Thursday, July 24, 2025

Why I Write Children’s Stories: Planting Seeds That Will Bloom for Generations

Why I Write Children’s Stories: Planting Seeds That Will Bloom for Generations

Why do I write children’s stories? Why do I dedicate hours of my life to creating tales about talking animals, gentle clouds, thoughtful turtles, brave little mice, and kind-hearted foxes? The answer is simple—and yet profound. I write because I believe stories have the power to shape hearts, mold character, and plant seeds of truth that grow for generations.

We live in a world where technology pulls our children in countless directions, where values are often blurred, and where foundational life lessons are too frequently left untaught. Amid the noise, I offer something quiet and steady—stories. Not just stories to entertain, but stories to teach. Stories that live in the soul long after the last page is turned. Stories that help parents talk to their children about things that matter. Things like kindness, honesty, courage, gratitude, self-worth, discipline, patience, and faith.

I write these stories because I believe every child deserves to feel seen, heard, and loved. I write because I want to help parents guide their children toward wisdom in a way that feels natural and loving. I write because childhood is a fleeting window where character is built—and too many of today’s influences seek to erode, not edify.

Each story I write is crafted with purpose. From the choice of the animal to the moral of the story to the playful poem at the end—every element is designed to spark reflection and conversation. These are not just bedtime stories. They are legacy stories. Life lessons wrapped in imagination, preserved in print, and gifted to the next generation.

This journey began with a simple idea: What if one story could change the way a child thinks? What if one sentence could give a struggling child hope? What if a story could inspire a parent to speak truth or help a grandparent connect deeply with their grandchild?

Today, with hundreds of stories written, I see a library forming—not just of books, but of values as well. A treasure chest of tales, each one holding something timeless. In a world that rushes forward, these stories remind us to slow down, sit close, and share something meaningful.

That is why I write children’s stories. Because what we teach our children today will echo through their tomorrows. And I want to be part of that echo—soft but steady, fun yet firm, loving and lasting.

Why I Write Them

I write these stories because I remember the power of a well-told tale from my own childhood. I recall how it felt to be transported to a magical world where animals spoke, where good triumphed over evil, and where I learned something about myself in the process. I write these stories because today’s children need that same magic—only now, it must come with a moral compass. These are not throwaway stories. They are blueprints for life.

Writing is my way of giving back. As a father, grandfather, life coach, and mentor, I have seen firsthand how important it is to speak into the lives of young people. But I also know that many children don’t have someone to guide them—or even to read to them. So I write, hoping that my words will find their way into the hands of parents, teachers, and caregivers who understand the importance of shaping young minds with intention.

What I Hope to Achieve

I hope that my stories will open the door to conversation. That a child will ask, “What does it mean to be respectful?” after reading Ricky the Raccoon Learns to Respect Others. Or that a parent will say, “Let’s try to be more like Tilly the Turtle and be on time tomorrow.” I hope these stories will be the bridge between values and action—turning bedtime moments into teachable ones.

I also hope that children who feel overlooked or misunderstood will find comfort in these stories. That they’ll see themselves in the characters—imperfect, but growing. Different, but valuable. That they’ll come to understand that every child, just like every animal in my stories, has something special to offer.

Why These Stories Matter Now

In today’s society, character education is often sidelined in favor of performance, popularity, or digital distraction. Children are bombarded with influences that rarely reinforce morality, humility, or spiritual values. That’s why stories rooted in these principles are more critical now than ever before.

These stories slow things down. They bring a child onto a parent’s lap. They make space for laughter, curiosity, and gentle correction. They invite trust and closeness. In a noisy world, they whisper truth.

Why These Stories Will Live On

I don’t write for trends. I write for truth. And truth never goes out of style.

The values taught in these stories—respect, kindness, honesty, self-control, and gratitude—are timeless. They will still matter fifty years from now. That’s why I believe these stories will live on. They’re not bound by fashion or politics. They’re rooted in something deeper: the heart.

Each book is a time capsule. A message to future generations that someone believed character mattered. That someone took the time to say, “Here is how to be a good person.” That someone wrote not to impress, but to influence—quietly, deeply, eternally.

