It was a night like any other in the deep woods outside Willow Creek. Forty years ago—give or take—a man and his dog set off for one of their usual late-night hunts. The man, grizzled and silent, kissed his wife on the forehead and muttered something about a long run. She barely looked up from her sewing. She was accustomed to his absences. He needed to run beneath the moonlight with only a rifle and his hound for company. She didn’t ask where he went. He never said.
The forest swallowed them quickly. Trees leaned in like eavesdropping strangers, and the undergrowth whispered beneath their boots and paws. The dog was a wiry black mutt with a white streak down its spine. It caught the scent of something just beyond the bend. It bolted. The man, cursing but grinning, gave chase.
They ran deeper and deeper into the overgrown trail for what felt like miles until the land suddenly disappeared.
The dog reached the edge of the cliff first. It barked, wild and electric, then dove headlong into the dark.
The man reached the edge just in time to see nothing at all. No bark. No rustle. There is just silence and blackness below. Without hesitation—without fear—he followed.
And that’s where the story ends, at least in the world we know.
The man awoke beside his dog in another place—somewhere between dream and fog. The stars above were fixed in unfamiliar constellations, and the air hummed with a silence too perfect to be real. He stood, brushed off dust that wasn’t dust, and called out.
No echo returned.
For years—or was it minutes?—he and the dog wandered this pale mirror of the forest they once knew. Sometimes, they saw flickers of their old lives. His wife was crying at the hearth. His brother was digging through the old footlocker for the will. But they couldn’t speak, they couldn’t reach, they only watched.
The man no longer aged. The dog’s coat remained pristine. Together, they waited—for what, neither capable of saying.
Then, one night, they heard something rustling through the brush ahead. They walked a trail that hadn’t been there before. The dog tensed. The man raised his hand. A shape moved—slowly, purposefully.
It was another hunter. Rifle slung over his shoulder. Dog at his side. Eyes vacant. He looked familiar.
The man called out. The hunter looked through him, then walked past.
The dog growled, uneasy.
And from the darkness behind them, a second pair of footsteps began to follow. They had found the lost forest of hunters who had died without a place to go.
Earl and Edna had been married for fifty-two years. In those five decades, they had developed a comfortable rhythm, like an old song they both knew by heart. Lately, the lyrics were getting harder to remember.
It all started on a Tuesday morning when Earl stood in the living room, scratching his head.
“Edna,”
He called,
“have you seen my glasses?”
“They’re on your head, Earl,”
Edna replied from the kitchen, her voice tinged with amusement.
Earl patted his scalp and chuckled.
“Well, I’ll be. Guess I’ve been wearing ‘em this whole time.”
But later that day, Edna forgot to turn off the iron. This left a suspicious scorch mark on Earl’s good slacks. That evening, Earl nearly brushed his teeth with muscle ointment. The next morning, Edna scheduled a doctor’s appointment—for both of them.
At Dr. Preston’s office, they sat side by side, holding hands, looking like two nervous schoolchildren awaiting their report cards.
“Doctor,”
Edna began,
“we’re both starting to forget things. Little things, mostly, but…”
Dr. Preston smiled kindly.
“That’s perfectly normal as we get older. One strategy that helps is to write things down. Keep a notepad handy, leave little notes where you’ll see them. It makes a world of difference.”
Earl snorted.
“Write things down? My memory’s just fine. It’s Edna’s that needs the fixing.”
Dr. Preston gave them both a knowing look.
“Just try it. You’ll thank me.”
When they got home, Edna felt a nap coming on and settled into her recliner with a cozy blanket. Earl switched on the TV, flipping channels, landing on a baseball game he wasn’t really watching.
After a while, Edna sat up.
“Earl, dear, would you go to the kitchen and get me a dish of ice cream?”
Earl muted the TV.
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“And write it down, so you don’t forget.”
Earl waved her off.
“Nonsense, Edna. It’s a dish of ice cream. I’ve got it.”
“But I’d like strawberries on it too,”
She added.
“And whipped cream.”
Earl tapped his temple confidently.
“Ice cream, strawberries, whipped cream. No problem.”
Edna gave him a skeptical look.
“You sure you don’t want to write it down?”
Earl shook his head and marched into the kitchen.
For the next fifteen minutes, Edna listened as pots clanged. Cabinet doors creaked. The microwave beeped, and something—was that the blender?—whirred loudly.
Finally, Earl returned, triumphant, a plate in his hands.
“Here you go!”
He declared, setting the plate on her lap.
Edna stared at the plate. Bacon. Eggs. A sprig of parsley.
She looked up at him with an exasperated sigh.
“Earl, where’s the toast I asked for?”
Earl blinked, confused.
“Toast?”
Edna shook her head, laughing despite herself.
“Looks like we’re both making notes from now on.”
Earl sat down beside her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Maybe we should just order takeout.”
And together, they chuckled, holding hands, as the baseball game played softly in the background.
After a moment, Earl squinted at the screen.
“Edna… do you know who’s winning? I can’t tell.”
Edna grinned slyly.
“That’s because, Earl… you’re on first base.”
Earl frowned.
“I’m on first base?”
“No, no,”
Edna said, shaking her head with mock seriousness,
“Who’s on first.”
Earl’s eyes widened.
“Who’s on first?”
Edna corrected, her eyes twinkling.
“No, Who’s on third,”
They both burst out laughing. They cackled until they were wiping tears from their eyes. The baseball game was long forgotten. Their memories were momentarily lost, but their joy was perfectly intact.
Navigating the Crossroads: Challenges and Resilience in the LGBTQI+ Community
In recent years, the LGBTQI+ community has observed both significant strides toward equality and alarming setbacks that threaten these advancements. As societal acceptance grows in some areas, legislative and social challenges persist, underscoring the need for continued advocacy and awareness.
Mental health disparities continue to be a critical issue within the LGBTQI+ community. According to The Trevor Project’s 2024 National Survey, 39% of LGBTQ+ youth seriously considered attempting suicide in the past year. The rates rise to 46% among transgender and nonbinary youth. Factors contributing to this crisis include discrimination, lack of access to affirming care, and societal stigma. (1)
Intersex youth face even more pronounced challenges. A study highlighted troubling findings about intersex respondents. It showed that 77% had someone try to change their sexuality or gender identity. Over 10% had undergone conversion therapy. (2)
Access to quality healthcare is a fundamental right, yet many LGBTQI+ individuals face significant obstacles. The Center for American Progress reported that in 2024, 45% of transgender adults postponed medical care due to affordability issues. Additionally, 60% of intersex adults faced the same issue. Additionally, 37% of transgender adults avoided seeking care out of fear of discrimination. (3)
The political landscape further complicates access to necessary care. A survey by FOLX Health revealed that 90% of trans and nonbinary Americans feared the 2024 presidential election. They were concerned it would negatively impact their healthcare access. Notably, 20% had already lost access due to anti-LGBTQ policies. (4)
Legislation plays a pivotal role in shaping the experiences of LGBTQI+ individuals. In 2024, nearly 500 anti-LGBTQ+ bills were proposed across the United States, with 46 enacted into law. These laws have had profound effects, with over 70% of LGBTQ+ adults reporting negative impacts on their mental health.
