn’t born in Serenity. She was left here. Left during the chaos, after the fire, after the men in black suits came and went. Cain had taken her in—not out of kindness but calculation. He saw her silence, her memory, her talent for hiding in plain sight.
He never asked questions. Neither did she.
Until now.
She looked back toward the jailhouse, where Chester Finch was lighting a lantern in the window. He moved stiffly, but there was something in the way he held himself. Like a man who wasn’t afraid to die—but was trying real hard not to.
She flipped back through her notebook. She found a sketch she’d drawn weeks ago. It was a map of Serenity. The map had dotted lines marking the tunnels under the old mines. It showed the abandoned telegraph station and the hidden entrance to Cain’s private vault room.
Wren circled Chester’s name, then drew a faint arrow pointing to the vault.
It was almost time.
Elsewhere in Serenity ––
- Petal wiped the dust from her apothecary shelves. She stared at a cracked photo of her brother. He was killed by Cain’s men for refusing to cook meth in the back room. She kept smiling, but her smile was starting to slip.
- Julep Jake, now back in his cell by choice, was building something with matchsticks and chewing gum. “Civic infrastructure,” he explained to no one.
- Silas Crane dipped his bleeding knuckle into holy water and laughed softly. “He’s gonna make me preach,” he whispered. “And I do love a sermon.”
Back in The Assembly, Cain sat alone in the dim light, polishing a gold coin between his fingers. One side bore the symbol of the old U.S. Marshal’s badge. The other side? Blank.
“Flip it,”
He whispered.
“Heads, he burns. Tails, he breaks.”
He flipped the coin into the air and caught it.
But he didn’t look.
Not yet.
Yet another episode to our story concludes. And, still no word on whether the moped is safe. After all, nowhere in this story is it mentioned whether Chester Finch parked it in a loading zone. It also doesn’t say if he used a 1-hour only parking space when he got to town. So far it hasn’t been used to his advantage in any of the dealings he has had. In Chapter Five, you will find out why. There is a secret method to getting about the town. It is about to unfold.
The Town Called Serenity – Welcome Committee
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–5 minutes
Chapter Three: Welcome Committee.
A town allergic to rules.
By noon the next day, the heat in Serenity had risen to an oppressive boil. The town smelled of dry rot, sweat, and gun oil. Somewhere in the distance, a fiddle played off-key. Somewhere closer, someone was being punched.
Chester Finch stepped out of the rickety sheriff’s office he had claimed, swatting at flies with his hat. His left eye was bruised from a scuffle the night before, and he had re-holstered his sidearm four times that morning alone—once while buying coffee, once while crossing the street, once during a handshake, and once because a six-year-old pointed a slingshot at him and said,
“Bang.”
Serenity wasn’t just lawless—it was allergic to rules.
A woman named Petal ran the general store and apothecary. She greeted Chester with an arched brow, and a cigarette clung in the corner of her mouth.
“You’re still alive,”
She said, counting change.
“Didn’t expect that.”
“Thanks for the confidence,”
Chester replied, tipping his hat.
She shrugged.
“Ain’t personal. We don’t usually see second sunrises on lawmen.”
Chester had started to respond when a shadow fell across the dusty street. Four men approached—spaced out like predators, walking with the purpose that made children vanish and shutters slam.
The Gentlemen had arrived.
The one in front was tall, clean-shaven, and wore a preacher’s collar over a duster that flared in the wind. A thick Bible was tucked under one arm. His name was Silas Crane, but most folks called him Reverend Knuckle. He smiled with too many teeth.
“Marshal,”
He said.
“We heard you were new in town. Thought we’d come to say hello proper-like.”
Behind him stood the other three:
- Dutch, a former bare-knuckle boxer with hands like cinder blocks and a voice like gravel being chewed.
- Miles, a one-eyed fiddler with a twitchy finger, never stopped humming.
- And Jonas, the silent butcher-aproned brute who carried a wood-chopping ax like it was a handshake waiting to happen.
Chester stayed calm. He’d dealt with worse—once, a rogue bootleg militia in Nevada. Another time, a cult leader in Kentucky had a fondness for snakes and a penchant for blackmail. These four? They were just another test. Or so he hoped.
“I appreciate the hospitality,”
Chester said, thumb resting on his belt.
“But I’m here on business.”
Silas opened his Bible, then punched Chester square in the jaw. The Marshal hit the dirt hard.
“Chapter One,”
Silas said, closing the book.
“Verse one: The meek get stomped.”
Dutch cracked his knuckles.
“You wanna deliver the sermon, or should we take it from here?”
Chester wiped the blood from his lip and sat up.
“You fellas always greet visitors with scripture and assault?”
“We greet threats,”
Silas replied, crouching.
“You’re Cain’s business now. That means you’re ours.”
Behind them, the few townsfolk watching began to edge away, some disappearing entirely. Petal stayed, lighting a second cigarette from the first.
Chester stood up slowly.
“You done?”
Silas raised an eyebrow.
Because that’s when the door behind them swung open, and out walked Julep Jake, shirtless, handcuffed, and barefoot.
“Marshal,”
Jake yelled, grinning wildly,
“you left the cell unlocked again! I declare myself free! By raccoon law!”
Everyone froze.
Even Jonas blinked.
Silas turned slightly.
“What is—?”
And that’s when Chester moved. Fast.
He used the distraction to land a gut punch on Dutch. He spun around Silas. Then, he kicked Miles’ fiddle clean across the street. Jonas came at him like a wrecking ball, but Chester ducked and flipped a barrel in the way. The brute went tumbling.
It wasn’t a win. It was a delay.
But it was enough.
When the dust settled, Chester stood there, breathing hard, badge still gleaming. Around him, the Gentlemen nursed bruises and bruised pride.
“You tell Cain,”
Chester said, voice steady,
“that if he wants me gone, he better send a storm. Because the breeze just isn’t cuttin’ it.”
Silas stared at him, blood on his lip. Then he smiled that too-wide smile again.
“This is gonna be fun,”
He whispered.
They left him standing there, Jake still rambling behind him about his re-election campaign.
Later That Night ––
From a rooftop, a girl no older than fourteen watched the fight unfold. Her name was Wren. She didn’t talk much and didn’t smile either. But she watched everything. She scribbled something in a notebook.
The new Marshal wasn’t like the last dozen.
This one fought back.
Well now—what a predicament! After crossing paths with The Gentlemen, will the Marshal still be standing? Or will he end up being used to mop the floor by the end of Chapter Four? And as for his trusty moped… is it safe around this unruly bunch? Check here tomorrow for more and Chapter Four of this very exciting story!
The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Two ~ The Man In The Velvet Chair ~
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–4 minutes
Chapter Two: The Man in the Velvet Chair
Braddock Cain held court in what used to be Serenity’s town hall. It has been redubbed The Assembly. This tongue-in-cheek title amused him to no end. The building’s original seal featured a gavel and olive branch. It had been charred. A mural of a coiled snake wrapped around a set of broken scales replaced it.
Cain reclined in a velvet chair salvaged from an old theater. His legs were crossed and his boots polished. A glass of brandy swirled in his hand. He dressed like a gentleman, but everything about him screamed predator. His jaw bore a faded scar shaped like a question mark, and his eyes—green, sharp, reptilian—missed nothing.
He was listening to the daily reports from his lieutenants. These included moonshine shipments and bribe tallies. They discussed who’d been bought and who needed reminding. It was during this time that the news came in.
“Marshal rode in today,”
Said a wiry man named Poke, who hadn’t blinked since 1989.
“Little fella on a moped. Arrested Julep Jake, if you can believe it.”
Cain’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
“Didn’t shoot him?”
He asked, his voice smooth as oiled leather.
“No, sir. I hauled him off. Jake’s in the old jailhouse right now. He’s hollerin’ about election fraud. He’s claimin’ he’s immune to state law because of a sacred raccoon spirit.”
Cain chuckled, swirling his drink.
Side Note:
Julep Jake was a Yale-educated botanist. He loved whiskey-fueled nonsense. He habitually wore a sash that read “Honorary Mayor 4 Life.” Despite all this, he had a breakdown during a lecture on invasive species. He ended up in Serenity after wandering the desert in a bathrobe. He decided, on divine instruction, that this was where civilization needed his governance. The raccoon spirit came later, after a bad batch of moonshine.
Cain leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“So. The law’s back in town.”
Poke nodded.
“Says he’s here to clean up.”
Cain smiled faintly.
“Then let’s give him something to mop up.”
He rose, slow and deliberate. Every movement was calculated with the same precision he used to carve out his little empire. Cain wasn’t just a criminal—he was a tactician. He knew that fear didn’t come from bloodshed alone. It came from control. Predictability. Making people believe that resistance was a form of suicide.
“Send word to the Gentlemen,”
Cain said.
The Gentlemen weren’t gentlemen at all. They were Cain’s enforcers—four men, each with a particular specialty. One was a former preacher who liked to break fingers while quoting scripture. Another was a silent giant who wore a butcher’s apron even on Sundays.
