A Story Worth Telling

Simple missions render inspiring lessons

“Everyone you meet has a story of victory or defeat, success or failure, some life experience worth sharing.”
— Long-ago lecture notes for aspiring journalists from my teaching days at Stephen F. Austin State University.

– – – – – –

My objective for going into the dreaded super center last week was simple. My goals were achievable. Get in, get what I needed, and get out. With minimal casualties.

Not unlike a black-ops mission, the detail was to slip into enemy territory undetected and secure “two items” while avoiding tactical ambush “sale” signs. Scan the perimeter for shoppers wearing sweatpants and pajamas bought two presidential administrations ago. All while steering clear of any unannounced class reunion in the produce department.

That mission completely fell apart in the coffee aisle where my standard defense mechanisms failed against an unexpected encounter. I usually avoid small talk like incoming fire, but a chance conversation with a smiling elderly man completely disarmed me.

“Hello,” I greeted him as he rounded the corner. I keep my focus clear on patrol — this time searching for Green Mountain Maple Pecan Keurig pods. But I’m always still polite.

“How are you,” he countered, stopping to avoid walking in front of me.

“Better than I deserve,” I chuckled. “Come ahead, sir. I’m in no rush, not finding what I’m looking for any way.”

He shuffled past me with short, cautious steps. A forward lean suggested aging joints surrendering to many years of gravity. Deep facial lines accented by the glaze in his gray eyes completed the portrait of a man who had seen life from a myriad of decades, perspectives, and presidential administrations.

Once past me, he stopped and looked back with a grin. “I’m a Vietnam vet, you know.”

“Bless you,” I said, pausing my coffee canvassing to focus on what he had to say. “And thank you for your service defending our great country.”

“Thank you,” he returned with an emphasis on the “you.” His smile broadened when he added, “But I’m a preacher now.”

“Well, bless you for that service as well,” I said. “Thank you for your dedication to sharing God’s word.”

Citing names of Vietnam regions I’d read about, and battles repeatedly noted in the history of that war, he finished saying, “My life was different back then. I drank and gambled. The war was tough—took a lot out of a man.”

“Yes sir,” I said. “I’m sure that’s an understatement.”

“I hadn’t been back home long when I was in card game one night. There was a lot of money in that game,” he chuckled. “And I won all of it. Alcohol was involved, of course, and that’s not a good thing when you’re pocketing all the money on the table.”

“I was walking away when a guy … ‘bout as far away as that lady pushing that buggy,” he said, pointing down the aisle, “took a shot at me.”

He patted the back of his head and added, “Hit me right back here.”

I grimaced, completely incapable of imagining what that must have been like. Then amazement took over, astonished that he was standing and talking to me. I said nothing, just listened. Slowly turning my head from side to side in disbelief.

“They told me later I should a died,” he laughed. “Took a long time to get over it, but I told the Lord that if He was willing for me to make it, I was willing to spend my life telling others about Him. How He saved me; turned my life around. And how He can do that for anyone who loves Him.”

“What an amazing story,” I said with emphasis. “Are you a fulltime minister at a church around here?”

“Oh no,” he replied. “Retired from that long time ago. Don’t get around like I used to. I just preach here and there.” Then added with a twinkle in his eye, “Sometimes, I preach in the stores.”

“Well, I enjoyed the sermon,” I laughed and shook his hand.

And just like that, in no more than five short minutes of listening, a stranger’s incredible story transformed my routine grocery “go and grab” mission into a profoundly inspiring lesson.

Truly, a story worth telling.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting the 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.

Caught red handed on the yellow light

“The average person spends two weeks over their lifetime waiting for the traffic light to change.”
—Tom Waits, American singer, songwriter, and actor.

– – – – – –

Watching drivers at the intersection outside the coffee shop last week proved entertaining. It also caused one to wonder if anyone really waits for a traffic light.

“Fifty cents says the white SUV runs the yellow,” wagered one caffeine consumer.

“Runs the yellow?” echoed another. “You don’t stop for a yellow.” Cue the eye roll and head shake.

For the record, “Hurry up and get through” was also the number one wrong answer when late-night host Jay Leno asked pedestrians on the street years ago, “What does the yellow light mean?” Even then, the collective consensus revealed intelligence levels far below the minimum requirements for driving. Or as my mother used to say, “More painfully ignorant than humorous.”

