The handwritten sign stopped him cold. John Wayne stood on the wet sidewalk outside a small diner, reading the same four lines over and over. Closed. Film crew blocking park in 3 days. Can’t afford to stay open without customers. Sorry to our regulars. behind him. Trucks lined the street, cables snaked across the pavement, and a sign reading true grit hung above a building that hadn’t sold a single cup of coffee in 3 days. For a moment, no one moved.
A young production assistant walked past, clipboard in hand, barely glancing at the window. That place, just some old diner. Not our problem, Duke. Happens every shoot. He kept walking, already focused on the next setup, the next mark, the next take. Wayne didn’t answer. He stayed where he was, staring through the glass at stacked chairs, a dark grill, a coffee pot sitting cold on its burner.
Behind the counter, faded photographs lined the wall. Decades of regulars, birthdays, a town’s whole history pinned to wood paneling. Then he turned and his voice carried down the street. How long has this woman been closed? The PA stopped walking. Sir, you heard me. How long? But that moment didn’t start there.
3 days earlier, before the trucks arrived, before the cones went up, before the sign went into the window, there was a woman behind that counter named Ruth pouring coffee for the same six regulars who’d been coming in every morning for 40 years in a town small enough that everyone knew her name, and her diner was the only thing she had left.
The production manager arrived fast, jogging up with the kind of smile menus when they’re about to explain something away. “Juke, everything okay? We’ve got a tight schedule today.” “How long has this diner been closed?” Wayne asked again, not moving from the window. “I I’d have to check with Don’t check.
Tell me what you know.” The manager’s smile faded. “3 days, maybe four. Look, this happens on every location shoot. We block off space for trucks, equipment, crew parking. It’s standard. We’ve got insurance for exactly this kind of insurance. Wayne repeated the word like it tasted bad. Has anyone from this production knocked on that door, talked to her, asked her name? Silence.
That’s what I figured. He turned back to the glass. Inside, papers were spread across the counter. a ledger, columns of numbers, a pencil resting where someone had stopped writing midcalation. Whoever sat there last hadn’t finished the math. Or maybe they had and didn’t like the answer.
3 days earlier, that counter had been full. Ruth Callaway, 64, had been on her feet since 5 in the morning, same as every morning for 40 years. Coffee poured before anyone asked, plates moving, the bell over the door ringing every few minutes. Ranch hands came in before sunrise. The sheriff took his coffee black at 7. Same booth, same window seat. Old Mr.
Pearson came in just to read his paper and complain about the weather. Same as he had since Ruth’s husband, Walt, was still alive to pour his coffee himself. It wasn’t just a diner. It was the only place in town where everyone showed up every day without being asked. Funerals started there. So did engagements. Walt had died 6 years ago and Ruth kept the place running on her own.
Same hours, same prices, same booth for the sheriff because closing it felt like closing something bigger than a business. Then the trucks came. Then the cones went up across her entire lot. Every parking space gone, replaced with cable spools and folding chairs for a crew that didn’t know she existed. By day three, no one could park.
No one came in. And Ruth sat alone behind the counter. She’d wiped clean every morning for four decades, doing math that kept coming out wrong. That was the sign Wayne was reading. Ruth hadn’t slept the night before. She’d sat at the counter until almost midnight, the ledger open in front of her, the numbers refusing to change no matter how many times, she added them.
2 months behind on the building note. Now 3 days with no customers, and the bank in town didn’t care whose fault that was, she thought about calling her daughter in Billings, picked up the phone twice, set it down twice. 40 years she’d run this place. Through Walt’s death, through two recessions, through a winter so bad the pipes froze, and she’d served coffee by lantern light rather than close the doors.
She wasn’t going to call her daughter over a film crew’s parking cones. Pride wouldn’t let her. This town had been built slow the way mountain towns are. A general store, a church, a schoolhouse, and Ruth’s place back when it belonged to Walt’s father, and was just called the diner because there wasn’t another one to confuse it with.
Ranchers came down from the hills every morning before their hands started work. The sheriff’s office was two doors down, close enough that Ruth knew his coffee order before he sat. When old Mrs. touch-ins passed, the whole town gathered at Ruth’s afterward because that’s just where people gathered. Then the production rolled in.