“Tell them I want to meet our new Marshal. Kindly, of course. Offer him a warm Serenity welcome.”
Poke nodded and vanished.
Cain turned to the shattered windows behind him, looking out over his kingdom. Dust swirled in the streets. Somewhere, a gunshot echoed, followed by laughter.
“I do enjoy it when they come in idealistic,”
Cain murmured, sipping his drink.
“They bleed slower.”
The sun sets over Serenity. One question hangs heavy in the air: Will the town still be standing by morning? It’s the same question whispered every night by those who still dare to hope. But for Chester, the stakes are far more personal. His question is simpler—yet far more deadly: Will he live to see the sunrise? And if he does… will he finally come face to face with the elusive “Gentlemen”? Few ever have—and fewer still lived to speak of it.
Chapter Three reveals the fate of the town. It uncovers the future of Chester. The shadowy intentions of the Gentlemen are exposed, at least for one more day. A luxury not everyone in Serenity can count on.
Coming Friday The Ten Part Story Begins On The Town Called Serenity
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
1–2 minutes
Summary:
The Town Called Serenity
A town lies in the lawless fringes of the state. It is so dangerous and rotten that only the most desperate or the most damned ever call it home. Serenity—where outlaws drink with murderers, where honest men bleed before their second breath, and where fear rides in daylight.
Enter Chester Finch, a disgraced Deputy U.S. Marshal with a forgotten past and a laughable ride—a moped. But Serenity’s not a place that cares about appearances. It cares about power. And when Chester arrives, he’s not just up against crooked sheriffs, backroom executions, and townsfolk too scared to speak. He’s walking into the jaws of Braddock Cain—a kingpin with an empire built on blackmail and buried secrets.
Chester uncovers the layers of corruption. He discovers a larger threat: Gallow. Gallow is a ghost from his past with no badge, no mercy, and no leash. When Gallow comes to cleanse Serenity in fire, Chester must rally the few brave enough to fight. He must stand in the middle of a street where justice hasn’t walked in years.
This is a tale of grit, guilt, redemption—and standing tall when hell itself tells you to kneel.
Watch for the first Chapter in a series of 10! You can find them here beginning May 30th, 2025!
Remembering Horace Speed: A MLB Player’s Legacy
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
1–2 minutes
Horace Speed (1951–2025): Former Major League Outfielder Remembered for His Speed and Perseverance
Horace Solomon Speed was a former Major League Baseball player. He was known for his blazing speed and quiet determination. He passed away on May 26, 2025, at the age of 73.
Born on January 22, 1951, in Pasadena, California, Speed was a standout athlete from an early age. The San Francisco Giants drafted him out of Pasadena High School. This was during the Major League Baseball’s round of the 1969 June Amateur Draft. Speed spent most of his professional career in the minor leagues. Nonetheless, his dedication to the game paid off. He finally broke into the majors with the Cleveland Indians.
Speed made his MLB debut on September 14, 1975, and played parts of three seasons with the Indians. Throughout 62 games, he was often utilized as a pinch runner and reserve outfielder, capitalizing on his hallmark speed. While his offensive stats — a .140 batting average, seven stolen bases, and eight runs scored — show limited playing time, his presence was valuable. He made significant contributions in late-game situations, particularly on the bases.
Speed’s journey through professional baseball was a testament to resilience. He spent nearly a decade in the minors. Before reaching the major leagues, he served as a model of perseverance for countless aspiring athletes. His career was modest in statistical output. Nevertheless, it remains a testament to hard work and patience. It inspires all who hear his story.
After retiring from baseball, Speed largely stayed out of the public eye, living a private life away from the spotlight. His modesty stands out. He has made significant contributions to the sport. This modesty is a reminder of the humility that can be found in even the most accomplished individuals.
Horace Speed’s passing marks the loss of a quiet but determined competitor. His journey inspired those who watched him run, hustle, and chase his dreams. He is remembered for his achievements on the field. More importantly, he is remembered for the character he displayed in getting there.
When Radios Fell Silent: The 1978 Trooper Tragedy
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
4–6 minutes
The Day the Radios Fell Silent: A Personal Account of May 26, 1978
It was a warm May morning in 1978. I was 15 years old, working the phones at my dad’s office at Camp Red Rock in western Oklahoma. For several days, law enforcement radio traffic had been intense—more active than usual, more urgent. Something serious was happening.
An All-Points Bulletin had been issued statewide: two inmates had escaped from the Oklahoma State Prison in McAlester. They were described as extremely dangerous men, capable of committing horrific crimes. The Oklahoma Highway Patrol (OHP) and local authorities launched a massive manhunt, focusing on the southeastern region of the state. While there were scattered reports from other areas, the belief was that the fugitives remained nearby and on foot.
Motor Vehicle Inspection (MVI) Division in Enid.
Still, troubling reports emerged—houses broken into, firearms stolen, and even a car gone missing. An army of troopers scoured the countryside. The fugitives had to move carefully, methodically, to avoid detection. The search had only been underway for days, but it felt like weeks.
May 26, 1978, arrived. It would become one of the darkest days in the history of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol.
Although I was hundreds of miles away from the action, the search was broadcast live to my ears. The ranger office where I worked was equipped with radios that picked up all law enforcement frequencies. I heard it all: the calls, the coordination, the chaos.
That morning, a somber message came over the radio from Highway Patrol District Headquarters:
“Attention all stations and units: All nets are 10-63 until further notice.”
In plain terms, this meant that the radio network was reserved exclusively for emergency traffic related to the escapees. No unnecessary chatter. But maintaining a “10-63 net” requires constant reinforcement. Officers rotate shifts. New dispatchers come on duty. Without reminders, the rule starts to fade, and soon enough, radio traffic returns to normal. That’s exactly what happened.
As the air unit tried to communicate with ground teams, their messages were drowned out by unrelated conversations. Then, something chilling unfolded.
Internal Affairs.
I listened in real time. The air unit tried to warn a team of troopers. They had approached a area. The escapees were hiding—just beyond the trees, lying in wait. The troopers, thinking it was a routine check, got out of their car casually. Suddenly, gunfire erupted. It was an ambush.
One of the troopers managed to retreat to his vehicle and tried to call for backup. The air unit, having seen everything from above, struggled to get through. The radio frequencies were jammed with idle chatter. It was a communications nightmare that have cost lives.
I sat there, helpless, listening to the air unit reporting the tragedy to headquarters. The dispatcher pleaded for all units to clear the net so emergency aid is dispatched. I was stunned—devastated. This moment became a lasting lesson in why radio discipline can be a matter of life and death.
Later that day, I was shocked again—two more troopers had been shot in the same area. And then, I heard the message that signaled the manhunt was over:
“Be advised, the search for the escapees is over. All units and stations can return to regular assignments.”
That phrase said it all. The escapees were no longer a threat. They hadn’t been captured—they were dead. Had they been taken alive, the dispatch would have named the unit responsible for their arrest.
The Fallen
Three troopers lost their lives that day:
- Trooper Houston F. “Pappy” Summers, 62, a 32-year veteran stationed with the Motor Vehicle Inspection (MVI) Division in Enid.
- Trooper Billy G. Young, 50, with 25 years of service, attached to the Woodward MVI detachment.
- Lieutenant Pat Grimes, 36, from Internal Affairs, nearing his 12th year with the Patrol.
Summers and Young died in a gunfight on a rural road near Kenefic. This occurred after the escapees stole a farmer’s truck and weapons. The troopers, unaware of what they were driving into, were ambushed.
Later that day, in the small town of Caddo, Lt. Grimes and his partner, Lt. Hoyt Hughes, were searching a residential area when they, too, came under fire. Grimes was fatally shot. Hughes was wounded but managed to exit the vehicle and return fire at close range, killing one of the fugitives.
Just moments later, Lt. Mike Williams of the Durant detachment arrived. He fatally shot the second escapee. This action brought an end to a 34-day reign of terror that had stretched across six states.
The two escapees caused the deaths of eight people. This number includes the three troopers. They also injured at least three others during their violent run from justice.
Final Thoughts
What I heard that day shaped me. During my time in the police academy, I learned something important. My account of the events closely aligned with what was eventually confirmed. The tragedy of May 26, 1978, became a case study. It highlighted the importance of radio discipline. The event also emphasized operational coordination and situational awareness.
But for me, it was more than that. It was personal. I was there—listening. And I will never forget the sound of silence that followed.
The True Meaning of Memorial Day: A Time for Reflection
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
Memorial Day: A Call for Deeper Understanding of a Sacred American Tradition
by U.S. Army is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0
May 26, 2025 — Americans across the country gather for cookouts, beach trips, and retail sales this Memorial Day. Veterans and historians urge the public to remember the true meaning of the holiday. It is a solemn day of remembrance for those who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces.