None of Leno’s participants, and few of the coffee drinkers, knew the correct legal answer: Driving through a yellow light is legal only if your vehicle’s front tires are completely across the white stop line before the light officially switches to red. And you can still be ticketed if you exceed the speed limit “speeding up” to beat the red.

Was it a coincidence that this recent caffeine-fueled debate coincided with the anniversary of the nation’s first electric traffic light installed at the corner of 105th and Euclid in Cleveland, Ohio, on August 5, 1914? An article in Hemmings Motor News chronicling the event added: “The noteworthy anniversary was duly celebrated with the majority of American motorists continuing their recent tradition regarding traffic lights—ignoring them.”

Traffic lights still change, but apparently, drivers have not.

An old traffic light, reportedly retired from the city of Nacogdoches, recently changed the look of my game room. It works displaying all the right colors, just as it did when reckless drivers routinely abused it. It fits nicely into the assortment of working refugees decorating my “stop stress zone,” alongside a 1955 Seeburg jukebox, a pair of drive-in movie speakers, vintage oil company signs, and my guitar collection. For the record, that surplus city signal cost more at the antique shop recently than the 1955 Ford in my garage likely sold for back when it just was a used car.

Recent reflections on traffic lights also reminded me of a personal lesson on what happens when you try to “beat the yellow.” Years ago, with Christmas drawing near, Yuletide tensions were running high at home. Seeking a brief escape, I decided a Sunday afternoon getaway to the neighboring big city would be the perfect opportunity to hunt for last-minute gifts.

Heading home later that day and passing through a small community south of Shreveport, the light flashed yellow just as I entered the intersection. After a millisecond’s debate, I decided it was too late to stop and pressed the gas.

I celebrated too quickly when I saw no flashing lights in my rearview mirror, and moments later, I was pulling over and surrendering my license to a local officer.

He asked if I was headed back to Center and what my business was in Shreveport.

“Yes sir, heading home,” I told him politely. “My business? Honestly, the high level of Christmas anxiety at home just prompted the thought that it was a good day to get away and do some shopping by myself.”

The officer paused, pushed his cap back, and made eye contact with me. “So, you left your wife at home to go Christmas shopping alone?”

Unsure where he was going with this, I struggled to formulate a defense. Before I could speak, he handed back my license.

“Next time you run away from home for some peace and quiet, stop by here and get me,” he said with a grin. “I’ll go with you. Merry Christmas and drive safely.”

Back at the coffee shop, I recounted the story to the group. “So, trying to outrun a yellow light can catch you red-handed in the middle of the intersection facing a ticket and a fine.”

I paused, taking a sip of coffee. “Unless, of course, the officer pulling you over is also looking for an escape plan.”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

What would Granny say today?

“Just can’t wait to get on the road again.” — Willie Nelson (1980)

– – – – – –

• The Road Trip: 1957.

It’s 3:15 a.m. The dog days of summer, and we’re preparing to depart Pittsburg, Texas.

“Got the thermos full of coffee?”

My grandfather’s questions about this and that were always the same before every trip, as were Granny’s answers. “Yes,” was her routine reply as she closed the car door. Then she had her say: “Suitcase in the trunk? Did ya get a new map at the Texaco yesterday? How ‘bout the oil and the tires?”

“Yep,” Granddad drawled while looking at his pocket watch. “And it’s time to go.” The same watch he used checking freight train schedules for 55 years working for the railroad also timed his personal life.

Meanwhile, I settled sleepily into the backseat with a pillow, ready to resume my nap the moment we rolled on the road trip across North Texas to Seymour. The annual summer trek taking me home after two weeks with my dad’s parents.

My grandfather’s early departures were to get miles behind him before Texas highways started to bake. The six- to seven-hour journey covered about 300 miles and air-conditioned cars were a rare luxury in 1957. Plus, breakfast at Floyd’s Cafe in Greenville was his favorite first stop.

The Dallas-Fort Worth Turnpike had just opened that summer, and I-30 expansion east to Greenville was still just a plan on paper. Traveling through McKinney and Denton dodged Dallas, but challenged with two-lane roads, traffic lights, stop signs, and reduced speed limits.

In those days, “reduced” meant dropping below the statewide maximum of 60 mph during the day and 55 at night. Because that’s the top speed cars were built to travel then.

• The Modern Era Road Trip: Easy Peasy.

