holiday

Santa’s Sleepless Encounter

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–4 minutes

It was Christmas Eve. The sleigh soared high worldwide. The northern wind whistled through the bells on the reindeer harnesses. Santa Claus wore his crimson coat and had twinkling eyes. He held the reins tightly. His sack of presents was bursting at the seams. Santa’s job went beyond delivering gifts. He needed to make sure every child was sound asleep before he even set foot on their rooftops.

Santa had his secrets. He carried a special pocket watch gifted by the elves centuries ago. This watch sensed the rhythms of sleep in every home. A little pointer swung wildly when a child stirred awake. Santa would patiently wait, high above the house, until the child drifted off again.

Tonight, in a small town nestled under a blanket of snow, Santa’s watch began to twitch. He hovered over a modest little house on Maple Street.

“Ah, looks like young Clara is having a restless night,” 

Santa mused, his voice soft and kind. He tapped his watch lightly, watching the pointer as it steadied.

Confident she was asleep, he climbed down the chimney with practiced ease. The room was warm, lit by the soft glow of a dying fire. Stockings hung neatly by the hearth, and the scent of pine filled the air from the brightly decorated tree. Santa moved silently. He set down a dollhouse wrapped in shimmering paper. He also placed a pair of skates for Clara. This added to the cozy atmosphere.

But a creak echoed through the room just as he reached into his sack for the next gift. Santa froze. Two wide eyes peeked out from behind the door, framed by Clara’s curly hair. She gasped audibly, her tiny face a mixture of astonishment and delight.

“Oh no!” 

Santa whispered. He had a rule for centuries: no child should ever see him deliver gifts. Magic thrived on belief, and his sight can cause the magic to falter. But here she was, staring right at him.

“Santa?”

 Clara asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Santa thought quickly. He tapped his boot. The room filled with a light dusting of sparkles. Clara suddenly found herself in the most enchanting of dreams. In her vision, Santa smiled and said,

“Go back to bed, little one. This is your special Christmas moment to remember only in your heart.” 

Her eyes fluttered shut. She slipped back into sleep. This was a testament to Santa’s quick thinking and resourcefulness.

Santa sighed with relief and adjusted the gifts under the tree.

“Close call,” 

he chuckled softly, brushing soot off his coat. Before he disappeared up the chimney, he placed an extra candy cane in Clara’s stocking. It was a silent reward for her innocent curiosity.

Outside, the reindeer waited, their noses glowing faintly in the night. Santa climbed aboard his sleigh, glancing once more at the little house before urging the team onward. As the sleigh vanished into the night, leaving behind a trail of twinkling stars, Santa smiled.

“Sometimes,”

he said to the stars,

“even the magic needs a little extra magic.”

As the sleigh vanished into the night, Santa smiled.

“Yes, sometimes,” 

he repeated to the stars,

“even the magic needs a little extra magic!”

The Hot Dog Santa Which Warms Children’s Hearts

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

7 Days Until Christmas. The Countdown Continues!

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

~ When Santa Claus Stopped Coming To Town ~

From the original Hot Dog Santa Brings Christmas Cheer to Children, originally posted on December 10, 2024, by Jenny Ashcraft

On Christmas Day in 1921, a Swedish immigrant named Axel Bjorklund quietly pushed his hot dog cart to a corner in Boston’s North End. There, he handed out 500 steaming hot dogs to cold and hungry children, a simple act of kindness that would leave a lasting legacy.

Axel knew what it meant to struggle. He barely scraped by himself, but his heart ached for the impoverished children he saw daily. Hundreds of children, some as young as five, lined up in their threadbare clothes that chilly Christmas morning, shivering against the cold.

Despite their hunger and hardship, their faces lit up with joy as Axel handed each one a hot dog. Though the food quickly ran out, Axel’s resolve did not. He was determined to make this a yearly tradition. Over the next eight years, he gave away an astonishing 10,000 hot dogs before passing in 1930.

Axel was born on August 6, 1869, in Gothenburg, Sweden. In 1889, he immigrated to America and eventually settled in Boston’s North End, a neighborhood brimming with immigrants striving to build better lives.

Yet, poverty was rampant, especially after the devastating Spanish Flu pandemic left many families destitute and orphaned children wandering the streets. Amid this suffering, Axel’s generosity shone like a beacon of hope.

