Author: leonaldridge2015

“You can live to be a hundred if you give up all the things that make you want to live to be a hundred.” — Woody Allen, filmmaker, actor, and comedian.

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Age and I have long been odd acquaintances. I’ve never felt as old as I assumed someone my age should feel. Certainly not as old as that guy looking back at me in the mirror every morning.

Maybe it’s the spill I took a few weeks ago. The one that ended when my body collided with the concrete. Guardian angels were working overtime that day. The fall was harmless. It was the landing that hurt. Luckily, the damage was minimal. But experiences like that can change one’s outlook on aging. And thoughts about living to a ripe old age.

Like 100 or so.

I read recently that one in 10,000 people are termed “slow agers,” someone for whom the odds favor reaching 100. Aging studies fascinate me as one who has always wanted to hang around for as long as possible.

When my parents were the age that I am now, I regarded them as “old.” Really old. I see clearly now that was not the case, however. My father had been retired for 13 years when he was my age, but I can’t give it up. And this age doesn’t look “really old.” Not from this side.

It does seem that time goes by faster than it once did, however. As a kid, waiting a year for Christmas, a birthday, or the last day of school felt like an eternity. Today, years are like weeks. Weeks like hours. How did all that time go by so quickly?

The answer could be rooted somewhere in the percentage of life those measurements of time represented compared to today. For instance, at age 10 those 12 months represented 10 percent of our total life experience. For Baby Boomers like me, it’s less than two percent today.

Guess that’s what Dad meant when he said, “Aging’s like toilet paper. The closer to the end you get, the faster it goes.”

Modern philosophies on aging advocate reaching a ripe old age through healthy living. I try to be “healthy conscience.” To a reasonable degree. Mom always said that most things are acceptable in moderation. She often said those kinds of things while baking sweets for my sisters and me. Guess that’s why I’m inclined to include chocolate chip cookies and banana pudding in my healthy eating. In moderation, of course.

Others theorize that aging is more about genes than lifestyle. I remember my paternal grandfather’s lifestyle. He was born in 1888. I was 19 when he died in 1967. His working career started at the age of 13 in 1901. He worked for the railroad until a few years before he died. Many of those years outdoors. In all kinds of weather.

Although the vice of smoking never appealed to me, I was mesmerized by my grandfather’s ability to manipulate flimsy cigarette paper and Prince Albert tobacco into one smooth roll sealed with a lick and inserted between his lips as he reached for a match.

And when he wasn’t smoking a roll-your-own cigarette, he was puffing on one of his many pipes.

Add to that smoking his unhealthy diet. Fried eggs and bacon for breakfast. Every morning. And my grandmother cooked the best fried chicken for Sunday dinner anyone ever sat down to after church. Used lots of lard and bacon grease from the collection can she kept on her stovetop.

And that unhealthy lifestyle finally got him too — just months short of his 80th birthday.

Both of my parents died in their 80s, as did my father’s parents—if you count my grandfather’s almost 80. Mom’s parents died young, her father in his 50s, and her mom in her early 40s. However, her father had siblings who lived well into their 80s and 90s.

And some of my research reveals that’s a good thing. They say longevity odds may be better in families with lots of elderly relatives swinging from the family tree limbs. That covers my Mom’s family. In more ways than one.

Last but not least, research ranks high on long-life odds for those who continue social engagement activities.

“There was a clear, similar trend among people who had civic engagements, were active in their communities, volunteered, and otherwise stayed connected, whether with families, friends, or coworkers,” according to Leslie R. Martin, a professor of psychology at La Sierra University in Riverside, California, coauthor of The Longevity Project.

More enlightening tidbits from The Longevity Project included findings that religious women lived longer—primarily because of the social connectedness of their faith-based lifestyle. They worship together, join committees, and engage in social outreach.

Mom was faithful in her church activities. She and her good friend from church also enjoyed occasional morning coffee together. Blended with just “a pinch of brandy.” I didn’t see that statistic noted. Must be something to it; however, they both outlived their husbands.

So, what does all my irreverent research mean? Perhaps a ripe old age is good. Just don’t sit home and rot once you’re ripe.

We won’t know for sure until, and if, those 100 candles start to glow. In the meantime, I’m sticking with my secret for longevity—enjoying the things that make me want to live to be a hundred.

At least the things I can still do . . .

—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 2023. 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.

“Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

— John Gillespie Magee Jr., World War II Royal Canadian Air Force fighter pilot and war poet.

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“Mistakes to avoid on your pilot’s license check ride,” the magazine headline declared. Made me chuckle. I could liven up that list a little.

I still read a lot about flying, although I haven’t piloted an aircraft in more than 20 years. Some things I used to do that I don’t do any more for whatever reason; I have no strong desire to do again. Been there, done that. But fly an airplane? I’d do that again in a heartbeat.

Doing so would entail, at the least, some FAA required catch-up instruction and a check ride. Another FAA certification and sign-off on the observation of one’s ability to fly an airplane in all situations. Should that ever occur, I doubt this new check ride would be as, let’s call it, memorable as my first.

Flying was a childhood obsession with me. Drawing pictures of airplanes in school. Model airplanes suspended from my bedroom ceiling with Mom’s sewing thread. Watching movies like “30 Seconds Over Tokyo” and “12 O’Clock High.”

Following that dream, I budgeted for flying lessons once out of college and gainfully employed. A few hours a week spent at the old Mount Pleasant Airport with instructor Doyle Amerson, and I was one my way. I was a soloed student pilot.

Friend and Marine pilot veteran, Grady Firmin, readied me for the final phase. The check ride. Flying with Grady offered insightful moments differing from those of a civilian instructor. Always throwing in little extras. Like the day he asked, “Wanna learn how to slip an airplane?’

