Month: December 2022

“Big results require big ambitions.”

— Heraclitus, ancient Greek pre-Socratic philosopher.

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“Good afternoon, I hope you remember me from the early 1980s before I moved to Hemphill,” the message in my inbox from Gary Stewart began. “You were a helpful boss and advocate, and I appreciated your advice.”

“Certainly, I remember you,” I responded as soon as I saw Gary’s words. In fact, I shared with him that his name came up in many of the best newspaper war stories from the Jim Chionsini era at The East Texas Light. Beginning with the day I interviewed him for the job.

The words of “Auld Lang Syne” notwithstanding, the lead up to a new year has always been a time of thinking about friends from years past. That made the message from Gary last week most timely.

In that interview, I learned that Gary was from upstate New York, a native of Finger Lakes. As best as I recall, he told me about seeing my ad in The Dallas Morning News while visiting family in the DFW area and drove to Center for the interview.

We went through the usual interview conversation about background, education, etc. Then I started wrapping up by asking my common closing question: “What would you like to be doing five years from now?”

Leaning back in the chair in which he was sitting, Gary smiled, rubbed his beard, and said, “I kind of like that chair you’re sitting in.”

Ambition. He got the job.

Gary’s ambition was evident in everything he did. He arrived early, stayed late, and never missed a story. Always had a smile, and he blended ambition with humor working to combine New York upbringing with some East Texas culture. “I was invited to go hunting,” he wrote in one of his columns for The East Texas Light. “I thought that sounded like fun, so I asked, where do we hunt, at the city park? Swell— I’ll meet you there about noon.’”

And cowboy boots. One morning after he was promoted to the top position at the newspaper in Hemphill, Gary arrived at a publisher’s meeting in Center sporting newly acquired traditional Texas footwear. His presentation on The Sabine County Reporter was going really well when he casually assumed that favorite signature posture again, leaning back in his chair. However, the result differed a little from the day of the interview in my office. Apparently, the chair at the meeting didn’t lean back as gracefully as the one in my office. Everyone in the room watched as he leaned back … and we continued watching as his cowboy boots went straight up in the air when the chair turned over with him.

“I worked at some papers after Center and Hemphill,” Gary’s email to me last week continued. “And was eventually the first managing editor of The Moscow Times, shortly after the fall of the Soviet Union.”  

Gary currently serves as director of Cornell University’s Office of Community Relations, where he has been on staff for more than 20 years. That followed a newspaper career in Center, Hemphill, Ithaca, N.Y., and abroad. According to the Cornell University website, in 2007, he created the award-winning weekly radio show “All Things Equal.” He is also the lead editor of a twice-monthly newspaper column, “East Hill Notes,” published in newspapers since 2002. In 2011, Gary and his colleagues launched Cornell’s annual Town-Gown Awards, recognizing community-campus partnerships, and retiring local leaders. In 2014, he received the Key Member of the Year award from the Tompkins County Chamber of Commerce. The dinner program noted “… in recognition of Gary’s enduring support and leadership. His advice is always absolutely on-point and utterly reliable.”

The president of the Tompkins County Chamber of Commerce added, “Gary’s wit, energy, and hard work makes him an invaluable member of the Tompkins Chamber.”

That’s the Gary Stewart I remember.

“It was a long ways from Shelby County, but there were many lessons I learned at The East Texas Light that served me well in Russia,” his email message ended. “Best to you, and thanks, Gary.”

Well done, Gary. And you’re right. It is a long way from Shelby County down the paths you took to get to where you are. But I would have expected nothing less of the young man fresh out of college 40 years ago who looked at me with ambition and said, “I like the looks of that chair you’re sitting in.”

I told him I still had a photo on my office wall of him and Mattie Dellinger together on my motorcycle spoofing the Sidewalk Survey feature for the paper; dated 1980.

But I didn’t ask him if he still wears cowboy boots.

— Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2022. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“They err, who thinks Santa Claus comes down through the chimney; he really enters through the heart.”

— Paul M. Ell

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Santa Claus is real.

No, honest, I saw him. He had a jolly chuckle and a big smile. But no red suit. He was wearing blue overalls and carrying a jacket slung over his shoulder.

The day I saw Santa some years ago came to mind last Saturday afternoon while photographing children visiting Santa and the Grinch. The two Christmas icons were hosted by businesses on the west side of Center’s downtown square. And if that alone was not convincing enough that Christmas was back in town, “The Polar Express” was showing on the big screen just down the street at the Rio Theatre.

I was just there for the pictures. But I thought it worthwhile to drop a hint to Santa, who was at Town and Country Real Estate, that I had been good this year. In case he was wondering. But imagine my astonishment when he replied with a twinkle in his eye, “Well, there are a couple of things we need to talk about.”