After a brief and unhappy marriage, Axel lived alone and decided to start a hot dog stand at the busy corner of Blackstone and Hanover Streets. The simple job gave him a sense of purpose, but seeing the hunger around him determined him to do more. He vowed that no child would go hungry if he had food to offer. His first Christmas giveaway in 1921 was a success, and he expanded the effort the following year, doubling the number of hot dogs to 1,000.

His annual giveaway grew as word of Axel’s kindness spread, eventually reaching 3,000 hot dogs yearly. The children affectionately began calling him “Hot Dog Santa.” Newspapers from across the United States and even Sweden shared his story, celebrating his selfless tradition.

Over time, Axel moved his hot dog giveaway to New Year’s Day, but the event remained a cherished occasion for the children who eagerly awaited it. However, Axel’s health began to deteriorate. Rheumatism caused frequent hospital visits, and his financial situation worsened. Struggling to pay his rent, Axel reached out to the public for help, determined to continue his tradition despite his hardships.

In December 1928, just before the giveaway, Axel’s landlady evicted him for failing to pay rent. The Salvation Army provided temporary support, but Axel’s circumstances grew increasingly dire. Over the next two years, he bounced between shelters, the poorhouse, and the Cambridge Home for the Aged, relying on the generosity of strangers. Even so, in 1929, he hosted one final hot dog giveaway.

On November 10, 1930, Axel Bjorklund passed away in a Massachusetts hospital, penniless and alone. He had no family and was destined for a pauper’s grave until news of his death reached the public. Outraged by his fate, citizens rallied together to give the man they called “Hot Dog Santa” a proper burial. Axel Bjorklund’s legacy of compassion and selflessness reminds us of the power of small acts of kindness during difficult times.

Remember, this holiday season, while times may feel joyful and bright for you, they could be challenging and somber for someone else. Offering a helping hand isn’t always a handout—it’s a gesture of humanity and compassion. Let’s take a moment to consider the needs of our fellow human beings, not just during the holidays but every day of the year.

Read original story about the Hotdog Santa Claus Here

Seasons Greetings! ~ Happy New Year!

Santa’s Mission of Love

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

In the heart of a frosty December, Santa Claus sat in his workshop. His eyes scanning the pages of his magical list. It was a heavy year; kindness seemed scarce, and the world became fractured in ways he hadn’t seen before. One town in particular tugged at his heartstrings—Silver Pines, nestled in the Appalachian Mountains. Its beauty hid a darker reality. The LGBTQ+ community, especially gay individuals, faced judgment and outright abuse. Yet, in the face of such adversity, they showed remarkable courage. Letters from people in Silver Pines painted a picture of sorrow, isolation, and a longing yet to be seen.

Santa set down the list with a deep sigh. “No mistakes,” he whispered, stroking his snowy beard. It was a mantra he had held onto since the dawn of time. Every soul was crafted perfectly. Its existence was a thread in the fabric of humanity. His mission was to remind others of this truth.

The night of Christmas Eve was crisp, the air biting but alive with the hum of anticipation. Santa’s sleigh cut through the sky, its bells jingling softly. His bag was lighter than usual. It was not because he carried fewer gifts. His offerings weren’t wrapped in paper this year.

He landed in Silver Pines just past midnight, his boots crunching on the snow-covered streets. Despite the hour, the town was still. He began his journey with his signature magic. He quietly stepped into homes where letters had been written. He spread warmth and comfort to those who needed it most.

At the tiny home, Santa left a handwritten note. Liam and Paul were a gay couple who had faced the brunt of the town’s scorn. It read:

“You are seen. You are loved. You are perfect as you are.”

In another house, a young teen named Oliver found a shimmering snow globe under his tree. He had been wrestling with the fear of coming out. When he shook it, it revealed a rainbow that shimmered against the glass, and inside, a message:

“Your truth is your strength. The world needs your light.”

Throughout the night, Santa wove love into every corner of Silver Pines. He touched the hearts of allies, planting seeds of courage to stand against hatred. He left dreams of acceptance in the minds of those who harbored prejudice. His gifts weren’t toys or trinkets. They were powerful reminders of humanity’s shared essence. Each one carried the potential to transform hearts and minds.

By dawn, the town began to stir. Liam and Paul awoke to find the note, their hearts swelling with hope they hadn’t felt in years. Oliver clutched his snow globe, feeling a new resolve to embrace who he was. The day unfolded slowly. The spirit of Santa’s gifts began to ripple. This ripple ignited a wave of change. This wave would soon engulf the entire town.

