radio

Lessons from the Last Broadcast: Questioning the Airwaves

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1–2 minutes

The Last Broadcast

Sam Delaney had been a radio man his whole life. Station manager, on-air talent, janitor when needed—he had done it all. Now, in his seventies, he sat in the empty control room of what was once a bustling AM station. The place smelled of dust and warm circuitry. The walls hummed with silence.

Sam still knew every button by heart. Especially the one marked EBS—Emergency Broadcast System. Back in the day, the FCC’s rules were clear: tones were sacred. The piercing signal wasn’t just a sound; it was a promise. Tornado warnings. Flood alerts. The nation’s line of defense against panic. There had been rules—Title 47 of the CFR, etched into his memory like scripture.

But things had changed. With each new administration, the guardrails loosened. The equal-time law that once kept political chatter balanced had vanished decades ago. A president erased it. He feared his old Hollywood reels would force TV stations to give airtime to his critics. One law changed, and suddenly the airwaves were open territory—bluster, bias, and one-sided noise pumping into homes unchallenged.

Now Sam watched as networks ran those same tones he once revered, but not for weather or disaster. They tested loyalty. They triggered crowds into a frenzy. They commanded obedience in ways he never imagined. Once, tones meant safety. Now, they meant control.

He rubbed the crease in his neck where headphones had rested for thirty years. Outside, the town he had called home was no longer united. Neighbors didn’t trust neighbors. Families split along the fault lines of which voice on the radio they listened to.

Sam leaned into the old microphone. The ON AIR light flickered.

“What if I told you,”

He began. His voice was gravel but steady.

“The lie isn’t in what you’re hearing. It’s in what you stopped questioning.”

He paused, finger hovering over the tone button.

For the first time in his career, he considered sending out a tone. This was not to warn people of a storm but to warn them of themselves.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

The Power of Actuality Reporting in Journalism

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1–2 minutes

I came across this news report and was genuinely impressed by its craftsmanship. The reporter doesn’t just tell the story. They show it. They use actuality reporting and a wraparound technique that gives the piece depth and authenticity. It’s the type of journalism that doesn’t just inform—it immerses you. This level of storytelling should be seen and appreciated by more people.

The Day Music Lost Three Legends

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

1–2 minutes

The Day the Music Died: February 3, 1959

On a cold February night in 1959, the heartbeat of American rock and roll fell silent in an Iowa cornfield.

Photo by ArtHouse Studio on Pexels.com

Buddy Holly was just 22 years old. He had chartered a small Beechcraft Bonanza plane. His goal was to avoid the grueling winter tour bus ride. This bus ride plagued the “Winter Dance Party” tour across the Midwest. Along with him were Ritchie Valens, just 17, and J.P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson, 28. All three had become major figures in the rapidly evolving American music scene.

The tour itself was chaos. It was poorly routed and underfunded. Bitter temperatures pushed both buses and artists to the limit. Holly was tired. She was freezing and sick. She made a decision: skip the bus and fly ahead to the next stop in Moorhead, Minnesota.

The plane took off around 12:55 a.m. from Clear Lake, Iowa. Minutes later, it crashed into a frozen cornfield, killing everyone onboard. The pilot, Roger Peterson, was just 21.

The news shocked the country. Three of rock and roll’s brightest stars were gone in an instant. Don McLean would later memorialize the event in his 1971 hit, “American Pie,” calling it “the day the music died.”

But in the silence that followed, the music didn’t die. It grew louder. The tragedy marked a turning point—the moment rock and roll lost its innocence and began to grow up. It was the high cost of youthful rebellion, forever frozen in that snow-covered field.

One member of Holley’s band was supposed to ride on the plane. He gave his seat to Ritchie Valens. Instead, he rode on the band’s bus to the next location. That member was Waylon Jennings. He would deal with that decision for many years before making peace with himself. Jennings would become a legend in his own right. He became a country music singer, having hit after hit. He was known as an outlaw in the industry.

The Brothers of Friday the 13th: A Country Music Legacy

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

2–4 minutes

The Brothers of Friday the 13th

They say Friday the 13th brings bad luck. But, for Jack Anglin and Johnnie Wright, it brought something entirely different. It brought love, brotherhood, and the country music that carves its way into the soul.

