A Story Worth Telling

Wished our stay could’ve been longer

Old houses, I thought, do not belong to people ever, not really, people belong to them.
— Book author Gladys Taber, (1899–1980).

– – – – – –

Always wanted to live in an old Victorian-style house. Glamorous 12-foot ceilings, glass transom doors, polished hardwood floors, lots of charm.

Then one day, I bought one. With all of the above and more. A tall, elegant structure built in 1900 and towering over the newer homes around it.

Soon settled in, we relaxed one evening watching a Blockbuster rental. “The Money Pit.” You remember it, 1986. A couple buys an elegant old country estate, and it was bliss until doors fell off hinges, staircases tumbled, and a bathtub fell through the floor.

While the house I bought thankfully wasn’t that bad, it did come with its own set of setbacks and surprises. Mostly, co-inhabitants that started with attic squirrels coming and going via oak tree limb freeways and aging eaves along the rooflines edges.

“No problem.” I thought. “I’m smarter than a few fuzzy-tailed rats.” After a Saturday spent repairing rooflines and tree trimming, I declared it done; save for checking repaired spots inside the attic. Access to that cavernous space required climbing through a closet hatch and traversing a long, 4-foot high crawl space.

Once there, I found myself eye-to-eye with one remaining squirrel who apparently failed to get the eviction notice.

We quickly registered each other’s equal feelings of unhappiness regarding our current standoff in the attic.

“OK,’ I muttered to myself. Scare the squirrel away, reopen the nearest hole, and shoo him out. The squirrel had other ideas however, primarily making evil hissing noises and assuming attack stances that my lack of nature never knew a trapped squirrel could execute.

After careful dancing on both our parts, I succeeded in my plan, and the squirrel succeeded in his escape.

I had almost recovered from the squirrel soiree when I was introduced to another co-occupant, equally enamored with my arrival.

It started with minor distractions. Nightly sounds of someone walking in the attic and a “possessed” bedroom light. A that point, surprisingly less troublesome to me than being trapped in an attic with a deranged squirrel.

I blamed the happenings on “George,” a nickname I assigned to the unseen inhabitant. Just to give him some personality.

I concluded that George occupied one large bedroom adjoining a dressing room and bath I used, and I accused him of seeking attention with the overhead light thing: randomly turning it on. Switching it off worked, but he would switch it on again at the least expected time. Often in the middle of the night.

Fearing faulty wiring, professional help was summoned. After thorough testing, nothing was found to be out of order. In fact, the electrician argued that events such as I described were electrically impossible.

Apparently, however, George failed electricity 101.

The phenomenon continued. I soon learned to just ignore it. Sometimes waking up the next morning to find the light on, I simply reached inside the door and swtiched it off on my way to the coffee pot. Offering a cordial, “Good morning, George!”

Less easy to dismiss were things like the quiet early morning I caught sight of a kid’s football rolling through the door between that bedroom and the dressing area where I was standing. It appeared to have fallen off a bookshelf across the room, slowly rolling along the floor, through the door between the two rooms, and stopping. At my feet.

OK, so what made it fall off the undisturbed shelf, and at that early morning moment? A football that neither rolls easily nor straight, navigating perfectly across a large bedroom floor, through a door, and stopping? Right at my feet?

I laughed. Nervously. “George, I don’t have time to play ball. I have to go to work.”

Another morning, again quietly preparing for work in that same dressing area, I laid a washcloth on the lavatory and exited the bathroom, making a U-turn to open the closet. As I paused there, the washcloth flew out of the bathroom and landed on the floor near the closet. Again, at my feet.

And as was typical, I was the only one in the house awake—an assumption I verified. Allowing my heart rate to slow down, I looked around and said shakily, “George, you gotta cut this out, man. If you have something to say, just write it on the wall and I’ll get back to you.”

Similar small oddities continued over time, without explanation, to which I became accustomed while vocally blaming George. And assuming he was hearing me.

We sold the old house a couple of years later, and never watched “The Money Pit” again. But I’ve often wished our stay there could’ve been longer..

Pending George’s approval… of course.

—Leon Aldridge

Credit: Art at top of the page — Pen and ink rendering of “George’s Place” in Center, Texas (where I lived for several years in the late 1990s) by J. Stan Routh, acclaimed architect and artist known for his “Places People Remember” collection of ink, pencil, and watercolor renderings of country stores, little churches, old homesteads, mills, bridges, barns, homes and other architectural structures throughout Louisiana and surrounding states. https://www.stanrouthart.citymax.com/index.html

– – – – – – –

Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting his next challenge. His columns appear in: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

Silent role models; just doing without saying

Sunday is Father’s Day.

Previous pieces occupying this space have waxed eloquent on Father’s Day and Mother’s Day, more often when my parents were still living. Partially because I knew they both read Number One Son’s column faithfully. Which saved me from struggling to get a card in the mail on time.

Something at which I never excelled for any occasion.