My feelings hurt, I moved down the street where the Grinch was waving at passing motorists in front of Primp Salon and Spa. Just to make conversation with the visitor from Whoville, I shared my disappointment in Santa’s doubts about my behavior. Then, for the second time in ten minutes, I was again astonished when the Grinch hugged me and said, “I just love bad behavior.”

“Well,” I told the Grinch, “Looks like I’ll be sending my Christmas wish letter to you instead of Santa this year.”

The Grinch made me smile. So did the kids. Some were laughing. Some were crying. One was playing with Santa’s beard. Another was sleeping through it all.

It reminded me of that earlier time I saw Santa Claus. Not the department store Santa, but the real spirit of Christmas Santa. On the opposite side of the same Center downtown square.

That day, Saturday, Dec. 6, 1980, before the Grinch and before ‘The Polar Express,’ I realized that if we don’t look for the spirit of Christmas Santa, we might walk right past him never realizing we just brushed shoulders with the generous jolly man himself.

The Santa I saw that day long ago was looking for children. But not to sit on his knee and ask for a baby doll or a B-B gun.

This Santa in overalls began with a question. One aimed at the red-suited modern-day Santa counterpart taking a break between herds of joyful youngsters accompanied by shopping-weary parents.

‘What are ya’ll sellin’ Santy,” was the jolly guy’s question? “Who are ya’ collecting money for?”

“Why old Santa Claus is just here to see what the youngsters want for Christmas this year,” St. Nick replied as he shook hands with the old gentleman asking the questions.

“Now listen Santy,” the inquisitive fellow said with one eye squinted, and a stare fixed on Santa with the other. “I see your sign,” he said, nodding toward Santa’s north Pole headquarters that bore a strong resemblance to a backyard portable building. “Sort of makes Ol’ Santy out to be a commercial venture with pictures and all. So how much are you charging for your Christmas cheer?”

“Anyone can come see Santa Claus,” Claus responded, glancing my direction. “The photographer here is taking pictures for anyone wanting a photo—free of charge.”

Apparently having heard enough, Santa’s interrogator leaned over and spoke in low tones. “Now listen Santy, I need you to do me a favor.” With that, he reached deep into one of his overall pockets and produced a handful of shiny silver half-dollar coins. Placing them in Santa’s hand, he said, “Would you give each of the boys and girls you talk to one of these?”

Glancing at the coins with surprise, Santa replied, “I sure will.”

With a nod of his head and tossing his jacket back over his shoulder, the Santa in overalls slapped the Santa in the red suit on the back and walked away.

When red suit Santa looked up again, he waved and roared, “Ho, ho, ho … Merry Christmas.”

Break time was over, and kids were lining up with glee in their eyes.

I’m telling you. Santa is real. If you’re looking for him.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top by the author — Children waiting to see Santa, Christmas of 1980 in Center, Texas. The second child from the right, the one with the apprehensive look on her face and holding her mother’s hand, is my daughter, Robin Elizabeth (Aldridge) Osteen.

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2022. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“It’s a cold bowl of chili when love lets you down.”

— Song lyrics from “Saddle Up the Palomino” by singer-songwriter Neil Young

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Love can let you down in any season, but a hot bowl of Texas chili when winter finally arrives in East Texas can fix a plethora of problems. Possibly even a broken heart.

Granted, taking mother nature seriously is complicated when a short-sleeved shirt suffices for the annual Center Christmas parade. But I see more than freezing cold winter in next week’s forecast; I see chili-eating weather. So, let’s get together for a bowl soon. We might even come up with something as good as that served up by the Center Optimist Club on the downtown square in the 80s.

The origin of chili con carne, better known as just chile, is debated by food historians. But according to a recent story in Southern Living magazine, many think it was popularized in San Antonio in the 1900s by the Chili Queens, a group of women who sold a spicy meat stew around the city’s Military Plaza.

More important than its history, however, seems to be discussion over what the cook puts in it.

You won’t find much discussion about the spicy stew containing chili peppers, meat, and tomatoes. But from there, it’s “Katy, bar the door.” Everyone has their favorite recipe, which they will fearlessly defend

Those throw downs typically intensify over whether or not real chili has beans. Some, like Dennis Leggett in Joaquin, will let you know upfront, “Tell me whether you like beans in your chili and I’ll tell you if we can be friends.”

Polls point to Texas being the stronghold for the “no beans” bunch. But once you leave the Lone Star State, the line on beans or no beans becomes less heated.

And speaking of heat, the use of peppers is also argued. Not whether to use peppers, but what kind.