People who had once turned away from their neighbors now questioned their biases. Conversations began, tentative at first but growing bolder with time. Acts of kindness, like inviting a marginalized individual to a community event, replaced judgment, and barriers began to crumble.

Santa watched from a distance, his eyes twinkling. The journey wasn’t over—true change would take time—but the seeds had been planted. As he climbed back into his sleigh, he whispered into the cold morning air:

“There are no mistakes in my Father’s design. Love is the gift I give, but it is also the gift you must carry ahead.”

And with that, Santa soared into the sky, his mission not finished but well underway.

The Blizzard of ’78 and the Chetwood 500

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

The Blizzard of ’78 was no ordinary snowstorm. It howled through North America, blanketing rooftops and highways, erasing the horizon in a swirling fury of white. Santa Claus sat in his workshop. He held his red velvet hat in his hands. He stared solemnly at the weather reports brought in by the Weather Elves.

“It’s no use,” 

Santa said, his voice heavy. 

“We can’t fly in this. It’s too dangerous. The snow is too thick, and even Rudolph’s nose won’t cut through this blinding storm. I have to call off deliveries.”

Gasps filled the workshop. Elves dropped their tools, and Mrs. Claus paused her cookie baking. Cancel Christmas? It was unthinkable.

But one elf, a tinker named Chetwood, didn’t gasp. He didn’t drop his tools. Instead, he dashed to his workshop in the far corner of the North Pole. Odds and ends of toys from Christmases past piled high in organized chaos.

Chetwood had been working on a secret invention for years. He used discarded parts from electronic toys no child had wanted. These parts included remote-controlled cars, walkie-talkies, old circuit boards, and an outdated Etch A Sketch. He believed there had to be a way to guide Santa’s sleigh through anything, even the thickest fog or snowstorm.

Tonight was his chance.

For hours, Chetwood worked feverishly, soldering wires, tweaking circuits, and adjusting dials. The other elves whispered about his eccentricity. 

“Chetwood’s always been a dreamer,” 

One said.

“What could he possibly be doing now?”

At midnight, the storm raged on outside. Chetwood burst into the main workshop. He was holding a contraption resembling a patchwork of wires, gears, and blinking lights. He had painted it candy-cane red with a shiny silver antenna on top.

“Santa!”

He cried.

“I call it the Chetwood 500. A radar system can guide the sleigh through total darkness, blizzards, and even the densest fog. I made it from old toys that no one wanted—because one elf’s trash is another elf’s treasure!”

Santa raised an eyebrow but smiled warmly. 

“Chetwood, are you sure this will work?”

“With 100 percent accuracy,” 

Chetwood replied proudly.

The elves gathered around as Chetwood mounted the device on the sleigh. The radar emitted a soft, rhythmic beep, lighting up a screen that displayed glowing outlines of obstacles in their path.

Rudolph gave an experimental snort and trotted to the front of the sleigh, curious about the gadget. Santa climbed into the driver’s seat, gripping the reins tightly.

“All right, Chetwood,” 

Santa said. 

“Let’s see if your invention can save Christmas.”

The sleigh took off into the Blizzard, disappearing into the swirling snow. The elves held their breath, watching the radar screen from the workshop.

Minutes turned into hours. Soon, reports came in from children across the globe. Santa had arrived, gifts were under the tree, and stockings were filled. The Chetwood 500 had guided the sleigh flawlessly, even through the most treacherous conditions.

When Santa returned to the North Pole just before dawn, he lifted Chetwood onto his shoulders. 

“You didn’t just save Christmas, Chetwood. You’ve created something that will change the world. One day, your radar will guide airplanes and ships where they’ve never dared to go before!”

From that day on, Chetwood’s invention became a staple of Christmas lore. Every Christmas Eve, the Chetwood 500 sat proudly atop Santa’s sleigh. It served as a reminder. Even the most unwanted things can shine with purpose in the hands of a true believer.

The Year Joey And Jimmy Saved Christmas

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

Joey and Jimmy McAllister were known in the little town of Maple Hollow for their endless mischief. Like clockwork, Santa’s naughty list bore their names in bold, red ink every year. The brothers raided the cookie jar before dinner. They set off firecrackers in the backyard. They also sneaked frogs into their teacher’s desk drawer. The brothers always found trouble. Trouble always found them.