Jack and Johnnie were destined to sing. Their childhoods were steeped in gospel, church choirs, and the rhythm of the land. They met as they met most things in life—through music. And they married as they did everything else—on a Friday the 13th. Jack wed Louise, and Johnnie took her sister, Muriel, as his bride. This made them brothers-in-law, but their voices had already made them brothers in spirit, their bond unbreakable.

They began touring as Johnnie & Jack, their harmonies tight as barbed wire and twice as sharp. They sang of sorrow and salvation, of trains leaving and lovers staying. And behind them, always, stood the sisters.

Johnnie’s wife, Muriel, had a soft voice. It could’ve gone unnoticed if not for a quiet evening at home. She hummed along to a song Johnnie was working on. He stopped strumming, looked at her, and knew.

“You need a stage name,” 

He said. 

“Something people will remember.”

He thought a moment, then grinned. 

“Kitty Wells.”

She laughed at the name, but it stuck. Kitty Wells soon became the Queen of Country Music. Her voice turned the tide with It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels. The song gave women in the country their place in the spotlight.

In a later interview, Johnny recalled that the name “Kitty Wells” came from an old spiritual recording. He used to play it during his early days working at a radio station. The name stuck with him. When it came time to give Muriel a stage name, it felt like the perfect fit. It was familiar, timeless, and filled with meaning.

Life moved fast. Fame came. Tours blurred together. But Jack and Johnnie were always together—on stage, on the road, in life.

Then came March 1963.

Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas, and Hawkshaw Hawkins—all killed in a plane crash returning after a charity concert. The country music world was shattered. A memorial service was planned, and Jack insisted on going.

“Gotta pay respects,” 

He said. 

“We’ve all come up together.”

But he never made it.

On the fateful morning of March 8, 1963, Jack Anglin was en route to the service. Tragically, he lost control of his car and crashed. His life was taken in an instant. The news reached the church before Johnnie’s arrival. They say the moment he heard, Johnnie was overcome with grief, falling to his knees. The man who had been his constant companion on every stage, in every storm, was no more.

It was a heartbreak no harmony can fix.

Johnnie went on as best he could. Kitty sang. The spotlight stayed, but something had shifted. There was a silence beside him now where Jack’s voice used to be.

Still, the music lived on.

Two men, two sisters, two voices joined by fate, and a wedding date no one forgets. Friday the 13th had given them everything—and, somehow, had taken it all back.

Yet, their songs endure, a testament to their enduring legacy. In every old record and radio play, their voices still resonate. Jack and Johnnie were brothers in music and marriage. Their harmonies echo through the years. It is a timeless tribute to their bond and art.

Lessons from Bill: Radio Adventures and Childhood Memories

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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.

Vern Gosdin’s Legendary Blizzard Concert Experience

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

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

3–5 minutes

The Night Vern Gosdin Played for Twenty

Harry had worn many hats in his life. One of his most memorable roles was as a news director. He also served as an operations manager at a radio station in the lower Great Plains. His job included ensuring that touring musicians arrived at their venues without issue. He also ensured that their shows went off without a hitch.

Artists like Dan Seals, Davis Daniel, and Vern Gosdin have passed through the area over the years. They brought country music to fans eager to taste Nashville. But one night in particular stood out—the night Vern Gosdin played for twenty.

Gosdin, known as “The Voice,” was a country music legend. His pedigree included stints with the Golden State Boys, The Byrds, and collaborations with George Jones. He had a rich, smooth baritone. It gave life to timeless hits like Set’ Em Up Joe. He also brought If You’re Gonna Do Me Wrong, Do It Right to life. Another classic was Chiseled in Stone. Fans were eager to see him live. He was scheduled to sing at a local college auditorium and field house. This event was set for one Saturday night in January.

On Friday, Harry arrived at the venue to oversee the setup. Everything was in place—sound, lighting, seating—and aligned with the band’s requirements. The only concern was the weather. Forecasts hinted at snow, but the storm was expected to stay north of the region. Gosdin’s tour bus had pulled in behind the venue by noon on Saturday. The final checks were made, and everything looked good to go.

Then, the storm took a turn.

