For My Friend, Trace Baldwin, Judge, Lawyer, Husband,Father, Son, Singer, Friend,
He was a friend of mine…
He was a friend of mine…
He was my friend.
Some people enter our lives with great fanfare.
Others simply appear one ordinary day and quietly become part of our story forever.
That was Trace Baldwin.
When we first met, I was a young police officer. Trace was a clerk at C.R. Anthony’s Dry Goods Store, a clothing store well known throughout Oklahoma and Texas for quality merchandise and courteous employees. I had shopped there many times over the years, but I had never paid much attention to the young man behind the counter. At the time, he was simply another employee helping customers.
Life has a way of introducing us when we least expect it.
I had been assigned to spend my days around the local high school, providing a visible law enforcement presence. This was years before school shootings became part of our national vocabulary. Our department believed in prevention, and I enjoyed getting to know the students and their families. Before long, I knew nearly every teenager in town. Parents would often ask if I had seen their son or daughter, and more often than not, I could tell them exactly where they had been. I considered that trust one of the greatest compliments of my career.
One of those students was an outgoing young man named Mike Griffin. Every afternoon as he left school, he would honk his horn, wave enthusiastically, and flash me a thumbs-up. During lunch, he would often stop to visit, and one day he asked a simple question.
“Do you like to fish?”
“Of course,” I answered.
He invited me to spend the weekend fishing with him at Lake Thunderbird. He and a friend he worked with at Anthony’s, were taking his father’s pop-up camper for a weekend of camping and fishing. Since I happened to be off duty, I gladly accepted.
When I arrived at the campground, the lake was unusually high, leaving us almost alone on the shoreline. Mike introduced me to his friend, a skinny, quiet young man named Trace Baldwin.
Unlike Mike, Trace wasn’t particularly comfortable around police officers.
I couldn’t blame him. To him, I represented the badge.
The moment I climbed out of my truck, though, I put the badge and gun away. After making sure we were all of legal age, I opened a cold beer, and before long we settled into what became one of the most enjoyable weekends of my life.
We laughed.
We fished.
We told stories.
There wasn’t much else to do, and somehow that was exactly what made it perfect.
By the end of that weekend, Trace and I had become friends.
Over the following weeks, he began stopping by my house after work at Anthony’s. Before long, he wasn’t coming to visit a police officer. He was coming to see a friend. My home became a place where he could simply relax without being judged or challenged. Looking back, I think we both needed that more than either of us realized.
We spent countless hours exploring fishing holes throughout eastern Oklahoma County. Some of my favorite memories were made beside those quiet waters.
One trip stands above the rest.
Trace, his father Danny, and I drove to the Blue River to fish for trout. I never caught a single fish that day, but I left with something much greater. The beauty of the Blue River—the clear water, the peaceful woods, the stillness—was unlike anything I had experienced before. I remember thinking I had found paradise.
Without Trace, I never would have discovered that place.
He brought so many unexpected gifts into my life.
Years passed.
Life carried each of us in different directions, but somehow we always managed to find one another again. We laughed about old memories, and Trace would often remind me of moments I had long forgotten.
Not long ago he smiled and said, “You’re the only person I ever rode around with singing gospel songs at two o’clock in the morning while we drove around Lake Thunderbird.”
I had almost forgotten.
He never did.
Those little moments meant something to him.
One day he even asked me to officiate a wedding, a request that humbled me more than I probably ever told him.
As the years passed, the shy young man I had first met beside that flooded campground became an accomplished man. Trace earned his law degree from Oklahoma City University in 1998 and devoted his career to serving others through the Social Security Administration and Legal Aid Services. It somehow didn’t surprise me. The compassion, empathy, and quiet kindness I had seen in him as a young man never left him.
He found joy in life’s simple pleasures. He loved music, especially listening to his favorite band, Tool, on a carefully assembled stereo system. He was a gifted guitar player, sketch artist, and poet. He appreciated classic cars, motorcycles, World War II history, and Stephen King novels. He was known for his dry wit and quick sense of humor, but above all, he was a devoted father to his daughters, Keara and Bella.
Knowing all of that now makes me smile. It reminds me that the young man I met all those years ago never really changed. He simply became more of the person he was always meant to be.
I had been looking forward to talking with him again. There were still stories left to tell and memories left to share.
Then, on June 22, 2026, heaven quietly called my friend home.
The news left me heartbroken.
It reminded me how quickly time slips away and how important it is to tell those we love exactly what they have meant to us while we still have the chance.
Thank you, my friend, for walking beside me during one of the happiest seasons of my young life.
Thank you for every fishing trip, every late-night conversation, every laugh, every memory, and every mile we traveled together.
You helped shape my life far more than you probably ever knew.
Rest easy, Trace.
Listen for the call of the pipes—they will be playing, calling you home.
Someday, when my own journey is over, I hope to hear them too…
And I’ll see you again.
Reader Comments –
Cheers, Benjamin. I love morning coffee, too, and your support is warm as the coffee every day. Stay amazing and…
Coffee is magical in my eyes. It really can bring so many things together!! ☕️❤️
Indeed! My pleasure, Benjamin.
My pleasure, Benjamin
And that’s what I miss. Those fabulously good times. Honest and pure good times! Can’t wait for more stories…
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Simply calling something “FAKE NEWS” doesn’t make it so. If you believe a claim is false, be ready to show why. Cite the facts. Share credible sources. Explain your reasoning. Without that, your point won’t hold.
I was interested in the Groff history you organized. I am Joe Groff’s great grandson and was raised in the area. I have visited the area in recent years. Joe is buried at Mt. Olive cemetery south of Claremont and my parents and grandparents are
buried at Cresthaven east of Claremont. Keep up the great writing.
Great to hear from you Gary. I have a great deal of Groff history collected. I have sent you email information containing some of the details. I hope it went through. It is an interesting family. The generations has handed down some of the best bits of history.
I did not get your email on the Groff history. I would appreciate you sending it again. (garygroff48@gmail.com) I have gleaned a lot of information from records at the Richland county courthouse, like Ulrich’s naturalization record. I think the only Groff left living in Richland county is my first cousin Larry Groff.
Hi Gary, I have sent you information to your email from my private email. You should be able to see it very soon. If you don’t get it in your inbox please check any junk boxes you have designated. — Benjamin
I emailed you a third piece about the eldest Ulrich. He died of Swamp Fever. If you received it, its part of a letter I found. Also there was a third brother other than Michael and Ulrich. He remained in Swizterland. I have his and his wife’s photograph. I am trying to find which book I have placed it. When I do I will get it to you. My grandparents spoke briefly to me about him, so I know a little bit first hand details they handed down, the rest I am having to research.