Author: leonaldridge2015

“Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmastime.”

― Laura Ingalls Wilder, author of Little House on the Prairie series of children’s books published between 1932 and 1943

My Christmas spirit tends to replay memories along the lines of one thought or event from each Yuletide season. I guess when the memory banks have as many Christmas season deposits to catalog as mine, that’s the only way they can account for them.

I’ve penned columns for Christmas past about my belief that Christmas lives in the heart of a child. Ask me about a childhood Christmas and while I may not be able to precisely peg it with a year, I will have a story worth telling about it.

Like the Christmas in Pampa before I started school which means it was prior to 1954. My uncle Bill, mom’s younger brother who was in the Navy at the time, came to visit and brought a buddy with him. I got an electric train and it was a miserably cold Texas Panhandle Christmas.

Ask me about a Christmas from my children’s childhood and I have many. Like the Christmas when I grossly overestimated my toy assembling speed skills and stayed up all night finishing just as both the sun and curious children eager to see what Santa had left were rising. That one I would catalog at about 1985 or ’86—the year that Robin glanced at her gifts, then disappeared to her room with boxes and wrapping paper to create a magnificent model of Elvis’s Graceland home in Memphis.

Things like that go with the territory when your children are raised in an environment of cars and music from the 1950s.

Ask me about Christmas memories I’m making at this stage of life and I’m likely to share things like the fact that the progression of Christmas trees at our house has diminished in size and gifts have paled in importance.

Last year, I got the tree up but never got around to completing the decoration duties, so this year I have a tabletop tree that comes out of the box already decorated. As a bonus, it also comes down quicker and stores easily. Deck the halls with Christmas convenience.

As a good friend reminded me last week, there comes a time in life when our list gets smaller and we learn that the things we really want can’t be bought. Watching the generations following us and the memories made with them become our list.

So, it will most likely be that Christmas 2018 will be remembered as the year we gathered in Lindale, Texas, to hear grandson Sam Osteen perform at his first piano recital. Four generations of my daughter Robin’s family on her husband Jonathan’s side filled a couple of rows close to the front as 10-year-old Sam rendered a remarkable rendition of “Carousel.”

In all, 19 piano students under the tutelage of Cyndi Stripling in Lindale performed a variety of songs to the delight of family and friends before she concluded the recital with a stunning performance of “The Bell Carol.”

Combined with lunch and time to visit with my daughter and her family Sunday afternoon, this past weekend was the perfect seasonal inspiration for me as we entered the final few days before Christmas morning.

I wish for you the very best of what the Christmas spirit holds sacred in your heart. See the season through the heart of a child and make memories of Christmas gifts that money can’t buy.

Merry Christmas!

—Leon Aldridge

Photo at the top of the page: Sam Osteen playing “Carousel” at his first piano recital in Lindale, Sunday, December 16, 2018.

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune.

 

“Everyone should be able to do one card trick, tell two jokes, and recite three poems, in case they are ever trapped in an elevator.”— American writer and musician Daniel Handler

Whether my elevator goes all the way to the top floor has been debated on more than one occasion, and there are days when I’m not sure about it myself. Two premises about elevators I can verify with certainty, however. One, the elevator isn’t going anywhere until you push a button. Two, lack of good judgment may interrupt your journey to the top.

Staying at a hotel near the Muscle Car and Corvette Nationals car show in Chicago last month (top floor by the way) meant everywhere I went required an elevator ride. Waiting for one trip up, I noticed the guy waiting with me was wearing an Oldsmobile jacket. “Nice jacket,” I commented as the doors closed. “I’m here for the Olds W-31 Invitational.”

“Are you showing a car,” he asked. I replied no, attending because I had owned two of the featured Oldsmobile muscle cars. Acknowledging he was a spectator too, our conversation continued until we figured out that our elevator was never going to reach the top, or anywhere else for that matter. Neither of us had pushed a button leaving the elevator patiently waiting for some direction.