“Sure,” I said. “What’s a slip?”

“They don’t teach it anymore, and you won’t need to know it for the check ride. But I’ll show you how. Might come in handy,” Grady assured me.

Non-pilot note #1. Coordination of aircraft controls produces desired and expected results. Cross-controlling (uncoordinated) in a manner for which they were not necessarily designed will yield different, but sometimes useful, results.

Where coordinated application of rudder and aileron produces gentle turns, uncoordinated application produces rapid loss of altitude. Think, “Falling from dancing skies on silver wings.” But you can call it “slipping.”

Fast forward to check ride day. Winging my way to Gregg County Airport, I had almost forgotten hanger talk, tagging FAA check ride pilot Johnny Walker as the “get him and you’re doomed” guy. “He’s tough,” one soul said. “Most students fail the first ride with him,” said another. “Made me cry,” admitted one poor guy.

Signed in and paperwork approved, I nervously awaited my turn. Then I hear, “Aldridge?”

“That’s me.”

“Good morning, Mr. Aldridge, my name is Johnny Walker. Are you ready to fly?”

“Yes sir,” I affirmed boldly, hoping to hide that sudden sinking sensation sweeping over me.

We began the pre-flight walk-around inspection. Engine check, control surface check, fuel sample check, and more. I was almost done when I ran into the wing. Yep, walked into the trailing edge of the high-wing Cessna with my forehead. Forgot to duck.

Fumbling for a paper towel behind the seat to wipe the blood away, I thought, “Great job, clutz, you aren’t even off the ground, and you’ve already failed.”

We did get off, however. And into the check ride pilot’s tests. “Fly a heading of one eight zero for thirty seconds and make a climbing turn to 3,500 at two seven zero. Show me a power-off stall. A power-on stall. Slow flight maneuvers. Recovery from unusual attitudes.” (That’s the gut-wrencher where you close your eyes and put your hands in your lap, the instructor takes the controls and throws the plane into some crazy downward-turning, almost out-of-control thing. Then gives it back to the petrified pilot to recover.)

“OK, take us back to the airport,” Walker said. I sighed silently, test done. I was wrung out.

But just as I contacted the tower and turned into the airport traffic pattern, the legendary check ride pilot had one surprise left.

“You just lost electrical power. Show me a no-flaps landing.”

Non-pilot note #2. Wings flaps increase lift allowing for slower landing speeds and sometimes shorter take-offs. Although their use is not essential, they make landing easier. And all basic pilot training is done by teaching the application of flaps for landing.

The solution was not hard, just not practiced much: extend the downwind leg to lose altitude on final approach before reaching the end of the runway. That lack of practice became obvious when Walker said, “You’re still too high. Can you slip it?”

“I can,” I said with pleasure and surprise. Then executed the technique Grady taught me. The one I wouldn’t need to know for the check ride. Reacting to the cross-controlling applied, the airplane pitched nose up like a horse fighting the reins before settling into a descent. Then started down like a fast-falling elevator.

Just before touching down, releasing the airplane from its cross-coordination contortion allowed it to settle gently on the runway. To quote pilot jargon, “right on the numbers.”

“Good job,” Walker said as we taxied to the terminal. “Congratulations, you passed!”

Once inside and with Mr. Walker’s signature on my license, I thanked him, borrowed a band-aid for my forehead, and flew back to Mount Pleasant, having reached my childhood goal of “licensed pilot.” Battle wounds and all.

I thought about that day last week as I read the article about check ride mistakes to avoid. I was disappointed. Running into the wing with your forehead was not on the list.

Maybe I should contact the author. Perhaps they should also add legendary check ride pilots to their list.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page: The author getting his shirt tail clipped following his first solo flight, a time-honored flying tradition, by instructor Doyle Amerson. The date was April 23, 1974, and the place was at the old Mount Pleasant Municipal Airport, which was located on property that is currently part of the Priefert Manufacturing facilities.)

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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 2023. 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.

“If an expired license plate means another decoration for your living room wall … you might be a redneck.”

—Jeff Foxworthy, comedian, actor, author, writer and member of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour.

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“I’m going to the courthouse to get new tags for the car,” I remember my grandfather saying as he tapped his pipe on the ashtray, dislodging remains of Prince Albert tobacco.

“You want to go with me.”

That was a no-brainer. It meant he would let me drive as soon as we got out of sight of the house. I was still a couple of years short of the required license age of 14. But my grandfather saw no harm in teaching a youngster how to drive with behind-the-wheel instruction on the way to the hardware store, the gas station, or the courthouse.

My grandmother, on the other hand, was adamantly opposed. “Take him out to the pasture where I learned how to drive,” she reprimanded him.

I loved my grandmother, but that declaration always puzzled me. They lived in town. There was no pasture. My grandmother was also a wise woman. So maybe there was a message in there somewhere.

Going to the courthouse to get new tags, as license plates used to be characterized, was once a springtime ritual in Texas when every car and truck license expired on the same date. Lines were long at the license office on that last day.

Like many back then, my grandfather hung expired tags on the wall of his garage. I don’t have expired plates on my living room wall … yet. But I do have a wall of them in my garage. A 40-year collection spanning a brand new, still wrapped in paper from the courthouse, set of 1929 plates up to a few personalized plates from the ‘70s and ’80s. About the time my interest in cars and plates begins to wane.

A look at the history of the often-ignored license plate is intriguing. Texas first required registering motor vehicles in 1907. Car owners made their own license plates in the beginning, most often by attaching metal numbers to a piece of wood using a “serial number” assigned to them by the county. That remained the norm until 1917, when the state began issuing metal license plates.