By late afternoon, the sky darkened, and the wind began howling. Within hours, blizzard-like conditions descended on the area, dumping nearly a foot of snow. Whiteout conditions made travel treacherous. The state highway department issued warnings urging motorists to stay off the roads unless it was an emergency.

By showtime, only twenty dedicated souls had managed to reach the venue. The sold-out crowd was nowhere to be seen, trapped by the snow. Their decision to be there showed strong dedication. They braved treacherous conditions as a testament to their love for Vern Gosdin and his music.

Despite the dismal turnout, Vern Gosdin and his band took the stage as if playing to a packed house. Gosdin stepped to the microphone, wore a warm smile, and said, –––

“We made it. For those of you here, we will play!”

The Voice filled the nearly empty hall with his opening number. He sang “I’m Gonna Be Moving,” a gospel tune. It resonated with many of his fans. He followed with “I Can Tell By the Way You Dance.” The concert became extraordinary from that moment on.

The crew saw rows of empty seats. They decided to clear a space near the stage, which was turned into a dance floor. The twenty die-hard fans swayed, twirled, and laughed as Gosdin played every song from his setlist. It was no longer just a concert but an intimate, once-in-a-lifetime experience, a privilege they can claim. Between songs, Gosdin and the band chatted with the audience, taking requests and sharing stories.

The small but mighty crowd erupted into cheers when he played his final song and left the stage. Their enthusiasm filled the hall, and they refused to let the night end.

A minute later, Gosdin and his band returned.

He picked up his guitar for his encore and grinned at his audience. He broke into I’m Moving On. Then, he followed with That Just About Does It. The twenty lucky souls in attendance soaked up every note, knowing they were part of something special.

Outside, more than fifteen inches of snow had blanketed the town. The roads were treacherous, but Gosdin’s bus driver was determined to push ahead. He asked Harry to lead them to the highway, where they would inch their way north. Harry agreed, and with the radio station’s car guiding the way, the tour bus crept through the snow-covered streets.

After twenty miles, the highway finally began to clear. As the bus picked up speed, the driver gave a long honk. It was a final thanks to Harry for helping them through the storm. It was also for an unforgettable night on the Great Plains.

The twenty who braved the blizzard that night in Goodwell, Oklahoma, gained more than a concert experience. They had seen a legend up close. It was a personal meeting in a performance that would be talked about for years to come. The memories of that night, the laughter, and the music will stay with them forever. The sense of community was also unforgettable. This is a testament to the enduring power of live music.

Joseph Noyes “J.J.” Jeffrey, Beloved DJ and Broadcasting Pioneer, Passes Away at 84

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In Memoriam By: Benjamin H. Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

Joseph Noyes “J.J.” Jeffrey, a renowned DJ who became a respected station owner, passed away at the age of 84 following a brief battle with cancer. A native of Portland, ME, Jeffrey began his broadcasting career in his home state in the 1950s. His early career included stints at various local stations, where he honed his signature high-energy style and developed a deep passion for Top 40 radio.

Jeffrey’s career took off when he became the afternoon host at WRKO Boston, one of the nation’s premier Top 40 stations. His success in Boston led to similar roles at two of the biggest Top 40 powerhouses of the time: WFIL in Philadelphia and WLS in Chicago. Known for his vibrant personality and memorable catchphrases, Jeffrey quickly became a household name in each of these markets.

In 1975, Jeffrey transitioned from behind the mic to station ownership, partnering with Bob Fuller to launch Fuller-Jeffrey Broadcasting. Their first acquisition was 102.9 WBLM in Lewiston/Portland, ME. Over the next two decades, the company expanded its reach, owning clusters of stations across the country, including in Modesto, Sacramento, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, CA, and Des Moines, IA. Fuller-Jeffrey Broadcasting’s portfolio was sold to Citadel in 1999, forming what is now largely Townsquare Media’s clusters in Portland and Portsmouth, NH.

Not one to rest, Jeffrey and Fuller immediately launched Atlantic Coast Radio, building another prominent radio group in Portland, ME. Their stations included the Sports format “WEEI” on 95.5 WPPI Topsham and 95.9 WPEI Saco, “The Big Jab” 96.3 WJJB-FM Gray, and Conservative Talk 1310 WLOB.

