The Day the Johnson’s Mimic Bird Flew the Coop And Flew Throughout Johnson City, Kansas

3–4 minutes

The Day the Mimic Bird Flew the Coop

Earl and Mabel Thompson were a quiet couple in their seventies. They lived on Maple Street in a small white house with blue shutters. Most evenings were spent watching the news or sipping tea on the porch. Their pride and joy, though, wasn’t a grandchild or a garden, but a bird—a rare mime bird. Unlike parrots, which repeated words, this bird can mimic voices perfectly. You’d swear the real person was in the room.

They named him Charlie.

One summer morning, Mabel was dusting the birdcage. Earl was fumbling with the Sunday crossword. Charlie spotted the cage door ajar. With a gleeful flap, he darted out the window and into the open sky. Earl dropped his pencil. “Mabel, the bird’s loose!”

But by then, Charlie was already over Johnson City, Kansas Main Street, testing his repertoire of voices.


Trouble Takes Flight

Charlie’s first stop was the Jenkins’ house. Hovering outside the kitchen window, he called out in Mr. Jenkins’ voice:


“Darlin’, I burned the roast again!”

Mrs. Jenkins stormed into the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon, ready for a fight. Poor Mr. Jenkins had been quietly napping in his recliner. He nearly fell over when she accused him of ruining dinner. He hadn’t even touched it.

From there, Charlie zipped down to O’Malley’s Bar. Perched on the ceiling fan, he crooned in half a dozen voices: “Put that on my tab!” “You call that a drink?” and, worst of all, in the barkeep’s own gruff tone: “Next round’s free, boys!” Chaos erupted as patrons demanded their “free round,” and fists began flying before anyone realized the voice was coming from above.


Civic Mischief

Not content with bars and kitchens, Charlie wheeled into the Johnson City police station. He perched outside the dispatcher’s window. He barked in Officer Daniels’ exact voice:
“Unit 12, urgent back-up on Fifth and Main!”

Three patrol cars roared away with sirens blaring. The station was left in confusion. The real Officer Daniels walked out of the bathroom holding a sandwich. One County Unit, A State Patrol Car and the city’s only other active patrol unit.

Later that same afternoon, Charlie wandered into Johnson City’s Hospital. There, using a spot-on imitation of the head doctor, he announced over the intercom:


“Paging Dr. Howard, please report to Room 207. Emergency tonsil transplant, stat!”

Patients and nurses alike scrambled in a tizzy, while Dr. Howard was still in the cafeteria with a mouthful of Jell-O. He nearly joked. Squirming to get up his belly got wedged beneath the table and chair. A colleague that was with Doctor Howard, began laughing so hard he nearly passed out from the added action.

Charlie flew down to Johnson City John Deere. He landed in their parts department. There, he began calling out engine parts numbers from bin numbers. This drove the parts clerks absolutely crazy.


The Chase and the Capture

Word spread of a mysterious troublemaker around town. By that time, Earl and Mabel were chasing after Charlie with a birdcage. They called sweetly, “Here, Charlie! Come home, dear!”

The town’s patience was running thin, though most couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. Charlie was exhausted from a day of impersonations. Finally, he landed right back on Earl’s shoulder with a satisfied squawk:


“Well, that was fun!”

—in Earl’s exact voice.

Earl sighed, Mabel shook her head, and the crowd around them burst into laughter.


Aftermath

From that day on, Charlie’s cage was fitted with a brand-new lock. Earl swore it would never happen again.

Still, every now and then, when the wind blew just right across Maple Street, folks swore they heard Charlie. He was practicing a new trick. The voices varied—sometimes the mayor, sometimes the school principal—but the laughter it brought the town was always the same.


By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

Memories of My Grandmother and the Whippoorwill

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

2–3 minutes

My grandmother, whom I affectionately called Mom, often shared childhood memories filled with the enchanting call of the whippoorwill. She spoke of its song with reverence, describing it as a sound of pure beauty that she dearly missed. Her stories wove a special bond between us. They spanned the miles that separated our homes in Northeast Texas, Southwest Arkansas, and Southeast Oklahoma.


Nowhere else, she insisted, did the whippoorwill’s call sound as sweet.


I lived nearly forty miles east of her. It was on a farm where the evenings were alive with the calls of night birds. When Mom visited, I would take her on walks to the barns. We listened to the quail and other birds stirring in the brush.


“Mom, are those the whippoorwills you were talking about?”

I’d ask eagerly.


She would shake her head, smiling softly.

“No, that’s not them.”


Her answer certainly puzzled me. I knew the birds in our region. What I heard matched the description of a whippoorwill. At least, it did to my ears. Yet she remained firm. The sound she longed for existed only in the woods of her childhood, some two hundred miles away.


Mom passed away in April 1975, and with her, I thought, went the mystery of the whippoorwill. But fate had other plans.


Not long after, my parents decided we would take a trip. We went to visit my great-uncle Sam and great-aunt Dora. They lived in the very place where Mom had been born. I expected only a family visit. Yet, something remarkable happened as we settled onto my great-uncle’s front porch.


The evening air cooled as the sun dipped below the horizon. Towering trees stood like silent guardians, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. The Ouachita Mountains stretched beyond us, their shadows deepening as dusk settled in. And then, clear as a bell, I heard it.


“Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!”


The call rang through the crisp and melodic trees, carried by the mountains and forest floor acoustics. It was so rich and hauntingly beautiful, unlike anything I had ever heard.

At that moment, I understood.


I knew why Mom had never heard it quite the same anywhere else. Here, and only here, the whippoorwill’s call possessed a magic she had never been capable of finding again.
I have never heard it since.


But in that fleeting moment, I was surrounded by nature’s beauty. I heard the echoes of the whippoorwill’s song. I found peace. It was as if I had brought her wish full circle. I was hearing the sound she longed for. I was honoring her memory in a way that words never could.


And in that sound, I found her again.

Hear the sound in the video below.

Learn about the Whippoorwill here!

Loneliness and Connection: The Maple and the Crow

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

The Maple and the Crow

In the quiet corner of Oakridge Park stood an old maple tree. Its branches stretched wide, offering shade to picnickers in the summer and a golden glow in the fall. 

It had seen many seasons pass and many creatures come and go, yet it always felt lonely. It never had a friend to share its days with.

Then came the crow.

The bird arrived one blustery afternoon, perching on the maple’s lowest branch with a ruffled look. Its wing drooped slightly, and its usual subdued sharp claws.

“Shoo!” 

The tree whispered as the wind rustled through its leaves. It was not quite ready to accept this new presence in its life.

But the crow did not move.

Day after day, the crow lingered. 

Caw Caw!

It hopped from branch to branch, picking at the bark, watching the world below. It cawed at passing dogs and tilted its head at children chasing kites.

“Why are you still here?” 

The maple finally asked.

“Nowhere else to go,” the crow replied. Its voice carried a hint of resilience. The tree had never heard this before.

The crow replied.

For the first time, the tree understood what it meant to be lonely. The Maple had never considered this feeling before. The sun rose, the rain fell, and its roots dug deep. But watching the crow, it felt something new—a quiet companionship.

The maple began to enjoy the crow’s presence. It let its leaves shiver in the wind to make music for the bird. When the crow felt strong enough to fly, it still returned, perching in the same spot.

Seasons passed. The maple grew older, and its branches were not as strong as they once were. But the crow remained. It brought stories of faraway places. These places had mountains that touched the sky and rivers that sang in the moonlight.

And when winter came, and the tree stood bare, the crow nestled close against its trunk.

“I will stay,”

 The crow promised.

“I know,”

The maple replied.

And so they remained, an old tree and a watchful crow, an unlikely friendship rooted in time.

The Bird That Couldn’t Fly Forward. A Case For The NSA And NASA

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

The bird that couldn’t fly forward. A family of birds hatched in a tree on a busy street in Brooklyn, on a branch above Olive Avenue. The tree stretched out over the sidewalk, and Cindy and Chad, two twins inside a set of apartments, could see the birds as they hatched. They called the birds Larry, Harry, and Barry. After characters from a children’s program, they watched each day.

Larry and Harry had wings with feathers that reasonably matched one another, but Harry had one white feather on his left wing that set him apart. Barry had white feathers on both wings and a white feathered head. He could have similar makings of a bald eagle, only had he been larger. The two kids enjoyed watching the mother feed the birds and often would get upset at how Larry and Harry seemed to bully Barry—sometimes stealing food that the mother was feeding to give to the birds.

When the birds grew older, their mother began nudging them out of the nest to teach them to fly. They would plummet to the ground, only to be lifted by the mother and nudged out of the nest again until they began to flap their wings and fly. Larry and Harry flapped their wings and began to fly short distances, finding branches to land on and steadying their weight before the mother would unbalance them and make them fly further. Barry was a different story.

When nudged out of the nest, Barry flapped his wings in the wrong rotation; his feathers seemed to ruffle in the opposite direction, and he began to fly backward. The kids sat in the window and laughed at first, thinking the bird would stop this funny maneuver and change his movement to flying forward, but his backward flying motion intensified.

Barry appeared to have an inner radar that guided him around obstacles that would be in his way that other birds would typically use their eyesight. He managed to fly better than typical birds and became famous in the neighborhood. People took videos and photos of the backward-flying bird and posted them on the internet, and Barry, the Backward Flying Bird, became a Viral Sensation worldwide.

NASA, NSA, and the National Security Agency also began noticing. Is this bird some device planted by an adversary, or did someone utilize some secret plan that was supposed to remain hidden at NASA? How could an animal mysteriously fly around and go backward?

As Barry’s fame spread, his unique ability to fly backward attracted the attention of curious onlookers and influential organizations. The NSA and NASA couldn’t ignore the viral videos any longer. The agencies began to speculate that Barry might be a highly advanced drone or an experiment gone awry. Was he an alien probe sent to observe Earth? Or a covert government project that had somehow been released into the wild? They needed to find out—and fast.
Cindy and Chad noticed unmarked vans parked on their street and people in suits and dark glasses speaking into earpieces one bright morning. The twins immediately knew that Barry had drawn more attention than anticipated. They watched anxiously from their window as the agents set up strange equipment under the tree where Barry and his brothers had hatched.

“They’re going to take him away!”

Chad exclaimed, worried.

“We can’t let that happen,”

Cindy said with determination.

The twins, fueled by their determination and love for Barry, quickly devised a plan. They now knew Barry’s flight pattern by heart; they had spent countless hours watching him. They waited until the agents were distracted, then quietly slipped out of their apartment, sneaking up to the tree.

“Barry!”


Cindy whispered, holding out her hand. Amazingly, Barry recognized her voice and fluttered down, hovering just above her palm, still flying backward. Their bond was unbreakable, a testament to the power of friendship.
At that moment, one of the agents noticed them.

“Hey! Get away from that bird!”

He shouted, but it was too late. Cindy and Chad sprinted down the street with Barry flying backward above them, just out of reach.

The chase through Brooklyn was both thrilling and chaotic. Barry’s backward flight confused the agents, unsure how to capture a bird that never flew where they expected. Barry expertly navigated through alleyways, over fences, and even under bridges, always just one step—or flap—ahead.

Meanwhile, the twins led him toward a nearby park, hoping to find some refuge. As they ran, Chad had an idea.

“We need to get him to the highest point in the park,”

He said. He can use that to his advantage.

They raced to the top of a hill, where a tall statue stood. Barry, sensing what they wanted him to do, flew to the top of the statue and perched there, still facing backward. The agents surrounded the park, closing in on them, but something unexpected happened.

Barry began to spin in circles, faster and faster, like a small whirlwind. The wind picked up around him as he did, swirling the leaves and dust into a mini-tornado. The agents, caught off guard, were forced to step back.

“Look at him!”

Chad shouted, amazed.

Barry created a vortex of air, using his unique flying ability to generate a mighty wind that pushed the agents back. The twins realized that Barry’s backward flying wasn’t just a quirk but a gift. And now, it was saving them.

The wind grew stronger, and soon, the agents were struggling to stay on their feet. With a final burst of energy, Barry released the vortex, sending a wave of air that knocked the agents off balance and caused them to tumble down the hill. The twins cheered as Barry floated down, landing gently on Chad’s shoulder. It was a victory, a testament to the power of uniqueness and friendship.

By the time the agents recovered, it was clear they were outmatched. Barry wasn’t just any bird; he was unique and had proven it.

Realizing they couldn’t take him away, the agents called off their operation. Later, they approached the twins with respect, not threats.

“We were wrong about Barry,”

One of the agents admitted.

“He’s not a threat—he’s remarkable. We want to study him, but only if you agree.”

Cindy and Chad looked at each other, then at Barry, who was now perched between them.

“You can study him,”

Cindy said carefully,

“but only if he stays free. He’s not just a bird—he’s our friend.”

The agents agreed, and from that day on, Barry became a symbol of curiosity and wonder. Scientists from NASA and the NSA studied his flight patterns from afar, learning from him without interfering in his life. Barry, the Backward Flying Bird, became an even bigger sensation, hailed as a hero for saving the day in Brooklyn.

Cindy and Chad’s bravery was recognized, too. The twins were invited to NASA to meet with scientists and learn about aerodynamics, space, and more. Their friendship with Barry became the subject of documentaries, books, and even a children’s program that other kids watched and loved.

Ultimately, Barry continued to fly backward, defying all logic and expectation. And while he may have seemed like a small bird in a big city, to Cindy and Chad—and the world—he was nothing short of extraordinary.