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The Christmas Eve Babbs Switch School Fire

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

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

Every year at this time, I am reminded of a harrowing story. It is deeply etched into Oklahoma’s collective memory: the Babbs Switch School Fire of Christmas Eve, 1924. It stands as a tragic lesson in safety, humanity, and resilience.

The Fire

On that bitterly cold night, with heavy snow and sub-zero temperatures, 200 residents gathered. They met in Babbs Switch’s one-room schoolhouse for a Christmas Eve program. The school was tightly packed with engaged couples, grandparents, mothers, fathers, and children. The building’s windows were secured with wire mesh to deter intruders from the nearby railroad tracks. The sole exit—a door that opened inward—would soon become a deadly trap.

The program concluded with a teenage boy dressed as Santa Claus. He handed out toys and candy beneath a cedar Christmas tree. The tree was decorated with paper, tinsel, and lit candles. One of these candles brushed against the tree’s dry needles, igniting it instantly. Mrs. W.G. Boland, whose three children perished that night, later recounted the horror. 

“I tried to beat it out with a paper sack,”

she said, 

“but it did no good.” 

Initially, the crowd laughed, believing the small blaze was being contained. But within moments, the flames engulfed the tree, the ceiling, and the entire structure.

Panic erupted.

The sole exit became a bottleneck as the crowd surged toward the door. Those at the back pushed forward, while the unlucky at the front got crushed in the chaos. Some attempted to pry open the wired windows, but their efforts were futile. Trapped inside, children, parents, and neighbors succumbed to the smoke and flames. Witnesses recalled the horrifying scene of people clawing at the exit. Bodies piled atop one another, and the acrid stench of burning flesh.

The Survivors

Among those who escaped was Lillie Biggers. She crawled out from under a desk clutching a doll she had just received. Her mother, Margaret, managed to get out but suffered severe burns to her hands and arms. Tragically, Lillie’s brothers, William, 9, and Walter, 15, did not survive. The Biggers family’s grief mirrored that of the entire community, where 36 lives were lost—half of them children. The belongings later identified the bodies of William and Walter. They carried a toy gun and a belt buckle.

The injured and deceased were transported to Hobart, the nearest town, where makeshift morgues were set up. The community’s response, known as the “Hobart Spirit,” saw residents drop everything to give aid and comfort. Newspaper accounts likened this effort to the Oklahoma Standard that emerged decades later after the Oklahoma City bombing.

Julie Braun with Mother
Lillie’s Doll That Survived Fire

The Aftermath

The tragedy prompted a wave of reforms. Oklahoma legislators enacted fire safety laws requiring outward-opening doors, multiple exits, and accessible window screens in schools. Open flames were banned, and fire extinguishers became mandatory. The reforms eventually spread nationwide, though it would take more tragedies before they were fully adopted.

The morning after the Babbs Switch School Fire

A Missing Child

The story took a strange twist that turned it into a lingering mystery. Among the victims was three-year-old Mary Edens—or so it was believed. Her aunt, Alice Noah, escaped the building. She died days later. She claimed she had handed Mary to an unknown person outside the burning building. Mary’s body was never recovered, leading her family to hope she had survived.

In 1957, decades after the fire, a woman named Grace Reynolds came forth. She was from Barstow, California. She claimed to be the long-lost Mary. The Edens family reunited with her on Art Linkletter’s House Party television program, believing their prayers had been answered. Reynolds even wrote a book about her experiences. It is titled Mary, Child of Tragedy: The Story of the Lost Child of the 1924 Babbs Switch Fire.

But only some were convinced. A local newspaper editor who investigated the claim questioned its validity. 

Skeptics noted inconsistencies in Reynolds’s story, but no definitive evidence confirmed or debunked her identity. To this day, the truth remains elusive.

Legacy

The Babbs Switch School Fire is remembered as one of the deadliest school fires in U.S. history. A stone monument now stands where the schoolhouse once stood, a quiet marker of lives lost and lessons learned. The physical scars of the tragedy have faded. Yet, its memory endures. It serves as a poignant reminder of the fragility of life and our enduring hope for safety and change.

References for this writing can be found at – 

https://blogoklahoma.us/place/394/kiowa/site-of-babbs-switch-tragic-school-fire

https://www.thesirenspodcast.com/post/case-files-babbs-christmas-fire

https://genealogytrails.com/oka/kiowa/babbsfire.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babbs_Switch_fire

A Christmas of Unexpected Gifts

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

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

The snow fell gently outside Tom Whitaker’s cabin, blanketing the woods in a serene hush. Inside, the fireplace cast a warm glow, flickering and dancing, casting long shadows on the walls. The smell of pine from the small, undecorated tree in the corner filled the room with a comforting aroma. It was Christmas Eve. Tom, a retired schoolteacher, sat in his favorite armchair. He had a mug of cocoa in hand and a book he couldn’t quite focus on. For the first time in decades, he was spending Christmas alone.

His wife, Evelyn, had passed away three years ago. His grown children were scattered across the country. They were tied up with their own families and commitments. Tom didn’t blame them, but the ache of solitude was undeniable. He declined their offers to join them, insisting he’d be fine alone. He wasn’t.

A knock at the door startled him as he gazed into the fire. Who would visit on a night like this? He opened the door. He found a boy no older than ten. The boy was bundled up in a red coat. He was holding a scraggly puppy with floppy ears.

“Hi, mister,”

the boy said, shivering uncontrollably.

“I found this puppy in the snow. My mom said we can’t keep him, but maybe you can.”

Tom stared at the boy and the trembling pup.

“Come inside before you freeze,”

he said, taking the puppy in his arms.