“Going nowhere is better than stuck between floors,” he laughed. “Been there, done that,” I said. The weather was cold and snowy in Chicago that day, but it was warm and sunny at a Dallas hotel some years ago when my elevator not only didn’t reach the top, it got stuck trying to get there.

Attired in swimwear and towels after a splash at the pool, my family and I boarded the elevator headed for the top floor. Always teasing my kids when they were young (actually, I still do), a temporary lapse of good judgment led me to think it would be entertaining to “demonstrate” how if one jumps up in an elevator, it rises up to meet them. I had absolutely no scientific data to support that theory, but it sounded good.

The jumping up part went swimmingly well. It was the coming back down part that failed. When I hit the elevator floor, it stopped—dead still. In the waning seconds of silence afterward, both kids looked up at me. My son, Lee, whispered, “Dad, you can make it start again now.”

I really wanted to tell him I wished that were possible. Problem is, I couldn’t. All I could do was push every button on the panel before selecting “emergency.” Doing that invited a calm, polite speaker voice into the elevator. “Is there a problem?”

Rather than saying the first thing that came to mind, I replied, “I think we’re stuck.” After an eternity of minutes, polite voice confirmed my assumption, we were stuck. Then asked if we were OK, encouraged us to remain calm, and assured us that we would be out quickly.

Time has blurred the memory of how long it took, but eventually, polite voice returned. “You’re stuck between floors. Our plan is to pry the door open below you, allowing enough room to crawl out and down a ladder.”

Not having a better plan, I responded, “Perfect.”

A variety of noises were followed by voices before doors were parted revealing a space about three-feet high along the floor through which a fireman’s face smiled. “You folks ready to get out of there.”

Deciding any answer would have been rhetorical, I got on my knees to see a sea of rescuers and spectators peering back at me.

Time would pass before my family would board an elevator with me again. Even today, entering an elevator with either of my now adult children gets me a “don’t even think about it” look.

Guess they’re afraid my elevator still doesn’t go all the way to the top.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune.

 

“I love a parade, The tramping of feet; I love ever beat; I hear of a drum. I love a parade.” —Broadway singer Harry Richman

Have you ever wondered how parades got started? Things like who decided caravanning through a crowd of people watching everyone go by while smiling and waving at each other is so popular? It’s crossed my mind, and while I may not have all the answers, I think I’ve picked up a couple of clues along the way.

The Christmas parade in Center, Texas, last Saturday night was outstanding, an inspiring kickoff for the season in which we were honored to provide transportation for the Grand Marshal, Dr. Jheri-Lynn McSwain.

“We” being me and “Miss Vicky,” my 1955 Ford Crown Victoria.

 

I confess, I love a parade. Loved watching them as a kid, but that love affair flame was fanned during high school and college band years marching in Christmas parades, homecoming parades, festival parades, and even a few college bowl game parades. Add to that, countless parades for years of car club activities and providing classic cars for grand marshals, pageant participants, dignitaries, elected officials, and yes—I do love a parade.

Early clues about some aspects of fascination for them came years ago via my children. The event was a Gilmer, Texas, Yamboree parade, and the time was when my kids were, well, still kids.

“What kind of parade is this,” asked daughter Robin. “It’s the Yamboree parade,” I answered. “What’s a Yamboree?” Explaining that it’s a festival to celebrate sweet potatoes prompted the obvious next question, “Why do they have a parade for sweet potatoes?”

“It was a primary crop here in the 1930s when the festival began, and everybody just loves a parade to celebrate,” I replied trying to hold my own with my daughter in a game 20 questions.

“Who’s riding with us,” was next? “I’m not sure,” I said. “Perhaps a pretty girl, a Yamboree princess, the queen, somebody like that.”

“See, Lee,” Robin told her brother. “That’s why daddy sent mommy to take pictures of the parade instead of coming with us.”

While sucking wind searching for a suitable response, I was saved by the parade. “Mr. Aldridge, our mayor will be riding with you,” I was informed. The parade was ready. Bands were tuning up. Clowns were conducting their own little parade much to the delight of the kids. Last minute touchups were being performed on floats. Sirens were being tested.

