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1963: A Year Between Heartbreak and Hope

January 3, 2026December 22, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

The Year Many Were Born And The World That Shaped It

2–3 minutes

A topic came up recently about naming the most interesting—or most defining—events from the year you were born. For me, that year was 1963, which was sixty-two years ago. It was a year that carried an unusual weight, filled with moments of deep loss alongside remarkable progress and hope.

For fans of country music, 1963 was especially heartbreaking. In March, a plane crash claimed the lives of Patsy Cline, Hawkshaw Hawkins, Cowboy Copas, and Cline’s manager. Just a few months later, another aviation accident occurred. It took the life of Jim Reeves, one of the genre’s most beloved voices. The sorrow didn’t end there. Jack Anglin, one half of the duo Johnny & Jack, was killed in a car accident. He was driving to attend Patsy Cline’s memorial service. In a matter of months, country music lost several of its brightest stars, leaving a lasting scar on the industry.

Nationally, the year is most remembered for tragedy. President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, an event that stunned the nation and the world. Two days later, the man accused of the assassination, Lee Harvey Oswald, was himself shot and killed. Oswald’s murder caught on live television by the shooter Jack Ruby, a Dallas nightclub owner. Because both men died before standing trial, no jury verdict was ever rendered regarding the assassination itself. While the Warren Commission later concluded that Oswald and Ruby acted alone, lingering questions have remained for decades.

There has also been confusion surrounding Jack Ruby’s legal fate. Ruby was convicted of murder with malice in March 1964 and sentenced to death, but that conviction did not stand. In October 1966, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals overturned the verdict. The decision was due to excessive pretrial publicity. The court ordered a new trial. Before that retrial could occur, Ruby died on January 3, 1967, from complications related to lung cancer. As a result, no final conviction was in place at the time of his death.

Yet 1963 was not defined by tragedy alone.

Despite its losses, the year was also marked by hope, courage, and meaningful progress. On August 28, Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech during the March on Washington. The speech inspired millions. It accelerated the push toward civil rights legislation that would soon follow. In science, Valentina Tereshkova became the first woman in space, orbiting Earth aboard Vostok 6—a milestone celebrated around the globe.

Popular culture flourished as well. The Beatles rose to international fame, bringing a sense of excitement and unity to a generation. Television, animation, and film offered families shared moments of comfort during a rapidly changing time. On the world stage, the United States, the Soviet Union, and the United Kingdom signed the treaty. This treaty was the Partial Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. This treaty represented a hopeful step toward easing Cold War tensions.

Looking back, 1963 stands as a year of contrast—one of profound sorrow and extraordinary progress. It reminds us that even in times of loss, history continues to progress. Resilience and creativity shape it. There is also the enduring hope for something better.

Hogtied on the Linoleum Floor

January 2, 2026December 22, 2025Benjamin2 Comments

Lessons in Trust from Mom and Pop’s Living Room

4–5 minutes

I was five or six years old in 1968. That is the thought I had at midnight when I couldn’t fall asleep. I tried counting sheep to fall asleep. Nevertheless, every time one got over the fence, I thought of the Pink Panther cartoon. There was an episode where that cool pink cat finally got all the sheep counted onto one side. Then, they stampeded back and trampled him in bed. I worried that happen to me. So I paused.

By then, I’d lost my place anyway. Was I on thirty-five? Or forty-five? I laughed quietly to myself and started thinking about where I first saw that Pink Panther episode. Ah, yes—the living room floor at my grandparents’ house. I had to have been five or six.

That memory sent me down an entirely different path. I started thinking about my grandparents—Mom and Pop, as I always called them in my stories. Mom was in her seventies, Pop in his eighties. Their home was my escape on many weekends and long summer days. Life there felt simple, steady, and safe.

Mom kept a half-gallon tin can filled with treasures. It contained an old set of dominoes, tiny farm animals, and a little truck. I imagined it hauled just about anything. On the linoleum floor of their den, I spent hours building domino fences to keep the animals contained. Sometimes I hauled them off to market. Other times, I stacked the dominoes carefully into what I imagined was an oil derrick. In 1968, an imagination was powerful. An incomplete set of dominoes became anything a kid wanted it to be.

While I worked, Mom rocked gently in her chair, watching me with a smile as her bird, Billy, sang nearby. Pop sat with his pipe, sending out a steady stream of smoke from his Prince Albert tobacco. That bucket of toys kept me busy all day—or so it seemed. I never thought about the world changing beyond that setting.

If I ever got tired of farming, there was something else waiting in that tin can: a long cotton rope. It was also there if I got tired of building oil wells. And the rope was always for one thing—getting hogtied.