Dad’s earthly journey ended in 2007, and Mom followed him in 2010. Thinking about role models on Father’s Day, my parents were the pinnacle of examples I held in highest esteem. Simply living by their own goals and standards, just being silent role models for my sisters and me, instead of talking about it.

How that usually plays out didn’t sink in on me, however, until years later. Growing older before fully realizing just who our heroes and role models were, and why. Sort of like hindsight. You know, turning on the porch light after we’ve already stumbled up the steps.

My first role model and hero was always my dad. He worked hard all his life, demonstrating how to love and care for a family, run a business, and treat others with kindness and courtesy. Every day since, I’ve thought about how he faced difficult decisions. Asking myself at times, “How would he have handled what I’m facing now?”

Alongside Dad, Mom added her own lessons by example. Watching her, I learned about silent stability, taking care of the home front, and the grounding effect of enjoying a mid-morning coffee break. Most importantly, however, I learned from her the strength of an unyielding faith in God to get through the challenges in life whenever fastballs fly without warning, and to be thankful when they aren’t.

Beyond my parents, I was blessed with other role models—some were sort of “alternate moms” who helped shape me in ways I likewise did not fully understand until later in life.

“Granny”—Dad’s mother—was unbelievably stern in matters of honesty, hard work, and frugality, but she was equally soft in the areas of love and patience. She never hesitated to claim “helping raise” any youngster she spent more than a couple of hours with. And somehow, a couple of hours’ worth of her wisdom and philosophy stayed with you like the smell of her homemade biscuits in the morning.

“Alternate Moms” also influencing me were two of my best friends’ mothers. David Neeley, Oscar Elliott, and I were always into something together while growing up in Northeast Texas. So much so that we also often shared moms.

Oscar’s “Momma,” Bobbie Jean Elliott, was a small, quiet woman with an easygoing but strong influence on neighborhood kids who passed through her house. We all knew what she expected of us. And she also let us know what she wouldn’t stand for with just one of her looks and a few words—economical but effective—and always served with a smile.

David’s mother, Doris Neeley, had roots in “Old North Dallas,” back when most of Big D was inside Loop 12, and the White Rock Lake area was the nicest place to live. An invitation to join her and David for a Saturday trip to Dallas was a unique treat, whether for shopping at NorthPark or for a taste of culture at Fair Park Music Hall.

She was refined, elegant, and just classy enough to laugh when I ordered a hamburger with catsup in a five-star North Dallas restaurant.

My silent role models… all gone now. I sometimes wonder if they knew they were leaving their fingerprints on the wet cement of my young life? I sure didn’t.

I doubt they did either, really. I suspect they were like all silent role models, just doing without saying a word. Silently handing down family recipes for a rewarding life written in good examples rather than with fading ink.

I know it’s Father’s Day, but I tend to celebrate my silent role models of all types these days: fathers, mothers, and more, on every occasion I can.

Wishing they could read my “cheap card columns” about how much I miss and appreciate them all.

—Leon Aldridge

• (Photo at top) Three generations of Aldridge men in a painting my daughter, Robin Osteen did from an old black-and-white photo and presented me with about ten years ago … I think it was. Left, my grandfather Sylvester Aldridge (1888-1967), right, my father, Leon Aldridge (1923-2007), center, yours truly. Date of that photo (judging from my youthful appearance) would have been late 1949 to early 1950.

– – – – – – –

The dividends of freely offered friendliness

“A warm smile is the universal language of kindness.”
—William Arthur Ward (1921-1994) American motivational writer.

– – – – – –

We met Bobbi Jo at a restaurant across the street from our Appleton, Wisconsin hotel. Her smile was exactly the kind of welcoming presence one needs a thousand miles from home. Exhausted after a long day enjoying an airshow … and swatting ginormous mosquitoes rivaling those found in East Texas.

The official name of the world-famous airshow and aviation gathering we were attending is EAA AirVenture Oshkosh. But just say “Oshkosh” around anyone who knows their aileron from an altimeter, and they’ll tell you exactly where we were.

Wittman Regional Airport, 30 miles from Appleton, is the home of Oshkosh. The world’s largest aviation extravaganza features daily aerobatic performances, historic warbirds, and aircraft exhibits attracting around 700,000 visitors. All in one week in July when this quiet Midwestern airfield becomes the busiest airport in the world with more than 10,000 planes flying in creating some 16,000 aircraft operations.

And, when every hotel room, spare bedroom, and makeshift space for miles around is booked years in advance.

I loved airshows long before I logged my first hour as a pilot. In fact, the ink was still wet on my new license 40-plus years ago when I flew a Cessna 172 from Mount Pleasant, in the northeast corner of Texas, down to Harlingen at the southernmost tip of the state for the Commemorative Air Force airshow—one of the largest regional aviation events in the South.

To most pilots, major airshows represent a small slice of heaven on earth. And as a once regular Oshkosh attendee absent now for a decade, my yearning gets strong about this time every year.

