grandparents

The Memory Game: A Humorous Tale of Aging

Benjamin2 Comments

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

2–4 minutes

“The Memory Game”

Earl and Edna had been married for fifty-two years. In those five decades, they had developed a comfortable rhythm, like an old song they both knew by heart. Lately, the lyrics were getting harder to remember.

It all started on a Tuesday morning when Earl stood in the living room, scratching his head.

“Edna,”

He called,

“have you seen my glasses?”

“They’re on your head, Earl,”

Edna replied from the kitchen, her voice tinged with amusement.

Earl patted his scalp and chuckled.

“Well, I’ll be. Guess I’ve been wearing ‘em this whole time.”

But later that day, Edna forgot to turn off the iron. This left a suspicious scorch mark on Earl’s good slacks. That evening, Earl nearly brushed his teeth with muscle ointment. The next morning, Edna scheduled a doctor’s appointment—for both of them.

At Dr. Preston’s office, they sat side by side, holding hands, looking like two nervous schoolchildren awaiting their report cards.

“Doctor,”

Edna began,

“we’re both starting to forget things. Little things, mostly, but…”

Dr. Preston smiled kindly.

“That’s perfectly normal as we get older. One strategy that helps is to write things down. Keep a notepad handy, leave little notes where you’ll see them. It makes a world of difference.”

Earl snorted.

“Write things down? My memory’s just fine. It’s Edna’s that needs the fixing.”

Dr. Preston gave them both a knowing look.

“Just try it. You’ll thank me.”

When they got home, Edna felt a nap coming on and settled into her recliner with a cozy blanket. Earl switched on the TV, flipping channels, landing on a baseball game he wasn’t really watching.

After a while, Edna sat up.

“Earl, dear, would you go to the kitchen and get me a dish of ice cream?”

Earl muted the TV.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

“And write it down, so you don’t forget.”

Earl waved her off.

“Nonsense, Edna. It’s a dish of ice cream. I’ve got it.”

“But I’d like strawberries on it too,”

She added.

“And whipped cream.”

Earl tapped his temple confidently.

“Ice cream, strawberries, whipped cream. No problem.”

Edna gave him a skeptical look.

“You sure you don’t want to write it down?”

Earl shook his head and marched into the kitchen.

For the next fifteen minutes, Edna listened as pots clanged. Cabinet doors creaked. The microwave beeped, and something—was that the blender?—whirred loudly.

Finally, Earl returned, triumphant, a plate in his hands.

“Here you go!”

He declared, setting the plate on her lap.

Edna stared at the plate. Bacon. Eggs. A sprig of parsley.

She looked up at him with an exasperated sigh.

“Earl, where’s the toast I asked for?”

Earl blinked, confused.

“Toast?”

Edna shook her head, laughing despite herself.

“Looks like we’re both making notes from now on.”

Earl sat down beside her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Maybe we should just order takeout.”

And together, they chuckled, holding hands, as the baseball game played softly in the background.

After a moment, Earl squinted at the screen.

“Edna… do you know who’s winning? I can’t tell.”

Edna grinned slyly.

“That’s because, Earl… you’re on first base.”

Earl frowned.

“I’m on first base?”

“No, no,”

Edna said, shaking her head with mock seriousness,

“Who’s on first.”

Earl’s eyes widened.

“Who’s on first?”

Edna corrected, her eyes twinkling.

“No, Who’s on third,”

They both burst out laughing. They cackled until they were wiping tears from their eyes. The baseball game was long forgotten. Their memories were momentarily lost, but their joy was perfectly intact.

Sharing A Story About “Cleaning Nana’s House” by KJ Stafford

Benjamin2 Comments

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

4–7 minutes

My mother will turn 95 this August—if she makes it that far. Of the six siblings, only my youngest sister and I have cared for her in her old age. Two of the others gradually drifted away after our father passed. They chose, for their own reasons, to cut contact year by year. The two oldest brothers have both died in recent years.

My mother has always had a sharp mind and a strong, toned body. She was constantly on the move, always busy. Even into her 90s, she remained active and mentally alert. But over the past year, she’s started to slip. She now experiences episodes of sundowning. During these moments, she loses track of what she’s saying. She also becomes unaware of where she is or where she’s been.

She now lives far away from me. Our once hour-long phone conversations, filled with talk of daily life, have been reduced to five minutes or less. Her thoughts drift. She forgets what we’re discussing, where she is, or even who she’s speaking with.