J.J. Jeffrey will be remembered for his contributions to the radio industry, both as a beloved on-air talent and as a visionary station owner. He leaves behind a legacy of passion, innovation, and an enduring impact on the world of broadcasting.

My Experience With Live Coverage of Severe Weather Events by KKBS 92.7FM: A Crucial Role From The 1990s…

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The sky was cloudy to the southwest, and humidity had been building since the morning. Many had yet to pay attention to weather patterns forming in the Oklahoma and Texas Panhandles, particularly dew points that were above average. Everything was out of balance. No one was paying attention except for one News Director at a small community radio station in the Oklahoma Panhandle community of Guymon. That news director was me, Benjamin Groff II (JR), and our role in providing live coverage of severe weather events was crucial.

It had been a busy day for the news department at KKBS 92.7FM. The Oklahoma Secretary of State had been in town attending Civic functions, plus a rape trial at the Texas County Court House was underway, and the suspect had been a topic that brought turmoil in the community for his alleged sexual abuse of a child. There was also an ax murder victim discovered in a dirt cellar in Steven’s County, Kansas, and the Hugoton Court House was buzzing with activity as the sheriff there had a suspect in custody.

The KKBS broadcast signal reached a five-state region, covering the Oklahoma Panhandle, the Northern Texas Panhandle, Southwest Kansas, Southeast counties of Colorado, and Northeast New Mexico. An anomaly in broadcasting also allowed the station’s signal to get received on radios and listened to by residents of Vernal, Utah. Listeners from the area would call the station often with their weather conditions and share local news to be part of the radio station’s mix. Our commitment to serving the community was unwavering, and we valued every listener’s contribution.

In Perryton, Texas, to the southeast of Guymon, a city of less than 7500 souls, the area mainly consisted of farmers and ranchers. KKBS radio station also reached Spearman, Gruver, Stratford, and Dalhart, Texas. In each community, the station, under my direction, established contacts and points of communication to use during news events. The same situation existed in southwest Kansas from Elkhart, Dalhart, Liberal, Hugoton, Johnson City, and Ulysses.

The radio station studio on the north side of Guymon is a one-story building set behind a hill on one side. The broadcast tower is near the city center. It was on the same tower as most emergency services and, thus, on an emergency roster for being tended to promptly during power outages. Our studios were placed on priority through a demand I had made to the power company after I explained that we broadcast to every community in five states and were rebroadcast through each cable carrier of every community. We need to get back on the air to broadcast emergency notices to the people as soon as possible. I did not realize I made such an impact that the power company initiated a person to guarantee our station downtime was as minimal as sixty seconds or less. It was good that it happened.

As the day continued, I stepped outside and felt the air. I had felt the conditions before. It had been in my hometown 12 years earlier when a storm ripped through the area and tore the hell out of the county, killing a lifetime resident of the town and his wife as they were hunkered down in their cellar. Being a retired police officer, I had a sixth sense, which led me to believe we were in store for something more. I felt it. There were times I sit in the newsroom on an afternoon on a slow day and think out loud, saying this feels like a plane crash day, and low and behold, we would be breaking a plane crash somewhere in the valley later. It was the same way this day, and I began planning for it.

I asked our sales team to be on call and ready to return to the station within ten minutes of getting my call, not to ask questions, get in their car, and come. They would answer calls and send me information about storm coverage. They should send their families to storm cellars, and they would be OK with us; the hill protects the station. I asked our evening staff to get ready to rock and roll so that it would be different from business as usual. I was going to be interrupting their shows, and we would be going live with actual news actualities from the field, raw broadcast, and they needed to get prepared for raw emotions to get heard. When it happened, they were not. But maybe they were more than they would have been.

Shortly before 4 PM, I noticed on an antiquated system that there was a massive hail storm in north Texas Panhandle County near Gruver, Texas; I called the Gruver Texas City Manager from the newsroom. I always contacted people in a way that allowed me to quickly air with them regardless of what was happening; in this case, it was gold. I asked him if he was getting hail. He said he was and was trying to drive west out of town; I buzzed the main studio to get ready to go live at any moment with breaking news, and suddenly AJ, the city manager, said

OH MY GOD, BEN, THERE IS A TORNADO ON THE GROUND WEST OF GRUVER, TEXAS, AND IT IS MOVING NORTH…

I flashed the hand signal and said go live; use the weather signal…

Stacy was on the board and broke into music with a particular news weather bulletin where I came on and issued a “KKBS TORNADO WARNING” and had the city manager describe what he was seeing. After the conversation, I returned and said that the National Weather Service has yet to issue a Tornado Warning, and we are in contact with them trying to get them to notice the storm.