One Texan with thoughts on turning up the heat was Mr. Matt Dorsey from Morris County up in Northeast Texas. He was a chili connoisseur.

“Eating chili is like riding a bicycle,” Mr. Dorsey used to say. “It may be true that once you learn how, you might never forget, but it’s also true that you had better keep in practice or you’re going to suffer a lot of pain from either activity as you grow older.”

In sports, the wisdom is that the legs go first. In real life, it’s the stomach, according to Mr. Dorsey. That’s why if you’re not in training to eat real chili, it would be advisable to give it up after the age of 50 or so. “It’s one of those activities like staying up all night that’s best left to the young people.”

But good hot spicy Texas-style chili served up on a cold night is a true delicacy. That kind of chili is hard to swear off of at any age, even when the stomach has gotten old and cranky.

Mr. Dorsey also swore that a good amount of the ingestion of hot spicy foods is sheer grandstanding. “Particularly true in my opinion,” he said, “of people who claim to like those hot little peppers worse than jalapenos. There’s nothing to like unless you’re a pyromaniac.” He believed that scorching peppers are suitable only for showing off one’s ability to withstand pain.

We respect Mr. Dorsey’s opinion, but we know that Jackie Cooper, also from over near Joaquin, was an appreciator of peppers. He ate them on everything, and it wasn’t grandstanding because he ate them whether or not anyone was watching.

“Fortunately for the over-the-hill generation,” Mr. Dorsey said, “Man does not have to live by spicy foods alone. If he did, he would starve himself into an early grave as the lining of his stomach eroded.

“What’s nice about good chili is that it won’t normally wear away the digestive tract,” Mr. Dorsey said. “It just feels that way if you are not in practice.”

As for singing about lost love feeling like a cold bowl of chili, country singer John Anderson hints that it might also lead to newer, warmer hearts when he sings, “She looks uptown, but she ain’t really. She’s into football, she likes my chili.”

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2022. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Aldridge column: Week of 12-8-22

“Secondhand animals make first-class pets.”

— Author unknown. I’m guessing it was a street-smart cat or a dog in the PR business.

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I’m an “appreciator of secondhand treasures.” Old car. Old records. Aged guitars with a nice sound.

And critters in need of a human.

A house without a dog or a cat isn’t complete, and a dog or cat without a home is sad. It’s no doubt quieter and a little more organized home, but to me, animals just pick up where the kids left off after growing up and moving out.

Mom had cats. Typically, walk-ons. That’s probably why, as soon as I bought my first house up in Mount Pleasant 50 years ago, the first thing I did wasn’t to buy furniture. I adopted a cat.

“Second Kitty” came a little later on April 24, 1974, a date etched in my memory. The day of my first solo flight while under the tutelage of instructor Doyle Amerson at the old Mount Pleasant Municipal Airport. The take-offs and landings came out even, fortunately. So, with feet back on the ground and traditional new pilot celebrations done, I followed up on a lead. Someone knew I was looking for another “gimme cat.”

Two kittens were ready for adoption. I took both, certain mom would welcome one. They looked like a mixture of Siamese and traveling salesman.

I gave mine the catchy name noting she was the second cat that was later shortened to just “Kitty,” and she traveled with me to other destinations before we ended up in Center about five years later. During that time, she watched the beginnings of my young family. And I never hesitated to warn them all, “Be careful, Kitty’s been a family member longer than any of you have.”

That lasted until my son came along. Lee was, shall we say, a “high-energy” youngster. In some households, cats climb curtains and bounce off furniture. At our house, the cat watched and learned from Lee.

When Kitty failed to show up for her last chow call, we were never certain if something happened to her or if she ran out of nerve pills. Just packed her bags and hit the road.

She goes on record, though, as having had the best unplanned vacation ever. Next-door neighbors, Kenneth and Theron Sanders, were loading their travel trailer one morning with plans of a stay in Galveston. We wished them well, promising to keep an eye on things around their house while they were away.

The following day, Kitty was nowhere to be seen. After a week went by, we were sure she was gone for good. A few days later, however, the Sanders returned home with a cat riding high in the front seat between them.

Seems that as our neighbors were packing with the trailer door open, curiosity took hold. It didn’t kill the cat, thankfully, but it earned her a week at the beach. According to Theron, at their first fuel stop, a wide-eyed cat peering through a trailer window was startling.

After discovering the stowaway, the Sanders made an extra stop for cat food and litter box and welcomed Kitty to the party.