But I digress anytime you get me to talking about airplanes.

It’s memories of people like Bobbi Jo that prompted this missive. Years spent working trade shows from New York City to Los Angeles, and San Francisco to Orlando meeting countless friendly people everywhere. Memories that keep me smiling, reminding that even in a society ill with divisiveness and hate, friendly still begets friendliness when we remember to share it.

Like the day Bobbi Jo greeted me and my Oshkosh trade show colleague and friend, Jim Altom. “Hi guys, how are we doing today?” her voice rang out loudly in the busy restaurant. “Can I start ya off with some cheese curds?”

“Yes,” I responded. “And we’re great. How ‘bout you?”

“Blessed to be here, don’tcha know,” she returned warmly. “How about something to drink while ya look over the menu?”

“Sweet tea please,” I replied. “Same,” Jim echoed.

She paused, looking at us with a knowing smile. “You two are from Texas, aren’t ya?”

“I guess it’s the accent,” I laughed. “Or was it the sweet tea?”

“Well, that too,” she said. “But honestly, it’s because you’re so polite. People from Texas are always polite, and politeness cures whatever ails ya. Right?”

Then she added, “Texas is quite a haul! What brings ya up to Wisconsin? Let me guess—the airshow.”

We both nodded.

“So, what part of Texas do you guys call home?”

“Originally from Northeast Texas but spent most of my life in Center, small town near the Louisiana border,” I said.

“North Texas, over toward Dallas,” Jim added with a nod.

“Texas is just huge,” she remarked with emphasis.

“It is,” Jim agreed, leaning into his natural sense of humor. “Did you know that back in the covered wagon days, if a baby was born in Texarkana while a family was crossing the state line, by the time they reached El Paso, that baby would be in the third grade?”

Bobbi Jo laughed loudly at the old Texas tale. “You guys are definitely Texans. Always polite and always bragging about your home state.”

For me, politeness and humor have always functioned as a universal language. Everywhere I’ve been, here and abroad, I’ve found that freely offered friendliness is most often repaid with dividends.

The 73rd edition of Oshkosh is just around the corner, and a return trip just isn’t in the cards this year. One more time I will miss the greatest aviation celebration on earth, the best cheese anywhere, and mosquitoes that are jokingly (kind of) called the state bird.

And I’ll miss that Midwestern hospitality like Bobbi Jo freely shared. Matching that of any Texan, and guaranteed to cure “whatever ails ya.”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Nostalgia fires a powerful fuel

“It’s a small world and the older I get, the smaller it gets.”
— Still my favorite saying.

– – – – – –

“Hmmm,” I thought, feeling my Cajun curiosity kick in. “Lacie needs my number?” Lacie and husband, Josh, are friends, therefore I responded quickly.

For the record, wondering about everything is just a part of some Cajun heritage on my dad’s side. As Southern Louisiana humorist Justin Wilson always said, “Us Cajuns… we got a big curious.”

My curiosity was satisfied when I got a phone call. “Leon, you don’t know me …” the missed-message recording began. “Tommy Cheatwood is my friend. He’s got a red ’68 GTO. Me and Tommy have been drag racing for years.”

I did not know the caller, Randy Frazier. But I knew Tommy, Lacie’s father. Either way,, I was all in at “drag racing.” Two cars racing from a standing start, side by side in a straight-line quarter mile to cross the finish line first. Typically enjoyed with loud powerful motors, smoking tires, and breathtaking speeds. Often considered an incurable addiction detected at early ages in kids (and some professed adults) racing between stop lights.

Among drag racers, nostalgia fires a powerful fuel capable of igniting friendships between aging gearheads regardless of the geographical and time distance between them. Bound by memories an era of cheap factory horsepower muscle cars, intoxicating aromas of burning rubber, and unbelievable adrenaline rushes.

This unforeseen twist of fate last week proved just how enduring those memories can be for two guys who were total strangers right up to “Hello…”

In this case, the (former) stranger to me, Randy, is Lacie’s father’s friend, Tommy, who I first met at a car show in Center a few years ago. Lacie’s husband Josh is the son of my also friend and neighbor, Billie Sue Payne. Fun thing about small towns. There are very few true strangers.

As it turned out, Randy was calling me after Tommy said something to him about me and my drag racing days with an Oldsmobile muscle car. Wondering if we might have coincidentally been at the same tracks back then.

Once Randy and I connected, we wasted no time reminiscing in the universal language of fast cars and habit-forming horsepower. And the more we rambled about ol’ racing days, the closer we got to confirming Randy’s speculation. That we probably did, in fact, wrench on fast cars and chase elapsed-time records at some of the same drag strips now lost to history.