A small radio station in the Oklahoma Panhandle doesn’t carry much weight with the National Weather Service, and they should have paid more attention to what we were trying to explain to them or the fact that we had an actual sighting by a city manager. We contacted the Channel4 Meteorologist who used to offer services to our station and explained to him what we were seeing, and he said he would turn his radar toward us and take a look; as he did, he said,

Map-Radar Image is for reference purpose only not actual radar screen used.

Holy Moly! That looks like a hook echo! Has the National Weather Service put out anything on this yet?

I explained to him our frustration with the weather people, and he said look, I am going live and putting my warning out, I told him we had already put ours out. He said

Thank GOD. I hope people are listening!

The Local Civil Defense and the owner of the other radio station in Guymon were listening, and they were severely upset that we were putting out a weather warning without their authorization. They even entered their radio station (one I once worked at KGYN) and denied on air there was any chance of severe weather today, saying the other stations were nuts. The Civil Defense Director went as far as to call our station owner and threaten her with an FCC violation complaint. She called me and asked what type of warning I issued. I explained that I issued a KKBS weather warning and a KKBS tornado warning, confirmed by a city manager talking to us live on the air from Gruver, Texas. She smiled and said issue some more.

I continued broadcasting the weather warnings and hear the disgusting remarks on the police radio frequencies from the civil defense director and his people over our decision to warn people about the threat of undesirable weather moving into the region. What is more, the storm producing the tornado was now moving into an area referred to as Hitchland, an agriculture-based community and ranching area. As we were broadcasting, our friend from the television station called and told me he had confirmation that a tornado was on the ground. We then broke into our programming and broadcast that a tornado had hit the area, and there were casualties. As we did, we began to get phone calls about fatalities in the area. As we tracked this storm, we warned the Beaver County, Oklahoma communities that they would be in the track of the storm-producing tornados.

The dry line producing these storms was like a whiplash effect; it produced storms in front and behind its path. Another line of storms formed twenty miles west of Guymon, stretching from Guymon to Elkhart to Johnson City, Kansas. It was a night of stress and high excitement for those who enjoy broadcasting under pressure.

During one segment of events, the bank that the radio station shared the building with was hosting Claudette Henry, the Oklahoma Secretary of State, at a reception that evening; while I was broadcasting live during one of the live storm updates, I saw Ms. Henry walk past the newsroom. I quickly wrapped up, stretched my headphones cord to the door, and shouted.

“Is that Claudette?”

She responded

“It Sure Is”

In my best Oklahoma demeanor

“I get you to do a live interview with me quickly?”

Claudette said,

“Let’s go for it!”

The interview consisted of talking about how she can’t fly out of Guymon until our radio station gives the all-clear and mentioning how everyone in five states is listening to you guys. She said she was impressed with the quality of coverage we provided; she didn’t expect to see it in Guymon.

My station’s owner was sitting in the basement at her beauty shop, listening to the radio and receiving phone calls on her cell phone. She was one of the few people in town at the time who had a cell phone, and everyone called her on it. On this night, it was to thank her for providing a station with such a spectacular news team.

It have been better news for everyone. The operations manager had called the station manager a bitch during a sporting broadcast, and then failing to join in the weather broadcast appeared to have ended their relationship. The next day, she dismissed him from his duties and placed them upon me and his salary. A few years later, she added the sales manager responsibilities to my duties. A few years later, I accepted a position in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

It was the 1990s and anything goes was a leftover motto from the 80s!

From A Horse Sale To A “CB” Coffee Break”

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

Join Us For a Coffee Break!

If you’ve read previous stories about my dad and me heading to horse sales during my youth, you’ll know it was a ritual we performed every Friday and Saturday night. It wasn’t just about the horses but the time we spent together and the bond we shared. Somewhere, someplace, we could always find a horse sale. And if the horse sales took a break in the summer, we’d catch a rodeo, no matter how far we had to drive.