Conclusion

If you’ve ever seen a child’s eyes light up during a story, you know that something sacred is happening. That spark—that connection between word and wonder—is why I write. I write to spark that light again and again, in homes and hearts all over the world.

There is an urgency in my writing. Not because I’m in a hurry, but because I understand how fast childhood flies. Blink, and it’s gone. But what remains are the lessons, the stories, and the values we impart along the way. That’s why I pour myself into every page.

These stories are my gift to the next generation. My voice will one day go silent, but these stories will keep speaking. They’ll sit on shelves, live in libraries, pass from parents to children, and perhaps one day to grandchildren. They will speak of kindness and courage when I’m no longer here to say the words myself.

I am not just writing stories—I am building a legacy. One that speaks to the heart. One that invites a child to believe in themselves. One that encourages parents to lead with love and intention.

My hope is that long after I’m gone, a child somewhere will pull one of my books from a shelf and say, “Let’s read this one.” And that when they do, a quiet truth will settle into their soul. That they are loved. That they are enough. That they can grow into someone good and strong and kind.

So I will keep writing. I will keep crafting characters and lessons and rhymes. I will keep putting pen to paper, knowing that these small acts of storytelling are really great acts of faith.

Because stories shape lives. And lives shape the world.

And if I can play even a small part in helping children become people of character, then every word, every sentence, and every story I write is worth it.

About the Author
Bill Conley is a dedicated storyteller, life coach, and faith-filled guide whose heartfelt children’s stories have brought smiles and timeless lessons to families everywhere. As the author of hundreds of moral-rich tales, Bill believes in planting seeds of kindness, gratitude, responsibility, and faith in the hearts of children while they’re young. His signature style weaves simple yet powerful truths into colorful adventures featuring animal heroes, each story carefully crafted to impart values that last a lifetime.

Bill’s passion for writing comes from his own journey and years of experience as a father to six children, grandfather to six grandchildren, mentor, and devoted husband. He understands that children need stories that do more than entertain; they need stories that shape character, spark imagination, and open conversations between parents and kids.

Whether he’s writing about a brave little beaver, a wise turtle, a fast cheetah, or a gentle cloud that forgets how to rain, Bill pours his love for faith, family, and old-fashioned values into every word. He knows that small lessons today become big strengths tomorrow.

In addition to his books, Bill is a certified life coach who has helped countless people build stronger relationships, grow in faith, and navigate life’s storms with confidence and hope. His words encourage children and grown-ups alike to be kind, stay positive, honor commitments, and always believe they are enough.

When he’s not writing, Bill enjoys spending time with his six children and six grandchildren, sharing laughter and lessons across generations. He also finds joy in serving his church and community, living out the very values he writes about so passionately.

Bill Conley’s greatest hope is that every story will help families build warm memories together—reading aloud, asking questions, and inspiring children to grow into caring, courageous, and thoughtful adults.

He invites you to keep reading, keep talking, and keep believing that the smallest good things we do can change the world for the better.

 

Freddy the Fox and the Forest of Wonder - A Children's Story

Freddy the Fox and the Forest of Wonder

By Bill Conley

Moral of the Story:
Your imagination is a powerful gift—use it to explore, create, and dream.
When there are no pictures, your mind becomes the artist.
You can build entire worlds with your thoughts and bring stories to life with your heart.
Sometimes the best pictures are the ones only you can see.

Once upon a time, deep in the heart of a forest you’ve never been to (but might visit in your dreams), lived a clever young fox named Freddy.

Freddy wasn’t like other foxes.
He loved to ask questions.
He loved to explore.
But most of all… Freddy loved stories.

One day, Freddy woke up to the sound of rustling leaves and a breeze that whispered,
“Follow me…”

Freddy sat up in his cozy den and twitched his ears.
The breeze rustled again.
“Come see the Forest of Wonder.”

Without even brushing his fur, Freddy darted through the trees, his paws skipping over roots and soft moss. The forest smelled like sweet apples and fresh rain. The air danced with magic—at least, that’s what it felt like to Freddy.

Can you imagine what the forest looks like? What colors do you see? What sounds do you hear?

As Freddy wandered deeper, he met a giant bird with wings that shimmered like… well, like something you can imagine.