Places like Interstate 20 Raceway on US 155 northeast of Tyler. Where I stopped to pay homage a few years ago to the site that once welcomed big name racers and small-town hopefuls every Saturday night. Gone were any obvious clues of the once well-known drag strip that opened in 1961, but knowing eyes recognized a faint path of asphalt remnants where a well-traveled quarter mile once ruled.

No such luck, however, for the short-lived world-class Dallas International Motor Speedway that opened in 1969 on I-35 near Lake Lewisville. Retail expansion and Dallas urban sprawl long ago obliterated any sign of the track that once hosted nationally known competitors lining up in front of the iconic tower. Back when that area was all open fields and farmland.

Shortly after we finished bouncing names of old cars and drivers back and forth, Randy sent me digital video he captured on 8mm home movies made at Interstate 20 Raceway in August of 1969.

“See if you recognize your car,” he wrote. It didn’t take long. Just eighteen seconds into the flickering footage, there I was. Faded images of my storied old race car in our glory days. Then another glimpse a minute later in the staging lanes and one more leaving the starting line. “Precious memories” immortalized in home movies by someone I could have shaken hands with that night but would not meet for decades to come.

More than just a blast from the past; this was a vivid reminder of days spent squeezing every bit of power from race-prepped motors; winning and losing races by hundredths of a second. Reliving the craving for power and speed that defined me before I was old enough to drive.

Forging friendships back then that have remained, and still creating new friendships from old film clips.

Mesmerizing movie moments last week, melting away decades to discover small world moments. Triggering more of my Cajun curiosity questions, wondering …

“I ran the NHRA Spring Nationals at Dallas in ‘71. Were you there? Do you remember …?”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

PHOTO – Top: August 1969 image captured from Randy Frazier’s home movies. First outings at Interstate 20 Raceway for me and my 1969 Olds W-31 destined to become a race car. Randy was there. We could have shaken hands that night, had we known.

PHOTO – Middle: Vintage poster advertising the “all new” Interstate 20 Raceway” near Tyler, Texas that opened in 1961.

PHOTO – Bottom: Me and my 1969 Olds W-31 again, this time in 1971 at the NHRA Spring Nationals at Dallas International Motor Speedway in June of that year. Randy was there, also. Little did we know.

An ode to wisdom and stale pastries

“We are not what we know but what we are willing to learn.”
– Mary Catherine Bateson (1939 – 2021) American writer and cultural anthropologist.

– – – – – –

“When I was 16,” a regular at our weekly ‘coffee committee’ confessed recently. “I was convinced my father was the dumbest human on the planet. So out of touch I could barely tolerate sharing oxygen with him.”

We all laughed. Because we’d all been down that path.

“But by the time I neared 30,” he continued, “I was astounded by how much the old man had learned in just a few years!”

We all laughed again. Because the message was clear — and it was true.

So much so that it triggered memories with me. Of an eye-opening corporate session a few years back. Those mandatory meetings we affectionately referred to as ‘hostage situations with stale pastries.” Fluorescent lights humming louder than the presenter, and your only sane thoughts limited to that lukewarm blueberry muffin on the refreshment cart.

This one was at a gorgeous Arizona resort and featured thrilling agenda titles like “Financial Reviews” and “Insurance Open Enrollment.” But tucked away near the bottom was a mysterious, unelaborated listing that piqued collective curiosity: “The Key to Sure Success.”

“Brace yourselves for the motivational poster speech,” a cynical sales rep whispered behind me.

I tossed my head in a silent chuckle, visualizing a slideshow with soaring eagles and Comic Sans type fonts. Instead, the CEO did something genuinely revolutionary. Passing on any PowerPoint, he summoned two specific people to the front.

The first was a fresh-faced marketing graduate still possessing that unmistakable ‘new car smell’ of university life. The second was a grizzled veteran sales rep already past retirement age who successfully navigated international markets before the internet was even a thing.

Their assignment was deceptively simple. “Tell me three things about the person at the other end of the table,” the CEO instructed. “Specifically, what you hope they will contribute to our corporate success this year, wisdom you want to share with them, and things you genuinely look forward to learning from them.”

And just like that, what was originally slated as a quick, twenty-minute filler between lunch and “New Product Offerings” rapidly rolled into the highlight of the conference.

The room came alive. We weren’t just witnessing a polite, HR-approved exchange of pleasantries; we were watching a cross-generational bridge being engineered in real-time.

The digital-savvy kid with that naive ‘why not?’ energy met the veteran with the priceless perspective of ‘don’t forget why that failed back in ’98.’

You could feel ‘new and shiny’ dancing around ‘been-there-done-that’ and see a mutual face of understanding for the future.

I thought about my dad. Never the type of parent to drop unsolicited ‘Knowledge Bombs’ on me. He quietly dispensed his most profound wisdom in places like the kitchen, usually over a bedtime snack of Post Toasties.

I remembered one night pitching my need for a souped-up hot rod I had to buy. With a world-class, high-powered presentation, I explained how this vehicle would improve my life, skyrocket my social standing, and solve several ongoing global crises.