In 1933, the legislature approved the manufacturing of license plates in the Huntsville prison, and the first ones produced there were in 1935.

Early license tags came in a variety of colors before the state began alternating black and orange plates every other year during and after World War II. In 1957, the alternating colors were changed to white with black letters and black with white letters. That was the style in the early 1960s when I began driving.

“How do I get plates like those black and white ones,” I asked while in the courthouse a few weeks ago to renew the registration on my Tahoe. I noticed the new plates when they were offered as personalized or “vanity” plates a few years ago because they reminded me of the plates on my 1965 Chevelle Malibu SS I bought that year.

I bought my first vanity plates in the 1970s. Texas initially offered them in the 60s. Mine read “CAMEO.” Looked great on the first vehicle restoration I attempted, a 1956 Chevrolet “Cameo Carrier” pickup. 

Regular issue plates in the ‘70s were white with different color letters every year. Several ho-hum variations followed until the late 90s. That’s when Texas issued what was, in my opinion, the ugliest license plate ever conceived. Supposedly symbolizing all things Texas, they were adorned with a space shuttle, an oil derrick, a cowboy, and I forget what else. Mostly because I’ve been trying hard to forget about them.

Thankfully, in 2012, white plates with black letters replaced them. And they remain the standard. Probably will for a while, as the Department of Motor Vehicles reported recently, they have no plans to change the design anytime soon. Likely because the plethora of custom plates at an extra $99 a pop has become good revenue for the state.

All of this contemplation of car tags last week reminded me that misuse of license plates can come with consequences. A reminder of a long-ago moment of temporary insanity when visions of making license plates loomed large as an addition to my resume.

That was the summer between college semesters spent working in my uncle’s body shop in California. Amazing as it may seem, money intended for college funds found its way into purchasing a Southern California hot rod Ford Model A with a hopped-up DeSoto Hemi motor.

I thought it was college related. A guy needed a cool car for school.

Needing to drive the yet unregistered car to the shop for a paint job one night, borrowing the front plate off my friend’s ’57 Chevy seemed like a reasonable solution. MPHS classmate Ronnie Lilly made the summer trek out west with me, and between my car and his, we decided his would come closer to making the trip than mine.

My plan began to unravel when on the way to the paint shop, one of Canoga Park, California’s finest, decided he needed a closer inspection of what I was driving. And he was about to buy my story about driving the car from Texas. too. Until Ronnie, who had gotten a late start, passed us and pulled over to see what was happening.

The jig was up when the officer noticed the car stopping to join us had a matching plate to the one on my hot rod. To his credit, he lightheartedly gave me an A for effort. Delivered with an expensive ticket.

So now, all of this talk about tags has me thinking. Jeff Foxworthy’s humor notwithstanding, I’m thinking some of those old Texas plates might look pretty good on the living room wall at my house.

Right next to the Studebaker grille and the Mobil gas sign.

—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 2023. 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.

“Don’t worry about getting older. You’re still going to do dumb stuff. It’s just going to hurt a little more.”

— Catchy saying that used to be funny.

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Even at this age, two of my dumb stuff records are still intact. Neither is worthy of notoriety. But one of them, I seem destined to challenge every so often.

Last week’s attempt resulted in another unscheduled visit for medical attention, replete with all the stereotypical “yes or no” questions.

Are you allergic to anything?

“Falling on concrete,” I groaned with a grin and a grimace.

Recent surgeries?

“No.”

Recent illnesses?

“No.”

Ever broken any bones?”

“No,” I offered. “And that’s a record I hope is not broken today.”

I thought it was funny. Apparently, however, not everyone appreciates my humor.

Accidents in the last five years?

“You mean prior to the one this morning?”

Have you fallen lately?

“Well, since you brought it up, let’s talk more about this morning.”

Falling was not on my list of things to do that morning. Beautiful day. Sun shining. Summer in full, hotter than a road lizard, oh my gosh, broiler mode. I had acres of perfectly level, unobstructed concrete parking lot on which to walk back to my car. Notebook under my arm, cup of coffee in one hand with the other in my pocket reaching for car keys.

That’s when it happened. For still unknown reasons, putting weight on my right leg caused it to respond with, “I don’t think so, not right this minute.” Natural reflexes called on my left leg as a backup. “Hey man,” that leg shouted. “I’m not done with my job over here yet.” Conflicting signals collided, and gravity sent me rolling on the concrete.

Fortunately, my guardian angel working the day shift was Johnny. Johnny on the spot. I’ve been through several guardian angels in my time. Some, I’ve scared the daylights out of. Others, I’ve worn out or simply caused them to throw up their hands and resign.

Last week’s was right there. Despite torn slacks, scraped elbow and knee, and coffee splashed everywhere, I felt decent when I stood up. “Dodged another bullet,” I thought.

That was before I tried to walk.

I am no stranger to accidents or emergency rooms. Over the years, things like car wrecks, ladders, lawnmowers, and temporary losses of good judgment preceded by statements like, “Stand back and watch me, I can do this,” also include a motorcycle wreck. The night a team of angels was riding with me.

The late-night trip from where I worked at the newspaper in Naples to home in Mount Pleasant ended when the bike’s rear tire surrendered its air at about 70 miles per hour. Catapulted me over the handlebars, and I took the windshield with me. Meeting the pavement head-on, literally. I still remember thinking, “This is gonna leave a mark.”

After body-surfing the pavement and narrowly missing the tumbling motorcycle, I stood up slowly and looked around. In the middle of a dark four-lane highway where I could see no car lights in either direction, I realized the extent of good fortune that was allowing me to do so.