The bird squawked in a voice that rumbled like thunder and sang like a lullaby.
“I’m the Guardian of the Forest of Wonder. Only those who imagine may pass.”

Freddy perked up.
“Imagine what?” he asked.

The bird smiled, if birds can smile (you decide).
“Everything. Because in the Forest of Wonder, you create the story.”

Freddy tiptoed forward and suddenly found himself face-to-face with a talking tree.

Now… Was this tree tall or short? Did it have golden leaves or leaves shaped like stars?
That’s up to you.

The tree spoke slowly:
“To reach the heart of the forest, you must imagine your way there. Picture it in your mind, not your eyes.”

Freddy closed his eyes.
He pictured a glowing path made of moonlight.
He imagined stepping stones that sang when you touched them.
He saw tiny lanterns held by mice in hats, guiding the way.

The moment he opened his eyes… There it was.
The path.
The lights.
The mice.

Everything he imagined had come to life.

Freddy walked with wonder in his paws and a smile in his heart.
He met creatures with shiny scales and others with fluffy tails.
He saw things that couldn’t possibly exist—and yet, they did, because he imagined them.

At last, Freddy reached the center of the Forest of Wonder.
There stood a mirror.
But this mirror didn’t show fur or whiskers.
It showed his imagination.

He saw himself soaring through clouds, sailing seas made of jelly, dancing with giraffes, painting stars, and racing the wind.

Freddy laughed out loud.
He had never seen so much with his eyes closed.

That night, Freddy curled back into his den.
He didn’t need a bedtime story from someone else.

He made up his own.

Because once you unlock your imagination…
You’ll never run out of stories again.

🌟 A Poem to End the Tale 🌟

Close your eyes and take a flight,
Through dreams and stars and soft moonlight.
With just a thought, you can explore,
A world with magic, and so much more.

No pictures needed, just your mind—
The best adventures are the kind
You draw with heart and colored dreams,
With talking trees and lemonade streams.

 

Wednesday, July 23, 2025

Benny the Bunny Says, “That’s Not Mine!” - A children's Story

Benny the Bunny Says, “That’s Not Mine!”

By Bill Conley—America’s Favorite Children’s Storyteller

Moral to the Story:
A cheerful home is one where every creature lends a paw.
Saying, “That’s not mine!” doesn’t help keep the den clean.
Even if you didn’t make the mess, you can still fix it.
We all share the space, so we all share the work.
Taking pride in our home shows love, care, and maturity.
Kindness means pitching in—even when no one’s watching.

In a cozy burrow tucked under the roots of a towering old oak tree lived Benny the Bunny with his family—Mama Bunny, Papa Bunny, his little sister Bella, and his baby brother Bo. Their home was snug and warm, with soft moss carpets, a pebble path that led to the front door, and shelves carved into the burrow walls stacked with books, toys, and baskets of fresh clover.

But lately, the Burrow had started to look a little different. Toys were scattered across the floor. Carrot tops were left on the table. Bits of apple cores and empty berry bowls popped up in every corner. It seemed every time Mama or Papa asked the young bunnies to help clean, the same words echoed through the burrow:

“That’s not mine!”

“Not mine either!”

“I didn’t do it!”

One morning, Mama Bunny hopped into the living room and stopped in her tracks.

“Yikes! Who left all these wooden blocks in the walkway?” she asked.

Benny looked up from his coloring. “Not mine,” he said with a shrug.

“I haven’t played with blocks all week,” said Bella.

Bo giggled and tried to hop over the blocks, knocking more onto the floor.

Mama sighed and carefully picked her way through the mess.

Later that day, Papa Bunny found a muddy trail leading from the front door all the way to the family table.

“Can someone please clean this up?” he asked.

“Not me,” said Benny.

“I didn’t even go outside,” said Bella.

Bo squeaked and hid under the bench.

That evening, after supper, Mama and Papa sat their three bunnies down on the moss mat.

“We need to have a family chat,” said Papa gently.

“We’ve noticed something,” Mama added. “Every time we ask for help around the burrow, you all say the same thing—‘That’s not mine.’ But little ones, that’s not how a family works.”

Benny frowned. “But it’s not fair to clean up what we didn’t mess up.”

