Author: leonaldridge2015

“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

“Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, turn routine jobs into joy, and change ordinary opportunities into blessings.”

— William Arthur Ward (1921—1994), American motivational writer.

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It’s Thanksgiving week by tradition. I try to be thankful every day. I do that sometimes by being grateful for my yesterdays. Without them, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Enjoying life as an old dude who doesn’t understand what’s happening in today’s world.

Oh yeah, I know that’s what some younger folks say. I know they’re saying it because I said it when I was their age.

Yesterday, when I was their age, it was a great time to be a kid. People didn’t lock their doors or take the keys out of their cars. Didn’t need to because, for the most part, people were more respectful. Even those who weren’t always honest had at least a little respect for good people.

Back then, many small-town moms weren’t even afraid of leaving kids in the car when they parked in front of the corner grocery store to “run in for a couple of things.” My mom knew anyone who snatched her kids would bring them back before they got around the block. That and you could see the car from the front door.

I’m thankful for growing up when a kid could ride a bicycle anywhere. Even all the way from our house on Redbud Lane on the south side of Mount Pleasant to Raney’s Grocery. That is, if I promised mom I would stay off Jefferson Street, the sleepy two-lane main street through town. But, if I also promised to get off and walk my bike across Jefferson, I could ride all the way to downtown on Saturday for a haircut at Chris Durant’s barber shop and a movie matinee next door at the Martin Theater.

Perhaps as much as anything, my list of thankfulness for my yesterdays includes my parents. They didn’t coddle us. We were loved, taken care of, provided for, and protected. But we were also allowed to fall, to know what it felt like, and learn how to get up and go again. We were allowed to make mistakes so we would know the consequences that came with making them. And just maybe, how to prevent them from happening again. We were allowed to experience life so we could cope with it as adults when they weren’t around.

They also set boundaries and explained the consequences of crossing them. But, with that, we never heard, “That’s all right if you promise not to do it again.” I can still hear dad’s belt popping through the loops on his pants as he reminded me that I had been told what would happen if I did what I had just done.

And mom? She was tough too. “You just wait until your father gets home,” was her form of inflicting fear. The anticipation of waiting was excruciating. I begged mom to spank me once because I knew whatever she could dish out would be much less than dad would deliver.

I’m also thankful every day for my mother’s practice of cutting me no slack about going to church with her. Not just as a kid but for as long as I lived in her house. There was no Saturday night curfew, but there was also no question about whether I wanted to attend Sunday services with her. None.

Hard to imagine why back then, she insisted on such punctuality. Learning about a creator whose legacy teaches love and respect for yourself and each other. How to find the good in yourself and in others. Recognizing respect in following Authority. That expounds the value of living a life focused on giving, helping, and nurturing. How to “bloom where you’re planted.” The rewards for living a life seeking those values.

I’m thankful every day for blessings, family, and for friends. Granted, our country is not the same it was when doors remained unlocked, and kids waited in cars. But it’s still the best place to live despite problems rooted in … what was it we were just talking about? Oh yeah, respect. For ourselves, others, and authority.

I’m still thankful every day for the upbringing my parents gave me during my yesterdays, it gotten me to where I am today. Grateful for common days transformed into thanksgiving, thankful for every blessing in life. And for the privilege of becoming an old dude who laughs every time he knows someone half his age is thinking, “He doesn’t understand what’s going on in today’s world.”

Happy Thanksgiving!

—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.

“There are places I’ll remember,
All my life, though some have changed.
Some forever, not for better,
Some have gone, and some remain.”

— “In My Life,” recorded by The Beatles on their 1965 album, Rubber Soul.

– – – – – – – –

“Can I take that to the front for you,” she asked, nodding toward the TV lamp tucked under my arm?

She was the antique shop proprietor. I guessed her to be a little younger than me, but that’s just about everyone these days.

“It looks just like the one my mom had,” I said, handing it to her with a smile. “In 1957. I was just nine, but memories remain like it was yesterday. Always said if I saw one, I would buy it.”

“What’s a TV lamp,” some may ask, even some as young as the antique shop lady.

TV lamps flourished as a phenomenon when televisions became common in homes during the early 50s. However, they were not like standard lamps because they lacked a shade, and their primary purpose was not to provide room lighting. Instead, the bulb was located behind the lamp’s body to cast a soft glow of light on the wall behind the television and a silhouette of the lamp toward the viewer.

They were born on the notion of diffusing light near the television, thereby preventing damaged eyesight from watching too much TV—a problem espoused by medical experts in the 1950s. But hey, it was a time when perils parents feared most put going blind from watching too much television second only to shooting an eye out with a Red Ryder BB gun. Or, heaven forbid, catching ringworms from the cat.