But this year was different. Something strange was happening in the McAllister household. Joey and Jimmy were behaving like angels. They shared their toys, completed their chores without being asked, and even helped old Mrs. Henshaw carry her groceries home. The town was surprised as the boys’ antics disappeared like melting snow. It wasn’t long before whispers reached the North Pole.

Santa Claus, peering over his list in his workshop, rubbed his spectacles in disbelief. 

“Joey and Jimmy?”

He muttered. 

“Good? All year?” 

He scribbled a note to Mrs. Claus. 

“Something isn’t right. I need to investigate.”

So, with Christmas Eve approaching, Santa decided to do undercover work. Disguised as a kindly repairman, he appeared at the McAllister’s doorstep one frosty afternoon.

Joey answered the door, his face pale with worry.

“Hello, sir,” 

He said politely. 

“Can I help you?”

“Just checking the neighborhood for chimneys in need of repair,” 

Santa said, glancing around. 

“I couldn’t help but notice you and your brother have been outstanding this year. What’s brought about the change?”

Joey’s face fell. 

“We just wanted to make sure we were good enough to get what we wished.”

Santa’s heart warmed. 

“Well, that sounds lovely. What did you wish for?”

Jimmy appeared behind Joey, his voice barely a whisper. 

“We don’t want toys or anything like that. We want Mom to get better.”

Santa’s heart ached. He noticed their pale and frail mother sitting by the fireplace. Her knitting needles trembled in her hands. He realized the boys’ sudden good behavior wasn’t driven by selfishness, love, and desperation. As only children can, they believed. If they were perfect, their Christmas wish would come true. Their mother’s illness would vanish like the morning frost.

Back at the North Pole, Santa sat in his armchair that evening, deep in thought. 

“How do I tell them?” 

he murmured. 

“How do I explain that even the magic of Christmas can’t fix everything?”

Mrs. Claus placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Remind them of what Christmas truly means,” 

she said softly. 

“It’s not about making everything perfect. It’s about love, hope, and being together, even in the hardest times.”

Christmas Eve arrived, and Santa climbed down the McAllisters’ chimney. He found Joey and Jimmy waiting by the tree, their eyes wide with hope. Santa knelt before them, his eyes twinkling but serious.

“Joey, Jimmy,” he began, “I know what you’ve wished for, and I need you to understand something significant. Your love for your mother is the most powerful gift you can give her. It’s stronger than anything I can put in my sack.”

Tears welled in Joey’s eyes. “But we thought if we were good, you’d save her. Isn’t that how it works?”

Santa pulled the boys close. 

“Sometimes, even the best magic can’t stop someone we love from becoming an angel. Your mother’s journey is not something you can control, but your love will make every moment she has brighter. And no matter what happens, she will always be with you.”

The boys sobbed quietly, and Santa held them until their tears slowed. Then he reached into his sack and pulled out a small, glowing star ornament. 

“Hang this on your tree. It’s a reminder that the people we love are never truly gone. They watch over us like stars in the night sky.”

When Christmas morning came, the McAllister family gathered around the tree. Weak but smiling, their mother held the glowing ornament in her hands. The boys’ hearts felt heavy but full, knowing their love was the best gift they gave her.

That year, Joey and Jimmy stayed off the naughty list for good. Though their mother passed the next spring, her love and courage became the foundation of their lives. Every Christmas, they hung Santa’s star on their tree. It was a beacon of hope, love, and the enduring magic of family.

Santa Claus And The Tree In Apartment 828B

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

An apartment in a towering complex held a remarkable secret. It was located in the heart of a sprawling New York where high-rise buildings scraped the skies. Neon lights flickered day and night. Apartment 828B on Floor 39 was home to a Christmas tree unlike any other. The tree had glistening emerald branches. Its ornaments seemed to hum with a soft, otherworldly glow. This tree had the power to light up the entire city. It illuminated not just with light but with warmth, hope, and joy.

The tree belonged to an elderly widow named Mrs. Clarabelle, a retired teacher with a kind smile and a knack for storytelling. She had decorated the tree for decades. Her collection of ornaments included a porcelain angel from her childhood. She also had a wooden sled carved by her late husband. Former students gifted her glittering baubles. Each ornament carried a story. When the tree had its lights on, it radiated a magic that reached far beyond her tiny apartment.

