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

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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.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

The Lone Ranger and other digital discoveries

“Who was that masked man?”
— AI

– – – – – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Leon Aldridge

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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.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

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

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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.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

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

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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.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

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.

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.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

A good story needs a good buildup

“My life is basically a series of long-winded stories fueled by caffeine and late-night writing.”
—Popular opinion put forth by family and (some) friends.

– – – – – –

“You ever see Elvis perform live?”

Someone in a group gathered in the lobby of the Rio Theatre in Center, Texas, Friday night a couple weeks ago, asked me that question. We were busy blending thoughts and memories after watching the new documentary “EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert.” Great movie, if you’re a fan. Lots of recently discovered never-before-seen footage from 1970s performances and moments, both on and off stage.

“I think so,” I responded. “But that’s a long story; one you’ve probably heard. But I’ll bet you a cup of coffee that I have an Elvis story you might not have heard before.

“Seriously?”

“You know that I contend coffee is somewhere between medicinal and therapeutic, right? It’s also my belief,” I continued, “that the beverage’s benefits may also be determined by what sort of container from which one’s java is enjoyed.”

This comparison of coffee containers arose a couple of years ago at the downtown morning coffee club business meeting. When conversation centered on caffeine consumption from one of the popular insulated metal cups versus my favorite: the classic curved-side, thick-bottom, white porcelain mug.

The signature mug long revered by serious coffee drinkers originated during World War II. The military commissioned Victor Insulator Company to design a mug with thick walls for insulation and durability, plus extra weight on the bottom to prevent tipping. The result quickly became an American eatery icon known as the “diner mug.”

“I thought you said you had an Elvis story,” my questioner quizzed.

“Wait for it,” I pleaded.

Blessed to have grown up in a coffee-drinking family during pre-interstate highway days, many of my memories include diner mug coffee. It was a time when every Texas wide-spot-in-the-road cafe or diner offered not only tables and booths but also a counter near the kitchen where the coffee-only bunch or the dine-alone clientele perched on stools. Chatter was constant as white-uniform-wearing waitresses moved about, rapidly refilling coffee mugs. They knew what regulars wanted and greeted everyone as “sweetheart” or “honey.”

My grandfather always looked for the place with the most trucks in the parking lot. He swore that’s where the best coffee was being served. His guaranteed first coffee stop on regular trips between Pittsburg in East Texas where I spent summers with my grandparents, and our home at the time in the West Texas small town of Seymour, was a small cafe and motel in Greenville. The inconspicuous eatery sat on the north side of Highway 67 just east of town. Right before the highway bends southward toward Dallas. A simple sign noted the name of the place. “Floyd’s Cafe.”

‘Still waiting for Elvis to enter the building,” my impatient friend said, pretending to check his watch.

“Patience,” I replied. “A good story needs a good buildup.”

So … one morning during a stop at the East Texas eatery, we entered to see a brightly colored plate displayed on the wall above one of the booths. On it was hand-printed: “Elvis Ate Here 3-14-58.”

After hesitating to get the timing right, I delivered the long-awaited plot-twisting surprise ending.

“So, 68 years ago tomorrow, Elvis ate at Floyd’s Cafe in Greenville, Texas. Where I also like to think that he enjoyed a cup of good, hot coffee in a diner mug.”

After that, I always looked forward to seeing the plate during subsequent visits to Floyd’s. As a student at nearby East Texas State University during the late 60s (now East Texas A&M University at Commerce), Floyd’s was still a good place for coffee. Or a chicken-fried steak or hamburger, for that matter. Either one, remembering trips with my grandparents, and enjoying good coffee.

Floyd’s faded away sometime after I graduated from ETSU in the early 1970s. Also fading from Americana by then were uniformed waitresses, diners, and cafe lunch counters. The venerable diner mug filled with hot medicinal coffee has remained a favorite, however. As has Elvis Presley’s music and his place in American entertainment history.

Along with my long-winded story…at least, so far.

