Author: leonaldridge2015

“To reminisce with my old friends. A chance to share old memories and play our songs again.” —Ricky Nelson

Waxing philosophical or romantic was not what I set out to do at the car show last Saturday. That’s what crossed my mind, however, as I sat comfortably perched in my folding chair in the shade while visitors admired the shiny waxed cars and trucks on display.

What crossed my mind were the bonds formed early in life and how they continue as lifelong memories becoming more precious with time…like appreciation for an old car. Maybe it’s reminiscing about a car we had, one a friend had, or often the one we had when, “in the spring of our life, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”

While pondering such deep thoughts on a warm October day in East Texas, I noticed a couple pausing for a moment to inspect “Miss Vicky,’ my ’55 Ford Crown Victoria. They caught my eye walking the rows of cars together, often holding hands. They were, like me and Vicky, vintage—give or take a few years. When they paused to inspect her, looking her over and talking about her, that was my cue.

Leaving my perch, I ventured out into the sun for one of my favorite parts of attending car shows—sharing memories with people and making new friends.

Offering my best hello, the lady responded saying she was looking for the number on “this car” to vote for it. I told her “this car” was number 16 and since it was my car I would be most happy for her to know the number.

Her companion began talking about how he liked it because he had a good friend in high school who drove one similar to it and then talked about his car from school days. He described a Ford from the same era as mine in which he swapped out the original motor for a more powerful one from another car. That was common practice in early hot rodding days when Olds, Cadillac, and Lincoln motors often found their way under the hoods of lighter, less powerful cars. A transmission and rear axle swap reminiscent of the late 50s with components from the local wrecking yard completed his recollection of the exact style of cars I grew up with and still love.

“All right,” I said jubilantly, “A real hot rod like they used to build them, using parts from other cars and not out of a catalog.”

“Oh yeah,” he agreed, “Got everything out of wrecking yards. Bought the motor out of a wrecked car for fifty dollars.” We reminisced about the old days of hot rods, wrecking yard parts, and untold hours spent on our backs underneath them to keep them running—fun stuff.

As they left, I walked with them, extended my hand to shake his and said, “It’s been a pleasure visiting with you.”

He acknowledged the same. Nodding toward the lady I assumed to be his wife, I reached to shake her hand when he introduced her as a friend from school days and how they had just recently reunited. Recalling with a smile, he recounted memories from how they became acquainted and classes they had together many years ago.

I told them I enjoyed not only the car memories but also loved hearing their special story. Then I watched them walk away as they had arrived: holding hands.

Comfortably perched back in the shade, I smiled, sighed and returned to my earlier thoughts of bonds formed early in life that dominate lifelong memories: “…sharing old memories and playing our songs again.”

 —Leon Aldridge

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

“You never get a second chance to make a good first impression.” —Old saying

A questionable first impression as a neighbor that has always, you might say, “bugged me,” came to mind last week in a conversation. The topic was tales of good first impression attempts that went badly.

Right out of college and starting a new job, life was making a good impression on me when I bought my first house. Located on a quiet extension of Dogwood Street in Mount Pleasant, Texas, just around the corner from where I grew up, my closest neighbors were across the street.

Mr. and Mrs. Hoggatt were the nicest people anyone could ever want for neighbors. The retired couple with a “yard of the month” home set a high standard for me to follow as the newest neighborhood participant in the water, fertilize, mow and trim game.

While finishing my gourmet TV dinner one evening in my still sparsely furnished “castle,” the phone rang. “Hello, this is Mrs. Hoggatt across the street. We would like to come over and welcome you to the neighborhood if it’s convenient.”

“Sure,” I said. “Come on over.” I had met the Hoggatts once during high school and looked forward to making a good impression on them as their new neighbor. Hastily gathering up leftover aluminum TV dinner plates from previous meals, I carefully filed them under my used couch with copies of car magazines that had been lying here and there.

While dusting off one of the two pieces of furniture in one of my two furnished rooms, I got a glimpse of the tiny moth that flew out of the lampshade and fluttered around my head. I paid no attention as I swatted at him, but he gained my undivided attention once he winged his way into my ear.

I had no concept before that moment that one little moth, once inside your head, could create the acoustical resonance of the Texas A&M Aggie marching band.

First futile attempts to extract the critter with a cotton swab succeeded only in driving him deeper. “Float him out,” was my next plan of attack. My head was still in the sink with warm water running freely in my ear when I heard it.