The rules were simple. I had to lie still. No kicking. Pop would tie my hands and feet together behind my back. Then wait until the clock on the china cabinet struck the top of the hour. Only then I tried to get loose. I couldn’t kick myself free—I had to work the knots with my hands. It usually took a good hour, but I always managed to escape.

It wasn’t unusual for neighbors to stop by while the grandson was hogtied on the floor. Jimmy Schriver, who lived across the street and stopped in nearly every day, sometimes offered advice. He even tried to help once or twice, which earned him a sharp rebuke from both Mom and Pop.

“No,”

They’d say.

“He must learn to escape from being hogtied. It’s crucial in case his horse gets stolen. And he gets tied up on the trail.”

To a five-year-old, that sounded perfectly reasonable. My dad and I rode horses often. I watched plenty of Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Rawhide, and Gunsmoke. This showed me that such things happen. In reality, I’ve never been hogtied by anyone other than my grandparents—but back then, it felt like practical training.

**_{^{Mom, Pop, & Benjamin age 9,horses name is Sam.}}**

Lying awake that night, I decided not to count sheep or cattle anymore—no sense risking a stampede. Instead, I wondered how my grandparents would be viewed today. What would someone think if they walked in and saw a child tied up on the floor? The child would be working knots while waiting for the clock to chime.

The more I thought about it, the smarter those two old-timers seemed. They discovered how to channel the boundless energy of a child. They couldn’t outrun or outplay the child. Instead, they turned that energy into patience, problem-solving, and imagination.

We played other games—wahoo, dominoes, bingo—but hogtying is the one that stayed with me. I’d look ridiculous asking for it now. If I see Mom and Pop again someday, I’d know which game to play first.

What I understand now is far more clear to me than it ever was back then. They were not really teaching me how to escape a knot. They were teaching me trust. Trust that I was safe. Trust that I could struggle and still be watched over. Trust that someone would always be nearby. They let me work it out on my own. They never let harm come to me. Being hogtied on that linoleum floor wasn’t about restraint. It was about freedom within boundaries. It was about confidence built quietly. It was the unspoken assurance that I was loved enough to be protected while learning how to untangle myself. That kind of trust, once given, stays with you for life. And today, would probably cause you to lose custody of your children.

Take Me Back To Yesterday Once More

October 21, 2025September 29, 2025Benjamin3 Comments

5–8 minutes

The Farm That Built Me

When I look back on my childhood, I’m struck by how much life changed. The changes happened between the time I was born and when I turned eight. We didn’t have indoor plumbing at first. Initially we hauled water from town in five gallon buckets. That was for drinking and cooking. In a big tank in the back of my dad’s truck, water was hauled for the livestock. Eventually water was found on the farm in a well far south of our house. Than ran pipe as far as possible. But, the water pipe stopped about twenty feet shy of our kitchen door. My parents couldn’t afford to run it inside. Every day, we carried buckets from the outdoor faucet to the house. This was still an improvement over hauling water all the way from town.

If you have ever heard of the ‘little brown shack out back.’ Well we had one. We used it even after water was found on the place. Because their wasn’t a bathroom in built in the house. It would be added later. We would walk a trail to the shack in the summer and winter. It wasn’t fancy built at all. It had yellow jackets nest high on the wall. It had a hook and eye lock to secure the door when you were inside. A wooden block turned to keep the door shut when you left. It was cold as ice in winter and hot as hell in the summer. And our company didn’t take to it. It would cut their visits short. And sometimes I wondered if that wasn’t my dad’s plan for having for so long to start with.

Around the same time, we got our first telephone. The line lay exposed down the center of the dirt road. It was shared on a party line with two other houses. Every time the road grader came, the blade cut the wire. We would wait weeks for the phone man to splice it back together. They buried it once, but the sandrock kept them from going deep. The grader still found it. Eventually, someone figured out how to run it four feet off to the side of the road. That man got a promotion—and passed away not long after. These were the everyday challenges of our farm life.

Electricity was another novelty. We had it most of the time. But if it went off during a storm, it was especially bad during a snow event. We would be without lights for a week or longer. They were also the threads that wove our family together. These challenges taught us the value of perseverance. They also brought the joy of shared triumphs.

Heat was another story. Before our fireplace was installed, a single stove in the living room was turned down at night to save propane. We woke up to breath clouds in the cold air before school. Summers weren’t much easier. With no air conditioning, the whole family slept in the living room on pallets. We threw every door and window open. This helped capture the breeze from the five-acre lake a quarter mile south. We’d even open the fireplace flue to pull in a cool draft. It sounds uncomfortable now.

Back then, it was more than just a living arrangement. It was a testament to the value of family closeness. Six kids, two parents, visitors, and dogs—living in one big indoor campsite every night. If you’ve never known family closeness, you’ve missed something truly special. It’s these moments that I look back on with nostalgia and a deep appreciation for the bond we shared.

