Author: leonaldridge2015

Make it sound like we had a good time

“We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.”
— Author Herman Melville

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“Write an article about the banquet … and make it sound like we had a good time,” the judge pronounced as punishment after declaring me guilty.

The mock prosecution was part of the kangaroo court fun at the Center Noon Lion’s Club annual banquet last Thursday night. The proceedings lacked due process and exhibited bias with a predetermined outcome. But the judge was fair and impartial. Sort of. Every member attending was roasted and sentenced.

If you’re a Lion or know anyone who is, you already know that fun is a key element of not just the annual banquet but every week’s meeting. Following the pledge of allegiance to the flag, the prayer, and the singing of a song come “words of wisdom.” The cue that unleashes a barrage of weak humor laced with a few zingers here and there.

In addition to having fun, the service side of any civic or community club, such as the Lions Club, is the solemn dedication to enabling community growth and keeping it alive, viable, and connected. Serving others. Giving back to improve the current generation and prepare for the next.

An early mentor made his case to me on that topic long ago. That each of us has to “pay our rent” as a member of the community. “We can get involved where we live and help the community succeed, or we can sit back and watch it struggle,” were his words. “You are either part of the progress or part of the stagnation. There is no neutral ground.”

Because I never forgot those words from someone I admired and looked up to, membership in civic clubs and organizations everywhere I’ve lived and worked has been something I just do. I joined the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Lions Club after graduating from college in 1971. Similar associations I have been involved with throughout my lifetime include local aviation groups, car clubs, and other dedicated organizations that have fun while giving back to the community through donations, scholarships, sponsorships, volunteer work, and more.

I joined the Center Noon Lions Club in about 1979 and served as president in 1985. Although a lifelong Lion here and in other communities, there was one notable exception to that history. That time I relocated to Boerne down in the Texas Hill Country. Ready to jump into community service as the newspaper publisher there, my introduction in the paper included how I was a member of the Lions Club and a Lifetime Member of the Texas Lions Camp in Kerrville, Texas; a non-profit organization providing a free summer camp experience for children with physical disabilities, diabetes, and cancer.

The ink on the pages of that week’s edition was not even dry when a member of the local Lions Club walked into the office with an invitation for me to join. “Great,” I greeted him. “I’ll see you Thursday at noon. Where do you meet.”

“We don’t meet on Thursdays,” he responded. “We meet on Wednesday nights.”

“Oh man,” I lamented. I’m tied up on Wednesday nights … goin’ to church.”

Short pause. Then with just a slight squint, he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to be Episcopalian, would you,”

So it was that Boerne gave this lifelong Lion his first experience as a Rotarian meeting Tuesday’s at lunch. A move that allows me to give gratitude to both organizations. Indeed, numerous civic clubs collaborate to enhance the quality of life in every community. The key is getting involved. Becoming a part of that crucial role in fostering connections, addressing concerns, and driving positive change in your community.

Getting involved has been especially easy for me. Having spent a career in communication and media endeavors, my affiliation with a civic-minded group has made me a strong candidate for public relations-related offices wherever I go.

Civic clubs are comprised of many different members, some with more responsibility than others, but each with a definite role to play to be considered a member in good standing. I was even once a member of The Birch John Society, a little-known organization struggling to preserve the use of wooden toilet seats.

Think about that one for a minute if you didn’t get it right away. It will come to you. And remember that if you come to Lions Club, make sure you have a good joke. Or two.

To ensure I can work off my sentence by writing something about how we really do have fun.

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

Knowing who needs a prayer

“When your church is small, you know everyone’s prayer requests before they even ask.”
— Author unknown, but if you attend a small church, you know it’s true.

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Small churches and country preachers are the best at delivering sermons that combine spiritual appeal from the word of God with a touch of practical wisdom rooted in their own personal lives.

I was raised in a small town by loving parents. My mom attended church every Sunday, and it was an unspoken expectation that we would be going with her. No excuse was good enough for her to warrant missing the assembling of the saints.

Throughout my lifetime of hearing country preachers, I have acquired a deep appreciation for their dedication. And sacrifice. Because preaching at a small church is not a get rich quick proposition. Usually requiring what one preacher friend called “a day job” to make ends meet.

Like the East Texas preacher some years ago. An elderly gentleman with an ever-present smile and a kind word. A presence of stoic stature who, by the looks of his white hair and unfaltering recall of scripture without so much as looking at a Bible, had been delivering Sunday sermons for several presidential administrations.

A minister who not only preached the word of God and the promise of eternal salvation but included tidbits of practical advice for this side of heaven as well. Suggestions learned no doubt from years in the pulpit and tending to people’s spiritual needs.

“Your body is a temple unto the Lord,” he often delivered, leaning over the pulpit for extra emphasis. “Keep it healthy and ready for service by engaging in some form of exercise every day.” And being a minister who practiced what he preached, he always added that he personally walked several miles a day. But what he didn’t mention while proclaiming that walking was good for one’s health was that his “exercise” was usually executed with a cane pole over his shoulder. Walking in the general direction of a nearby fishing hole.