“Ding-dong!”

“Was that the doorbell,” I wondered raising my drenched head from the sink? “The Hoggatts.” Hastily arranging wet hair with a towel did little to alter the effect of being soaked to the waist.

“Hello, please come in,” I said, stepping back from the door. I wondered what sort of picture I must have presented, but one look at their faces erased any doubt.

“I have furniture in this room,” I said directing them to the rear of the house where my “one couch and lamp den” was set up.

“Well, hasn’t it been hot lately,” Mr. Hoggatt offered as a conversational starter? “Yes, it has,” I responded, shaking my head to one side like a swimmer emerging from the pool, an action that served only to revive the soggy moth and provoke him to resume his thrashing around.

“And, you just graduated from East Texas State University,” Mrs. Hoggatt stated. “Yes, ma’am. That’s correct,” I said, “And I have a bug in my ear.”

“I beg your pardon,” they said simultaneously. “A moth … and he’s having a heyday in there,” I confessed.

Rising and moving toward the door, Mr. Hoggatt said, “We’ll get together another time. But, it’s been nice visiting with you.”

A trip to the ER quickly remedied the moth melee. What took a while longer was my second attempt at a more favorable first impression. Let’s just say there were some bugs that had to be worked out first.

 —Leon Aldridge

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

“Long distance information,
Give me Memphis, Tennessee
Help me find a party
That tried to get in touch with me.”
—“Memphis” song lyrics by Chuck Berry

Phones have come a long way since the days of talking to an operator to place a call. Now, you just talk to Siri.

Our first home phone was simple, black and utilized a rotary dial to reach out and touch others for talking, provided they had one, too. It was also the days of party lines. If you picked up while another party was using the line, you just had to hang up and wait for them to finish talking. Or, if you were mischevious, just pick up on it every couple of minutes to irritate them.

Phones were amazing then, but it sure could be frustrating when I had to wait for someone on the party line in order to talk to my friends.

When I entered the workforce a few years later, the simple, black devices for talking gained a row of buttons across the bottom allowing for more lines. That must have been the system our Dallas newsprint supplier used in the early 1980s when I was the publisher at the Center, Texas, Light and Champion. The young lady who took my call for an order just before 5:00 one afternoon said, “Please hold one second. I have someone on the other line.” A click followed and immediately she was back with me. “I have to go,” she said, “can we get together later for a drink and talk?”

Recognizing what she had done, I calmly replied, “Absolutely, but can you take my order first?” A moment of silence preceded, “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry. I hit the wrong button. I am so sorry.”

“That’s all right, I laughed. “It would take me three hours to get there anyway unless you wanted to meet me half way.”

The trip would have been more than halfway last week when Valerie Cosby at KTBS TV in Shreveport called. She wanted to show me what their marketing programs could do for Bird and Crawford Forestry Monday at 3:00 p.m.

Appointment made, the “goodbyes” had started when I said, “I think I know you.” I was the marketing director at Portacool a few years ago, and we talked about advertising. Your reporter Rick Rowe did a feature story on the company.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I remember, and I remember you. So how did you wind up in Shreveport?”

“I’m not in Shreveport,” I replied, I’m still in Center.”

Silence followed. Then she said, “I called your number in Shreveport and was told I was being transferred to you.”

“And, you were,” I said. “We also have an office in Houston. Would you like to talk to someone there … I can transfer you?” After explaining how the phones in our offices in Center, Shreveport and Houston were all one system, she laughed and said, ” I’m glad we didn’t hang up before I learned that, otherwise I would have been at your Shreveport office Monday afternoon.”

Phones are still amazing. I don’t have to wait on party lines. Offices can be seamlessly connected between any number of cities as one. Phones have assumed the function of many everyday things like cameras, watches, calculators and more, all while connecting you to the outside world.

Yet with all of the advancements, I still ask myself when I stand in a chair on my patio trying to reach out and touch a cell phone signal: “How long will it be before the major phone company that can do these amazing things learn how to provide Center, Texas, with a decent cell phone signal past the second bush on the left side of Main Street?”

Long distance information? Operator? Siri? Anyone … hello?

“The road of life twists and turns, and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination.” —Don Williams, singer and songwriter

Roads to success are not always easy … or easy to explain, for that matter. But, whatever path to success each of us finds, we like to do our best and know that our work is appreciated.