Conversely, there have been positive legislative developments. Thirty-seven pro-equality bills were signed into law, focusing on areas like parenting rights and health and safety. (5)
Amid these challenges, community-led initiatives have emerged as beacons of hope. In Connecticut, drag performances educate on health and suicide prevention. They create inclusive spaces for dialogue and support. (6)
The introduction of the Pride in Mental Health Act aims to bolster mental health resources for LGBTQ+ youth. It recognizes the unique challenges they face. The act highlights the importance of affirming care. (7)
The LGBTQI+ community continues to navigate a complex landscape of progress and adversity. While strides have been made in visibility and rights, significant work remains. We need to guarantee fair access to healthcare. Protection under the law is also necessary. Furthermore, societal acceptance must be achieved.
Allies, policymakers, and community members must advocate for inclusive policies. They should support mental health initiatives. It’s essential to foster environments where LGBTQI+ individuals can thrive without fear of discrimination or harm.
Recent Developments Impacting the LGBTQI+ Community
Posted by Movie and Television Show Writer and Actor Del Shores on Facebook –
LGBTQ+ Rights Under Attack in 2025 — And the Fight Continues! But we, as a community, stand firm and resilient.
I posted it many years ago before we could legally marry someone we loved. Before United States v. Windsor struck down DOMA in 2013, and before Obergefell v. Hodges in 2015, we finally gave our love full legal recognition nationwide.
And it became one of the most shared things I’ve ever posted.
WHERE WE ARE NOW, 2025!
2025 has seen an alarming surge in anti-LGBTQ+ bills, with over 500 introduced in the U.S. alone.
Over 774 are specifically anti-trans, and 700 of those are still active.
Texas leads the charge with 127 of these hate-fueled bills.
Many of these bills are pushed by the GOP, wrapped in the Bible, and weaponized with false righteousness. It’s the same tactic — just a different year with more hateful rhetoric than ever.
When I wrote “Southern Baptist Sissies” in 2000. I dreamed it would one day feel like a period piece — a snapshot of a fight we’d won. And yet, in 2025, my character Mark’s words still guide me as I fight for and with my LGBTQ+ family and our beautiful allies:
“Sometimes I close my eyes, and I create a perfect world. A world of acceptance and understanding and love. A world where there’s hope. Even if the hope is just whispered, I hear it.”
To the trans community: we see you, love you, and stand with you in unwavering solidarity.
To the so-called Christians using the Bible to harm: you’re using it wrong.
Romans 13:10 — “Love does not harm its neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfillment of the law.”
Let’s love louder, let’s love more, and let’s love without boundaries.
Let’s keep whispering — and shouting — that hope.
“Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God because. God is love.” 1 John 4: 7-8.
The election of Pope Leo XIV—formerly Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost—marks a historic moment. He becomes the first American to lead the Catholic Church. His choice follows the death of Pope Francis. Pope Francis was noted for his progressive stances on social issues. These included LGBTQ+ inclusion .(1)
Implications for the LGBTQI Community
Pope Leo XIV’s past statements suggest a more conservative approach to LGBTQ+ issues compared to his predecessor. In 2012, he expressed concern about popular culture. He believed it was fostering “sympathy for beliefs and practices that are at odds with the Gospel.” He specifically cited the “homosexual lifestyle” and “alternative families comprised of same-sex partners and their adopted children.” He has opposed the inclusion of teachings on gender in schools. He describes the promotion of gender ideology as confusing. (2)
Pope Leo XIV has not publicly addressed LGBTQ+ issues since his election. His earlier positions show a potential shift from the more inclusive tone set by Pope Francis. Pope Francis had endorsed civil unions for same-sex couples. He also allowed blessings for same-sex unions. This signaled a more welcoming approach. (3)
Awaiting Future Developments
As Pope Leo XIV begins his papacy, the global Catholic community will be observing his leadership closely. This includes LGBTQ+ members. They will watch how it will shape the Church’s stance on inclusion and diversity. His actions in the coming months will offer clearer insights. His statements will reveal the direction he intends to take on these critical issues.
It was a humid summer evening. The air clung to your skin. The world glowed gold in the last light of day. My friend Bub and I stood at the edge of the old creek, just downstream from the dam. The concrete wall loomed behind us. Its spillway trickled like a broken faucet, feeding the deep pool below. The water turned slow and murky there. This was our favorite spot, a secret place we called “The Backside.”
Bub handed me a bank pole he’d rigged himself. It was a sturdy sapling shaved smooth. A heavy line was tied at the end. A fat hook was baited with a chunk of cut shad. We drove it into the muddy bank. We angled it over the swirling water. We tied it off with an extra rope to a thick root jutting out of the ground. Across the creek, Bub set another pole, whistling as he worked, his boots sinking deep into the silt.
We settled onto the bank, backs against the grass, watching the poles bend and sway with the current. The sounds of the night crept in: frogs croaking, cicadas humming, the occasional splash of a carp rolling. Somewhere distant, a train rumbled across the trestle.
“Think they’ll bite tonight?”
Bub asked, tossing a pebble into the water.
“They always do back here,”
I said, grinning.
“Big ones like the deep pool. They come up from the river, get trapped behind the dam.”
We waited in comfortable silence. Just as the moon began to rise, one of the poles gave a sudden, violent lurch.
“There!”
Bub shouted, scrambling to his feet.
I grabbed the pole, feeling the weight and fight of something strong on the other end. The bank pole bent double, creaking against the strain. Bub rushed over to steady the base. I worked the line by hand. I pulled and gave slack as the fish surged beneath the surface. The water boiled and flashed, silver scales catching the moonlight.
“It’s a big one!”
I gasped.
Together we fought it, step by muddy step. At last, Bub plunged his hand into the water. He grabbed the fish just behind the gills, hauling it onto the bank. It was a channel cat, fat and whiskered, easily ten pounds. We stood over it, grinning like fools, watching it thrash in the mud.
“Told you they always bite back here,”
I said.
Bub laughed and clapped me on the back.
“Best pole fishing spot in the county.”
We reset the pole. We rinsed our hands in the creek. Then, we sat back down under the stars. The dam hummed softly behind us. We didn’t talk much after that. We didn’t need to. The night surrounded us. The water flowed gently. The old dam spoke for us. They weaved our friendship into the quiet rhythm of the creek, one fish at a time.
My mother will turn 95 this August—if she makes it that far. Of the six siblings, only my youngest sister and I have cared for her in her old age. Two of the others gradually drifted away after our father passed. They chose, for their own reasons, to cut contact year by year. The two oldest brothers have both died in recent years.
My mother has always had a sharp mind and a strong, toned body. She was constantly on the move, always busy. Even into her 90s, she remained active and mentally alert. But over the past year, she’s started to slip. She now experiences episodes of sundowning. During these moments, she loses track of what she’s saying. She also becomes unaware of where she is or where she’s been.