—Leon Aldridge

(PHOTO ABOVE: Left to right, guitar player Scotty Moore, Elvis Presley, and bass player Bill Black. Date and location unknown. Original black-and-white photo was in a collection of other photos and two Sun label Elvis Presley 45 RPM records I purchased at an East Texas estate sale in the mid-1980s. The high school stage setting, portable amp in a folding chair, etc. pictured was a typical venue for Elvis touring southern states in the mid 1950s between Louisiana Hayride appearances.)

P.S. If you missed the above mentioned story about “I think I saw Elvis,” it’s available here: https://leonaldridge.com/2015/07/07/the-night-elvis-finally-entered-the-building/

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Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting his next big opportunity. 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.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

One of many who oiled the hinges

“There’s only one thing you have to know.“

— Dr. Heber Taylor, former Department of Communication Chair at Stephen F. Austin State University.

– – – – – –

“Alfred Heber Taylor,” his obituary read. “A retired journalism professor and veteran of the Battle of the Bulge answered the Call of Taps on Feb. 28, 2022.”

Dr. Taylor’s good advice one morning was but one small part of his helping me attain one of my goals in life. I count him among the many who oiled the hinges when doors of opportunity opened for me.

After the communication business picked me for a career, the resulting roadmap included practicing journalism and sharing it with those aspiring for the same journey. It took an extra step to bridge those two, however. That happened when a group of Shelby County citizens convinced me to run for the Texas House of Representatives.

Although finishing a few votes short of an address in Austin, I’ve always looked back on the experience favorably. I consider the campaign trail one the best “educations about people” available. One not found in a classroom. Throw your hat in the ring sometime. It’s a unique learning opportunity.

The best part of the process for me turned out to be meeting educators at Stephen F. Austin State University. Parking on campus was a challenge, but worth the effort when one of the doors I knocked on was Dr. Taylor’s office. After getting acquainted over shared viewpoints regarding education, he asked a question I never saw coming.

“I wish you the best, but what are your plans if you’re not elected?”

“Well,” I hesitated. “I’ve harbored aspirations of teaching journalism someday.”

With his ever-present smile, he responded, “If it turns out that politics is not part of what life has in store for you, come back and see me. We have a department full of journalism degrees, but none with experience. It would be nice to have someone who could bring real-life journalism to the classroom.”

After Super Tuesday primary votes were all in, I remembered Dr. Taylor’s offer, and was back in his office the very next week. “Leveling classes” and an assistant’s position in the summer and fall aligned my previous experience and non-related degree with university requirements. By the start of the spring semester, I was added to the full-time staff.

And with the best perk of all—a faculty parking permit.

I had given up my comfortable existence as a practicing journalist, editing copy and meeting deadlines, and gained a classroom of aspiring news writers. I had studied the assigned text. I had crafted a simple syllabus promising a passing grade in exchange for grasping the fundamentals of news gathering and breathing life into a story utilizing AP style and inverted pyramid format.

There was one thing I had not anticipated. An unexplained fear of facing news writing 101 students.

It wasn’t fear of public speaking. I was coming off a five-month trail of impromptu campaign speeches, candidate forums, pie suppers, church gatherings, civic clubs, media interviews, and more. It wasn’t lack of knowledge. I had 15 years of newsroom time in the trenches and a wall of press association editorial excellence awards.

It was more like, “what if I fumbled, sounding like the hard-nosed editor I had once been, but coming off sounding more like a nervous substitute teacher.” What if I stumbled teaching difficult situations like avoiding the pitfalls of relying on unnamed sources?

Before I could finish stressing over my fears, it was time. The hour to face my first class was here. I left my office and walked down the communication hallway in the Boynton Building. At the classroom door, I glanced in to see a couple dozen waiting students—then kept walking. At the other end of the hallway, I whispered, “You got this.”

Walking past the classroom a second time, I saw Dr. Taylor exiting his office. Same ever-present relaxed smile. Looking in my direction.

“Nervous,” he asked.

“A little,” I lied.

That’s when he offered advice that has served me well many times in the years since.

“All you have to know,” he said, “is just a little more than they do.”

“Good morning,” I announced to the class as I walked in . “My name is Leon Aldridge, and we are here to learn from each other.”