The boy declined, pointing to a car waiting at the edge of Tom’s driveway.

“Merry Christmas!”

he called as he dashed off.

Tom closed the door, holding the puppy close. The little dog’s brown eyes looked up at him with fear and hope.


“Well, you’re an unexpected guest,”

Tom murmured. He fetched a blanket and some leftover chicken for the pup, who wagged its tail furiously.

Later that evening, as Tom felt less lonely, another knock came. This time, it was Mrs. Abernathy, his elderly neighbor. She held a tin of cookies and a thermos of cider.

“I noticed your lights on,”

she said.

“Thought you like some company.”

She handed him the thermos, and the warm, comforting scent of cider filled the air.

They shared the cookies and cider, laughing about old times and neighbors long gone. Mrs. Abernathy left after an hour, but only after gifting Tom a hand-knitted scarf she had made.

As the clock struck midnight, Tom prepared for bed, his heart a little warmer. The puppy, now curled up in an old basket, barked softly. Another knock came.

“Who now?”

Tom muttered, opening the door.

A group of carolers stood outside, bundled against the cold, their voices harmonizing in “Silent Night.” Behind them was a man from a local grocery store holding a box.

“We’ve got extra holiday meals,”

the man explained after the carolers finished.

“Thought you might enjoy one.”

Tom accepted the box, his throat tight with emotion. Inside were a roast chicken, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a pie.

As the night wore on, Tom marveled at the change. A Christmas he had dreaded became one filled with unexpected kindness. He sat by the fire with the puppy on his lap. The scarf was around his neck. He held a plate of warm food.

“Merry Christmas,”

he whispered to the little dog, who wagged its tail in agreement. Tom no longer felt alone. His cabin became filled with the spirit of the season through strangers, neighbors, and a small, scruffy pup. The pup found him when he needed it most.

Back-to-School Memories at the Local Drug Store

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2–3 minutes

Back-to-School at the Drug Store

In our little town, back-to-school season wasn’t marked by glossy superstore aisles or online orders delivered in cardboard boxes. No, it happened right on Main Street. It was at the drug store tucked neatly between the barber shop and the movie theater.

That drug store was a place all its own. A long soda fountain stretched nearly the length of one wall. It had red-topped stools that spun in slow circles when you climbed onto them. Folks would stop in for a cherry Coke or a vanilla phosphate. The hum of the soda jerk’s mixer became as familiar as the sound of church bells on Sunday morning. On the north end of the store, up near the front window, stood a glass display case. Behind it sat neat stacks of paper bags. Each bag was carefully filled with the exact school supplies a child would need for a given grade.

Every August, families filed in, children buzzing with nervous excitement. You only needed to walk up to the counter. Puff out your chest and tell the lady behind it your grade number. With a kind smile, she’d hand over a brown paper bag with your future sealed inside. The bag contained pencils, crayons, rulers, and erasers. For the younger grades, it included that wide-lined treasure known as the Big Chief Tablet.

Kindergarten through third grade was the golden stretch, when opening that bag felt like Christmas morning in August. We’d tear into the packages of crayons. We tested the sharpness of new pencils. We imagined all the things we’d draw and write. But as the years went on, the thrill wore off. By fourth grade, the magic faded. We realized those paper bags didn’t just hold supplies. They carried us straight back into the dreaded routine of homework. There were also spelling tests and teachers who never gave you quite enough recess.

Still, that ritual mattered. The drug store had a soda fountain fizzing. Its shelves were lined with shiny notebooks. It gave us a sense of belonging. It tied the town together. The barber cut hair next door. The movie theater marquee changed weekly. Parents shepherded kids through one more milestone.

Every bag marked a fresh start, even if we grumbled about it. None of us would have admitted it then. Yet, there was comfort in knowing that behind that glass display case was a little brown sack of sharpened pencils. It was waiting for us every year with brand-new beginnings.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

The Anatomy of a Shooter – Part Five: What We Can Actually Do About It

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“Monsters aren’t born overnight. They’re made—in silence, in shadows, in places we refuse to look.”

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

3–5 minutes

Part Five: What We Can Actually Do About It

Let’s get one thing straight:
Mass shootings aren’t random.
They’re predictable.
Not in the “we know when and where” way. It is predictable in the “we’ve seen this play before” way. And we’ve seen it enough to know how it ends.

So the question becomes:
What do we do now—actually do?

If all we’ve got are thoughts, prayers, and hashtags, then outrage will burn out in a news cycle. We’re just spectators in someone else’s tragedy.

Enough With the Helplessness

It’s easy to feel like there’s nothing we can do.
But that’s a lie we’ve been sold to stay comfortable.
The truth is, we can’t stop every shooting—but we can reduce them.
We can spot the signs earlier.
We can intervene before someone crosses that line.
And yes, we can have uncomfortable conversations about guns, mental health, and social breakdown without turning it into political theater.

But first, we have to stop pretending we’re powerless.

Photo by MART PRODUCTION on Pexels.com

Real Things That Actually Help

Here’s a short, imperfect list. Not theory—practice.

🔹 1. Speak up—even when it’s awkward.

That kid, coworker, or neighbor who’s spiraling? Say something. Not on Facebook. Not behind their back. To someone who can act. Don’t wait until it’s too late.

🔹 2. Take threats seriously.

If someone is joking about violence, don’t assume they’re kidding. Shooters often telegraph their intentions—sometimes with neon signs.

🔹 3. Support red flag laws that work.

Yes, they’re controversial. But when implemented carefully, they’ve saved lives by allowing courts to temporarily remove firearms from people in crisis.

🔹 4. Don’t give platforms to the shooters.