My father raised American Quarter Horses, and our farm revolved around them. We only kept one stud at a time to avoid brutal fights. Mares were bred individually, often requiring long hauls to other states to introduce new bloodlines. Our horses went everywhere—rodeo circuits, calf-cutting competitions, and even television shows. One star from Gunsmoke, Buck Taylor, called about a horse. Another buyer phoned from New York City during the Garden Square Futurity. He called to thank my dad for the mare Molly. Molly had taken him to the finals. My dad didn’t like us talking about our customers because he valued humility over reputation. As a kid, I didn’t understand. Now I do.

I remember the early 1970s and how tight our family budget must have been. My dad would come home from his barbershop with sacks of horse feed loaded in the back of his truck. He’d park in front of the house. Then, he’d hoist a heavy sack onto his shoulder and walk nearly two city blocks. He’d go down a hill, across a pasture, and all the way to our barn. He had back and leg issues that made every step painful, but he refused to “waste” fuel in his truck.

At the time, I didn’t grasp how precious that gallon of gas was during the oil crisis of the 1970s. To me, it was just Dad doing what he always did. He worked hard. He quietly bore pain. He put his family and animals first. Only now do I understand it was more than thrift; it was discipline and determination passed down like an heirloom.

That simple act—carrying those sacks of feed instead of burning a gallon of gas—left a mark on me. It taught me that sacrifice, resourcefulness, and responsibility are not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes they’re a man. He is alone at dusk, carrying a heavy burden down a path. This happens because it’s the right thing to do.

Everything shifted when Dad took a job at a Girl Scout camp. Horses were sold off until only a few remained for us to ride. We moved to the camp and poured ourselves into cleaning trails, rebuilding facilities, and living outdoors. Yet Dad’s passion for horses never dimmed. We still attended auctions and brought home horses to train. One day, I spotted a skittish dun mare at an auction—Lady. I knew she’d been mistreated and asked Dad to buy her. With patience, grooming, and daily walks, she became the smoothest riding horse I ever had. Lady followed me everywhere without reins, just like a loyal dog. Later, bred to a stud sixty miles away, she gave birth to a colt with the same gentle spirit.

Those years formed me. They were a school of life. They taught me resourcefulness. They also taught patience. I learned how to read the quiet signals of both people and animals. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. And now, decades later, every time a cool breeze brushes my face, I remember those nights in the living room. The windows were open. I hear the sound of our horses in the pasture. These are proof that even the simplest moments can shape a lifetime. The lessons I learned from farm life continue to inspire me. They shape my perspective. I appreciate the value of patience, resourcefulness, and the importance of family.

Forgiveness and Memories: A Story Unfolds

August 29, 2025August 15, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

1–2 minutes

The Last Letter

The envelope had no return address—just Ben Keller’s name written in neat, looping script he hadn’t seen in twenty years.

It arrived on a Wednesday, the gray morning when the world felt slightly out of focus. He set it on the kitchen table. He stared at it over his coffee. The handwriting gnawed at a half-buried memory.

When he finally opened it, there were only four words inside: “I forgive you. – M.”

Ben’s mind spun. M had only one reason to forgive him. It was Maggie Lowe, his best friend from the summer of ’98. They were both seventeen then. The girl who vanished after that last night on the lake. The girl everyone assumed had run away.

For the rest of the day, the letter sat in his jacket pocket, a warm weight against his chest. That night, he drove out to the lake. It looked smaller than it had in his memory. The old pier was still there. The boards were warped and groaned under his steps.

Halfway down, he stopped. Someone was standing at the end of the pier, back to him, long hair rippling in the wind.

“Maggie?”

The figure turned. Same face. Same eyes. Not aged a day.

Ben’s breath caught.

“How…?”

She smiled faintly, holding up her hand. A folded sheet of paper slipped from her fingers, catching the wind before it hit the water.

“You always wondered what happened. Now you’ll remember.”

When Ben blinked, she was gone.

And in his pocket, the original letter was gone too.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025

Some Memories Are Best Left Unchanged

August 9, 2025August 1, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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

3–4 minutes

Some Memories Are Best Left Unchanged

At 62, I’ve lived through six decades of friendships. Every ten years or so, there’s an evolution. New people come into your life. A few stay, and most eventually move on. In that revolving cycle, we come to appreciate each other’s company, character, talents, and sometimes, our usefulness. Life seems to have been designed this way for me. Over time, I’ve even developed an instinct for craving these transitions. Maybe it’s self-preservation. It’s growth.

Recently, I came across a post that stopped me in my tracks. It said,

“There’s a heavy emotional toll that comes with holding on to dead relationships. They fill your life with noise—unanswered messages, awkward small talk, the guilt of obligation just because something once meant something.”

That struck a chord.