She now lives far away from me. Our once hour-long phone conversations, filled with talk of daily life, have been reduced to five minutes or less. Her thoughts drift. She forgets what we’re discussing, where she is, or even who she’s speaking with.
The next is a piece shared with me by KJ Stafford, titled “Cleaning Nana’s House.” It resonated deeply. My sisters and I cleaned the house we’d all grown up in. This was before my mother moved in with me for several years. She later moved in with my sister, where she now lives. Stafford’s words capture an experience I believe many can relate to, and with her blessing, I’m sharing it here.
CLEANING NANA’S HOUSE
BY: KJ Stafford
In January of 2024 we moved my Nana into my parents house. Her health was failing, and so was her mind. She was no longer able to live alone anymore and she hated that fact. The woman had been independent her entire life. And now at 90 years old she was forced to be cared for. She could no longer take care of herself. I remember the thought hurting my heart.
Fast forward to February 2025, I held her hand hours before she passed. I had never experienced death in that way before. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dealt with death- both grandpa’s, aunts, uncles… but this was different. It had never been so in my face the way this was. I had never been physically there, witnessing the deterioration every day, every hour. I had never actually watched death slowly take someone. They are memories that will be buried inside my brain until death comes for me. Descriptions that will never make it down on paper ––
April 25th 2025: We piled in our cars, drove the 7 hours to my Nana’s house and began the task of clearing out our memories to make room for someone else’s. My Nana had lived in that house for over 50 years. My mom grew up there. My siblings and I spent weeks there during the summer and until 2024 every Thanksgiving of my life was spent in that tiny dining room around the round, antique wood table. The kitchen looks as if it got stuck in the 70’s. Yellow countertops remind me of sunflowers. The floor is tiled and worn from years of cooking. Years of family gatherings. Years of love. There’s the iconic green couch that sits in the living room…or sat- now it will be given to another family. Moved into a different living room after sitting comfortably in it’s corner for all of these years.
We found love letters from my Grampy to my Nana, boxes of old black and white photographs, ancient toys, jewelry, coats that have somehow found their way back in style, antique glass and trinkets galore. Each find triggering a specific memory. Each find making me wish I could go back 15 years ago. When I was just coming up for the week to visit. Instead of it being the last time within these cozy walls.
My Nana was by far the strongest woman I’ve ever met. She grew up in Canada, abandoned by her mother before she was 8 years old, left with an alcoholic for a father who was never around. She spent Canadian winters in their small, wooden shack often times by herself. Venturing out into the thick snow every so often to find more logs for the fire- the only thing keeping her warm enough to survive. Scavenging for scraps of food. Eventually being passed on and off to relatives, never having a home to call her own. Never truly feeling loved by a family….
Upon finally coming to America, she met her first husband. She married him when she was only 17 and had three children by the time she was 27. He was a drunk. He was a cheater. She deserved better. One night he got back a little too late, my Nana kicked him out. Divorced his ass. She was the talk of the town. It was unheard of at that time. What woman with three young children abandons her husband? A STRONG one, that’s who.
She set goals for herself. She knew she wanted to work at the University. She knew that is where she would meet someone else. And she DID. She worked hard until she got hired. And shortly after, she met my Grampy. The sweetest man to ever walk this earth. Years later they had my Mom. Without my Nana’s strength. Without her knowing her self-worth, I would have never existed. Had she not followed her intuition. Had she not trusted her gut, there would be no me. No family. And for that, I am forever grateful.
I like to think she gave me a little of that strength. I feel it within myself sometimes. It’s why I took Stafford as my pen name. I am so honored. Honored that I was able to grow up with her in my life. Thankful that I had her to teach me how to become a strong woman. I vow to live my life as my Nana did. Never accepting less than I deserve and never being afraid to put myself out there, take a risk, trust my gut and grow.
Early in my law enforcement career, I rode with some of the best in the business. These included David “Booty” Ware, Bruce Poolaw, Junior Toehay, Don Gabbard, and Buttin Williams. All were Native American except for Gabbard, a character in his own right.
By the time I was 19, I had experienced more than most people do in a lifetime. I was just getting started.
One day, nearly every law enforcement officer in the county joined a search. They were looking for a man named Virgil Bass. He had a felony warrant and was considered dangerous. Virgil had vowed he wouldn’t go to jail without a fight. If anyone tried to arrest him, he’d either kill them or die trying.
We started early that morning, sweeping from one end of the county to another. By evening, we reached Virgil’s parents’ house on the county’s west side. We surrounded the place, each of us watching for any sign of an escape.
Bruce and I approached the door and stepped inside. His parents claimed they hadn’t seen him, but they kept glancing up at the ceiling.
Bruce, all 6’6″ of him, said firmly,
“We need to check everywhere.”
We made a show of slamming doors, stomping around, acting like we’d searched every corner. Then we got to the attic.
Bruce looked at me.
“You’re the only one who’ll fit up there. I’ll give you a boost.”
Before I knew it, my head was poking through the attic opening. It was pitch black. I called down,
“I need a flashlight!”
I was half-expecting a two-by-four to come crashing down on me—or worse. If Virgil was up there, he saw me silhouetted by the light from below.
Bruce handed me his flashlight. I pulled myself up until my arms were entirely inside the attic and swept the beam around. The attic was filled with fluffy pink insulation. One spot was different. A trail led from the opening to a lumpy insulation patch. About five feet away, the insulation looked disturbed.
I looked down at Bruce.
“I need a poker iron.”
I heard Bruce ask the family if they had one, and he handed it to me within seconds. I jabbed the iron into the lump, then thought better of it and started whacking the hell out of it.
Suddenly, there was yelling and cursing, and Virgil burst out of the insulation.
“Stop it! Stop it! I give up!”
he hollered.
I ordered him to follow me down, and once he was out, we cuffed him. We took him outside to Booty’s patrol car. Booty looked at the lump rising over Virgil’s eye. He asked,
“How’d that happen?”
I shrugged.
“He fell on a poker iron.”
The whole crew burst out laughing. After all, it’s easy to fall on a poker iron. This is especially true when hiding in an attic after threatening to die before going to jail.
When we first moved to the farm, my father bartered for just about everything. It was the 1960s. He had a wife and six kids. My young uncle, who felt more like an older brother, was also part of the family. He had plenty of mouths to feed. There were also many projects to tackle.
One of his deals involved tearing down an old house on a neighbor’s property in exchange for the lumber. It wasn’t a one-man job—my three older brothers, my uncle, and even my mother had to pitch in. My two sisters and I were assigned a very important task: holding down the tailgate of the pickup truck.
We were told in no uncertain terms to stay put. We knew exactly what that meant. From our perch on the tailgate, we watched as our dad and brothers clambered across the roof, tossing down boards. My mother hustled to pick them up, stacking them onto a flatbed trailer and into another old truck.
I still don’t know exactly why my mother did what she did next. Maybe she wanted to check on us; maybe she wanted to warn us again. But as boards kept flying off the house, she walked around to where we sat—into what my dad had firmly declared “the danger zone”—and yelled:
“You three stay away from here, or you’ll get hit in the head with a board with a rusty nail!”
