It’s not magicians making some of the magic in life disappear

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here!”

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

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It’s amazing when a magician snaps his fingers and a ball disappears right in front of our eyes. But it’s beyond amazing to witness first hand, masters of magic like Siegfried and Roy causing an elephant to evaporate into thin air not 20 feet from where you’re sitting as I once did in the 1980s.

However, the magician’s manual dexterity and manipulation of the mind are not responsible for some of the magical things disappearing from everyday life—often without our noticing the absence until they are nearly gone.

A little more than 20 years ago, my retired and world-traveled neighbor and I sat in the open doorway of his garage “man cave” spending a Saturday afternoon enjoying idol chitchat in the shade of huge hardwood trees resplendent with fall colors. Making the afternoon most memorable was organ music drifting across the street on the fall breezes.

Yep, organ music. The lady across the street, once a professional organist in New York, was known to pass an occasional Saturday afternoon playing her heart out with the windows in her house open for all to hear. She played because she didn’t want to forget how adding how the music made her happy as it brought back memories of people and events from throughout her life. Music of any kind performs that same magic for me.

My fascination with the majestic melodies of an organ originated somewhere around my second or third-grade year in Seymour, Texas, where we lived at the time. Don’t ask me details, who it was other than my mother’s friends, or why we were treated to a mini recital. Those details are foggy, but vivid are the memories of being mesmerized by the music. I was small and it seemed enormous.

Not only was the sound large, but so was the instrument with its semi-circular row of foot pedals, multiple keyboards, and an assortment of buttons. Mom’s friend skillfully used every extremity she possessed with hands moving across the different keyboards and both feet dancing on the pedals. I was captured by the music that filled the room. While that was my first recollection of seeing an organ, and I’ve seen few since, memories of the music and the times in life it evokes are many.

Perhaps it’s fair to surmise my appreciation comes from my mother. Besides her friend who played, she also listened to “Ken Griffin at the Console” every afternoon on the Mount Pleasant, Texas, AM radio station KIMP. FM radio was yet to arrive. Griffin was one of the many popular organists of the era whose music filled the airwaves and the record stores before WWII and into the 50s and 60s.

Being a one-car family, mom took dad to work and kids to school then ran the reverse route in the afternoons. The routine ended with her parked in front of Perry Brothers about 5:15 with a carload of kids waiting for dad to close up while she listened to the radio.

Organ music records were also standard fare at the skating rink, my hangout well into high school. Although rock-and-roll and pop music were the predominant records played, rink proprietors played organ records as well for the “older” skaters like mom and her friends.

Enjoying the music and the memories that fall afternoon a couple of decades ago, it occurred to me that I had not heard organ music in East Texas in a long time. And if what I am reading 20 years later is true, we could be nearing the end of time for the organ.

Supporting opinions offered include the view that churches may be the last bastion of organ music and that audience is diminishing where traditional hymns are giving way to contemporary praise music. Another reported factor is the difficulty of finding organ players as the current generation of organists reach retirement age with fewer music students interested in learning to play the instrument.

Will organs and organists disappear right in front of our eyes like the magician’s elephant in Las Vegas? Will they someday be gone like the magic of shade tree Saturday afternoons with neighbors and organ music in the breeze?

I hope not. But for now, I’ll hang on to Mom’s Ken Griffin records and keep that little hardwood tree in my backyard healthy…just in case I need a dose of magic.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Guardian angels often deliver good fortune when it’s needed

“After bad luck comes good fortune.”

—Gypsy Proverb

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One of the morning coffee club drinkers extended wishes for luck and good fortune in 2020 last week and was promptly met with, “Well, I hope my luck brings more good fortune in 2020 because my 2019 was a wreck.”

Another of the caffeine consuming consultant’s club offered as how maybe this could be the respondent’s lucky year. “Good fortune often follows unfavorable circumstances, you know.”

Those words still lingered a few days later as I read Larry Edsall’s column on ClassicCars.com about the death of Bill Simpson, a racer whose safety innovations, including helmets for racers and riders add an extra layer of luck for protection. Edsall wrote, “Raise your hand if Bill Simpson saved your life or limb or, like me, perhaps your noggin.” 

I subconsciously raised my hand remembering a night some years ago that if good fortune was ever present in unfavorable circumstances for me, it had to be when a motorcycle and I parted company on an open stretch of four-lane highway. More than luck was with me that night when I body surfed a lengthy stretch of pavement with my noggin and shoulder.