Feedback is a good gauge to help writers know when their readers are engaged. I love all comments, especially from fans I’ve never met and just happen to cross paths with somewhere. I not only get support, ideas, or suggestions for improvement, but I also gain new friends … like the lady in the grocery store last week. We both had that “searching for something” look when we passed in the aisle. She smiled and asked if I knew where the Velveeta was located. “With the baking supplies,” I replied, adding, “Why they put it there, I’ve never understood.”

“You write that column in the paper,” she said. “I recognize your picture.”

“Guilty!”

“I can’t wait to read it every week,” she said. “I can tell by the way you write, you enjoy what you do.”

“Guilty again … and thank you.”

“It must be wonderful to enjoy a career having always known what your passion was and loving what you do.”

I looked around then said with a chuckle, “I’m sorry. I thought you were talking to me.” Knowing my impulsive humor needed an explanation, I continued. “My road to writing was long and winding. Went to college to be an architect but came out with a degree in psychology and art.”

“So, you started writing with a liberal arts degree. That’s fascinating,” she smiled.

“No,” I continued. “I taught special education for a couple of years but learned that just wasn’t for me. So, on the strength of high school mechanical drawing classes, I got a job drafting house plans for a construction company. When it closed, a friend offered me a job at his weekly newspaper as a photographer utilizing skills acquired at racetracks when I was a drag racing driver.

“Education, construction, photography, drag racing …” she said pausing between each word.

Hoping to dig my way out of a hole that was getting deeper by the minute, I added, “That was just until I decided what I wanted to do. I remained in the newspaper business a few years before also working as an office manager for a tire store chain, a brief stint in the office supply business and a nursing home office manager,” I concluded. “Following those diversions, I knew communication is where I belonged, so I returned to journalism.”

“But, you wound up in newspapers without a journalism education,” my newfound friend followed.

“Well not exactly, I have a master’s in communication and post-graduate work toward a Ph.D. in journalism,” I said, “earned while teaching journalism at Stephen F. Austin State University.”

“And, so you also taught journalism …” she said. “So how long have you been with the newspaper here?”

“I’m not employed by any paper,” I said. “But, I’ve worked as editor and publisher for several newspapers, plus owned a newspaper at one time. My writing is part-time freelance now. My full-time profession is marketing director for an environmental and forestry firm. I was the marketing director for an international manufacturing company for 14 years before that.”

“That is some resume you have,” she said. “It is so nice to meet you, but I better move along. Where did you say the Velveeta is located?”

“Go down about three aisles,” I pointed, “Then …”

“I really do enjoy your columns, please keep writing them,” she said walking away before I could finish the directions.

Guess she figured someone with so many twists and turns in their road of life might not be the best source for the shortest route to the Velveeta.

—Leon Aldridge

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

“My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it.” —Mark Twain

Saw a ’55 Cushman Highlander motor scooter for sale last week at $5,500. That’s considerably more than the one I came within a heartbeat of calling mine when I was 12 years old.

Sixth grade was winding down at South Ward Elementary in Mount Pleasant, Texas, in the Spring of 1960 when my friend Gary Cornett did something that kindled one of the more serious unrequited love affairs of my life.

Just as I threw a leg over my bicycle headed home for lunch, Gary rolled up on his Cushman Highlander. “Nice looking scooter,” I said. Before I could start peddling, he hit me with, “Wanna ride it to lunch?” Some questions have only one logical answer at 12. I thanked him, jumped once on the kick-starter and was gone.

 

The wind in my face and the single-cylinder motor thumping below me while cruising up Redbud Street turned an ordinary lunch into a life-long memory. I parked under a shade tree and went in the house. Whether mom heard me coming, or it was just a keen mother’s intuition, I’ll never know.

“How did you get home?”

“Gary’s scooter,” I said nonchalantly, thinking that would soften her reaction. It didn’t.

“What are you doing riding someone else’s motor scooter,” she asked in that “mom” tone of voice.

“He offered to let me.”

“You know better,” she continued, her voice growing louder. “I don’t like those things. You could get killed … and damage Gary’s scooter. Eat your lunch right now and get it back to school. And, I don’t ever want to hear of you getting on one again—do you understand me?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

Scant weeks later while spending summer days with my grandparents down the road in Pittsburg, Texas, my grandfather invited me to ride with him up to W.R. DeWoody’s Western Auto. Another question with only one logical answer because I knew the drill: a stop at the Piggly Wiggly parking lot where he would let me drive. Guiding his ’57 Ford off the parking lot, I awaited his instructions that I already knew by heart, “Shift to second, turn on the back street, park at the back door. And, don’t tell your grandmother I let you drive.”

Once inside, he headed toward the front seeking help for whatever it was he needed. I went straight to the new Cushman scooters sitting near the wall helping myself to some daydreams. I was still dreaming when he came over, took the price tag that dangled from the handlebars in his hand, and said loudly, “Two hundred and nineteen dollars?” He followed that with a loud whistle to further underscore his opinion of the price.

Several seconds of silence passed. Then he asked, “Reckon you could ride that if I bought it?”

“I rode my friend’s,” I said as my heart raced at the thought of taking the scooter home. Then as fast as it had taken off, my heart flatlined when he decided, “I better not. If I bought that for you, your mother would have my hide.”

“We can keep it at your house,” I pleaded.

“Then your mother and your grandmother would have my hide,” he chuckled.

Mom also objected years later when I bought my first motorcycle at age 20, and again every time for some 35 years that I told her about one of my many trips riding throughout much of the U.S.

I was almost 40, however, before the next time I felt the wind in my face riding on a Cushman motor scooter. It was a nicely restored red Super Eagle acquired from Dennis Leggett at Leggett Cycle in Joaquin, Texas, and riding it was just as exciting as that lunchtime ride was at 12.

However, I honored my mom’s warning from the sixth grade. “I don’t ever want to hear of you getting on one again—do you understand me?”

She didn’t. Because I never told her about the one I bought from Dennis.

—Leon Aldridge

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

Photo credit—Top of page: 1959 Cushman Motors subsidiary of Outboard Marine Corporation magazine ad

“Everybody likes a roller coaster ride.” –Pete Wasserman, English record producer, songwriter, and railway enthusiast.

“That looks awesome,” responded my son, Lee. “I would go there to ride that one.”

His reply was to my message last weekend asking if he had plans to ride the world’s tallest, fastest, scariest, baddest roller coaster ever that debuts at Canada’s Wonderland park next year.

Lee’s been a coaster junkie since reaching the minimum height requirement. He’s closing in on 40 and still loves them. I’m betting he’ll ride the Yukon Striker billed as the fastest dive coaster at how fast … 80 mph? My last 80 mph “dives” were at places like a stretch of Titus County, Texas, road appropriately dubbed the “roller coaster” when I was a teenager or the old “thrill hill” in Shelby County.

The Canadian coaster is also touted as the longest dive coaster at how long … 3,625 feet? Can’t be any worse than that Delta Flight I was on landing at Chicago one morning during a thunderstorm. The freefall squeezed three inches off my waist and created enough airspace between my wallet and the seat to accommodate a Sears catalog.

The tallest dive coaster at 245 feet “including underground.” Falling that far into a hole in the earth? No, thanks. I was out on the first two.

Despite my scoffing, there was a time when challenging the best wooden coasters from Panama City Beach, Florida to Santa Monica, California was my passion. My son came by his honestly.

Unlike Lee, my passion soon turned to excitement with both feet planted on terra firma and without all the blood in my body shoved up between my ears.

I still believe every ounce of blood and a couple of organs were behind my eyeballs on The Starliner, an attraction at what was the Miracle Strip in Panama City Beach in the 60s and 70s. The wooden coaster ran the entire length of the park along the beach.

Panama City Beach is a different place now than it was in 1973 when a bunch of bike riders from Mount Pleasant rode to Florida spending a week at the “luxurious” Barney Gray Motel. Besides taming the Starliner, we basked on the beach, suffered the sunburn of a lifetime, and got our first flash from a genuine streaker. Sorry, Ethyl, we looked.

I also looked one night a few years earlier riding the Sea Serpent on the opposite side of the continent at Pacific Ocean Park in Santa Monica, California. The 1926 wooden coaster offered a dive with an ocean view. Mine was a memorable view of a moonlit Pacific Ocean in the summer of ’67 just months before the once popular pier closed for good.

It was one night at the long closed-for-good Hamel’s Park in Shreveport that I walked away from my last ride. After a youth spent on the best coasters in the country, it was a small kid’s ride beside the Red River where I silently prayed for it to end. I was riding with daughter, Robin, who was about ten at the time. Both of us were shrieking through the night air. For her, they were expressions of joy.

Mine were more along the lines of long-time good friend Petey Gandee’s response to Lee’s message last weekend after watching the video of the Yukon Striker, “I just threw up watching it.” Doubters: Google “Yukon Striker coaster” and see for yourself.

Last week’s coaster conversation ended when Lee said, “I went to Fiesta Texas yesterday and rode The Goliath, The Batman, The Superman and The Wonder Woman (all coasters). I had a blast!”

“Cool! Ride them again and call it my turn,” I told him. “I’ll watch from the ground.“

—Leon Aldridge

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

“City people make most of the fuss about the charms of country life.” — Mason Cooley, American writer and educator 1927-2002

Country life may indeed appear more charming when viewed from inside the city limits. However, viewed from the perspective of those who grew up living and working on a farm, the definition of charm may vary a little.

Response to last week’s offering on outhouses in this space was brisk. Feelings fell between humor and appreciation—humorous stories about outhouses, appreciation for their having faded into history, or some of both. The difference is again likely a matter of perspective.

I grew up from the city perspective to whatever degree living in small Texas towns could be defined as city living. Maybe dad’s wearing a white shirt and tie to work at Perry Brothers five-and-dime store qualified us.

This city dweller’s introduction to a country perspective was provided by the Hales, a family of farming folks near Crockett, Texas, in the mid-50s, and their son, Wayne, who was my friend.

A dirt driveway connected the Hale’s simple four-room house to a dirt county road and circled a huge tree. From that circular path, one gate on the left led to the house and one on the right revealed a pasture that was home to some milk cows.

Circumventing the tree and driving straight ahead led to a shed under which was parked an old gray Ford tractor and farm trailer. It was also where they parked their green, late-1940s GMC one-ton flat-bed truck although only the cab would fit under the shed. It was the only form of transportation the Hale’s owned.

Their house sat way up off the ground with nothing to stop a cold North wind blowing under it but a couple of resident hound dogs that delighted in barking at anything that moved and some things that didn’t.

At the end of that legendary path out the back door of the house, and sort of in line with the tractor shed, sat the outhouse: aka the privy.

It was a time when air conditioning was new and still scarce enough that the few businesses enjoying it enticed customers with “refrigerated air” signs in the window. It was even scarcer in homes. An oscillating fan provided the only breeze not only in the Hale’s house but also at our house in town.

Heat at the Hale’s was a wood-burning stove in the kitchen and also where the only water in the house was available. There was no television, but as with air conditioning, there was also no TV at our house in town.

My initial taste of country life at the Hale’s was where I first rode a horse, rode on a tractor, rode sitting on the back of a one-ton truck, and the only time I took a bath in a number-three washtub in the kitchen. And, yes, it was my first time to sit and ponder dirt dabbers buzzing in an outhouse.

It was also where I enjoyed home cooked meals in the most literal sense of the word. Vegetables from their garden, milk from their cows, eggs from their chickens and cured meat from their smokehouse went into any meal they put on the table.

Maybe it is true that country life viewed from this side of city dwelling is charming because of horses, tractors, home-cooked meals or riding in the back of trucks. Granted, I was never around to plow fields, harvest crops, build fences, chop wood, or milk cows.

But, it sure seemed like a lot of fun to me. Except for outhouses … those are probably best left to both humorous memories and being thankful they are no longer a way of life.

—Leon Aldridge

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

“If you wish your outhouse was as nice as those at the state park, you might be a redneck.”—Jeff Foxworthy

What do outhouses, my kids, and a small book written in 1929 have to do with education?

Charles “Chic” Sale, vaudeville and movie actor in the 1920s and 30s, authored a small book, The Specialist. It was about a carpenter whose specialty was building outhouses. My mom’s father bequeathed to my dad, his prized copy of the book, and it’s now in my library.

My library of column writing from over the years yielded one last week that I penned 25 years ago chronicling my efforts to school son Lee and daughter Robin on the finer details of life with an outhouse. Class convened one day when I mused that the well house at our new Pipe Creek, Texas, Hill Country home “looked like an outhouse to me.”

“A what,” asked my then-young son Lee. “What’s an outhouse?” For the educational experience that ensued in answering his question, recollections of Sale’s book from many years ago served as my text.

“Nowadays, ‘three rooms and a path’ will bring a snicker even in rural areas,” I began. “There was a time, however, when it described a way of life with an outdoor toilet also known as a privy.”

“The bathroom was outside,” they gasped in disbelief?

“Yep, and you could spot well-to-do families with their three-holers sporting fancy leaf designs for door ventilators,” I said. “While regular folks had just one or two-holers with a crescent carved in the door.”

While my kids processed the concept of “privies,” I imparted the importance of the path. “The path needed to be straight so that on rainy days when you had to run, you didn’t wind up in the mud, or the woodpile.”

“Are you sure about all this,”  they continued to scoff.

“Absolutely. And, it was smart to make sure that the path went by the woodpile. With an average of five or six trips a day, family members could easily keep the wood box in the kitchen filled.”

I would like to report that the look on my kid’s faces told me they were duly impressed so many things had to be considered in outhouse construction. Truth of the matter was, they were more duly impressed there really was such a thing as an outhouse.

“Little things like the door swinging in was critical,” I added. “Mid-day in August, when the dirt-dabbers buzzed up in the corners, it was nice to open the door to catch a breeze. But, if the door swung out, you just couldn’t risk leaving it open and have someone coming up the path before you knew it. Getting up off the seat and reaching outside to grab the door to close it, you might get caught.”

“Speaking of being caught, it was a good idea to anchor it down securely, too,” I said. “Halloween night was risky when devilish youngsters prowled with evil pranks on their minds.”

“Couldn’t take risks with the inside either,” l added. “Especially with the seat. Making the hole round and sanding the edges nice and smooth could cause one to lose his or her garden to crabgrass. But, cut the holes square with an old ragged saw, and about four minutes flat was the average stay.”

“Another important construction detail was adding beams under the seat: made it a lot stronger. Nothing caused a bigger ruckus at the homecoming picnic than that cousin from up north falling through if the seat gave away.”

“Last, but not least was a hook or a nail for the Sear‘s catalog. While that was standard equipment, you might occasionally see a box to hold corn cobs, too. Generally speaking though, the cob box was an indication of old timers in the family since it was always hard to teach an old dog new tricks.”

“Catalogs? Corn cobs?” Robin asked. “I’m really glad we don’t have outhouses anymore.”

“Me too,” I agreed. “But, just remember what I’ve told you. And, when you happen upon an old retired privy out in the weeds, stop and place your hand over your heart kids. You are in the presence of an unsung hero of the American way of life.”

—Leon Aldridge

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

“It is inhumane, in my opinion, to force people who genuinely have a medical need for coffee to wait in line behind people who apparently view it as some kind of recreational activity.“—Dave Barry, American author and columnist

Coffee is indeed somewhere between medicinal and therapeutic. It’s also plausible to me that the benefits of coffee may be to some degree determined by what sort of container from which one’s java is enjoyed.

Such was the topic of office conversation last week when comparisons arose about the virtues of caffeine consumption from one of the increasingly popular insulated metal cups versus my favorite: the classic curved-side, thick bottom, porcelain mug.

Honestly, I’ll drink good hot coffee out of almost anything, but I do like the old-fashioned mugs.

The classic mug revered by many coffee drinkers is actually a product of World War II. Research notes the military commissioned Victor Insulator Company to design a mug employing thick walls for insulating properties and durability, plus extra weight on the bottom to avoid tipping over. The result quickly became an American eatery icon and what has come to be commonly called the “diner mug.”

The diner mug is also the basis of many coffeeshop and cafe memories for me growing up in a coffee drinking family. It was a pre-interstate highway time of small roadside cafes in every Texas wide-spot. If reducing your speed was required to get through a town, you could bet it had a cafe or diner.

Each one had not only tables and booths but also offered a counter near the kitchen where the coffee-only klatch or the dine-alone dinner clientele perched on stools. Chatter was constant as white-dress uniform wearing waitresses moved about rapidly refilling coffee mugs. They already knew what the regulars wanted and they greeted everyone as “sweetheart” or “honey.”

It was also a time when these small roadside cafes and diners were known for their coffee, good or bad. My grandfather always looked for one crowded with trucks on the parking lot. He swore that’s where the best cup in town was served.

His guaranteed first coffee stop on regular trips between Pittsburg in East Texas where I spent summers with my grandparents and Seymour out west of Wichita Falls where we lived at the time was a small cafe in Greenville. The inconspicuous eatery sat on the north side of what is now I-30 but was known then by its original designation of U.S. Highway 67. A simple sign noted the name of the place as, “Floyd’s Cafe.”

Floyd’s was known for good coffee. I know it was, or my grandfather would not have stopped as often as he did. But with every visit, my attention was fixed on a brightly colored plate hanging on the wall adorned with the hand-printed words, “Elvis Ate Here” and the date, “3-14-58.”

A music fan since about the time Elvis ate at Floyd’s, the anticipation of stopping there grew with each trip. My grandparents got their coffee, and I got to see the “Elvis plate” in the same cafe where Elvis ate.

By the late 60s when I was a student at nearby East Texas State University in Commerce, Floyd’s was still a good place for coffee…or a chicken fried steak or hamburger for that matter. And  Elvis’s plate was always there.

Floyd’s and Elvis were both gone way too soon after I left ETSU, and presumably Elvis’s plate as well. Also fading from Americana by then were uniformed waitresses and lunch counters.

Through it all, though, the venerable diner mug filled with hot medicinal coffee has remained. And for that, I am truly thankful every morning.

—Leon Aldridge

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

“Sharing is good, and with digital technology, sharing is easy.”— Free software movement activist and programmer, Richard Stallman.

With all due respect to Mr. Stallman, I beg to differ on the easy part. At least for some of us on some days.

Experience teaches that “learning curve” and “over the hill” are synonymous terms commonly shared to gauge different points on the same journey. Being able to now see over the top of the hill has shown me this is the point where that learning curve thing isn’t quite as easy as it used to be.

A typically easy Saturday morning last week quickly exploded into exasperation when I clicked the “publish” button on my blog site. That’s the button that magically catapults this column into cyberspace every Saturday morning, automatically sharing it with social media.

The magic was missing this time, however. Instead of receiving acknowledgment that my column was on digital newsstands everywhere, a warning label screen declared something to the effect of, “Not today, new rules.”

New Facebook rules had just turned a routine Saturday morning task into anything but routine. In a flash, “easy” went out the window and that learning curve thing? It shot exponentially straight off the chart. In non-geek terms, the warning label screen shared that Facebook no longer allows third-party sites like WordPress that I use to automatically share posts with them in the same manner that it has previously.

A frantic message to WordPress customer support returned information on how to restore harmony between Facebook and my column. Their prompt and understandable (for non-geeks like me) response spelled out two realizations: one, there is a difference in a Facebook page and a profile. Who would have thought it? Not me, I thought they were all “pages.” Two, I would have to create a brand new Facebook “page” just for my column, separate from my Facebook “actually not a page” I had been using ever since I learned how to spell Facebook.

In the meantime, Saturday morning was slipping away and concern for my faithful readers was mounting by the moment. The newspaper business makes you that way. Fortunately, it didn’t require much of a learning curve to think, “Hey, just post the link to Facebook manually and sort out the other stuff later.”

Done, I checked my “actually not a page” to make sure the column link was there, albeit late, and then it was back to my easy Saturday morning and coffee. Hours later, still in my routine, I checked Facebook to see what the court of public opinion was returning on the current edition of, “A Story Worth Telling.” Being a column writer makes you that way.

That’s when the second wave of exasperation hit. The column had garnered some “likes” and even three comments. Oddly though, the comments were from my two children and my sister, all of whom quickly let me know they could not see the column by clicking the link.

So, what was up with this? Others were obviously connecting to the column because they “liked” it, right? Checking the blog site provided a different answer. The column had never published to the web. This is where that “seeing over the top of the hill” thing comes in—this one was on me. I failed to follow through with the final phase when I became frustrated over falderal about new rules.

So, what did the Facebook “likers” like? Obviously, just the posted photo and teaser. But, to a person, they politely never mentioned I had posted a link that went nowhere.

Just goes to show that while sharing your love, your world or your thoughts isn’t easy for everyone, polite “friends” never share your mistakes. But family? Oh, they will share it with you in a heartbeat.

—Leon Aldridge

P.S. If my learning curve issues prevented you from accessing last week’s column, you can catch up here: Some people with cats go on to lead normal lives  I’m pretty sure this link will work …

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