And no sooner had the words left her mouth than—WHACK! A board sailed down and smacked her right on the head. Of course, it had a rusty nail. Of course, she screamed. And of course, all three of us screamed right along with her.
Almost instantly, my dad’s head popped up over the roof’s edge.
“What the hell are y’all screaming about?”
We all shouted at once:
“Mama’s bleeding! A board hit Mama in the head! There’s a nail in her head!”
My dad scrambled down the ladder, muttering adult words under his breath.
“Shit. Goddammit, Marge, why the hell were you standing where we told the kids not to go?”
My mother, ever unflappable, shot back:
“You threw that board at me on purpose!”
He glared at her.
“Dammit, I didn’t even know where you were. Kids, get off the tailgate and sit on that log. I gotta take your mother into town.”
They drove off toward Doc’s office, leaving my brothers to finish tearing down the house and loading up the wood. The sun set. The old trucks were filled. My brothers piled us into the pickup. They drove the mile and a half back home.
When we pulled into the yard, our parents were just arriving. My dad helped my mom out of the truck and told us she was fine—just a scratch, he said. Doc had cleaned her up, given her a tetanus shot, and sent her home with something “to relax her.”
Naturally, we kids had to see the wound for ourselves. It didn’t look like much—just a small cut hidden in her hair, surrounded by a bruise. Not exactly a house falling on someone’s head. But it had bled plenty, enough to scare us all.
That night, we sat around eating a casserole that had baked while we were gone, everything back to normal. Or so it seemed.
Later, as my mom recounted what happened, the story took on a life of its own. Over the years, at family gatherings and on phone calls, we’d hear her say,
“Well, you know, the day that house fell on my head…”
In the background, my dad’s familiar sigh would follow:
“Dammit, Marge. It was just a board. And it wouldn’t have hit you if you’d stayed where I told the kids not to go.”
But she never wavered. Even now, at 95, if you ask her, she’ll tell you straight:
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.
“How Earl Survived the End of the World (Three Times In One Week)”
It all started on Monday when the news said the world was ending. Again.
“Experts warn: AI, killer bees, and rising sea levels converge by Wednesday,” read the headline on Earl’s phone. He sighed, sipped his lukewarm coffee (the microwave broke last week—tragic), and Googled “How to survive multiple apocalypses.”
Step one: hoard supplies.
Earl ran to the grocery store, but unfortunately, so did the entire neighborhood. All that was left on the shelves were 37 cans of creamed spinach and one gluten-free hot dog bun. He grabbed both. Earl wasn’t proud.
Step two: fortify your home.
This was trickier. Earl’s DIY skills peaked at assembling an IKEA lamp in 2014 (and even that leans a little). He taped bubble wrap over the windows. He stacked his furniture into a makeshift barricade. He hung a sign on the door that read: “Beware of Dog (or raccoon—honestly not sure anymore).”
By Tuesday, the threat had shifted. AI wasn’t trying to destroy us; it just wanted us to finish a customer satisfaction survey. Earl politely declined. The bees were delayed due to weather conditions. The sea levels were rising slowly. Earl figured he had time to finish his Netflix backlog.
Then came Wednesday.
That’s when the real disaster struck:
🚨 The Wi-Fi went out. 🚨
Earl sat there, blinking into the void, unsure how to continue. How does one live without memes? How do you know what to be outraged about if you can’t check Twitter?
Earl tried reading a book. (Printed words? On paper? Barbaric.) He tried talking to my houseplants. Phil the fern judged him silently.
Finally, Earl ventured outside — mask on, hand sanitizer holstered like a gunslinger — only to discover ––
The neighborhood kids had set up a barter system.
“Two rolls of toilet paper for a bottle of sriracha!”
One kid yelled.
“Half a pack of Oreo’s for an iPhone charger!”
Another bargained.
Earl traded three cans of creamed spinach for a Wi-Fi hotspot code—the best deal of his life.
By Thursday, the headlines read: “World Fine (For Now).”
Earl sighed in relief –– until he heard a knock at the door.
A drone hovered outside, lowering a package. Earl opened it to find:
The mid-shift clocked out at 0200 hours. Officer Tim Roff was left alone on the graveyard shift. He was the only officer covering the North and South Districts. Every radio call felt heavier. Every silence stretched longer. He hoped the mutual aid agreement with neighboring jurisdictions would hold if things spiraled beyond his reach. But for now, it was just him, his determination a steady flame in the darkness.
Alone.
Roff approached every call with a practiced urgency. He arrived fast, assessed fast, and moved on fast. Each moment was calculated to cover as much ground as one man can.
At 0330 hours, the dispatch’s voice crackled over the radio, sharp and urgent:
“Tim, we’ve got a report. The male suspect drove an older blue Chevy Monte Carlo, heading to 230 North Madison Street. Planning to kidnap a child from the grandmother watching them tonight.”
A chill settled in Roff’s chest. Alone or not, this couldn’t wait. Dispatch gave him a phone number for more intel.
On Patrol
He stopped briefly at the north division substation and called the number. The story spilled out: Robert Sams, 38 years old, white male, born February 20th, was not alone—he was bringing others. He didn’t have custody of the children, but he was coming to take them anyway. He was planning to run, wanting to force the mother’s hand.
Roff parked his cruiser near the house and waited. Time slowed. Every passing headlight made his pulse jump. Then—there it was. Like clockwork, the Monte Carlo crept down NW 23rd and turned onto Madison. Roff pulled in behind. He hit the emergency lights and followed as the car swung into the driveway. The tension in the air was palpable.
Before Roff even opened his door, the driver bolted for the house.
“Damn it,”
Roff muttered, keying the mic.
“Need backup.”
But the nearest unit was a reserve officer, miles away, filling in from another city—not tonight.
Roff watched the front door swallow the man and grimaced.
“What is this?” he muttered bitterly. “National Take-the-Night-Off Day for cops—and no one told me.”
When backup finally arrived, Roff pointed to the car’s occupants.
“Watch them—don’t let anyone leave.”
Then he approached the front door and knocked.
A woman opened it, anxious, shifting on her feet.
“He ran out the back,”
she said.
Roff’s instincts flared. He circled to the rear, scanning the rain-soaked earth outside the back door. Not a single footprint. Untouched. She’d lied.
He jogged back around. His heart pounded harder now—not from the chase. It was from the relentless math of being outnumbered and alone. The fear was a heavy burden on his shoulders.
He called to the backup officer, loud enough for the woman to hear:
“If anyone comes out the back—shoot!”
He knew it wouldn’t happen, but fear was leverage.
Facing the woman again, he leveled his voice.
“I know you’re lying. If you don’t come clean, I’ll take you in for harboring a fugitive.”
It wasn’t airtight, but it was enough.
Her shoulders sagged.
“He’s in the garage,”
she admitted.
“Under the table.”
She led him through the house. At the garage door, Roff drew his sidearm. Alone again, with no cover. His stomach clenched.
“Come out,”
he commanded,
“or I’ll shoot.”
A shaky voice from under the table:
“Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!”