Church Street, Wantage by P L Chadwick
is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0
Originally known as Decoration Day, Memorial Day was first widely observed in 1868. This was after the Civil War. Citizens and soldiers alike placed flowers on the graves of the fallen. Today, it is often confused with Veterans Day. Veterans Day honors all who served. Memorial Day is for those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
For many, the long weekend signals the unofficial start of summer. For Gold Star families—those who have lost a loved one in service—it’s a day marked by grief. It is also a time for reflection and pride.
“We don’t want people to stop enjoying their freedom,”
said Angela Cruz, whose son died in Afghanistan in 2011.
“But we hope they understand that someone paid for it.”
Surveys reveal a worrying trend. A growing number of Americans are unaware of the distinction between Memorial Day and Veterans Day. This is especially true for younger generations. A 2024 Pew Research poll found that nearly 40% of adults under 30 were unclear about Memorial Day’s purpose.
Historians warn that this disconnect risks eroding public understanding of military sacrifice.
“When people forget the meaning of Memorial Day, they forget about those who gave their lives in service. They overlook their sacrifice,”
said Dr. Robert Ellis, a military historian at Georgetown University.
“It’s not just a history lesson—it’s a civic responsibility.”
Efforts are underway to restore the day’s original intent. Many veterans’ organizations are promoting the National Moment of Remembrance, a voluntary pause at 3 p.m. local time on Memorial Day to think in silence. Schools and communities across the country are bringing back traditions. They are visiting cemeteries and laying wreaths. They are also reading the names of fallen service members.
“We want people to barbecue, to be with family, to enjoy America,”
said retired Army Sergeant Major Tyrese Bennett.
“But we also want them to take a moment—just a moment—to remember why they can.”
The nation marks another Memorial Day. Veterans and families hope that Americans will go beyond the sales. They want people to go beyond the celebrations. They wish everyone would take time to honor the names, stories, and legacies of those who never made it home.
Memorial Day: From Local Tribute to National Holiday
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures
2–3 minutes
The First Memorial Day: Honoring the Fallen After the Civil War
In the aftermath of the American Civil War—a conflict that claimed more lives than any other in U.S. history—communities across the nation were left mourning. By 1865, with the war concluded, families faced the grim task of honoring more than 600,000 soldiers who had died. This collective grief gave rise to a new tradition: a day of remembrance.
Many towns and cities began their own informal commemorations of fallen soldiers. An early observance of what would become Memorial Day occurred in Charleston, South Carolina. It happened on May 1, 1865. There, newly freed African Americans held a ceremony to honor Union soldiers. These soldiers had died in a Confederate prison camp.
During the war, Confederate forces converted the city’s Washington Racecourse. Today, it is known as Hampton Park. They turned it into a prison for Union soldiers. Over 260 Union troops died there from disease and exposure and were buried in unmarked graves. After the Confederacy’s defeat, Black residents of Charleston, many of them formerly enslaved, took action. They worked to give those soldiers a proper burial. They reinterred the bodies. They built a fence around the site. They marked it with a sign that read: “Martyrs of the Race Course.”
On May 1, a crowd of around 10,000 people—including freedmen, Union troops, and white missionaries—gathered for a solemn procession. The event included prayers, singing, speeches, and the laying of flowers. Children marched with armfuls of blossoms, and the day ended with picnics and patriotic performances. This Charleston observance was largely forgotten in the national narrative for decades. Now, many historians recognize it as the first Memorial Day.
Nonetheless, the tradition took broader root a few years later. In 1868, Union General John A. Logan, head of a veterans’ organization called the Grand Army of the Republic, issued a proclamation. He declared May 30 as Decoration Day, a time to decorate the graves of fallen soldiers with flowers. That year, ceremonies were held at over 100 cemeteries across the country. A major event took place at Arlington National Cemetery. Flowers were placed on the graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers.
Over time, Decoration Day evolved into Memorial Day, gradually becoming a national holiday. After World War I, its purpose expanded to honor all Americans who died in military service. In 1971, Memorial Day was declared a federal holiday. It was moved to the last Monday in May. This change ensures a long weekend of remembrance.
Today, Memorial Day is a time for reflection. It is also a time for gratitude. It honors those who gave their lives in service to the United States—from the Civil War to the current day.
Lessons from the street: Shattered Expectations
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures
3–4 minutes
“Shattered Expectations”
The night was calm in that tense, waiting way cops get used to. It was the quiet that makes your stomach coil. You know it won’t last. I was still new then, riding with my training officer. He was a crusty, seen-it-all type who barely spoke unless it was to point out something I’d done wrong. If I ever earned his approval, it’d be the same day pigs sprouted wings and took to the skies.
We cruised down a dark side street when I spotted a car weaving just enough to catch my attention. I hit the lights. It was a rust-bucket sedan packed with teenagers—maybe five of them, wide-eyed and frozen as I approached. My training officer stayed in the car. That was his style: throw the rookie in the water and see if he sank.
I had the driver step out. He was lanky, maybe seventeen. He wore his coat like a belt, tied around his waist. It seemed too warm for sleeves but too cool to ditch. As he stepped out, the hem of the coat caught on something. Then—clink clink clink—CRASH. Three or four bottles of beer tumbled from under the coat like traitors abandoning ship. They hit the pavement. The bottles shattered in an amber mess around our feet.
The kid froze. I froze. Then we both looked at the puddle between us. From where my training officer sat, it probably looked like I’d lost my temper and smashed the bottles myself. Great.
Before I processed the situation, the radio crackled with a priority call—armed robbery. We were the closest unit.
“Back in the car,”
Came the voice from the patrol unit.
I turned to the kids, who now looked ready to faint.
“Go to the police station. Wait there. I’ll meet you after this call.”
They didn’t argue. They didn’t run. I just nodded in frightened unison, which, in hindsight, has been the most surprising part of the whole thing.
We sped off. The call was a blur—adrenaline, sirens, controlled chaos. When it wrapped, I reminded my training officer about the teens.
“We need to swing by the station. The kids should be there.”
He gave me a skeptical glance.
“Right…”
But sure enough, there they were when we rolled up to the front of the station. All of them were sitting on the bench outside like they were waiting for a ride to Sunday school. Nobody had moved. Nobody had tried to hide or ditch the evidence.
I had them step inside one at a time. No citations. No handcuffs. It was just a firm talk I remembered getting when I was about their age. I laid it on thick—the “blood on the highway” speech, consequences, how lucky they were, all of it. They nodded solemnly. They got the message.
As we returned to the patrol car, my training officer gave me a sideways look.
“You know,”
He said,
“you didn’t have to bust the beer bottles like that. That was an asshole move.”
I laughed.
“That wasn’t me. The kid’s coat dragged them out. Total accident.”
He squinted at me like I was trying to sell him beachfront property in Kansas.
“Uh-huh,”
he said.
“Sure.”
I never did convince him. But a week later, during roll call, he told another officer I had
“a decent head on my shoulders.”
Coming from him, that was a standing ovation.
And me? I still smile every time I think of those kids. They sat quietly in front of the station, smelling like cheap beer and bad decisions. They were waiting for the rookie cop who didn’t quite screw it all up.
Twila Elouise: The ‘Standard Oil Baby’ and Her Amazing Birth Story
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures
3–4 minutes
A Frightening, Comical, and Hostile Ride: The Birth of Twila Elouise
By early June of 1960, Oklahoma’s summer heat had already settled in, pressing down across the vast plains. In Oklahoma City, JD Groff attended a convention of oil producers. He was representing Standard Oil Company alongside his superior. His superior was a man named Harold. Harold had a reputation for being both respected and heavy-handed with a whiskey glass.
Meanwhile, back in Clinton, JD’s wife Marjorie—known to family and friends as Margie—had decided to stay home during JD’s trip. Margie had four children already—Sheldon, Terry, Dennis, and Juli. She wanted to stay close to JD’s sister and brother-in-law. They could quickly step in and help with the kids if she needed to go to the hospital. It was a decision made with foresight and care, and as it turned out, it was the right one.
On June 2, Margie went into labor.
Her calm steadiness defined her actions. She went to the hospital, and the children were safely in good hands. Virgil Downing, her son-in-law, knew that JD needed to be reached quickly. He called the hotel in Oklahoma City. The oil convention was being held there. He had the front desk page, JD Groff.
“They called my name right in the middle of the banquet,”
JD later recalled.
“Everything stopped. I knew right then — it was time.”
JD bolted from the room, his heart pounding and his hands reaching for his keys when Harold intercepted him.
“You’re not driving,”
Harold slurred, wagging a finger.
“You’ll crash the damn car. You’re too excited, Groff. I’ll take you.”
JD tried to argue and pry the keys back, insisting that Harold should not drive. He even asked him multiple times to pull over. They should then switch places. Harold refused every time. He repeated with drunken certainty that he was the safer choice.
“You’ll wrap us around a tree,”
Harold barked, gripping the wheel with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other.
“You’re gonna be a daddy tonight, shaking too much to steer.”
A two-hour rollercoaster ride across the Oklahoma highways followed. It was a journey that JD would remember for the rest of his life.
“He passed cars on the left, passed them on the right,”
JD said later.