Another of his suggestions was to do God’s will through action. “Squeeze in random acts of kindness at every opportunity,” he preached. “Do a good deed every day.”

On this advice, he once admitted in a sermon that if he had to choose between doing a good deed for his neighbor or saying a prayer to God, God might have to hold off for a few minutes for the prayer until he was done helping someone.

Another tidbit of his advice was to “make two or three good friends among the old folks while you’re still young.”

Like everything he said, I agreed with him wholeheartedly on this one. I had just one problem. By the time I understood that philosophy, I was well past the point in life considered young by common standards.

Stories of down-to-earth wisdom from heaven-oriented country preachers came to mind last week. Carrying out my “once-a-year, whether it needs it or not” desk cleaning, I happened upon a message from my daughter, Robin. One from almost 30 years ago in which she included some preacher’s suggestions that she had collected.

One credited to a Tennessee preacher who advocated, “Most people are kind, polite, and sweet-spirited … until you try to sit in their pew.”

Another answered complaints about a preacher with, “If a church wants a better preacher, it can usually get one by praying for the one it already has.”

This one, I’ve heard many times since, but is still timeless. “A lot of church members who are singing ‘Standing on The Promises’ are merely sitting on the premises.”

There was also food for thought from Oklahoma. “We were called to be witnesses, not lawyers.”

And from Ohio, stating, “Every evening, I turn my troubles over to God. He’s going to be up all night anyway.”

Included with Robin’s communique was a message I’m sure is preached somewhere by a country preacher in a small town every Sunday. She didn’t say where she found it, but it’s called “The Bible in 50 Words.”

“God made; Adam bit; Noah arked; Abraham split; Joseph ruled; Jacob fooled; Bush talked; Moses balked; Pharaoh plagued; People walked; Sea divided; Tablets guided; Promise landed; Saul freaked; David peeked; Prophets warned; Jesus was born; God walked; Love talked; Anger crucified; Hope died; Love rose; Spirit flamed; Word spread; God remained.”

Whatever the tidbits of wisdom might be, somewhere every Sunday a country preacher delivers a spiritual message with a deep understanding of human nature. Focusing on faith connected with a sense of rural life. 

And one knowing who needs a prayer before they ever ask for it.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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.

My friend, the belated birthday card

“Since I’m late sending you this birthday card, let’s make sure that doesn’t happen again. Please consider this your first happy birthday wish for the year.”
—  My standard birthday card greeting.

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“The difference in Father’s Day and Mother’s day,” Center Church of Christ minister Tim Perkins began last Sunday’s sermon. “… is that some people feel like you don’t have to spend as much on Father’s Day presents as you do on Mother’s Day.”

I laughed. But Tim’s signature humor reminded me of my long-established habits regarding those special days. Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, Christmas, Valentine’s Day. And the big one, birthdays. Each one, a special occasion for remembering those we love and cherish.

“Caring enough to send the very best,” as Hallmark once promoted, I still do. And I still prefer the lost art of sending a real card that can be held, saved, and cherished.

My only problem is I’m always late. Believe me when I say the “belated” birthday card was invented just for me.

Striving to improve over the years, I had one great idea about 40 years ago. And it was genius, if I do say so. Came up with it all by myself.

Instead of sending belated birthday cards all year long, just send everyone a card at the first of the year. Sign them, “Let me be the first one to wish you happy birthday this year.”

The plan was to mail them all between Christmas and New Year’s. However, since February events typically cross my mind at the Fourth of July picnic, it was around St. Patrick’s Day before this stroke of genius came to me. Therefore, the ship had already sailed for January and February birthdays.

“Oh well,” I thought. “They’ll get the belated version one more year. Which is what would have happened anyway.”

“This is going to be a great idea,” I giggled with glee.

My sister Leslie’s birthday is in February. One more belated card for her would be no problem at all. Unless I forgot to mail it.

And the timing was perfect for my grandmother’s birthday on March 6. There was some concern, however. Granny was dealing with some minor heart issues at that time. Would getting a birthday card from me on time be too much of a surprise for her heart?

Next on the list was my baby sister, Sylvia. May 21. A card from me a couple of months early might make her wonder, “What can this be. Leap year? National Pickle Week? Jewish New Year?”

She had never received a birthday card from me on time. So, I knew she would have laughed. She would also have been the first one to say, “Now that is really dumb … even for Leon.”

Next on the list was my mother’s birthday in June. But getting a card in March, she would have still just quietly opened it, smiled, and said, “How nice. Leon remembered.”

Then, she would have put it aside to go into her cedar chest later, with every other card she had ever received, before returning to lunch or the latest episode of All My Children.”

Mark my word, however, sometime between 3:30 p.m. and next Tuesday, the light would have come on, and she would have said out loud, “My birthday is not until June!”

Dad would have opened his card, laughed softly, and shook his head because his birthday was in August. And because for as long as I could remember, he was the only one who knew exactly what I did, why l did it, and most of the time, before I did it.