Roff cuffed Sam and walked him to the cruiser. He identified the other passengers and radioed dispatch for warrant checks. One by one, the answers came: felony warrant. Felony warrant. Felony warrant. Every single one.
Four prisoners. One patrol car. A 25-mile drive to the county jail. And no one else to cover his city.
Roff radioed neighboring agencies asking them to cover calls if any came in. Then he called the sheriff’s office for the official notification ––
“County, be advised I am 10-15 four times to your location. If there are any calls for my area, ask area units to cover calls per the mutual aid compact.”
He locked them in, buckled them tight, and checked the restraints twice. Just as he closed the last door, a car pulled behind him. A woman stepped out, flashing her ID—the child’s mother.
“It’s over,” Roff told her. “We stopped it.”
She followed him inside and retrieved her child. Relief flooded her face as she hugged her baby, her tears a testament to the fear she had endured. She left, her steps lighter, her burden lifted.
Roff radioed the sheriff’s office,
As Roff pulled onto the highway toward the jail, the prisoners chatted pleasantly in the back seat. Their casual demeanor was unsettling, given the gravity of their crimes. But Roff’s nerves stayed taut. His eyes flicked to the mirror every few seconds. He was alone with four felons and had 25 miles of dark road ahead.
At the jail, the booking officer whistled when he saw them.
“You win tonight’s prize, Roff. Biggest catch I’ve seen from one guy in a long time. Hell it will probably hold as a record for a month or two.”
Roff just nodded, the weight of the night still pressing against his chest. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a hollow feeling. He was alone again, with the echoes of the night’s events reverberating in his mind.
One man’s journey through Oklahoma’s parks led him somewhere unexpected—and unforgettable.
When I graduated high school, I was no stranger to the outdoors. My dad was a park ranger, so much of my youth was spent in the Oklahoma parks where he worked. But let’s be honest. My version of “camping” came with cabins and beds. I always had the choice to stay inside if the weather got bad. I didn’t venture far into the woods unless I had to. That was just the way it was.
As I entered adulthood, though, something shifted. I started craving a deeper experience with nature, something less structured and more raw. I planned to visit every state park in Oklahoma. I aimed to camp at each one—no cabins—just me, a tent, and the open sky.
That plan lasted exactly five stops.
On my sixth visit, I reached Lake Tenkiller—and everything changed. The water was clear and clean, the air calm, sheltered from Oklahoma’s notorious winds. It was unlike anything I’d experienced. I pitched my tent and knew, deep down, I wouldn’t need to search any further. I had found my place.
Stormy Nights and Quiet Joys
I returned often, even through thunderstorms. While other campers packed up or ran to their cars at the first crack of thunder, I stayed. I watched lightning dance across the water. Thunder rolled through the hills. Rain swept across the lake. These moments became one of my life’s most calming experiences. Tenkiller is situated north of Gore, Oklahoma, in the Cookson Hills. It also feeds the Lower Illinois River, which contributes to the Arkansas River.
In those younger years, full of energy and a touch of recklessness, I embraced the wilderness. I was there for all the peace, the storms, and the quiet lessons only nature can teach.
Evolving Comforts
Eventually, the novelty of sleeping on the ground wore off. The cold felt colder, and the earth felt harder. That’s when I discovered a few rental cabins tucked near a cove. I asked around and spoke to the owner. They explained how they customized cabins for guests. They even hung a shingle with my name on the front.
Suddenly, a fireplace, stove, refrigerator, and absolute beds transformed my experience. It was still my beloved lake—but now with a touch of comfort. When friends heard about it, they wanted in. Soon, I was making the trip with six or eight others. We built a tradition of campfires, storytelling, and fish tales. These tales only grew bigger over time.
Moving On, But Never Forgetting
As the years passed, life caught up with me. Work, family, and obligations—they pulled me in new directions. My visits to Tenkiller slowed, then stopped. One day, I realized it had been years since I’d last seen that clear water.
But that’s the way of things. The lake had given me what I needed when I needed it—freedom, peace, community, clarity. And though I will not return as often, the memories are stitched into who I am. When life gets noisy, I remember those quiet storms. I think of the glassy mornings. I recall the crackle of fire in a lakeside cabin.
Some places stay with you, even after you’ve left them.
John S. Foster Jr., 102, Pioneering Physicist and Architect of U.S. Nuclear Deterrence, Dies
John Stuart Foster Jr. was a visionary physicist. His career spanned over eight decades of American scientific and defense innovation. He passed away on April 25, 2025, in Goleta, California. He was 102. (1)
Born on September 18, 1922, in New Haven, Connecticut, Foster was the son of renowned Canadian physicist John S. Foster Sr. He began his academic journey at McGill University, earning a Bachelor of Science degree in 1948. He later obtained a Ph.D. in physics from the University of California, Berkeley, in 1952. (2)
Foster’s skill during World War II was instrumental in developing radar and countermeasure technologies at Harvard’s Radio Research Laboratory. He served as a scientific advisor to the 15th Air Force in the Mediterranean Theater. This role further demonstrated his dedication to the war effort. (3)
In 1952, Foster was recruited by Edward Teller to join the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory (LLNL). His leadership in nuclear weapons design at LLNL was groundbreaking. He eventually became the director in 1961. This leadership fostered a culture of innovation and collaboration that continues to inspire today.
From 1965 to 1973, Foster served as the Director of Defense Research and Engineering at the U.S. Department of Defense, advising four Secretaries of Defense and two Presidents. He championed advancements in smart weapons, night vision, and reconnaissance technologies. (4)
After his tenure at the Pentagon, Foster joined TRW Inc. as Vice President of Science and Technology, later serving on its board of directors. He remained an influential figure in national security. He participated in the Defense Science Board. He also joined the President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board. Additionally, he served on the Commission to Assess the Threat to the United States from Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) Attack. (5)
Foster’s contributions earned him many accolades. These include the Enrico Fermi Award and the Founder’s Award from the National Academy of Engineering. He also received multiple Department of Defense Distinguished Public Service Medals. He was also honored internationally. He received the Knight Commander’s Cross of the Order of Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany. He was named Commander of the French Legion of Honor. (6)
In recognition of his enduring legacy, LLNL established the John S. Foster Jr. Medal, awarded annually to individuals demonstrating exceptional leadership in national security science and technology. (7)
Foster is survived by his family and a legacy that continues to influence U.S. defense policy and scientific research.
A memorial service will be held at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. Instead of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the Livermore Lab Foundation in his honor. (8)
Ulrich L. Groff was born on October 8, 1848, in the alpine village of Wengen, nestled in the canton of Bern, Switzerland. Ulrich and Mary Miller Groff were Swiss natives. They were described on their immigration papers as “tillers of the soil.” These were farmers seeking a better future. In Switzerland, the Groff family lived in a small but close-knit community. It was in this environment that Ulrich learned the values of hard work. He also learned perseverance and family unity.
In 1852, when Ulrich was just four years old, the Groff family made a monumental journey to America.
