Family

Understanding Loss: A Decade of Reflections

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

6–9 minutes
Reflections
Reflections On Every Ten Years

It started when I was around ten years old—I began seeing life in ten-year intervals. Every decade, I would take stock of where I was. I would think about where I am going. I would consider who was still with me and who was no longer there. Sometimes, life separates us through distance, sometimes through death.

In my first ten years, I had already experienced both. Friends I met in school came and went, their families moving away before we had time to build anything lasting. Loss was something my grandparents had gently prepared me for, though it didn’t soften the blow when it happened.

One of the first deaths I remember was a neighbor of theirs, a man named Tom. I often visited his house with my grandfather, sitting and listening as they talked. When he passed, I already knew before anyone told me. That morning, the hearse pulled up to his house after passing my grandparents’ place. I also knew my grandfather had spent the night with him, sitting in quiet vigil. Tom’s funeral was the first I ever attended.

Then there was Maynord, a clumsy old farmer with an Okie drawl and a stride to match. He was my dad’s friend, but I saw him as my best friend. His death hit me harder than I ever expected. One moment, he was there. He was laughing and rambling on as he always did. The next moment—gone—a heart attack took him suddenly and finally. I was only eight. I carried that weight for years, incapable of understanding how life takes people without warning.

By the time I turned ten, I thought I had braced myself for loss. I believed that nothing would catch me off guard again. But life has a way of proving us wrong.

At eleven, I came home from school one afternoon. I found my mother already there. This was unusual enough to make my stomach tighten. She called me outside. We stood together on the ledge in front of our house. She then broke the news. My grandmother had died suddenly that day. No warning. No time to prepare. Just gone.

I didn’t cry right away. Instead, my mind turned inward, searching for meaning in something so senseless. Was this some punishment? Had I done something wrong? Was God teaching me a lesson? And if so—what was it? It took years for me to understand that life doesn’t work that way. It happens and keeps happening, regardless of what we think or how ready we believe we are.

Over the next decade, I watched more family members slip away—some suddenly, others with the slow certainty of time. Friends moved and lives shifted. By the time I reached twenty, I had seen the past ten years as a lesson in endurance. I had learned what to hold onto and what to let go of.

But life doesn’t follow our plans. It unfolds in its way, teaching us not through intention but experience. And the next ten years would drive that lesson home in ways I never expected.

As a law enforcement officer, I would be called to homes where deaths had occurred. I had attended so many of these that the coroner trusted me. He allowed me to make the death declaration over the phone. Then, he signed the death certificate. I sat with family members until the body was removed from the home. I held grieving loved ones the best I was able. 

The hardest of these instances included the death of a 15-year-old disabled child. She depended on her parents for every facet of life. Feeding, being on a respirator, medications, cleaning, and moving about the home. They had been the life inside her, literally. She passed one morning as the mother was feeding her and couldn’t get the respirator back on quickly enough. The parents were wrecks when I arrived on the scene. It was the most emotional death scene I ever had to deal with. I called a police Chaplain to the scene because, quite frankly, it was beyond what I was equipped to handle. 

I discovered he was speechless and powerless to be of much use either. I sat with the parents and promised them it wasn’t their fault. That life goes when we don’t want it to. I couldn’t tell them about all my experiences, but I wanted them to know they were not alone. I left my calling card and asked them to call if they needed anything. I checked back in on them days later. It was no easier then. 

During my time as a police officer, I experienced the ultimate sacrifice twice. Two fellow officers were killed in the line of duty.

The first happened late one night during a robbery at a hotel on the city’s edge. The officer interrupted the thieves, but they overpowered him. One of the assailants shot him, and then—adding to the horror—they used his weapon to finish the job. The hotel clerk, hidden in an ideal location, saw their getaway and critically described the vehicle. Thanks to that information, the suspects were arrested soon after. The gunman was convicted and sentenced to death. He was executed in 2000.

I was on radio duty. An ambulance was transporting the officer. It tried to navigate through thick fog on its way to a larger hospital. When the driver suddenly exited the highway, I knew what that meant—the officer was gone. I promptly called the chief’s office. But by then, news outlets, always tuned into police transmissions, had already picked up on the situation. The department’s phone lines were jammed with calls. I took on the role of spokesperson. I did my best to clear the lines quickly. This was so they can be used for local needs. That was January 1983.

Less than two years later, in October 1984, I had been transferred to patrol. One night, we were responding to a vehicle accident outside our jurisdiction. My unit’s radio picked up an urgent transmission. A state trooper was down.

We were en route to the accident. Then, the assigned ambulance reported it was just a car in a ditch. We weren’t needed. But by then, we were already far outside the city, and no other units were nearby. I radioed the county sheriff’s office, advising them of our location and availability. They authorized us to continue north on State Highway 6.

As we traveled, more details about the suspect’s vehicle came through. Then, we spotted it. My partner and I intercepted the car and pulled it over. The driver’s license was expired, but we knew little else at the time. Only later did we learn a chilling detail. He had left his valid driver’s license with the trooper he had shot.

We were transferring the suspect to a deputy’s vehicle. Then, word came through that the ambulance transporting the trooper was lost. They were struggling to find the hospital. We raced to intercept them.

We arrived at the emergency room. A First Lieutenant with the highway patrol and I broke the safety keepers on the stretcher. We pulled the trooper out of the ambulance ourselves. The paramedics were in shock, frozen by the weight of what had happened. We pushed the stretcher down the corridor. As we rounded a corner into the ER, the trooper’s arm fell from the cot. It knocked pens and pencils everywhere. That’s when I knew.

He was gone.

Still, I refused to leave him. I stood at the head of the stretcher, unwilling to let him be alone. Finally, the doctors and nurses forced me away. I didn’t want to go.

Out in the hallway, my own Lieutenant stood waiting. 

“We’ve got reports to write,” 

He said. 

“While it’s fresh in your mind.”

I looked him straight in the eye. 

“This night will forever be fresh in my mind.”

Every ten years, I look back on the events of the earlier decade. I wonder what will be in store for the next ten years! My mother is pushing 95 years-of-age and I doubt she is in my next ten years. I am just hoping that I am in my next ten years.

Lessons from Pa Pa J: The Joy of Simple Traditions

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

1–2 minutes
Pa Pa J.
Pa Pa J., Dad,

We never took a trip or spent a day alone without resorting to Vienna sausages. It was a ritual. Sometimes we’d have crackers with them. Sometimes not. But one thing was sure: the lid of that little can popped open when hunger struck.


I’m talking about my dad, JD. He refused to stop at roadside cafés or even at convenience stores. If we needed gas, we’d pull into a filling station. But for food, we used whatever we brought from home. As a child, I never minded. Sitting there, sharing those sausages with my dad, I saw they tasted better than anything we bought.


Years passed, and I eventually moved out. But my dad’s traditions didn’t stop with me. His grandkids soon got to experience his simple pleasures, though I didn’t realize it then.
Recently, while visiting with my nephew, he shared a memory that made me smile.

“Pa Pa,”

he said,

“always had a can of Vienna sausages when he visited. We’d sit together and share them like he used to do with you.”

But then he added something even more telling about my dad’s practical ways.


One day, they were out on the back patio. When the last sausage was gone, my nephew picked up the empty can. He was ready to throw it away. But Pa Pa stopped him.

“No, give it to me,”

Pa Pa J. said.

He walked to a pipe with an open end. This pipe was leading into the house. He placed the can over it. It fit perfectly, sealing the opening. My nephew chuckled as he realized the simple genius behind it—Pa Pa’s foolproof way of keeping wasps from nesting inside.


And so, somewhere in that old homeplace, if someone tinkering around. They find a pipe with a can stuck inside. They should leave it be. Because if Pa Pa put it there, you can bet it was for a good reason. Unless, of course, they want a house full of Yellow Jackets.

The Long Holiday Journey: Family Moments on the Road

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

3–4 minutes

The Long Holiday Ride

Going Home
The Miller Family Going Home For the Holidays,

The old pickup truck rattled down the highway, packed tight with the Miller family. The father, Dale, gripped the steering wheel, his sharp eyes scanning the road ahead. Beside him, their mother, Janice, balanced a warm dish of sweet potatoes wrapped in a towel on her lap. Every thirty seconds she would let out a ‘hiss,’ and reach for the dash, her only comment to Dale’s driving. In the same seat, the children jostled for space. Clayton, the eldest at twenty-two, leaned against the window with his arms crossed. His younger sisters, Maggie and Rachel, squeezed in beside him. Then there was little Jack. He was the baby of the family, barely eight, and sat between his sisters. His feet barely touched the floor.