The tree’s light flickered to life as Christmas Eve descended upon the city. Golden beams streamed through the apartment’s windows, spilling onto the streets below. Strangers paused to gaze upward. Their hurried steps slowed. The tree’s glow softened the sharp edges of their busy lives. For one night, the relentless hum of the city seemed to quiet.


Late that night, a figure appeared on Mrs. Clarabelle’s balcony as snowflakes began to fall. Santa Claus was dressed in red. A twinkle was in his eye. He had a heavy sack slung over his shoulder. He stepped into the cozy living room. The tree’s magic had drawn him there, as it had every Christmas Eve for years.

“Ah, my old friend,”

Santa said, touching the tree’s sturdy trunk.

“How bright you shine, even in a world that’s grown so dim.”

The tree’s ornaments twinkled, and its branches swayed gently as if responding to Santa’s words. The tree couldn’t speak like humans. Its magic allowed it to communicate with Santa. He understood its every rustle and shimmer.

“Yes, I know,”

Santa said, settling into Mrs. Clarabelle’s armchair.

“People have forgotten the spirit of Christmas. Fewer homes are decorated, and fewer hearts are open. It’s as if they’ve lost their way.”

The tree’s lights dimmed momentarily, mirroring Santa’s sadness.

“Do you remember,”

Santa continued,

“When was every street filled with twinkling lights? When children left milk and cookies by the fireplace, and families gathered to sing carols by the fire?”

He sighed, his shoulders drooping.

“Now, so many homes are dark. It’s harder to find my way. And harder still to find the joy I once felt.”

The tree’s glow brightened as if to comfort him. Its magic reached out, filling the room with warmth. It reminded Santa of the countless small acts of kindness that still existed. A child shared their toys with a friend. A neighbor shoveled snow for an elderly couple. A stranger paid for someone’s coffee. Though the world seemed dim, the light of Christmas still flickered in the hearts of many.

Santa smiled, his spirits lifting.

“You’re right,”

He said, his voice steady.

“The spirit of Christmas isn’t gone. It’s just harder to see. But it’s there, in the small, quiet moments of love and generosity.”

He stood, his boots crunching softly on the rug.

“Thank you, old friend. Your light reminds me of why I do this, year after year.”

The tree’s lights shimmered, a silent acknowledgment of Santa’s words.

Before leaving, Santa placed a small, wrapped package beneath the tree. It glowed faintly, infused with his magic.

“For Mrs. Clarabelle,”

He said.

“A thank-you for keeping the spirit of Christmas alive.”

With a final nod to the tree, Santa stepped onto the balcony, his sleigh waiting above. The tree’s golden light followed him, illuminating the city as he soared into the night sky. For a brief moment, every window glowed with its reflection. The people below felt a spark of warmth they couldn’t quite explain.

In Apartment 828B on Floor 39, the tree’s light continued to shine. It served as a beacon of hope in New York City. The city needed it more than ever. And in the hearts of those who paused to look up, the spirit of Christmas found a home once again.

The Secret Santa of Cordell, Oklahoma

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

In the small, snow-covered town of Cordell, Oklahoma, Police Chief Eby Don Walters had a secret. Every December, the frost painted the windows and the smell of pine and cinnamon filled the air. During this time, he would don a plush red suit and strap on a padded belly. He transformed into the town’s beloved Santa Claus.

Decades ago, a young Eby Don joined the force. The town’s Santa fell ill just days before the annual Christmas Eve festival. Eby Don, with his deep, booming laugh, twinkling eyes, and short, round build, stepped in. The kids adored him, and the tradition was born, bringing enduring joy to the community.

The children of Cordell adored Santa. They poured their hearts into their whispered wishes. They handed him carefully drawn pictures. They giggled when he joked about knowing if they’d been naughty or nice. Eby Don never broke character. He stayed in character even when his nieces and nephews sat on his lap. Their eyes were wide with wonder.

As the years passed, the children grew up, never suspecting that Santa was their own Chief Walters. Many returned with their kids, eager to introduce them to the magical figure from their childhoods. Eby Don played along. He listened with a warm smile as grown adults recounted their cherished memories of Santa. He waited for the moment when they would discover the truth. Their surprise and delight added to the magic of Christmas.

One Christmas Eve, nearing his sixties, Eby Don felt the weight of the years. The suit fit slightly tighter, and his knees creaked as he crouched to hug the smallest children. Yet, he couldn’t bear the thought of passing the torch. This was his gift to the town, his way of keeping its spirit alive. The Santa suit took a physical toll on him. Despite this, Eby Don continued to wear it. He knew the joy it brought to the children and the community.