A quick inventory revealed that I had not simply survived but did so miraculously without gaping holes or missing limbs. Removing my helmet was most sobering. Much of the outer shell on the right side was missing. Ground completely through to the padded lining. Angels at work again.

Angels were still on duty when I walked toward a light at the top of the hill, where I found a friend who provided comfort and a trip to the emergency room. A call was made to family physician Dr. Lee McKellar, who arrived minutes later. A “patient-first” care procedure sadly not often seen anymore in today’s healthcare world.

“What happened,” doc asked while checking me over.

 “I had a motorcycle wreck … near your house on 67.”

“Why didn’t you come on up to the house,” he asked?

“Guess a late-night visit just didn’t cross my mind,” I laughed.

Determining that nothing was broken and a shoulder separation was the worst of my injuries, he “harnessed” me back together with plans for a morning visit with an orthopedic surgeon in Paris. A healthcare provider who just may have missed his calling as a comedian.

The funny physician concluded a six-week plan for repair and healing with a light-hearted proclamation. “You’ll be good as new; with one exception. The collar bone typically doesn’t go all the way back down. So, you may heal with a slight bump on your shoulder … which shouldn’t be a problem unless you plan on wearing strapless evening gowns.”

The verdict last week was, once again, nothing broken or fractured. I reached up and felt the collarbone bump that’s been there for decades as I waited for providers and insurance companies to haggle over making sure all the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed before providing treatment. A patient care procedure sadly seen far too much in today’s healthcare world.

This time, the damage was limited to ugly bruises, concrete rash, and hyper-extended muscles and tendons in my right leg that scream in agony whenever I sit. Walk. Bend. Lie down. Breath. Or think about it.

But thank the Lord, as I’m recovering from this latest episode, two of my dumb stunt records remain intact.

I’ve never broken a bone. And I’ve never worn a strapless evening gown.

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. 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.

“Family reunions are the place where you remember where you came from.”

— Author unknown.

“You know,” Stan said. “Those two are the reason we’re here.”

The ‘here’ he referred to was another gathering of the descendants of Arthur George Johnson and Bernice Conlee Johnson of Winchester, Kentucky. A family with Kentucky roots dating to the 1700s.

‘Those two’ were the family’s oldest remaining members, Bill Johnson and Jo Johnson Scott. Ages 88 and 92 years young, respectively. Both attended last weekend’s reunion in Abilene, Texas. Just as they have most of the previous gatherings for the last 70 some odd years, wherever they have been held.

Stan made the serious comment as we went through the animated antics of trying to line up all 45 attendees representing four generations for a group photo. With five minutes’ notice. An exercise in anything but seriousness.

“Everybody wants to take care of me,” laughed Uncle Bill, who uses a cane to offset multiple knee replacements. “They think I’m old. You should have seen them when I pretended to stumble and almost fall. Scared the you-know-what out of ’em.”

Stan’s mother, Wyama (Amy) Johnson Weatherred, and my mother, Indianola Johnson Aldridge, were members of that generation. Other siblings of the six children of Arthur and Bernice Johnson were another daughter, Katherine Johnson Fugitt, and a son, George Johnson, who did not survive childhood.  

Arthur Johnson was born in 1894 and is responsible for starting the familial gatherings that have become legendary with those of us who have spent a lifetime traveling to family reunions.

He died in 1951. He did not live a long life by most standards, but he did accomplish remarkable things. The most incredible might have been instilling in his children the importance of family ties.

Among family documents is a letter he wrote to my mother on her marriage in 1944. She was preparing to marry a young soldier named Aldridge from Pittsburg, Texas. Her plans to marry and move what must have seemed like a long distance in 1944 were probably intensified by the fact she was the first to marry and leave home.

His letter covered all the admonitions one might assume a father would offer his daughter. Things like honor and devotion to her new husband, remaining faithful to God, and the importance of family and frequent get-togethers.

And get together frequently; Mom’s family did.

Johnson reunions go back to the very early 1950s, that I recall. The familial gatherings were Kentucky events for many years. But, in the last couple of decades, locations convenient to aging members and growing families have included points from the Blue Grass State to Texas, where all but one branch of the family wound up.

After Mom married and moved to Texas, sisters Amy and Jo followed suit, eventually calling the Lone Star State their adopted home. Katherine married and settled in Ohio.

Bill stayed in Southern California after his discharge from the Navy in San Diego but later moved to Texas. Then to Phoenix before coming back to Texas. Twice, I think it was.

Geography proved to be no obstacle, however. Reunions were planned well in advance, and very few were missed. Generations have driven halfway across the country and through the night to attend.

Mom was the oldest of her generation. I’m the most senior of my generation of cousins who have grown up more like brothers and sisters than cousins.

With reunions a given in my life, it’s been surprising to read in recent years that family gatherings and families in general in America are declining. “Going out of style,” as one writer phrased it.

If that’s so, the Kentucky Johnsons were not informed.

Maybe we’ve slowed down a little. What used to be weeklong affairs are now three- or four-day weekends. Time spent catching up. Sharing photos. Relearning the names of each other’s children and grandchildren that often slip aging minds. Laughing about stories from decades ago. Stories I’ve heard more times than I can count. Late nights supplemented with snappy cheese dip and Ale-8-1 soft drinks—both Kentucky traditions rooted in the Winchester area.

But I’ll keep going for as long as I am able. And listen to the stories as long as they are still being told because, with each recitation, there are variations that only time and the love for recounting family history firsthand can enhance. Reminders of where we came from. And as Stan said, the reason we get together.

And that’s probably the best part of family reunions.

That, and the snappy cheese and Ale-8s.