It was the same every year. They drove forty miles on bumpy roads. Gravel spat against the undercarriage. The chilly air sneaked in through cracks in the old truck’s frame. The family’s first stop was Janice’s side, the sprawling Henderson clan, where a sea of cousins, aunts, and uncles waited. The noon meal would be loud, laughter filling the air along with the scent of roasted turkey and homemade pies.

Clayton was ever the quiet one. He watched the open fields pass by. Meanwhile, Maggie chattered about the games she’d play with her cousins. Rachel checked the food in the back. She made sure nothing had tipped over. Meanwhile, Jack, restless, kicked his feet. He asked every ten minutes, “How much longer?”

When they finally pulled into the driveway of Janice’s childhood home, they heard the noise instantly. It hit them before they even got out of the truck. Kids ran around the yard. Adults stood in clusters laughing. The kitchen was an organized chaos of steaming dishes and busy hands. The family squeezed through the door, greeted by warm hugs, as coats were peeled off and plates were filled.

After lunch, games and stories took up the afternoon. Clayton found himself talking with an uncle about work on the ranch, while Maggie and Rachel gossiped with their cousins. Jack, after an impressive three plates of food, ran outside to join a game of tag. Dale was talking to his favorite brother-in-law, about a horse he was bringing along.

But there was no time to linger too long. As the sun began to sink, Dale gave the usual call: “Time to load up! We still got another stop!” They groaned and said their farewells. Everyone piled back into the truck with full stomachs. Hands waved through the window.

The second stop was Dale’s side, a quieter gathering with just his sister’s family. Fewer cousins, a calmer atmosphere, and jokes cracking from Bus and Virgil. Aunt Sis served coffee and pie, and the talk was slower, nostalgic—old family stories, memories of Christmases past.

Rachel curled up in a chair with a book while Maggie helped Aunt Sis in the kitchen. Jack, fighting off sleep, leaned against his mother, his eyes drooping. Clayton sat with his dad and uncle, talking about the year’s crops and the price of cattle.

By the time they left, the truck was much quieter. The ride home was filled with drowsy murmurs, Jack fast asleep against his mother’s side. Rachel and Maggie leaned on each other, the warmth of the long day still lingering. Dale, was dreaming of all the memories he had been reminded of while seeing his folks and kin.

As the headlights cut through the darkness, Dale glanced in the rear view mirror at his family. It was a long trip every year. Yet, as he looked at his wife and children—fed, happy, and together—he knew it was always worth it.

The holidays weren’t about the miles traveled, but the moments shared. He never had a million dollars, but he sure felt like it.

Memories and Mischief: The Summer of 1980

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

2–4 minutes

The Summer of 1980

The summer of 1980 would be remembered forever. It was the year three friends—Bub, Johnny, and Clem—took to the hayfields, hauling bales for farmers across the county.

They set out to help the local farmers with two old flatbed farm trucks. The farmers struggled to find enough hands to get their hay cuttings into the barn. What started as a way to earn cash quickly became much more significant.

The boys took turns driving. Two worked at the back of the truck, stacking and securing the bales. They did this while bumping along dirt roads. When they reached a barn, all three pitched in to unload. It was grueling work. It was hot, dusty, and backbreaking. They made a decent sum at fifteen cents per bale when split three ways. More importantly, they earned something money couldn’t buy: the respect of an entire community. Their work ethic, reliability, and bargain rates made them invaluable, and grateful farmers often sweetened the deal with generous tips.

Word spread fast. Soon, the boys had more work than they handled. They got their hands on a third truck and fixed it up. Each took charge of their own rig. They hired extra help to keep up with demand. By summer’s end, the three had hauled an unprecedented amount of hay. No one remembered seeing so much in the valley.

But it wasn’t all work.

The boys had a playful streak, and the town delighted in their antics. One night, Clem slept soundly in their makeshift bunkhouse. Bub got the idea to spread hair remover gel over Clem’s hairy legs. Hours later, Clem woke to a strange smell. He wrinkled his nose. He assumed one of the others had eaten something bad. He groggily rolled over and went back to sleep, unaware of the smooth patches forming on his legs. The next day, Clem discovered the damage in the shower. He saw the damage and heard Bub and Johnny howling with laughter outside the bathroom door.

Clem didn’t get mad. He got even.

At noon, he played the perfect gentleman. He told Bub and Johnny that he held no grudges. He wanted to treat them to lunch. They stayed behind at the barn. He ran to the burger joint and ordered the most enormous double cheeseburgers. There was also a mountain of fries and chocolate malts. For himself, he ordered vanilla. Before returning, he slipped some laxatives into the chocolate malts.

The unsuspecting pair devoured their meal, thanking Clem for his generosity, utterly unaware of the payback coming their way. Four hours later, they were running to the bathroom non-stop, clutching their stomachs, confused and miserable. Clem stood back, arms crossed, grinning. Their “cleaning out” lasted for days. When the town caught wind of the prank, it only added to the growing legend of the hay-hauling boys.

The mischief didn’t stop there.

There were ambushes, booby traps, and endless laughter. Even with their busy schedule, they found time to fish. They caught some of the biggest catfish the town had ever seen.

By summer’s end, they had built more than a successful hay-hauling business—they had created memories that would last a lifetime. Long after the last bale was stacked, folks in town would still talk about the summer of 1980. During that summer, three hardworking boys became the heart and humor of the valley.

Childhood Memories and Roberta Flack’s Influence

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

2–3 minutes

The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face, It Was Killing Me Softly

I was between six and eight years old. That was the first time I heard The First Time I Saw Your Face. I also heard Killing Me Softly with His Song for the first time then. My oldest sister, Julie, adored those songs. She was taking piano lessons at that time. She often attempted to play them. Her fingers hesitantly found their way across the keys.

I still remember the old upright piano my parents got for her from a family friend. It was massive and heavy as a full-grown ox. My brothers struggled to carry it to the front wall of our living room. That’s where it stayed for years. Some of the keys stuck, while others refused to make a sound. But a piano tuner visited us. Afterward, the old instrument came to life. It was ready to echo through the house with Julie’s music.

Those long summer days when school was out were filled with Roberta Flack’s voice drifting through our home. Julie played her albums endlessly, the lyrics weaving into my young mind. I remember watching Play Misty for Me. It was my first real brush with suspense. I was more worried about Roberta Flack than I was about Clint Eastwood’s character. My parents had to reassure me that it was just a movie and that no one was in danger.

The First Time I Saw Your Face became inseparable from that film in my memory. In the same way, Killing Me Softly with His Song later found its way into About a Boy. I saw that one at the old Caddo Theater on Main Street in Binger, Oklahoma. My parents never let Julie go to the movies alone, so I was always sent as her reluctant chaperon. At the time, I was too small to protect her from anything. Still, I suppose my presence was enough to keep her out of trouble. At least that’s what my parents hoped.

All these years later, those songs still surface in my mind, uninvited but always welcome. They sneak in when I try to fall asleep while studying and when I need to concentrate. They echo my childhood memories. They replay in the corners of my mind. They are tethered to the days when Julie sat at that old upright piano. She tried to master the melodies.

And for that, I owe it all to Roberta Flack. Shall she rest in peace.

Haunted Memories: The Ghosts of Groff House

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

5–7 minutes
The Old Groff House
The Groff House first moved to Binger from Anadarko, Ok

The old farmhouse was to be our new home. Moving from the city to the farm felt like an adventure, but the others didn’t share my enthusiasm. They struggled with giving up indoor plumbing, a telephone, and dependable electricity.


For my father, though, this was the beginning of a dream—a quarter-horse ranch of his own. The house had been moved from another town and placed onto a block foundation. Uneven concrete blocks, haphazardly arranged, served as makeshift steps leading up to the front door. The door was old, with a large square glass pane in the upper half and weathered wood below. Layers of peeling white paint flaked away inside and out, revealing the scars of time.


But what stood out most was the screen door. It had a single spring that pulled it shut with a sharp clap. This sound still echoes in my memory. Above it, a simple porch overhang provided some protection from the rain. It offered slightly less protection from the sun. The overhang always seemed too small for its purpose.


I was the youngest of six children—or seven, depending on how you counted. My mother’s youngest brother, Uncle Ricky, practically lived with us. He had been raised alongside my older brothers, and I always considered him one of us. These memories of our close-knit family bring a sense of nostalgia and warmth.