Because the truth is—life isn’t a museum of past connections. It’s meant to be lived peering ahead, with people who show who you are now, not who you once were.

Outgrowing someone isn’t betrayal. It’s growth. Letting go doesn’t mean you never loved them. Instead, it means you love yourself enough to protect your peace.

That’s how I feel about many past connections. Some, I miss dearly. Others, I’ve outgrown. And a few? I had to run for my survival.

One thing I’ve learned about long-term relationships—whether with people, places, or versions of ourselves—is the importance of taking regular inventory. What am I still carrying? What deserves to come with me into the future, and what needs to be laid to rest?

For me, I try to leave behind no unfinished business where love, sincerity, or kindness once lived. If you hope to rekindle old ties after a long silence, I offer this gentle caution. Some memories are best left untouched. If you plan to relive the past, go ahead. But please, go without me. We survived it once. I’m not eager to tempt fate with a rerun.

These days, I want to do something different. If there’s something we always talked about doing—some dream we never dared to chase—let’s talk about that. Let’s look ahead, not backward.

Getting older has made me clearer about what I want—and what I refuse to carry. It’s also made me think about my father. I remember him telling stories from the war, from his school days, from the old neighborhoods we lived in. He’d speak fondly of his buddies, show me their photos, and share their shenanigans. But he kept them in their place. He never tried to drag them ahead into the current day. He understood something I now understand: some memories belong to a time and place that can’t—and should not—be reentered.

I still get news from “back home,” as I call it. From the town I left 44 years ago. Many of the people I grew up with never left it. And I can’t return there—not fully—without recalling the world I chose to leave behind.

Of the 25 classmates I graduated with, at least eight are gone now. Some were lost to murder, some to accidents, and others to illness. I came from a small farming town where everyone knew everyone. If the death toll isn’t sobering enough, something even more surprising is how many of us turned out differently. This is more than anyone would’ve guessed. Five of my classmates have since come out as gay. A revelation that would have stunned our small-town sensibilities back then.

Interestingly, it’s not the ones who stayed close to home who thrived—it’s the ones who left. Who dared to change? Who moved ahead?

And maybe that’s the lesson.

Some memories deserve our respect—but not our resurrection.

Some people, our gratitude—but not our return.

Because the past has its place—and so do we.

And some memories…

are best left unchanged.

A Nostalgic Journey Through Summer Days

June 24, 2025Benjamin2 Comments

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

1–2 minutes

The Days of Summer

There is something about the days of summer that never quite leaves you. It is a scent in the air or a golden hue in the light. It is also the sound of cicadas warming up for their evening concert. For a child, summer feels like forever. For an adult, it feels like something you once held in your hands. You didn’t realize it would slip away so quickly.

I remember one summer, I must have been around eleven. We had a tire swing tied to the big oak tree out back. That tree had roots that curled up out of the ground like the backs of old hands. When it rained, they made little rivulets in the dirt. My brothers and I would race leaves down those muddy streams as if they were ships headed for faraway lands.

The days were long and hot, but we didn’t care. Shoes were optional. Supper was whenever someone called out loud enough for us to hear. Most days, we’d roam until we were sunburned and starving, a little wiser than we’d been that morning. There was always a watermelon cooling in the horse trough. We tried to swat away flies as we spit seeds into the grass, but we failed.

Evenings were for catching fireflies in jars. They were the kind with holes poked in the lid. We did this by using a nail we’d hammered with a rock. We thought we were giving them air. We didn’t yet know the difference between freedom and capture.

I think back on those days now and realize that summer isn’t just a season. It’s a feeling. You carry it in your chest long after the sweat has dried. The tan has faded. The swing has stopped creaking in the breeze.

It’s a reminder to slow down. To let the day last a little longer. To chase the light, even if it’s only for a little while.

Secrets of The Back Side Fishing Spot

May 7, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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

2–3 minutes

It was a humid summer evening. The air clung to your skin. The world glowed gold in the last light of day. My friend Bub and I stood at the edge of the old creek, just downstream from the dam. The concrete wall loomed behind us. Its spillway trickled like a broken faucet, feeding the deep pool below. The water turned slow and murky there. This was our favorite spot, a secret place we called “The Backside.”

Bub handed me a bank pole he’d rigged himself. It was a sturdy sapling shaved smooth. A heavy line was tied at the end. A fat hook was baited with a chunk of cut shad. We drove it into the muddy bank. We angled it over the swirling water. We tied it off with an extra rope to a thick root jutting out of the ground. Across the creek, Bub set another pole, whistling as he worked, his boots sinking deep into the silt.

We settled onto the bank, backs against the grass, watching the poles bend and sway with the current. The sounds of the night crept in: frogs croaking, cicadas humming, the occasional splash of a carp rolling. Somewhere distant, a train rumbled across the trestle.