—Leon Aldridge

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(Photo above: The Boynton Building on the campus of Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas. — Wikipedia Commons photo by Michael Barera.)

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.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

Some things make me wonder

“Man must rise above the Earth, to the top of the atmosphere and beyond, for only thus will he fully understand the world in which he lives.”
— Attributed to Socrates, Greek philosopher (470-399 BC)

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I wonder about things.

For instance, how Socrates envisioned “rising above the earth to the top of the atmosphere” 400 years before Christ? Way before TSA security checkpoints, photo IDs, and lost luggage.

Was he sipping some of that fabled undiluted red wine commonly consumed at the ancient Greek symposiums—social gatherings for drinking, philosophy, and poetry? Ethereal visions of some sort filled his mind the day that Grecian Gazette reporter covering the Lyceum lecture beat captured his famous quote for the evening edition.

Whatever the backstory, the noted philosopher nailed the feeling. Even today, top-of-the-atmosphere views from any flight foster a remarkably unique understanding of the world in which we live.

As a personal side note, window seat views are my second-favorite. My first choice for years was the pilot’s seat. I’ve really missed that view the last couple of decades or so,. And sadly, trying to book it through a travel agent gets really tricky.

Commercial flight window seats transform humdrum travel into awe-inspiring experiences. Panoramic views of living maps with miniature cities and patchwork landscapes, dotted with lakes and ponds. Majestic mountains, endless oceans, and intricate ribbons of rivers.

Visual experiences that make the journey as memorable as the destination.

Which makes me wonder about something else. Why would someone book a window seat, then lower the shade and slip into deep slumber or tiny-screen hypnosis?

Seeking answers at one time, I began my own research.

Sitting for hours packed like sardines with strangers has never been my idea of fun. Therefore, I make every effort to get acquainted with seat mates early in every flight. Collecting opinions from passengers like Darlene going to San Diego. “When I can’t get a window seat, I’m sad,” she said. “Window seats are my visual adventures.” I wondered if she might have been hinting that I defer my window seat to her?

Didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to budge.

Daphne on the way to Daytona seemed somewhat irritated. “People asking me to lower my window shade are crazy. I’m like ‘If you want control over the window, buy a seat with one, dude!’”

Mary, bound for Minneapolis explained, “I like to look down at cities and wonder what it would be like, living in places I may never get to visit.”

I really relate to that because I’ve looked down on places like the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, and the Great Salt Lake. I’ve seen Iceland, Greenland, parts of Eastern Europe, and the Swiss Alps from a window seat. And I always think about visiting those places … someday.

Well, maybe everywhere except Iceland. I don’t even like Texas in the winter.

On a winter’s night flight to Europe once, a young student named Elaine shared that she couldn’t sleep like all her classmates. She was too excited. As we talked about window seats, a faint orange glow slowly defined the horizon, separating black sky and terra firma. Mere moments later, a magnificent sunrise unveiled Amsterdam, and the Netherlands, below.

“Why would anyone want to sleep through something like that,” Elaine asked.

Sunrises and sunsets were my favorite view from the pilot’s seat. Take-offs around dusk, watching the setting sun during climbout. Landmarks fading into darkness spotted with patches of twinkling cities connected by trails of car lights.

I’ll never forget one August sunrise departure out of San Francisco, seeing the Golden Gate Bridge towers protruding through a fog layer covering the Bay Area.

Bob’s take on the topic was a great “pilot’s seat” observation on our way to Chicago. “After half my career as a military jet jockey and the other half as a commercial pilot,” he said. “I always had the best office window in the world. Every day was different and I never had a boring view.”

Greg, going to Las Vegas, may have said it best of all, though. “Consider this about window seats. Throughout the centuries of those who may have dreamed about it, we are the first to experience the view from a seat above the clouds.”

And now I’m wondering—Socrates dreamed about it, but what might he have had to say about a literal view from a seat above the clouds?

Even without a decanter of his best 400 BC undiluted Grecian red wine.