My sisters and I stayed close to the house initially. Our parents were wary of hidden dangers lurking in the fields and pastures. Rusted cans, barbed wire, and remnants of years gone by littered the property. My brothers were tasked with clearing the land, ensuring no horse would stumble upon a forgotten hazard. But even without the safety excuse, the grown-ups didn’t need us underfoot as they worked to build barns and fences.


The house felt enormous to my sisters and me. It had only four rooms downstairs. There was one large room upstairs. The ground floor had interconnected doorways. These doorways allowed us to run in endless circles around the stairwell. The kitchen, with its worn linoleum floor and a large propane stove, was the heart of the home. The living room had threadbare furniture. Its windows had seen better days. It was where we gathered in the evenings. We were expected to behave when our parents were home, but the house became our playground when they weren’t.


One evening, my oldest sister shared a story she had heard at school. A man, unknown to us, had been found dead in the upstairs room. Hung himself, they said. His wife had passed away downstairs, and he had followed soon after. My younger sister and I absorbed the tale. We were unsure whether it was truth or fiction. Nonetheless, it rooted itself in our minds.


My parents’ conversations surfaced bits and pieces of the house’s history. They assured us no one had died there—at least, not to their knowledge. But then came the phrase that stuck with us:

“But if they did, there’s nothing to worry about.”

It was as if they had confirmed it without confirming it. They planted just enough doubt to keep our imaginations running wild.


And then, one night, something happened that we would never forget.


It had been an unbearably hot day, the humidity clinging to us like a second skin. We had no air conditioning. We relied on a single box fan upstairs for the boys at night. During the day, we moved it downstairs. As evening fell, a storm rolled in. The sky darkened, thunder rumbled, and the first lightning strike knocked out our power.


We huddled by the screen door, watching the storm unfold. Rain poured down in sheets, lightning flashing every few seconds. We saw him in one brilliant burst of light—a rider on a white horse just beyond our fence.


My oldest sister called for our mother.

“There’s a man out on the road! Should we call him in?”


The lightning illuminated him again. The horse and rider are stark white, motionless against the downpour. They turned into our driveway and stopped at the yard gate. The rider tilted his head, water spilling off the brim of his hat, but he did not move.


We yelled for our parents, urging them to look. The rain intensified, drumming against the roof. And then, in the next flash of lightning—he was gone. No retreating figure, no horse galloping away. Just empty, rain-slicked ground where he had stood.


That wasn’t the last strange occurrence. The memory of the white horse and its rider haunted us, lingering in the corners of our minds. We couldn’t shake the feeling that we were not alone in the house. We felt that unseen presences were walking the same halls.


The dirt roads in Oklahoma turn sandy in the summer. They capture every footprint—deer, bobcat, rabbit, and occasional lost traveler. One morning, waiting for the school bus, we saw her.
A tiny older woman walked at a steady pace past our house. We called out a greeting, but she didn’t acknowledge us. The school bus approached from behind, and I considered asking the driver to stop and offer her a ride.


But when we reached the road, she was gone.


What we didn’t see was more unsettling than her disappearance—tracks. There were no prints in the soft sand, no sign that anyone had walked there.


I looked at my sisters. One of them whispered,

“Don’t say anything. They’ll think we’re crazy.”


Later, an old-timer visited us often. He told us about a train depot standing across the road long before we arrived. He suspected that some soldiers returning from World War I, whose bodies were unclaimed, never left that station. He spoke of ghostly figures wandering the fields at night. Strange sounds echoed from the direction of the old depot. His stories added another layer of mystery to our already haunted farmhouse.


Over the years, my father and I rode our horses through the backcountry. We found old graves. Some were Indian graves, others belonged to settlers, and some were marked only by time-worn stones. One day, I asked my father if it was sad that they had been forgotten.


He looked at me thoughtfully.

“They’re remembered the way they’re meant to be. You don’t need a grave to be remembered. It’s what you do while you’re alive that matters.”


I understood what he meant, but some of me still felt sorrow for those lost souls. Maybe they weren’t as alone as I thought. They still walked in the rain, strolled along dirt roads, or found another way to be remembered. The mystery of their existence lingers, leaving us with more questions than answers.

Tim’s Journey Raising Game Chickens

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

4–5 minutes

Tim and His Prize Chicken

Tim had been caring for his father’s White Rock chicken pen for months. It was a new chore he got handed as he got older. Tim collected eggs from nests, fed the chickens, and cleaned the pens. He also ensured plenty of fresh water for the fowl to drink.

One day, Tim’s father came home from work. He told Tim they were going on a short trip. The purpose of the trip was to look at game roosters and hens. He suggested that if Tim wanted to buy one, he should bring the money. Tim had been saving this money from doing chores and receiving it as gifts.

Tim gathered his savings—an impressive $25.00—and he and his father set off to explore this new thing he had just heard about: “Game Chickens.” They arrived at a property owned by the Gaines family about twenty miles away. Tim was surprised to see dozens of small doghouses spread across the backyard.

Mr. Gaines, a middle-aged man, came out of the house, greeted Tim’s father, and asked, 

“You’re here about the chickens, aren’t you?”

Tim and his father answered in unison, 

“Yes, we are!”

They looked around and discussed their options. Tim’s father purchased five hens and five guineas. Tim proudly bought a rooster with his savings.

When they returned home, Tim’s father explained, 

“We’ll use the rooster you bought to encourage these hens to lay eggs. Once we collect enough eggs, we’ll place them in a new incubator I bought. I’ll teach you how chickens lay eggs. You’ll also learn how they set and hatch their eggs.”

It felt like forever to collect enough eggs, but it only took about a week. Once they had gathered a good number, Tim’s father marked each egg with an ‘X’ on one side. He marked an ‘O’ on the other side of each egg. He then placed them in the incubator. He ensured the proper humidity. He added a small amount of water to the bottom tray. A screen was placed over the water, and the eggs were laid on top.

Tim’s father explained, –––

“For the first eighteen days, we must turn the eggs regularly. Turn them at least thrice daily. This prevents the developing chicks from sticking to the shell. The incubator will handle the temperature, but it’s up to us to turn them.”

Tim learned they couldn’t touch the eggs with bare hands, as oils from their skin clog the shell’s pores. They used cotton gloves to handle them. Tim eagerly helped his father turn the eggs daily, hoping to see signs of life inside.

As they approached the last three days, Tim’s father announced, –––

“No more turning. The chicks need to position themselves for hatching now. And we must keep the incubator closed—no peeking!”

It was the hardest thing for a nine-year-old to resist opening the incubator, but Tim managed. Then, on the twentieth day, he heard a faint ––

“Peep, peep!”

“Should we open it and see if they’re okay?” 

Tim asked excitedly.

“Not yet,”

His father replied.

“Let’s give it another day or two to make sure they all have time to hatch.”

That was not the answer Tim wanted to hear, but he trusted his father. The next two days felt like an eternity. The soft peep grew louder, and his father finally said, –––

“Let’s open it up and see what we have!”

To their amazement, all fifty eggs had hatched. The incubator was full of tiny, fluffy chicks, chirping loudly in their new world.

Tim and his Rooster
Tim holding his Rooster

Over the next month, Tim was responsible for feeding the chicks a unique grain mix. He also provided fresh water with added vitamins to prevent early diseases common in poultry. In about eight weeks, the chicks had grown into young roosters and hens, scattering in all directions across the farm.

Tim learned that game roosters were naturally aggressive toward each other. As they matured, the males had to be separated or butchered. Many ended up in the freezer, while a few got held back as breeders for future generations.

Tim’s father also explained why Mr. Gaines had so many small doghouses in his yard.

“He separates his game roosters to keep them from fighting. Some people sell them, and some even use them for illegal cockfighting, but we’ll never do that. It’s inhumane and against the law.”

As for the guineas, Tim’s father let them roam freely around the farm. 

“They’re the best burglar alarms you can have. If anything or anyone unusual comes around, they’ll make a racket.”

Tim discovered the game chickens laid green, blue, and brown eggs. All are in demand by area residents looking to avoid white eggs, and they have added health benefits.

Through this experience, Tim gained a lifelong appreciation for the care and responsibility of raising animals. He learned patience, the importance of careful handling, and how to nurture life from beginning to maturity. This lesson stayed with him forever.

My Father’s Journey: From Service Station to Horse Ranch

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

4–5 minutes

Today, as I write, I ponder what story to share. Specific recollections stand out, shaping my life in ways that make them worth remembering.