“I know why they paint police cars different colors and put sirens on them,” my son, Lee, offered. “Why,” I asked. “So, they can be in parades. You’ve got to look funny and make lots of noise to be in parades.”

The mayor arrived, we were in the car, and the parade was almost underway when Lee offered his statement from the back seat, “I thought you said we would have a pretty girl riding with us.”

“I said we might,” I replied, intending to leave the conversation right there. However, his honor the mayor looked  back over the seat, smiled at my kids and asked, “Don’t you just love a parade?”

“Yes sir,” Lee said. “Parades are full of pretty girls, clowns and funny people making lots of noise.”

“Well, I might fit into a couple of those categories,” he graciously laughed.

The conversation was concluding, the cacophony was growing, and the mayor was smiling and waving a few minutes later when the parade momentarily came to a halt where a group of young boys was standing just inches from the car smiling and waving back. As the procession started moving again, one of the boys hollered, “Hey mister, where’s the pretty girls.”

Everyone loves a parade for their own reasons. At least two were duly noted that day: pretty girls and sweet potatoes.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune.

 

“All endings are also beginnings. We just don’t know it yet.” —author Mitch Albom

In a column published just shy of five years ago, I mulled as to how coming full circle can be many things. True enough, it can be an ending, a beginning, or both.

One continuous thread throughout my three-score and ten has been cars. Old cars, unique cars, cool cars, fast cars. My father never fully appreciated this concept, to him an automobile was “just a way to get from point A to point B.” He was still shaking his head when by the time I graduated from college at age 23, I had owned seven vehicles: two new from Sandlin Chevrolet and Olds in Mount Pleasant, Texas, where I worked my way through college (and cars); four of them high-performance muscle cars of the era.

In reality, I agreed with dad. Cars were about getting from A to B. For me, it just had to be as fast as possible.

A fast trip to the Muscle Car and Corvette Nationals (MCACN) show in Chicago the weekend before Thanksgiving proved to be a “coming full circle” experience as well as a look back at my history of getting from A to B in fast fashion. Organizers promote the annual event as “…the ultimate gathering place for young and old who have a passion for horsepower…a showcase for the cars that have become a part of our lives…a place to revive past memories and friendships while opening the door to new ones.”

I could not have said it better.

 

Having owned a number of high performance and muscle cars both when they were new and in the years since, the show had been on my radar for a couple of years. Two things determined that this was my year to go.

The first was a low-production, high-performance Oldsmobile muscle car manufactured from 1968 to 1970, one of which I bought new at Sandlin’s. Dubbed as the “W-31 Ram Rod,” it was built to make lots of power with a high-flow forced air induction system, a number of unique speed components, and marketing with “Dr. Olds W-Machine” black-and-white ads that would have made Boris Karloff and Dr. Frankenstein proud.

The other was a friend I had yet to meet, Stephen Minore of New Haven, Connecticut. Stephen is a life-long Olds W-Machine fan recognized as the “guru” for identifying and authenticating surviving examples. I contacted him in 2016 about the one I owned and raced 49 years ago. He tipped me off earlier this year about a W-31 Invitational as part of the MCACN where his own 1970 W-31, fresh out of a complete restoration would be unveiled.

That was all I needed. I was all in.

 

Oldsmobile built a scant 212 copies of the car like I raced. Try and find one today and you’ll likely score a genuine set of hen’s teeth first. Seeing a dozen or so examples in one place and remembering my drag racing days was a pinnacle moment in that full circle.

As for making new friends, not only did I get to finally shake hands with Stephen after more than two years of email and phone calls, attending the show also resulted in making another new friend—someone else who lived those drag racing days.

 

Tweed Vorhees of Dover, Ohio, drag raced a ’67 Olds W-30 and Ron Garey raced a ‘68 Olds W-31 (pictured at the top of the page), both sponsored by the Chesrown Olds dealership in Newark, Ohio. Garey won his class at the 1970 NHRA Springnationals at the old Dallas International Motor Speedway. Other Oldsmobile W-Machines competing that June weekend were from California, Nebraska, Iowa, New York, Illinois, New Mexico, Massachusetts, and Washington. Oh, and a kid from Mount Pleasant racing a ’69 Sandlin sponsored Olds W-31.