—Leon Aldridge

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© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

Leon Aldridge is an “enjoying semi-retirement until a better gig comes along” newspaper editor and publisher, communication and marketing practitioner. His columns are featured 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 only good answer, then and now

Good teachers are the ones who can challenge young minds without losing their own.
-Author unknown but approved by every good teacher I know.

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Grade school, 1959, in Mount Pleasant, Texas, included reading, writing, arithmetic, recess, and repeats of last week’s cafeteria fare. “Meatloaf? Must be Tuesday.”

Education set among pine trees, stifling humidity, and a rigid educational hierarchy.

N.A. Mattingly at South Ward Elementary challenged young minds with math and history classes while prepping the Bulldogs for crosstown elementary school football showdowns against West Ward and Annie Sims.

His weathered face reflected life on the farm. As did his green 1950s GMC pickup always parked at the curb near the bicycle rack. His ever-present smile and patient personality revealed his love for challenging young minds.

School dress codes then favored mainstream conservative looks in clothing, haircuts, and politeness. “Yes, Ma’am” and “Yes Sir” were the only responses to a teacher standing between you and a lecture on manners.

Frequently repeated recess stories among young minds were mixtures of mischief and Mr. Mattingly’s paddle, should we get caught, rumored to reside in his bottom desk drawer.

That was the same year my fifth-grade world started shrinking with a simple purchase at Raney’s top of the hill neighborhood grocery store on South Jefferson. A revolutionary device reflecting 1950s space-age fascination, the small red-and-white rocket ship looked like a toy. It was, however, much more. It was a radio.

Music in most homes then came from boxy radios like the one Mom used to tune in Miss Lee’s hometown news on KIMP. Or our first television, a large, cabinet-style, black-and-white affair. Both were operated exclusively via parental guidance. With the TV, that was Dad utilizing his remote control. The one where he sat comfortably in his chair and said, “Son, get up and turn that big knob on the right to channel three.”

So, this pocket-sized rocket radio was my first taste of selecting entertainment. In the backyard, in my bedroom, or better yet … in the classroom.

Unlike most transistor radios of the era, this one was a “crystal radio,” meaning it required no batteries. Don’t ask me how that worked. I didn’t know then, and I’m still clueless. All I knew were three things. Connecting the alligator clip wire to something large and metallic brought it to life. An earplug provided private listening. And stations were selected by sliding the tuner in the rocket’s nose.

The next morning at recess, I clipped it to the barbed-wire fence separating the back side of the South Ward playground from a cow pasture, the spot where we gathered to chew on “sour doc” weed stalks. I slipped the earplug firmly in place and slowly moved the tuner until static faded into music. I was listening to my own private radio. At school.

Back in class with the rocket radio in my pocket, I discreetly attached the clip to the metal window frame next to my desk, and channeled music right into the middle of math class. The local AM station was loud and clear, but with a little searching, I found KLIF, the Dallas rock-and-roll station.

Resting my head in my hand hid the earplug while I pretended to be deep in multiplication tables. Secretly multiplying my listening pleasure with Elvis Presley, Ricky Nelson, and Buddy Holly.

Clever, yes, but it soon proved to be an imperfect setup. Signals wandered, and intermittent bursts of static interrupted the music until one loud, ear-piercing pop caused me jump. Right in the middle of Mr. Mattingly’s, “… seven times nine is … how much?”

An experienced teacher adept in classroom auditory awareness, Mr. Mattingly stopped mid-stream of memorization techniques to ask, “Everything OK, Leon?”

“Yes, sir,” I humbly offered. “I heard something …. outside the window … I think.”

The bell rang, and I headed for the door. But not before Mr. Mattingly motioned me to his desk.

“Yes, sir,” I questioned politely.

“I’m glad you’re OK,” he smiled. Then, nonchalantly resting a hand near the dreaded desk drawer rumored to hold the storied instrument of punishment, he added. “Tomorrow, how ‘bout you leave that radio at home?”

My enthusiastic response was the only acceptable answer – back then and now.

“Yes, sir.”