He listened patiently, finished his cereal, then spoke. “I know that spending your hard-earned money on that car is not a great idea,” he said calmly. “But I also know you’ll probably have to learn that lesson the same way I did—the hard way.”

And time proved him right, of course.

The ‘elephant in the room’ question loomed large with the coffee drinkers last week. Why do we make the same mistake over and over? Why must the newest models of up-and-coming business leaders have to repeat the same mistake with every generation? The ‘silent weedings’ — aka early retirement buyouts offered to seasoned veterans while favoring younger techy corporate models. Hiring managers passing over proven organizational wisdom and knowledge to fill desks with cheaper resume models. All seemingly insistent on repeating expensive mistakes looking for answers to questions knowledgeable veterans have already lived and learned.

The “when I was 16 …” coffee drinker who started the conversation broke the silence. “How about this for a motivational poster: ‘While the view is great from the mountaintop, it’s smart to make the climb with someone who already knows where the loose rocks are.’”

We all laughed one more time. Because we knew somewhere, this same conversation was taking place. One more time.

“You provide the poster next week,” I cheered in support. “And I’ll bring the blueberry muffins.”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

How do you define ‘small problem’

“I am not young enough to know everything.”
— Oscar Wilde (1854–1900) Irish poet, playwright, and writer.

– – – – – –

“Dad,” daughter Robin asked one evening while staring down her homework. “What does facetious mean?”

I paused—a rare teaching moment! “It’s when you make a statement that is so opposite of what you really think that it becomes funny. Like you telling me that cleaning your room is your most favorite thing in the world.”

She greeted my fatherly wisdom with a blank stare, oblivious to the slight jab.

This was years ago, around the time Robin started driving. When my earnest efforts to instruct her on the care and feeding of an automobile were filtered through the unique lenses of her teenage worldview. When seemingly minor details were delicately balanced around the far more pressing demands of her social calendar.

“I’m home, Dad,” she called the office to tell me one afternoon. “But I’ve got a small problem.”

My precious daughter had already taught me that “small problem” does not have the same dictionary definition as it does in the teenage lexicon. In adolescent-speak, “small problem” is a coded warning that means: “Dad, sit down … and bring your checkbook.”

“Define small problem.”

“I had a little bit of a flat tire on my car.”

I blinked. “How, precisely, does one have a little bit of a flat tire? In my years of driving, a tire is either inflated, or it is flat. There is no middle ground. That’s like being a little bit… ah, never mind,” I sighed, cutting myself off.

“I probably need you to come help,” she admitted.

Staring at the shredded, tragic remnants of what had once been a perfectly good piece of vulcanized rubber, I asked, “Where did this little bit of a flat occur?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “The car drove funny all the way home.

“All the way home?” I repeated an octave higher, “Did it occur to you to pull over and inspect the vehicle? Change the tire, maybe drive to a nearby service station for assistance?”

“No,” she said, as if explaining long division to a toddler. “I was expecting some calls. I had to get home.”

“Does it make any difference,” I countered, sweat dripping from my brow, “that driving on a flat could ruin the rim? Or, worst of all, risk losing control of the vehicle and endangering your life?”

“I told you, Dad,” she said as though I had suddenly lost my hearing. “I was expecting important calls.”

Fast forward a few months. Same song, second verse. My charming daughter walks into the living room and nonchalantly announces, “My car is making a funny noise.”

“Define funny noise.”

“A rattling sound—usually when the motor is running.”

“Take it by Rodeo Chevrolet tomorrow after school,” I instructed. “Let them look at it.”

“The motor is what? “I exclaimed to the shop manager the next day. “Well, thank goodness I bought that extended warranty.”

“Yeah, about that,” the shop manager replied, clearing his throat. “To honor any claims for engine damages, the warranty requires receipt copies for all routine oil changes.”

“And about that …” he continued.

That evening, halfway through dinner, I asked. “Robin, why is the shop telling me there is no record of oil changes for your car? Considering as how I sent you there numerous times for oil changes?”

She replied promptly with a big smile, “Dad, I know what you told me, but the little oil light on the dashboard never came on. And I didn’t want to waste your hard-earned money on something the car didn’t need yet.”

Struggling to breathe, I managed to continue. “Robin, you don’t wait for the light. When the oil light comes on, the engine is already dead.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “I thought it was just a friendly reminder to check the oil.”

“You know, Robin,” I said, “I’m just now learning about incredible new things in the auto industry. Tires with inner linings allowing motorists to drive without worrying about a flat. Synthetic oils needing fewer changes. New stuff to me, but I’m just now discovering that my incredible daughter knew about these motoring miracles long ago.”

Silence prevailed.

Robin smiled. “Dad—you’re being facetious—right?