 

A few years ago, Tweed located the 1968 Ron Garey car that had been lost since 1970 and restored it to its racing glory days. He had it on display at the show where we shared memories about the history-making cars and some of the drivers we both knew back then, many of whom drove for a Smothers Brothers sponsored team of the W-equipped Oldsmobiles.

When I sold my Olds W-Machine in 1971 and ended my racing career, I never dreamed there might one day be the beginning of a new circle with the old cars and new friends in my future—an end and a beginning.

By the way, I’m loving the second time around.

—Leon Aldridge

(As a postscript to this sentimental journey, I would be remiss in failing to acknowledge my lifelong friend who passed away in 2016, Oscar Elliott. It was Oscar who encouraged me to buy a W-31 Oldsmobile and race it when we both worked at Sandlin’s. He performed all the work needed to transform it into a competitive race car in Sandlin’s service department and maintained it for me. It was his 1968 SS 396 El Camino that we used to tow the W-31 Olds to race tracks from Dallas to Houma, Louisiana, down close to New Orleans and numerous drag strips in between making memories that have lasted a lifetime. I thought about him at the show knowing he would have enjoyed this new circle as much as I have.) 

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune

“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.” ― author J.M. Barrie

“You have more stories than a book has pages,” a long-time reader teased last week. “Are those all real stories?

“Sure,” I scoffed. “You don’t think I could make up that kind of stuff, do you?”

Focusing this week on things for which I am thankful, the song title made famous by entertainer Bob Hope came to mind: “Thanks for the Memories.” Among the many things for which I am most thankful are memories. Among them are many stories waiting to be told.

The importance of recounting all the stories we “have in storage” didn’t dawn on me until a long time after I was getting paid to write some of them. I probably owe the credit for that awakening to one of my journalism students at Stephen F. Austin State University a generation of writers ago.

After imparting a sufficient degree of writing basics to aspiring journalists, I then challenged them to find and write their first story. “Everybody has a story,” I offered. “They may not know it’s a story, they may think it’s just an old memory. But, if you listen closely, you’ll hear that story that is waiting to be written.”

”That’s easy for you to do,” that one student said. “You have age and experience, and you know a lot of people. It’s not that easy for someone my age.”

“With time comes experience in all things,” I agreed. “But forget age for a minute. Listening and understanding have no age requirements. Ask someone what they remember about growing up. About their interests. About their moments of pride or their regrets of defeat. About their hopes, their dreams. Stir up the memories and listen with an appreciation for what those memories mean to them.”

While I still think that advice was on target back then, the years since have given me an added appreciation for the value of those treasures we call memories and the resulting stories just waiting to be recorded. With that appreciation also came an awareness of the obligation we have to preserve them before they are lost to time.

After a lifetime of writing, I am still amazed at things that come to mind, whether from decades ago or from last week, fueling the fire for a column: a story worth telling.

Granted, a few things that come to mind, mostly from my youth when as they say ” was back before I got good sense,” might best be left to memory and with good cause: possibly ‘cause of that thing known as the statute of limitations. That’s when I smile and remember something else. Just because it was a bad idea then doesn’t mean it isn’t a good memory now. It just depends on whether or not you want to tell it.

However, the much larger volume of things remembered remain as part of the story of our lives that do warrant sharing. And that’s where gratitude for the importance of memories take rise. The snapshots of times past captured on the film in our mind are tidbits of history that need to be recorded for future generations.

In my estimation, that is the most important challenge not just to writers, but to all of us. And it has no limitations of experience or age. Everyone has a story, most of us have many. Let’s make sure we preserve as many as possible before losing them to time.

I hope your Thanksgiving was wonderful. I also hope you shared some memories with family and friends, sharing some stories that need to be told.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune.