No names. No manifestos. No fame. Let them fade into anonymity—don’t let them become anti-heroes.

🔹 5. Build better reporting systems.

We need clear, safe ways to report dangerous behavior—at schools, jobs, online—and a system that doesn’t bury it in bureaucracy.

🔹 6. Reinvest in human connection.

Isolation is gasoline for this fire. People with strong relationships, support systems, and a sense of belonging are less to fall into these dark holes. Community isn’t a luxury—it’s a safeguard.

Not Just a Policy Problem—A Culture Problem

Legislation matters. But culture matters, too.

We live in a society that celebrates violence, glorifies vengeance, and teaches boys that emotions are weakness.
We scroll past pain and reward provocation.
We share stories of destruction more than recovery.
We confuse attention with validation.

We can change laws. But until we change us, the cycle will continue.

Final Thought: The Story Isn’t Over—Unless We Let It Be

Photo by Mikhail Nilov
on Pexels.com

This five-part series wasn’t meant to explain every angle of mass shootings.
It was meant to start a conversation. To take you out of the numbness and into the uncomfortable places where change begins.

We don’t need heroes.
We need people who are willing to pay attention, speak up, and give a damn.

Because we’re not just analyzing shooters here.

We’re deciding what kind of society we want to live in.

Closing Note to My Readers

Thank you for walking with me through this five-part series.
I know it hasn’t been easy to read—hell, it wasn’t easy to write. But maybe that’s the point.

This isn’t just about shooters.
It’s about all of us.
What we tolerate. What we ignore. What we pretend not to see until it’s too late.

My hope is that these words spark more than discomfort.
Maybe they spark reflection. Maybe action. Maybe one conversation that changes something.

We want a world where mass shootings stop becoming headlines. To achieve this, we can’t just sit back and consume the story.

We have to be part of rewriting it.

—Benjamin Groff

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

The Anatomy of a Shooter – Part Four: Red Flags and Shrugged Shoulders

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

2–4 minutes

Part Four: Red Flags and Shrugged Shoulders

After every mass shooting, the same story unfolds.
News reports reveal the shooter made threats.
He posted disturbing content.
He stockpiled weapons.
He scared people.

And then the world asks, 

“Why didn’t anyone say something?”

Except someone usually did.

They said it quietly to a friend.
They reported it to HR.
They sent up a flare—but it fizzled in a system built to tolerate discomfort until it explodes.

“It Just Felt Off”

Human instinct is powerful.
We know when something doesn’t feel right—when someone is spiraling, simmering, or clinging to rage a little too tightly.
But we’ve been trained to doubt our gut.

Why?
Because:

  • We don’t want to overreact.
  • We don’t want to get someone in trouble.
  • We don’t want to look paranoid or mean or judgmental.

So we say things like:

  • “He’s just blowing off steam.”
  • “He’s always been like that.”
  • “It’s probably nothing.”

Until it’s not.

The Signs Were There. The Action Wasn’t.

Let’s break it down. Red flags can look like:

  • Obsessive talk about violence or past shooters
  • Extreme ideological rants
  • Sudden personality changes or withdrawal
  • Threats—direct or veiled
  • Obsession with weapons or martyrdom
  • Social media posts that scream “notice me”

But here’s the kicker:
Even when these signs are clear, most people don’t act.
And when they do? They’re often ignored, dismissed, or redirected through layers of bureaucracy.

“It’s not our jurisdiction.”
“We can’t do anything unless he acts.”
“He hasn’t broken any laws.”

We treat early warning signs like legal puzzles, not human lives.

Fear of the Awkward Conversation

Red flags aren’t just missed.
They’re avoided—because confronting someone is uncomfortable.

There are times when you have to take the bull by the horns.
  • What if I’m wrong?
  • What if they get mad?
  • What if it ruins my relationship with them?
  • What if it’s not serious?

So instead of leaning in, we back away.

And we let someone else deal with it.
Except, too often, there isn’t someone else.

The Burden of Hindsight

Afterward, the red flags look obvious.
Crystal clear.
Undeniable.

But by then it’s too late.
And we’re left with vigils, flowers, and questions we didn’t ask soon enough.

A Shift in Mindset

We need to stop treating red flags like rumors.
They’re signals. Warnings.
Opportunities to intervene.

That doesn’t mean we accuse people on a hunch.
It means we build systems and cultures that listen.
That act before a weapon is drawn, not after.

Because by the time the police tape goes up, the story’s already been written.

Coming Up in the Series:

Part Five: What We Can Actually Do About It
We’ve identified the patterns. We’ve seen the signs. Now it’s time to talk about real solutions—what works, what doesn’t, and why “thoughts and prayers” aren’t enough.

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

A Step Out of Time – The Day That Kept Repeating –– A Detective Wakes Up Lost In The Future 

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Experiencing A Different Version Of The Same Day Over And Over.

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

Detective James “Jimmy” O’Connor had seen it all—or so he thought. O’Connor had been on the force since 1951 when respect meant something and a good cop could solve a case with his wits and a firm handshake. But nothing could have prepared him for the day he woke up in 2024, a world so different from the one he knew. It was as if he had stepped into a parallel universe.

It started like any other morning. Jimmy rolled out of bed in his modest home, built solidly after the war when families were booming and life was good. He yawned, stretched, and reached for his old fedora, a relic from yesteryear that still sat faithfully on the bedpost. The sun streamed through the window, but something in the light felt –– off. A glance at the calendar confirmed it. The year read 2024.

“What in the Sam Hill…”

he muttered, running a hand through his graying hair. Had he been in a coma? Had he somehow slept through sixty years of his life?