“Think they’ll bite tonight?”

Bub asked, tossing a pebble into the water.

“They always do back here,”

I said, grinning.

“Big ones like the deep pool. They come up from the river, get trapped behind the dam.”

We waited in comfortable silence. Just as the moon began to rise, one of the poles gave a sudden, violent lurch.

“There!”

Bub shouted, scrambling to his feet.

I grabbed the pole, feeling the weight and fight of something strong on the other end. The bank pole bent double, creaking against the strain. Bub rushed over to steady the base. I worked the line by hand. I pulled and gave slack as the fish surged beneath the surface. The water boiled and flashed, silver scales catching the moonlight.

“It’s a big one!”

I gasped.

Together we fought it, step by muddy step. At last, Bub plunged his hand into the water. He grabbed the fish just behind the gills, hauling it onto the bank. It was a channel cat, fat and whiskered, easily ten pounds. We stood over it, grinning like fools, watching it thrash in the mud.

“Told you they always bite back here,”

I said.

Bub laughed and clapped me on the back.

“Best pole fishing spot in the county.”

We reset the pole. We rinsed our hands in the creek. Then, we sat back down under the stars. The dam hummed softly behind us. We didn’t talk much after that. We didn’t need to. The night surrounded us. The water flowed gently. The old dam spoke for us. They weaved our friendship into the quiet rhythm of the creek, one fish at a time.

The Day a House Fell: A Family Tale of Humor and Chaos

May 4, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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

3–4 minutes

The Day a House Fell on My Mother’s Head

When we first moved to the farm, my father bartered for just about everything. It was the 1960s. He had a wife and six kids. My young uncle, who felt more like an older brother, was also part of the family. He had plenty of mouths to feed. There were also many projects to tackle.

One of his deals involved tearing down an old house on a neighbor’s property in exchange for the lumber. It wasn’t a one-man job—my three older brothers, my uncle, and even my mother had to pitch in. My two sisters and I were assigned a very important task: holding down the tailgate of the pickup truck.

We were told in no uncertain terms to stay put. We knew exactly what that meant. From our perch on the tailgate, we watched as our dad and brothers clambered across the roof, tossing down boards. My mother hustled to pick them up, stacking them onto a flatbed trailer and into another old truck.

I still don’t know exactly why my mother did what she did next. Maybe she wanted to check on us; maybe she wanted to warn us again. But as boards kept flying off the house, she walked around to where we sat—into what my dad had firmly declared “the danger zone”—and yelled:

“You three stay away from here, or you’ll get hit in the head with a board with a rusty nail!”

And no sooner had the words left her mouth than—WHACK! A board sailed down and smacked her right on the head. Of course, it had a rusty nail. Of course, she screamed. And of course, all three of us screamed right along with her.

Almost instantly, my dad’s head popped up over the roof’s edge.

“What the hell are y’all screaming about?”

We all shouted at once:

“Mama’s bleeding! A board hit Mama in the head! There’s a nail in her head!”

My dad scrambled down the ladder, muttering adult words under his breath.

“Shit. Goddammit, Marge, why the hell were you standing where we told the kids not to go?”

My mother, ever unflappable, shot back:

“You threw that board at me on purpose!”

He glared at her.

“Dammit, I didn’t even know where you were. Kids, get off the tailgate and sit on that log. I gotta take your mother into town.”

They drove off toward Doc’s office, leaving my brothers to finish tearing down the house and loading up the wood. The sun set. The old trucks were filled. My brothers piled us into the pickup. They drove the mile and a half back home.

When we pulled into the yard, our parents were just arriving. My dad helped my mom out of the truck and told us she was fine—just a scratch, he said. Doc had cleaned her up, given her a tetanus shot, and sent her home with something “to relax her.”

Naturally, we kids had to see the wound for ourselves. It didn’t look like much—just a small cut hidden in her hair, surrounded by a bruise. Not exactly a house falling on someone’s head. But it had bled plenty, enough to scare us all.

That night, we sat around eating a casserole that had baked while we were gone, everything back to normal. Or so it seemed.

Later, as my mom recounted what happened, the story took on a life of its own. Over the years, at family gatherings and on phone calls, we’d hear her say,

“Well, you know, the day that house fell on my head…”

In the background, my dad’s familiar sigh would follow:

“Dammit, Marge. It was just a board. And it wouldn’t have hit you if you’d stayed where I told the kids not to go.”

But she never wavered. Even now, at 95, if you ask her, she’ll tell you straight:

“A house fell on my head.”

Lessons from Bill: Radio Adventures and Childhood Memories

May 3, 2025Benjamin3 Comments

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

4–7 minutes

I have many stories about growing up. Sometimes, I wonder how I fit everything I did into the years leading to where I am now. As a young teen, I always felt my family was boring. We never seemed to do anything special. But when I share our family stories today, people tell me they spark their forgotten memories. They bring back moments they thought were lost.