Remembering my last road trip—a drive up to Kentucky for a family reunion last summer—started me thinking about how the open road has changed since those trips with my grandparents.

My mom’s DNA included a fierce “travel gene.” If someone says, “road trip,” I respond, “Gimme five minutes to pack.”

***1958 Texaco road map. Yes, they can be refolded after each use. Notice the lack of interstate highways on the image at the top of the page.***

Truthfully, you needn’t worry about packing much now. With today’s network of dollar stores and mega-centers outnumbering orange construction cones in Texas, one can practically travel without packing anything. Need something you forgot? Just pick it up along the way.

Road maps? Won’t find one today. Cars come with more built-in global positioning satellite capability and “autopilot” driving assistance than a trans-Atlantic Airbus 380 passenger jet. And autonomous controls scream at you if your course drifts more than a half inch.

Vehicle prep is also equally effortless. If a “change oil” or “low tire pressure” light pops up on the dashboard, simply slide into a mega-center and pull around to the automotive department. You’ll be back on asphalt before you can ask, “Is there air in the spare?”

As for that thermos of coffee, who even owns a thermos now? Every two-lane road today boasts enough convenience stores, donut shops, and drive-thru Starbucks to keep any caffeine addict buzzing through three time zones.

• A Different Kind of Travel Gene.

I am incredibly thankful for the travel gene I inherited from my mom. My dad’s family had a travel gene, too; but one I am glad skipped me.

That gene ensured my grandfather never missed an early-morning arrival, but it also made him obsessively punctual on the return leg. The rigid agenda for his journeys allowed for an early arrival, lunch, and an afternoon of visiting before supper. But the very next morning, on the exact same schedule, he was checking his pocket watch, antsy to get on the road back to Camp County.

“Gotta get home. Check the mail,. Feed the chickens.”

Looking back at road trips as a kid versus traveling today, I can’t help but wonder what my grandparents would think. Road trips, to them, meant cars with roll-down windows and outside air vents to keep cool, a fold-up paper map from the gas station and two-lane roads for navigation, and an AM radio with one dash speaker for entertainment.

What might they say about today’s automobiles with dual-zone climate controls, heated and cooled seats, touchscreens larger than their television set, surround stereo?

I can hear my sweet little Granny’s response now.

“Well, ain’t that something! Next thing you know, somebody will invent a car that can drive itself.”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Yeah, that was Willard

“Real winners don’t stand alone in the winner’s circle. They help others get there.” —Author unknown but admired.

– – – – – –

“You should write that story,” a friend said.

“Maybe,” I replied.

More than just another one of my reminiscing diatribes about drag racing from “…a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…” this was a learning experience story. If loud and fast cars are not your thing, I totally understand. Simply substitute something that is “your thing,” but don’t miss the moral of the story.

I was drag racing before the ink on my driver’s license dried. At tracks like Stracner Drag Strip at Bettie, Texas. You’ve probably never heard of either unless you grew up in East Texas and loved loud and fast cars.

Working my way through college and supporting my loud and fast car addiction at Sandlin Chevrolet and Olds in Mount Pleasant, I was fascinated when Dick Smothers (of the well-known TV comedy duo) fielded a team of “ram air” high-performance Oldsmobile muscle cars.

The perfect storm emerged when I bought one of the Olds muscle cars and entered the 1970 National Hot Rod Association’s (NHRA) SpringNationals event at Dallas, competing in the same class with one of the Smothers Brothers cars. A professionally prepared example from California driven by Willard Wright, a drag racing champion in his own right before being recruited by the Smothers Brothers. True to his skill, Wright held the national record for the class and was a consistent winner in every event across the country.

Some might have called it “a bummer” to have been paired with the national record holder in final eliminations. It turned out to be a story still worth telling, however, with the bonus of a lesson I never forgot.

I harbored no fantasies of taking out the national record holder. Short of a million-to-one shot error on his part, like a “red light” foul start, or a mechanical problem with his car.

He pulled to the line in the left lane and I staged in the right. The starting line “Christmas tree” counted down to green and we both left strong. In less than 13 seconds, it was over. To no one’s surprise, Wright advanced to the next round, and I headed for the trailer.

To some, that might have seemed a great disappointment. But to this “working-my-way-through-college” kid who loved loud and fast cars, I got to play with the “big boys” at a national event—a long way from Friday nights at Bettie, Texas.