One of my fondest memories is traveling with my father and one of his friends. These journeys often involved a horse—whether for a rodeo, a parade, or taking a mare to be bred. I remember sitting in the middle of the pickup seat. The air conditioning blasted my face. The two men talked nonstop. The smell of their cigarettes filled the cab; they never cracked a window. Though I never smoked a day in my life, I suspect I passively inhaled enough to equate to thirty packs.

This was the early 1970s when smoking held no taboos, even around children. My father eventually quit in his late fifties, relieved to be free of nicotine’s grip. Sadly, six months later, he responded to a chlorine leak at a swimming pool. While shutting off the container, he inhaled the toxic gas, permanently damaging his lungs. From then on, breathing was a struggle. The medications he took to manage his condition weakened his bones. By 63, he was no longer capable of walking. He passed away shortly after. But in those 63 years, he packed in a lifetime of experiences.


Reflecting on my childhood, I marvel at how my parents managed to supply for six children. We weren’t wealthy, yet they kept us clothed, fed, and engaged—horse riding, basketball, piano lessons, and football. We started in a beautiful three-bedroom brick home in a great community. My father owned a Texaco service station and volunteered as a fireman. Some neighbors even urged him to run for city council, but his passion lay elsewhere. He dreamed of owning a quarter-horse farm, a dream that required sacrifice.


The first step was selling our home. We moved into a one-bedroom rental, with my parents in the sole bedroom and us kids on foldout couches. My father attended barber school, planning for the future. A year later, he purchased forty acres in a small town 35 miles away. He used the money from selling the house and service station. The land was densely wooded, and my father and three older brothers worked tirelessly to clear it for a home.


He found a house nearby for sale, provided it was moved. It had four rooms downstairs, one upstairs, and disconnected kitchen and bathroom additions. Two trucks transported the house 28 miles to our new farm. Once settled, we designated rooms: the kitchen, living room, and bedrooms. The steep stairs to the upstairs bedroom often left me bruised from falls. I loved that room. It had windows at both ends, letting a breeze flow as I gazed at the valley. I imagined future adventures.
I discovered my secret hideout underneath those stairs, meant to be my sister’s closet. Small enough to squeeze deep inside, I stayed undetected until I was spotted and lost my perfect hiding place.


Life on the farm lacked modern conveniences, including indoor plumbing. My father found an abandoned outhouse and positioned it over a dry well. Inside, we had two five-gallon buckets of water for drinking, with a dipper hanging above and another for washing dishes. Each day, my father refilled them after closing his barbershop in town.


We also had no phone service at first. When we finally got a phone, I was about eight. The company laid a single line down the rural road. We shared it with three other families on a party line. Each household had a distinct ring. Still, anyone might eavesdrop. Power outages were frequent, lasting days during snowstorms or severe thunderstorms, making access to our home difficult in bad weather.


My father and brothers built horse barns south of our home. At one point, we had over forty horses. Spring was the busiest, with foals being born. My father hosted roping events, where friends gathered to rope all day. Eventually, he installed arena lighting, allowing him to ride even after long days in the barbershop. I joined him often, eating more red sand from falling off horses and calves than I care to remember.


Over time, the horses dwindled to just mine and his. My siblings had moved on from riding. My father worried that his aging stud horse was no longer suitable for breeding. That’s when he became a ranger at the Girl Scout camp, changing my world entirely. Life on the farm transitioned into something new and unknown. What I learned at the camp shaped me. It taught me the value of acceptance. The lessons in resilience have stayed with me through life’s most challenging moments. But that, as they say, is another story entirely.

To end, I want to include a question I recently asked my 95-year-old mother:

“You went through so much. It all started after selling the brick home. You moved from the life we had in the city. Knowing all this, would you do it again?”

She replied,

“in a heartbeat!”

Honoring Tradition: Birthday Memories and Family Bonds

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

2–4 minutes

February 17th: A Day to Remember

Today is February 17th. In the United States, it’s recognized as Presidents’ Day. This holiday honors past leaders and their contributions to the nation. Initially, the day was all about Washington and Lincoln, but eventually, every other president wanted in on the act. At least, that’s how I remember it from my elementary school days.

Groff Family Celebrations
Groff Media©

But for me, February 17th holds a much deeper meaning. It marks the birthdays of three people who shaped my life. They are my grandmother, father, and an uncle by marriage to my father’s sister. And with that, it also carries a tradition that has lingered through the years.

When they were alive, our family gathered every year on the Sunday before their birthdays. Relatives, friends, and even neighbors would fill my grandparents’ home. Some were from their old farm. Others came from their city life after retirement. As a child, I didn’t fully grasp the significance of these gatherings. Now, in my retirement years, I see it so clearly. The warmth of belonging, the shared stories, the laughter—it all meant something. Looking back at the old photos, I understand now what I couldn’t then.

After they passed, my mother kept the tradition alive in her way. Every year, without fail, she’d call each of us siblings and ask,

“You know what day it is?”

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But time moves ahead, as it always does. My mother is now 95. She no longer makes those calls. Her mind can’t reach for the dates and details that once anchored her. So instead, we call her. And the tradition continues, binding us together in shared memories and love.

Only my sister and I acknowledge the day out of six siblings. Sometimes, I call her first. Other times, like this morning, she beats me to it—before I’ve even had my first sip of coffee. Our conversation is brief but meaningful, a moment to honor the three lives that shaped us. And, of course, to share a hearty laugh at the memory of my father’s favorite joke.

My dad was a barber, and in our town, barbershops traditionally closed on Mondays. But when Presidents’ Day landed on February 17th, he saw an opportunity for mischief. At family gatherings, he’d grin and announce,

“If the Post Office is closing on my birthday, then I suppose I have to close my shop too!”

In those years, he’d even hang a sign in his shop window:

“JOINING THE POST OFFICE—WE WILL BE CLOSED ON MONDAY IN RECOGNITION OF MY BIRTHDAY.”

My Father JD
Groff Media©

He thought it was the funniest thing in the world, and as kids, we did too.

I always admired my dad. I looked up to him, though I never told him outright. I wish I had. There were so many times I wanted to say the words, but I never quite found the right moment. And yet, I believe he knew. Somehow, he always knew things about me that I never spoke out loud.

Even on February 17th, I felt his presence in the quiet traditions that remained. I sense it in the phone calls, laughter, and stories we still tell.

And I think—that’s enough.

A Poem and a Poker Game: Life Lessons Learned

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

2–3 minutes

It was cold and snowing the day my dad decided to teach my sister and me how to play poker. We set up a card table in the living room. He brought out his cherished poker chips and cardholder. He placed them carefully in the center.

The chips were red, white, and blue. Dad told us not to worry about their dollar value. White was the least expensive. Red was worth more. Blue held the highest value, at least for this game. Then, with a practiced hand, he shuffled the deck and dealt the cards, and our lesson began.

I can’t recall exactly which variation of poker we played. It was Seven Card Stud, Texas Hold’Em, or Five Card Draw. But I remember the three of us sitting around that table. Each had a tall glass of iced tea. The snow piled up outside. With every inch of snowfall, I grew more hopeful that school would get canceled the next day. In my mind, I was already winning.

I caught on quickly, learning to hold onto high-value cards and giving myself a decent advantage. But the real edge came from my dad. He wasn’t just teaching us poker. He was teaching us something more. This lesson would stay with me long after the cards were put away.

A fire crackled in the fireplace, filling the room with warmth, and for a moment, life felt perfect. That house, that evening, that love—it’s a place I often dream of returning to. Yet, it no longer exists beyond memory. And in that memory, my dad shared something else with us. It was a poem—a warm blanket of words that wrapped us in comfort.

It was nonsensical and crude, but it belonged to him, and now it belonged to me. Decades later, I still carry it with me:

DAD’S POEM

I Woke Up Just This Morning

And I Looked Upon The Wall

The Roaches And The Bedbugs

Were Playing A Game Of Ball

The Score Was Six To Nothing

The Roaches Were Ahead

I Got So Doggone Excited

I Jumped Right Out Of Bed

I Ran Downstairs to Breakfast

But The Coffee Was So Stale

It Tastes Just Like Tobacco Juice

Right Out Of The County Jail.

Dad said he wasn’t sure where he’d first heard it—maybe in school as a boy. He had just always known it. And now, it was mine to carry on.