The next is a piece shared with me by KJ Stafford, titled “Cleaning Nana’s House.” It resonated deeply. My sisters and I cleaned the house we’d all grown up in. This was before my mother moved in with me for several years. She later moved in with my sister, where she now lives. Stafford’s words capture an experience I believe many can relate to, and with her blessing, I’m sharing it here.

CLEANING NANA’S HOUSE

BY: KJ Stafford

In January of 2024 we moved my Nana into my parents house. Her health was failing, and so was her mind. She was no longer able to live alone anymore and she hated that fact. The woman had been independent her entire life. And now at 90 years old she was forced to be cared for. She could no longer take care of herself. I remember the thought hurting my heart. 


Fast forward to February 2025, I held her hand hours before she passed. I had never experienced death in that way before. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dealt with death- both grandpa’s, aunts, uncles… but this was different. It had never been so in my face the way this was. I had never been physically there, witnessing the deterioration every day, every hour. I had never actually watched death slowly take someone. They are memories that will be buried inside my brain until death comes for me. Descriptions that will never make it down on paper ––


April 25th 2025: We piled in our cars, drove the 7 hours to my Nana’s house and began the task of clearing out our memories to make room for someone else’s. My Nana had lived in that house for over 50 years. My mom grew up there. My siblings and I spent weeks there during the summer and until 2024 every Thanksgiving of my life was spent in that tiny dining room around the round, antique wood table. The kitchen looks as if it got stuck in the 70’s. Yellow countertops remind me of sunflowers. The floor is tiled and worn from years of cooking. Years of family gatherings. Years of love. There’s the iconic green couch that sits in the living room…or sat- now it will be given to another family. Moved into a different living room after sitting comfortably in it’s corner for all of these years.

We found love letters from my Grampy to my Nana, boxes of old black and white photographs, ancient toys, jewelry, coats that have somehow found their way back in style, antique glass and trinkets galore. Each find triggering a specific memory. Each find making me wish I could go back 15 years ago. When I was just coming up for the week to visit. Instead of it being the last time within these cozy walls. 


My Nana was by far the strongest woman I’ve ever met. She grew up in Canada, abandoned by her mother before she was 8 years old, left with an alcoholic for a father who was never around. She spent Canadian winters in their small, wooden shack often times by herself. Venturing out into the thick snow every so often to find more logs for the fire- the only thing keeping her warm enough to survive. Scavenging for scraps of food. Eventually being passed on and off to relatives, never having a home to call her own. Never truly feeling loved by a family….


Upon finally coming to America, she met her first husband. She married him when she was only 17 and had three children by the time she was 27. He was a drunk. He was a cheater. She deserved better. One night he got back a little too late, my Nana kicked him out. Divorced his ass. She was the talk of the town. It was unheard of at that time. What woman with three young children abandons her husband? A STRONG one, that’s who. 


She set goals for herself. She knew she wanted to work at the University. She knew that is where she would meet someone else. And she DID. She worked hard until she got hired. And shortly after, she met my Grampy. The sweetest man to ever walk this earth. Years later they had my Mom. 
Without my Nana’s strength. Without her knowing her self-worth, I would have never existed. Had she not followed her intuition. Had she not trusted her gut, there would be no me. No family. And for that, I am forever grateful. 


I like to think she gave me a little of that strength. I feel it within myself sometimes. It’s why I took Stafford as my pen name. I am so honored. Honored that I was able to grow up with her in my life. Thankful that I had her to teach me how to become a strong woman. I vow to live my life as my Nana did. Never accepting less than I deserve and never being afraid to put myself out there, take a risk, trust my gut and grow. 

To read the original story CLEANING NANA’S HOUSE by KJ Stafford click here.

Clicking the line above will also supply images that go with the story.

Memorable Family Moments During a Storm

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

4–5 minutes

My parents rarely attended celebrations, so seeing them at a party in our old town was a significant change. This meant that my two sisters and I would need to stay with my grandparents while they were “in town.” By then, my three older brothers had grown up and left home, marking a shift in our family dynamics.

It was unusual for my sisters to join me and my grandparents in their den. We affectionately referred to them as Mom and Pop. They usually came to the house for a celebration. This could be Christmas, Thanksgiving, or a birthday. We would all gather in the front living room. But we nestled with Mom and Pop this night in their cozy den.

Mom and Pop were old-timey. Mom had a rocking chair. She would rock endlessly in it. Pop sat stoically in his oversized comfort chair. He puffed on his pipe. They habitually glanced out the front door, tracking how often their neighbors left their homes. One neighbor, in particular, drove them crazy by leaving every thirty minutes. They never figured out why.