Their voyage took them across the Atlantic Ocean. This information is from family records shared by Sylvia Little, the mother of Jackie Lee Little. They traveled aboard one of the last great sailing ships. The journey lasted a whole month at sea before they landed in the port of New Orleans. From there, the family traveled north through the Wabash and Illinois Rivers, eventually arriving in Vincennes, Indiana.
There, they purchased wagons and teams of oxen to make the final leg of their journey. The Groffs settled in Richland County, Illinois. They would lay down roots and build a new life from the ground up. They faced challenges like language barriers, unfamiliar customs, and the harshness of the American frontier.
By 1860, the Groffs had firmly established themselves in Claremont Township, Richland County. The census that year listed young Ulrich as a ten-year-old student, attending school alongside his brothers Michael and Joseph. His father, a determined farmer, was farming 640 dollars’ worth of land—no small feat for an immigrant family. It was a humble beginning but one filled with purpose and promise.
On December 6, 1870, Ulrich Jr. married Martha Allen Eaks in Richland County. Martha had been born in Cannon City, Tennessee, on December 11, 1849, to William C. and Frances Eakes. Ulrich and Martha began a family together and raised their children on the Illinois prairie.
Ulrich Groff Jr. And Family
By 1880, Ulrich was a working farmer, and he and Martha had three sons: Ira Allen, Harvey S., and Otis E. Over the years, their household expanded to include nine children, with Benjamin H. Groff I. becoming a middle child. Eight of Ulrich Jr.’s children survived to adulthood. The Groff household, a warm and united family, also became a multi-generational home. By 1900, Ulrich’s mother, Mary, was a 74-year-old widow. She had survived the long journey from Switzerland. She also overcame the challenges of building a life in a new land. At that time, she was living with the family.
Martha passed away on February 22, 1906, at 56, and was laid to rest in Eureka Cemetery in Claremont. In 1909, Ulrich remarried, taking Ellen L. Richter of Olney, Illinois, as his wife. Ellen had been born in Bullitt County, Kentucky, to James and Catherine Yates Richter. Ulrich and Ellen had no children together. Later, they helped raise two grandchildren, Cleo and Walker. They stepped in after the children lost their father, Odis Edward Groff.
Ulrich bridged two continents and saw a century of change. He became a U.S. citizen in 1869 and worked on Illinois soil, much like his ancestors did in Switzerland. He never learned to read or write but valued education and ensured his children access it. His life was defined by perseverance, faith, and the quiet strength of a man who carried his family’s burden. Ulrich also became a respected member of the Richland County community. He was known for his hard work, honesty, and willingness to help others.
Ulrich Jr. passed away on June 6, 1927, at the age of 78 years, 7 months, and 29 days. He was buried beside Martha in Eureka Cemetery. Ellen lived on until 1939 when she passed away at the age of 82. She, too, was buried in Eureka.
The legacy of Ulrich L. Groff endures in the farmland he once tilled. It continues through the descendants he raised. The journey his family made was filled with hope. It was marked by courage and the will to start again. They traveled from the Alps of Switzerland to the heartland of Illinois.
Before Otis passed away, he and Ulrich’s son, Benjamin, discovered land in Oklahoma. In the early 1900s, they began farming it together. Benjamin and his sister, Laura Alice Dowty, eventually settled there permanently. They raised their families there and spent the rest of their lives on that land.
Growing up, we had dogs that made our lives richer in ways I’m still discovering today. There were three of them: a St. Bernard–Collie mix, a German Shepherd, and a Rat Terrier—Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.
These three would become my best friends throughout my childhood.
The first to arrive was Oggy. He was a big, playful dog who loved to wrestle in the front yard for hours. But more than anything, he was our guardian. Oggy knew his role: to watch over us. Every afternoon, he met us at the gate when the school bus dropped us off and escorted us home. No stranger ever approached our house without Oggy ensuring they had our blessing to be there.
Next came Jackie, a spry little hound named after a friend’s dog. Jackie quickly became our best mouser and a fierce snake fighter, teaming up with Oggy on countless backyard missions.
Finally, Bruiser joined the pack—a German Shepherd with a name tougher than his heart. Although Bruiser had been obedience-trained and sounded intimidating, he was naturally gentle and shy. But when it mattered, he showed real courage, standing shoulder to shoulder with Oggy and Jackie to guard our home.
By age 13, the three of them followed me everywhere. We hiked deep into the forests near my dad’s ranger station, trekking miles through wildland few others dared to explore. Jackie scouted ahead, flushing out surprises. Oggy stayed close, my sturdy shield. And Bruiser brought up the rear, quietly ensuring nothing came up behind us.
Looking back, I realize they created a cone of safety around me, a living circle of love and protection. Whether I was on foot, on horseback, or driving a tractor, my trio was always there. They were my constant companions through childhood adventures.
Sometimes, we’d stop at a fallen log and sit together. I would talk to them about my troubles—problems that seemed so large at 13—and they would listen in silence. When I stood up again, the issues felt either solved or less heavy.
We would set off again every afternoon after school unless I had work to do for my dad. If I did have chores, they stayed right by my side, enduring the labor with me.
When I turned 17, we lost Oggy. His arthritis had left him nearly unable to walk, and his eyes had gone cloudy. With love and sorrow, my dad had a veterinarian help him cross over to a better place.
Jackie passed a few years later while I was away from home, already carving my path in the world. And then, in 1984, Bruiser’s body gave out after a long struggle with an incurable skin condition. After months of holding on, my parents made the painful but loving decision to let him go.
Those three dogs had been with me through it all. They ran beside me along ridges. They chased waterfalls. They climbed cliffs to the highest points of the land. They sat with me as we watched the world stretch out for miles.
Jackie once fought off a copperhead snake. She suffered terrible bites that swelled her head to twice its size. Yet, she survived and came running with us again. Oggy and Bruiser learned to shadow me unseen while I rode horseback, quietly blocking any stranger who came too close. It wasn’t training. It was friendship—the kind that instinctively protects without being asked.
In the end, the pain became too much for them to bear. Love helped us let them go. It broke our hearts. I’m grateful my dad made those final decisions because, to me, they weren’t just dogs.
They were my most faithful friends, making my childhood a place of wonder, safety, and unconditional love.
Today, the world said goodbye to Pope Francis. I was reminded of the man who called for compassion among the masses. He urged us to find understanding and acceptance in whatever ways we can. He believed that small steps lead to greater paths. Simple, quiet acts of goodness build a better world.
Altruism was instilled in me from an early age. Through my personal experiences, I’ve come to understand its true meaning. I instinctively understood the Pope’s message and often wished more people worldwide would embrace it as profoundly as I had.
For me, kindness has always been second nature, a lesson I learned from my father. I knew from childhood that even the smallest gestures mattered. It is holding a door open for someone. It is offering a word of acknowledgment or helping a stranger in need. My father, a man of few words but profound actions, taught me this.
Each Sunday morning, the sun rose. He and I would then load our truck with fresh produce from our farm. This was done before the first car appeared on Main Street. We would quietly deliver baskets of food to low-income families across town. It was a ritual performed with no expectation of thanks, no wish for recognition. My father made it clear: this was our shared mission, something sacred, something we did simply because it was right. The smiles on the faces of those families showed the impact of our small acts of kindness. The relief in their eyes was a testament to the difference we made.