I saw more of Oklahoma at night than I ever did during the day. That’s when my dad and I would drive the state highways, venturing wherever the road took us. But this particular trip was different. We were going to our regular sale in the city, about 30 miles from home.

It was the 1970s, and Citizen Band (CB) radio had become all the rage. I had three older brothers, all grown, who installed CB radios in their vehicles, catching my dad’s attention. Before long, we also had one in our pickup, tuned in, and received signals from all over. Dad outfitted our rig with twin whip antennas and a power mic; he even considered adding an amplifier but decided against it after hearing the FCC might crack down on him. My dad always did things by the book. So we were content rolling down the highway, our handles “Big Jake” for him and “Gentle Ben” for me.

We’d pick up reports about ‘Bears in the Air’ and ‘Bear Setups’ just down the road. Although we were doing the speed limit, Dad would ease up on the accelerator to humor me, making me think those reports were helping. On our way to the horse sale that night, we heard a spectrum of new voices on the air—voices we’d never heard before.

I told my dad they were coming in too consistently and clearly to be skip signals; they had to be close.

He said, “Let’s listen to them a minute.”

As we tuned in, these voices discussed being in Indian City and staying set up all night. They invited anyone to come by, mentioning they were at the Coffee Break on the east side of town, near the rodeo grounds. The ‘Coffee Break’ was a popular gathering spot for CB radio enthusiasts to meet, socialize, and share their experiences.

Indian City was the nickname for Anadarko, where we were headed for the horse sale. The town was known for its tourist attraction, Indian City, USA, with teepees and all—a gimmick that drew in visitors.

Dad keyed up the mic and gave a breaker. One of the new voices responded. Dad explained we were headed to a horse sale and might drop by for a cup if the horses weren’t any good later.

They said,

“Come on by! Have you ever been to one of our Coffee Breaks?”

Dad replied,

“That’s a big negatory!”

Well then,” they said,

“park wherever you can and find Booth 12—that’s where we’re set up.“

We went to the horse sale, and I spied a horse or two I thought Dad might be interested in. But around 11:00 PM, he nudged me and said,

“Let’s go to the Coffee Break. I want to see what it’s about, and I’m sure you do, too.”

I wanted to say yes, but those two horses had not come up. We had a herd of horses back home, so missing one or two wouldn’t matter. Besides, I was curious about what we’d get into at this place.

When we arrived at the rodeo grounds, the area was full of campers, RVs, and tents—huge tents, at least to me. The tent poles seemed massive, with lighting strung throughout by wire. I wasn’t sure if it was safe, but I trusted my dad as he led the way.

We found what we thought was Booth 12, where a lady sat in a folding lawn chair. She looked up at me and said, 

“Hi, sweetie. You run away from home?”

I quickly replied,

“Oh no, I’m here with my dad; we’re looking for Booth 12.”

She smiled, a crooked grin on her face, and said,

“You’re looking for Honey Badger! HONEY BADGER, GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!”

From around the corner came a short man with a balding head and a potbelly. He hadn’t shaved in a week and said,

“What is it, Wilda? You don’t have to yell! Oh, hello.”

I whispered to my dad,

“The lady’s name is Wilda,”

Mimicking the style of Sgt—Friday and Officer Bill Gannon on Dragnet.

My dad looked down at me and used his favorite phrase when I tried to do impressions: 

“Don’t be stupid.”

Honey Badger had sharp ears because when he heard Dad’s voice, he said, 

“I know him—that’s Big Jake. We talked to you a few hours ago, and I’ve heard you before when we passed through these parts. I’m Honey Badger. Let me show you around. Wilda, you want to watch the boy?”

Dad told me to stay with Wilda, promising he’d be right back. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I decided to start searching if I didn’t hear from him by the top of the hour. For all I knew, these could be aliens from another planet up to something strange. I had just turned ten, and the year before, my dad and I had to walk home after the truck we test-drove broke down on our way home from a horse sale. I could take on whatever might be behind those dark tents—or at least that’s what I told myself.

In the meantime, Wilda and I managed to strike up a friendship. She told me they were from Kansas and had retired. Honey Badger worked with honeybees as a hobby, hence his CB name. She said,

“And I’m the Queen Bee; I get on that radio and just Buzz.”