That night, a little girl named Emma tugged at his sleeve, her big blue eyes searching his face.

“Santa, will you be here forever?”

she asked.

Eby Don knelt, his voice gentle.

“Santa’s spirit is always here, sweetheart, as long as people keep believing in the magic of Christmas.”

He knew that the belief in Santa was not just about a man in a red suit. It was about the spirit of giving, love, and hope that Christmas symbolizes. It was this belief that kept the Secret Santa tradition alive in Cordell.

The festival ended with the usual fanfare: carols, laughter, and the lighting of the town tree. Eby Don slipped to the small changing room behind the stage, trading his Santa suit for his police uniform. He stepped out into the cold night. The snow fell softly around him. He overheard a group of parents. Some of them were his former ‘kids’. They were talking about how lucky Cordell was to have a Santa who never missed a year. It was a warm and nostalgic end to the festive evening.

Eby Don smiled to himself. They would never know how much those words meant to him. He returned to his patrol car. His heart was as full as the sack of presents he had left under the tree. Chief Eby Don Walters cherished the greatest gift. It was knowing he had brought a little magic into the lives of everyone in Cordell. It was knowing he had brought a little magic into the lives of everyone in Cordell. They never knew the man behind the beard.

The Season of Light

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A December Story for Every Heart, Every Home, Every Tradition

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

3–4 minutes

In the little town of Mesa Ridge, the December sky seemed to hold every dream ever whispered. This town was tucked between a quiet stretch of desert. December didn’t arrive with just one story. It came with hundreds.

Not everyone called this time “Christmas.” Some families lit candles and spoke of miracles. Others gathered for feasts that marked the turning of the year. Some spent the month in quiet reflection, while others burst through the season with celebration and song.

But one thing was always the same: the light.

It started with a single lantern placed outside the old community center on the first day of December. No one remembered who began the tradition, but every night the lantern burned, its small glow chasing back the darkness. By the second evening, another family placed a candle beside it. Then the kids down the block added a tiny string of lights. A paper star was made by the third-grade class. The elders contributed a jar filled with sand and a tea light, remembering doing the same in their youth.

Within a week, the once-plain walkway to the center shone with a thousand shapes of light. These represented different traditions, different meanings, and different languages of hope. They were all gathered in the same place.

One chilly evening, as neighbors drifted in to admire the growing show, an elderly woman named Mrs. Cordero said softly,

“This is what the season is supposed to look like. All of us… together, not the same, but warm in the same glow.”

A teenager beside her shrugged.

“But what does it celebrate? Which holiday?”

Mrs. Cordero smiled the smile that had seen many Decembers.


“It celebrates us,”

She said.

“Us choosing to be a little softer with one another. A little kinder. A little more willing to look someone in the eye and say, ‘You matter to me.’ If the lights have a job, it’s simply to remind us that we’re better when we brighten one another.”

Word spread quickly, as all good messages do.

Light has no doctrine, and kindness has no borders.
In December, we simply shine a little brighter—together.

Soon, families who had never spoken found themselves sharing warm drinks and stories. The bakery owner delivered sweet rolls just because it felt right. A newcomer from across the country found herself wrapped in community she hadn’t expected. Even the grouchy widower who lived on the corner had not decorated for anything in decades. He quietly placed a single white lantern at the end of his driveway. No explanation needed.

On December 24th—whatever that date meant to each household—a gentle hush fell across Mesa Ridge. People walked the lantern path not as one faith or another, but simply as neighbors. The lights flickered, danced, and whispered the same message in a hundred different languages:

Goodwill belongs to everyone.
Kindness is not seasonal, but December is a good place to start.
And light—no matter where it comes from—shines brightest when shared.

When the last lantern was lit that night, the community didn’t cheer. They simply breathed in the moment, letting the warmth settle into their bones.

Some carried the glow home.
Some carried it into the New Year.
Some carried it for a lifetime.

And in the little town of Mesa Ridge, the tradition continued. It wasn’t because anyone told them to. It was because they remembered how it felt to step into the light together.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

It Is Well After The American Turkey Day – So I am Going To Say It… Happy Christmas, Merry Holidays!

