⛵ Next Spring
He built campers, boats, and boys—and believed there was always Next Spring.
🚜 Scrap Drive
🚜 Scrap Drive — The Willys, the Welders, and the Winter We Almost Ruled Pearl Street
How a homebuilt tractor, a spring blizzard, and a whole lot of Glover pride taught me what leadership looks like when the road disappears.
🧠 What My Grandad Forgot—and What I Won’t
Grandad Ben could crack a watermelon over his knee and a story wide open with just a grin. Alzheimer’s stole his punchlines—but not his presence. This post is my promise to remember, to keep the forge lit, and to roar loud enough that no one forgets him again.
Chat Rats Loose in Prague
Everywhere we go, somebody’s staring. We’re not doing anything special—just laughing loud and talking like we always have. But apparently, two grinning Oklahoma boys with wives in tow sound like a tornado warning in a library over here.
How the Dirty Little Glover Boys Got Their Name
Before we were legends—chat-dusted, grinning, and marked by the joy of a day well lived.
The name “Dirty Little Glover Boys” started as a screen-door shout from a kid across the street. We didn’t take offense—we claimed it. And we’ve been wearing it like a badge ever since.
The Moon Shot
Before I ever fired a shot, I was trapped in a camper shell with a gassy dog, freezing my tail off, and trying not to pass out. By sundown, I’d botched the flush of a lifetime, dodged my own shotgun spray, and earned a nickname I’ll never live down. This is how one hunting trip in Red Cloud, Nebraska, went from moon shot to punchline—and why my dog still gets the last laugh.
The Bobcat Squall
My grandfather didn’t just tell stories—he summoned them. With a voice like gravel and a bobcat squall that made dogs bark and kids jump, Grandad Ben turned every porch into a stage. His stories shaped me, stayed with me, and now I’m writing them down before they vanish for good.