“He cussed at every truck, hollered at every red light, and nearly rear-ended a tractor. At one point, he tried lighting a cigar while doing 80 down a back road.”
As JD would describe,
“frightening, comical, and hostile all at once.”
By some miracle, they made it to Clinton in one piece. JD leaped from the car, bolted into the hospital, and made it to Margie’s side just in time.
That evening, on June 2, 1960, their daughter was born: Twila Elouise Groff.
JD had already picked the name. Twila for its soft, lyrical sound. Elouise served as a tribute to the Groff family lineage. This name stretched back to the family’s Swiss heritage. It was carried by strong women long before the Groffs ever set foot in America.
Twila’s birth quickly became more than a family milestone — it became a local legend.
In the next weeks and months, oil producers stopped by JD’s Standard Oil station in Clinton. Sales associates also visited. Colleagues from the convention came by as well. They checked in.
“How’s the baby?”
They’d ask.
“Did Harold drive you the whole way like a bat out of hell?”
Before long, the story had taken on a life of its own. Twila became affectionately known among oil company executives as
“The Standard Oil Baby.”
Her name would be mentioned at future conventions and meetings across Oklahoma. JD’s wild ride—and Twila’s prompt arrival—became an industry folklore, retold with laughter, awe, and camaraderie.
Years later, when new sales associates came through Clinton, they’d stop in and say,
“Is this where the Standard Oil Baby lives?”
And JD, with that familiar half-smile, would nod proudly and say,
“Yes, sir. That’s her.”
Red ‘Pinky’ Green: The Man Behind Marlow’s Legend – A Man They Called “Blue”
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–5 minutes
The Curious Legacy of Red “Pinky” Green, Known to All as Blue
The little town of Marlow’s Ridge was nestled between dusty hills and a river. This river had long forgotten how to rush. In this quaint setting lived a man named Red Green. His middle name was “Pinky,” a leftover from a grandmother who thought nicknames were good luck. But everyone in town—young, old, shopkeeper, sheriff, or schoolkid—called him Blue.
No one quite remembered how the name Blue came to be. Some said it was due to the denim shirt he always wore. It was frayed at the cuffs and patched at the elbows. Others swore it was because of his eyes. They were deep and stormy. They held stories no one ever heard him tell. Whatever the reason, the name stuck. And so did he.
Blue wasn’t what you’d call important. He wasn’t elected to anything. He didn’t own a business. He didn’t sing in church or march in parades. He wasn’t married and never had kids. He lived alone in a one-room shack on the edge of town. He built it himself, board by salvaged board. His house had a tin roof and a potbelly stove. The garden always grew more vegetables than one man can eat.
He was a fixture more than a figure. You’d see him mending a neighbor’s fence one day. The next day, he is fishing at the creek. Sometimes, he’d sit on the courthouse bench, whittling a stick into something halfway useful. He spoke little, smiled often, and always paid cash—exact change. Kids liked him because he had a knack for fixing broken toys with bits of wire and rubber bands. Adults liked him because he never asked for anything and always showed up when you needed another set of hands.
Blue was what folks called thrifty. He wore the same clothes for years. He repurposed everything. He carried a coffee can full of loose screws like it was a treasure. He never took credit, never owed money, and never once called attention to himself.
He died peacefully, in his sleep, sometime between dusk and dawn. So when he passed, the town mourned. They felt that soft, uncertain way people do when they realize someone quiet had been a cornerstone all along.
There was no family to speak of. The county handled the burial, and someone brought a pie to the service, which seemed appropriate. The people were about to scatter and return to their lives. Just then, the county clerk arrived with a letter in hand.
It was Blue’s ‘Will.’
Written in neat cursive on lined notebook paper, the will was short, but what it said stunned everyone with its unexpected generosity:
To the Town of Marlow’s Ridge,
If you’re hearing this, it means I’ve gone on ahead. It’s no use making a fuss, but I have a few things to leave behind.
First, I’ve set aside $20,000 for the school’s library. I want to make sure the kids get real books with pages they can turn.
Second, I’m giving $15,000 to the fire department. You’ve bailed me out more than once when I let that stove get too hot.
To Miss Delaney at the diner, you’ll find I’ve paid off your mortgage. You gave me free coffee every Monday for ten years. I figured it was time I returned the favor.
To the town mechanic, I left you my truck. It barely runs, but the toolbox in the back can come in handy.
The rest—over $300,000 in cash and savings—I want to put into a fund for the town. I want to fix up the playground, paint the church, and replace the town hall’s roof. You know what needs doing.
You were all my family. Maybe I didn’t say it, but I hope I showed it.
Thanks for everything.
—Red “Pinky” Green, but you knew me as Blue.
There was silence. It was not the kind that follows shock or grief. It was the kind that settles when truth lands heavy and sweet, like the last snowfall of winter.
In the next weeks, the town changed. It didn’t change in the way bulldozers and scaffolding alter things. It changed in how people react when they realize they’ve misjudged someone. Children now whispered stories of Blue’s secret treasure. Adults spoke his name with a new reverence. The diner added a “Blue Plate Special” in his honor. Every kid at school got a brand new library card. His actions inspired a wave of kindness and respect that swept through the town.
The bench outside the courthouse where he used to sit remained empty. Someone carved his name into it, not his full name, just the one that mattered. A simple yet powerful tribute that ensured his memory would never fade.
BLUE
No title. No explanation.
This is just a reminder that sometimes, the quietest lives leave the loudest echoes.
The Sacred Telephone: A Journey Through Time – It’s Your Dime!
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–5 minutes
When Phones Were Tied To The Wall
I remember when the telephone was sacred. It wasn’t sacred in the biblical sense. It was sacred in how a thing becomes sacred through ritual and reverence. It hung on the kitchen wall. It was a beige rotary with a coiled cord. The cord always managed to tangle itself, no matter how carefully we stretched it. There was no strolling around the yard while chatting, no slipping it in your pocket. That phone was anchored to the wall, and in a way, so were we.
Back then, if you were expecting a call, you waited—at home. You couldn’t run errands or mow the lawn and hope they’d “just leave a message.” There was no voicemail, and answering machines were still considered a luxury or a spy device. If you missed a call, that was it. Maybe they’d try again. Or, they wouldn’t.
There was an entire culture built around the act of calling. If the phone rang during dinner, it was a dilemma. Do you get up and answer it? That would offend Mom, who just set the casserole on the table. Or do you let it ring and risk missing something important? ‘Important’ means anything—a job offer or a family emergency. More often than not, it was just Aunt Margaret from Tulsa, who forgot about time zones again.
It’s Your Dime!
Long-distance calls were a whole other beast. Before area codes were common knowledge, calling someone more than a town away was a financial decision. “Unlimited minutes” became a birthright later. You thought twice, maybe three times. Sometimes, you waited until Sunday after 7 p.m., when the rates went down. You’d hear people say,
“Make it quick; it’s a long distance,”
And suddenly, the air would tighten. Conversations became lean and efficient. There was no room for small talk when every second cost a dime.
And God help you if you live in a house with teenagers.
We had one line for the whole family. If someone was on the phone, that was it: no call waiting, no second line, no privacy. I sometimes sat on the front steps, listening to my older sister whisper sweet nothings to her boyfriend. At the same time, she stretched the phone cord into the hall closet for “privacy.” This meant insulation from our relentless teasing.
My Name Is In The Phone Book!
Phone books were gospel—fat and yellow and always near the phone. If someone’s number changed, you had to physically write it down in the back of the book. Otherwise, you risked losing it forever. If you didn’t know someone’s number, you called the operator, who answered with an almost magical,
“Information, how may I help you?”
There was a time when arriving in a new town didn’t mean turning on a GPS. It didn’t involve scrolling through social media, either. Instead, it meant pulling up to a phone booth and flipping through the phone book. Every booth had one, thick and heavy, usually hanging from a little metal chain to keep it from wandering off. If you were looking for someone, all you needed was their name. You’d find their phone number listed alphabetically, and right next to it—their home address.
It was all just there, in plain ink, as ordinary as the weather report. Privacy wasn’t the concern it is today. Back then, being listed in the phone book was considered part of being a community member. It was how people stayed connected. Out-of-town relatives, old friends, and even traveling salespeople brought to your doorstep with just a name and a little patience. And it meant something to have your name listed in the phone book.
It’s funny now how phones used to ring, and everyone rushed to answer. It was exciting—an event. Now our phones ring, and we stare at the screen half the time like it’s a burden. Back then, it was a connection. A real, human voice carried over copper lines and across miles. There was a weight to it. You felt the distance.
It Is So Nice To Hear From You!
And maybe that’s what I miss the most—not the inconvenience, not the cords or the costs, but the intention. Calls were planned. Conversations were meaningful, not disposable. There was something beautiful about the limits. There was something grounding about a phone that couldn’t follow you around. There was honesty in waiting for someone to call and hoping they’d find you home.
Because that was the world then—tied to the wall, rooted in place, and always listening. It was a simpler time in many ways. Yet, it would confuse anyone who had never experienced the rotary telephone era.