The late-night trip on U.S. 67 from The Monitor, the newspaper where I worked in Naples, to home in Mount Pleasant was one I made daily. That night’s trip was almost completed when the bike’s rear tire abruptly abandoned its air at around 70 miles-per-hour producing violent swerving that projected me over the handlebars in the process.

After meeting the pavement head-on, literally, I still remember wishing my forward travel would slow down enough for the rest of my body to rejoin earth and hopefully end the trail my upper body was blazing across the asphalt.

My guardian angel was already dispensing favors of good fortune into my night’s unfavorable circumstances when that prayer was answered. I stopped sliding, but the motorcycle that was still tumbling my direction miraculously stopped just short of our reunion. I stood up slowly and looked around in the middle of a dark four-lane highway where I could see no cars in either direction before realizing the full extent of good fortune that was allowing me to do so. A quick inventory of body parts revealed that I had not only survived but did so miraculously without gaping holes or missing limbs. 

Reaching up to remove the helmet from my head for which I was gaining appreciation for still having was a sobering enlightenment. Most of the outer shell on the right side was mangled or missing, ground completely through to the padded lining in some places.

Lights at the H. E. Spann concrete company atop the next hill offered hope that help was near. Efforts to lift the beat up bike and push it along with me were quickly abandoned after noticing my right shoulder and oddly positioned arm didn’t work very well.

“Don’t move. I’ll take you to the emergency room,” said James Spann who was finishing a late-night concrete pour when I hobbled up a few minutes later. Funny, I really didn’t feel too bad until I saw the look in his eyes. Family doctor Lee McKellar assessed the damage. “You’re lucky, nothing broken, but everything in your shoulder is separated. The orthopedic surgeon in Paris can fix it and you will be fine,” he assured me.

Over decades of riding from Texas to Colorado, Florida and through the Smokies, I relied on Simpson, Bell and other top-quality “skid lids” as we called them. For a long time, I saved what was left of the one that skidded with me down a dark highway one night saving my noggin and likely my life in a plethora of good fortune amidst really unfavorable circumstances. Sitting right beside its brand-new replacement, it was my reminder should I ever be tempted to take a “quick ride” without one.

The helmet got away somewhere over the years, but one reminder of good fortune coming with unfavorable circumstances remains today. Medical choices offered the next morning by the surgeon (and would-be comedian) were surgery and screws or a harness holding everything together for healing with one caveat: healing would be longer with the harness and my collarbone would leave me with a small protrusion on my shoulder whereas screws offered a more cosmetically correct repair. “The downside,” he added with a smile, “is that it will show if you ever decide to wear strapless evening gowns.”

He was right. I still proudly bear the protrusion, but that’s OK. I survived unfavorable circumstances one night when good fortune via my overworked guardian angel allowed me to hang around for many more new year’s wishes to come…with the added good fortune of never having to face wearing a strapless evening gown.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Good luck and prosperity for the price of a penny

“So don’t pass by that penny when you’re feeling blue. It may be a penny from heaven, that an angel’s passed to you.”

—Poet Charles Marshburn

Every new year, we traditionally extend proverbial wishes for good luck and prosperity. After some thought, I’ve decided the lowly penny might be the way to cover both bases.

After all, who didn’t grow up hearing, “Find a penny, pick it up. All day long you’ll have good luck?” To this day, I’m still guilty of the childhood practice of picking up a “heads up” penny for luck but turning over a “tails up” one-cent piece, leaving it for someone else to find good fortune.

Fortune in some perspective might be hard to measure in pennies today, but the copper tokens bearing the familiar profile of Honest Abe represent more than mere monetary value. In fact, the penny evokes priceless value in expressions that have coined philosophies of American life for generations.

My grandmother’s favorite was, “A penny saved is a penny earned.” As a young couple with a child in the 1920s, my father’s parents survived “The Great Depression” when most people were so poor, they “didn’t have two pennies to rub together.” That experience likely gave rise to financial advice she and her generation offered mine. Sayings like “Take care of the pennies and the dollars will take care of themselves,” were reminders that taking care of every penny was paramount to financial security.

That advice no doubt served my grandparent’s generation well. Neither graduated from high school, he worked the same job six days a week for 53 years and she managed the home front never owning a washing machine or working a day at an outside job. They paid cash for everything except the only house they ever owned, never wanting for anything and living a comfortable and happy life in the process. While I’m thankful there are better opportunities for today’s generations, their example speaks volumes about a healthy respect for the value of a penny.

“A penny for your thoughts,” is another bit of wisdom attributed to the meager one-cent piece. While my response to that query is usually, “advice is worth what you pay for it,” the offer establishes some modicum of value for knowledge.