Still dazed, he dressed in his usual attire: a crisp white shirt, suspenders, pleated trousers, and polished leather shoes. His well-worn and comforting hat sat snugly atop his head. The mirror reflected a man who had not aged a day since the early 1960s. Time had played its tricks, but Jimmy O’Connor remained the same.

Determined to make sense of things, he grabbed his keys and headed out. His faithful 1954 Chevrolet two-door coupe sat waiting in the driveway as he’d left it. The car was nothing fancy—back in the day, it had been the biggest clunker in the department. The boys at the station used to rib him about it, but Jimmy liked it just fine. It had character, just like him.

The drive to the station was surreal. Buildings towered over the officer, sleek and modern. People walked down the streets glued to strange devices, barely looking up. The air buzzed with a thousand sounds, none of which he recognized. And the cars—by God, the cars! They whizzed by silently as if propelled by magic. Jimmy’s old Chevy chugged along, a relic in a world that had moved on without him, a world that felt utterly alien.

When he pulled up to the station, he first noticed the gawking. A group of younger officers stood in the lot, eyes wide and mouths agape as they saw him and his car. One of them, a kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, stepped forward.

“Is that…a ’54 Chevy?”

He asked, awe dripping from his voice.

Jimmy nodded, confused.

“Sure is. Why?”

“That thing’s a classic! How the hell did you get it in such good shape?”

“Just took care of it, I guess,”

Jimmy replied, still trying to process everything.

“Now, what in blazes is going on around here?”

Inside, the station was a hive of activity, but nothing looked the same. Computers sat on every desk, glowing with images Jimmy didn’t understand. Phones weren’t phones anymore; they were slim, glass rectangles everyone seemed glued to. And the fashion—if you could call it that—was wild—bright colors, strange fabrics, and hair that defied gravity.

Jimmy made his way to the chief’s office, nodding at a few familiar faces, now older men. They all stared back as if they’d seen a ghost. When he finally entered the door, Chief Morales looked up from his desk, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“Jimmy?”

Chief Morales croaked, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“What the hell?”

His voice was a mix of shock and disbelief, mirroring the sentiments of everyone who had laid eyes on the seemingly unchanged detective.

“Chief, I don’t know what’s happening, but I woke up this morning, and the whole world turned upside down. I need answers.”

Morales gestured for him to sit, still in shock.

“You mean to tell me you remember nothing past…when? The 1960s?”

“Last thing I remember, Kennedy was in office, and I was working a case with the old squad,”

Jimmy replied, sinking into the chair.

“Now it’s like I stepped into one of those science fiction movies.”

The chief rubbed his temples.

“Jimmy, it’s 2024. A lot has changed. I don’t know how or why, but you look like you haven’t aged a day.”

“Tell me about it,”

Jimmy grumbled.

“And what’s with the kids these days? I was on a case involving students before this, whatever it was. Are they all this –––different?”

The chief sighed.

“Different doesn’t begin to cover it. Kids these days are a whole new breed. They have connected to the world in ways we couldn’t have imagined in the 60s. Social media, smartphones, instant communication –– They’re more outspoken and more aware but more distracted. It’s a different world, Jimmy.”

Just then, a young officer burst into the room, his face excitedly lit.

“Chief, we’ve got a situation at the high school. Some fight—might be gang-related.”

Jimmy’s ears perked up. A case involving students? An assignment with students –– was familiar territory.

“I’ll go,”

he said, standing up.

“Jimmy, wait—”

Morales started, but Jimmy was already out the door.

On the Case

The high school was a chaotic scene. Teens were scattered everywhere, shouting and recording the commotion on their phones. Jimmy strode in, commanding attention despite the odd looks he received. He spotted a group of kids at the center of it all, some dressed in clothes he could barely comprehend, others with tattoos and piercings that would have been unthinkable in his time.

“Alright, break it up!”

Jimmy barked, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. The kids looked at him, confused, but the tone was unmistakable. They started to disperse, grumbling under their breath.

A young girl with brightly colored hair and a nose ring approached him.

“Who are you supposed to be? You look like you just walked out of a history book.”

“Detective O’Connor,”

he replied gruffly.

“Now, what’s going on here?”

She shrugged, unimpressed.

“Just a fight. It happens all the time. We caught it on video if you want to see it.”

Jimmy blinked.

“Caught it on video? You mean you filmed it instead of stopping it?”

The girl rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it’s what we do. Upload it to TikTok, get some likes.”

“Tik…what?”

Jimmy shook his head, feeling like he was slipping further into the twilight zone.

“Never mind,”

she said, dismissing him.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

As he tried to piece together what she meant, a senior officer approached, relieved to see him.

“Detective O’Connor, right? I’ve heard stories about you. The chief said you might be ––– helping out today?“

“Helping out, yeah,”

Jimmy replied, still feeling out of place.

“What’s the story here?”

The officer explained the situation—two students from rival groups had fought over something posted online. Jimmy listened, but the details were baffling. Back in his day, fights happened face-to-face, not through the internet.

“Sounds like the same old story, just with a new twist,”

Jimmy said.

“I’ll talk to them.”

He approached the two students, who were now sulking on the sidelines. They looked up at him with a mix of defiance and confusion.

“Alright, you two,”

Jimmy started,

“what’s this all about?”

They exchanged glances before one finally spoke up.

“This boy posted some crap about my sister on Instagram. I wasn’t going to let that slide.”

“Instagram?”

Jimmy repeated, trying to keep up.

“Back in my day, you settled things like men. You talked it out—or, if it came to blows, you did it without an audience.”

The other boy scoffed.

“What do you know, old man? Times have changed.”