Since TV lamps occupied prominent places atop large floor model black-and-white televisions that were like furniture, the lamps quickly became decorative statements. Ceramic frogs, flamingos, seashells, swans, and suchlike. However, for some inexplicable reason, the most common lamp was a panther. Sleek, black, and poised in a stalking stance.

And that was mom’s TV lamp. A squared-off, gold-colored metal mesh base supported the ceramic cat and housed a planter in the bottom. Mom grew ivy under her panther offering the illusion that it might have been prowling the jungle while she watched Perry Mason.

I never forgot mom’s lamp. Nor the night when both her lamp and her heart were broken.

It happened during a move from the public housing apartments in Seymour where we lived out in West Texas until my parents bought a house just a few blocks away on E. Morris Street. I don’t remember what else was stacked in the back of the pickup truck. Maybe a couch, a coffee table, or something else. I just remember the truck hitting a bump, bouncing the panther out onto the pavement, shattering the ceramic figure and my mother’s heart.

That’s about all I remember about that incident. Probably because I was a child watching my mother cry as I helped her pick up the pieces off the dark street, Maybe it was a special gift. Perhaps she had saved money to buy it. Or even used her books of S&H Green Stamps from shopping at Clarence Wilbanks Market and Grocery on the Seymour downtown square. The place where the sign proclaimed “Steaks – Cut Em With a Fork”

Memories defining mom’s attachment to the panther are lost to time. But we all have memories of special moments, places, and things that remain. In my case, I’m not just a memory collector; I collect documentation. I have furniture that belonged to my grandparents. Some of mom’s salt and pepper shaker collection. Dad’s coin collection and his tools. My grandmother’s dishes and nick-nacks. Hey, I even have my grandparents’ 1957 Ford they bought brand new 66 years ago this month at Travis Battles Ford at the intersection of Quitman and Cypress Streets in downtown Pittsburg, Texas.

Every piece evokes a memory. A smile. A laugh. A tear. And every time that TV lamp crossed my mind over the years, I always thought, “If a day comes I ever see one like it, I’m going to buy it.”

That day dawned last Saturday.

“My mother had one like this, too,” the lady at the antique store said as she carefully wrapped it and placed it in a bag. She may have been younger than me, but I was impressed that even her mother had a panther TV lamp. “It brings back lots of memories,” she added.

Tonight, my 1953 vintage sleek black panther planter TV lamp is casting a soft glow on the wall under my flat-screen television mounted above it. I’m drafting memories into words, watching Perry Mason, and remembering how much mom treasured her TV lamp.

I’m also thinking now that I have a TV lamp, I can finally quit worrying about going blind from watching too much television.

—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.

“This nation will remain the land of the free only so long as it is the home of the brave.”

—Elmer Davis, (1890 –1958) American news reporter, author, and Peabody Award recipient.

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What comes to mind when someone says, “Veterans Day?”

I think about many things. Veterans Day parades as a kid. Spectators waving flags while uniformed National Guard members march by. Military vehicles pulling cannons. High school bands playing “The Marine Hymn,” “Anchors Away,” “Off We Go into the Wild Blue Yonder,” and “The Army Goes Rolling Along.” Veterans waving to the cheering crowd, some walking, some riding in convertibles.

As a grade school kid, I drew pictures of military planes, tanks, and ships in class. Far more fun than listening to the teacher expounding on long division; subjects, verbs, and predicates; and the capital cities of every state.

Math, English, and geography were boring. Pictures of the nation’s tools of military strength in magazines were much more exciting.

The first library book that excited me enough to read it cover to cover was “Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo.” Capt. Ted Lawson’s account of the U.S. retaliation to Japan’s bombing of Pearl Harbor was spellbinding to this third grader at Seymour Elementary School in 1956. Lawson piloted one of the 16 B-25 bombers led by Lt. Col. Jimmy Doolittle launched off the deck of the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Hornet to bomb Tokyo. The 1943 book was hailed by the New York Times as “the most stirring story of individual heroism (the war) has produced so far.”

It stirred me enough at eight years old to plead with the principal, Mr. Johnson, to let me buy the book. His answer was a “no,” but he included a smile and an explanation about how the library needed to keep its copy so others could be inspired by it, too.

That same principal’s voice was heard every morning on the loudspeaker; the one on the wall behind the teacher’s desk, above the cursive writing chart and next to the portrait of George Washington: the one with the white “clouds” at the bottom that was said to be an “unfinished portrait.” I wondered why it was unfinished and why the school couldn’t locate a finished portrait of the first president.

“Good morning, students,” Mr. Johnson’s voice boomed. “Everyone stand for the pledge of allegiance to the flag.” Then, almost on cue, with hands over our hearts, we rose and turned toward the window to watch “Old Glory” going up the flagpole outside. After singing the National Anthem to accompany the recorded version on the loudspeaker, the principal recited a prayer. One filled with thanks for a strong and mighty nation and brave military forces that ensured we would always be free.