—Leon Aldridge

(Photos — Top of the page — Mr. Mattingly’s fifth grade class at South Ward Elementary School in Mount Pleasant, Texas, circa 1959. Your author is sitting directly in front of Mr. Mattingly, the kid wearing the striped shirt and dark sweater. Lower photo — My 1950s vintage “rocket radio” was sadly lost to history decades ago. This one pictured is very similar to the one I purchased at Raney’s neighborhood grocery in 1959 for about $2.98, if memory serves me correctly. You can purchase this one on eBay today for $323.00.)

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: 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.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Every newspaper needs a Hank

“All I know is what I read in the papers.”
— Will Rogers

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I still read newspapers for all I want to know. Usually with coffee

That’s where I saw the article about Hank’s retirement. While I never met Hank, Albert Thompson, my longtime friend and former newspaper associate when we worked for Jim Chionsini, told me about him. Albert once owned the Ripley, Mississippi, newspaper where Hank worked.

The way Albert told it was, “Hank worked for us 21 years, and another four with new owners before semi-retiring. Retired Marine, black belt, and wealthy from an inheritance, he drove a new customized pickup one day, a new car the next day, and his Harley another, weather permitting.

“I would love to have a picture of him delivering rack papers on his Harley. He would strap them on, and off he went.

“Few mayors liked him, but all respected him for obvious reasons. He worked because he liked what he was accomplishing, not for the money.

“I remember him telling me one night as I walked through the newsroom, ‘Boss, a bus wreck is all we need for a perfect front page.’ He already had murders, drug busts, scandals, and politicians going to jail—yet joked about needing a bus wreck. It was all in fun to get a laugh out of the crew.

“Every newspaper needs a Hank,” Albert concluded

I also read a newspaper piece Hank wrote defining news. It was titled, “They say only bad news sells newspapers.”

“They joke that bankruptcy courts are jammed with obituaries of newspapers that died because they only printed what’s right with the world,” Hank began. “They’re wrong.”

“Good news sells newspapers, too. At least on the community journalism turf. Goodness sells more papers more often than bad news.

“Take this test. Pick up the community newspaper of your choice and see how much of it is bad news. Whatever went wrong that day — deaths, crashes, robberies, disasters both large and small, the dog bite, the bee sting. Then look at what’s left. A lot.

“Readers will get madder faster about good news being left out than bad news being omitted. A newspaper will get more calls for leaving out the school honor roll or a community correspondent’s column than for omitting a car crash or a mugging.

“To prove how well good news sells, try ignoring it the next time you buy a newspaper. Scan the headlines and read only what’s wrong with the world.”

I’m paraphrasing the rest of Hank’s piece for brevity, but you’ll get the point. He proposed ignoring honor rolls because no one wants to read about the best and the brightest. He suggested disregarding school activities like band and sports, arguing “anyone trying to better themselves or earn a scholarship is probably a kid who says Grace before dinner and goes to church on Wednesday nights.”

Skip engagements, weddings, family reunions, and wedding anniversaries, because who wants to read about people settling down and starting families?

Armed services promotions and honors. Who cares about people serving their country?

Church news. Who cares about do-gooders? Civic clubs, associations, or volunteer groups. Just chumming around together to get out of the house.

Local businesses. Advertisements. None of that self-serving stuff.

Fairs, Christmas parades, and all that foolishness. Agriculture stories. Who cares what’s happening on the farm?

Special sections. Why recognize local people, businesses, and industries?

Then he concluded with, “Now … get to the bad news. See who got arrested, indicted, convicted, injured, or killed. Bet you can’t do it … without peeking at some of the good news. You’d be too curious. And curiosity is why good news sells newspapers.

“If someone printed an issue containing only bad news, you probably wouldn’t buy it. You’d have to hold it tightly. Otherwise, you might breathe on the single page and accidentally blow it out of your hands.”

Hank’s logic aligns with recent reports on newspaper readership revealing that despite challenges facing newspapers, emerging trends offer optimism for their future. Studies that say readers weary of digital overload are seeking credible, balanced, in-depth journalism—and finding it in established local newspapers.

Hank was right. And so is Albert.

Every newspaper needs a Hank.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: 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.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.