“Is it fair for Mama to clean up everyone’s mess every day?” Papa asked.

Benny looked at his paws and stayed quiet.

Mama smiled softly. “When we live together, we all help each other—even when it isn’t our mess. That’s what families do.”

“But what if I really didn’t do it?” Bella asked.

“Even then,” Papa said. “Helping out shows you care. You’re not just cleaning up—you're showing kindness.”

Benny thought about it. “So… if I see a mess, I should just help clean it?”

Mama nodded. “Exactly. Don’t worry about who made it. Just do what’s right.”

The next day, Benny saw a paintbrush lying on the floor near the kitchen.

He glanced around. “Not mine,” he whispered… then paused.

He remembered what Mama said.

So, he picked it up and put it in the art box.

Later, Bella noticed a book sticking out from under the moss mat.

She hadn’t read it—but she tucked it back onto the shelf anyway.

And when Bo accidentally knocked over the basket of napkins, Benny was the first to hop over and help him clean up.

No one had to ask.

No one said, “That’s not mine.”

They just helped.

By the end of the week, the burrow looked tidy again. Even Papa noticed.

“You bunnies have really been pitching in,” he said proudly.

Mama nodded. “It feels peaceful again in here.”

Benny smiled. “I guess when we all help, we all win.”

From that day on, the Burrowtailbunnies lived by a new rule:

If you see something that needs to be done, just do it!

It didn’t matter who made the mess.
What mattered was the love behind the help.

And if you peeked inside their burrow today, you might hear a bunny hop by and say with pride:

“I’ve got it!”

Poem to the Story:
When something’s out of place or seems a bit askew,
Don’t ask whose job it is—just do what you can do.
Lend a paw, a heart, a smile—help without delay.
Clean it up or fold it neatly; don’t look the other way.
A helpful home is built with care, with kindness all the while—
So be like Benny Bunny, and do it with a smile.

Three Thought-Provoking Questions:

1.     Why is helping out important, even if you didn’t make the mess?

2.     How can teamwork make a family stronger?

3.     What are three things you can do this week to help around your home?

About the Author
Bill Conley is a dedicated storyteller, life coach, and faith-filled guide whose heartfelt children’s stories have brought smiles and timeless lessons to families everywhere. As the author of hundreds of moral-rich tales, Bill believes in planting seeds of kindness, gratitude, responsibility, and faith in the hearts of children while they’re young. His signature style weaves simple yet powerful truths into colorful adventures featuring animal heroes, each story carefully crafted to impart values that last a lifetime.

Bill’s passion for writing comes from his own journey and years of experience as a father to six children, grandfather to six grandchildren, mentor, and devoted husband. He understands that children need stories that do more than entertain; they need stories that shape character, spark imagination, and open conversations between parents and kids.

Whether he’s writing about a brave little beaver, a wise turtle, a fast cheetah, or a gentle cloud that forgets how to rain, Bill pours his love for faith, family, and old-fashioned values into every word. He knows that small lessons today become big strengths tomorrow.

In addition to his books, Bill is a certified life coach who has helped countless people build stronger relationships, grow in faith, and navigate life’s storms with confidence and hope. His words encourage children and grown-ups alike to be kind, stay positive, honor commitments, and always believe they are enough.

When he’s not writing, Bill enjoys spending time with his six children and six grandchildren, sharing laughter and lessons across generations. He also finds joy in serving his church and community, living out the very values he writes about so passionately.

Bill Conley’s greatest hope is that every story will help families build warm memories together—reading aloud, asking questions, and inspiring children to grow into caring, courageous, and thoughtful adults.

He invites you to keep reading, keep talking, and keep believing that the smallest good things we do can change the world for the better.

 

 

Tuesday, July 22, 2025

Cheap to the Core: How the PGA Tour Exploits Its Volunteers for Profit

Cheap to the Core: How the PGA Tour Exploits Its Volunteers for Profit

Introduction

Golf has long been celebrated as a game of honor, tradition, and respect—but when you peel back the PGA Tour’s polished image, what you find underneath is corporate greed cloaked in golf attire. The sport may pride itself on etiquette and class, but the PGA Tour has mastered the art of squeezing every last dollar from the very people who keep its tournaments running: the volunteers.