As I got a little older, Veteran’s Day became synonymous with a growing appreciation for my dad and his generation of World War II veterans. In the mid-80s, I remember his tears as we stood behind a buttress on the side of the massive cathedral in Cologne, Germany. He described it to me as the exact spot where one night 40 years earlier, as a 20-year-old soldier with the 276th Combat Engineers, he and others were pinned down by German gunfire. “We knew we were going to die,” he said.

Some did. Others made it out alive.

Veterans Day reminds me of stories about an entire nation shutting down production of automobiles and everything else mechanical to build wartime aircraft, tanks, ships, and more. Tools needed to defend against governments jealous and fearful of American democracy and freedom.

A great gathering of those warbirds is collected at the Mid-America Flight Museum in Mount Pleasant. Walking around the surviving examples of fighters, bombers, and support aircraft that were a large part of defeating the WW II Axis Powers is a reminder of those unique Americans dubbed “The Greatest Generation.”

Looking at the airplanes I idolized as a kid, I think about fighter pilots in aerial combat, knowing there would be only one victor when it was over. Bomber pilots and crews who flew countless missions over Nazi Germany, each knowing the odds of returning were against them.

With that, it’s startling to remember the average age of those pilots was 17 to 23. A 30-year-old pilot was considered to be an “old man.” Usually tagged with nicknames like “Pops” and “Pappy.”

When I think about Veterans Day, I think about a generation that rose to the occasion when our country was threatened by two evil aggressors on opposite sides of the world. And about the men and women who entered the U.S. military and did what had to be done, not knowing if they would return when the job was done.

I think about how they did it anyway. And because they, and veterans of generations before and since, have done so, we are—so far—still a free nation. That’s what I think about on Veterans Day.

—Leon Aldridge

PHOTO AT TOP OF THE PAGE: From a WW II era photo album my mother put together with snapshots my father sent her while he was serving in the U.S. Army 276th Combat Engineers. Notation with this photo was, “Battalion passing through Dixon, Tennessee headed for maneuvers in the Mt. Juliet area near Nashville.” The 276th had just completed three months of training in building roads and bridges at Camp Gruber, Oklahoma, and left for the European Theater after the Tennessee maneuvers were completed.

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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.

“The first step in meeting your customer’s expectations is to know those expectations.”

— Roy H. Williams, author, and founder of the Wizard Academy Institute.

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“Yes sir, I do have the parts you’re looking for in stock,” Chris responded to my email last Saturday morning.

One call confirming that Time Machine Spas was open, and I was on my way to Longview. Closing the sale with some friendly conversation about my day job, owner Chris Ogden shared how his college journey began with a desire to be a journalist before he wound up in business. With that, he confessed to having never lost his love for sticking words together to tell a story.

I smiled when he talked about creating a side business in college, writing academic papers for those who were absent the day writer’s genes were passed out. The smile was because I had done the same thing. Truthfully, “ghost writing” for my word-challenged college classmates in the late 1960s was a spur of the moment thought for me.

The Leigh Apartments in Kilgore sat on a hillside above North Henderson Boulevard. A row of lawn chairs under a big shade tree beside the parking lot served as an afternoon roosting spot for apartment dwelling guys to watch traffic on the busy street below. Typical conversation for said apartment dwelling guys watching traffic centered on good-looking cars, fast cars, and any kind of car driven by a good-looking girl.

“Man, I’ve got to get started on that paper for English class,” lamented a member of the lawn chair gallery one afternoon.

“When’s it due,” I asked.

“Tomorrow. And I’d give anything if I could just pay somebody to write it for me.”

Thinking for a minute during the short silence, I challenged the question. “How many pages you need … and what would you pay? “

After supplying the composition criteria, he asked. “You know somebody that would do it by 1:00 o’clock tomorrow? For $20?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me.”

“You?”

“Yeah, me,” I responded. “I may be flunking trig and calculus, but I’m making ‘A’s in English and composition.”

We struck a deal at four that afternoon and I headed off to the library. I was the last one out when it closed at 10 and kept my portable typewriter busy that night while everyone else, including my first business client, played spades at the apartment four doors down. I presented him with a manuscript about the same time his card game broke up.

Later that week, he was waving his graded paper in the air. “I got B-plus,” he hollered.

“Is that good,” I asked hesitatingly.

“Good? It’s the first passing grade I’ve made in that class,” he beamed. “The teacher said my progress was remarkable.”

“Whew,” I sighed. Word spread and I was soon spending one or two nights a week in the library and some Saturdays when I wasn’t traveling with the band for an out-of-town football game.

By finals, I had earned a nice nest egg toward next semester’s college expenses and had spending money as well. I also had happy customers as references. Well, except for that one paper.

