A Story Worth Telling

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.

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.

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

– – – – – – –

When we work together as one

“The stars are not the limit; they are just the beginning.”
— Buzz Aldrin, NASA astronaut and Lunar Module Pilot on Apollo 11, second human to walk on the Moon, July 20, 1969.

– – – – – –

Late Spring, 1961. Summer vacation loomed large in Mount Pleasant, Texas. In a few short days, school kids all over town would swap classrooms and books for bicycles and the swimming pool at Dellwood Park.

Seventh grade in the piney woods of East Texas that year felt less like the happy-go-lucky sixth-grade playground I left behind the year before. More like the classroom confinement of high school, soon to come.

Campuses for both schools were separated only by a faculty parking lot, where David Neeley and I played tetherball many afternoons after school. Waiting for Mr. Ricks to complete his first bus route before coming back for a south-side in-town run.

Just four years earlier, the Russian satellite Sputnik 1 entered orbit, launching dreams and fascination in millions of schoolkids about space and the beginning of the “Space Race.” When comic books like “Sky Masters of the Space Force” focused on the seemingly realistic adventures of an American astronaut.

I’d read the comic books. And the stack of Popular Science magazines sharing my closet with issues of Hot Rod and Car Craft. I heard about the Space Race but understood little about it. Seemed like something politicians promoted on the evening news.

News of the first American in space, Alan Shepard, filled the Friday, May 5, evening television segment. Little more than three weeks after Russian Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin marked a major Space Race victory for the Soviets as the first human in outer space.

I still remember Dad turning on the cabinet model Zenith TV, a relatively new addition to our living room. Vacuum tubes hummed as the set warmed up, eventually rendering a flickering black-and-white image of what was then known as Cape Canaveral in Florida.

News film replayed the day’s events, showing the “Freedom 7” capsule sitting atop the Mercury-Redstone rocket in the morning sunshine. Even as the countdown hit the final ten seconds, I knew it had all taken place hours ago. But I was holding my breath anyway.

Clouds of white smoke erupted. TV speakers boomed with a deep rumble, sending shock waves shaking Mom’s leopard TV lamp planter she’d purchased with S&H Green Stamps.

Then Shepard’s cool, calm voice registered, “Roger, liftoff, and the clock has started!” Saying it like he was just driving downtown to the Perry’s five-and-dime store, or something.

For little more than fifteen minutes, I wasn’t sitting on the living room floor in East Texas. I was there in Freedom 7, headed for the heavens. I wondered how the G-forces felt. How the sky looked, turning from bright blue to deep purple, then into the heavens’ darkness. Seeing the Earth’s curve. I wondered how it felt to be the first American to see the world as a shrinking sphere.

With the replay of the splash down in the Atlantic, I felt excitement. I felt happiness. I felt the dreamlike exuberance of realizing that the Space Age was no longer just a comic book fantasy; it was reality.

Going to bed that night, I looked at Jack, my childhood cockatiel feathered friend in his cage, and marveled at the thought that today humanity had soared higher than any bird ever could.

Somehow, school seemed less like confinement. Space travel had opened a whole new world to youngsters everywhere. For a nation, it placed the universe within arm’s reach, empowering even kids in small Texas towns to reach for the stars.

Thursday evening of last week, I was that kid again. Watching Artimus II return from a trip around the moon and back, bringing good news and astronauts Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch, and Jeremy Hansen to the exact location calculated and at the precise planned time.

The world was ready for some good news, and Artimes II just might be the best news in a while for young and old alike. Reminding us of what we are capable of when we work together as one.

Reaching for the stars.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Learning to ‘give a hoot’

“I must say I find television very educational. The minute somebody turns it on, I go into the library and read a good book.”
— Groucho Marx, (1890–1977) American comedian, actor, writer and avid reader; author of several books despite quitting school at 12 to support his family.

– – – – – –

I read a lot of books. Magazines and newspapers, too. I even read owner’s manuals. At least I used to.

A friend was watching me investigate the cargo area of his hatchback recently to replace a backup light bulb when he spotted a small switch.

“What’s that for?”

“Looks like a light switch,” I said. I pushed it and a small light came on.

“Yep, that’s what it is. I never knew that was back here. How’d you know that,” he asked?

“Just a hunch,” I laughed. “Your owner’s manual will explain everything. I read the owner’s manual with every new car just to become better acquainted with it before driving it.

“Sad part of that is,” I continued, “owners’ manuals have become the latest victim of the shifting paradigms in reading. Manufacturers abandoning printed copies for online alternatives.”

Reading anything is best enjoyed, “in my book,” with the mental and tactile grounding sensations of feeling the book. Measuring my progress by turning the pages.

I love libraries, but some of us miss things progress has pushed aside. Massive wooden cabinets housing Dewey Decimal System cards. Sacred institutions of silence. Where a twenty-pound volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica contained the answer to our every question. Where many of us garnered all the knowledge we needed to run the world using research tools too soon replaced with touch-screen kiosks and “asking the Google.”

Libraries today feel, to me, less like halls of wisdom and more like Silicon Valley startups. Where we once left the library carrying arm loads of books and notes but depart today with everything we need on our phone.

Aging in the digital age isn’t always an overnight process. Much of what we learned scant years ago is regarded today, as my grandmother used to say, “not worth a hoot in a hailstorm.” I never knew what she meant by that, but it wasn’t good. She usually uttered it to express her lack of appreciation for something.