—Leon Aldridge

(Author’s note: I love both both my children equally and with all my heart. Therefore, I try to pick on them equally and with my best efforts. Last week it was Lee, this week it’s Robin. All good memories that I wouldn’t change for anything. Today, Robin drives a big pickup and I have no doubt that she takes impeccable care of it, including tires and oil changes.)

– – – – – – –

What goes up must come down

“There are only four things you can do on skis: Turn right, turn left, go straight, or sell them.”
— Warren Miller (1924 – 2018) American ski and snowboarding filmmaker.

– – – – – –

Warren Miller was a man known for witty, philosophical narrations that made skiing look like a spiritual calling.

Me? I eventually chose option four, but only after disastrous flirtation with options one through three.

Spring cleaning at home last week, an exercise resembling archaeological digs, yielded a poster-sized photo of my son, Lee. In the photo, he’s not more than 10 years old, and slicing through the powder at Taos, New Mexico. Lee turned 46 this week, serving as a stark reminder of just how long ago my snow skiing career melted.

Back when the kids were in school, Spring Break wasn’t for cleaning closets; it was for packing the skiing gear and heading to New Mexico. Trips were where I eventually came to a profound realization: skiing wasn’t on the list of things I was assigned to do during my tenure on Earth.

Both Lee and his sister, Robin, took to the slopes like seals to water. I tried to learn along with them, at an age where “taking up a new hobby” should have involved birdwatching or stamp collecting. Not one where gravity is your primary opponent, and mistakes carry a heavy physical surcharge.

One particular year, I was in a beginner class, relearning the basics one more time because my brain seemed to reset every off-season. A cluster of trembling “older adults,” listening to the instructor’s drone that could have been condensed to one simple suggestion: don’t fall.

Suddenly, a blur of motion whizzed past. A young ski marvel, flying down the slope with the grace of a mountain goat. “Wow,” someone remarked. “Look at that kid!” “

Hmm,” I thought. “That backward baseball cap looks familiar.” The future Olympic hopeful looked back and came to a flying snow cloud halt just past our circle of strugglers.

“Hey, Dad!” Lee called out. “Is that you skiing with all those old dudes?”

“Ah, hey Lee,” I muttered, trying to maintain some shred of parental authority while standing in a pigeon-toed “snowplow” stance. “How’s it going?” It remains a mystery how children possess an internal GPS guiding them to the exact location where their parents are at a most vulnerable moment.

Was it that distraction or my failure to master the physics of a smooth turn that plunged me headfirst into a snowbank shortly after that encounter? Either way, negotiating that curve with two skis going in the same direction apparently required a level of coordination I hadn’t packed for this trip.

While the ride down the mountain on a stretcher behind a snowmobile added a certain “extreme sports” flair to my vacation, the visit to the resort’s first-aid station was less than noble. Lying on an exam table as I watched a collection of white coats confer over my knee in hushed, ominous tones.

“What are y’all thinking?” I asked, nerves mounting as they glanced my way.

“We’re conferring,” the doctor said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Whether to schedule you for immediate surgery in Albuquerque or send you home to your own orthopedic surgeon.”

“Doc,” I said, “I’ll take door number three: the one where you bandage me up and let me retreat to the lodge to sit by the fireplace, prop my leg up, and tell tall tales over hot chocolate about my daredevil skiing stunts to anyone who will listen.”

It turns out ski lodge doctors are remarkably short on humor.

The flight home required two seats—one for me and one facing me to keep my newly booted knee rigidly straight until I could see my doctor at home. As the flight attendant was helping me get situated, a voice drifted from across the aisle. “Skiing accident?”

“Yeah,” I replied casually without looking, trying to sound like someone who had conquered a “Black Diamond” run before his demise.

“Taking up skiing at your age with your kids?” he followed. Bracing myself for an interrogation, I turned toward my persistent inquisitor. That’s when I saw it. His leg in a full cast.

“So,” I said … hesitatingly, “Did you know there are only four things you can do on skis?”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Smile, and lean into the mystery

“Studies reveal the mystery of gifted people often having bad handwriting. It’s because their brain is working faster than their hands.”
—Author unknown, but I’m signing on to it.

– – – – – –

Put your John Hancock right here,” the nice teller instructed with a practiced smile. In those prehistoric, pre-ATM days, being 400 miles from home and short on cash was a high-stakes adventure.

“Here you go,” I replied, sliding the signed check and pen back across the counter.

Her smile faltered. “Is this … ah?”

“Aldridge,” I assured her, putting forth my most convincing smile.

“I’ll need identification with a matching signature.” With that, she dialed my bank in Center as I waited, watched, and wondered. Worrying. Would I be hitching a ride to get home?

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said, counting out the bills, “but it’s for your protection. We always double-check when a signature looks forged.”

“Forged?” My smile waned.

“Well, the way you sign your name, it looks a bit like ‘Arp,’” she laughed. This wasn’t the first time my penmanship had been insulted. There is evidence, however, that my teachers did their job. Historical documents still exist with my name penned in perfectly legible script.