“The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.” — Sergeant Joe Friday, Dragnet

“Looks like there’s no one at the bank,” my friend informed me as we finished our phone conversation one day last week. “If I walk into a holdup, it’s been nice knowing you.”

I’ve done that,” I replied.

“Held up a bank,” she chuckled.

“No, walked into a holdup.”

“I can’t wait to hear about that.”

“Just the facts, ma’am…I drove into a holdup.” It was hot in Mount Pleasant. I was working a summer job out of necessity. For college money. Driving a truck. My mission was peaches.

“Peaches?”

That’s right. Fresh from Jerry Benton’s orchards on the Monticello highway. I had to have them at the farmer’s market in Dallas every morning by 5 a.m. Prior to that job, my only acquaintance with early a.m. hours had been sneaking up on them from the other side after a night of fun.

It was not fun herding a refrigerated truck along I-30 for two hours at that time of the morning. It required liberal applications of caffeinated coffee. On the morning in question, I was in dire need as I exited at a small cafe near Greenville. This was before 24-hour restaurants dotted the roadside, even on interstates.

Perusing the parking lot for a place to position the peach hauler, I was pleased by the presence of only a pair of cars. Driving a truck and earning a commercial license to do so were recent experiences during my 18th summer. Desiring to get in and out easily once I had hot java in hand was my priority.

The truck was still rolling, and I was still looking when a commotion near the dimly lit front door of the eating establishment caught my attention. What I saw in fleeting seconds was a scene straight from black-and-white TV. Two men exiting the building seemed in a large hurry. One was grabbing a gun. “A gun,” my brain begged in the bleak morning darkness?

A flash of fire from the barrel pointed toward the door and the deafening report that accompanied it answered all my questions. It took less than 40 acres to turn my rig around and choose the shortest dirt path back to the highway, away from any more gunfire.

I never looked in the rear-view mirror. I didn’t slow down until I reached Dallas. I had peaches to deliver. Besides, I really wasn’t sleepy anymore.

Still rattled from the morning melee as I headed out of Dallas after lunch, I decided that in case anyone had reported a Hertz rental truck making a hasty haul out of the cafe parking lot during the fireworks, it might be a good idea to check in with Greenville’s finest.

“This is the city—Greenville, Texas,” the sergeant said. “I’m a cop. This is my partner, Gannon.” Why I got a grilling about waiting until the afternoon to drop by troubled me. It didn’t seem as important to them as it did to me that I had this fear of hostile gunfire, or that I had peaches to deliver on time. Luckily for me, the cafe caper culprits were already in custody.

Ready to roll again the next morning at 3:00 a.m., I wasn’t taking any more chances. No sir. When I climbed into the peach hauler, I was packing heat—fresh hot coffee filling a brand-new thermos from Mason’s hardware. A trial was held in and for the case of making the peach delivery deadline non-stop.

“In a moment, the results of that trial.”

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers.

“You’ll never find a rainbow if you’re looking down.” —Charlie Chaplin

Face the unexpected with humor and optimism, and you always come out on top. That’s the theme of an election story that has been around for as long as I have, the one about Horace the mule.

I first heard the story of Horace some 40 years ago as an East Texas tale, although I’ve seen it published over the years with varying regional adaptations. Accurate origins point toward a storyteller by the name of Edmund Harding who first told it at a Rotary Club meeting in Asheville, North Carolina sometime in the 1940s. In any form, it’s a great story, one in which I saw an apropos connection between the election behind us and Veteran’s Day on Sunday.

A Monday deadline for publishing in the newspapers prior to my blog on Saturday means this was penned prior to this week’s big election. I note that to preface saying there was no current political intent with the story, simply an old election yarn with some humor—something generally lacking in politics today.

Horace was a widow’s farm animal and both were getting on in years. Just before an election one year, Horace was feeling droopy, and the widow was worried about him. “Doc,” she pleaded on the phone, “Horace is sick. Can you please come over and take a look at him?”

“Madam, it’s after six in the evening and I have already sat down to supper,” the good doc retorted. “Give Horace a dose of mineral oil. I’ll drop by tomorrow when I’m over in that neck of the woods and see how he’s doing.”