One such story involves our neighbors, Bill and his wife, Marie. They rescued every stray dog they found and invited each one into their growing pack.

I first met Bill while riding my bike home from a friend’s house. He had stopped his car to get the mail from his old roadside mailbox. I couldn’t help but stop and say hello. I asked him where he lived. He pointed across the road toward a distant antenna. It stood tall above the trees. “Right under that antenna,” he said with a smile. I had watched that antenna for years. It was massive. It perched on rotating poles to turn the shortwave and CB radio antennas in any direction he wanted. Seeing my interest, Bill invited me to visit the next day—but told me to check with my parents first.

I didn’t know it then, but Bill had been instrumental in bringing electricity to our area through a rural cooperative. He’d helped light up countless homes across several counties. My parents permitted me to visit but warned me not to overstay my welcome.

The next day after school, I finished my chores and pedaled toward Bill and Marie’s. As I left the paved road and turned onto the dirt path, barking erupted. A pack of dogs rushed to greet me, but they wagged their tails instead of attacking and licked my hands. It was like I was the first human they’d seen in years. They crowded around me, gently herding me up the porch steps. I reached for the doorbell, but before pressing it, the dogs nudged me ahead, practically carrying me into the house.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

I called out.

Marie’s sweet voice answered from the kitchen,

“I bet you’re JD’s boy. Bill told me you’d be stopping by. He’ll be out in a minute—say hello to the family.”

She gestured toward the dogs as she named them individually, expecting me to remember each name. There had to be twenty dogs in that living room alone. As I looked around, another thought puzzled me: how did she know I was my dad’s son? I hadn’t even introduced myself yet.
A moment later, Bill entered, smoking his pipe, followed by four more dogs circling his legs. He shook my hand warmly and led me into his den, where I would spend hours learning from him. Bill introduced me to the world of shortwave radio and explained how to get a license. He even lent me a Morse code training record to help me prepare for the exam.

But radios were just the beginning. Bill showed me his greenhouse, where he taught me how starting seedlings early gives a head start in spring. One day, he took me to another outbuilding—a woodworking shop filled with the scent of freshly cut lumber. There, he showed me how he crafted furniture and home goods, staining and treating each piece with care.

When I was almost sixteen, Bill revealed yet another surprise: a mechanic’s shop hidden behind his house. Inside sat an old Datsun pickup.

“I haven’t driven it in years,”

Bill admitted,

“but it’s still here.”

I could feel the gears turning in my head. I was about to get my driver’s license, and that old truck looked like the perfect first car. Before I said anything, I knew I had to check with my dad.
When I asked, my dad said,

“We can look at it.”

To me, that was a yes.

The next day, I returned to Bill’s and asked if he might be interested in selling the truck.
Bill chuckled.

“I never thought about selling it—but if the price is right, maybe.”

“I’ll need a car when I get my license,”

I told him.

“And my dad said we could take a look.”

“Bring your dad down,”

Bill grinned,

“and we’ll talk.”

Dad and I stood in Bill’s mechanic shop a week later, looking over the Datsun. Bill puffed his pipe thoughtfully.

“It ran fine when I parked it. Might go ten miles, might go another hundred thousand. Hard to say with an old truck.”

He smiled at Dad.

“You know how it is with cars.”

Then Bill turned to me.

“I’ll talk price with the boy. You’re too good a horse trader for me to haggle with.”

My dad laughed.

“You know what you’ve got in your savings,”

he told me.

“Don’t spend more than that—and don’t forget tax, title, and insurance.”

At that moment, I felt the weight of adulthood settling on my shoulders. I bartered with Bill for ten minutes, careful with every dollar. Later, I discovered an interesting fact about Bill and my dad. They had been late-night radio buddies for years. They even arranged for a state newspaper courier to toss them papers at a secret highway drop each morning.

I kept visiting Bill and Marie for years. As I grew older, I began to understand Marie’s quiet burdens. They were things I wish I’d been capable of helping with then. I only understood them now, knowing what I know. Bill and his beloved dogs carried on their calm, legendary life on the edge of town.

No one else ever visited them—not like I did. And sometimes, I wonder if that had been the plan all along.

Bill and Marie passed away in the 1990s. Per their wishes, their property was sold to help the local community center. Their home, once full of vibrant life with voices, radio signals, and loyal dogs, became part of something greater. It was destined to be that way.

Every time I turn on a radio, I still feel them with me. When I smell fresh-cut wood or see an old pickup truck, I also think of them. Their stories live on—in mine.