Jason Conti’s Impact on MLB History
January 27, 1975 – May 17, 2025
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
1–2 minutes
Stanley Jason Conti was a former Major League Baseball outfielder. He was known for his defensive prowess. He contributed to several MLB teams. Conti passed away on May 17, 2025, his cause of death has not been disclosed.
Conti was born on January 27, 1975, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The Arizona Diamondbacks drafted him in the 32nd round of the 1996 amateur draft. He came from the University of Pittsburgh. He made his highly anticipated MLB debut with the Diamondbacks on June 29, 2000, filled with excitement and promise. He played for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, Milwaukee Brewers, and Texas Rangers over a five-year major league career. Known for his strong throwing arm, Conti made memorable defensive plays. He threw out Atlanta’s Brian Jordan at third base on consecutive nights. He also gunned down Chicago’s Frank Thomas at home plate in back-to-back games. He appeared in 182 MLB games, recording a .238 batting average with six home runs and 47 RBIs.
After his time in the majors, Conti continued his baseball career in the minor leagues, even taking his talent overseas. He played in Italy for the Bologna Italieri of the Series 1-A Championship League during the 2007 season. His performance on the field showcased his skills on a global stage.
Conti’s passion for baseball and his memorable moments on the field left a lasting impression on fans and teammates alike. He is remembered for his athletic achievements and unwavering dedication to the sport, a commitment that inspired many.
He is survived by his family, friends, and countless fans who appreciated his contributions to baseball.
A memorial service will honor Jason Conti’s life and career.
The Legacy of Lefty Frizzell: Influencing Country Legends
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
1–2 minutes
“The Voice That Taught a Generation”
In the summer of 1950, a determined young singer named Lefty Frizzell stood outside Jim Beck’s recording studio. He was in Dallas, Texas. He was ready to make his mark. At just 22, he had already weathered a storm of heartbreak, barroom gigs, and run-ins with the law. Lefty had slicked-back hair and a crooked grin. A battered guitar was slung over his shoulder. He aimed for more than just a break. He was pursuing his destiny.
William Orville Frizzell was born in Corsicana, Texas, in 1928. He earned the nickname “Lefty” as a boy. Stories about how he got the nickname vary, from a boxing match to being left-handed. What was undeniable, though, was his voice. Smooth, elastic, and full of feeling, it wrapped around words in a way that captivated everyone who heard it.
That day in Dallas, Lefty recorded a few songs. He included one he had penned during his time in jail, ‘If You’ve Got the Money (I’ve Got the Time).‘ Within a few weeks, Columbia Records released it, and just like that, Lefty was catapulted into stardom.
By the end of 1950, he had four songs in the country Top Ten—a feat unheard of at the time. His singing style was marked by stretched syllables and graceful phrasing. It would later profoundly influence legends like Merle Haggard, George Jones, and Willie Nelson. We are forever appreciative for this influence.
Yet fame came with a cost. Lefty struggled with alcohol and the pressures of the spotlight. Though his career saw ups and downs, his voice never lost its magic. Even before he died in 1975 at the age of 47, he would sing for country artists. They would still gather around to hear him. They wanted to remember the man who changed the sound of country music forever.
Merle Haggard once said,
“I can’t think of anyone who has influenced me more.”
Lefty Frizzell didn’t just sing songs—he bent time with his voice and taught a generation how to feel every word.
The Brothers of Friday the 13th: A Country Music Legacy
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–4 minutes
The Brothers of Friday the 13th
They say Friday the 13th brings bad luck. But, for Jack Anglin and Johnnie Wright, it brought something entirely different. It brought love, brotherhood, and the country music that carves its way into the soul.
Jack and Johnnie were destined to sing. Their childhoods were steeped in gospel, church choirs, and the rhythm of the land. They met as they met most things in life—through music. And they married as they did everything else—on a Friday the 13th. Jack wed Louise, and Johnnie took her sister, Muriel, as his bride. This made them brothers-in-law, but their voices had already made them brothers in spirit, their bond unbreakable.
They began touring as Johnnie & Jack, their harmonies tight as barbed wire and twice as sharp. They sang of sorrow and salvation, of trains leaving and lovers staying. And behind them, always, stood the sisters.
Johnnie’s wife, Muriel, had a soft voice. It could’ve gone unnoticed if not for a quiet evening at home. She hummed along to a song Johnnie was working on. He stopped strumming, looked at her, and knew.
“You need a stage name,”
He said.
“Something people will remember.”
He thought a moment, then grinned.
“Kitty Wells.”
She laughed at the name, but it stuck. Kitty Wells soon became the Queen of Country Music. Her voice turned the tide with It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels. The song gave women in the country their place in the spotlight.
In a later interview, Johnny recalled that the name “Kitty Wells” came from an old spiritual recording. He used to play it during his early days working at a radio station. The name stuck with him. When it came time to give Muriel a stage name, it felt like the perfect fit. It was familiar, timeless, and filled with meaning.
Life moved fast. Fame came. Tours blurred together. But Jack and Johnnie were always together—on stage, on the road, in life.
Then came March 1963.
Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas, and Hawkshaw Hawkins—all killed in a plane crash returning after a charity concert. The country music world was shattered. A memorial service was planned, and Jack insisted on going.
“Gotta pay respects,”
He said.
“We’ve all come up together.”
But he never made it.
On the fateful morning of March 8, 1963, Jack Anglin was en route to the service. Tragically, he lost control of his car and crashed. His life was taken in an instant. The news reached the church before Johnnie’s arrival. They say the moment he heard, Johnnie was overcome with grief, falling to his knees. The man who had been his constant companion on every stage, in every storm, was no more.
It was a heartbreak no harmony can fix.
Johnnie went on as best he could. Kitty sang. The spotlight stayed, but something had shifted. There was a silence beside him now where Jack’s voice used to be.
Still, the music lived on.
Two men, two sisters, two voices joined by fate, and a wedding date no one forgets. Friday the 13th had given them everything—and, somehow, had taken it all back.
Yet, their songs endure, a testament to their enduring legacy. In every old record and radio play, their voices still resonate. Jack and Johnnie were brothers in music and marriage. Their harmonies echo through the years. It is a timeless tribute to their bond and art.
The Last Post: A Security Nightmare at Ridgewood
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–4 minutes
“The Last Post”
The night shift at Ridgewood Corporate Plaza was supposed to be quiet. Ten floors of empty offices, humming servers, and fluorescent lights dimmed for the janitors’ comfort. The tenants had gone home. The day’s buzz was replaced by the solemn hum of vending machines. There was also the distant thrum of traffic.
That’s when the trouble started.
At exactly 11:42 PM, a woman from the 8th floor called 911. Her voice trembled as she whispered into the phone from behind a copier machine:
“It’s the security guard. He’s –– drunk. He has a gun, and he’s playing with it.”
“Officer intoxicated w/ a gun!”
Officer Marquez and his partner were already in the area and responded within minutes. They pulled up to the building’s glassy facade. They saw the guard—an older man with a thick mustache and sun-lathered skin. His uniform hung loose on his wiry frame. He stood under the lobby lights like he was in a stage play.
He spun a revolver on his index finger like an old-time cowboy. His other hand clutched a bottle of whiskey that sloshed wildly with each twirl.
“Pow!“
He shouted, aiming at an invisible outlaw in the corner.
“You see that, Tex? That’s the ol’ Ridgewood Quickdraw!”
Inside, a cluster of overnight IT workers and janitors peeked nervously from the elevator bank. Some held phones. Others gripped cleaning poles like makeshift weapons.
“Sir,”
Officer Marquez called out, stepping carefully from the squad car.
“Let’s talk. Put the gun down, okay?”
The guard, whose name tag read “Terry,” stopped spinning the weapon. He looked over as if noticing the world around him.
“Well, I’ll be,”
He slurred.
“Company’s here.”
He saluted with the barrel of the gun, then promptly dropped it. The weapon clattered to the floor. It spun in a circle like a coin. Finally, it came to a rest near a vending machine.
Marquez’s hand was already on his holster, but he didn’t draw. His partner approached slowly from the other side.
“Mr. Terry,”
She said, calm but firm.
“You’re scaring people. Can we take a seat over here and talk things through?”
Terry blinked at her, then at the people behind the glass, the ones he was supposed to protect.
“They don’t trust me,”
He muttered.
“Not anymore. It used to be a man with a badge, and a sidearm meant something.”
He took another swig from the bottle, winced, and gave a soft, hollow chuckle.
“Guess all that’s old-fashioned now.”
Marquez knelt beside the dropped gun and slid it back with his foot.
“It’s not about trust,”
He said.
“It’s about safety. Yours and theirs.”
Terry looked down at his trembling hands. The whiskey sloshed in the bottle, no longer steady. Finally, he let it drop, too, and it landed with a dull thunk.
He sat heavily on the bench by the entrance, slumping over like a man who hadn’t rested in decades. The officers approached, cuffed him gently, and led him out into the cool night.