That customer, a football player, was getting out of his car at the apartments when I saw him. “Hey, how’d that paper work for you,” I asked?

The six-foot-two, 260-pound lineman unfolded out of his car, turned toward me, and said, “I got a D.”

“Oh no,” I exclaimed. “I am so sorry. I’ll give you your money back,” I added, reaching into my pocket. “Can I look at it and see what the teacher’s problem with it was—will she let you do something for extra credit? I’ll do that for free.”

“Are you kiddin’, it’s fine,” he said, waving off the money with a grin. “All she wrote on it was, ‘I know this not your work, but I can’t prove it, therefore I cannot fail you.’ She gave me a ‘D’ which is better than the ‘F’ I would have gotten. And I don’t have to take the class over next semester. It’s all good.”

Business lesson number two in my young career was that some customers’ expectations will be less than others. And that will be all right, too.

Last Saturday in Longview, I was happy to buy parts to repair my hot tub and get them the same day without ordering online and waiting. Chris made a sale, albeit a small one, and charged me less than I was about to pay online.

A win-win: getting my hot tub fixed and making a new friend. The bonus: a friend with which to swap common stories about life experiences.

That part was above and beyond my expectations.

—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.

“Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite and furthermore, always carry a small snake.”

— W. C. Fields (1880-1946), American comedian, actor, juggler, and writer.

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During my working to get through college days, an old gentleman in the automobile service department where I was employed often used a variation of that quote. Robert carried a small flask of what he commonly classified as “snake bite medicine” in his jacket pocket.

“That’s in case I run into a snake,” he would chuckle. “And just in case I don’t see one,” he would add with a grin in his deep gravelly voice, “I try to keep a snake handy in my other pocket.”

At least a couple of times in my many years, I’ve crossed paths with one of the slithering reptiles in situations that were way too close for comfort. Looking back, I guess it’s good I managed to dodge suffering from snake bite as I never carried the medicinal elixir Robert relied on. Just in case he met a snake.

Fortunately, it’s been some 30 years since my last close encounter of a snake kind. But for my friend who happened up on one in her kitchen a few weeks ago, the memory is still much too fresh.

I had no idea about the nature of her emergency when I answered her call. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. I just knew it wasn’t good. “Snake” was all she could say when I arrived. And she was saying it over and over as she pointed toward the kitchen.

Snooping around the refrigerator, the last place she saw it, stirred up old memories for me. Like one night when I had dinner in the oven. The timer was set, and a place for one at my table was neatly prepared.

While thumbing through the latest issue of Hot Rod magazine waiting for the buzzer to summon me back to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of my cat at the back door. Had I not been deeply engrossed in reading when I opened the door, I might have seen the gift she was bearing. One that moved. Snake.

A lunge toward the cat with the snake was too little, too late. And it was also about that time that the phone rang. And I was doing something else when all this started … what was it?

“Hello. Yes, hey, I’m fine. How are you?” Concentrating on being cordial when you’re pretty sure there’s a loose reptile in the house is not easy. Suddenly, I saw the cat dart out the still-open back door. “You better get out,” I hollered. “Oh, no, not you,” I told the caller.

Did she take the snake with her, I asked myself? The only thing worse than knowing there’s a snake in the house is wondering if there’s a snake in the house.

“Yes,” I continued while looking all around my feet. It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” What’s that noise? It’s the oven timer. “Uh oh, dinner’s ready,” I said aloud. Sharing a quick goodbye with my caller, I took dinner out of the oven and returned to determining whether or not I was sharing my living quarters with a serpent.

Under the dryer, behind the water heater, in the clothes hamper, and under the utility room sink cabinet. Nothing. Maybe, just maybe, the cat carried the thing back outside when she left. At this point, the furry feline was sleeping contentedly on the porch rocker. Deciding there had been enough excitement for one night, snake or no snake, I went to bed, too.

Morning came. I tiptoed toward the kitchen in need of caffeine, looking for any sign of movement along the way. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I saw it. Not the snake, but last night’s mealtime offering still sitting on the stovetop where I left it; the oven still on. So much for supper.

I never saw the snake again. And I never let the cat back in the house without a TSA style shake-down.

We didn’t find the snake at my friend’s house recently either. Assuming it may have come in through heat and air ducts under the house, we taped off the floor registers and she found overnight lodging with a friend.

The city animal control team located the visiting varmint the next morning. Kudos to them for finding the snake in short order and, per their policy, taking it far, far away for release into the wild.

Snakes in your house do funny things to your mind. She’s still looking cautiously at her house. And, I’m doing the same thing at mine. I’m also considering securing a bottle of snake bite medicine. One clearly marked, “Open only in case of emergencies.”

That’s just in case I meet a snake, you understand.

—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.