Discovering Lake Tenkiller: A Journey of Self-Discovery

April 30, 2025April 30, 2025Benjamin4 Comments

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

2–4 minutes

Finding Home at Lake Tenkiller

One man’s journey through Oklahoma’s parks led him somewhere unexpected—and unforgettable.

When I graduated high school, I was no stranger to the outdoors. My dad was a park ranger, so much of my youth was spent in the Oklahoma parks where he worked. But let’s be honest. My version of “camping” came with cabins and beds. I always had the choice to stay inside if the weather got bad. I didn’t venture far into the woods unless I had to. That was just the way it was.

As I entered adulthood, though, something shifted. I started craving a deeper experience with nature, something less structured and more raw. I planned to visit every state park in Oklahoma. I aimed to camp at each one—no cabins—just me, a tent, and the open sky.

That plan lasted exactly five stops.

On my sixth visit, I reached Lake Tenkiller—and everything changed. The water was clear and clean, the air calm, sheltered from Oklahoma’s notorious winds. It was unlike anything I’d experienced. I pitched my tent and knew, deep down, I wouldn’t need to search any further. I had found my place.

Stormy Nights and Quiet Joys

I returned often, even through thunderstorms. While other campers packed up or ran to their cars at the first crack of thunder, I stayed. I watched lightning dance across the water. Thunder rolled through the hills. Rain swept across the lake. These moments became one of my life’s most calming experiences. Tenkiller is situated north of Gore, Oklahoma, in the Cookson Hills. It also feeds the Lower Illinois River, which contributes to the Arkansas River.

In those younger years, full of energy and a touch of recklessness, I embraced the wilderness. I was there for all the peace, the storms, and the quiet lessons only nature can teach.

Evolving Comforts

Eventually, the novelty of sleeping on the ground wore off. The cold felt colder, and the earth felt harder. That’s when I discovered a few rental cabins tucked near a cove. I asked around and spoke to the owner. They explained how they customized cabins for guests. They even hung a shingle with my name on the front.

Suddenly, a fireplace, stove, refrigerator, and absolute beds transformed my experience. It was still my beloved lake—but now with a touch of comfort. When friends heard about it, they wanted in. Soon, I was making the trip with six or eight others. We built a tradition of campfires, storytelling, and fish tales. These tales only grew bigger over time.

Moving On, But Never Forgetting

As the years passed, life caught up with me. Work, family, and obligations—they pulled me in new directions. My visits to Tenkiller slowed, then stopped. One day, I realized it had been years since I’d last seen that clear water.

But that’s the way of things. The lake had given me what I needed when I needed it—freedom, peace, community, clarity. And though I will not return as often, the memories are stitched into who I am. When life gets noisy, I remember those quiet storms. I think of the glassy mornings. I recall the crackle of fire in a lakeside cabin.

Some places stay with you, even after you’ve left them.

Lake Tenkiller is that place for me

A Memorable Day: Taking My Dad Fishing

April 17, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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

4–6 minutes

Taking Dad Fishing

When I was a child, my dad and I did countless things together.

We rode horses nearly every weekend if not every evening. We went to rodeos and parades—not just as spectators but as participants. We traveled to horse sales, chasing his dreams of new bloodlines, no matter how far away they seemed. Of course, I realized when I grew up that they weren’t all that far.

A lake at the south end of our property teased me year-round. I saw cars creeping across its dam, people scrambling down its rocky banks, casting lines into its blue water. I dreamed of fishing with my dad. But he never seemed interested.

We had more important things to do. We needed to haul feed for the horses, cut hay, stack bales in the barn, and care for the animals. The farm and all our other activities consumed all our time. There was no time for anything else. School and sleep were crammed in the margins of my day.

Eventually, I grew up and moved away. After a chlorine gas leak injured my dad, he had to sell the last of his horses. He became tethered to the living room; his body slowed, but his mind sharpened. On my days off, I would come home. We would sit on the back patio, drinking iced tea and talking. We watched that same blue lake that had taunted me for so long.

One afternoon, while I was visiting, he said,

“Come look at what I found in the storage shed.”

Out back, he pulled a polished rod from a rack. It was old but cared for. The line had to be a 100-pound test.

“Used to fish with this before you were born,”

He said.

“Put it away after you come along. So many kids were drowning in lakes back then… I couldn’t take the chance.”

And now, decades later, he held it out like an invitation.

“Will you take me fishing?”

“Of course,”

I said.

He smiled, took a puff from his nebulizer, and told me to wait while he got his hat.

“Dad, you need a fishing license.”

I reminded him, hoping it would buy me time. I needed to figure out how to care for him in a setting I didn’t control.

From the kitchen, Mom called out,

“He got one last week! He’s been waiting for you to come home. Can’t drive that far by himself.”

That settled it. I grabbed my gear from behind the seat of my truck. Then, I loaded Dad up. Finally, I drove us to my secret fishing spot.