At events like The Players Championship at TPC Sawgrass, volunteers donate upward of 40 hours of their time during tournament week. These individuals are the invisible hands guiding traffic, managing the ropes, welcoming fans, and ensuring every shot happens without chaos. But instead of gratitude, what do they receive? A bill.

Volunteers must pay for their own uniforms. They receive no complimentary meals. They’re forced to park off-site and deal with long, inconvenient shuttle rides. And if they want to attend the so-called "Volunteer Appreciation Party"? It costs money and is capped at 600 people—despite there being over 2,500 volunteers. That means if 300 bring a guest, the rest are simply out of luck. What kind of organization charges for a volunteer party—and then excludes most of the volunteers?

But the most recent slap in the face came after my 40 hours of service: I was offered a round at the Stadium Course for $35—reasonable. But when my wife simply joined me to ride in the golf cart, they charged her $40. That’s right—more than they charged me to play. Had she stayed home, the PGA wouldn’t have earned a dime. But they couldn’t resist grabbing her $40.

This isn’t just bad optics—it’s a deliberate culture of greed. And it’s time someone called it out.

Body: The Bitter Reality Behind the Polished Greens

The PGA Tour loves to talk about tradition, excellence, and gratitude—but the way it treats its volunteers tells a very different story. These men and women, who show up every year to make tournaments successful, are treated less like valued contributors and more like walking revenue streams.

1. Volunteers Pay to Work
Let’s start with the most offensive reality: volunteers have to pay to volunteer. That means paying for required uniforms branded with PGA logos, and in many cases, registration fees just to participate. In what other billion-dollar industry are people charged to donate their time?

2. No Meals—Bring Your Own Lunch
While volunteers do have access to water during their shifts (one of the only courtesies provided), there are no free meals. You’re on your feet all day, often in scorching heat—and unless you pack your own lunch or shell out money at overpriced vendors, you’ll go hungry. Meanwhile, corporate tents enjoy catered buffets and air conditioning.

3. Poor Transportation Logistics
Forget convenient parking. Volunteers must park far from the course and ride shuttles that are frequently delayed or overcrowded. These delays often result in stress and late arrivals to assignments—yet no accommodations are made.

4. A Party with a Price Tag
Every year, the PGA Tour hosts a “Volunteer Appreciation Party.” Sounds nice, right? Except it’s not free. Volunteers must pay to attend—and it’s capped at just 600 people. With over 2,500 volunteers, and many bringing guests, more than 1,900 are left out entirely. What organization charges its unpaid workers to attend an appreciation event—and then excludes most of them?

5. Monetizing the “Reward”
Here’s where the hypocrisy peaks. After 40 hours of unpaid work, I was offered a round of golf at the Stadium Course for $35. That’s fine. But when my wife joined me as a non-playing rider in the cart, they charged her $40—more than my round cost. That’s $75 for a “thank you” gift. Had she stayed home, they wouldn’t have seen a dime. Instead, they saw an opportunity to profit off her presence.

This isn’t generosity. It’s exploitation.

Conclusion

The PGA Tour's treatment of volunteers reveals a stark and disappointing truth: they are not viewed as valued team members, but as free labor to be mined for every possible dollar. From charging for uniforms and meals to monetizing appreciation events and ride-alongs, the PGA Tour has demonstrated that no opportunity to profit is beneath them—even when it comes to the people who make their success possible.

Providing water is the bare minimum—and yet it’s held up as a benefit. But what about meals? What about on-site parking? What about real, unrestricted appreciation for thousands of people giving away their time to ensure the PGA’s events are flawless? It’s shameful that a volunteer needs to pay out of pocket to attend a “thank-you” party—and worse that most can’t even get in.

And the $40 charge for a volunteer’s spouse to ride in a golf cart? That one moment says it all. A professional organization with billions in revenue decided that making an extra $40 was more important than expressing true appreciation. My wife didn’t play golf. She sat beside me in a cart. And for that, they charged more than they charged me, the volunteer.

Volunteers are waking up. We’re starting to realize that the PGA Tour doesn’t see us as partners or even supporters. They see us as a line item on a spreadsheet—another potential stream of income.