Dad would have also been the one to explain it all to Mom. Sylvia would be calling Leslie to figure out what marble I’ve lost now. Leslie would then have been trying to understand why she got a belated card when everyone else got a regular card.

It’s an idea that still might work. At the time, I decided it was just too risky. More than everyone could figure out, and too much confusion to explain. Even for me.

But feel free to give it a try. I still think it’s the best idea since the “Vegematic” was promoted on late-night TV.

In any case, remember this. If someone forgets your birthday, take it as a compliment. It could mean you don’t look like you’ve aged enough to have another birthday yet.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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.

Time flies faster than we realize

“Time flies.”

— 19th Century English idiom. One that I undertsand better with every passing year.

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That carelessly tossed-about old saying has a special meaning seasoned in humor among old pilots. Like me. Those who smile when standing in the shadow of propeller-driven aircraft as old or older than we are. Feeling goose bumps with every smoky, rumbling startup of an antique radial aircraft engine.

Even so, it still doesn’t seem like it’s been almost ten years since the time Frankie Glover at Mid America Flight Museum up in Mount Pleasant sent me the message. “Columbine II will be arriving in Mount Pleasant tomorrow afternoon. I’ll keep you updated.”

Columbine II was the name given to the U.S. presidential aircraft used by Dwight D. Eisenhower from 1952 to 1954. Better known as “Ike,” the five-star U.S. Army general served as Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force in Europe during World War II. He had been elected president by the time I entered the first grade.

Photo above and at top of the page: Leon Aldridge 2016 at the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Airport)

The historic aircraft’s stop in Northeast Texas some 60 years later was no coincidence. Mount Pleasant native Scott Glover and his MAFM team in the Northeast Texas city played a key role in the first phase of efforts to get the historic aircraft back to flying condition after years of neglect, ignored in the Arizona desert. The second step was helping the owners fly it to the restoration shop to Bridgewater, Virginia. The Mount Pleasant based museum helped in that effort as well.

Scott and his crew in the MAFM’s WWII era B-25 “Mitchell” bomber, “God and Country,” escorted Columbine II from the Grand Canyon state to Mount Pleasant. The Texas stop not only gave Northeast Texas residents a chance to see the historic aircraft, but also provided a break in the nine-hour trip from Arizona to Virginia, where it has since been undergoing a long and tedious restoration to its early 1950s configuration as the presidential aircraft.

President Dwight D. Eisenhower air plane landing in Harlingen Texas Oct. 18th 1953. Photo Credit — US ARMY – Harlingen Arts and Heritage Museum

Given its name by First Lady Mamie Eisenhower in honor of the official state flower of her adopted home state, Colorado, the former presidential plane is a military version of the Lockheed Constellation. “Connies,” as they were called, were a highly successful four-engine propeller-driven 1950s airliner. Known for their speed, range, luxury, and pressurized cabin for comfortable long-distance flights, this Connie carries tail number 8610, confirming it as the first presidential aircraft to use the universally recognized call sign, “Air Force One.”  The official designation for any aircraft once the President of the United States is on board.

I kept my camera busy that day in early 2016, capturing fleeting images of time flying by. The beauty of the plane’s porpoise-shaped aluminum fuselage and distinctive triple rudder tail design stood out against the East Texas afternoon sun. Breathtakingly elegant as it floated toward the runway in its landing approach and touched down on its uniquely tall landing gear.

The day reminded me of another time that had flown by, the night Mount Pleasant was host to a sitting U.S. President.

I was an MPHS student, and a member of the Explorer Scout Post called upon to assist with crowd control for the scheduled arrival of President Lyndon B. Johnson. The president was coming to town for a celebratory function at the National Guard Armory on North Jefferson Street, honoring an East Texas citizen and friend.

Darkness arrived as onlookers crowded to the airport, many skeptical that the president was really coming to the small Texas town. Anticipation mounted as the presidential plane touched down and taxied to the apron near the terminal.

Flashbulbs lit up the night sky when President Johnson emerged, waving and smiling. The crowd cheered. Performing our assigned task, we stood firm with backs to the crowd and arms spread wide against the encroaching throng.

I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of the president as he neared. Waving, tipping his hat, and shaking hands. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

As the president neared, he paused, grabbed my hand, and shook it vigorously. “Nice uniform, son,” he said before moving on to the next handshake and ultimately the waiting car taking him to his scheduled event on the other side of town.

All I could think was, “The President of the United States just shook my hand.”

I hurried home on nearby Redbud Street and charged into the house. “I shook the president’s hand tonight. He shook my hand.”

My father, who voted pretty much Democratic in those days, smiled and commented, “Well, how about that.”

You might say time has flown since I shook a president’s hand at the Mount Pleasant airport. Even since the time since I saw another president’s plane, the first Air Force One, at the Mount Pleasant airport.

Looking back, however, the feeling is more like one moment, it’s today, the next it’s a memory.

Because time flies faster than we realize.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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.

Some things never change

“The good physician treats the disease; the great physician treats the patient who has the disease.”
— William Osler (1849 -1919), one of the founding Johns Hopkins Hospital professors and creator of residency programs.

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“Come in Dr. Reitz.” With those words, my grandmother welcomed the Pittsburg, Texas, family physician of many years into her home. “Thank you for coming. S.V. isn’t feeling well; he’s coughing and feverish.”

Sylvester Aldridge was my grandfather’s full legal name. No middle initial. Why she called him S.V. was a question I never thought to ask.

The good doctor pulled a chair next to the bed, opened his small black bag, and took out a tongue depressor and a thermometer. “I expect your fruit trees will be blooming before long,” he small talked with my grandfather.

Standing silently at the edge of the room, I was just tall enough to peek over the windowsill. The physician’s shiny new 1951 Chevy sitting in the driveway caught my eye. When I looked back at him, we made eye contact. I can still hear his deep voice say, “My, you’re getting to be a big boy.”

Dr. P.A. Reitz had delivered me into the world a little more than three years before that day. On a cold January 20, 1948, evening at the M&S Hospital he founded in Pittsburg. I don’t remember much about that day, but I was told light snow was falling outside.

I do remember house calls, once a common convenience by small-town physicians that slowly slipped into the past in the years that followed. A time when doctors wore suits and ties in the clinic and for house calls. And nurses wore white uniforms and caps. When “scrubs” were seen only in operating rooms.

Much of my childhood healthcare fell to Dr. Reitz. Dad’s years with Perry Brother’s five-and-dime stores moved us from one small Texas town to another before Mount Pleasant became the last stop. Many of my summer days, however, were still spent at my grandparents’ house.

“He’s going to need some stitches, Mrs. Aldridge.”

The wound for which I still display a scar on my head was inflicted during an afternoon of friendly playtime. Granny was enjoying afternoon coffee inside with her friend, Mrs. Martin. Outside, Mrs. Martin’s grandson and I whiled away the time with comic book fantasies. I don’t remember if I was the good guy or the bad guy, but I became the wounded guy when the other youngster got the drop on me with a piece of pipe. From atop a car in the driveway.

“Get a good grip on him,” Dr. Reitz cautioned my grandmother. His recall of my extreme dislike for doctors wielding needles was impeccable.

Those aged memories offer a different perspective on healthcare of today. Opinions abound, but popular views rival genealogical histories of Biblical proportions.

“Therefore, in all the days of medicine, throughout the land, specialization begat doctors passing small towns for big cities; and that begat the decline of rural hospitals; which begat small towns with clinics staffed by P.A.s and nurse N.P.s who take care of routine exams and illnesses begatting acute cases to emergency rooms or specialists.”

In bigger cities.

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Dr. P.A. Reitz, one of Pittsburg’s best known, most respected and beloved citizens, died at M&S Hospital early Monday morning after suffering a massive heart attack,” the 1978 newspaper article in my archives read.

The yellowed paper news story bore no attribution. I suspect from the heartfelt and personal tone used by the writer, it might have been published by Pittsburg’s long-time local newspaper, the Gazette.

Dr. Reitz was born April 18, 1904, in Kansas. He moved to Pittsburg in 1935. He was a graduate of the University of Nebraska Medical School and completed his internship at Parkland Hospital in Dallas. He served in the U.S. Army in Europe during World War II.

“He was a family doctor for 43 years …” the story shared. According to the newspaper tribute, Dr. Reitz gave M&S Hospital to the citizens of Pittsburg in 1968.

“The business community closed Thursday afternoon for his funeral at the First Methodist Church,” the clipping concluded. “Interment was at Rose Hill Cemetery.”

I still visit Dr. Reitz … in a manner of speaking. My father and mother, Leon and Indianola Aldridge, are buried at Rose Hill Cemetery. Right next to Dad’s parents, Sylvester and Hattie Lois Aldridge.

Just across the narrow lane at the Pittsburg cemetery, maybe 50 feet away, are the graves of Percy. A. and Hazel Reitz.  

I miss small-town hospitals with doctors’ offices in or near the facility. Doctors who made house calls and knew their patients like family. That said, I get it that change and adaptation are inevitable aspects of life.

Some things never change, though. Like needles. I still don’t like needles.

And I still don’t know why Granny called my grandfather S.V.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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 cost of conversation is going up

“If it’s a penny for your thoughts and you give your two cents worth, where did the other penny go?”
— Comedian George Carlin

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“Are they really going to going to stop making pennies.”

“Must be true, I read they will stop production in 2026,” I said. The lowly penny surfaced as a topic of conversation at dinner with friends last week. Sadly, it appears that a penny saved is no longer a penny earned, as Ben Franklin once noted. As a matter of economic fact, they’ve been a monetary loss for most of 20 years.”

According to the U.S. Mint, the production cost of a penny was 3.69-cents in 2024. About 3 cents for manufacturing and the rest for administrative costs and distribution.

“Rising costs aren’t the real reason pennies are going away,” someone added. “No one spends them anymore. Most pennies put into circulation are given as change in cash transactions, then never reused. There were about 240 billion in circulation last year. That’s 700 pennies per person; most in jars or dresser drawers.”

“I have my share,” I laughed. “At least that many on my dresser, more in my car’s console, and not telling how many under the front seat.”

“I save pennies I find on the ground,” said another. “Haven’t you heard the poem? ‘So don’t pass by that penny when you’re feeling blue. It may be a penny from heaven, that an angel’s passed to you.” Finding a penny is a reminder that someone in heaven is thinking about you.”

Adding to the poetic perspective, I contributed, “‘Find a penny, pick it up. All day long you’ll have good luck.’ I’m guilty of picking up a heads-up penny for luck. But if I spot one that’s tail’s up, I turn it over and leave it for someone else to find good fortune.”

While financial fortune might be hard to measure in pennies today, the copper coins represent more than mere monetary value to many. The humble penny represents priceless value in conversational expressions that have coined philosophies of American life for generations.

My grandmother’s favorite was, “Take care of the pennies, and the dollars will take care of themselves.” Survivors of the Great Depression, like my grandparents, characterized the less fortunate by saying, “They’re so poor, they don’t have two cents to rub together.”

“A penny for your thoughts” attributes value in wisdom to the meager one-cent piece. However, I am also quick to remind that “advice is worth what you pay for it.”

Today, “rattling money,” as one longtime friend always described pocket change, can be little more than a nuisance amid plastic money or folding money … or in my case, no money. However, it was historical appreciation for a penny that caused me to pause long enough to peruse a wheat penny in my pocket pile a couple of years ago.

Some my age will remember that the first version of the still-current penny, portraying a likeness of “Honest Abe” on one side, was first issued with two grains of wheat and the words “one cent” on the other. “Wheat pennies,” as they are called by coin collectors,” were minted from 1909 to 1958 when the reverse side was replaced with a likeness of the Lincoln Memorial in 1959.

Finding a wheat penny in pocket change, or anywhere today except in a coin collection, is rare enough. But the odds of someone giving me one in change at a Center, Texas, business that day might have been good enough to win the lottery. It bore the date 1919, minted when plenty of Indian Head pennies produced from 1859 to 1909 were still familiar in pockets and cash registers.

The coin had been in circulation for nearly 100 years the day it ended up in my pocket.

It was crazy to think that World War I had just ended when someone first pocketed the penny. The same year that Congress approved the Grand Canyon as a national park. The year a flight from New York to Atlantic City established the first commercial airline service. When Woodrow Wilson was president. The 19th Amendment to the Constitution, giving women the right to vote, was newly ratified.

And the year before my father’s parents became newlyweds in 1920.

So, what’s a 1919 “wheat” penny worth? Besides lots of memories and some sage sayings about life and luck? Around a dollar, maybe two, according to numismatic value guides.

“What will we ever do without pennies,” one of my friends lamented.

“One thing for sure,” I concluded, “The cost of conversation will go up.”

“From now on, it’s going to be ‘a nickel for your thoughts’ to start discussions like this.”

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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.

Learning to cope with emerging technology

“Our mission is to connect every person in the world.”
– Mark Zuckerberg

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Technological advancement, properly applied, should bring improved quality of life with rewards in time savings and productivity. Don’t you agree?

But with every application of cutting edge techie tools comes more knowledge not enjoyed by those with a learning curve geared to outsmarting a computer. Or worse, nefarious characters with devious ideas for using it never intended by the developer. The internet, cell phones, mind boggling apps. A plethora of digital diversions that delight one day and dishearten the next.

Even with the newest … AI. Don’t we have enough artificial intelligence already serving as elected officials, television news analysts, and customer service reps?

Tech tools and toys were just emerging when fax machines were hailed as futuristic. We marveled at the one installed at the newspaper office in Center back then. “It’s going to save so much time,” we cheered, gazing at documents magically transferred through telephone lines. With every screeching sound of the machine’s “handshake” tone, everyone gathered to “ooh” and “ah” at letters from the other side of the country arriving in mere minutes.

In no time at all, we were sharing jokes and cartoons with friends and business associates. It was the best source for laughter around. Until Facebook came along.

In the real world, technology can make the impossible happen with ease and in record time. But just like a questionable joke inadvertently faxed to the wrong number, tech can create a desire to disappear into the unknown. Or render us ready to take the device and “throw it in the horse lot” as my grandmother used to say, when it doesn’t work as we think it should,

The late Lewis Grizzard, Southern humorist and author, put it succinctly in his book entitled, “Elvis Is Dead, and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself.” With his insightful humor, Grizzard poked fun at baby boomers trying to cope with emerging technology when he said, “The world around me is a tuxedo, and I’m a pair of brown shoes.”

That very thought came to me a while back. When my home security system designed to provide the secure feeling of a bad dog backing up a Smith and Wesson failed to function properly.

It’s a great piece of technology. Monitors doors and windows, the thermostat and selected appliances, the lights, reports the weather, and more that I have yet to master. It records videos of anyone approaching the doors and allows me to answer the doorbell from across town or across the country via my cell phone that has features I have yet to comprehend. Things that work great, provided the system installer and said smartphone user are both smarter than the technology.

It started the day a young technician came to my house and upgraded the control panel. Is it my imagination, or do all technical service reps look like they are a couple of years shy of being old enough to get a driver’s license? After he explained the changes to me in a language that might as well have been Swahili, he assured me it was the best on the market and was gone in short order. “Thank you,” I smiled.

At bedtime that night, cats were put out, dogs let in, doors locked, and pillows fluffed. As the last measure before drifting into blissful slumber, I armed the alarm confident in the sophisticated system with my “three dog night” backup.

For the record, my money’s on the dogs for reliability. They do one thing the alarm doesn’t—wake me without fail at 5:30 a.m., reminding me of their urgent need to go out and visit nature.

5:32 a.m. The doggie alarms goes off. With blurry vision, I poke the control panel app with my code. Nothing, followed by the words “Incorrect Code.” A second attempt with glasses was equally unsuccessful. By the third try, the dogs were poised and pointing at the back door with tears in their eyes.

“What next?” I could simply open the door. Within seconds, I would be on the phone with someone from the security company checking on me. “Wait,” I thought. I could also be talking to uniformed police officers. With guns.

I dialed the number for the alarm company and was pleasantly greeted. “XYZ Security, how may I help you?”

“My dogs and I are being held hostage in my house,” I joked about the non-functioning panel. I’ve always considered humor as an ice breaker for pleasant conversation. Please note, however, that humor is not the appropriate response when talking to a home security agent. At 5:30 a.m.

Once we reached an understanding of what constitutes funny and what does not, tests were performed to arrive at a conclusion. The servicing technician had failed to program the new panel with my security code.  

“No problem, I can walk you through it,” the understanding agent said. Her discovery that she was dealing with someone who could not program their VCR, combined with realizing she was talking with someone who still uses a VCR, appeared to dash all hopes of a speedy solution.

We stumbled through it, though. Much to the delight of the agent and me. And three agonizing dogs who burst out the back door when it was finally opened.

Crisis over, my thoughts turned to caffeine. And to Zuckerberg’s philosophy and Grizzard’s humor. With the last sip, I wasn’t convinced that chatting with security system people at 5:30 a.m. was Zuckerberg’s vision of “connecting to every person in the world.”

Especially when I’m wearing brown shoes in a tuxedo world.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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.

We thought it was funny — everyone laughed

A well-meaning friend gifted me a coffee mug on my 40th birthday … a few years ago.

Black in color, it reflected the American mindset of 40 as the midnight hour of aging when birthday celebrations turn into pumpkins. I still have the mug. Every so often, I glance at it once more, and the message that foreshadowed coming years.

“After 40, it’s patch, patch, patch.”

How funny, we all laughed at the party. These “Golden Years” were still a distant vision when we celebrated as I announced my intentions to remain “thirty-nine and holding.” A motto, which I also used to think was funny when my optimistic Uncle Freddie joked about it years ago.

While sitting in the waiting room of the hospital imaging area last week, leisurely looking at dog-eared magazines dating back to just after Y2K, the mug’s message returned to me in a vision. One with memories of household items routinely patched when I was a kid. Things that no one patches anymore. At least, not that I know of.

Things like blue jeans. With cuffs turned up a couple of rolls. Extra leg length allowing for growing boys because buying new jeans didn’t happen frequently. Usually once a year. At back to school time. And when they were finally tossed, the dark color was long gone, the cuffs completely unrolled, and the knees patched. Sometimes more than once.

Iron-on blue jean patches were a staple of every mother’s mending basket back then. New patches stood out like a bandaged sore thumb on worn out jeans. Something that no doubt promoted the popularity of decorative patches.

I remember going to school sporting a likeness of Davy Crockett on my knees. “King of the Wild Frontier.” Other times, with Roy Rogers riding on Trigger, hat waving high above his head.

Patching clothes was not limited to blue jeans, though. Mom darned my socks. Who today even remembers the word “darning?” Or knows what it means. The domestic art of stitching up small holes in clothing by weaving thread to cleverly hide the repair was also used on my sisters’ sweaters. Extracting extra miles from everything we wore.

Even down to our shoes. Making them good for more miles. When every small town had a “shoe shop” where the rich smell of leather greeted customers at the door. Glynn’s Shoe Shop on the south side of the square in Mount Pleasant extended the life of footwear with new soles and heels and a complimentary shine, all at a fraction of the cost of new shoes.

New heels and soles were still available at Center’s shoe shop when I located here during Gerald Ford’s presidency. It was just off the square on Logansport Street .

Another shoe shop service was cutting a couple of inches off the ends of leather belts and punching extra holes to extend their life of keeping pants up on young boys as they sprouted into lanky teenagers.

Washing machines, refrigerators, and other appliances were once repaired when they stopped working. Now, we go shopping for a new one when the old one hiccups. A popular advertising slogan touting quality back in the day proclaimed the Maytag repairman to be “the loneliest man in town.” Today, simply finding a service technician to repair any brand in some communities is a lonely search.

Patching practices included the family car. Repaired tire tubes for flat tires on Dad’s Studebaker Starlight Coupe. A box of Camel brand inner tube patches was ever-present in his toolbox. Like most men then, he did minor repairs on the family’s only car. When automobile maintenance required little more than common sense and logic.

Today’s riding lawnmower is a more complex machine than a 1950 Studebaker.  And cost as much as three or four new Studebaker cars did then.

Household repairs were creative by today’s standards. My grandfather patched Granny’s pots and pans utilizing a nut and bolt with flat washers on both sides of the hole. And I own a rocking chair on which he repaired a broken leg. I remember him repairing and patching his favorite rocker when the US flag had 48 stars.

Previous generations were adept at patching and repairing to make household items and money last longer. One repair shop I remember displayed a sign claiming, “We can repair anything but a broken heart.”

“Mr. Aldridge,” a voice interrupted my daydreaming. It was an invitation to join the technician for an MRI party in my honor down the hall. A party where there will be less laughing than was heard at my 40th birthday.

By the time you’re reading this, I likely know the test results. I should also know the options for dealing with that aching, aging shoulder. The one that’s endured everything from a 1970s motorcycle wreck to a hillside hiking spill just a couple of years ago. But it’s amazing what modern medicine can patch now.

If I’m lucky, maybe one of those Camel tube patches might even work.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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 just the way my daddy trained me

“Things Money Can’t Buy: Time. Happiness. Integrity. Love. Manners. Respect. Trust. Class. Common sense. Dignity.” ― Roy T. Bennett, inspirational author

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“You don’t have to get up,” someone told me during an introduction and handshake meeting last week.

“Are you kidding,” I laughed as I rose to my feet. “That’s the way my daddy trained me. I don’t know any other way.”

Good manners will never be down and out in a civilized society, we agreed at the boomers coffee klatch last week. But random acts of kindness and courtesy once commonly taught in every home are gowing scare in public places.

“It’s not as much of a thing as it used to be,” one personality-less employee in a local business told me last week. Guess they didn’t like my facetious “thank you” for noticing their overwhelming lack of customer service and manners.

All debates aside, the boomers coffee klatch also agreed on one thing. Courtesy and manners still matter. We all get one chance to make a first impression. Often, before we ever speak the first word.

“You always dress that way for work,” I recall a member of management asking one of the new guys on a job many years ago.

“Yeah,” the newbie stuttered,

“And you always address your supervisors and elders with, “Yeah? Where’s your manners?” Before the young man could dig himself any deeper, the manager offered advice I’ve never forgotten.

“If you want customers and colleagues to perceive you as a professional, you have to dress and act like a professional. No one gives you respect for free, you earn it by the way you present yourself and the way you treat others.”

Manners were important to my parents and grandparents. Something for which I have always been deeply grateful. Learning manners requires no textbook and very little intelligence. Just treat others like you would like to be treated.

“Manners make the man,” Mom used to say. “Real men are considerate of others, especially ladies.” My father made sure I understood that one well one day at the Perry’s 5¢ and 10¢ store in downtown Mount Pleasant where he was the manager. Quickly stepping up to hold the door for a lady behind us, he smiled and said, “Please pardon my rude son. I’ve tried to teach him some manners, but he seems to have forgotten that today.”

A big one with my grandmother was hats. “A gentleman always removes his hat indoors,” she reminded me often. “Take that cap off,” she informed me the first time. “It’s rude to wear a hat inside. And don’t ever sit down to eat with a cap or hat on your head.”

The second time, she wasn’t as subtle. She snatched the cap off my head, handed it to me, and asked, “What did I tell you about a gentleman and a hat indoors? People will think you were raised in a barn.”

My grandmother also clearly illustrated “Please” and “Thank you.” She bought a strawberry ice cream cone one afternoon at Lockett’s Drug Store soda fountain in downtown Pittsburg, Texas and handed it to me. Just as I was about to enjoy the first bite, she abruptly took it back.

“Thank you,” she said to the young man who had just scooped the delectable delight. She then took a bite of it and said, “You must not have appreciated it, I didn’t hear you thank anyone.”

After a most humble “thank you” to both her and the soda fountain attendant, she returned the ice cream cone to me … minus one bite. The price for missing my manners.

“What do you say when speaking to someone?” I remember Mom asking.

“Yes,” I responded.

“Yes … what?”

I soon learned that “Yes, ma’am” and “Yes, sir” were the only acceptable words for a mannerly answer. As were “No, ma’am” and “No, sir.”

“Manners are not important just because I say so,” Dad told me many times. “They are a measure of how you respect people. If you show others respect, they will respect you.”

Someone asked me about a fellow employee in a workplace not long ago, “Why doesn’t she respect me when I ask her for something?”

Recalling the words of the supervisor I always remembered and my father’s words, I said, “Could be the way you ask. No one gives you respect for free, you earn it only by giving it.”

True enough, money doesn’t buy respect or manners. But if it did, a lot of people these days are apparently broke.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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.

Friendships that foster fond memories

“My old friend, I apologize
For the years that have passed
Since the last time you and I
Dusted off those memories
The running and the races
The people and the places
There was always somewhere else I had to be.”
— Song lyrics by Tim McGraw 2004

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We never forget friends. It’s easy when we see or talk with them frequently. But it’s the friends we lose contact with that linger in memory. Friendships that fostered fond memories.

I met Minnesota native Tom Lund while living in Boerne. He played guitar and sang at local restaurants and entertainment spots. His wife, Tenlee, had an advertising agency that conducted business with the newspaper I published there during the 1990s, The Boerne Star.

Tom was fun. Always upbeat and positive with a great sense of humor. He graduated from Minnesota State University in 1968, served with the U.S. Air Force including time in Vietnam. Returning to civilian life in sales and sales management with U.S. Surgical Corporation found him starting in Milwaukee, followed by moves to Dallas and San Antonio before settling in Boerne.

Tom was always involved in music. Classic and “Outlaw” country songs by others. But he was also a songwriter, singing songs that, although he never said so, hinted at biographical bits put to music. Lyrics from life. Something typical of good songwriters.

Like the young blues musician who was consulting one of the older seasoned artists for advice. Sizing up the young man before responding, the old musician told him, “You won’t never be no blues singer driving a Cadillac with hun’ert dollar bills in your pocket. You gots to live heartbreak and sorrow before you can sing the blues.”

I got that feeling from Tom’s repertoire. Songs like “I Can’t Think About You Now” and “My Losin’ Was Really My Gain.” Even some of his others with whimsical titles. “You’re Just a Pimple on the Backside of My Life” and “Honey Won’t You Please Be My Ex-Wife.” Lyrics with brief myopic views of lost love and old friendships. Some with hints of haunting memories from Vietnam.

Above the depths of his music, Lund’s life was a fascinating success story. Two successes. I invited him to a Boerne civic club meeting to recount the details of his career utilizing his gifted storytelling, song writing style.

It was a story revolving around Laparoscopic surgery, a procedure used as early as 1901 that didn’t flourish until some 75 years later following advancements in technologies aiding medical care.

Enter Tom Lund. The tall, outgoing guy who dominated not only in stature but in smiles, personality, and a Midwestern accent deep in the heart of Texas. Never met a stranger. Always made people feel like a friend from the first handshake. Traits that, no doubt, contributed to his becoming one of the leading sales reps for surgical tools when laparoscopic surgery surged in the early 1980s.

The “new” medical procedure ultimately opened doors for the other side of medicine: malpractice suits. Enter Tom Lund for the second time. As the country’s leading sales rep for surgical instruments a decade earlier, his phone now rang off the hook with legal counsel seeking expert witnesses.

“Twice,” Lund said, “laparoscopic surgery provided a successful career for me. Something I never, ever dreamed of.”

That good fortune allowed Tom time in the Texas Hill Country to pursue his love for music becoming acquainted with other singer/songwriters. Lund performed at times solo, and others under the name of “Back Roads” with a young Boerne vet tech, Steve Ammann, who Tom credited with helping improve his “three oord country song” guitar playing.  

Lund was a lover of all kinds of music. So much so that he organized a music festival at the Kendall County Fairgrounds in 1995. Called it the “Texas Music Jamboree” featuring a varied lineup. Joining Back Roads was Conjunto flavored music from Conjunto Los Aguilas, the duet ballads of Brian and Bonnie, old time country from Tom and Classic Country, and some Cajun sounds of Swamp Angel. The festival kicked off right after lunch and ran into the evening hours with other performers. Too many for me to remember.

I left Boerne in 1998. Tom and Tenlee moved “home” to Brainard, Minnesota, a couple of years later. We lost contact.  

Time gets away from us much too quickly. We turn around twice, and our children are grown with families of their own. Lives go in different, often unexpected, directions. Friends we once laughed with, cried with, and made memories with start new chapters of life in other places. And for many, earthly time expires too soon.

When I began looking for Tom not long ago, that’s what I found. An obituary. Tom’s time ran out in 2022.

So, tonight, I’ll strum a few guitar chords and sing Tom’s song about “best friends” one more time. I might even take a stab at McGraw’s song. Vowing to get better at dusting off memories made with old friends.

While I still can.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo above: Tom Lund (on the right) with his Backroads duet partner, Steve Ammann. Photo from the Wednesday, October 4, 1995 edition of The Boerne Star highlighting the first Texas Music Jamboree organized and produced by Tom, set for the following Saturday.)

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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.