Morning Coffee: Standing on a Corner –

It Was A Long, Long Time Ago. In A Land Far Away!

October 05, 2026

Good morning, folks.

What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?
I received this story suggestion while I was doodling, and it brought to mind a memory…

To tell this story, I have to rewind to my early days of adulthood, when I was continuing my education and my roommates were contributing generously to my spontaneity.

One night, while we were sitting around entertaining ourselves, somebody issued a challenge: Go stand on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.

Vintage pickup driving through a desert crossroads beneath weathered signs — _{^{The stop signs were posted across the street in this one town.}}.

My buddy and I decided we had to go right then, dressed as we were. I had on shorts and a tank top. He had on jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. My pickup would provide the transportation. Planning would have to catch up with us somewhere along the road.

We left the south side of Oklahoma City at three in the morning. By six, we had reached the Texas state line. We kept stopping for things we had forgotten, and by noon we had made it to Amarillo. With speed limits around 55 miles an hour, the journey was giving us plenty of time to reconsider our decision.

Somewhere west of Amarillo, we pulled over and fell asleep. Four or maybe six hours later, we woke up and continued our mission.

At the New Mexico state line, a brightly lit welcome to the Land of Enchantment appeared ahead of us. Coming west across that wide stretch of country, it was something to behold. From a distance, I thought we might have to stop and check in. As we got closer, I discovered we could enter freely. Later, I learned we could leave freely, too, provided neither of us got arrested.

By the time we reached Albuquerque, it was rush hour. I remember feeling strangely lonely. I could change lanes without anybody honking at me.

West of the city, the road grew dark again. We made plenty of pit stops along the way. Out in those wide stretches of desert, we also spotted what looked like promising sites for a little roadside golf. Fortunately, we had forgotten the clubs along with nearly everything else.

In Arizona, we stopped at a store with a big totem out front and a Texaco sign. We had one credit card between us, so we charged every supply we thought we might need, packed the pickup, and headed for Winslow.

Finally, we saw the exit.

We found a corner with a little sign telling us we had reached the place. We parked, stepped out of the truck—I want to be clear that we did not hop out—and walked over. We tried to look like two men who stood on corners in Arizona all the time.

Then we sang about standing on a corner in Winslow.

As if on cue, a woman in a flatbed truck drove past, heading west. She did not slow down. She did not look at us. Apparently, the song had oversold that part.

We had traveled so far that we needed proof before we went home. I pulled into a nearby motel and asked for directions to the interstate, though I already knew where it was. I came away with a business card and a book of matches.

You’d have to go there to get those, I reasoned.

On the return trip, my right front headlight went out just as we approached a trooper waiting in the median. He listened to the story of our mission, watched me give the bumper a kick, and saw the headlight come back on. We laughed, and he sent us on our way.

We seemed to make better time heading home. I suggested we must have a tailwind and somehow be traveling in the jet stream. My buddy accepted that explanation without question.

Come to think of it, I’ve barely mentioned him in this story. I reached over once to make sure he was warm. He was. He also appeared to be breathing and moving, both encouraging signs.

A silent partner can be the best kind of traveling companion.

Especially when you’re driving hundreds of miles to stand on a corner and discover the girl in the flatbed truck has other plans.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

A Missed Call

It was January 28th, 1986. Tim was driving to an appointment, his car weaving through fifty miles of winding highways. The radio crackled with the morning news. The Space Shuttle Challenger was set to launch, carrying the first civilian teacher into space.

As the announcer spoke, a sudden, vivid image flashed in Tim’s mind—an explosion, fiery and bright. He gripped the wheel tighter. Then, just as quickly, the vision faded.

This wasn’t the first time. During his years in law enforcement, Tim had experienced moments like this—flashes of insight, warnings he couldn’t explain. Colleagues had asked how he knew things before they happened. He’d only ever shrugged and said, “I’ve got a sixth sense, I guess.”

A commercial break interrupted the news. Tim leaned back, letting the hum of ads drown out the unease rising in his chest. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. There are engineers, scientists—people much smarter than me working on this. Who am I to question it?

Then the news returned, live coverage from Cape Canaveral. As the launch countdown continued, Tim felt it again. A deep, cold shiver passed across his neck. Then he envisioned the same haunting image of destruction.

He reached for the dashboard, then pulled his hand back. Should I call? he wondered. Would they even listen? The idea of calling NASA felt absurd. What would I say? he thought. That I had a feeling?

No one would believe him. He’d be laughed off the line—or worse. He pictured himself in a hospital gown, locked behind heavy doors for making prank calls to a national space agency.

So he drove on.

At the appointment, Tim entered the lobby and stepped up to the front desk. Just as he began to sign in, a man burst from his office, wide-eyed.

“You won’t believe what just happened!”

He turned on the TV. On the screen, the Space Shuttle Challenger rose into the sky—and then disintegrated in a plume of smoke and fire.

Gasps filled the room.

Tim stood frozen. The weight hit him all at once. Not just the horror of what had happened but also the hollow ache remained. He knew he had seen it coming… and done nothing.

In the days that followed, he replayed it again and again. The moment he didn’t call. The chance he didn’t take. The voice he silenced.

If he had picked up that phone, maybe nothing would’ve changed. Or maybe someone would’ve listened. Maybe someone smarter than him would’ve paused for just a second. He would never know.