Big trucks, lighting rigs, a crew of nearly 100, and somewhere in the planning, someone had marked Ruth’s lot as available parking without ever walking inside to ask. The cones went up on a Monday. By Tuesday, regulars who’d normally park and walk in were driving past, confused, then giving up and going home.
By Wednesday, Ruth understood nobody was coming and nobody outside was going to notice. She made the sign herself in pencil first, then ink, sitting at the counter where she usually took orders. She taped it to the inside of the glass facing out and turned off the lights behind the counter so she wouldn’t have to look at the empty stools.
Then she sat back down with the ledger because at least the numbers gave her something to do with her hands. She didn’t hear the footsteps outside. Didn’t see the man in the cowboy hat stop at her window. Read her sign twice, then turn and ask a question that made a young production assistant go quiet. She was still doing the math when the door opened.
A door she hadn’t unlocked, hadn’t expected anyone to try, and a shadow fell across the counter. “Ma’am,” a voice said. “Mind if I come in?” Ruth looked up. For a moment, she couldn’t speak at all. Ruth’s pencil stopped midstroke. The man standing in her doorway wore a worn leather vest, a bandana loose around his neck, boots dusted with the same mud as everyone else on that production.
But there was no mistaking the face. She’d seen it on movie posters, on the marquee of the theater two towns over, on the cover of magazines her late husband used to buy. Mr. Wayne, she managed. I The diner’s closed. I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to I can see that. He stepped inside anyway, glancing at the stacked chairs, the dark grill, the sign she’d taped facing the street.
saw your note in the window. Ruth’s face flushed. She closed the ledger fast like he might read the numbers from across the room. That’s just it’s nothing. It’s temporary. Just until the crew clears out, then we’ll be back open regular hours. 3 days closed isn’t nothing. Wayne pulled out a stool, the sheriff’s stool, though he didn’t know that, and sat down across the counter from her.
Your sign says my cruise parking is the reason. I didn’t mean for anyone to see that. I just needed to explain to the regulars why. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for a problem we caused. The door swung open behind him. The production manager again, breathless, clutching something. An envelope. Duke, I spoke with the studio.
They want to make this right. A generous gesture. He set the envelope on the counter, sliding it toward Ruth. “For your trouble, on behalf of the production.” Ruth looked at the envelope. “Didn’t touch it.” “I don’t need charity,” she said quietly. “I need customers.” The manager opened his mouth, but Wayne raised one hand just slightly, and the man stopped.
“Why don’t you wait outside?” Wayne said. Not unkind, just final. The manager hesitated, then left, the envelope still sitting untouched on the counter. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Wayne looked around the diner. Really looked. The photographs on the wall, decades of faces, a town’s whole history.
A booth by the window with a small brass plate that read reserved, worn smooth from use. Tell me about this place,” he said. Ruth blinked. “What? This counter? These photos, that booth.” He nodded toward the window seat. “Tell me.” And something in Ruth, something that had been holding tight for 3 days, maybe longer, maybe since Walt died, came loose.
She talked about her husband, about 40 years of 500 a.m. mornings, about the sheriff’s coffee, and Mr. Pearson’s complaints about the weather and Mrs. Hutchkins’s funeral that had filled every booth. She talked about the bank, the two months behind, the cones in her lot, the silence where there used to be the bell over the door ringing every few minutes.
Her voice cracked on the last part. I’ve never closed this place. Not once. Not in 40 years. And I sat here last night thinking, “Maybe this is just maybe this is how it ends.” Wayne didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at his own productions trucks filling her lot. “It’s not ending,” he said. “Not today.
” Wayne walked outside without another word. Ruth watched through the glass, ledger still open on the counter as he crossed the lot toward the production manager, who straightened up fast the way men do when they sense something’s coming. Get the ad over here, Wayne said. And whoever’s running catering for this shoot.
Duke, we’ve got a caterer already. Full setup. It’s been booked for cancel it. The manager blinked. cancel the whole catering contract. Starting tomorrow, this diner feeds the crew breakfast, lunch, dinner, however many people you’ve got. 80, 100, whatever it is. Full crew rate paid upfront every day until we wrap. Sir, that’s that’s a significant change to the production budget.