Unless something changes, unless volunteers are finally treated with respect, dignity, and fairness, the PGA risks losing its most loyal workers. Because as more people speak out, it’s becoming clear:

The PGA Tour is cheap to the core.

And we’re done pretending otherwise.

 

Eddie the Elephant Learns to Say “I Will” - A Children's Story

Eddie the Elephant Learns to Say “I Will”

By Bill Conley

Moral of the Story:
Excuses stop us from growing—effort helps us move forward. Saying “I can’t” often means “I won’t,” but choosing “I will” opens the door to possibility. Success doesn’t begin with talent—it begins with trying. And when we replace excuses with effort, we discover just how capable we truly are.

In the warm green heart of the jungle, where vines danced and parrots chattered, lived a young elephant named Eddie.

Eddie was big, strong, and clever—but he had a tiny problem that caused big trouble.

He made excuses. Lots of them.

When Mama Elephant asked him to clean his room, Eddie groaned, “I can’t. My trunk is sore.”

When Papa Elephant told him to help with chores, Eddie sighed, “I can’t. I’m too tired.”

And when his little sister Ellie needed help reaching the mango tree, Eddie looked away. “I can’t. I’m doing something... really important.”

But the truth was—Eddie could.

He just wouldn’t.

Eddie didn’t realize it, but every time he said “I can’t,” what he really meant was “I won’t.”

One sunny morning at school, Mrs. Giraffe stood tall and proud.

“Next week,” she announced, “we will have our Jungle Talent Show! Everyone will get a chance to share something special.”

The classroom buzzed with excitement.

The monkeys swung from branch to branch, flipping and tumbling.

The parrots began to sing.

Even the shy turtles whispered about doing a slow-motion dance.

But Eddie slumped in his seat.

“I can’t sing,” he muttered.

“I can’t juggle,” he whispered.

“I can’t do anything,” he sighed.

Mrs. Giraffe gently leaned down and said, “Eddie, you can do something wonderful. But first, you must stop hiding behind ‘I can’t.’”

That night at dinner, Mama Elephant asked, “What are you going to do for the talent show?”

Eddie lowered his trunk. “I don’t know,” he started.

But then he remembered what Mrs. Giraffe said.

He took a deep breath. “I will find something.”

Mama smiled. “That’s a good start.”

The next morning, Eddie walked through the jungle, looking and listening. He passed the waterfall, the beehives, and the giant fern trees. Then, near the edge of the watering hole, he noticed something.

His own reflection stared back… and below it, in the soft mud, were the swirly trunk drawings he had made the day before—just for fun.

“That’s it!” he said.

Eddie raced home, gathered leaves, berries, and jungle clay, and began to create. Each day, he woke up early and practiced. No more “I can’t.” No more “Later.” No more “I’m tired.”

Instead, he said, “I will try.”

And he did.

He tried.

He practiced.

He got better.

He believed.

The day of the Jungle Talent Show arrived, and animals gathered under the big banana tree stage. Butterflies fluttered in Eddie’s stomach, but he stood tall.

When it was his turn, he dipped his trunk into a bowl of berry paint, stepped up to a huge canvas, and began to swirl.

Shapes appeared. Colors danced.

In just minutes, he painted the jungle sky, the leafy trees, a troop of monkeys swinging, and a smiling elephant family.

The crowd gasped.

Then they cheered.

Then they stood and clapped.

Eddie smiled widely.

Not because he won a prize.

Not because he was the best.

But because he tried.

Because he stopped saying “I can’t” and started saying “I will.”

From that day forward, when Eddie was tempted to make an excuse, he’d stop and say to himself:

“I will try.”

Even when he didn’t feel ready.

Even when something felt hard.

Even when no one else was watching.

Because trying was enough.

Trying was everything.

Moral Poem to End the Story:
“I can’t” is just a heavy wall
That keeps you from your dreams so tall.
Say “I will try,” and then begin—
You’ll be surprised by what’s within.

Conversation Starters for Parents and Older Readers:

1.     What do you think Eddie was really saying when he said, “I can’t”?

2.     Can you think of a time you made an excuse instead of trying? What would happen if you said “I will” instead?

3.     Why do you think effort matters more than being perfect or the best?