The fish were practically leaping from the water. Dad was giddy, casting with the energy of a man half his age.

He kept asking how I found such a remote place and marveling at the size of the fish we caught.

I thought I had waited 24 years to go fishing with my dad. I didn’t want to use up all my time in one afternoon.

Eventually, the stringer was full, and the sun started slipping.

“We’d better get you home,”

I said.

“Mom said you’ve got to be back by two for a breathing treatment.”

He frowned but nodded, and we packed up our catch.

When we got home, the house was empty.

“Was Mom going out today?”

I asked.

“I think your sister was taking her shopping,”

He said, unconcerned.

I got Dad set up with his treatment. The hum of the machine had just started when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Benji?”

A familiar voice—my sister’s mother-in-law. Using my childhood name.

“Where have you and your daddy been? We’ve been trying to find you.”

“We went fishing.”

“Fishing? You took JD fishing?”

“Yeah—we caught a nice stringer full.”

There was a pause.

“You’d better put them on ice. Your mother and sister were in a bad accident. A truck hit them head-on out on the bridge. They’re at the hospital in Chickasha. You need to get your daddy down there.”

I turned to him and broke the news gently. He took it quietly, still holding onto the joy of our day. Maybe it hadn’t fully sunk in, or he didn’t want to let go of the moment.

At the hospital, Dad was the first to go in and check on Mom. My sister waited in the hall, shaken but okay. When Dad came out, he looked as calm as ever.

“She’s going to be fine.”

He said.

“They’ve got her so doped up she thinks she’s on the moon.”

Then someone asked him where he’d been. He grinned.

“Fishing. Caught the biggest fish you’ve ever seen. I swear, some were as long as my arm!”

Everyone laughed.

“That’s a fish story if I’ve ever heard one!”

“Sure, JD. Whatever you say.”

I backed him up, grinning.

“We’ve got them at home. Put them on ice. Big stringer full.”

My oldest sister chimed in, skeptical.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. Slid them into a plastic bag first, then put them in the freezer.”

It was true.

And that fishing trip wasn’t the last. That summer—his last summer—I ensured we went out as often as possible. Sometimes, it was just the two of us. I had always dreamed of this as a boy, watching the lake from our back porch. Other times, I brought my brother and my nephews along. Dad would hold court on the bank. He told stories and gave advice. He cast his line with the patience of someone who knew the water well. He knew the time was short.

We laughed, caught fish, and built memories like campfires—small moments that glowed long after sunrise.

That summer was magical.

It was the summer, and I finally got to take my dad fishing. And it was everything I had waited for.

Memorable Family Moments During a Storm

March 31, 2025BenjaminLeave 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

March 27, 2025March 27, 2025BenjaminLeave 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!

Lessons from Pa Pa J: The Joy of Simple Traditions

March 21, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

1–2 minutes

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.

Childhood Memories and Roberta Flack’s Influence

February 24, 2025Benjamin3 Comments

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.

Honoring Tradition: Birthday Memories and Family Bonds

February 17, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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.

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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?”

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.”

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.

Cherished Memories from 608 E Kiowa Street

February 15, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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.

Nostalgia and Popcorn: A Journey Through Memories

February 7, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

1–2 minutes

The Smell of Popcorn

Daniel stepped into the old movie theater, greeted by the warm, buttery aroma of freshly popped popcorn. It was the same scent from childhood when he remembered Saturday matinees with his father. His fingers were sticky from too much caramel corn. He heard the comforting rustle of a paper bag in his lap.

Tonight, the theater was nearly empty. A black-and-white classic was playing, something from Daniel’s father’s era. Daniel barely glanced at the screen. As he moved to the concession stand, the current blurred with the past in his mind.

“Large popcorn, extra butter,”

he said out of habit.

The teenage worker scooped the golden kernels into a striped bag, the scent thick and intoxicating. The warm, buttery aroma enveloped Daniel, transporting him back in time. He inhaled deeply. For a moment, he was seven years old again. He held his father’s hand as they walked down the carpeted aisles. They found their usual seats in the middle row.

“You always gotta have popcorn, kid,”

his father had said, grinning.

“It’s part of the experience.”

Daniel took his seat and set the bag beside him. His father should have been sitting there, too. The empty chair, a stark reminder of his absence, felt heavier than it should.

The smell of popcorn filled the air, wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. He closed his eyes, listening to the distant crackle of the projector. He almost heard his father’s voice, whispering about the film’s history like Daniel always did.

Daniel reached into the bag with a soft smile and tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. The taste was salty and warm, each kernel bursting with flavor. The theater didn’t feel so empty for the first time in years.

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

October 23, 2024October 23, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

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

October 12, 2024October 12, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

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.