That silly little poem has come in handy more times than I can count. It has bailed me out when I’ve been put on the spot and asked to speak publicly. When I needed to write something quickly for school, it found its way onto my paper. It has brought laughter to gatherings and lightened tense moments. Somehow, it has traveled with me through time. It serves as a testament to the enduring power of shared memories. It is just like the memory of that snowy afternoon.

I never became a poker player, but I went on to work with words, write, and tell stories. I believe it started with that poem.

Cherished Memories from 608 E Kiowa Street

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

3–5 minutes

The house at 608 E Kiowa Street was a two-story, single-family dwelling. It was the largest home on the street. It was on the road’s south side, just east of Jefferson Elementary School. The exterior was adorned with a well-kept garden. There was a porch with a swing where we spent many evenings. A large oak tree provided shade in the summer. It was my grandparents’ home from when I was born until my grandmother passed away in the mid-1970s.

With its shale shingle siding, the house always seemed enormous to me. The first floor held a kitchen, a cozy den, and a bedroom. It contained a formal sitting room and a living room where their black-and-white television rested. Upstairs were three large rooms—spacious enough for my grandmother to host visiting relatives from out of state.

My grandmother’s hospitality was legendary. She accommodated up to three full-size beds with people. She had sleeping cots and plenty of room to use if needed. She was always ready to welcome more guests into her home, making everyone feel like they belonged.

One of the most memorable aspects of the upstairs was the introduction to an old-fashioned necessity: the chamber pot. My grandmother clarified that it was mainly for the ‘men folk.’ The women seemed to manage through the night without issue. Every morning, my grandfather would empty the pot into the downstairs toilet. Then he would step outside. He would wash it thoroughly with the garden hose. He’d always follow this routine by filling it halfway with water and calling out to my grandmother,

“Ok, Mom, I got halfway there.”

To which she’d respond from somewhere in the house,

“Don’t put the lid on it. I’m bringing the bleach!”

Everyone called them Pop and Mom. Over the years, the names became so natural that they started addressing each other that way. This was true except when my grandmother was exasperated with Pop for not hearing her. Then, she’d call him by his actual name, the very name I shared with him. But beneath the surface, how much they loved and cared for each other was always evident.

“BEN!”

Whenever I visited, I couldn’t help but worry that the neighbors thought she was yelling at me for misbehaving. I loved my grandparents too much to ever cause trouble. I tried my best to help Pop hear her. I acted as a go-between for their familiar, loving banter.

Another curiosity upstairs was an old doorstop. It was a gift from my great-grandfather. He was a stern, fire-and-brimstone Baptist preacher. He roamed Northeast Texas, Southwest Arkansas, and Southeast Oklahoma. His mission work often left my grandmother unsure which state they lived in since their farm straddled all three.

She once told me something interesting. The doorstop had accompanied her brother. He came to give my grandfather permission to marry her. It remained tucked away upstairs because, as she explained,

“Times have changed, and it wouldn’t be proper to show it in the main part of the house.”

In the kitchen, a small toy was tucked inside a cabinet. It was the only toy my grandmother ever bought for my dad during his childhood. Money was tight back then, and buying toys was a luxury most couldn’t afford. Yet, she purchased this wind-up toy. It would dance and entertain my dad as a toddler while she worked around the house. When my grandmother passed away, the toy went to my dad. After his passing, I found it in our attic. It was worn and weathered by time. Yet, it still carried the weight of all those cherished memories. I kept it—not for its value, but for the stories and love it symbolized.

The family gatherings we shared there pull me back to that old house, even though it no longer stands. Mom and Pop’s home was a magnet for loved ones, filled with laughter and warmth. Even during the most challenging economic times, a sense of togetherness and unity prevailed. This feeling seems more elusive in today’s world. Their old radio will not pick up the stations it once did.

I often wonder what Mom and Pop would think if they saw our modern world—technology and conveniences. But more than that, I wonder how they’d feel. How would they react if they saw what we’ve done with the legacy they left us? They instilled the values of hard work, love, and togetherness. Would they be proud of the way we’ve upheld these values? Would they recognize the strong family bonds they worked so hard to instill? The actual family values of love before judgment.

Those questions linger, just like the memory of the old house on Kiowa Street.

A Journey Through Fields: Life Lessons from Uncle Neb

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

An Uncle’s Field of Memories

The older man rocked back and forth on the porch swing, the wood creaking under his weight. His nephew, Jake, sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, listening intently. The evening sun stretched its shadows long across the yard, the golden light flickering through the trees.

“You ever run through a plowed field, boy?” 

Uncle Neb asked, a slow grin spreading across his weathered face.

Jake wrinkled his nose. 

“Why would I do that?”

Ole Neb chuckled.

“Ah, you don’t know what you’re missin’. When I was your age, runnin’ through a fresh-plowed field was the best thing in the world. The dirt was soft, the furrows deep. Felt like jumpin’ across waves in the ocean—only, it was earth beneath your feet, not water.”

Jake smirked. 

“Sounds messy.”

“Sure was!”

Uncle Neb laughed. 

“And I’d get a good whuppin’ from your grandma for trackin’ mud in the house, too.”

He leaned back, sighing. 

“Every spring, my daddy plowed and prepared the land to plant maize and oats. That was our winter feed for the livestock. Down at the bottom of our place, we had an alfalfa field. Grew some of the best in the county, thanks to the floods from the neighbor’s lake.”

“Wait—you let your field flood on purpose?”

Jake asked, wide-eyed.

“Didn’t have a choice, boy! The heavy spring rains would swell that lake, and the water would just roll over into our land. But let me tell you, that soaked ground made the alfalfa thick and green. We never had to worry about our cattle goin’ hungry.”

Jake traced a knot in the porch wood with his finger. 

“You had cattle?”

“Sure did. Horses and chickens, guineas, goats—you name it. Had a big ol’ barn on the west side of the place where we kept ’em. But there was one animal I couldn’t go near—one of our milk cows. It is the meanest thing you have ever seen. That cow would lower her head and charge at me as soon as she spotted me.”

Jake grinned. 

“You were scared of a cow?”

Uncle Neb narrowed his eyes playfully. 

“You woulda been too, boy! Kids had tormented that cow before she came to us. Made her mad as a hornet. Your grandpa had to milk her himself ’cause she wouldn’t let nobody else close.”

Jake laughed. 

“Sounds like she had a grudge.”

“That she did. But that was life on the farm, son. You learned to work with what you had, respect the land, and steer clear of mad cows.”

Ole Neb winked. 

“Now come on, let’s go walk that field out back. Maybe you’ll see why runnin’ through dirt felt like flyin’ to a boy like me.”

Jake hesitated, then hopped up.

“Alright, Uncle Neb. But if I trip, you owe me ice cream.”

Neb laughed, his voice warm as the setting sun. 

“Deal, boy. Deal.”

And together, they walked toward the fields, the past and gift blending with every step.

Quiet Reflections: Harold Whitman’s Final Moments

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

The Last Day

Harold Whitman woke before dawn, just as he had done for countless mornings. He stretched his aching limbs, feeling the stiffness permanently occupying his bones. The old house was quiet. Only the refrigerator’s soft hum and the occasional creak of settling wood were heard. This familiar symphony accompanied his every awakening.

He shuffled to the kitchen, brewed a pot of coffee, and sat at the window. He watched the sunrise paint the morning sky in shades of orange and pink. He savored the moment. The cup’s warmth was in his hands, and the faint aroma of the beans filled the air. His late wife had always loved those beans.

Today, he decided, would be a good day.

After breakfast, Harold walked to the park, as he had done for decades. He fed the ducks at the pond. He nodded to the joggers and dog walkers. They had become familiar faces over the years. These interactions, though brief, were like tiny rays of sunshine in his otherwise solitary life. A young boy, no older than six, waved at him from the swings. Harold smiled and waved back.

At the corner store, he bought a piece of his favorite caramel candy and an extra for the cashier. Marisol, a sweet girl, constantly reminded him of his granddaughter.

“You spoil me, Mr. Whitman,”

she said, laughing as she unwrapped the treat.

“Someone’s got to,”

he replied with a wink.

In the afternoon, he visited the cemetery. He sat on the bench beside his wife’s headstone, tracing her name with his fingers. The silence of the place soothed his soul. He felt a strange comfort thinking about joining his wife.

“I think I’ll be seeing you soon,”

he murmured.

“Maybe later tonight.”

There was no fear in him—just a quiet knowing.

Before heading home, he stopped by the diner, ordering a slice of apple pie and a cup of black coffee. The waitress, Lucy, patted his shoulder.