She inquired about how one gives a mule a dose of mineral oil, and the doc informed her on the technique of using a funnel. “But, he might bite me,” she objected. “Now, you’re a farm woman,” the doc reasoned. “You know about these things—administer it through the other end.” She pondered this advice for a few minutes, then headed out to the barn where poor ol’ Horace was in misery.

She turned up her lantern and searched for a funnel, but the closest thing she found was Uncle Jake’s old fox hunting horn hanging on the wall, a beautiful instrument with tattered gold tassels still intact. Nervously, she took it down and cautiously attached it to Horace’s southern-most end as the ailing mule lay prostrate with his nose pointing due north. Keeping a cautious eye on Horace, she reached behind her for the mineral oil, but mistakenly picked up the turpentine bottle instead and without looking, dosed ol’ Horace liberally through the bugle.

Horace’s “recovery” was instantaneous. His head jerked upright, and his eyes widened as large tears developed in the corners. He screamed like a panther, kicked down the barn door and galloped off down the road, pausing every so often to kick his hind legs in the air—an action that caused Uncle Jake’s horn to blow.

As Horace ran through the valley, hound’s ears perked up everywhere. They knew the sound of Uncle Jake’s horn meant a hunt was on, and Horace gained a following of baying hounds as he continued to kick and run.

Eyewitnesses said it was a sight to behold: ol’ Horace running, pausing to kick his heels, mellow notes issuing from the gold appendage, tassels flying in the breeze and every fox hound within twenty miles barking joyously.

Old man Johnson, who hadn’t drawn a sober breath in 20 years, was sitting on his front porch when the spectacle passed his house. Reports were he gave up drinking that very day and joined a temperance movement the next morning.

It was dark when Horace reached the river. The bridge tender, who was running for public office and considered by most to be an easy winner, heard the horn and thinking it was a boat, raised the drawbridge. Horace bounded up the bridge and off into the water with dogs still trailing right behind him. The hounds swam to safety, but poor old Horace drowned, and Uncle Jake’s fox horn was never recovered.

Come Election Day, the bridge tender lost garnering only seven votes: his own and six others from three close relatives. The assumption was that voters figured anyone who didn’t know the difference between a boat horn and a mule with a bugle in his behind wasn’t qualified to hold public office.

Regardless of your leanings on the election, try to maintain your humor and your optimism. And thank a veteran or current member of the armed services this Veteran’s Day and every day for keeping us a strong and free nation through our sometimes humorous history of election outcomes.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers.

“I was feelin’ so bad, 
I asked my family doctor just what I had.”
—“Good Lovin’”1966 by the Rascals

“It’s a reaction to something I’m taking,” I told my doctor last week, just like I knew what I was talking about.

In less time than it takes to say, “common side effects,” she listed my meds and supplements in a phone app. “Vitamin C might be reducing the efficiency of the antibiotic you’re taking, that’s all.”

You looked it up on your phone, I thought to myself? Seriously? Doctors are supposed to just know that stuff. That was not the first time I had that thought, however. That same question crossed my mind in the late 60s at East Texas State University before it became Texas A&M University at Commerce.

Time blurs the names of those in Coach “Boley” Crawford’s PE class that day. You’d think I could at least recall the unfortunate student’s name who misjudged a trampoline bounce buying him a painful landing on his arm.

“It’s broken,” Coach Crawford said, then asked who had a car parked nearby. I volunteered, being careful not to reveal that my car was in a faculty lot via a counterfeit parking pass purchased from some guy at Pope’s Pool Hall in downtown Commerce.

A couple more guys volunteered to help, like me, sensing the opportunity to miss PE and maybe another class, too. We were off on our mercy mission for medical help when I remembered my next class was E.W. Rowland’s civics class.

Warnings spread every semester about Rowland’s class: don’t sign up for it. At registration, I needed one more class to meet my 15-hour minimum load and fit my work schedule at LTV Aerospace Systems in nearby Greenville. They helped fund my education in exchange for painting skills acquired in my uncle’s body shop the summer before: skills that I was applying to Lockheed C-130 Hercules aircraft bound for Vietnam faster than you can say, “Ho Chi Minh Trail.”