Wilda looked like a much older Ms. Kitty—a short, broad, ancient Ms. Kitty. Her voice reminded me of one of the blonde girls on The Andy Griffith Show who gave Andy and Barney a hard time. She was a sweet soul who must’ve lived quite a life. She got me a hot cup of Pepsi and talked about missing her TV show to come on this trip with Honey Badger. But she said, –––

“It’s worth it. You don’t know when one of you is going to die. You want to do all the things in life you can before you call it quits.”

She shared stories about her and her husband’s adventures, and I did my best to look interested, though I only sometimes followed along.

Dad must have been gone for thirty minutes. I had no idea what he was doing, but I sure had a lot of intelligence gathered from Queen Bee to share with him.

When he finally returned, he scooped me up, thanked Queen Bee for having us over, and assured her we’d made friends on the southern plains that stretched far north.

As we got into the pickup and headed home, I noticed Dad pushed his hat back on his head, just like he did at Christmas when he and one of my uncles secretly toasted shots at my grandparents. He was in such a good mood, so I shared my findings. –––

“So,” I began, “Wilda—or Queen Bee—said they’ve been to several states doing Coffee Breaks because she can’t have kids, and he doesn’t want any. He also has some car problems that he can’t fix. She told me he lost his left nut in the war. But I don’t think he’s still driving the same car he had when he was in the war.”

At the time, I thought whatever Dad had been up to must’ve been a lot of fun because he laughed all the way home. Within a year or two, I realized Honey Badger hadn’t lost a lugnut at all—but maybe it was better when he had.

There are Memorials left behind for those CB Radioer’s who’ve met up and passed on by clicking here.

Night Shift, And Getting Behind The Radio

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A Story By Benjamin H Groff© Groff Media Copyright 2024©

It was time to begin his night shift, and now the boy known as the Comm Commander by the ladies he worked with and his Captain who worked the day shift was about to take the helm, operating the phones, radio, and teletype.

The Comm Commander’s mastery of the system was a feat that only a select few could achieve. He was among the elite, efficiently managing five or more radio cars and several county and state patrol units on different radio frequencies. His use of a foot pedal to operate the radio microphone set him apart, allowing him to handle phone calls and type information into the telecommunications system with his hands-free.

He could track information on vehicles that officers were making contact with and let them know if a car was stolen or not before they ever left their vehicle. A treatment they become spoiled by when he is on duty.

His ability to check vehicle registrations and local warrants, and his quick response to requests for driver’s license checks or background and warrant checks, was instrumental in providing critical information to officers in the field, significantly enhancing their operational efficiency and safety.

His experience and interactions with law enforcement agencies around where he grew up, which spanned years, were the foundation of his expertise. This was evident when officers would make vehicle stops, and he would send them back up before giving them a coded message of 10-48, an alert that the vehicle they were stopping in the National Crime Information Computer was a wanted felony subject.

He had volunteered as a youth in his hometown when the town was given an old radio and placed a short antenna outside their city hall. He would get his dad to drive him to town, where he’d sit in the evenings and dispatch calls from the phone to the local police unit. Sometimes, there would be no one call, but the interaction with the law enforcement community that came through would gift him with bits of information he stowed away. Later, during that Senior year of high school, when he went to work for the police department, he met the police chief, JR Toehay, at a gas well blowout he attended with an area police officer. The introduction led to the dispatching and jailing position. JR became a lifelong coach and confidant. He was a Kiowa Indian and Chief of a 9-man police department. His guidance and trust in the boy guided the way for the path that had led to the Comm Commander being in his seat operating so well.

The ladies he worked with had questions and wanted to know where he came from, who he was, and what brought him out west. Those stories were there to tell, and he had them; some, however, he wondered if it would be safe. Officers he had worked with told him to be careful; one of the stories could get him in a fix if the wrong people heard about it and wanted to settle any score they felt needed to be. He told them, I’ll let you know all about me, but first, it needs to be when this radio traffic slows down because you guys will be in for a story of your lives.

Taking A Seat At The Police Department

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It was late spring when the boy took his seat behind the radio at the communications center for the first time. The Dispatch Center, located just inside the lobby’s front entry, led to a stairway that accessed the firefighters’ sleeping quarters, the chief’s and detectives’ offices, and the jail cells.