“You always get the same thing,”

she teased.

“Because I know what’s good,”

he said with a grin.

That evening, Harold sat in his favorite chair by the window, where the sunset bathed the room in golden light. He opened a book, though he barely read the words and content to hold it.

When sleep came, it was gentle, like slipping into a warm embrace.

Harold’s heart gave its final beat, and he sighed with quiet satisfaction. His last day had been good, a testament to the peace and acceptance that filled his heart.

A Letter From Paul Harvey, To His Grandchildren

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

I am sharing a writing listed as “Paul Harvey’s Letter To His Grandchildren. It has been tucked away in a drawer. Finally I pulled it out and made use of it.

Paul Harvey was a news commentator for ABC NEWS in the United States and has been heard worldwide. He was known for “The Rest of The Story” and his Noon News Broadcast from the 1960s through the 1990s.. He provided updates well into his elder years, working from home a lot of the time. His son had built a studio in the Harvey Home. This studio allowed him to work as if he were in the News Room. Paul is always dressed in a suit and tie to report the news. Saying he had to look professional to sound professional.

Here is the letter that is attributed to him.

Grandchildren,

We tried so hard to improve our kids’ lives that we made them worse. I’d like better for my grandchildren.

I’d like them to know about hand-me-down clothes, homemade ice cream, and leftover meatloaf sandwiches.

I hope you learn humility by being humiliated and honesty by being cheated.

I hope you learn to make your bed, mow the lawn, and wash the car.

And I hope nobody gives you a brand-new car when you are sixteen.

It will be good if at least one time you can see puppies born. You should also witness your old dog being put to sleep.

I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in.

I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother or sister. It’s all right if you have to draw a line down the middle of the room. But, when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he’s scared, I hope you let him.

You want to see a movie. If your little brother or sister wants to tag along, I hope you’ll let them.

You must walk uphill to school with your friends and live in a town where you can do it safely.

I hope you don’t ask your driver to drop you two blocks away on rainy days. It would be unfortunate if you didn’t want to be seen riding with someone as uncool as your Mom.

If you want a slingshot, I hope your Dad teaches you how to make one instead of buying one.

I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books.

When you learn to use computers, I hope you also learn to add and subtract in your head.

I hope you get teased by your friends when you have your first crush on a boy or girl. When you talk back to your mother, I hope you learn what ivory soap tastes like.

Try to skin your knee climbing a mountain. By accident burn your hand on a stove. Playing around try to you stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole.

I don’t care if you try a beer once. I hope you don’t like it. If a friend offers you dope or a joint, realize they are not your friend.

I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your Grandma or grandpa. I also hope you go fishing with your Uncle.

You will feel a mixture of emotions. Sorrow and joy will arise during the holidays at a funeral. You should stop and understand why.

I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through your neighbor’s window. I also hope she hugs you at Christmas. I hope she kisses you when you give her a plaster mold of your hand.

I wish you tough times and disappointment, hard work, and happiness. To me, these are the only ways to appreciate life!

The End.

Portions of this entry was edited to allow for space and grammar.

The Day Communications Sent the Cavalry to My Rescue ––– Thanks To Chester

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3–5 minutes

It was one of those perfect spring days in April when everything felt right. The sun warmed the air to a comfortable 70 degrees. I rolled down my cruiser’s windows for the first time in months. I patrolled the streets of Elk City. That morning, the west side was my focus, a quiet stretch where anything unusual instantly stood out. That’s where I spotted Chester Hessman.

Ah, Chester Hessman. Everyone in Elk City knew him. Born and raised here, Chester was as much a part of the town as its aging brick buildings. He shared the unofficial title of “town drunk.” Another character held this title, too, whose story fills its chapter. Chester, though, was unique. He had a charm akin to Otis Campbell from The Andy Griffith Show. Otis was a regular at the jail with a presence so familiar that he also had his key.

Chester was skinny and of medium height. He was always disheveled. If he was out in public, he was most certainly drunk. Today, he was directing traffic in the middle of a bustling four-lane intersection, completely ignoring the functioning traffic light overhead.

I flipped on my red-and-blue lights and eased my cruiser into the intersection, pulling up beside him. Stepping out, I called him ––––

“Chester, you’re going to put me out of a job! How about I give you a ride home instead?”

Chester turned toward me, swaying on unsteady legs. He gave me a gummy smile—he hadn’t had teeth for years—and replied, –––

“I’d love ya for it!”

I chuckled, helped him into the passenger seat, and gave him a friendly warning. –––

“Now listen, Chester. I need you to sit tight and behave. Don’t think about jumping out or causing trouble, or it’s straight to jail. Got it?”

“I plomise!”

he slurred, laughing and babbling as I buckled him in.

Pulling away, I turned off the lights and debated whether to radio in the meeting. Chester had just been released from jail that morning. I hoped he would stay out of trouble if I got him home—at least for the day. I decided to keep it off the books. What would go wrong?

Well, a lot, as it turned out.

We were only a few blocks from Chester’s house when a priority call came over the radio.

Unit 3, Unit 4, Unit 2, and Unit 6: Report of six individuals behind Braum’s on 3rd Street. They are shooting at each other with a gun.

I was the closest unit, just a block away. Chester looked at me, confused as I explained the situation. –––

“Chester, you’ve ridden along before. You know the drill—stay in the car, keep your head down, and don’t touch anything for the love of God. Got it?”

He nodded solemnly, briefly giving the impression he was sober.

“I’ll watch out for ya, Officer Ben. Don’t worry.”

As I pulled up to Braum’s, I spotted six figures loitering near the back of the building. I radioed in,

“Unit 3: Headquarters, I’m 10-97 with six 10-12s. I’ll be out with them.”

Communication was acknowledged, and I stepped out to approach the group. But as I got closer, my portable radio began emitting a garbled, high-pitched noise. Annoyed, I assumed it was interference and turned the volume down.

The six “suspects” were kids playing with a toy air gun. We had a brief chat about how their game looked to the public. I suggested they move their play to a less conspicuous location. They nodded, embarrassed but cooperative.

As I headed back to my cruiser, I heard sirens approaching from all directions. Confused, I quickened my pace and opened the car door to find Chester holding my radio mic.

“Chester,”

I said, trying to process the scene.

“What are you doing?”

He grinned at me like a naughty child caught red-handed. –––

“Just makin’ some sounds, Officer Ben. Ain’t it funny?”

It wasn’t. The “interference” I’d heard earlier was Chester making garbled noises on my radio. When I turned my portable’s volume down, Communications assumed the worst. They thought I was injured. Worse, they thought I was trying to signal for help. They’d dispatched every available unit, fire, and ambulance to my location.

Chester’s laughter echoed as the reality of the situation sank in. What was supposed to be a quiet favor for Chester had turned into a full-blown emergency response.

I drove Chester straight to jail. He laughed the entire ride, still holding the microphone like his toy. I went to radio headquarters. I needed to explain to my supervisor how Elk City’s most infamous drunk had hijacked my radio, sparking chaos.

As I left the station that day, I still heard Chester laughing from his cell. I didn’t find it nearly as amusing.

Thanksgiving At The Police Department

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

Thanksgiving at the Elk City Police Department was a paradox of warmth and chaos. While dispatchers decorated their consoles with paper turkeys and the smell of leftover pie filled the air, the holiday calls kept coming. It was supposed to be a day of gratitude and family, but for the officers on duty, it was one of their busiest days of the year.

Officer Jim Layfette, a ten-year veteran of the force, leaned back in his chair and sipped lukewarm coffee.

“Thanksgiving,”

he muttered to his rookie partner, Dan Thomas.

“The one day everyone thinks they can play Jerry Springer.”

Their first call came just before 2 p.m., a disturbance at a modest home on Fourth Street. Two brothers were at each other’s throats over who was more entitled to the last slice of pumpkin pie. When Layfette and Thomnas arrived, the brothers were outside, yelling loud enough to drown out the TV playing the Cowboys game.

“Seriously?”

Thomas asked as they broke up the fight.

“Welcome to the holiday shift,”

Layfette replied. The brothers were separated and sent home with stern warnings and a firm reminder that family arguments weren’t worth a trip to jail.

“Unit 4, you’ve got a 10-16 on Elm Street. Argument over stuffing. Use caution—reporting party says it’s ‘too moist.'”