—Leon Aldridge

Photo at top of the page: Probably the last photo made of my mother and all her siblings together. From left to right, my mother, Indianola “Inky” Johnson Aldridge (1923 – 2010), Wyama (Amy) Johnson Weatherred (1924 – 2016), Jo Johnson Scott (born 1931), Katherine Johnson Fuguitt (1934 – 2005), and William (Bill) Johnson (born 1935)

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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 2023. 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.

“The thing about parenting rules is there aren’t any. That’s what makes it so difficult.”

—Ewan McGregor, Scottish actor.

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I missed writing something special for Mother’s Day, so I skipped Father’s Day. Didn’t want to show any favoritism. However, I’m celebrating my own creation this week. I’ll call it parent’s day.

In deference to National Parent’s Day, July 23, I’ll call mine “my parent’s day.” Truthfully, parents should be celebrated every day.

I was blessed with wonderful parents. They weren’t “do as I say” parents; they were “good example” parents. I learned more by watching them than I did by adhering to any rules — which weren’t many.

Mom was not a doting mother. I heard, “You just wait until your father gets home,” more often than, “I love you.” But I never had any doubt about her love for me. She demonstrated it every day in everything she did. Including not spanking me herself before my father got home. Mom could wield a mean hairbrush.

In her defense, I was a trying child. Trying to stay out of trouble.

She tried to teach me how to stay out of trouble. Keep my clean room. Help with household duties. Dress properly for all occasions. Keep my shoes polished for Sunday because I was going to church with her. Every Sunday. Without fail.

She even taught me how to iron and designated that duty as one of my after-school chores.

Mom also helped establish the principle that there are no free rides. She set my allowance at 25¢ a week, which I collected every Saturday. Provided the trash was emptied, the grass was cut, and her flower bed by the front porch was weed-free.

From there, Dad took over when I graduated from allowance to an occasional night and Saturday job, sweeping floors and assembling bicycles and wagons at Perry Brothers. Overnight, I was promoted from 25¢ a week to 25¢ an hour.

Dad was practical, hardworking, and encouraging. Again, I learned more from him by example. Only two times do I recall him offering life lessons that may have been construed as rules.

Once was advising me that he feared I was “ripping my britches.” It’s a humorous old saying indicating that one is about to make a costly mistake. Time has blurred exactly what my intentions were. Likely buying another old hot rod car. An automobile to Dad was transportation. Point A to point B. Nothing more. As I said, he was practical.

To me, the objective was how fast I could get from A to B and how good my ride looked getting there. “I could tell you that I don’t think what you’re doing is a good idea,” he said as we stood in the kitchen that night. “But I also know you’re going to do whatever you want to regardless of what I say,” he added. “I know because that’s the way I did it. I had to learn from my mistakes. And I know you will learn from yours.”

The jury is still out on that one.

The other time was advice on love and marriage. Again, I don’t remember how we got into the conversation. It’s his response I remember.

“Love can be elusive in the beginning. You make the best decision you can, getting to know someone as well as you can,” he said. “Once you marry, it will take work and understanding every day, but that’s the key to making marriage last and love better.”

He must have known what he was talking about. Mom and Dad were married for 63 years before he passed away.

He did offer basic rules every father taught his son back then about being a gentleman. Remove your hat indoors. Open doors for the ladies. Address your elders with sir and ma’am. “Yes sir, no sir — yes ma’am, no ma’am.” Never talk back to your elders. And the one rule we all heard. “Children should be seen and not heard,” meaning remain quiet when adults are talking; don’t butt in.

With my children, I can tell you about one time when that rule failed me.

My son Lee was perhaps six or seven years of age the night we attended that social function in Shreveport. Dressed in our Sunday best, sporting a coat and tie. The crowd was large. The finger food was good.

Just as someone I knew spotted me; Lee tugged at my sleeve. “Daddy,” he said. “You’ve got …”

“Not now,” I smiled. “Daddy’s talking.”

When he tried one more time, I reminded him of proper etiquette for children when adults were talking. One more time, he politely responded, “OK.”

As the event ended, we thanked the hosts, said our goodbyes, and left.

Walking to the car, I said, “Thank you for being polite while Daddy was talking. What did you want to say?”

“You’ve ripped your britches,” he replied.

Reaching back to discover a gap where the seat of my pants once existed confirmed my son’s observation.

“Yeah, Lee, looks like I did. Perhaps in more ways than one,” I laughed.

“Just look at this way. Maybe this experience will seem funny someday … when you reflect on any rules about parenting I imparted to you.”

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo above: My parents, Leon and Indianola (Inky) Aldridge, about the late 1960s.)

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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 2023. 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.

“Customer: A person who pays for all your vacations, hobbies, rent, food, clothing, car notes, and gives you the opportunity to better yourself.”

— Unknown

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“Good afternoon, Elegante Suites reservations in Abilene,” the voice on the phone said. “How can I help YOU today?” Heavy emphasis on the word, ‘you,’ made me smile.

It also evoked memories of one of my mother’s favorite afternoon television shows when I was in grade school. One that turned dreams of prizes and giveaways into reality for one lucky lady contestant.

The show’s opening pitch was most memorable, enthusiastically delivered by host Jack Bailey. Mom and countless other housewives across the country were focused on the black-and-white TV show every afternoon to hear, “Would YOU … like to be Queen for a day?”

Hearing the same vibe from a hotel reservations clerk last week was as refreshing as a West Texas breeze in a society having seemingly forsaken customer service.

Also in my school days, I learned about customer service working for my father in five-and-dime stores. Before electronic cash registers. Before self-checkouts. Before dehumanizing conversations with computers. Before retail giants who achieved success built on customer service before abandoning the concept, ultimately doing away with door greeters.