Back in the pits, good friend and race car mechanic Oscar Elliott was waiting. Our plan? Load up and watch the rest of the races as spectators. We came, we saw, we got to play, we had our moment on the big stage.

But wait, this story wasn’t over yet.

The smell of hot rubber and exhaust fumes still hung heavy over the car when I saw someone walking toward us. “There you are,” he hollered. Extending his arm for a handshake, he added, “My name’s Willard Wright.”

***My 1969 Olds F-85 G/SA contender right before losing the race at Dallas in 1970, but earning the respect of class act championship driver who knew there was more to racing than just winning.***

Momentarily astounded, I could do no better than stammering, “H-hello.”

“Great race,” he said. “Tell me what you’ve done to the car.”

I looked at the national record-holding driver who had just knocked me off on the way to another winner’s circle.

“Well, we started by ….”

Then I detailed everything I could think of about how we dismantled a new car and put it back together in compliance with NHRA’s deep rule book and my shallow pocketbook. After listening intently, Wright had questions. “Did you (do this), have you (done that)?”

After answering questions and me taking notes on his tuning tips for the unique Oldsmobile motors, he said, “Sounds like you’ve done all you can do without factory backing and sponsorship cash. Good job, though—you ran me as close as anyone — right there with me at the finish line. Not bad for a couple of ‘East Texas boys’ running as independents.”

With that, we shook hands again. “Good to meet you and good luck—you’ll do well.” Then he was gone as quickly as he had appeared. We stood in awe, watching him disappear into the crowd.

“That was Willard,” Oscar said calmly, finally breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” I drawled. “That was Willard.”

That was also more than a memorable racing experience. It was the day a national record-holding champion tracked down a loud-and-fast-car loving kid from a small town with a big dream to say, in essence, “Good job, how can I help you become better?”

And …well, that’s a story worth writing about.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page – The Smother’s Brothers 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass G/SA national record holding car driven by Willard Wright. The same one that handed me a loss at a national event, but gave me a great story about a championship driver with more than just talent: one with class and with a desire to help others find the winner’s circle. The photo is not mine. I take no credit for it and am realizing no income from it. I use it strictly for editorial purposes. I found it on an Oldsmobile racing social media page several years ago that also listed no photo credit.)

– – – – – – –

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.

The grounding appeal of a nice yard

“Good people want to spend their time mowing the lawn and playing with the dog.” — Alan Furst, American historical spy novel author.

– – – – – –

It’s true. I’ve always enjoyed mowing and grooming my yard. Admiring the crisp, clean stripes across the freshly cut grass and the deep sense of satisfaction in a job well done.

And every time I’ve given that up in favor of hiring it done, I miss the crop of good mowing memories.

I started mowing grass as a kid taking care of two yards. Our yard on Redbud Street in Mount Pleasant and my grandparent’s yard on Cypress Street in Pittsburg. Ours was a chore to earn an allowance—a necessity. But mowing the grass at my grandparents’ house in Pittsburg? Now that was fun.

Funny how grandparents have a knack for always making the worst task seem like a trip to Six Flags.

Grand Dad’s lawn mower was an old Sears and Roebuck reel-type, early self-propelled, power mower. The only one of its kind I recall seeing. The aging green mower, riding on two big yellow wheels and a wooden roller following the blade, personified my grandfather. Both were outdated—even then. But both were hard-working and reliable to a fault.

One pull of the rope wrapped around the cranking hub was all it ever took to bring it life. Then releasing a handle-mounted lever set the mower into slow motion. All that was required at that point was to guide it slowly around the yard and let it do the job it was designed to do. That … and keep it out of my grandfather’s bluebonnets planted near the street.

At home, mowing the grass was just one of many chores on the list that earned me a lofty allowance of 25 cents a week. It doesn’t sound like much today, but a summertime Saturday matinee at the Martin theater, plus a Coke and popcorn, didn’t cost much, either.

Chores in general never excited me; I was in it for the money. And soon after making the connection between working and income, I figured out that the shortest route to get a raise from that weekly two bits was a summer job.

It became natural then, that to increase my standard of living beyond my allowance, I started mowing yards for other people. For at least a couple of summers, keeping yards around south-side Mount Pleasant neighborhoods neatly cut for three dollars a pop not only raised my standard of living, but transformed my pocket money from the rattling kind to the folding kind—converting green grass into green in my pockets.