As evening settled in, the steady ticking of the mantle clock lulled us children into a calming trance. It was a good thing, too, because what was about to unfold would test our nerves.

A thunderstorm at night!

It roared in just as the clock struck seven—thunder, lightning, and a barrage of heavy rain. Mom and Pop had lived through the Dust Bowl. They had seen the Great Woodward, Oklahoma, Tornado. The tornado wiped out the town and claimed many lives in the black of night. Because of that, they had a deep respect for storms. They headed straight for the cellar at the first sign of a tornado threat.

Like an air raid siren, the storm siren was the town’s lifeline. In the early 1970s, we didn’t have the advanced weather alerts we do today. The local police alerted the residents. The fire departments would sound the alarm if a tornado was spotted. This gave residents only minutes to take cover.
My grandmother hushed us, straining to listen for the whistle. Just as she did, a lightning strike took out the electricity—

NO LIGHTS!

Without hesitation, she calmly instructed,

“Pop, go in the bedroom and get the flashlight.”


Pop stood, walked to their bedroom, retrieved the flashlight, and handed it to her.

She scolded him.

“Pop, you could have turned it on, for heaven’s sake. Why didn’t you turn it on?”

Pop replied innocently,

“Well, Mom, you just said go get it—you didn’t tell me to turn it on.”

We sat in the dark, stifling laughter. Then it got worse.
Mom attempted to turn on the flashlight, but nothing happened. She sighed.

“Pop, I thought we got new batteries for this last week?”

“We did, and I put them in,”

He answered confidently.

Confused, she asked,

“Pop, you left the new batteries on top of the chest of drawers, and I had to put them in. You never changed them.”

Pop puffed up.

“Mom, those were the old batteries I put up there after I changed them out.”

Mom groaned.

“Pop, why would you keep the old batteries? Why didn’t you throw them away?”

Pop’s reply ––

“If you saw them there, you’d know I’d already changed the batteries.”

Then Mom ––

“Pop, why would I assume that?”

She took a breath, trying to stay calm.

“Well, I put the old batteries in. So, what happened to the new ones?”

Pop hesitated.

“I thought they were the old batteries… so I threw them away.”

Mom clenched her jaw.

“So now we have no batteries and no flashlight. Wonderful.”

Determined, she announced,

“I’ll go upstairs and get the oil lantern.”

Pop offered to go, but she waved him off.

“No, you’ll mess it up. I’ll take care of it.”

While she was gone, it gave Pop time for improvisation. 

He asked us kids,

“You know where Moses was when the light’s when out?

We all answered,

“No!”

Pop humorously responded,

“He was in the dark!”

He got such a chuckle out of telling it and we of coursed laughed.

Mom carefully navigated the stairs in the dark. Within minutes, she returned with the glowing lantern. The lantern finally illuminated the room.

All the while, my sisters and I sat on the den floor. We were petting Mom and Pop’s chihuahua. We tried to contain our laughter over the events of the evening. We were laughing so hard that, had the siren blown, we couldn’t even hear it. Still, we attempted to keep some composure out of respect for Mom and Pop.

Pop lit up his pipe, turned to Mom, and said

“You ought to put it on your list for when we go shopping to get batteries.”

Our parents didn’t return until nearly ten, when the lights came on. I don’t know how fun their party had been, but ours couldn’t have been any better. Mom and Pop swore us to silence. They didn’t want our dad to think they were becoming forgetful. Until this day, that story has never been privately or publicly shared.

Memories of My Grandmother and the Whippoorwill

BenjaminLeave a comment

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

2–3 minutes

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


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


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


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

I’d ask eagerly.


She would shake her head, smiling softly.

“No, that’s not them.”


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


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


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


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


“Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!”


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

At that moment, I understood.


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


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


And in that sound, I found her again.

Hear the sound in the video below.

Learn about the Whippoorwill here!

The Pig That Hid Under The Table

BenjaminLeave a comment

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!

BenjaminLeave a comment

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.

The Impact Of Loss: Remembering A Childhood Best Friend For Life

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

When I was just eight years old, death was a concept that I hadn’t fully grasped. The only time it touched my life was when my grandparents’ neighbor, a gentleman named Tom, passed away. I was only seven then, and it happened so quickly that it didn’t leave a deep mark. My grandfather had sat up with Tom the night before he passed, a tradition people followed back then—sitting with the dying. It was a tradition, and my dad would continue the practice as I grew up, sitting with many men in our small town of 750 souls. I always wondered why he was asked to do that.