Then there’s “bad pennies” that seem to turn up in life. Never was sure what a bad penny was exactly. To my father, all pennies were good pennies. He was a coin collector, and I spent hours helping him scrutinize every penny that passed through the family pockets searching for that elusive, unique or valuable piece of minted money which he proudly displayed in books of U.S. minted “big” pennies, “Indian Head” pennies and the “newer” Lincoln pennies.

Today, “rattling money” is little more than a nuisance in my pockets amid plastic money, folding money, or more often no money. But perhaps dad’s appreciation for a penny is why my gaze stopped on a “wheat” penny in my pocket pile one day a couple of years ago.

For those with birth certificates newer than mine, a wheat penny has Lincoln on the front and two stalks of wheat on the back framing the words, “One Cent” and “United States of America.” They were minted from 1909 to 1958. In 1959, the reverse side was replaced with a likeness of the Lincoln Memorial.

Finding a wheat penny in pocket change today is rare enough, but the odds of someone giving me one bearing the date 1919 in change at a Center, Texas, business that day might have been good enough to win the lottery. The coin, nearly 100 years old at the time, was minted when plenty of Indian Head pennies were still in pockets and cash registers. World War I had ended the year previous year when someone first pocketed the penny.

The same year, Congress approved the Grand Canyon as a national park; a flight from New York to Atlantic City established the first commercial airline service; and the 19th amendment to the constitution giving women the right to vote was newly ratified. My father’s parents were practically newlyweds having tied the knot in 1920.

So, what’s a 1919 “wheat” penny worth? Besides lots of memories and some sage advice about life and luck, about 70¢ according to numismatic value guides.

Depending on how you look at it, however, the luck of receiving an almost 100-year-old coin in change at a local business—that was priceless. Or, maybe it was “worth a pretty penny” in financial wisdom.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

New beginnings, old memories, and plentiful potential

“We spend January 1st walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives … not looking for flaws but for potential.”

Ellen Goodman, American journalist, syndicated columnist, speaker, commentator and Pulitzer Prize winner

“I have a vision that this new year is going to be a perfect year,” a good friend offered over coffee this week. “I agree that 2020 looks like it has some potential,” I responded. Then, expecting bits of insight in the areas of economics, politics, and advancements in society, I added. “But tell me, on what are you basing your optimistic view?”

“This year is going to be 2020,” was my friend’s reply. “And that’s perfect vision, right?”

“Playing on the dates can be amusing,” I replied. “Do you remember 1961, the only year in our lifetime that reads correctly, no matter which way you turn it?” The blank stare on his face reminded me of something I often forget, that I was talking to someone who was not of “my” lifetime, but someone younger than me. That’s a group that is becoming an alarmingly larger segment of society these days. 

My grandchildren who will graduate from high school in 2020 are not old enough to remember the last new year with a date that created controversy and conversation. I spent several years envisioning the arrival of 2000 anticipating the excitement of welcoming a new year, a new decade, a new century, and the fun of writing a number on a check with lots of zeros. Many believed that 2000 was going to usher in havoc in the form of massive computer shutdowns and calendar confusion. Some even thought that it heralded the end of time.

However, 2000 came and went as just another year without much more fanfare than the coining of a new term to define the century, although the moniker Y2K that rang in the century now rings a little archaic itself. 

And, Father Time is about to deliver 2020, a year in which I rarely write a check anymore but use something not heard of in 2000—a debit card. I guess it affords me the opportunity to spend more time these days wondering, “where does the time go,” reflecting on both 1961 and 2000 in my rear-view mirror.

Reflecting on that rearward view and dreaming about what’s ahead in the way of fresh starts fuels a frantic rush of resolutions every year speculating, as Ellen Goodman said, as to where we need to be patching the cracks for next year. I’ve never been big on resolutions. It’s just too much work for things in which I have to invest a whole week working on before admitting what I knew at the outset—this ain’t gonna work any better than it did last year. 

But, many years of struggling with resolutions have enlightened me as to the best way for ringing in the new year. Again, Ellen Goodman’s wisdom rings loud and clear and her words resonated loudly with me as I’m crossing the last few days of the year and the decade off the calendar: “… we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives … not looking for flaws but for potential.”

 I hope this new decade that is amazingly already 20 years into the new century, holds the best of new beginnings, old memories, and plentiful potential for each of us. Happy new year and best wishes for a magical decade and beyond, regardless of your vision or which direction you turn the numbers.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Confessions of a confirmed last-minute Christmas shopper

“You’re window shopping,
Just window shopping,
You’re only looking around.
You’re not buying, 
You’re just trying,
To find the best deal in town.”