As the day wore on, the calls became more bizarre. At a small rental house on the edge of town, a woman had locked her husband out because he had insulted her mother’s green bean casserole. He stood in the front yard, arms crossed and shivering in a light jacket, refusing to apologize. Thomas handed him a blanket from the patrol car while Layfette gave him a brief lecture on tact.

“Is it that bad?”

The husband asked.

Layfette smirked.

“I’ve had worse. Just say sorry and move on.”

By evening, the call volume skyrocketed. In one house, a drunken uncle had tried to carve the turkey with a chainsaw. In another, two cousins had turned a friendly card game into a shouting match that ended with one flipping the table. When Layfette thought the shift couldn’t get weirder, the radio crackled with another call.

The dispatcher, Chris, kept things lively with dry humor.

“Unit 4, you’ve got a 10-16 on Elm Street. Argument over stuffing. Use caution—reporting party says it’s ‘too moist.'”

Layfette couldn’t suppress a laugh at the Elm Street house when the elderly matriarch opened the door.

“I didn’t call you,”

she said with a sigh.

“It was my daughter. She’s too sensitive. But if you could take the turkey with you.”

“No, ma’am, thanks for the offer,” 

Layfette replied.

Officers gathered at the station to share a potluck meal and stories of their day. Amidst the oddball arguments and creative resolutions, a sense of camaraderie and shared experience began to emerge. Thomas, who had started the shift apprehensive about the chaos, was beginning to see the humor in it all, feeling a part of the team.

“It’s like therapy,” 

Layfette told him as they sat in the patrol car during a lull.

“Families blow off steam, and we get to play referee. It beats the usual stuff.”

By the end of their shift, Layfette and Thomas had responded to a dozen calls. No one had been seriously hurt, and most of the disputes ended with hugs and laughter. This sense of accomplishment and the fact that they had kept the peace on a chaotic day filled them with a deep sense of fulfillment and pride.

As they handed off their patrol car to the next shift, Layfette gave Thomas a pat on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, rookie. You survived your first Thanksgiving shift.”

He grinned.

“And I thought holidays were supposed to be relaxing.”

“Not here,” 

Layfette said with a chuckle.

“Welcome to the Elk City PD.”

They left the station to find the night unusually quiet, as though the town had finally run out of steam. It was a well-spent Thanksgiving for the officers—keeping the peace one turkey-fueled feud at a time.

The world is going to POT, and we are watching it go!

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A view of the world as it is today by: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

My dad and grandfather are gone now, but neither would support a liar, cheat, rapist, insurrectionist, dictator, or someone who supports one, or generally speaking, a creep or ‘weirdo.’ 

There are other reasons you can look at as well. For instance, a candidate such has a sexual offense judgment against him, and he is under indictment for countless federal crimes; in the last year, one of the candidates was in the air, flying, on their way to being arrested, just as much as he was campaigning at one point. 

One or more of those reasons would have been reason enough to consider looking into the person’s background. And three to four, would have been reason enough to reject a person all together. Someone who was strongly running for public office would have been rejected. Now, the GOP considers it a qualification required for all Republican candidates.

The candidates have endorsements from KKK members. They boast about, a presidential politician having endorsements from dictators. They wallow in such markings, and candidates publicly brag about laws they will violate first, if elected. And this makes them the most qualified candidate. Going as far as boasting about becoming a dictator. Going about telling people this is the last election they will have to worry about voting in. 

Why? Does that mean the Constitution is going to get ripped apart, shredded, and there will no longer be a United States where the people choose its leaders? It appears it doesn’t matter to the people who are numb and following this character. They appear to have zoned out of reality. 

My grandfather, father, uncles, aunts, and even a few dogs and horses I’ve had would not have allowed the goings on to persist. The greatest generation has died chiefly off; fewer of them now than ever are living, which sadly shows in our world. They were the ones who knew what happens when the world that falls to fascism. When reality hits and the world dies. It is beginning as America will turn grey; it will become a black-and-white construct of anything anyone remembers of its being, if these destructionists are permitted to have their way with the country. We only hope enough voters come to the polls and and vote, and save our America!

My dad had a favorite saying: the older I got, the wiser he’d get. And he was right; I wish he were here to help us out of this madness!

JD Groff At Rest And Getting Wiser Every Day!

The Unlikely Friendship: Lessons in Kindness

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By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

It was a quiet Sunday morning. A knock came at the door as the man leafed through the morning paper. He answered it, and there stood a stranger, looking road-worn but determined. ––––

“Is this where Benjamin Groff lives?”

the stranger asked.

“Yes, it is,”

the man replied, studying the stranger’s face.

“You must be his father,”

the stranger ventured his smile kind and knowing.

“Yes, I am,”

the man replied, both curious and wary.

The stranger introduced himself.

“My name is Samuel Johnson. I’ve driven over seventy miles to meet you, sir. You must have been one remarkable man to raise a son like Benjamin.”

The father, his heart swelling with pride, felt a mix of emotions.

“Thank you, Samuel,”

he said.

“But, please, how do you know my son?”

Samuel nodded as though expecting the question.

“I met Ben at the Oklahoma State Fair last fall. I was just there to do a job—keeping an eye on one of the old buildings. Some local boys had been giving me trouble, but Ben stepped in. Out of all the things he could have done at the fair, he chose to sit down and talk with me. We spoke for hours. Your son has a way of making people feel seen, of looking out for folks. He even asked me if anyone was bothering me, and from that moment on, I felt I wasn’t just working the fair—I was spending time with a friend.”

The father listened, deeply touched.

“That sounds like Ben,”

he said softly, gesturing for Samuel to take a seat.

“Let me wake him—he’ll want to know you’re here.”

Ben’s father went to his son’s room and gently shook him awake.

“Ben, you’ll never guess who’s here to see you,”

he said.

Still half-asleep, Ben slowly got up and followed his father into the living room. To his surprise, there sat Samuel, his old buddy from the State Fair. A smile of joy spread across Ben’s face as memories flooded back.

On that day at the fair, Ben had already taken in the sights, ridden the rides, and wandered through the livestock shows, which, to his surprise, had lost their charm despite his upbringing on a farm. He was winding down, simply walking, when he happened upon Samuel’s post.

Samuel was friendly, the kind of person who seemed to carry his life’s story in the lines of his face. Ben had sensed the man’s kindness right away, trusting him instinctively. They talked for hours, sharing stories. Samuel had offered him cold water from the employee stash and even let him use the private restroom in the back, which felt like a luxury compared to the crowded ones across the fairgrounds. Ben could still recall their easy camaraderie, even though much of what they’d discussed had faded over time.

Before parting, Ben had written down his number and directions to their home, saying,

“If you’re ever in town and need anything, look us up.”

Now, here was Samuel, having made good on that invitation.

After they caught up for a while, Ben suggested a tour of the campground where his father worked as a Ranger. The sprawling property had over 350 acres, six cabins, and a large recreation hall. As they rode around, they laughed about old times and marveled at the twists and turns that brought two unlikely friends together again.

Finally, as the afternoon sun started to wane, Samuel turned to Ben with a smile.

“I’d better head back to the city,”

he said, patting Ben on the shoulder.

“I’m grateful to have met your folks and seen your home—it’s even better than I’d imagined.”

He climbed into his Lincoln Continental, waved as he pulled away, and drove down the dusty road until he was out of sight. That was the last time Ben saw Samuel. But in the years that followed, he often recalled the kindness they’d shared, proof that a simple act of friendship could reach far beyond the boundaries of a single day.

Benjamin stood on the porch as Samuel drove off, watching the dust settle behind the Lincoln. He thought about how Samuel’s visit had bridged two worlds—a fact that didn’t escape him in a town where Black residents were often confined to the southwest corner, seen more as a separate community than as neighbors.


Growing up, Benjamin noticed the prejudices that ran through many families in town but never took root in his heart. His father, a man who saw people for who they were, not where they came from, profoundly influenced him. Samuel’s visit was a powerful reminder of how simple kindness could defy those boundaries, how a shared afternoon at a fair could lead to a journey across miles.

Though he never saw Samuel again, Benjamin often recalled those two encounters. They left him with a lesson he carried into adulthood and his career—a quiet but powerful truth about compassion. Samuel had come to honor Benjamin’s father. Still, Benjamin always remembered Samuel for showing him how friendship and decency could surpass any divide, leaving an enduring mark on his life.

In a way, Samuel had gifted him a legacy of his own: the reminder that sometimes, the connections we make in unexpected places leave the most enduring marks on our lives.

In Memory of Samuel!