That night, when Pop, my name for my grandfather, went to sit with Tom, it was just my grandmother and me alone in their big, quiet house. It felt different without him there. Early the following day, around 6:00 AM, my grandmother and I were preparing breakfast when Pop came in through the backdoor. He quietly spoke to her, and I suspected what had happened. Mom, my grandmother, suggested I open the dining room door to let the morning light in. As I did, I overheard their conversation growing louder, and when I looked outside, I saw a hearse slowly pulling up to Tom’s house. I knew Tom had passed.

A few days later, my grandmother took me to his funeral, and Pop was one of the pallbearers. It was the first time I ever saw a person in a casket, and Tom still looked like Tom. After the service, my grandmother praised me to my father, saying I behaved so well—sitting quietly and respectfully. I thought I was just being myself. In those days, grandparents didn’t need to ask permission to take their grandchildren anywhere—funerals, courthouses, doctors’ offices, or even jails. The places they took me were some of the most fascinating.

But this story isn’t about Tom. It’s about someone much closer to my heart, a man named Maynord Rider, one of my dad’s dearest friends. Maynord often accompanied us to horse sales on Friday and Saturday nights, and I thought the world of him. He lived two miles south of our farm, a farmer like many others in our area. One cold winter night, our water well froze, and my dad had to drive out over the pasture to fix it. When his headlights passed over Maynord’s bedroom windows, Maynord, instinctively knowing we were in trouble, got out of bed, climbed into his old white Chevrolet pickup, and drove to our house. He pulled up with a five-gallon water thermos and asked if our well had frozen. My mother was surprised—how could he have known? When my dad returned, he asked,

“Maynord, what are you doing here?”

They talked, and it turned out Maynord had guessed right. My dad told him there was no use in fixing it in the dark, and they’d work on it the next day. My dad promised to let Maynord help him the following morning to get him to leave.

There were many stories about Maynord, but they all ended one Thursday in September 1971.

It was the start of a four-day weekend from school due to a statewide teachers’ meeting. The day was beautiful for September in Oklahoma—warm with the usual breeze. I had been pestering my oldest sister, who was tasked with watching me and my other sister. It was just after noon, and the day felt perfect—no school, no bus to catch, just freedom. Then the phone rang. My oldest sister answered, and I could hear her voice change as she said,

“Oh no!” followed by, “I’m not telling him. You should.”

A moment later, she said,

“Mother wants to talk to you.”

I ran to the phone, stretched the cord as far as it would go, and answered.

“Yes, Mother!”

I said, but I could hear a siren approaching in the background. My mother’s voice was calm but direct,

“Benji, Maynord Rider just dropped dead.”

The words hit me like a punch, and I dropped the phone, screaming.

The news hit me like a physical blow, and I dropped the phone, screaming. The rest of the day is a blur, but I remember Ryder, the dog Maynord had given me, howling at the front door, leaning against it as if he, too, understood what had happened. None of the other dogs made a sound—just Ryder, the one I had named after Maynord’s last name.

I wouldn’t see my dad for hours, but I learned the whole story when I did. Maynord had come in from working on the farm for lunch. He ate, felt a bit of indigestion, and decided to lie down for a nap. While his wife, Bonnie, worked in the kitchen, she heard a moan, and when she went to check on him, she found him unresponsive. Panicked, she called my dad at the barbershop, where he cut hair. When he got the call, he told her to call the ambulance and that he’d be there immediately. He told the customers in his shop what had happened, leaving the man in his chair and the shop open as he rushed out.

Driving his Buick Le Sabre station wagon, my dad said the speedometer hit 120 miles per hour as he raced to Maynord’s farm, hoping to get there in time. Hearing this story comforted me, knowing that my dad did everything he could, even though we had lost one of the best men I had ever known.

That Friday night, my parents took me to see Maynord at the funeral home. It was more complicated than when I had seen Tom in his casket. The grief was overwhelming, and I couldn’t contain my tears. It felt like the worst day of my life. For years after Maynord’s death, I would look up at the sky, hoping for some way to talk to him again, but that day never came.

Eventually, I learned that, in life, there would be days harder than that one—the loss of my grandparents and my dad—, but somehow, we keep going, hoping that one day, someone will see our headlights coming over the hill and come to help us, just like Maynord did for us.