As the police cruiser pulled away, the building behind him exhaled a collective sigh of relief.
Inside, someone from IT muttered,
“I never want to see another cowboy movie again.”
But for years afterward, whenever a door creaked open late at night, or the lights flickered for no reason, the cleaning crew would joke:
“That’s just Terry, doing one last patrol.”
And everyone would pause. They were half amused and half uneasy. They remembered the night the security guard became the danger he was supposed to guard against.
Detective Clara Vale: Unraveling Pine Hollow’s Secrets
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–4 minutes
The morning sun had just begun to burn away the last wisps of fog. The fog clung to Pine Hollow’s deserted streets. At this moment, Detective Clara Vale stepped off the county bus. The little town—nestled between whispering pines and rocky hills—was where everyone knew your grandmother’s maiden name. In this town, no secret stayed buried for long. But something about the silent hush felt different today, as if the forest was holding its breath.
Clara’s boots crunched on the gravel. She walked to the crooked lamppost at the town square. There, a single bulletin board displayed the hand-painted flyer she’d come to see:
“Missing: Benjamin Hawthorne. Last seen at the Old Mill.”
Benjamin, a local schoolteacher, had vanished two nights before. He left only a trail of broken glass in his classroom. A smear of muddy footprints led into the woods. Clara studied the flyer’s edges—fresh tears around the corners told her someone had already pulled it down once. She taped it back in place and set off.
Her first stop was the Old Mill, its rotting wood groaning in the breeze. Inside, moonlight slanted through broken windows, illuminating desks overturned, and chalk dust still hovering in the air. Clara knelt by a desk. She noted the glass shards and a single, battered notebook. It lay open to a page filled with frantic mathematical equations. This was Benjamin’s lifework on the community’s crumbling dam.
Clara closed the book gently and pocketed it. The dam’s collapse would flood half the town; had Benjamin discovered a flaw and been threatened into silence?
As dusk fell, Clara meticulously combed through the Hawthorne farm. Benjamin’s aging parents stuttered about late-night visitors. Strange trucks idled on the gravel road, and their headlights flickered like watchful eyes. Their hands trembled as they described a low rumble, like a machine in the woods. Clara’s pulse quickened at the implication of clandestine logging or worse. She assured them she’d find Benjamin, her determination unwavering, then slipped out the back door.
By midnight, Clara was deep in the forest, tracking tire tracks that plunged toward the dam’s service tunnel. She shone her flashlight on fresh scuff marks along the tunnel walls. Heart pounding, she crept ahead until she heard a muffled voice.
“Detective… over here.”
Benjamin emerged from the shadows, bruised but alive, clutching the dam’s blueprints.
“They wanted me to falsify the safety report,”
He whispered.
“When I refused, they locked me up.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed as headlights flared above ground—masked men were coming back. Benjamin was by her side. She retraced her steps. She used the winding tunnel to slip past the guard trucks waiting at the entrance.
When they burst into the open, Clara raised her badge like a beacon.
“State Police—step away from the dam!”
Her command sent the conspirators scattering into the trees. Moments later, sirens rang in the distance—backup arrived earlier to secure the scene. In the stillness that followed, Clara handed Benjamin his blueprints.
“Now the town knows the truth,”
She said. As the first light of dawn filtered through the pines, Pine Hollow exhaled, its secrets finally laid to rest.
The collective sigh of relief was relatable as Detective Vale boarded the morning bus, ready for whatever mystery came next.
Life with Otis: The Rascal Dog’s Adventures
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
1–2 minutes
Otis the Rascal
Our dog Otis is a handful—and that’s putting it mildly. He’s been part of our lives for over eight months now, and frankly, he has us wrapped around his paw. That’s how I see it, anyway.
Each morning, I dig into news articles. Meanwhile, Otis curls up on my lap. He looks like the innocent angel he most definitely is not. Don’t be fooled by the calm exterior—he’s always on high alert. He knows the sounds of the mail truck, the delivery van, and anything that dare to approach our house. With every rumble outside, he barks thunderously. He is desperate to storm the front lines. If only that pesky screened door weren’t in his way.
A simple knock on the door transforms Otis into a spinning, barking whirlwind. Imagine a Tasmanian devil with a bark louder than his bite (but don’t tell him that). He’s so protective that we often must hold him back when company arrives. Sometimes, he gets so worked up. He earns a timeout in his kennel. There, he huffs in protest like a disgruntled dragon.
Sunday was a special day—Otis got to join us for a visit with friends, one of his all-time favorite activities. He made nice with their dog, at least at first. But soon, his sly, bullish side took over. He snatched the ball and refused to return it, parading it like a trophy, asserting his love for socializing.
After a long day of play, Otis stayed awake the entire ride home, refusing to miss a moment. He joined us for some late-night TV, eyes heavy but stubbornly open. When bedtime finally arrived, he collapsed into a deep sleep filled with dreams. He was chasing tennis balls. He also was reliving his glorious day of dominance and friendship. I like to think he also dreamed of the day he outsmarted the mail truck.
How Mother’s Day Became a Global Celebration
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
The Forgotten Fight Behind Mother’s Day
Information for this report provided through ChatGPT
Every year, in nearly every corner of the world, people buy flowers. They write cards and call their mothers to say “thank you.” But few know that Mother’s Day wasn’t always a celebration of brunches and bouquets. It began with a fight. It wasn’t with fists or fire, but with letters and marches. It involved the relentless will of one determined daughter.
The story starts in the United States in the late 1800s. It begins just after a brutal civil war tore the country apart. Ann Reeves Jarvis lived in a small town in West Virginia. She was a mother who believed that motherhood was more than just raising children. It was about strengthening communities. She organized “Mother’s Work Clubs” to teach women how to care for their families and treat illness. During the war, she crossed enemy lines to care for wounded soldiers. Being a mother meant healing, even in a time of hate for her.
When Ann died in 1905, her daughter Anna Jarvis was devastated. But in her grief, she found purpose. Anna believed that mothers—their love, their sacrifices, their invisible labor—deserved to be honored privately and publicly. She envisioned a day when everyone would pause to recognize the power of a mother’s influence.
In 1908, Anna held the first official Mother’s Day in her mother’s church. She sent 500 white carnations—her mother’s favorite flower—for the guests. But that was just the beginning. Anna wrote thousands of letters to politicians and ministers, urging them to create a holiday for mothers. She battled for six years until 1914 when the U.S. president made it official: the second Sunday of May would be known as Mother’s Day.
The idea spread across borders and oceans, and countries worldwide adopted it—each adapting it in their way. In Thailand, it aligns with the queen’s birthday. In Ethiopia, it’s celebrated with a family feast. But at its heart, it remains the same: a day to honor the women who shape our lives.
Ironically, Anna later grew furious at how commercialized Mother’s Day had become—filled with store-bought gifts rather than heartfelt thanks. But she couldn’t even stop its global march. The world had embraced the idea, and the spirit of that first small ceremony had taken root.
The next time you give your mother a flower or a call, remember. This day began not with marketing. It also did not start with tradition. It started with one woman’s vow to never let the world forget what mothers truly do.
Lost in the Forest: A Night of Mystery
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
The Night Hunt
It was a night like any other in the deep woods outside Willow Creek. Forty years ago—give or take—a man and his dog set off for one of their usual late-night hunts. The man, grizzled and silent, kissed his wife on the forehead and muttered something about a long run. She barely looked up from her sewing. She was accustomed to his absences. He needed to run beneath the moonlight with only a rifle and his hound for company. She didn’t ask where he went. He never said.
The forest swallowed them quickly. Trees leaned in like eavesdropping strangers, and the undergrowth whispered beneath their boots and paws. The dog was a wiry black mutt with a white streak down its spine. It caught the scent of something just beyond the bend. It bolted. The man, cursing but grinning, gave chase.
They ran deeper and deeper into the overgrown trail for what felt like miles until the land suddenly disappeared.
The dog reached the edge of the cliff first. It barked, wild and electric, then dove headlong into the dark.
The man reached the edge just in time to see nothing at all. No bark. No rustle. There is just silence and blackness below. Without hesitation—without fear—he followed.
And that’s where the story ends, at least in the world we know.
The man awoke beside his dog in another place—somewhere between dream and fog. The stars above were fixed in unfamiliar constellations, and the air hummed with a silence too perfect to be real. He stood, brushed off dust that wasn’t dust, and called out.
No echo returned.
For years—or was it minutes?—he and the dog wandered this pale mirror of the forest they once knew. Sometimes, they saw flickers of their old lives. His wife was crying at the hearth. His brother was digging through the old footlocker for the will. But they couldn’t speak, they couldn’t reach, they only watched.
The man no longer aged. The dog’s coat remained pristine. Together, they waited—for what, neither capable of saying.
Then, one night, they heard something rustling through the brush ahead. They walked a trail that hadn’t been there before. The dog tensed. The man raised his hand. A shape moved—slowly, purposefully.
It was another hunter. Rifle slung over his shoulder. Dog at his side. Eyes vacant. He looked familiar.