Variety stores like Perry Brothers had door greeters 60 years ago. They were also called store managers. Dad was often found standing at the open front door in a time before air-conditioned businesses, speaking to customers. Calling most of them by name.

“First lesson,” Dad said. “You’re not making a sale. You’re making a repeat customer who will return because you made them feel good about shopping with you.”

“Second lesson. Learn how to make correct change. Place the money they give you in plain sight on the register. Leave it there while making change,” I remember Dad saying. “Start by stating the amount they owe and count the change back to the amount they gave you.

I still remember his example. “Their purchase is $1.79. They give you two dollars. You say, ‘That will be $1.79.’ Then count back to the amount they gave you, saying it aloud with each coin. Give them a penny saying, ‘This will make one eighty,’ then the dimes saying ‘ninety and two dollars.

“That’s all you have to do. Except smile and say, ‘Thank you, we appreciate your shopping with us. Please come back.'”

My guess is some people working in businesses today missed those classes.

“That will be $5.17,” the drive-through speaker crackled. Arriving at the window, I handed the employee a ten-dollar bill and 17 cents intending to make the transaction quick and easy. It did neither. The employee took my money, put it in the register, stuck some ones and loose change in my hand almost spilling the change in the process. Then turned away.

“What’s that,” I asked.

“Your change,” she looked back and responded.

“No, it’s not, I gave you $10.17.”

Her reply? “I know.”

I was momentarily speechless.

“But you owe me $5, not $4.87.”

“Our computer doesn’t know how to do that.”

“OK, I’m giving you back all this change, you give me a five-dollar bill, and we’re even. That’s how it works.”

Silence and a scowl from the employee.

“Can I speak to your manager, please?”

I reviewed the conversation. The manager listened, then replied, “I’m sorry, our computer is not programed to do that.”

Silence. Sigh. “So, at least give me my 17-cents back and we’ll call it a day.”

More silence. After a moment, the manager opens the drawer, gives me 17 cents, and closes the window without saying another word.

A couple of nights later, giving the same establishment the benefit of the doubt for having had a bad employee day, I’m back in the same drive-through. I place my order on cue. “Two medium Cokes and two small fries, please.”

“Your total will be $13.22.” After a pause, I heard what sounded like, “Are you calling from the drive-through?” I’m hard of hearing these days, so I looked at my friend in the car with a “what did they just say” look on my face.

“Yep, that’s what she said.”

I looked ahead. The same star employee was at the window. The one who I’m reasonably sure never met a high school UIL numbers sense test they liked. Hasty digging in the console produced exact change, thereby avoiding another mathematics meltdown. 

But, it appears that some fast-food franchises have seemingly developed a business model that avoids all that drudgery of learning first-grade math.

An employee at another establishment and I exchanged food for folding money. The window closed. I waited for my change. In a moment, he was back. “You want something?”

“My change,” I said politely.

“Oh … you wanted your change?”

“When I am waited on politely and the service is good, I usually just say ‘keep the change’ when it’s offered to me. Otherwise, I want my change back.”

I extended my open hand.

He opened the drawer, took out the change due, handed it to me, and closed the window. No, “I’m sorry, excuse me, thank you, I assumed you wanted to donate your change to me, to the French Foreign Legion.” Not even, as my grandmother would have said, a “kiss my foot.”

My father is rolling in his grave.

—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 2023. 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.

“A good snapshot keeps a moment that s gone from running away.”

– Eudora Welty, (1909—2001) American short story writer, novelist, and photographer.

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A McCormick porcelain decanter bust of Elvis Presley was priced at $35. Framed photos of The King of Rock and Roll, obviously from someone’s collection, were modestly priced.

Perusing small-town antique shops is the way I break the monotony of travel. Can’t pass them up. Plus, I sometimes score neat things.

Photos are a fascination for me in shops like this. Family pictures, school pictures, historic events, and people. Snippets of time, frozen forever. Once a treasured part of someone’s albums. Or framed and displayed on the wall of their home.

What happened on the day the photo was made? What memories stirred emotions when they looked at the picture over the years? What was the story behind these pictures now relegated to antique emporiums and second-hand stores? Stories, many likely now lost to time.

One such picture in the Taylor, Texas, shop caught my eye last weekend. A black-and-white snapshot of Elvis playing the piano with his backup group, The Jordanaires, singing behind him. Something they did for 16 years.

It caught my eye because I have a similar photo. I wondered about this one because I was fortunate to have been friends with one of the people pictured.

I met Gordon Stoker, leader of the Country Music Hall of Fame vocal quartet, in about 1986. Our paths crossed on a cruise ship. Stoker was representing Elvis Presley Enterprises and Graceland. I was enjoying a week of 50s and 60s music entertainers. Fabian, Paul Revere and the Raiders, Little Anthony and the Imperials, The Coasters. From an era of good music.

Stoker was a master storyteller with an engaging personality. I was an Elvis fan. Following his presentation of stories about his years of recording with the most famous resident of 3764 Elvis Presley Boulevard in Memphis, I introduced myself to express gratitude for his insight into the life of one of the most influential singers in music history. Our conversation led to an invitation to join him and his wife, Jean, at dinner that night.

And thus began our friendship that would include other oldies music cruises plus Elvis Week events in Memphis.

Stoker’s career started as a teenager in 1942 as a pianist for the John Daniel Quartet. The Jordanaires quartet was formed in 1949. Stoker’s story about connecting with Elvis was about a young aspiring singer who heard them at a gospel music program in Memphis in the early 50s.

“He came backstage after our show that night,” said Stoker, “… told us, ‘When I get a contract with a major company, I want you guys to back me up.’

“We didn’t know him. So we told him, ‘OK, give us a call.’”

When Presley began recording for RCA in January 1956, he requested The Jordanaires as his backing vocalists, a job they held until 1972.

“Little did we know,” Stoker laughed. “The only reason we stopped was Elvis’s strenuous concert schedule made it impossible to keep up our other studio commitments. And, we all had families, too.”

The Jordanaires were heard on more hit recordings than any other vocal group. Hundreds of classic recordings with legends like Patsy Cline, Jim Reeves, Loretta Lynn, Ricky Nelson, Fats Domino. Songs like Ferlin Husky’s “Gone.” Jim Reeves’ “Four Walls.” Tammy Wynette’s “Stand By Your Man.” Kenny Rogers’ “Lucille.” George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” To name a few.

According to Stoker’s son Alan, a curator at the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum since 1980, the quartet was on Grammy-winning recordings during six decades. Besides singing with Elvis in 1956, that history ran from Johnny Horton’s 1959 number-one hit, ‘The Battle of New Orleans’ through 2007 with an album by Ray Price and Willie Nelson.

What would have perhaps been a job to some was obviously a joy to Stoker. That was apparent in listening to him reminisce, telling stories about recording sessions with well-known performers. Anecdotes and personal insights into the personality of each one that bore no hints of boasting about the tremendous successes of the quartet. Simply fond recollections of someone who loved life and making music.

During one “Elvis Week” in Memphis, the annual pilgrimage of the faithful to memorialize the singer’s death, I singled out Elvis Presley Enterprises CEO Jack Soden after a concert. Told him how much I enjoyed getting to know Gordon Stoker on the “oldies cruise.”

Back home in Center a few weeks later, the phone rang one night. “Soden said he’s heard good things about the cruise and mentioned your name,” said Stoker. “Looks like we’re cruising for Elvis again this summer. You are booked, aren’t you?”

On another Elvis weekend in Memphis, without tickets to a sold-out dedication at Holmes High School, Elvis’s Alma Mater, I stood at the door. Hoping to get a glimpse of the event renaming the auditorium in Elvis’ honor.

From down near the stage, Stoker saw me and waved for us to come in. All I could do was shrug, “No can do – no tickets.” He walked to the door and told the attendants, “He’s family. Seat them with the rest of my family at the front.”

Between these visits, I often heard from him. About an upcoming TV special, a copy of a new album. Once when he was seeking advice about the value of his parent’s 1953 Pontiac.

That’s when he sent the photo I have. Probably a stock publicity photo from the 50s. But I kept it and the letter. For the memories.

Stoker died in 2013. “The group is over,” said his son Alan in a press release. “It was a wonderful run. My father lived a great life and left us a great legacy.”

And that’s the story behind my photo. In case you see it one day in an antique shop. After I’m gone.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page: Elvis Presley and The Jordanaires. Gordon Stoker is at the far left of the photo.)

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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 2023. 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.

“Opportunity knocking usually sounds like hard work, so most people don’t answer the door.”

– I heard it from friend and mentor Jim Chionsini as one of his “Old Italian Sayings.” He likely borrowed it, but he was, among other things, a master at repackaging good advice.

– – – – – – –

An imaginary light from above formed a halo around the camera in the display case. I was in Howard Petty’s Camera Shop in downtown Mount Pleasant. Many years ago.

It was a Holy Grail moment in my college-kid eyes. I never saw a used camera with its nicks and bumps. I saw only a Minolta SR-7 35 mm single-lens reflex camera at that moment. A real camera. As opposed to my mother’s borrowed Kodak Brownie I was using when I first felt the magic of photography.

I thought about my first real camera last week while reading about 2023’s generation of high school graduates. I’m sure many clearly envision what they want to do in life. And some will complete that journey with success.

Others may be more like me the night I walked the Mount Pleasant High School stage.

During those dark ages, graduating seniors wrapped up the school year with an obligatory counseling session with Mrs. Sanders, the sweetest and most caring teacher ever to walk the halls of MPHS. I don’t remember whether she actually taught classes or was a full-time counselor. But I remember that she was always smiling, and conversations with her could make the worst day better.

“So, what are your plans after graduation, Leon,” Mrs. Sanders asked. With a smile, of course.

“I’ve enjoyed Mr. Murray’s mechanical drawing classes. I think I want to be an architect,” I told her.

“Excellent choice,” she replied. “Where do you plan on going to college?”

“I think I’m going to Kilgore Junior College for two years; then a four-year university after that.”

“Good decision. I’m sure you will do well,” Mrs. Sanders said with a pat on my hand.

High school counseling 50-plus years ago was a little more informal than it is today.

Real-world reality ruled out portions of the plan I shared with Mrs. Sanders. Minor mishaps like a couple of failed math classes. No one told me math was not my strong suit. Or that my brain may have been better wired for creative thinking, right brain stuff. I’m not sure if left brain; right brain was even a thing then. I wasn’t sure I had a brain at that point in life.

I left Kilgore after a year; knowing things like psychology, writing, music, and art felt good as opposed to anything involving calculating numbers.

Five years to get a four-year degree in psychology and art at East Texas State University, a few jobs failing to hold my interest, and a year of laboring to figure out where I belonged followed.

Enter a long-time friend who would become a mentor for my future, Morris Craig, who offered me a job. “While you’re deciding what you want to do, come work for me,” Craig said. “I know you’re a photographer. I can use you at The Monitor.”

Thus began the path that has provided great gratification, a prosperous livelihood, and unforgettable memories for 50-plus years. All because I asked, “How much for that one, Mr. Petty, pointing to the used camera at which I had been gazing.

“That’s a good camera,” he said. “I’ll let you have it for $50.”

I stared a moment longer. Where would I ever find $50? Working every hour possible between classes to pay for school? Before I could respond, he added, “And you can pay it out for $10 a week, if that helps.”

After another short silence, I looked up and said, “I’ll take it. If you will teach me how to use it.”

“Deal,” he smiled and placed the camera in my hands.

I can’t tell you who spoke at my high school graduation. Or my college graduations. Maybe a school official or a former graduate. Maybe someone well-known or super successful in life.

No one has ever asked me to speak at a commencement. A record I’m confident will remain unbroken. But if anyone ever did, it might go something like this.

Always have a dream. A vision. An idea of what you want to do and how you want to do it. Make it your own. Do all you can do to achieve it.

But don’t get discouraged if it doesn’t work out immediately. Don’t give up. No one is limited to just one dream. Or just one chance in life.

What may become the future is not love at first sight for everyone. But you are not just everyone; you are you. So be the best you that you can be.

And when doors open for you in life, always remember those who oiled the hinges for you along the way. Someone who sells you your first camera. On a payment plan. Someone who offers you a job at a newspaper. At a time when you have no idea what you want to do.

And don’t miss those imaginary lights; signs right under your nose.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page: First page of seniors 1966 in the MPHS yearbook, the Arrowhead. Classmate Patty Allen gets to share top billing on the column with me because this blog format page requires a horizontal photo. And everything back then, from assigned seating in classes to yearbook photos, was in alphabetical order. Meaning Patty sat right behind me in every class we had together for four years. And I was first … unless I had a class with Jack Abbott or Sue Abner. It also doesn’t hurt that Patty’s picture makes the page look a lot better than mine does!)

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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 2023. 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.

“Mowing the lawn, because man is the only animal on the planet that plants, fertilizes, and waters a weed that he has to spend his weekend cutting.”

— Internet humor

“You got a haircut,” one of the ladies at church complimented me Sunday. 

“Sure did,” I acknowledged. “Just so happens Boyd’s Barber Shop had one left Saturday. Almost ran out before I got there, though.”

Her thoughts were very nice and much appreciated. The statement also started me thinking about how I use the same criteria to know when I need a haircut that I do to know when It’s time to mow the grass. Whether looking in the mirror or out the window at the yard, it always starts out, “That’s gonna need trimming before long.” And it usually ends with, “Mmm, I shoulda done that a couple of weeks ago.”

Both situations approached that pinnacle last Saturday morning when I finally headed to the barbershop before it was back home to drag out the dreaded lawnmower.

I’ve always wondered who said it first. “Hey, I think I’ll cut that green stuff growing out there in the yard instead of just letting it grow.” Whatever the logic, manicured lawns have remained a curse to people like me. Those who would be happy to have our yards declared a natural wilderness area.

I remember a Spring not so long ago. Wondering who would break the winter silence. Be the first one on the block to fire up a lawnmower and set an example for the rest of the neighborhood. 

For the record, it was never me. 

However, I did earn “Yard of the Month” once from the local garden club. Caught me off guard. Tried my best to convince the ladies they had the wrong address. Neighbors accused me of creating a hoax. 

It was true, though. I have pictures to prove it.

The fun began to fade, however, about the time social security checks started coming. I still do my own yard, however, and still have everything it takes to make it through another lawn care season. Mowers, edgers, rakes, trimmers, fertilizer, Bengay, aspirin, band-aids, and a good chiropractor.

“Hire a lawn service,” they said. Tried that. While doing it myself may take more effort than it used to, I sometimes still enjoy that feeling of satisfaction from backing off and seeing how nice it looks when it’s finished.

Almost makes me forget how much effort it often takes to start the lawnmower, wondering what sort of punishment-oriented society invented and approved pulling on a rope to start something that is used for work.

Historians and “ologists” digging around eons from now, searching for clues of ancient society from the 21st century, will no doubt unearth many mysteries. One will most certainly be homo sapiens who evolved to have one arm longer than the other.

Perhaps these scientific searchers will surmise it resulted from countless hours of jerking the starter cord on hard-to-start lawnmowers. Or maybe they will accidentally stumble across an account of the kid who put his old mower in the front yard bearing a sign that read “Will trade for bicycle.” 

As the story goes, before long, a preacher walked by and stopped to look. 

“Run all right,” he asked? 

“Yes sir,” the boy assured him.

“Well son, it just so happens I have a bicycle I don’t ride anymore,” the preacher told him. “I’ll be back with it in ten minutes, so don’t let anyone else have it.”

Sure enough, he returned with the bike, they made a trade, and the parson pushed his new acquisition home. 

The lad was out riding his newly acquired bicycle later when he passed the parsonage where the preacher was yanking on the mower’s starter. “Hey sonny,” he called out. “This mower won’t start.”

“Sure it will,” the youngster responded, coasting over to the curb to stop. 

“I’ve pulled on that rope for an hour, and it never offered to start.”

“You have to cuss it,” the boy explained.

“Son,” the preacher said. “I’ve been a minister for 30 years. So, I wouldn’t know how to cuss.”

“Just keep pulling on that rope preacher,” the kid told him. “It’ll come to you.”

When Springtime came this year, it looked like mowing wouldn’t be an issue following Mother Nature’s hissy fits. Alternating droughts and Arctic blasts wiped out half of what I once called grass and most of the shrubbery in my yard. What I have left is a crop of weeds, dust, and landscaping that more closely resembles the aftermath of an atomic bombing than a yard of the month. 

And that was before the rains came. In torrents. And continued coming. In torrents. So, here I am again this week, struggling to get rid of shrub stubs that will never see any shade of green again, cranking on my cantankerous lawnmower, and thinking.

Wonder if that nice lady at church will notice I mowed my weeds.

—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 2023. 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.