“Maybe so,”

Jimmy admitted,

“but respect doesn’t. You don’t solve problems by hiding behind a screen. If you’ve got an issue, you deal with it face-to-face, like men. And you sure don’t let it become a circus for everyone else to watch.”

The boys looked at him, considering his words. It was a message from another time, but something about it resonated. Eventually, they both nodded, muttering apologies under their breath.

As the situation defused, Jimmy felt a strange sense of accomplishment. The methods might have changed, but the core principles still needed to be. Respect, honesty, and responsibility still mattered, even in this brave new world.

The World Keeps Spinning

Back at the station, the day wound down, and Jimmy found himself in the parking lot, staring at his old Chevy. It was the one constant in this sea of change, a reminder of where he came from and who he was. But as he climbed in and turned the key, he couldn’t help but wonder how long he could hold onto the past in a world that seemed determined to move forward without him.

As the engine roared to life, Jimmy tipped his hat, adjusted his rearview mirror, and drove into the setting sun. The road ahead was uncertain, but he’d face it the only way he knew how—one mile at a time, just like he always had.

He’d find his place in this strange new world somewhere along the way. But for now, he was content to be a man out of time, doing his best to keep up with a world that had left him behind.

A Step Out of Time The Next Morning

Detective James “Jimmy” O’Connor had seen it all—or so he thought. O’Connor had been on the force since 1951 when respect meant something and a good cop could solve a case with his wits and a firm handshake. But nothing could have prepared him for the day he woke up in 2024, a world so different from the one he knew. It was as if he had stepped into a parallel universe, a world where the very fabric of society got rewoven.

It started like any other morning. Jimmy rolled out of bed in his modest home, built solidly after the war when families were booming and life was good. He yawned, stretched, and reached for his old fedora, a relic from yesteryear that still sat faithfully on the bedpost. The sun streamed through the window, but something in the light felt –– off. A glance at the calendar confirmed it. The year read 2024.

“What in the Sam Hill…it seems like I’ve been here before.”

he muttered, his voice trembling, running a hand through his graying hair. Had he been in a coma? Had he somehow slept through sixty years of his life?

Still dazed, he dressed in his usual attire: a crisp white shirt, suspenders, pleated trousers, and polished leather shoes. His well-worn and comforting hat sat snugly atop his head. The mirror reflected a man who had not aged a day since the early 1960s. Time had played its tricks, but Jimmy O’Connor remained the same.

Determined to make sense of things, he grabbed his keys and headed out. His faithful 1954 Chevrolet two-door coupe sat waiting in the driveway as he’d left it. The car was nothing fancy—back in the day, it had been the biggest clunker in the department. The boys at the station used to rib him about it, but Jimmy liked it just fine. It had character, just like him.

The drive to the station was surreal. Buildings towered over the officer, sleek and modern. People walked down the streets glued to strange devices, barely looking up. The air buzzed with a thousand sounds, none of which he recognized. And the cars—by God, the cars! They whizzed by silently as if propelled by magic. Jimmy’s old Chevy chugged along, a relic in a world that had moved on without him, a world that felt utterly alien.

When he pulled up to the station, he first noticed the gawking. A group of younger officers stood in the lot, eyes wide and mouths agape as they saw him and his car. One of them, a kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, stepped forward.

“Is that…a ’54 Chevy?”

the young officer asked, his voice filled with awe and disbelief as if he had just seen a relic from a forgotten era.

Jimmy nodded, confused.

“Sure is. Why?“

“That thing’s a classic! How the hell did you get it in such good shape?”

“Just took care of it, I guess,”

Jimmy replied, thinking he’d answered the same question a day before, he was still trying to process everything.

“Now, what in blazes is going on around here?”

Inside, the station was a hive of activity, but nothing looked the same. Computers sat on every desk, glowing with images Jimmy didn’t understand. He’d been here before. This is the same thing he had done yesterday. Phones weren’t phones anymore; they were slim, glass rectangles everyone seemed glued to. The fashion starkly contrasted Jimmy’s traditional attire—bright colors, strange fabrics, and hair that defied gravity. The world had become a place where technology and individual expression reigned supreme, a far cry from the simpler times Jimmy was used to. I am repeating yesterday in the future, Jimmy thought to himself.

Jimmy went to the chief’s office, nodding at a few familiar faces, now older men. They all stared back as if they’d seen a ghost, they hadn’t seen Jimmy looking that young in fifty years. When he finally entered the door, Chief Morales looked up from his desk, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“Jimmy?”

Chief Morales croaked, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. The shock and disbelief in his voice mirrored the sentiments of everyone who had laid eyes on the seemingly unchanged detective.

“Chief, I don’t know what’s happening, but I woke up this morning, and the whole world turned upside down. I need answers,”

he declared, his voice unwavering despite the chaos around him.

“We did this yesterday, and now it is happening again!“

Morales gestured for him to sit, still in shock.

“Like I told you yesterday, when we went through this the last thing I remember, Kennedy was in office, and I was working a case with the old squad,” Jimmy replied, sinking into the chair. “Now it’s like I stepped into one of those science fiction movies.“

The chief rubbed his temples.

“Jimmy, it’s 2024. A lot has changed. I don’t know how or why, but you look like you haven’t aged a day.”

“Tell me about it,”

Jimmy grumbled.

“And what’s with the kids these days? I was on a case involving students before this, whatever it was. Are they all this –––different?”

The chief sighed.

“Different doesn’t begin to cover it. Kids these days are a whole new breed. They have connected to the world in ways we couldn’t have imagined in the 60s. Social media, smartphones, instant communication –– They’re more outspoken and more aware but more distracted. It’s a different world, Jimmy.”