The man called out. The hunter looked through him, then walked past.
The dog growled, uneasy.
And from the darkness behind them, a second pair of footsteps began to follow. They had found the lost forest of hunters who had died without a place to go.
The Memory Game: A Humorous Tale of Aging
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–4 minutes
“The Memory Game”
Earl and Edna had been married for fifty-two years. In those five decades, they had developed a comfortable rhythm, like an old song they both knew by heart. Lately, the lyrics were getting harder to remember.
It all started on a Tuesday morning when Earl stood in the living room, scratching his head.
“Edna,”
He called,
“have you seen my glasses?”
“They’re on your head, Earl,”
Edna replied from the kitchen, her voice tinged with amusement.
Earl patted his scalp and chuckled.
“Well, I’ll be. Guess I’ve been wearing ‘em this whole time.”
But later that day, Edna forgot to turn off the iron. This left a suspicious scorch mark on Earl’s good slacks. That evening, Earl nearly brushed his teeth with muscle ointment. The next morning, Edna scheduled a doctor’s appointment—for both of them.
At Dr. Preston’s office, they sat side by side, holding hands, looking like two nervous schoolchildren awaiting their report cards.
“Doctor,”
Edna began,
“we’re both starting to forget things. Little things, mostly, but…”
Dr. Preston smiled kindly.
“That’s perfectly normal as we get older. One strategy that helps is to write things down. Keep a notepad handy, leave little notes where you’ll see them. It makes a world of difference.”
Earl snorted.
“Write things down? My memory’s just fine. It’s Edna’s that needs the fixing.”
Dr. Preston gave them both a knowing look.
“Just try it. You’ll thank me.”
When they got home, Edna felt a nap coming on and settled into her recliner with a cozy blanket. Earl switched on the TV, flipping channels, landing on a baseball game he wasn’t really watching.
After a while, Edna sat up.
“Earl, dear, would you go to the kitchen and get me a dish of ice cream?”
Earl muted the TV.
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“And write it down, so you don’t forget.”
Earl waved her off.
“Nonsense, Edna. It’s a dish of ice cream. I’ve got it.”
“But I’d like strawberries on it too,”
She added.
“And whipped cream.”
Earl tapped his temple confidently.
“Ice cream, strawberries, whipped cream. No problem.”
Edna gave him a skeptical look.
“You sure you don’t want to write it down?”
Earl shook his head and marched into the kitchen.
For the next fifteen minutes, Edna listened as pots clanged. Cabinet doors creaked. The microwave beeped, and something—was that the blender?—whirred loudly.
Finally, Earl returned, triumphant, a plate in his hands.
“Here you go!”
He declared, setting the plate on her lap.
Edna stared at the plate. Bacon. Eggs. A sprig of parsley.
She looked up at him with an exasperated sigh.
“Earl, where’s the toast I asked for?”
Earl blinked, confused.
“Toast?”
Edna shook her head, laughing despite herself.
“Looks like we’re both making notes from now on.”
Earl sat down beside her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Maybe we should just order takeout.”
And together, they chuckled, holding hands, as the baseball game played softly in the background.
After a moment, Earl squinted at the screen.
“Edna… do you know who’s winning? I can’t tell.”
Edna grinned slyly.
“That’s because, Earl… you’re on first base.”
Earl frowned.
“I’m on first base?”
“No, no,”
Edna said, shaking her head with mock seriousness,
“Who’s on first.”
Earl’s eyes widened.
“Who’s on first?”
Edna corrected, her eyes twinkling.
“No, Who’s on third,”
They both burst out laughing. They cackled until they were wiping tears from their eyes. The baseball game was long forgotten. Their memories were momentarily lost, but their joy was perfectly intact.
Challenges and Resilience in the LGBTQI+ Community Today –– Beyond PRIDE With A New Pope!
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
5–7 minutes
Navigating the Crossroads: Challenges and Resilience in the LGBTQI+ Community
In recent years, the LGBTQI+ community has observed both significant strides toward equality and alarming setbacks that threaten these advancements. As societal acceptance grows in some areas, legislative and social challenges persist, underscoring the need for continued advocacy and awareness.
Mental Health: A Silent Crisis
Mental health disparities continue to be a critical issue within the LGBTQI+ community. According to The Trevor Project’s 2024 National Survey, 39% of LGBTQ+ youth seriously considered attempting suicide in the past year. The rates rise to 46% among transgender and nonbinary youth. Factors contributing to this crisis include discrimination, lack of access to affirming care, and societal stigma. (1)
Intersex youth face even more pronounced challenges. A study highlighted troubling findings about intersex respondents. It showed that 77% had someone try to change their sexuality or gender identity. Over 10% had undergone conversion therapy. (2)
Healthcare Access: Barriers and Disparities
Access to quality healthcare is a fundamental right, yet many LGBTQI+ individuals face significant obstacles. The Center for American Progress reported that in 2024, 45% of transgender adults postponed medical care due to affordability issues. Additionally, 60% of intersex adults faced the same issue. Additionally, 37% of transgender adults avoided seeking care out of fear of discrimination. (3)
The political landscape further complicates access to necessary care. A survey by FOLX Health revealed that 90% of trans and nonbinary Americans feared the 2024 presidential election. They were concerned it would negatively impact their healthcare access. Notably, 20% had already lost access due to anti-LGBTQ policies. (4)
Legislative Challenges: A Double-Edged Sword
Legislation plays a pivotal role in shaping the experiences of LGBTQI+ individuals. In 2024, nearly 500 anti-LGBTQ+ bills were proposed across the United States, with 46 enacted into law. These laws have had profound effects, with over 70% of LGBTQ+ adults reporting negative impacts on their mental health.
Conversely, there have been positive legislative developments. Thirty-seven pro-equality bills were signed into law, focusing on areas like parenting rights and health and safety. (5)
Community Initiatives: Resilience and Support
Amid these challenges, community-led initiatives have emerged as beacons of hope. In Connecticut, drag performances educate on health and suicide prevention. They create inclusive spaces for dialogue and support. (6)
The introduction of the Pride in Mental Health Act aims to bolster mental health resources for LGBTQ+ youth. It recognizes the unique challenges they face. The act highlights the importance of affirming care. (7)
Conclusion: A Call to Action
The LGBTQI+ community continues to navigate a complex landscape of progress and adversity. While strides have been made in visibility and rights, significant work remains. We need to guarantee fair access to healthcare. Protection under the law is also necessary. Furthermore, societal acceptance must be achieved.
Allies, policymakers, and community members must advocate for inclusive policies. They should support mental health initiatives. It’s essential to foster environments where LGBTQI+ individuals can thrive without fear of discrimination or harm.
Recent Developments Impacting the LGBTQI+ Community
Posted by Movie and Television Show Writer and Actor Del Shores on Facebook –
LGBTQ+ Rights Under Attack in 2025 — And the Fight Continues! But we, as a community, stand firm and resilient.
I posted it many years ago before we could legally marry someone we loved. Before United States v. Windsor struck down DOMA in 2013, and before Obergefell v. Hodges in 2015, we finally gave our love full legal recognition nationwide.
And it became one of the most shared things I’ve ever posted.
WHERE WE ARE NOW, 2025!
2025 has seen an alarming surge in anti-LGBTQ+ bills, with over 500 introduced in the U.S. alone.
Over 774 are specifically anti-trans, and 700 of those are still active.
Texas leads the charge with 127 of these hate-fueled bills.
Many of these bills are pushed by the GOP, wrapped in the Bible, and weaponized with false righteousness. It’s the same tactic — just a different year with more hateful rhetoric than ever.
When I wrote “Southern Baptist Sissies” in 2000. I dreamed it would one day feel like a period piece — a snapshot of a fight we’d won. And yet, in 2025, my character Mark’s words still guide me as I fight for and with my LGBTQ+ family and our beautiful allies:
“Sometimes I close my eyes, and I create a perfect world. A world of acceptance and understanding and love. A world where there’s hope. Even if the hope is just whispered, I hear it.”
To the trans community: we see you, love you, and stand with you in unwavering solidarity.
To the so-called Christians using the Bible to harm: you’re using it wrong.
Romans 13:10 — “Love does not harm its neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfillment of the law.”
Let’s love louder, let’s love more, and let’s love without boundaries.
Let’s keep whispering — and shouting — that hope.
“Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God because. God is love.” 1 John 4: 7-8.