I’d need to run that by run it by whoever you need to, but it’s happening. Wayne’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. And while you’re at it, move these cones. The cones? Every one of them offer lot today. Crew parks down the street from now on, same as anyone else in this town. The manager looked at the rows of orange cones stretching across the lot.
A logistics plan 3 weeks in the making. And then at Wayne’s face and decided the logistics plan could change. Wayne didn’t wait for him to start. He walked to the nearest cone himself, picked it up, and set it down on the far side of the street, then the next one. By the third cone, two crew members had stopped what they were doing to watch.
By the fifth, they were helping. Inside, Ruth stood at the window, hand pressed to her mouth, watching John Wayne move parking cones across a small town street in full costume. boots, vest, gun belt, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. The next morning, Ruth arrived at 500 a.m. out of habit, expecting nothing.
Maybe one or two regulars who’d heard the cones were gone. Instead, she found the lot full. Trucks, cars, crew members already lined up outside her door, coffee thermoses in hand, waiting for her to unlock it. She opened the door and for the first time in 3 days the bell rang and didn’t stop ringing. 80 people moved through her diner in waves that morning, more than she’d served in a week, sometimes a month.
By 7, she was out of coffee twice. By 8 she was out of eggs. And in the middle of it all, John Wayne, in full true grit costume, gun belt and all, rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a stack of plates from a booth, and started clearing tables, moving through the chaos like he’d worked there for years.
A crew member elbowed another, grinning. “Is that don’t say anything,” the other whispered. “Just let him work.” Word moved through town faster than anyone could explain it. By midm morning, the sheriff was back in his usual booth, coffee in hand, staring at the man busing tables in a cowboy hat like he wasn’t sure if he was still asleep.
Mr. Pearson shuffled in around 9, newspaper under his arm, took one look at the crowd and the commotion, and said only, “Well, guess I’ll need a bigger paper today.” By the second day, locals who hadn’t been in for weeks, some who’d quietly started driving to the diner two towns over came back.
Not because anyone told them to, because the lights were on, the bell was ringing, and Ruth was behind the counter where she’d always been. For the rest of the 3-week shoot, Ruth’s diner ran at a pace it hadn’t seen since Walt was alive. crew meals three times a day, locals filling in around the edges, the register busier than it had been in years.
Ruth hired back a girl she’d had to let go the year before just to keep up. Wayne never made a show of any of it. He didn’t mention it to reporters, didn’t pose for photos behind the counter, didn’t bring it up again after that first morning. When the production wrapped and the trucks rolled out, he stopped by once more, paid his tab like everyone else, left exactly the right amount, and told Ruth quietly that if the studio ever filmed in this part of Colorado again, her diner had first call on catering.
No conditions, no press release. It might have stayed that way, a story only the town knew. if a local paper years later hadn’t run a small piece buried on page six. The headline was simple. The Duke saved our diner. Most people outside that town never saw it, but the people inside it never forgot. Ruth ran that diner for 15 more years.
Same hours, same booth for the sheriff, same coffee before anyone asked. When she finally retired, she handed the keys to her daughter, the one she’d almost called that night, the one she never had to call after all. The framed newspaper clipping still hangs by the register today. The Duke saved our diner. Most customers walk past it without a second glance, just another piece of small town history on a wall full of them.
But every so often, someone stops, reads it, and asks if it’s true. The answer is always the same. Every word. Because John Wayne spent 50 years playing men who stood up for towns that couldn’t stand up for themselves. Sheriffs, ranchers, soldiers, men with names like Rooster and Ethan and the Ringo Kid, he said.
The lines, wore the hat, rode off into a hundred sunsets. But on one ordinary morning in Colorado, with no cameras rolling and no script to follow, he didn’t have to play that man. He just was him. A woman who thought her diner uh and maybe her whole life’s work was quietly ending found out instead that it wasn’t. Not because of a check, not because of charity, because a man in a cowboy hat read a handwritten sign in a window, asked one question nobody else had bothered to ask, and decided that was reason enough to act. And somewhere in
Colorado, the coffee still hot, the bell still rings, and the Duke’s tab is still marked paid in full. If stories like this mean something to you, and the real John Wayne, not the legend, hit subscribe. There’s more where this came from.