Just then, a young officer burst into the room, his face excitedly lit.

“Chief, we’ve got a situation at the high school. Some fight—might be gang-related.”

Jimmy’s ears perked up. A case involving students? An assignment with students –– was familiar territory.

“I’ll go,”

he said, standing up.

“Jimmy, wait—

” Morales started, but Jimmy was already out the door.

On the Case

The high school was a chaotic scene. Teens were scattered everywhere, shouting and recording the commotion on their phones. Jimmy strode in, commanding attention despite the odd looks he received. He spotted a group of kids at the center of it all, some dressed in clothes he could barely comprehend, others with tattoos and piercings that would have been unthinkable in his time.

“Alright, break it up!”

Jimmy barked, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. The kids looked at him, confused, but the tone was unmistakable. They started to disperse, grumbling under their breath.

A young girl with brightly colored hair and a nose ring approached him.

“Who are you supposed to be? You look like you just walked out of a history book.”

“Detective O’Connor,”

he replied gruffly.

“Now, what’s going on here?”

She shrugged, unimpressed.

“Just a fight. It happens all the time. We caught it on video if you want to see it.”

Jimmy blinked.

“Caught it on video? You mean you filmed it instead of stopping it?”

The girl rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it’s what we do. Upload it to TikTok, get some likes.”

“Tik…what?”

Jimmy shook his head, feeling like he was slipping further into the twilight zone.

“Never mind,”

she said, dismissing him.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

As he tried to piece together what she meant, a senior officer approached, relieved to see him.

“Detective O’Connor, right? I’ve heard stories about you. The chief said you might be ––– helping out today?”

“Helping out, yeah,”

Jimmy replied, still feeling out of place.

“What’s the story here?”

The officer explained the situation—two students from rival groups had fought over something posted online. Jimmy listened, but the details were baffling. Back in his day, fights happened face-to-face, not through the internet.

“Sounds like the same old story, just with a new twist,”

Jimmy said.

“I’ll talk to them.”

He approached the two students, who were now sulking on the sidelines. They looked up at him with a mix of defiance and confusion.

“Alright, you two,”

Jimmy started,

“what’s this all about?”

They exchanged glances before one finally spoke up.

“This boy posted some crap about my sister on Instagram. I wasn’t going to let that slide.”

“Instagram?”

Jimmy repeated, trying to keep up.

“Back in my day, you settled things like men. You talked it out—or, if it came to blows, you did it without an audience.”

The other boy scoffed.

“What do you know, old man? Times have changed.”

“Maybe so,”

Jimmy admitted,

“but respect doesn’t. You don’t solve problems by hiding behind a screen. If you’ve got an issue, you deal with it face-to-face, like men. And you sure don’t let it become a circus for everyone else to watch.”

The boys looked at him, considering his words. It was a message from another time, but something about it resonated. Eventually, they both nodded, muttering apologies under their breath.

As the situation defused, Jimmy felt a strange sense of accomplishment. The methods might have changed, but the core principles still needed to be. Respect, honesty, and responsibility still mattered, even in this brave new world.

The World Keeps Spinning

Back at the station, the day wound down, and Jimmy found himself in the parking lot, staring at his old Chevy. It was the one constant in this sea of change, a reminder of where he came from and who he was. But as he climbed in and turned the key, he couldn’t help but wonder how long he could hold onto the past in a world that seemed determined to move forward without him.

As the engine roared to life, Jimmy tipped his hat, adjusted his rearview mirror, and drove into the setting sun. The road ahead was uncertain, but he’d face it the only way he knew how—one mile at a time, just like he always had.

He’d find his place in this strange new world somewhere along the way. But for now, he was content to be a man out of time, doing his best to keep up with a world that had left him behind.

A Step Out of Time The Morning After

Detective James “Jimmy” O’Connor had seen it all—or so he thought. O’Connor had been on the force since 1951 when respect meant something and a good cop could solve a case with his wits and a firm handshake. But nothing could have prepared him for the day he woke up in 2024, a world so different from the one he knew. It was as if he had stepped into a parallel universe, a world where the very fabric of society got rewoven.

It started like any other morning. Jimmy rolled out of bed in his modest home, built solidly after the war when families were booming and life was good. He yawned, stretched, and reached for his old fedora, a relic from yesteryear that still sat faithfully on the bedpost. The sun streamed through the window, but something in the light felt –– off. A glance at the calendar confirmed it. The year read 2024.

“What in the Sam Hill…” he muttered, his voice trembling, running a hand through his graying hair. Had he been in a coma? Had he somehow slept through sixty years of his life?

Still dazed, he dressed in his usual attire: a crisp white shirt, suspenders, pleated trousers, and polished leather shoes. His well-worn and comforting hat sat snugly atop his head. The mirror reflected a man who had not aged a day since the early 1960s. Time had played its tricks, but Jimmy O’Connor remained the same.

Determined to make sense of things, he grabbed his keys and headed out. His faithful 1954 Chevrolet two-door coupe sat waiting in the driveway as he’d left it. The car was nothing fancy—back in the day, it had been the biggest clunker in the department. The boys at the station used to rib him about it, but Jimmy liked it just fine. It had character, just like him.

The drive to the station was surreal. Buildings towered over the officer, sleek and modern. People walked down the streets glued to strange devices, barely looking up. The air buzzed with a thousand sounds, none of which he recognized. And the cars—by God, the cars! They whizzed by silently as if propelled by magic. Jimmy’s old Chevy chugged along, a relic in a world that had moved on without him, a world that felt utterly alien.

When he pulled up to the station, he first noticed the gawking. A group of younger officers stood in the lot, eyes wide and mouths agape as they saw him and his car. One of them, a kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, stepped forward.