#ProtectTransKids #LGBTQHistory#SouthernBaptistSissies#HopeIsARevolution#TransRightsAreHumanRights#FaithNotFear
A NEW POPE
The election of Pope Leo XIV—formerly Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost—marks a historic moment. He becomes the first American to lead the Catholic Church. His choice follows the death of Pope Francis. Pope Francis was noted for his progressive stances on social issues. These included LGBTQ+ inclusion .(1)
Implications for the LGBTQI Community
Pope Leo XIV’s past statements suggest a more conservative approach to LGBTQ+ issues compared to his predecessor. In 2012, he expressed concern about popular culture. He believed it was fostering “sympathy for beliefs and practices that are at odds with the Gospel.” He specifically cited the “homosexual lifestyle” and “alternative families comprised of same-sex partners and their adopted children.” He has opposed the inclusion of teachings on gender in schools. He describes the promotion of gender ideology as confusing. (2)
Pope Leo XIV has not publicly addressed LGBTQ+ issues since his election. His earlier positions show a potential shift from the more inclusive tone set by Pope Francis. Pope Francis had endorsed civil unions for same-sex couples. He also allowed blessings for same-sex unions. This signaled a more welcoming approach. (3)
Awaiting Future Developments
As Pope Leo XIV begins his papacy, the global Catholic community will be observing his leadership closely. This includes LGBTQ+ members. They will watch how it will shape the Church’s stance on inclusion and diversity. His actions in the coming months will offer clearer insights. His statements will reveal the direction he intends to take on these critical issues.
Sources – References:
Senator Ed Markey. CT Insider HRC+1HRC+1 Axios+2Center for American Progress+2KUNC+2HRC+6Teen Vogue+6The Trevor Project+6. Center for American Progress. euronewsThem+1Center for American Progress+1. The Trevor Project+4American Art Therapy Association+4Brittany Bate+4.
Secrets of The Back Side Fishing Spot
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
It was a humid summer evening. The air clung to your skin. The world glowed gold in the last light of day. My friend Bub and I stood at the edge of the old creek, just downstream from the dam. The concrete wall loomed behind us. Its spillway trickled like a broken faucet, feeding the deep pool below. The water turned slow and murky there. This was our favorite spot, a secret place we called “The Backside.”
Bub handed me a bank pole he’d rigged himself. It was a sturdy sapling shaved smooth. A heavy line was tied at the end. A fat hook was baited with a chunk of cut shad. We drove it into the muddy bank. We angled it over the swirling water. We tied it off with an extra rope to a thick root jutting out of the ground. Across the creek, Bub set another pole, whistling as he worked, his boots sinking deep into the silt.
We settled onto the bank, backs against the grass, watching the poles bend and sway with the current. The sounds of the night crept in: frogs croaking, cicadas humming, the occasional splash of a carp rolling. Somewhere distant, a train rumbled across the trestle.
“Think they’ll bite tonight?”
Bub asked, tossing a pebble into the water.
“They always do back here,”
I said, grinning.
“Big ones like the deep pool. They come up from the river, get trapped behind the dam.”
We waited in comfortable silence. Just as the moon began to rise, one of the poles gave a sudden, violent lurch.
“There!”
Bub shouted, scrambling to his feet.
I grabbed the pole, feeling the weight and fight of something strong on the other end. The bank pole bent double, creaking against the strain. Bub rushed over to steady the base. I worked the line by hand. I pulled and gave slack as the fish surged beneath the surface. The water boiled and flashed, silver scales catching the moonlight.
“It’s a big one!”
I gasped.
Together we fought it, step by muddy step. At last, Bub plunged his hand into the water. He grabbed the fish just behind the gills, hauling it onto the bank. It was a channel cat, fat and whiskered, easily ten pounds. We stood over it, grinning like fools, watching it thrash in the mud.
“Told you they always bite back here,”
I said.
Bub laughed and clapped me on the back.
“Best pole fishing spot in the county.”
We reset the pole. We rinsed our hands in the creek. Then, we sat back down under the stars. The dam hummed softly behind us. We didn’t talk much after that. We didn’t need to. The night surrounded us. The water flowed gently. The old dam spoke for us. They weaved our friendship into the quiet rhythm of the creek, one fish at a time.
Inside the Attic: Capturing a Dangerous Fugitive
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
Early in my law enforcement career, I rode with some of the best in the business. These included David “Booty” Ware, Bruce Poolaw, Junior Toehay, Don Gabbard, and Buttin Williams. All were Native American except for Gabbard, a character in his own right.
By the time I was 19, I had experienced more than most people do in a lifetime. I was just getting started.
One day, nearly every law enforcement officer in the county joined a search. They were looking for a man named Virgil Bass. He had a felony warrant and was considered dangerous. Virgil had vowed he wouldn’t go to jail without a fight. If anyone tried to arrest him, he’d either kill them or die trying.
We started early that morning, sweeping from one end of the county to another. By evening, we reached Virgil’s parents’ house on the county’s west side. We surrounded the place, each of us watching for any sign of an escape.
Bruce and I approached the door and stepped inside. His parents claimed they hadn’t seen him, but they kept glancing up at the ceiling.
Bruce, all 6’6″ of him, said firmly,
“We need to check everywhere.”
We made a show of slamming doors, stomping around, acting like we’d searched every corner. Then we got to the attic.
Bruce looked at me.
“You’re the only one who’ll fit up there. I’ll give you a boost.”
Before I knew it, my head was poking through the attic opening. It was pitch black. I called down,
“I need a flashlight!”
I was half-expecting a two-by-four to come crashing down on me—or worse. If Virgil was up there, he saw me silhouetted by the light from below.
Bruce handed me his flashlight. I pulled myself up until my arms were entirely inside the attic and swept the beam around. The attic was filled with fluffy pink insulation. One spot was different. A trail led from the opening to a lumpy insulation patch. About five feet away, the insulation looked disturbed.
I looked down at Bruce.
“I need a poker iron.”
I heard Bruce ask the family if they had one, and he handed it to me within seconds. I jabbed the iron into the lump, then thought better of it and started whacking the hell out of it.
Suddenly, there was yelling and cursing, and Virgil burst out of the insulation.
“Stop it! Stop it! I give up!”
he hollered.
I ordered him to follow me down, and once he was out, we cuffed him. We took him outside to Booty’s patrol car. Booty looked at the lump rising over Virgil’s eye. He asked,
“How’d that happen?”
I shrugged.
“He fell on a poker iron.”
The whole crew burst out laughing. After all, it’s easy to fall on a poker iron. This is especially true when hiding in an attic after threatening to die before going to jail.
The Day a House Fell: A Family Tale of Humor and Chaos
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
3–4 minutes
The Day a House Fell on My Mother’s Head
When we first moved to the farm, my father bartered for just about everything. It was the 1960s. He had a wife and six kids. My young uncle, who felt more like an older brother, was also part of the family. He had plenty of mouths to feed. There were also many projects to tackle.
One of his deals involved tearing down an old house on a neighbor’s property in exchange for the lumber. It wasn’t a one-man job—my three older brothers, my uncle, and even my mother had to pitch in. My two sisters and I were assigned a very important task: holding down the tailgate of the pickup truck.
We were told in no uncertain terms to stay put. We knew exactly what that meant. From our perch on the tailgate, we watched as our dad and brothers clambered across the roof, tossing down boards. My mother hustled to pick them up, stacking them onto a flatbed trailer and into another old truck.
I still don’t know exactly why my mother did what she did next. Maybe she wanted to check on us; maybe she wanted to warn us again. But as boards kept flying off the house, she walked around to where we sat—into what my dad had firmly declared “the danger zone”—and yelled:
“You three stay away from here, or you’ll get hit in the head with a board with a rusty nail!”
And no sooner had the words left her mouth than—WHACK! A board sailed down and smacked her right on the head. Of course, it had a rusty nail. Of course, she screamed. And of course, all three of us screamed right along with her.
Almost instantly, my dad’s head popped up over the roof’s edge.
“What the hell are y’all screaming about?”
We all shouted at once:
“Mama’s bleeding! A board hit Mama in the head! There’s a nail in her head!”
My dad scrambled down the ladder, muttering adult words under his breath.
“Shit. Goddammit, Marge, why the hell were you standing where we told the kids not to go?”
My mother, ever unflappable, shot back:
“You threw that board at me on purpose!”
He glared at her.
“Dammit, I didn’t even know where you were. Kids, get off the tailgate and sit on that log. I gotta take your mother into town.”
They drove off toward Doc’s office, leaving my brothers to finish tearing down the house and loading up the wood. The sun set. The old trucks were filled. My brothers piled us into the pickup. They drove the mile and a half back home.
When we pulled into the yard, our parents were just arriving. My dad helped my mom out of the truck and told us she was fine—just a scratch, he said. Doc had cleaned her up, given her a tetanus shot, and sent her home with something “to relax her.”
Naturally, we kids had to see the wound for ourselves. It didn’t look like much—just a small cut hidden in her hair, surrounded by a bruise. Not exactly a house falling on someone’s head. But it had bled plenty, enough to scare us all.
That night, we sat around eating a casserole that had baked while we were gone, everything back to normal. Or so it seemed.
Later, as my mom recounted what happened, the story took on a life of its own. Over the years, at family gatherings and on phone calls, we’d hear her say,
“Well, you know, the day that house fell on my head…”
In the background, my dad’s familiar sigh would follow:
“Dammit, Marge. It was just a board. And it wouldn’t have hit you if you’d stayed where I told the kids not to go.”
But she never wavered. Even now, at 95, if you ask her, she’ll tell you straight:
“A house fell on my head.”