—Hank Williams song lyrics

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While Ol’ Hank was singing the blues about a less than sincere girlfriend, my mournful tune about this time of the year is one of those last-minute Christmas shopping blues.

In complete transparency, I’ll confess that I’ve always enjoyed window shopping festive Christmas displays. And, yes, I am also a confirmed last-minute Christmas shopper. Selections are smaller once the popular items are sold out, and last minute discounted prices are a frequent reward for procrastinating on purchases. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Long-time Mount Pleasant friend, Susan Prewitt, shared Christmas stories recently of how foggy store windows on cold winter days still remind her of childhood Christmas shopping, elaborate Christmas decorations and displays dazzling to young eyes. “I remember a couple of years in a row,” she said, “Cortez Boatner had a Santa’s workshop in the front window of the furniture store. The elves moved. Wow! We loved it.”

Downtown streets of decorated store windows, each one a winter wonderland for starry-eyed youngsters gazing at Santa’s scenery, are fewer today. Among the lawyer’s offices, financial institutions, antique shops, restaurants and for sale signs that have replaced traditional downtown businesses, a few survivors can still be found. Victims of discount stores and online shopping have been the department stores, toy stores, and general merchandise stores that planned all year for spectacular window displays reminding Christmas shoppers that Saint Nick’s arrival was near.

Store window displays were commonplace years ago when my father spent hours on them where he worked at Perry Brothers 5¢-10¢ store. One might be bicycles and wagons, another toys, and still another perhaps household items such as dishes and glassware. When Christmas rolled around, spray snow and Christmas decorations adorned the merchandise beckoning to window shoppers seeking gift ideas.

Susan’s recollections of Christmas windows were similar to those of many from our generation. Things like riding our bicycles or walking to town. Shopping with our parents in the downtown stores with permission to strike out on our own and meet mom at the drug store later for ice cream. Pressing our noses up against the cold, foggy glass of store windows to see the Christmas toys we had carefully included in our letters to Santa.

Christmas shopping downtown with mom was fun, pretending we didn’t know she agreed to let us strike out on our own for a short time so she could find our gifts and get them in the trunk of the car without being noticed.

Shopping done and Santa letters in the mail, it was time for things like watching the Charlie Brown Christmas Special on television while stretched out in the living room floor. Enjoying aromas wafting from the kitchen where mom was cooking for the company coming: aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who would be arriving in the next day or two. Pretending we didn’t see mom flavor her fruitcakes with the bottle she kept hidden in the top cabinet. Rolling up in blankets on the living room floor with all of the cousins, surrendering our beds to the adults. Waking up Christmas morning to find presents Santa had silently slipped under the Christmas tree while a dozen or more kids slumbered on the floor.

Here it is Christmas again, and I’m still window shopping. And like those before, it reminds me of Mom and how my leaning for last-minute shopping frustrated her. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” she frequently fussed at me.

She never understood why I enjoyed shopping on Christmas Eve. Or why, like Ol’ Hank’s girlfriend, I was still window shopping for the best deal in town.”

Whether your shopping was completed long ago, or you are still window shopping at the last minute, Merry Christmas to you! May your Christmas be the best ever surrounded by family, friends and love! 

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—Leon Aldridge

(Image credit: Scranton Christmas Windows and the Scranton Public Library)

Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Understanding the new parenting philosophies

“Few things are more satisfying than seeing your children have teenagers of their own.” — Doug Larson, newspaper columnist and editor

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As parents, our smiles are large when we sense our children finally catching on to bits of wisdom we’ve anguished over trying to teach them. That smile is even larger some years later when they call to share their anguish over trying to impart that identical piece of wisdom to their children.

My daughter Robin shares more of those days with me than does my son, Lee, but I suspect that is more of a mom thing than a dad thing. It’s also worth noting that Lee is the quiet one while my daughter, well, let’s just say that when it comes to a love for talking, she takes after her father.

Both of my children are much better parents than I was. And that’s not lamenting over any notions about my not a being good parent, but more in acknowledging that with every generation that comes along, more information and resources from previous generations are available on which parents can draw. For instance, did you know that parents are now using bulldozers, snowplows, and helicopters to raise their children? I had no clue, but evidently, it’s true. I read it on the interweb, so we know it has to be a fact, right?

This enlightenment came to me through a desire to understand some of the changing philosophies in child-rearing so I would be informed in generational discussions with my children who are now raising their children. I have to say, however, while I still have no concept of how bulldozer, snowplow, or helicopter parenting works, I felt much better when I stumbled onto the latest philosophy in child-rearing: lawnmower parenting. It’s defined as a parent who, “intervenes or ‘mows down’ any inconvenience that stands before their child.”