The downfall began, as I recall, following college and the start of a career. Coincidentally, around the time I signed a marriage license, though I’ll avoid drawing any dangerous parallels there for safety’s sake. Mostly mine.

Today, though, who scrutinizes a signature anymore? What’s a signature really worth?

Graphologists—a fancy term for handwriting analysts—claim our artistic loops, eloquently crossed ‘t’s, and even the “loop and a line” variations reveal our deepest secrets. Friend and former colleague, Lois Cooper, used to say that every time we drop a “John Hancock,” we reveal traits as unique as a fingerprint. Lois claimed to have the “gift,” but she refused to analyze mine. Claimed she didn’t like to “read” people she knew.

I think I learned why Lois felt that way, from a total stranger at an out-of-town dinner party. She was the guest of a guest, a visitor who knew no one in the room or in the community. When the friend with whom she was attending turned the conversation to her skills, she shied away. Eventually, however, she gave in to the group’s curiosity.

At her direction, we wrote a couple of sentences in cursive on a blank sheet of paper. No name. “You will know yours,” she smiled.

We watched intently as she opened each folded note, studied it for a few seconds, and delivered unsettlingly detailed descriptions. I tuned in when she started with, “This is a middle-aged, right-handed male. Tall—six feet. More of a ‘right-brain’ artsy type than a ‘left-brain’ detail person.”

I started listening more closely.

“He works in a professional office setting, likely a supervisory position. Loves music, art, and creativity. A writer, perhaps?”

Then she got spooky. “He’s married; children, more than one. Two … or is it three? I’m not sure.”

“And he has an injury scar on his right leg, lower. Ankle or foot maybe?”

I not only stopped smiling, I had to check my breathing. I’m exactly six feet tall. She nailed my personality, my career, and my family. Right down to the children, even in her hesitancy. Two living children was correct. But three, counting our firstborn son we lost a week before his first birthday—an event that occurred some six years prior to that night. Scars? A large one on my right ankle. From a lapse in good judgement during high school.

After getting my breath back, I smiled. Faintly. Thinking that if that bank teller had been one of those graphologist types, she would’ve known that I was not a forger.

The faint smile grew as I thought about how our signatures, like our stories, are unique, often messy. We spend our lives writing them and watching them change. Hoping the world reads the mystery and meaning behind them in good faith.

So, if my signature is that telling—yet that messy—maybe I should just lean into the mystery.

“Hello, my name is Leon Arp.”

It has a catchy ring to it, don’t you think?

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Spontaneity is the best kind of adventure

“A stranger is just a friend I haven’t met yet.”
— Will Rogers (1879 – 1935) American vaudeville performer, actor, and humorous social commentator.

– – – – – –

I’m a huge Will Rogers fan. But last Saturday afternoon, personal philosophies leaned toward: “A stranger is just someone standing between me and my easy chair.”

The mission was uncomplicated. Pop into the local supermarket, grab a prescription at the pharmacy, find a few pantry basics, and retreat to the laziness of my living room. I was making good time with medication in hand and a basket of culinary delights. Frozen dinners and canned tuna.

I even found an empty checkout lane where a pleasant voice beckoned, “And how are you doing this fine Saturday?”

I recognized her immediately. A checkout regular at the local Brookshires, a genuine breath of fresh air in a retail world where most transactions are processed with the warmth and thankfulness of an IRS auditor. My guard dropped.

“I’m fantastic,” I said. “And you?”

“Good,” she answered.

Acting on her cheerfulness, I dusted off one of my well-worn conversation starters—a line serving as a coded handshake for people of a certain vintage. “As I sometimes say, I’m like Minnie Pearl—I’m just so proud to be here.”

Her expression lightened from “customer service friendly” to “nostalgic reminiscing.”

“I remember Minnie Pearl,” she said. “Her, Loretta Lynn, Porter Wagoner.”

I couldn’t help myself; the floodgates were open. “The Wilburn Brothers, Ferlin Husky, Faron Young,” I added. “My mother used to clean house on Saturday afternoons. And she made sure every floor was scrubbed before her favorite country music shows came on.”

Then, in a sharp segue from the 1950s Nashville sound to pure Louisiana rock and roll, she uttered a name: “Dale Hawkins.” The name hit me like a power chord in the key of E. “Suzie Q,” I thought, just as she said it aloud.

“Great song,” we agreed in unison.

“I knew Dale,” she continued, still beaming. It turns out she had lived and worked in Shreveport back in the day. “He used to tease my younger sister. He’d tell her he wrote ‘Suzie Q’ just for her. But she’d always tell him, ‘Dale, you couldn’t have written that for me—I wasn’t even born yet!’”

For the uninitiated, Dale Hawkins was the pride of Richland Parish, Louisiana before landing in Bossier City. He was playing the local clubs by 1956, and in 1957, co-wrote and released “Suzie Q.” The record was cut at Radio station KWKH in Shreveport. It was not only a charting success, but was covered by many artists including Creedence Clearwater Revival, and ultimately inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

“You know who played that infamous guitar solo on Suzie Q?” I asked?