Other pets came and went after that, all of them re-runs. One, a terrier mix my daughter, Robin, adopted. Known as “Buggie,” she was thrown away—literally. Someone put the puppy in a box and placed it with our curbside trash one morning. The dog would have perished with the garbage had the trash collectors not heard noises in the box. Instead, the dog was rescued and became Robin’s best friend.

A basset named “Max” graced our lives in the Hill Country. The old gentleman was also needing a new home. He was duly documented in many of my columns over the years and spent occasional Fridays at the newspaper office sleeping beside my desk. Hence his nickname, “Office Max.”

So, today my herd numbers …? I’m really not sure. Let’s see: Pretty Boy, Fuzzy, Marshmallow, Cat-Zilla, Little Tom, Last Walk-on, Pain-in-the-Rear, Willie Ray, and Toothpick.

They think I don’t know it, but they send text messages all over the neighborhood about free meals down on my corner. And raccoon or two dripping in during feeding frenzy time is not uncommon.

“A house becomes a home when you add some furry four leggers and that indescribable measure of love that comes with them.”

I don’t know who said that either, but I’m convinced nothing defines a culture or a person more than how they treat animals.

Unless maybe it’s their appreciation for old cars, good songs, or mellow-sounding guitars.

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2022. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

I don’t believe in stuff like that

“The problem with omens is that they never come with an illustrated pamphlet explaining what they mean.”

— Dean Koontz, American author of suspense thrillers.

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Could it have been an omen? I’m thinking maybe more of a sign.

That one 9/16-inch box end wrench, my favorite, was nowhere to be found when I needed it Thanksgiving weekend. “See,” I said aloud. To myself. “If you had put away those tools after the last time you were out here … was it July 4th weekend? That wrench would have been right where it belongs. In the third drawer of the bottom cabinet. The big roll-around toolbox and tools I bought from Rick Hightower in about 1984.”

Never one to put stock in omens or signs, I laughed at superstitions, horoscopes, and good luck charms, too. But when Rick, Jess Fultz, and I decided to go racing one Saturday about the same time, give or take a year or two, that I bought the tools from Rick, well, let’s just say it made think about it.

That was during that mid-life crisis when I bought another race car. A former national record-holding drag racing Camaro. And though I could do everything I did when I was in my twenties.

The car had spent time in hibernation. About as long as it had been since my earlier days of traversing quarter mile tracks at insane speeds. But we were both in shape after a few weeks of freshening up for the car and some self-inflicted pep talks for me. And just like that, we were returning to the scene of my earlier racing crimes, I-20 Raceway near Tyler.

“If we can get out of Center by 3:30,” I told them, “We can be there when the gates open at 5 and get in some tuning and time trials before eliminations at 7.

And that’s the way it would have started except for the first omen: a bad tire on the hauler truck.

“Take the race car off the hauler and we’ll pull it on my trailer,” I said like a genius. That done, we were off to a late start. Rolling out of Center, headed north.

The trip was going well, and conversation was lively about the anticipated evening of racing when an ominous “thump” from the rear broke up the party.

The rear-view mirror confirmed omen number two. “We just had a flat on the trailer,” I announced. Stopping short of any confessions about how I’d been meaning to get a spare for that trailer.

A slow trip on the shoulder of the road got us into the tiny berg of Beckville (population 163 at that time … salute). The proprietor at the town’s only garage, a one-man operation, was still around cleaning up before closing. Maybe he was looking for his favorite 9/16ths too. 

“Yep … should have a good used tire to fit that,” he drawled. His asking price would have been cheap at twice the price, and we were on the road again. To quote Willie.

Breezing into Longview, we turned west onto I-20 in the home stretch for our destination. “Time is going to be tight,” I said. “We’ll have about a half hour to unload and make a couple of practice passes on the track.”

As dusk was descending, omen number three appeared in the form of faulty trailer lights. Another roadside repair and one more delay. “We’ll still get there before the start of racing,” I whispered under my breath.

“It’s the Highway 155 exit,” announced our 1980s GPS counterpart: Jess with his Texaco road map. “We’re getting close.”

That was just before omen number four unfolded with drops of rain peppering the windshield.

“Anybody hungry,” I asked.

“Can’t say we didn’t try,” Rick added.

Signaling for a turn off the interstate in defeat, our plan was now a restaurant with a good meal in Longview. As the rain-soaked but race-ready rig rolled off the interstate highway less than five miles from the track, Rick said, “You would think with all that’s happened, it just wasn’t meant for us to go racing tonight.”

“Nah, I don’t believe in stuff like that,” I scoffed as we passed under the giant green lighted highway sign. The one clearly marking the exit we had just randomly taken. 

“Highway 757 – Starville – Omen Road exit.”

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—Contact Leon Aldridge at leonaldridge@gmail.com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge.com