Altruism can take on many faces—kindness, decency, a willingness to see others’ needs. Years ago, we visited Las Vegas with my better half and two fellow law enforcement officers. We stopped for a quick meal at a small pizza shop. I noticed an older man lying beneath a tree across the parking lot as we ate. He looked frail and vulnerable—homeless, clearly unwell.
Throughout the meal, I couldn’t shake the image of him. When we finished, I gathered our untouched slices into a to-go box. I told the others I would offer it to him. It didn’t feel right to leave that food behind, not when someone nearby desperately needs it.
As I approached, I saw fear and uncertainty in his eyes. But when I gently asked how he was doing and whether he had eaten, his expression softened. I handed him the pizza and a bottle of water. His hands trembled as he accepted them, tears welling in his eyes.
We spoke briefly. He told me it had been days since he last ate. He had been surviving on whatever water he found. He hadn’t asked for anything—but his gratitude was overwhelming.
Then, quietly, we went our separate ways. That moment has stayed with me, just as those early Sunday mornings with my father have stayed with me. Compassion doesn’t have to be loud. Kindness doesn’t always wait to be invited. Sometimes, it’s simply about noticing—and acting.
I never saw that man again. I like to believe that the small act of kindness I showed him helped him feel seen and valued. It made him feel stronger for the journey ahead. It’s a testament to the power of small acts of kindness. It gives me hope for a more compassionate world.
As Pope Francis often reminded us, the world doesn’t change through grand gestures alone. It changes one small act of love at a time. And so, in his memory, I urge you, the reader. Please continue noticing. Keep caring and acting—quietly, humbly, and with open hearts. Each of us has the power to make a difference.
Edy Star, Trailblazing Brazilian Artist and Queer Icon, Dies at 87
April 25, 2025 – São Paulo, Brazil
Edy Star was a flamboyant and fearless Brazilian artist. He was a singer, actor, and visual artist. He broke ground as one of the country’s first openly gay performers. Edy Star died on April 24 in São Paulo. He was 87.
A Singular Life
Born Edy Nunes in Salvador, Bahia, Edy Star became a singular presence in Brazilian culture. His career spanned music, theater, television, and visual arts. He carved a space for himself that defied convention. He also challenged the mainstream.
He is best remembered for his work on the 1971 cult album. Sociedade da Grã-Ordem Kavernista Apresenta Sessão das 10 gained significant attention. It is a psychedelic, satirical collaboration with Raul Seixas, Sérgio Sampaio, and Miriam Batucada. The album blends rock, samba, and theatrical flair. It was initially pulled from circulation. But, it later became a defining artifact of Brazil’s counter cultural movement.
Fearless Expression in Dangerous Times
Edy Star was known for his irreverent stage presence, extravagant costumes, and unapologetic queerness. Brazil was under a military dictatorship. During this time, LGBTQ+ voices were often silenced. His bold performances stood as acts of defiance.
By challenging gender norms and pushing social boundaries, he became a symbol of artistic freedom, resistance, and queer pride.
A Multidisciplinary Force
Moreover to his musical legacy, Edy Star was a visual artist, television presenter, and seasoned stage actor. His multidisciplinary approach made him a beloved figure across Brazil’s creative scenes.
He brought the same vibrant energy and passion to every medium he touched. His work left a lasting impression on audiences and fellow artists alike.
A Peaceful Farewell
Edy Star passed away peacefully in a São Paulo hospital due to complications after a domestic accident. According to a statement from his press office, he died “without pain, while receiving medical treatment.”
An Enduring Legacy
Edy Star’s legacy lives on in the bold, boundary-breaking art he championed. He inspired generations of LGBTQ+ artists to live and create without compromise.
It was January 28th, 1986. Tim was driving to an appointment, his car weaving through fifty miles of winding highways. The radio crackled with the morning news. The Space Shuttle Challenger was set to launch, carrying the first civilian teacher into space.
As the announcer spoke, a sudden, vivid image flashed in Tim’s mind—an explosion, fiery and bright. He gripped the wheel tighter. Then, just as quickly, the vision faded.
This wasn’t the first time. During his years in law enforcement, Tim had experienced moments like this—flashes of insight, warnings he couldn’t explain. Colleagues had asked how he knew things before they happened. He’d only ever shrugged and said, “I’ve got a sixth sense, I guess.”
A commercial break interrupted the news. Tim leaned back, letting the hum of ads drown out the unease rising in his chest. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. There are engineers, scientists—people much smarter than me working on this. Who am I to question it?
Then the news returned, live coverage from Cape Canaveral. As the launch countdown continued, Tim felt it again. A deep, cold shiver passed across his neck. Then he envisioned the same haunting image of destruction.
He reached for the dashboard, then pulled his hand back. Should I call? he wondered. Would they even listen? The idea of calling NASA felt absurd. What would I say? he thought. That I had a feeling?
No one would believe him. He’d be laughed off the line—or worse. He pictured himself in a hospital gown, locked behind heavy doors for making prank calls to a national space agency.
So he drove on.
At the appointment, Tim entered the lobby and stepped up to the front desk. Just as he began to sign in, a man burst from his office, wide-eyed.
“You won’t believe what just happened!”
He turned on the TV. On the screen, the Space Shuttle Challenger rose into the sky—and then disintegrated in a plume of smoke and fire.
Gasps filled the room.
Tim stood frozen. The weight hit him all at once. Not just the horror of what had happened but also the hollow ache remained. He knew he had seen it coming… and done nothing.
In the days that followed, he replayed it again and again. The moment he didn’t call. The chance he didn’t take. The voice he silenced.
If he had picked up that phone, maybe nothing would’ve changed. Or maybe someone would’ve listened. Maybe someone smarter than him would’ve paused for just a second. He would never know.
One thing became clear to Tim that day. The burden of inaction weighs heavier than the risk of being wrong.
If he was able do it over, he’d make the call.
No matter how crazy it sounded.
This story is from actual events. The names of those in the story were changed to protect their privacy.
Erik Ruus, a prominent Estonian theater and film figure, passed away on April 22, 2025. He was 62, just one day before his 63rd birthday. Born on April 23, 1962, in Elva, Estonia, Ruus had a distinguished career spanning over four decades.