“James Burton,” we said together, laughing again.

“He played with Elvis and Ricky Nelson,” she added, clearly enjoying the trivia match.

“Another legendary Shreveport musician,” I confirmed. “He played for others, too—Roy Orbison, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Everly Brothers.”

I checked to make sure our chat wasn’t creating a logistical logjam in checkout. Seeing the coast was clear, I continued, sharing how I met James Burton through a car club in Shreveport. “One of our members was Dick DeMoss,” I said. “Whose wife was James’s sister. I was lucky enough to sit and listen to him reminisce about his career several times.”

“And Stan Lewis…” she said before hesitating to tally up my purchases.

“Stan’s Record Shop!” I interjected. “I bought records there all the time at the downtown Shreveport location. Also, the home of the Paula Record label.” She told me she still had records she’d bought there before the shop closed its doors.

We shared a brief, silent moment of reverence for a lost era of vintage vinyl and local legends.

“Great music, and even better memories,” I said, picking up my bags.

“I enjoyed the talk,” she said.

“Yes, great visit,” I responded.

On the drive home, the easy chair didn’t seem quite so urgent. I had gone in for a prescription and weekend meals, but I left with much more: a reminder that spontaneity is the best kind of adventure.

And that, once again, Will Rogers was right.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

The Lone Ranger and other digital discoveries

“Who was that masked man?”
— AI

– – – – – – –

One long-ago sweltering summer night in Seymour, Texas, a salesman sat in our living room. He wasn’t just selling books; he was peddling the concentrated wisdom of humanity, bound in majestic, burgundy volumes, gold-lettered with “Encyclopedia Britannica.”

For his closing pitch, the door-to-door entrepreneur leaned in with the confidence of a magician who possessed every secret of the universe. “Ask me a question, son,” he said, looking at nine-year-old me while holding up his book of knowledge for all to see. “Any question at all, I have the answer right here.”

My dad nodded, hinting that he favored the treasure trove of unlocked mysteries to grace our living room. So, I took a breath and fired the ultimate 1950s curveball kid question: “What was the Lone Ranger’s real name?”

The poor guy didn’t just stumble; he went into a full-scale intellectual tailspin. He stammered, as his fingers frantically rummaged through the “L” and “R” volumes … even the “K” hoping for some clue under “Kimosabe.” Grasping for a lifeline that just wasn’t there. My father, possibly pitying the man who had been defeated by a fictional masked man and a grade school kid, bought the books anyway.

The Lone Ranger’s identity remained a mystery that night. But hey, we now owned twenty-something volumes of heavy-duty paperweights to show for it.

Fast forward fifty-three years to 2010. Britannica printed its final physical volumes, ending a 244-year run as the “go-to” source for people who had lots of shelf space and very strong lower backs. It still exists today, but only as an online source.

My own transition to the digital age has been equally dramatic. Back in the early 80s, I famously declared, “I’ll never need to know how to operate a computer; just bring me the printouts to read.” Those words have since aged worse than yesterday’s Mexican restaurant leftovers. Now a card-carrying citizen of Cyberspace, my dependance on devices is frankly somewhat humbling.

Giving up precious paper, my income is a digital ghost that graces my bank account via direct deposit. My bills are paid by invisible imps on the internet. And cash has been replaced by that small piece of plastic I lose every time I turn around.

I shop for things I can’t find locally and expect them to arrive on my porch before I’ve even finished the checkout process. I can “visit” more friends and family in a single afternoon on social media than I used to see in a year of Sunday drives.

My entire life now travels in my pocket. Even to the doctor’s waiting room, where it saves me from having to read a 2017 issue of People Magazine for the third time. Speaking of doctors, my medical records are a heartbeat away on a patient portal. I can find more information about my health in sixty seconds than a stressed physician could provide in a ten-minute consultation—plus, I get answers to all the questions I was too intimidated to ask wearing only a hospital gown.

However, having the world at my fingertips has been a double-edged sword at times. When “the good old ways” failed, it was a minor inconvenience. Missed a call? They’ll call back. If a check got lost in the mail, I just wrote another one. But today, if my device so much as blinks, I develop a tension headache that would make an Excedrin commercial feel like a spa retreat.

Yet, some people complain about “wasting too much time on devices,” and I agree. We’ve abandoned face-to-face visits for impersonal non-stop thumbing on screens. There is, however, a certain magical value in the speed. A wealth of information that once required a salesman and twenty-four volumes to access is now available in seconds.

And the best part? The new age of cyber searching finally gave me closure. In the blink of an eye, AI told me the adventures of the Lone Ranger were based on a real person named John Reid.

Bless you, encyclopedia salesman. If only you could see me now. Struggling to seize the answers to the many other secrets AI holds.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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