“Civics—that’ll work.” It wasn’t until after I had paid my outlandish $400 tuition fee and was out the door that I looked at the instructor’s name: Rowland.

“How hard can he really be,” I scoffed in an attempt to make myself feel better. My question was answered faster than you can say, “epic fail.” He was still checking roll when I slipped in the first day of class. He finished, then asked, “Have I missed anyone?”

“Aldridge,” I said.

Looking at the names on his list then at me, he said, ”Mr. Aldridge, I called your name, why didn’t you respond.”

“I came in after that.”

“Well, Mr. Aldridge, that means technically you’re late. Would you share with us why you were late to the infamous E.W. Rowland’s class? Was it an elephant stampede; a swarm of locust; or worse?”

“No sir,” I said softly. “I work nights.”

“If you are to succeed in my class, Mr. Aldridge, you will find some means to overcome trivial excuses. This won’t happen again, will it?”

“No sir,” I replied.

Shaking that encounter from my mind as I parked at the doctor’s small office, obviously once a residence, we helped our wounded classmate inside.

Old doc “whatever his name was” ushered us into his only exam room, saw the arm, and confirmed Coach Crawford’s diagnosis. “It’s broken.” He then pulled a book off the shelf, laid it on a table and started flipping through the pages mumbling, “… broken bones, broken bones.”

Panic filled the injured’s face. He looked first at the doc then at us with eyes pleading, “Get me out of here.”

Quicker than you can say, “this won’t hurt a bit,” the arm was set, and we were headed back to the gym. PE was over, as was most of the next class period. I had missed Rowland’s class.

As everyone exited my car, one of the guys asked, ”You going to class?”

“No,” I said. “I’m going back to the doc’s office. I need an excuse for an elephant stampede or a locust swarm, and I’m just praying one of them is covered in that doctoring book of his.”

I’ve always said money may buy you a fine dog, but only love can make it wag its tail. —Kinky Friedman

Walking along Avenue B in Galveston’s Strand District one afternoon last week was a sensory sensation of food, music, and wares adorning windows in the 19th Century Victorian commercial buildings. A setting sun’s rays provided the crowning touch of warmth painting late afternoon shadows to brighten up what had been a cloudy afternoon.

The brief change of pace after a day of business meetings on the other end of the island was refreshing. Pieces of dark chocolate for my sweet tooth and another cool Hawaiian shirt for my collection scored, it was time to return to the hotel. “It just doesn’t get any better than this,” I thought.

That’s when I saw shadowy outlines of what looked like three guys sitting in chairs up against the building under the shade of the large canopy.

Weathered faces and gray hair suggested this might be a retiree’s retreat likely meeting at this same spot on a semi-regular basis to swap stories, watch people and maybe drink an occasional cup of coffee.

It was another shadowy outline, however, that really captured my attention. One of a magnificent specimen of a dog relaxing with the trio and tethered on the end of a leash. Sitting on stubby legs and the profile of long droopy ears were dead giveaways. This was no ordinary dog, it was a basset hound.

Continuing my stroll toward them, I nodded in a “Howdy” sort of manner and followed with, “That is a fine-looking dog you have there.”

“Thank you,” the gentleman holding down the middle chair and clutching the other end of the leash said.

Some scratching between the dog’s ears and stroking his back a time or two earned me a look of gratitude from sad basset eyes and a slow wag of the tail—certification that we were officially new best friends.

“I had a basset hound like that,” I told the gentleman holding the leash. “He and I were best friends. We went everywhere together. If Max couldn’t go, then I didn’t go.”

“That’s about the way we are,” he chuckled.

I didn’t start out as a dog person. A small brown mutt dubbed, Brownie, was my dog for a brief time in about the first grade. But, it was a basset wagging his tail at me 40 years later that made me understand there’s no such thing as “just a dog.”