“Is that…a ’54 Chevy?” the young officer asked, his voice filled with awe and disbelief as if he had just seen a relic from a forgotten era.

Jimmy nodded, confused. “Sure is. Why?”

“That thing’s a classic! How the hell did you get it in such good shape?”

“Just took care of it, I guess,” Jimmy replied, still trying to process everything. “Now, what in blazes is going on around here? This has got to stop!”

Inside, the station was a hive of activity, but nothing looked the same. Computers sat on every desk, glowing with images Jimmy didn’t understand. Phones weren’t phones anymore; they were slim, glass rectangles everyone seemed glued to. The fashion starkly contrasted Jimmy’s traditional attire—bright colors, strange fabrics, and hair that defied gravity. The world had become a place where technology and individual expression reigned supreme, a far cry from the simpler times Jimmy was used to.

Jimmy went to the chief’s office, nodding at a few familiar faces, now older men. They all stared back as if they’d seen a ghost. When he finally entered the door, Chief Morales looked up from his desk, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“Jimmy?” Chief Morales croaked, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. The shock and disbelief in his voice mirrored the sentiments of everyone who had laid eyes on the seemingly unchanged detective.

“Chief, I don’t know what’s happening, but I woke up this morning, and the whole world turned upside down. I need answers,” he declared, his voice unwavering despite the chaos around him.

Morales gestured for him to sit, still in shock. “You mean to tell me you remember nothing past…when? The 1960s?”

“Last thing I remember, Kennedy was in office, and I was working a case with the old squad,” Jimmy replied, sinking into the chair. “Now it’s like I stepped into one of those science fiction movies.”

The chief rubbed his temples. “Jimmy, it’s 2024. A lot has changed. I don’t know how or why, but you look like you haven’t aged a day.”

“Tell me about it,” Jimmy grumbled. “And what’s with the kids these days? I was on a case involving students before this, whatever it was. Are they all this –––different?”

The Chief sighed. “Different doesn’t begin to cover it. Kids these days are a whole new breed. They have connected to the world in ways we couldn’t have imagined in the 60s. Social media, smartphones, instant communication –– They’re more outspoken and more aware but more distracted. It’s a different world, Jimmy.”

The Chief then confided to Jimmy, only to tell people two years ago that I came here in 1972. Nixon was still in office. I have no idea what happened, but like you, this day of mine has repeated; until you came, I thought I was going looney. Now I know it is something else.

There is a glitch in the world’s timeline, and it is realigning where everyone is supposed to be. A clerk in fingerprints came here from a 1910 timeline; she has to have had that, or she has nasty tastes in clothing styles. It is all that I can conclude. I wonder if this is a broad-spread matter, and besides the two of us, who would we bring the matter to the attention of? They would lock us up in the looney house if we went to higher-ups and tried to explain this issue.

For now, we should try to blend in and manage it between us and be there for others we suspect of being travelers like us. Detective O’Conner, for the first time, realized that he was no longer in his time and had somehow been moved through generations and life to end up in a year he would probably not have lived to see. He and the Chief had an opportunity to share their values with a generation that sorely needed guidance, and the Chief felt a deep sense of responsibility to do so.

An Old Truck For The Twins – A Promise From The Farm

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

Jessie and Frank, twin brothers, were not just ordinary farm boys. They were the backbone of their father’s farm, taking on the most challenging tasks that even grown men often avoided. They hauled hay, built fences, chopped wood, and tended to the livestock. Their relentless dedication and resilience inspired all who knew them. As they reached high school, they dreamt of a future beyond the farm, envisioning themselves attending an out-of-state university on agriculture scholarships.

At 17, the twins were nearly indistinguishable in appearance, voice, and mannerisms. Their mother, Ann, often found herself confused by their playful antics, while their father, James, could always tell them apart with a steely blue-eyed gaze that seemed to pierce straight through to their souls.

The boys had always known that their father had set a challenge for them: the one who excelled in school, worked hardest on the farm, stayed out of trouble by the time they turned 18, and would inherit their grandfather’s old truck. This truck, a symbol of their grandfather’s dedication to the farm, had been kept out of sight, locked away in a shed the boys were forbidden to enter. James had made it clear that if they ever crossed that line, the promise of the truck would vanish.

The truck was not extravagant, just an old farm pickup—a 1972 Chevrolet Cheyenne. Yet, in its prime, it was the epitome of rugged style, loaded with air conditioning, an AM radio, tilt steering, and optional cruise control. The dimmer switch was a silver push knob, and the wipers had three speeds: delay, slow, and fast. Its 350-horsepower engine with a four-barrel carburetor and dual exhaust pipes made it rumble in a way that the twins found irresistibly cool.

The story goes that their grandfather bought a brand-new truck when the twins were still in grade school. Disappointed, he told James to lock it away for one of the boys and returned to his old Cheyenne, never repurchasing another vehicle. He swore that nothing could replace the reliability and charm of that old truck.

As graduation approached, Jessie and Frank received their final transcripts and were thrilled to learn they both got accepted to their dream college. They had met all of James and Ann’s conditions, and the day of reckoning arrived on a Sunday before Memorial Day. The family gathered for a noon meal when Frank, unable to contain his excitement, suggested they finally see who would inherit the shed’s contents. Little did they know, the surprise of a lifetime was waiting for them.

James, with a knowing smile, opened both transcripts. –––

“Boys, you’ve always given your best on the farm and never brought shame to our family. But as you grow older, you’ll realize that in an instant, you can destroy everything your name stands for. You must protect it with everything you have by always being your best. Now, about these school results…”

Jessie and Frank exchanged curious glances. They knew they had done well in school, but their father’s words left them on edge. As James continued, his grin widened, and he looked at Ann and their grandfather. –––

“Damn it, I told both of you this would happen. I knew it!”

Ann, perplexed, interrupted. –––

“What are you talking about, James? You knew what?”

James continued with his monologue –––

“Ten years ago, when we locked that shed, I told you this would end in a tie. Those boys are identical in everything they do, even when they take different courses. And sure enough, they tied on their transcripts!”

Their grandfather chuckled. –––

“Well, it’s good I had another shed at my place, too. I knew they’d tie, and what was in that one shed wouldn’t be enough for both of them.“

Jessie and Frank, quietly processing the unfolding events, began to understand the lesson their family had taught them all these years—hard work, equality, and family values.

James asked, –––

“Ann, did you know Pop had another shed down at his place?”

Ann shook her head, still in disbelief. –––

“No one told me a thing! You’d think someone would, but no—never a single word.”

James, towering over the dining table, spread his arms wide and declared, –––

“Let’s put an end to this and see what’s in the shed.”

Their grandfather suggested waiting until morning, but James insisted –––

“No, Pop. Let’s show the boys what’s in my shed. It may not be what they’re expecting, but it is what it is.”

The twins were baffled, unsure of what to expect. At the shed, James paused before unlocking the door and turning to Ann. –––

“What if they aren’t pleased? We’ve only fed, schooled, clothed, and sheltered them for 18 years. What if they don’t like what’s inside?”

Jessie, ever the joker, quipped, –––

“Well, only one of us will be disappointed, so you’ve got that going for you.”

As the shed door creaked open, lights flickered on inside, and their grandfather exclaimed, –––

“Hey! You’ve brought the stuff from my shed down here! How’d you do that?”

Inside were the old truck and two brand-new pickups—precisely like the ones Jessie and Frank had admired recently at a local dealership. The old truck, as promised, would go to both boys on one condition: they had to promise to keep farming the land when they returned from college.


True to their word, Jessie and Frank returned after college, not just as graduates, but as committed farmers. They continued the legacy of their family, working the land with the same dedication and resilience they had shown in their youth. They went into business together, selling signature meats and grains. The old truck became the symbol of their brand, preserved in pristine condition in a showroom at their farm headquarters. With under thirty miles on the odometer, it remains as good as new, touched only by the twins. Anyone else wanting that privilege must work on their farm for over ten years without complaint, earn top grades, and uphold the family’s good name.

After He Died, He became The Most Popular Educator In Town.

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A Fictional Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media2024© Truth Endures

In the small town of Fairview, the school principal, Mr. Harold Beasley, stood as a pillar of consistency and unwavering commitment. He wasn’t tall or short and carried a bit of a pot belly, always framed by his neatly pressed suits. His wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose, magnifying the keen intellect behind them.

Mr. Beasley was a whiz in math and science. He was often spotted in his office poring over the latest educational journals or solving complex equations just for fun. His passion for these subjects was palpable, spilling over into every interaction he had with his students and staff. But his brilliance in academia was matched by his unique sense of humor.

Mr. Beasley’s office was often filled with the sound of his hearty laughter, a testament to his unique sense of humor. His responses to students’ grumbles and grievances were always the same, laced with a touch of wit and understanding.

Rubbing his thumb and finger together and holding it up for a student to see after being asked for some special request he’d hold out his hand saying ––

“You know what that is? That is the world’s tiniest record player –– playing ‘My heart cries for you.”

He would then burst into hearty laughter, his belly shaking nearly busting the buttons on his shirt.

His responses to students’ grumbles and grievances were always the same.

“I can’t set up the schedule to please 250 students,”

He would say with a shrug.

And homework?

“It makes school days shorter.”

While his words might seem brusque, they were rooted in wisdom and fairness. Mr. Beasley knew that life wasn’t always about comfort; it was about learning and growing.

Over the decades, his straightforwardness and dedication earned him a mix of respect and frustration from students and fellow teachers alike. They might not always have liked his methods, but they couldn’t deny the results. Under his leadership, Fairview High consistently produced top-notch graduates who excelled in colleges and careers far beyond the town’s modest borders.

As the years passed, Mr. Beasley became a fixture at Fairview High, symbolizing stability in an ever-changing world. He celebrated countless graduations, always giving the same advice to departing seniors:

“Keep learning, keep questioning, and remember, the only limits are the ones you set for yourself.”

One crisp autumn morning, after fifty years of dedicated service, Mr. Beasley passed away peacefully. The news of his death spread quickly, casting a somber shadow over the town. The weight of his absence was felt by all who had been touched by his presence.

Even those who had butted heads with him over homework or school policies foun themselves reminiscing fondly about his impact on their lives.

Former students across the decades returned to Fairview, each carrying their treasured memory of Mr. Beasley. They spoke of his brilliant mind, quirky humor, and the lessons that had stayed with them long after leaving the school. John credited Mr. Beasley for his love of astronomy, and Maria credited him for inspiring him to become a mathematician because of his encouragement.

The school’s auditorium began filling with former students, teachers, and community members at the memorial service. As they shared their stories, one theme emerged: Mr. Beasley had not just been an educator but a mentor, guide, and friend. His legacy was not in the grades or the test scores but in the lives he had touched and the minds he had sparked.

In the end, Mr. Harold Beasley was remembered not just for his sharp mind and his tiny record player joke but also for his unwavering dedication to his students. He had spent his life teaching them not just about math and science but also about resilience, curiosity, and the importance of a good laugh. And that, more than anything, was his greatest lesson.