To me, a hoot was always a noise an owl made, but I never heard one in a hailstorm. Or a library. Until last week when it appears that was sort of what really happened at the library in Kilgore, Texas, with the return of a wooden owl stolen from there more than half a century ago.

I lived at the Leigh Apartments across the street from the Kilgore Public Library while attending Kilgore College, long before asking the Google was ever a thing. Many hours I spent there because frequenting that storehouse of wisdom was more accessible and less crowded than going to the KJC library on campus.

According to the recent owl story, a Kilgore family felt compelled to right a 50-year-old wrong by returning the long-gone owl to the library that was mounted on the roof of the building when it was constructed in 1939. No one quoted in the news item by Jamey Boyum at KLTV in Tyler could say exactly why an owl was chosen to adorn the library building, but speculation was that the wise old owl symbolized the wisdom found within the library’s walls.

The owl disappeared in 1975, the story continued, surfacing just recently when Library Director Stacey Cole was contacted by someone saying that a family member who had taken the owl years ago requested before they passed away that it be returned to the library.

Cole was also quoted as saying that the historic figure would from now on be displayed inside, adding with a smile that, “… there would be no late fee charged on the owl’s return.”

I must confess now, that I found that story … on a computer screen. So, yes, I’m working on the transition.

In the meantime, just consider me a “printed paper” soul learning to give a hoot about adapting to a society where the world’s knowledge and news reports follow us around in our pockets.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

It’s a small town, after all

“It’s a small town, son. And the news travels quicker than wheels.“
—”Talking at the Texaco” song lyrics by James McMurtry.

– – – – – –

Driving west for an Abilene wedding 20 years ago, I did something that still brings me joy: taking impromptu detours off the designated route. Sometimes to satisfy curiosity. Other times, just to say, “I’ve been there.”

Searching last week for a source to get my hands on a copy of Tracy Daugherty’s new biography, “Western Star: The Life and Legends of Larry McMurtry,” reminded me of that road trip detour to Archer City, Texas. Hometown of the Pulitzer Prize-winning author.

Archer City is a small town—1,600 people small, give or take a few—where I’m sure news does travel faster than wheels as suggested by McMurtry’s singer-songwriter son, Larry McMurtry. It’s not on the road to anywhere, unless you’re traveling State Highway 25 between Wichita Falls and Olney. Then you’ll find Archer City, where 25 intersects State Highway 79. Close to Seymour, one of many small towns my family called home before settling in Mount Pleasant.

I wanted to see Archer City for two reasons. One: McMurtry’s bookstore. Once one of the largest bookshops in the country, “Booked Up” filled four downtown buildings, reportedly housing close to half a million books.

Another was the Royal Theater featured in the movie based on my favorite McMurtry novel, “The Last Picture Show.” It was filmed in and around Archer City, where my walking around that day was like stepping onto a film set. Where vivid visions of the gas station, the pool hall, the theater, and the novel’s characters surrounded me.

“Booked Up” buildings lined the streetscape. Assuming the largest was the main collection, I wandered inside. The door had barely closed behind me before the building whispered, “old car dealership.” Loving old cars almost as much as old books, floor-to-ceiling showroom windows and the obligatory parts department counter on the back wall were obvious giveaways for me.

Sitting at the one-time parts window was a young lady. She smiled. We made eye contact and exchanged soft-spoken “hellos” before I noticed bookstore “dos and don’ts” posted on a nearby wall. One with large black type caught my eye. In essence, it declared that after many years in the spotlight, Mr. McMurtry wished not to be disturbed, and that he no longer accepted requests for photos or autographs. The explicit notice concluded, “So, please do not ask.”

Seeing no one else or nothing more there, I followed a directional sign to what was unmistakably once the service department. High ceilings. Concrete floors. Roll-up doors at both ends. Now filled with endless rows of bookshelves higher than I could reach, divided by narrow aisles. A veritable book heaven.

Browsing the stacks in awe left me intoxicated by the aroma of old paper and mesmerized by countless volumes of history, romance, drama, history and goodness knows what else. Remembering however, that I had a wedding to attend, I made my way back to the “showroom” where an older man was now sitting alone, reading and taking notes. Looking through the large widows at the street outside for a moment, I turned back for a better view of the gentleman who never looked up.

“No,” I thought. “Can’t be.” Trying not to stare, I looked at “parts department lady.” She grinned, nodding yes, as if in answer to my unspoken question. But there was that sign again. “… so, please do not ask.” Looking her direction again, I saw her still smiling. This time, a sad smile while pointing to the sign.

With respect, I gave her a sigh and a silent “thumbs-up thank you.” Then I looked one more time before leaving, at one of the great authors of my time, in the same room with me, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.

McMurtry died in 2021. Most of the inventory of books were sold. One bookstore building remains as the McMurtry Legacy Center. And still standing is the restored Royal Theater.

I found Archer City to be more than McMurtry’s legacy, however. More than an inspiration for his works. It’s a small town, after all. The kind I enjoy detouring just to visit. Where, as the characters in McMurtry’s novels reflect, the more life changes, the more it stays the same.

And a place about which I can say, “I’ve been there.”

“Hey, what’re you up to? I already know.
I heard the boys talking at the Texaco.
It’s a small town, son.”

– – – – – – –

— Leon Aldridge

Photo above: Downtown Archer City, Texas, and the Royal Theater used in the movie “The Last Picture Show” from Larry McMurtry’s book by the same name.
Credit: Creative Commons / Photo by Rene Gomez
At: commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:ArcherCity5_(1_of_1).jpg#filelinks
Original color photo unedited but converted to black and white.

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