I knew what that meant because I was obviously raised by lawnmower parents. I was blessed with wonderful, loving parents who intervened to eliminate any inconvenience standing in the way of my chores and household duties every week for things like taking out the trash, keeping Mom’s flower beds weed free, and yes: mowing the lawn. Mom didn’t cut me much slack when it came to keeping her yard looking nice either, and she was the one reviewing my work every Saturday. Therefore, getting paid to do chores didn’t excite me a lot until the day it dawned on me that failing to complete them meant no allowance money.  

Dad and mom were also good to intervene in eliminating any inconvenience standing in the way of me expanding my work for pay programs by mowing yards for neighbors. My longest-running lawnmower job was for the Vanderpools who owned a drug store on Jefferson Street in Mount Pleasant just down from Perry Brothers 5¢-10¢ store that was located where Glynn’s Western Wear is today. Mowing their yard led to another after-school job cleaning the soda fountain and emptying trash.

That income stream was sufficient for me to enjoy a Saturday afternoon matinee at the Martin theater with popcorn. On a good week, I might even be found riding my bicycle home from town with a comic book or a model car.

Although I never knew it was called lawnmower parenting, it’s heartening to know that parenting skills still include teaching the value of jobs like mowing the lawn to earn money for movies and other activities.

Admittedly, I have yet to delve into the concept of bulldozer parenting or helicopter parenting. They sound dangerous to me. Maybe my kids can help me with those. They have teenagers.

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—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

I was reformed and repented that very day

“I had to fight off three nuns and a preacher, but I got the last ‘Peace on Earth’ wall hanging.” – Humorist Ken Sheldon on shopping

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There were no reports of any Black Friday shopping injuries on the sick list at church Sunday, so I’m assuming that at least locally, last Friday’s annual insane shopping free-for-all was a success.

Only once in my life a few years ago did I submit to the temptation of Black Friday shopping. It was a near religious experience when I was reformed and repented that very day.

My temptation was lust for a new television, a problem I had been dealing with for a couple of years. I never rush into major purchases, sometimes not even small ones. However, I had deemed it time to replace my big tube set in favor a flat screen since I was the only unconverted tube television watcher I knew.

When Wal-Mart in Center promoted their Black Friday specials that year, there it was like a revelation at my price. The only stumbling block was the time: it was going on sale at 4:00 a.m. I’m an early riser so I have no aversions to getting up before the chickens do. One thing I am not, though, is an avid shopper. Don’t do random browsing for things I don’t need or don’t intend to buy. I adhere to the “hit and run” shopping style. I have a list, I hit only those items, pay for them and run.

In a temporary lapse of good judgement, however, that was the year I surrendered to temptation. The alarm sounded at 2 a.m. interrupting dreamy visions of a new television in my living room. A 3:00 a.m. arrival would put me first in line without a problem. Or so I thought.

Problems quickly reared their ugly head as the store came into sight. It was breathtaking: the parking lot was already full and cars were still streaming in from every side like the faithful flocking to a tent revival where no one less than Billy Graham himself might have been evangelizing.

Walking a mini-marathon to reach the door wasn’t the hard part, that was mixing with the multitudes crowding into the building where it was already elbow-to-elbow and every person for themselves. Trying to part the sea of humanity, I started searching for the line leading to the televisions.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had better sense,“ a familiar voice behind me laughed. I turned to greet Ed Roberts, retired Center police officer, longtime friend and fellow motorcycle rider who was working security. “I’m asking myself that same question about now,” I replied. 

Lines of people snaked throughout the store. I found the TV line and followed it, certain that paradise was just around the corner. Wrong: it ran through the produce, around by the milk, up by the bagged chips and over near the baby diapers where a guy who appeared to be the end was standing quietly. “The TV line,” I asked? “I sure hope so,” he grumbled.

Returning to the front of the line, I quizzed a blue-vested employee how many of the tempting televisions he had to sell. “Twenty-five,” he shot back.

Walking the line back to the end, I counted more than 100 faithful souls thirsting for their reward. Still walking, I smiled as I passed Ed on the way out. “Did you find what you came for,” he quizzed. “Sure did,” I replied. “I found salvation from ever being dumb enough to try this again. I’ve seen the light and I’m going home.”

Before soul number 26 learned his or her fate for all of shopping eternity, I was back home and back in bed, secure in my redemption from ever being tempted by Black Friday again.

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—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.