While Filming True Grit, John Wayne Learned a Family Diner Sat Empty for Days — Then He Walked In!
The handwritten sign stopped him cold. John Wayne stood on the wet sidewalk outside a small diner, reading the same four lines over and over. Closed. Film crew blocking park in 3 days. Can’t afford to stay open without customers. Sorry to our regulars. behind him. Trucks lined the street, cables snaked across the pavement, and a sign reading true grit hung above a building that hadn’t sold a single cup of coffee in 3 days. For a moment, no one moved.
A young production assistant walked past, clipboard in hand, barely glancing at the window. That place, just some old diner. Not our problem, Duke. Happens every shoot. He kept walking, already focused on the next setup, the next mark, the next take. Wayne didn’t answer. He stayed where he was, staring through the glass at stacked chairs, a dark grill, a coffee pot sitting cold on its burner.
Behind the counter, faded photographs lined the wall. Decades of regulars, birthdays, a town’s whole history pinned to wood paneling. Then he turned and his voice carried down the street. How long has this woman been closed? The PA stopped walking. Sir, you heard me. How long? But that moment didn’t start there.
3 days earlier, before the trucks arrived, before the cones went up, before the sign went into the window, there was a woman behind that counter named Ruth pouring coffee for the same six regulars who’d been coming in every morning for 40 years in a town small enough that everyone knew her name, and her diner was the only thing she had left.
The production manager arrived fast, jogging up with the kind of smile menus when they’re about to explain something away. “Juke, everything okay? We’ve got a tight schedule today.” “How long has this diner been closed?” Wayne asked again, not moving from the window. “I I’d have to check with Don’t check.
Tell me what you know.” The manager’s smile faded. “3 days, maybe four. Look, this happens on every location shoot. We block off space for trucks, equipment, crew parking. It’s standard. We’ve got insurance for exactly this kind of insurance. Wayne repeated the word like it tasted bad. Has anyone from this production knocked on that door, talked to her, asked her name? Silence.
That’s what I figured. He turned back to the glass. Inside, papers were spread across the counter. a ledger, columns of numbers, a pencil resting where someone had stopped writing midcalation. Whoever sat there last hadn’t finished the math. Or maybe they had and didn’t like the answer.
3 days earlier, that counter had been full. Ruth Callaway, 64, had been on her feet since 5 in the morning, same as every morning for 40 years. Coffee poured before anyone asked, plates moving, the bell over the door ringing every few minutes. Ranch hands came in before sunrise. The sheriff took his coffee black at 7. Same booth, same window seat. Old Mr.
Pearson came in just to read his paper and complain about the weather. Same as he had since Ruth’s husband, Walt, was still alive to pour his coffee himself. It wasn’t just a diner. It was the only place in town where everyone showed up every day without being asked. Funerals started there. So did engagements. Walt had died 6 years ago and Ruth kept the place running on her own.
Same hours, same prices, same booth for the sheriff because closing it felt like closing something bigger than a business. Then the trucks came. Then the cones went up across her entire lot. Every parking space gone, replaced with cable spools and folding chairs for a crew that didn’t know she existed. By day three, no one could park.
No one came in. And Ruth sat alone behind the counter. She’d wiped clean every morning for four decades, doing math that kept coming out wrong. That was the sign Wayne was reading. Ruth hadn’t slept the night before. She’d sat at the counter until almost midnight, the ledger open in front of her, the numbers refusing to change no matter how many times, she added them.
2 months behind on the building note. Now 3 days with no customers, and the bank in town didn’t care whose fault that was, she thought about calling her daughter in Billings, picked up the phone twice, set it down twice. 40 years she’d run this place. Through Walt’s death, through two recessions, through a winter so bad the pipes froze, and she’d served coffee by lantern light rather than close the doors.
She wasn’t going to call her daughter over a film crew’s parking cones. Pride wouldn’t let her. This town had been built slow the way mountain towns are. A general store, a church, a schoolhouse, and Ruth’s place back when it belonged to Walt’s father, and was just called the diner because there wasn’t another one to confuse it with.
Ranchers came down from the hills every morning before their hands started work. The sheriff’s office was two doors down, close enough that Ruth knew his coffee order before he sat. When old Mrs. touch-ins passed, the whole town gathered at Ruth’s afterward because that’s just where people gathered. Then the production rolled in.