I’ve since owned a lot of lawn mowers over the years. I don’t recall an exact number, but I always remember my first one. Not quite up there with my first car or first date, but a vivid memory no less.

It was also from Sears, a yellow rotary “had to push it myself” mower. But it nicely groomed the thick carpet of San Augustine grass surrounding my first house on Dogwood Street in Mount Pleasant where I finally realized what my parents had been trying to teach me. Admiring the sight and smell of the newly mowed grass of my own lawn turned a chore into a labor of love.

And all that time, I thought it was punishment. Even when my father tried to explain that theory long before I was old enough to understand it. “Dad,” I asked him once, “Why do parents punish their kids by making them mow the grass?”

“It’s not punishment, son,” he said. “It teaches the value of working to earn money. Pride in what you do. And a nice looking yard has a grounding effect when it’s your yard.”

“I’d be prouder if you mowed it,” I told him.

“You’ll understand some day,” he assured me. “For now, let me see if I can explain this more precisely. Think about it as your mother teaching pride in a job well done by authorizing me to pay your allowance for mowing her yard.”

So, I’ve canceled my lawn service this summer, retrieved the lawn mower from retirement in the storeroom, and returned both of us to active duty. Remembering the pride in a nicely mowed yard, and about good people wanting to spend time mowing the lawn and playing with the dog. Then wondering …

Does this mean I have to get a dog now?

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Phoning home; 15 years and 35 miles later

“We can only blame ourselves for all the crime and violence today. We removed all the phone booths and now Superman has no place to change.” — Author unknown.

– – – – – –

Comfortably seated at a Nacogdoches restaurant a few years ago, my eyes absorbed the antiques and vintage signs adorning the old warehouse-turned-eatery with historical charm and famous for good food.

I had dined there many times earlier, before a brief detour in the Texas Hill Country. That night, however, my casual scan locked onto one conspicuously familiar piece against a far wall.

“What are the odds?” I murmured.

Fast forward to last week. A KLTV Channel 7 news report on an icon of times gone by reminded me of that night at Clear Springs restaurant. According to the story, bewildered crowds up in Gilmer, Texas were attracted to the strange sighting that prompted calls from curious residents—many of whom confessed they had never seen anything like it.

The tall glass and aluminum enclosure was said to look just big enough for a single person to stand inside; like a huge mannequin in a display case. Inside hung a crude, hard-wired telephone. Passing youngsters called it a donation box or a primitive ATM, before an older gentleman, according to the news report, recognized it and identified it immediately.

“Pay phone,” he stated bluntly. “That was once the only way to make a call away from home.”

Public payphone booths shaped American communication and culture for more than a century. At their peak, they were everywhere. Some crafted from rich mahogany or oak, standing tall like elegant grandfather clocks serving as sentinels of American transit at airports, bus stops, and train stations.

By the late 1950s, wood gave way to sleek glass-and-aluminum structures. In both forms, they were also once the lifeblood of journalism. Hollywood loved the trope of the frantic reporter rushing into a phone booth to dictate a scoop before the printing presses rolled.

**The phone booth that was in the game room at my Center home in the late 1980s as it appeared when I saw it in Clear Springs restaurant in Nacogdoches about 2005.**

The last time I personally played that live-action role was in 1997 in Washington, D.C. I was at the Supreme Court building, covering the high court’s hearing of “The City of Boerne v. Flores”—a legal battle over a church building permit and historic preservation about which I had written stories.

Once the courtroom arguments concluded, reporters flocked around attorneys for both sides like swarms of paparazzi on the steps of the majestic building. I snapped a few photos, then sprinted toward the nearest payphone where I dictated the story to Travis, our editor back in Boerne, before overnighting my film.

Thus thanks to an humble payphone, our hometown weekly in Texas broke the news the same day as every major daily.

That was also about the time that the U.S. peaked at more than 2.6 million pay phones. Just before the ruthless communication revolution: cell phones that put a phone booth in everyone’s pocket. The death blow came with the 1996 Telecommunications Act removing subsidies, effectively “hanging up” on phone booths for good.

Today, it’s estimated that fewer than 100,000 examples remain nationwide, like ghostly reminders of an analog world.

Reminded last week of that night in Nacogdoches, I recalled turning to my dining companion and saying, “See that old wooden phone booth over there? I had one exactly like it in the game room of a house I sold in Center back in 1990. Mine was a ‘stand-up’ model from 1937 with phone numbers scratched into the metal near the door.”