The city was a blend of lifetime residents with deep roots, newcomers raising families amidst burgeoning industry, and transients. Housing was scarce for recent arrivals. When available, it was expensive and often beyond the reach of a single income, leading to overcrowded living conditions. This frequently caused disputes.

A person might lease a property and sublet to ten or fifteen others. When conflicts arose and one tenant was asked to leave, the police were often called. Each time, officers had to explain it was a civil matter; the leaseholder needed a court order for eviction. Police couldn’t simply eject someone because of a sudden change in the leaseholder’s terms. However, if an arrest was made due to a disturbance, officers could advise the leaseholder to restrict the arrested individual from returning. Openings in housing were rare unless someone died, and there were plenty of deaths in the coming years.

A local motorcycle gang, known for drug dealing and various crimes, frequently had members as guests in our jail. Their threats were often more comical than serious, but every raid on their dens brought more threats. It wasn’t uncommon for lone riders to shoot out the windows of the dispatch center late at night.

After several incidents, the chief began posting officers on the roof with automatic rifles. This tactic worked, as the shootings ceased during their watch.

The boy worked well with a rotating line of female communications officers. The Captain worked the day shift, while the boy was assigned to nights. The women rotated between days and nights each month.

Soon, the boy became known as the Comm Commander for his authoritative style on the radio and in operating the jail. Edna, Gail, Linda, Pam, Patty, and Sheila were the women who became part of his years at Elk City, each leaving a personal mark on his story.

Yet, the Captain was the most significant influence during those dispatch days. It’s clear that the Comm Commander remembered these individuals throughout his life as he journeyed along many paths. More to follow.

IT WAS JUST ANOTHER DAY, UNTIL THE PHONE CALL!

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  • For all anyone knew, it was just another day. The sun was rising and appeared to be sunny, with average temperatures warming to 75 degrees by midafternoon, with a light wind from the south. That was the weather forecast everyone heard to start the day, as it echoed from speakers in the downtown square broadcasting from the local radio station KBAD. Topping the news from KBAD included a report concerning a house fire, two auto accidents, and a lost dog report. The station did not broadcast national news because the management felt it included more divisive material for the community and the station’s audience. KBAD’s motto promoted the station and its fans as * Kindhearted * Brilliant * Ambitious and * Devoted! It had a unique frequency on the AM Dial at 1000.0khz AM and 100.0mhz FM. The frequency identifier permitted those who wish to find it an easy way to remember its location on the radio dial. Operating by remote control authorization from the Federal Communications Commission, KBAD’s radio tower stood in two separate locations. The FM Broadcast Transmitter and Antenna broadcast on the same tower as many of the local television stations’ antenna services towers near the edge of town. The AM Broadcast Transmitter was with three directional towers west of the city on a hill that permitted the station to fluctuate power between sunrise – sunset – sunrise hours. The AM station reduced power during the daytime, and the signal with increased power would reach a different area than at night. The night signal could reach several states.
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       The day was unfolding as usual, with one of our regular radio programs in full swing. Suddenly, in the midst of a phone-in segment, a caller made a startling revelation –––

“Do you people know that there is a guy hanging from your radio tower west of town? He is just dangling there.”

The Host was surprised by the caller comment and replied

 Sir, this is a live show. Please, this is not a time for pranks.

The caller shot back. – The caller’s voice was urgent, his words cutting through the airwaves.

‘This is not a joke,’ he insisted. ‘There’s a man, about three-fourths of the way up your middle tower, hanging upside down. You need to get him help.’

The Host, with urgency in his voice, told listeners

We take this seriously; our station manager and engineer are coming to the tower, and emergency responders are responding.

The Host then suggested that the caller should have notified 911 before calling the radio station first.

The man hanging upside down had been hired as a contractor to change the red blinking lights once a year to make sure that it met FCC requirements. On his way up, he experienced a fatal heart attack. He was tied off and had his safety gear on, which prevented him from falling when he could not continue climbing or descent. Due to how high he was, a specialized team of climbers had to be dispatched from over three hundred miles away to go to the scene and create a plan to lower him. It took over 24 hours to get the man to the ground safely.