Big trucks, lighting rigs, a crew of nearly 100, and somewhere in the planning, someone had marked Ruth’s lot as available parking without ever walking inside to ask. The cones went up on a Monday. By Tuesday, regulars who’d normally park and walk in were driving past, confused, then giving up and going home.
By Wednesday, Ruth understood nobody was coming and nobody outside was going to notice. She made the sign herself in pencil first, then ink, sitting at the counter where she usually took orders. She taped it to the inside of the glass facing out and turned off the lights behind the counter so she wouldn’t have to look at the empty stools.
Then she sat back down with the ledger because at least the numbers gave her something to do with her hands. She didn’t hear the footsteps outside. Didn’t see the man in the cowboy hat stop at her window. Read her sign twice, then turn and ask a question that made a young production assistant go quiet. She was still doing the math when the door opened.
A door she hadn’t unlocked, hadn’t expected anyone to try, and a shadow fell across the counter. “Ma’am,” a voice said. “Mind if I come in?” Ruth looked up. For a moment, she couldn’t speak at all. Ruth’s pencil stopped midstroke. The man standing in her doorway wore a worn leather vest, a bandana loose around his neck, boots dusted with the same mud as everyone else on that production.
But there was no mistaking the face. She’d seen it on movie posters, on the marquee of the theater two towns over, on the cover of magazines her late husband used to buy. Mr. Wayne, she managed. I The diner’s closed. I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to I can see that. He stepped inside anyway, glancing at the stacked chairs, the dark grill, the sign she’d taped facing the street.
saw your note in the window. Ruth’s face flushed. She closed the ledger fast like he might read the numbers from across the room. That’s just it’s nothing. It’s temporary. Just until the crew clears out, then we’ll be back open regular hours. 3 days closed isn’t nothing. Wayne pulled out a stool, the sheriff’s stool, though he didn’t know that, and sat down across the counter from her.
Your sign says my cruise parking is the reason. I didn’t mean for anyone to see that. I just needed to explain to the regulars why. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for a problem we caused. The door swung open behind him. The production manager again, breathless, clutching something. An envelope. Duke, I spoke with the studio.
They want to make this right. A generous gesture. He set the envelope on the counter, sliding it toward Ruth. “For your trouble, on behalf of the production.” Ruth looked at the envelope. “Didn’t touch it.” “I don’t need charity,” she said quietly. “I need customers.” The manager opened his mouth, but Wayne raised one hand just slightly, and the man stopped.
“Why don’t you wait outside?” Wayne said. Not unkind, just final. The manager hesitated, then left, the envelope still sitting untouched on the counter. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Wayne looked around the diner. Really looked. The photographs on the wall, decades of faces, a town’s whole history.
A booth by the window with a small brass plate that read reserved, worn smooth from use. Tell me about this place,” he said. Ruth blinked. “What? This counter? These photos, that booth.” He nodded toward the window seat. “Tell me.” And something in Ruth, something that had been holding tight for 3 days, maybe longer, maybe since Walt died, came loose.
She talked about her husband, about 40 years of 500 a.m. mornings, about the sheriff’s coffee, and Mr. Pearson’s complaints about the weather and Mrs. Hutchkins’s funeral that had filled every booth. She talked about the bank, the two months behind, the cones in her lot, the silence where there used to be the bell over the door ringing every few minutes.
Her voice cracked on the last part. I’ve never closed this place. Not once. Not in 40 years. And I sat here last night thinking, “Maybe this is just maybe this is how it ends.” Wayne didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at his own productions trucks filling her lot. “It’s not ending,” he said. “Not today.
” Wayne walked outside without another word. Ruth watched through the glass, ledger still open on the counter as he crossed the lot toward the production manager, who straightened up fast the way men do when they sense something’s coming. Get the ad over here, Wayne said. And whoever’s running catering for this shoot.
Duke, we’ve got a caterer already. Full setup. It’s been booked for cancel it. The manager blinked. cancel the whole catering contract. Starting tomorrow, this diner feeds the crew breakfast, lunch, dinner, however many people you’ve got. 80, 100, whatever it is. Full crew rate paid upfront every day until we wrap. Sir, that’s that’s a significant change to the production budget.