Jotting on a napkin, remnants of those numbers as best as I could recall, I then walked across the room with nostalgic anticipation. Reaching the folding glass door, I stepped inside. It was a stand-up model. I recognized the familiar, bare, unshielded fan and light fixture.

I folded the door shut, sealing myself into the quiet chamber. Looking above the door casing, there it was. Stamped clearly in the data plate: 1937. Beneath it, still perfectly legible, were the phone numbers I had just recorded portions of at the table.

Like it was yesterday, I remembered putting my finger in the rotary dial and giving it a spin. Then waiting for the “tick, tick, tick” as it mechanically contacted each digit. The old phone booth I once enjoyed at my house and I were briefly united at a restaurant some 15 years and 35 miles down the road from where I last saw it.

It was like phoning home.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Checking in for that perfect attendance pin

“If you don’t know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else.”
— Yogi Berra.

– – – – – –

The Center Noon Lions Club annual banquet rolled out a couple of weeks ago. Living up to its reputation for fun, fellowship, and reminding that the local civic club knows exactly where it is going.

Following the official motto of Lions Clubs International, “We Serve.”

Awards were made, and new officers were installed. The best description of the evening was, as old-school community columnists used to write about church socials, “a good time was had by all.”

The June banquet every year also reminds me of my only perfect attendance pin—that story in a minute.

First, my Lions Club story began in Mount Pleasant, Texas, in the early 1970s. Since then, the only place I’ve missed being a Lion was in Boerne.

In town just a few days, a dutiful member of the Boerne Lions was recruiting me at the newspaper office.

“Sounds great,” I said. “Usual time — noon Thursdays?”

“No,” he said. We meet Wednesday nights.”

“Oh … that’s sadly not going to work, I replied. “I attend Bible study on Wednesday nights.”

The fellow looked at me with a pause. “Are you Episcopalian?”

His question makes more sense looking into the Hill Country Texas cultural breakdown; a region settled by mid-19th-century German “Freethinkers.” Boerne stats state that 59 percent of the county population is Catholic. Southern Baptists come in second at 19 percent and other factions claim tiny slices of the pie at 17 percent or less.

So, Boerne was not to be my opportunity for earning a second Lions Club “Perfect Attendance” pin. The first and only remains as the year I served as president in Center. But even that was close.

Ferociously working on my attendance record that year, a message arriving from the newspaper’s home office in Fort Payne, Alabama posed a problem. “Annual review time,” it read. “Your appointed time is next Wednesday afternoon.”

In Alabama. Six hundred miles from Thursday’s Lion’s Club meeting at Center’s Lake Country Inn.

“It’s all right,” a well-meaning soul consoled me. You can make it up with another club.”

“Not the same,” I growled. “As Yogi Berra said, ‘It ain’t over ’til it’s over.'”

Huddling with a travel agent, we mapped out a method. Fly Wednesday morning from Shreveport to Chattanooga, Tennessee, connecting in Memphis. Hop a rental car and blast down to Fort Payne just in time for my Wednesday afternoon corporate interrogation. Thursday, race back to Chattanooga and reverse the entire crazy course putting me in Shreveport at 10:45 a.m.

That would work. If … there was not one tiny hiccup along the way to collapse the whole house of cards

Made the Wednesday afternoon meeting. Done. Thursday morning, headlights cut through the darkness toward Chattanooga at 5:00 a.m. Guiding me to the city’s Metropolitan Airport before the terminal was open.

“Good morning,” the arriving ticket agent greeted me. “Checking in? Been waiting long … early bird?”

“No ma’am; got a meeting in Texas. At noon.”

“Good luck,” she smiled. “Hope you make it.”

I had to wonder, “Does she know something I don’t?”

The Memphis connection went down as smooth as an Elvis Presley love song at Graceland, and I watched Interstate 20 pass underneath the big jet before it kissed the tarmac at Shreveport.

The Buncombe Road shortcut from the airport’s back side put me on 59 between Shreveport and Carthage, and the Tenaha city limit sign was in my rear-view mirror at 11:46.

I slammed into a parking spot at the Lake Country Inn at high noon and walked into the meeting room cool as a cucumber. Just in time, I picked up the gavel at the podium, rang the bell calling the meeting to order, and asked, “Lion Joe Fomby, will you return thanks for our meal?”