Ruus graduated from the Viljandi Culture Academy in 1982 and began his professional acting career shortly thereafter. He was a longstanding member of the Rakvere Theater from 1985 to 1995 and from 1996 to 2009. Between 1995 and 1996, he performed at the Endla Theater in Pärnu. Since 2009, Ruus has worked as a freelance actor, contributing to various stage productions, films, and television series. (1)
Notable Film and Television Roles
Ruus’s film career included roles in several significant Estonian films. He played Peeter in Vaatleja (The Birdwatcher, 1987). This film received international acclaim. It won awards from the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival, the Torino Film Festival, and the Rouen Nordic Film Festival. In Tulivesi (Firewater, 1994), he portrayed Eerik, a position that left a forever impression on audiences. Notable appearances include Minu Leninid (1997) and Ferdinand (2002). He also appeared in Stiilipidu (2005) and Päeva lõpus (2009). His roles continued with Kutsar koputab kolm korda (2010) and Johannes Pääsukese tõeline elu (2019). (2)
On television, Ruus appeared in series like Ohtlik lend (2006), Kelgukoerad (2006–2007), Klass: Elu pärast (2010), and Õnne 13 (1997–1999) (3)
Personal Struggles and Resilience
Throughout his life, Ruus faced personal challenges, including struggles with alcohol, which affected his tenure at the Rakvere Theater. His unwavering commitment to his craft is remarkable and a testament to his cause. He continues to inspire many. (4)
Erik Ruus’s contributions to Estonian theater and film have left an indelible mark on the country’s cultural landscape. His performances resonated with audiences. His legacy will influence future groups of actors and artists. It is a testament to the impact of his work.
My grandfather had a host of brothers. Their father, Ulrich Groff Jr., had been married twice—the second time after his first wife died. Among my grandfather’s many brothers was one named Frank. In the family, he was known as Grand Uncle Frank or Great Uncle Frank, depending on who was telling. Frank lived a colorful, hard-worn life. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike and always had a funny story to tell. He was raised on a farm. He worked odd jobs in his youth. Eventually, he found a steady calling with the Chicago Police Department.
Frank’s career on the force was mostly uneventful, at least by police standards. He would occasionally talk about the small-time crooks. He mentioned the drunks and the desperate people. He and his partner had to haul these people off to jail. But there was one story he told with a quiet solemnity—one that never left him. It was a time when being a police officer was a tough job, especially in a city like Chicago. The streets were rough, and the criminals should not be taken lightly.
Frank Groff
It was the night his partner died.
According to Frank, it had been a typical shift. He and his partner had picked up a couple of rowdy men, causing trouble. One of them shoved Frank’s partner during the scuffle. The man was quickly subdued and locked up. As far as Frank knew, it was nothing out of the ordinary. They had handled far worse and walked away without a scratch.
But the next morning, a knock at Frank’s door brought grim news. Fellow officers informed him that his partner, John Blazek, had passed away during the night.
John had hit his head during the scuffle—no one thought much of it at the time, including John himself. Like many men of his era, he brushed it off, finished his shift, and went home. Officer Blazek called a fellow officer to give him a ride. He didn’t feel quite right. Still, no one suspected anything serious. He went to bed and never woke up. The suddenness of his passing left everyone in shock and disbelief.
The official record read:
John Blazek
Patrolman John Blazek died after suffering a head injury. He fell or was pushed to the floor inside the 22nd District’s cell room. This incident occurred at 943 West Maxwell Street the prior night. He did not realize he had suffered a skull fracture. He attempted to go home at the end of his shift at 8:00 am. Blazek did not walk home and called another officer to pick him up. Once he got home, his condition worsened. He passed away the next day from the head injury.
Patrolman Blazek was a U.S. Army veteran of World War I who had served with the Chicago Police Department for 26 years. His sudden and unexpected death left a void in the community. His wife and two sons survive him.
Frank never quite recovered from that night. Though he stayed on the force, something in him changed. He stopped talking about the job as much. When he did, it was with a heavier voice. He had arrested many criminals and survived several street scuffles. Yet, the quiet death of his partner haunted him the most. They didn’t see it coming. He retired a few years later, and we see that the incident had taken a toll on him. He spent his days quietly, often lost in thought.
Years later, after Frank’s retirement, we found a worn copy of the police report. It was on John Blazek’s death and among his things. It was folded carefully into the pages of his Bible. Eventually, Frank passed on. On the back, in his handwriting, were the words:
“We don’t always know the moment something changes us. But we carry it. Always.”
I keep a photo in a drawer in my desk. It is tucked beneath an old leather-bound notebook and a yellowing map of Beckham County. It’s a photo of Lloyd Joe “Bick” Bickerstaff. The image was taken about a month before his promotion to Captain with the Elk City, Oklahoma Police Department.
In the picture, Bick sits in his unit, his uniform crisp in the late autumn light. The shadows are long. The wind has just started to turn cold. That unmistakable Oklahoma sky behind him stretches flat and wide. It is quiet, open, and full of secrets. He wears a half-smile that says,
“I’ve seen things, but I’ll carry them quietly.”
Bick and his brother were born in Sentinel, Oklahoma. I only heard his brother’s name once in passing. Sentinel is a patch of land barely big enough to hold the stories it carries. They began their careers as State Troopers with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. The two brothers wore matching uniforms and chased something bigger than themselves.
But by the time I knew Bick, he rarely mentioned his siblings. I assumed time had done what it often does to families. Maybe there was a falling out—just distance. I never asked, and he never offered.
I knew he had a wife who baked cinnamon rolls on Sundays. He also had two children. One child was off in Sayre, chasing classes at a junior college. The other was a veterinarian who had graduated from Oklahoma State University. His life beyond the badge was quiet but rich. He even operated a small answering service—its operators worked right from his living room. You knew that life grounded him.
Nevertheless, Bick was more than just a veteran officer inside the department. He was the compass.
When rookies came in shaken from their first domestic call, Bick was the one who handed them a cup of bad coffee and said,
“It gets better if you let it.”
He never lectured. He just listened. And when he spoke, it was always worth hearing.
I remember the weeks leading up to his promotion. The department was shifting—a new Chief was being promoted, and a Major was moving up from Captain. Everyone felt the tremors of change. But Bick? He was steady and unmoved. I asked if he was nervous about entering a bigger role during such a turbulent time.
He just smiled that same quiet smile.
“Storms pass,”
He said.
“Someone’s gotta keep the porch light on.”
He did more than that.
He held the whole house together.
Years passed. And then, like storms do, time took Bick from us. When the news came, I expected many familiar faces at the service. Officers from every corner of the state would be paying their respects. But they didn’t come. Time had moved on, and so had they. Somehow, the news of Bickerstaff’s passing hadn’t brought them back.
Elk City Police Chief Bill Putman did what mattered. He escorted Bick’s casket from Elk City to the Old Soldiers Cemetery in Oklahoma City. That quiet, deliberate ride said more than any ceremony. It was loyalty. It was respect. It was love.
I was there, too, standing back in the shadows as the service ended. I didn’t speak. Didn’t approach the family. I just paused long enough to leave a final tribute at the edge of his resting place. It was a farewell from someone who had seen firsthand what quiet strength looks like.
Maybe Bickerstaff would’ve preferred it this way. No fanfare. There is no parade of names—just those who mattered most.
I like to think I was one of them.
Bick was never the loudest voice in the room. He didn’t need to be.
But when he spoke, the room listened.
And when he left, the silence he left behind was deafening.
The echo he once carried over the radio has gone quiet. And somewhere out in Western Oklahoma, no one will ever hear that calm, steady voice call out again—
“Attention, all stations and units; stand by for a broadcast.”
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