I’d need to run that by run it by whoever you need to, but it’s happening. Wayne’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. And while you’re at it, move these cones. The cones? Every one of them offer lot today. Crew parks down the street from now on, same as anyone else in this town. The manager looked at the rows of orange cones stretching across the lot.
A logistics plan 3 weeks in the making. And then at Wayne’s face and decided the logistics plan could change. Wayne didn’t wait for him to start. He walked to the nearest cone himself, picked it up, and set it down on the far side of the street, then the next one. By the third cone, two crew members had stopped what they were doing to watch.
By the fifth, they were helping. Inside, Ruth stood at the window, hand pressed to her mouth, watching John Wayne move parking cones across a small town street in full costume. boots, vest, gun belt, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. The next morning, Ruth arrived at 500 a.m. out of habit, expecting nothing.
Maybe one or two regulars who’d heard the cones were gone. Instead, she found the lot full. Trucks, cars, crew members already lined up outside her door, coffee thermoses in hand, waiting for her to unlock it. She opened the door and for the first time in 3 days the bell rang and didn’t stop ringing. 80 people moved through her diner in waves that morning, more than she’d served in a week, sometimes a month.
By 7, she was out of coffee twice. By 8 she was out of eggs. And in the middle of it all, John Wayne, in full true grit costume, gun belt and all, rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a stack of plates from a booth, and started clearing tables, moving through the chaos like he’d worked there for years.
A crew member elbowed another, grinning. “Is that don’t say anything,” the other whispered. “Just let him work.” Word moved through town faster than anyone could explain it. By midm morning, the sheriff was back in his usual booth, coffee in hand, staring at the man busing tables in a cowboy hat like he wasn’t sure if he was still asleep.
Mr. Pearson shuffled in around 9, newspaper under his arm, took one look at the crowd and the commotion, and said only, “Well, guess I’ll need a bigger paper today.” By the second day, locals who hadn’t been in for weeks, some who’d quietly started driving to the diner two towns over came back.
Not because anyone told them to, because the lights were on, the bell was ringing, and Ruth was behind the counter where she’d always been. For the rest of the 3-week shoot, Ruth’s diner ran at a pace it hadn’t seen since Walt was alive. crew meals three times a day, locals filling in around the edges, the register busier than it had been in years.
Ruth hired back a girl she’d had to let go the year before just to keep up. Wayne never made a show of any of it. He didn’t mention it to reporters, didn’t pose for photos behind the counter, didn’t bring it up again after that first morning. When the production wrapped and the trucks rolled out, he stopped by once more, paid his tab like everyone else, left exactly the right amount, and told Ruth quietly that if the studio ever filmed in this part of Colorado again, her diner had first call on catering.
No conditions, no press release. It might have stayed that way, a story only the town knew. if a local paper years later hadn’t run a small piece buried on page six. The headline was simple. The Duke saved our diner. Most people outside that town never saw it, but the people inside it never forgot. Ruth ran that diner for 15 more years.
Same hours, same booth for the sheriff, same coffee before anyone asked. When she finally retired, she handed the keys to her daughter, the one she’d almost called that night, the one she never had to call after all. The framed newspaper clipping still hangs by the register today. The Duke saved our diner. Most customers walk past it without a second glance, just another piece of small town history on a wall full of them.
But every so often, someone stops, reads it, and asks if it’s true. The answer is always the same. Every word. Because John Wayne spent 50 years playing men who stood up for towns that couldn’t stand up for themselves. Sheriffs, ranchers, soldiers, men with names like Rooster and Ethan and the Ringo Kid, he said.
The lines, wore the hat, rode off into a hundred sunsets. But on one ordinary morning in Colorado, with no cameras rolling and no script to follow, he didn’t have to play that man. He just was him. A woman who thought her diner uh and maybe her whole life’s work was quietly ending found out instead that it wasn’t. Not because of a check, not because of charity, because a man in a cowboy hat read a handwritten sign in a window, asked one question nobody else had bothered to ask, and decided that was reason enough to act. And somewhere in
Colorado, the coffee still hot, the bell still rings, and the Duke’s tab is still marked paid in full. If stories like this mean something to you, and the real John Wayne, not the legend, hit subscribe. There’s more where this came from.