During Joe’s prayer, I offered my personal silent appreciation for a successful and safe trip home. Then I smiled, thinking about yet another piece of Yogi Berra wisdom: “Make a game plan and stick to it. Unless it’s not working.”

Mine worked!

I wound up where I wanted to be.

And that’s the story of my only Lions Club perfect attendance pin.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Minding my own business, and it’s 50 years later

“Time flies. It’s up to you to be the navigator.“

— Robert Orben (1927-2023) American comedy writer and magician

– – – – – –

July 4, 1976. Not long out of college, and I’m on the Naples Monitor newspaper masthead: “Photographer and Reporter.”

Daily papers in the office browsing bin carry front-page stories about the U.S. bicentennial—the 200th anniversary of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence. About New York Harbor where a parade of 16 majestic tall ships from around the world paraded. Where President Gerald Ford rang a ceremonial bell aboard the USS Forrestal and delivered a nationally televised speech honoring U.S. naval history with an International Naval Review and Blue Angels aerial demonstration.

All in celebration of our nation and its Navy—both with 1776 beginnings.

Every major broadcast network (ABC, CBS, and NBC) preempted programming for live coverage of the day’s events. On CBS, Walter Cronkite led 16 hours honoring the bicentennial.

At home, an early-July heat wave tortured Texas with temps exceeding 100.

The Texas Independence Bicentennial Wagon Train traversed the state stopping for huge public events. Cities large and small held community-wide parades, historical programs, and fireworks displays.

In true Texas music tradition, Willie Nelson’s famous Fourth of July Picnic kicked off at the Sterling Kelley Ranch in Gonzales County. Multi-thousands of country music fans and legendary artists joined Willie to celebrate Independence Day, including Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, Jerry Jeff Walker, Leon Russell, Ray Wiley Hubbard, George Jones, and more.

For the Thursday, July 1 issue of The Monitor, we produced one of those fun editions that owner and publisher Morris Craig taught me to enjoy. Back when mom-and-pop weekly newspaper publishers often did things … just for the fun of it. That week’s edition carried a mock front page resembling a 1923 Naples Monitor and a 1926 Omaha Breeze.

A “Bi-Centennial Celebration” logo adorned the upper left corner, and the early 1900s looking page proclaimed news in the old style. Before photos when advertising was intermingled with local tidbits and every page was mostly words.

“Personals and locals” on the front page. “Mrs. Virene Weathersby is visiting her parents in Naples. • “For sale, one large black workhorse. See J.C. Wommack in Marietta. • J.F. Musik and sheriff Ponder of Daingerfield were in Naples on Wednesday • Groceries a specialty. See our line. H.B. Moore.”

The few front-page stories included things for which locals had no other way of learning. A report on the Odd Fellows district meeting in Mount Pleasant. How the Breeze in Omaha received a ticket to the Central East Texas Fair in Marshall, and “it was appreciated whether we attend or not.” That “Rev. J.E. Evans, pastor at the First Christian Church at Sulphur Springs, conducted the opening services in the new Christian Church in Omaha.”

Turning to page 2 of that “Bi-Centennial Edition” revealed The Monitor’s “real” front page that looked like 1976 and carried an explanation for the “fun” front page as a historical feature. Also reported were plans for a holiday celebration on Saturday, July 3, to mark the nation’s 200th birthday. Events included festivities at the Naples City Park and Community House including games for all ages by the local Jaycees, a fiddlers contest, patriotic music and speakers, and a free barbecue dinner.

Other community news included a story about a new deputy sheriff being sworn in, and how Omaha was cracking down on noise and liquor violators.

And now, here we are 50 years later, still celebrating the United States of America … the land of the free and the home of the brave.

The Monitor is still publishing weekly editions. But after serving as publisher of four newspapers since 1976 and a little time in between as marketing director for a couple of businesses, you’ll likely find me at home July 4th. Cool and comfortable; reminiscing and wondering.

How is it that I was just minding my own business, and suddenly, it’s 50 years later?

While I try to navigate my way through dilemma, best wishes to each of you for a happy, safe and memorable 250th Independence Day! And may God bless America for 50 years more, and beyond.

—Leon Aldridge

(The Naples Monitor image above: “Fun front page” of the 1976 Naples Monitor bicentennial published for the July Fourth edition that year during my first newspaper job. the “real” first page for the edition was on page 2.)

– – – – – – –

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

– – – – – – –

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.

– – – – – – –

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Menu