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

1–2 minutes

I’ve always felt that Hawaii is a state too often overlooked. I make it a point to include them whenever I’m searching for stories or news pieces. This Christmas—whatever your holiday season looks like—is no exception.

In times of uncertainty, we search for our better angels. We hope for a gentler tomorrow. I often turn to those who left us examples of grace, comfort, and tradition. There were people we once depended on to show up every Christmas. They became woven into the fabric of our holidays—at least for those of us in the United States.

To my friends outside the U.S., and to those who be too young to remember, I offer my apologies—this memory comes from another era. But I invite you along anyway. What I want to share is a small holiday wish from my own past.

It’s a moment wrapped in nostalgia, carried to us by a familiar voice: Bing Crosby.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Happy Thanksgiving 2025 – A Day of Gratitude For All

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1–2 minutes

This Thanksgiving, I’m reflecting on the many things I’m grateful for. First and foremost is my loving spouse, Steven. Since we met in 1982, our life together has been both challenging and rewarding. I’m thankful every day for the way we support one another. We are not rich, but we’re in good shape—physically and financially—and that’s a blessing in itself.

I’m grateful for my health. It is better than it has been in years. I am also thankful for the simple comforts of home. We have a roof over our heads. There is food on the table. We also have dependable cars that get us where we need to go. Our little dog Otis keeps us laughing and moving. His energy pushes us to stay active. I fully understand now why people say pets add years to your life.

I’m thankful for my siblings, even though time and distance have changed those relationships. Two brothers are gone. Two were adopted and moved in their own directions. The lessons we learned growing up were shaped by my parents. They have stayed with me and helped me through the hardest parts of life.

I’m grateful for good neighbors who look out for one another. They do so without stepping too close. I am also grateful for friends who can be counted on when it matters. And I’m especially thankful for my readers here on WordPress. Regardless of where you are in the world you are included in this day of gratitude. While it is an American Holiday, I do consider all the people in the world as part of it.

Writing something each day has become a personal goal. As long as I’m able, I’ll continue sharing these pieces of my life.

This Thanksgiving, I’m simply grateful to be alive—and for all the riches that can never be taken away.
Happy Thanksgiving!

Benjamin

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

Because They Mattered ~ Legacy Lives On

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Their Final Chapter Is Not the End

Groff Media ©2025 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

2–3 minutes

In the quiet margins of newspapers, lives flicker out of print. Still, they do not fade out of memory. That is where our magazine steps in. It offers a respectful space for families and community members. They can share and preserve their loved ones’ stories. benandsteve.com believes that every person who mattered deserves more than a line in the obituary section. It doesn’t matter whether they soared in the spotlight or labored in the shadows. They deserve a story that lingers.

At Galaxy8News, a Service of benandsteve.com, we curate the collection “Notable Deaths—Gone But Not Forgotten“. Our aim is to shine a light on the lives behind the names. We ask the questions no standard notice ever does: What did they believe? What seeds did they plant? Who still carries their echo?

Remembering those who have gone on before.
In State. Gone But Not Forgotten! ~ The Quiet Roll Call of Memory ~ A Place Where Every Life is Honored!

The local teacher’s kindness rippled through generations. The factory worker’s quiet ingenuity saved jobs. Every story reminds us that all lives matter and deserve recognition. Each of them mattered in a way that defies headline fame, and we honor that truth.

When you turn our pages, you are not just scrolling past a date and a funeral notice. You are stepping into a life lived, an unfinished story, and a memory that still speaks. Through these stories, you can feel connected to those who shaped our world in ways that matter deeply to someone.

Join us. Let this edition of Notable Deaths – @ Galaxy8News, a service of benandsteve.com, stand as a testament that we remember — not only the famous, but the faithful. We honor not only the celebrated, but the steadfast. Through meaningful storytelling, we create a space where every life is acknowledged. Each life is valued and preserved. This nurtures a lasting sense of belonging and purpose.

We assure their contributions, their legacy, and their memory are posted. Visit daily to stay connected and informed on the most recent passing’s of those who have departed this world. Their lives mattered, and their stories deserve to be remembered. Bookmark it here! Just remember Galaxy8News, a service of benandsteve.com and Notable Deaths are two different pages. Hosted by the same entity.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

BE SAFE AND HAVE HAPPY THANKSGIVING.

DRIVE SAFE. & BUCKLE-UP

If You Are Driving Don’t Drink And Drive.

Do Not Drive If You Are Not Well Rested.

Keep A First Aid Kit In Your Vehicle.

And Avoid Fights On Airplanes.

Photo by ASHISH SHARMA on Pexels.com
Don’t Be A Turkey!

The Long Holiday Journey: Family Moments on the Road

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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.

Solemn Reflections: Memorial Day and the Spirit of Sacrifice

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As the sun rose over the small town of Oakwood, its warm rays illuminated the rows of white headstones in the Oakwood Cemetery. The city, steeped in a rich history of honoring fallen soldiers, had always observed Memorial Day with solemn pride. This day, originally known as Decoration Day, was established after the Civil War to commemorate the Union and Confederate soldiers who died in the war. It has since evolved to honor all Americans who have died in military service.

Sarah Thompson stood at the cemetery’s gate, holding a bouquet of red, white, and blue flowers. She was in her late thirties, her eyes reflecting sorrow and strength. Visiting the cemetery was her yearly ritual—a pilgrimage to visit the grave of her brother, Daniel, who had died in Afghanistan a decade ago.

As Sarah walked along the gravel path, she remembered the day they received the news. It had been a bright summer afternoon, much like today. Daniel had always been a source of light and joy in their family, with his infectious laughter and boundless energy. The knock on the door that day had shattered their world.

Sarah reached Daniel’s grave and knelt, gently placing the flowers in front of the headstone. She traced her fingers over his name etched in the cold stone and whispered a prayer. Memories flooded back—playing tag in the backyard, late-night talks about their dreams, and the tearful goodbye when he left for his final deployment.

The cemetery, a place of collective grief and remembrance, began to fill with others who had come to pay their respects. Families, friends, and fellow veterans moved among the graves, their shared sorrow palpable in the air. Some walked in silence, their thoughts a private tribute, while others shared stories, their voices a collective echo of the lives lost.

A familiar voice broke Sarah’s reverie. “Hey, Sarah.”

She turned to see Tom, one of Daniel’s best friends from high school, standing nearby. He held a small American flag, which he placed at the base of the headstone. Tom had served alongside Daniel and had been with him during his last moments.

“It’s good to see you, Tom,” Sarah said, her voice soft.

Tom nodded, his eyes filled with shared grief. “I come here every year. Feels like the least I can do.”

They stood in silence for a moment, their hearts heavy with the weight of their loss. Each lost in their thoughts, memories of Daniel flooding their minds. Then Tom began to speak, his voice steady but emotional, his words a testament to the bravery and selflessness of their fallen friend. ‘Daniel was the bravest person I knew,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘He always put others before himself. Even in the end, he worried more about us than his safety.’

Sarah smiled through her tears. “That sounds like him.”

The morning wore on, and more people arrived, each carrying their own memories and gratitude. A group of children from the local school, accompanied by their teachers, placed flags on the graves of all the fallen soldiers, a symbol of their respect and understanding of the sacrifices made. The town’s mayor gave a short speech, his words echoing with the collective gratitude and remembrance of the community. A local choir sang ‘America the Beautiful,’ their voices a poignant reminder of the unity and strength that comes from shared values. The collective remembrance was a powerful testament to the sacrifices made by so many.

As the ceremony ended, Sarah and Tom lingered by Daniel’s grave a little longer. They shared stories, laughed, and cried, finding comfort in each other’s company.

“Thank you for being here,” Sarah said as they prepared to leave.

“Always,” Tom replied. “He was my brother, too.”

They returned to the cemetery gate together, the sun now high in the sky. As Sarah looked back one last time at the sea of white headstones, she felt a sense of peace. Memorial Day was not just about remembering the fallen; it was about celebrating their lives and the values they stood for.

Driving home, Sarah contemplated the significance of this day and how she would pass on its importance to her children. She understood that as long as they remembered, Daniel’s spirit would continue to live on. Every Memorial Day, she would return to this hallowed ground, ensuring that the memory of her brother and all those who had made the ultimate sacrifice for their country would never fade.

In checking references part of this story may include referencese similar to others found on the internet. The simularities are incidential and are not included intentional. You can find more these simularities RE: New York. Memorial Day. Monument. Dead Soldier. Wheelchair. Handicapped Boy. | Didier Ruef | Photography. https://www.didierruef.com/gallery-image/Aura/G0000Is39GN2Av9w/I0000aHlCvWVZLNc/C0000EU0LcXmMzWo/