The Pig That Hid Under The Table

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By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Growing up, my trips to see my grandparents were always a highlight. We had moved to a farm about forty miles east of where they lived, and at least one weekend a month, I’d take a trip west on the Trailways bus. The bus, winding through the state highways, carried passengers to towns large and small, connecting lives along the way.

Fridays were my day of escape. School let out promptly at 3 PM, and I’d head straight to Mills Cafe to buy my bus ticket for $1. That single dollar bought me a ride and a weekend of stories, comfort, and understanding from my grandparents. After securing my ticket, I’d walk down the street to my dad’s barber shop, four doors from the cafe, to wait. Watching for the bus was a serious affair for me. I kept my eyes trained on the road, anxious I might miss it if I blinked. No bathroom breaks, no distractions. I had a mission: get to my grandparents.

Sometimes, folks in the barbershop would try to chat with me, but I was reserved, even standoffish. Sensing my focus, my dad would beam with pride as he explained to his customers,–––

“He’s waiting on the bus. He’s off to check on his grandparents for the weekend, ensuring they’re okay!”

The shop patrons would smile and nod, giving me a knowing look and sometimes adding, –––

“Well, you can’t interrupt a man on a mission.”

But there was another reason I didn’t engage in those conversations. I had a speech impediment that followed me until I was nearly twelve. My words tumbled out wrong, twisted by a thick Eastern accent that stood out in our small Oklahoma town. I’d say “Wooster” instead of rooster or “wise” instead of raise. It sounded right to me, but I was hard to understand to everyone else. My trips to my grandparents were a refuge from the teasing I often faced. They spoke like me, with the same accent, and they took the time to listen.

Bedtime with my grandmother always meant stories—real ones. One of my favorites was her early days with my grandfather when they lived on a farm in Illinois with his family. Not long after their wedding, my grandfather bartered with a neighbor, offering to harvest an acre of corn for a pig and a cow. The pig was young, newly weaned, and just learning to eat regular feed. The neighbor’s wife, however, was a bit unstable, though harmless—or so everyone thought.

One afternoon, while my grandfather and his brothers were out in the fields, my grandmother saw the neighbor’s wife marching down the road toward their home. In one hand, she held a knife, her face twisted in rage as she screamed, –––

“I want my pig!”

My grandmother was still young, not much older than a teenager, and alone in the house. Thinking quickly, she grabbed the little pig, rushed inside, and locked the door behind her. Huddling under the kitchen table, she threw a cloth over the pig, praying it would stay quiet. Outside, the woman’s footsteps grew closer, and her voice turned from angry to menacing.

“I’m going to kill you! I want my pig! Give me my pig!”

The door rattled under the force of the knife stabbing into it, and my grandmother could hear the woman’s curses, slurred with madness. Terrified, she clutched the pig tighter, knowing there was no way she’d give it up—not after my grandfather had worked so hard for it. The pig squirmed in her arms, and she whispered a desperate deal, promising it that if it stayed silent, it would never end up on the dinner table.

The minutes they stretched on like hours. It was sweltering in the kitchen, and my grandmother and the pig were sweaty. The woman outside kept up her assault, pounding on the door and shrieking threats. But the pig, to its credit, didn’t make a sound.

Finally, after an eternity, the woman’s husband happened by in his horse and buggy. He saw her crazed state and managed to coax her away, pulling her back home. My grandmother never saw her again, but for years afterward, she went out of her way to avoid passing that house. And as for the pig? It kept its end of the bargain—staying quiet—and lived to see another day, far from the breakfast table.

Hearing that story as a child gave me courage. Just as my grandmother had faced her fear, hiding under a table with a pig, I could face my challenges, too. Whenever I struggled with my speech, I thought of her and that pig. It gave me the strength to keep pushing forward, knowing that silence—and resilience—could sometimes be the best defense.

It Was A BedTime Story My Grandmother Would Tell Me, But It Was The Weekend That I Loved To Spend!

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By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

It was a bedtime story my grandmother used to tell me when I visited their home on weekends. They lived about forty miles west of the farm we had bought, but they had been farmers in the same area. As they grew older, they sold their place and moved to a larger town, closer to conveniences like supermarkets, doctors, hospitals, and stores. I visited them at least one weekend a month, sometimes more, either hopping a westbound Trailways bus or catching a ride with one of my dad’s friends heading out to Texas. On travel days, I dressed to the nines, careful not to show up looking like a bum, especially since people back then still took pride in looking sharp for such things. Times were changing, though. In the sixties, you started seeing folks on the bus with beads, bell bottoms, and cut-off t-shirts, their hair long, male or female.

I was five years old when I first started traveling with my grandparents, and it became a cherished tradition until my grandmother passed when I was eleven. Even as times changed, my routine remained the same. My grandfather would always park in front of the local drugstore that served as the bus stop in their town. A large courthouse sat in the center of the square, and the bus had to make a loop around it before stopping. The airbrakes would hiss, and I was always be the first one off. The bus driver ensured it, especially since I sat beside him on my suitcase for the whole ride.

My grandfather, whom I called Pop, would be waiting by the trunk of his 1952 Chevrolet Coupe. As I stepped down those bus steps, the driver would already have handed my suitcase to Pop, who would smile and say, ––––

“Let’s scoot. Mom’s got dinner about ready at home!”

And it was home. My home away from home. I often dreamed of moving there, living with them, and even telling them so. I wanted my dad and our horses to come too because, in my child’s mind, my grandparents loved me so much that they’d love my dad and our horses too.

Pop had a habit of smoking a pipe—or rather, puffing on one. I could spend hours watching him puff smoke into the air in their cozy den. He liked to mix cherrywood tobacco with Prince Albert, and the sweet scent lingered long after he finished, complementing the smells of my grandmother’s cooking, making you want to eat whatever she was making. There was no television after dinner on most evenings. Instead, we’d listen to the ticking of the clock and talk. It was simple, but those talks meant more to me than the grandest concerts I’ve ever attended.

There were exceptions, though. Saturday evenings, we’d watch the news, then Lawrence Welk and Porter Wagoner, followed by a local music show hosted by a furniture store owner. But the TV was always off once Pop went to bed. That’s when my grandmother and I would click it back on for our secret ritual—watching championship wrestling from Oklahoma City. She loved it, getting so worked up that she’d tear tissues to pieces while her favorite wrestlers fought. I’d hand her a new tissue each time she shredded the last one. No one knew about this passion of hers except me, and she confided that she only got to watch wrestling when I visited. It made me feel needed by these two people I loved so much.

At night, I slept on a cot in their bedroom. It was as comfortable as any five-star hotel bed. But before I bedded down, my grandmother would let me crawl between her and Pop in their bed while she told me stories. One of my favorites was when she grew up in East Texas. She’d laugh so hard telling it, tears streaming down her face. It always made me laugh, too.

“Mom, Florence Lula McElroy, Groff” 1914

She and her sister Ethyl were watching their little brother, Sam, who had just turned four. The rest of the family worked in the fields when the weather worsened. A funnel cloud was forming in the west, and the sisters, frightened, grabbed Sam and rushed into the farmhouse. Back then, there was no electricity, phones, or fundamental utilities, let alone cars. The girls did the only thing they could think of: they got under the heavy kitchen table, crying as the storm approached.

Not understanding what was happening, Little Sam asked, ––– “What should I do?”

My grandmother told him, ––– “Sam, you should pray!”

But the only prayer the boy knew was the table grace, so he began, ––– “Dear Lord, we thank you for what we are about to receive…”

That’s where the story always stopped because my grandmother would laugh so hard she couldn’t go on. I never knew if the house got hit or the storm blew the farm apart. All I remember is her laughter and how I’d move to the cot, hugging her and giving her a sloppy kiss goodnight.

Years later, I asked my Uncle Sam about that storm. He chuckled and said, ––– “Pots and pans were flying everywhere, and the two sisters were laughing like tea parties. We didn’t lose the house, but it scared me.”

Uncle Sam became my favorite great uncle after that.

I loved hanging out with Aunt Ethyl at family reunions. She dipped snuff—real tobacco, not the stuff you see now. She’d sniff it and tuck some into her upper lip. I could never keep up with her, and my grandmother would have been after me if she ever caught me trying.

On Sunday afternoons, my dad drove to pick me up from the farm. I was always happy to see him but hated leaving my grandparents. I didn’t want to return to the town near our farm—it was never as pleasant as the time spent with Mom and Pop. When I was five, I never imagined that they’d leave this world or that I’d grow up. Life takes the airplane, and time takes the train.