Max became my best bud by default after I caved in to the pleas of my kids to adopt the old fellow in need of a new home. He was supposed to be my kid’s pooch, but destiny had other designs. The first night he spent with us, I woke up to the melody of a forlorn basset hound howl. The old dog was alone in a strange place and singing the blues. I went out to the porch to talk to him and we wound up sharing a rug and a pillow dozing until daylight.

The laid-back basset blessed my years in the Hill Country publishing the Boerne Star before we both moved back to East Texas to make more memories there.

Max stories have been documented in more than one of my columns. In fact, the episodes of Max, published and unpublished, would fill a book—one I may get around to writing someday.

“Yes sir, he certainly is a good-looking dog,” I noted one more time bidding them all a good day and waving as I walked on. “Thank you,” the old fellow said again returning the wave.

I smiled at remembering Max. And then smiled even more at how I foolishly thought just moments earlier that the day couldn’t get any better.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers.

“Top 15 Things Money Can’t Buy: Time. Happiness. Inner Peace. Integrity. Love. Character. Manners. Health. Respect. Morals. Trust. Patience. Class. Common sense. Dignity.” ― Roy T. Bennett, inspirational author

Manners were important to my parents and grandparents. They were incorporated into my upbringing along with an understanding of the importance of that effort, something for which I am deeply grateful.

So it was that I learned things about a civilized society that were important to two generations of my family, and I tried to instill some of the same in my children as well.

Things like a gentleman removes his hat when entering a building or sitting down to eat with others.

“Take your cap off. It’s ill-mannered to wear a hat in the house, ” Granny informed me the first time. “And don’t ever sit down at the dinner table with a cap or hat on your head.” The second time, she wasn’t so subtle. Her reminder consisted of snatching the cap off my head and handing it to me while she asked rather sternly, “What did I tell you about taking off that cap?”

A gentleman always opens the door for a lady.

My father took time to make sure I understood that one. Especially one time that I forgot it when he was with me. As we walked into Perry’s 5¢ and 10¢ store in Mount Pleasant, Texas, where he was the manager, he quickly stepped up to hold the door for the lady behind us, then apologized. “Please pardon my son’s rudeness. I’ve tried to teach him some manners, but he seems to have forgotten them today.”

When asking for something, say, “Please.” When given something, say, “Thank you.”

Granny got her point across on that one at the soda fountain in Lockett’s Drug Store in Pittsburg one summer afternoon where she treated me to a strawberry ice cream cone. Delight was headed my way as the treat was placed in my young hands, but short-lived when she abruptly took it from me.

I looked up with what had to be a terribly startled expression to hear her say, ”Thank you,” to the man who had just delivered the delectable delight to me. She took a bite of it, then looked at me and said, “You must not have wanted it very badly, you didn’t thank the man.” I looked at him, looked at Granny, then back at the man behind the soda fountain and offered my most humble, “Thank you.” I got the ice cream cone back, minus one bite for being minus my manners.

Address others, especially your elders, with respect.

“What do you say,” I remember having drilled into me when speaking to someone. “Yes,” was my response. “Yes … what,” would be the next question coming my way? “Yes, ma’am,” had better have been the next words out of my mouth if I was addressing a lady. “Yes, sir,” if speaking to a man.

“Manners are not important just because I say so,” my father was careful to point out. “They are a measure of how you respect people. If you show people respect, they will come a lot closer to respecting you.”

That upbringing caused a news story that I read last week to strike me as deeply troubling. According to the story, a school teacher reportedly punished a student for including, “Ma’am,” in his response to her because she didn’t like it.

For doing what any properly reared child is expected to do in order to be respectful, the student was reprimanded and made to write, “Ma’am,” four times on each line on each side of a piece of ruled notebook paper.

It’s painfully obvious that not everyone was blessed with parents and grandparents like mine, or with parents like this student is obviously fortunate to have.

True enough, money can’t buy respect, manners, or for that matter common sense. But if it could, there sure are some people these days who would be in dire need of a “Go Fund Me” account.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers.