By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
I have many stories about growing up. Sometimes, I wonder how I fit everything I did into the years leading to where I am now. As a young teen, I always felt my family was boring. We never seemed to do anything special. But when I share our family stories today, people tell me they spark their forgotten memories. They bring back moments they thought were lost.
One such story involves our neighbors, Bill and his wife, Marie. They rescued every stray dog they found and invited each one into their growing pack.
I first met Bill while riding my bike home from a friend’s house. He had stopped his car to get the mail from his old roadside mailbox. I couldn’t help but stop and say hello. I asked him where he lived. He pointed across the road toward a distant antenna. It stood tall above the trees. “Right under that antenna,” he said with a smile. I had watched that antenna for years. It was massive. It perched on rotating poles to turn the shortwave and CB radio antennas in any direction he wanted. Seeing my interest, Bill invited me to visit the next day—but told me to check with my parents first.
I didn’t know it then, but Bill had been instrumental in bringing electricity to our area through a rural cooperative. He’d helped light up countless homes across several counties. My parents permitted me to visit but warned me not to overstay my welcome.
The next day after school, I finished my chores and pedaled toward Bill and Marie’s. As I left the paved road and turned onto the dirt path, barking erupted. A pack of dogs rushed to greet me, but they wagged their tails instead of attacking and licked my hands. It was like I was the first human they’d seen in years. They crowded around me, gently herding me up the porch steps. I reached for the doorbell, but before pressing it, the dogs nudged me ahead, practically carrying me into the house.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
I called out.
Marie’s sweet voice answered from the kitchen,
“I bet you’re JD’s boy. Bill told me you’d be stopping by. He’ll be out in a minute—say hello to the family.”
She gestured toward the dogs as she named them individually, expecting me to remember each name. There had to be twenty dogs in that living room alone. As I looked around, another thought puzzled me: how did she know I was my dad’s son? I hadn’t even introduced myself yet.
A moment later, Bill entered, smoking his pipe, followed by four more dogs circling his legs. He shook my hand warmly and led me into his den, where I would spend hours learning from him. Bill introduced me to the world of shortwave radio and explained how to get a license. He even lent me a Morse code training record to help me prepare for the exam.
But radios were just the beginning. Bill showed me his greenhouse, where he taught me how starting seedlings early gives a head start in spring. One day, he took me to another outbuilding—a woodworking shop filled with the scent of freshly cut lumber. There, he showed me how he crafted furniture and home goods, staining and treating each piece with care.
When I was almost sixteen, Bill revealed yet another surprise: a mechanic’s shop hidden behind his house. Inside sat an old Datsun pickup.
“I haven’t driven it in years,”
Bill admitted,
“but it’s still here.”
I could feel the gears turning in my head. I was about to get my driver’s license, and that old truck looked like the perfect first car. Before I said anything, I knew I had to check with my dad.
When I asked, my dad said,
“We can look at it.”
To me, that was a yes.
The next day, I returned to Bill’s and asked if he might be interested in selling the truck.
Bill chuckled.
“I never thought about selling it—but if the price is right, maybe.”
“I’ll need a car when I get my license,”
I told him.
“And my dad said we could take a look.”
“Bring your dad down,”
Bill grinned,
“and we’ll talk.”
Dad and I stood in Bill’s mechanic shop a week later, looking over the Datsun. Bill puffed his pipe thoughtfully.
“It ran fine when I parked it. Might go ten miles, might go another hundred thousand. Hard to say with an old truck.”
He smiled at Dad.
“You know how it is with cars.”
Then Bill turned to me.
“I’ll talk price with the boy. You’re too good a horse trader for me to haggle with.”
My dad laughed.
“You know what you’ve got in your savings,”
he told me.
“Don’t spend more than that—and don’t forget tax, title, and insurance.”
At that moment, I felt the weight of adulthood settling on my shoulders. I bartered with Bill for ten minutes, careful with every dollar. Later, I discovered an interesting fact about Bill and my dad. They had been late-night radio buddies for years. They even arranged for a state newspaper courier to toss them papers at a secret highway drop each morning.
I kept visiting Bill and Marie for years. As I grew older, I began to understand Marie’s quiet burdens. They were things I wish I’d been capable of helping with then. I only understood them now, knowing what I know. Bill and his beloved dogs carried on their calm, legendary life on the edge of town.
No one else ever visited them—not like I did. And sometimes, I wonder if that had been the plan all along.
Bill and Marie passed away in the 1990s. Per their wishes, their property was sold to help the local community center. Their home, once full of vibrant life with voices, radio signals, and loyal dogs, became part of something greater. It was destined to be that way.
Every time I turn on a radio, I still feel them with me. When I smell fresh-cut wood or see an old pickup truck, I also think of them. Their stories live on—in mine.
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