Author: leonaldridge2015

“Barbershop: Where you get news, commentary, humor, and advice, along with a haircut.”—sign in a barber shop

“Barber Shop,” the sign in the window proclaimed. The fact I was strolling through a mall a couple of weeks ago when the sign caught my eye didn’t seem right. Could be because my barbershop memories predate malls.

The sign boasted an image of a red, white and blue striped pole all right, but no real barber pole was in sight. Any resemblance to the “Artistic Barbershop” in Mount Pleasant where I got my flattop trimmed growing up in the 50s and 60s was slight.

Chris Durant’s haircuts were six bits when I began frequenting his shop in the sixth grade. That was up to a whole buck and a quarter by the time MPHS granted me a diploma in 1966.

Appointments? You couldn’t get one, even if you wanted to. You just walked in, took a seat, joined the conversation or grabbed a comic book or magazine, and waited your turn. Protocol was an unspoken system. When Chris shook his cape with a pop and called out, “next,” someone would fill the seat. Every patron knew when it was his turn.

The bonus for a kid was a piece of Double-Bubble gum and a chance to read the latest issue of Popular Mechanics while waiting. Or, sneaking a peek at Esquire when none of the grownups were looking.

Another great thing about Chris’s barbershop was its location, right next door to the Martin Theater. Parking my red bike in the rack in front of the movie theater, walking next door to the barbershop then catching the Saturday matinee with my new haircut was one-stop shopping before the term was coined.

Some years later now living in Center, I followed the trend of replacing barbershops with an appointment at the beauty shop. In my case, it was more about the fact that I married a hair stylist and have entrusted her with the care of my hair ever since—what’s left of it.

After the “Classic Cut” salon closed, the building became “Boyd’s Barber Shop” when they rented the location to longtime barber, Boyd Adams.

However, the reality is that the decline of the traditional barber shops like Boyd’s has left communities with few examples of what a barbershop once meant to the male population—a time when they were social centers where regulars waited for a shave and a haircut, a trim, or just spent time sharing stories and jokes.

Jokes were commonplace in barbershops and no topic was sacred. Politics, religion, the government, local gossip and more were all fair game. Laughter was also aimed at those present. No guy expecting to be called a regular could take himself seriously, nor be excluded from the good-natured ridicule that accompanied the buzz of clippers and the smell of talcum powder.

Regulars also recognized that the guy behind the chair was more than just the local barber, he was a political commentator, a news reporter, and always patient to hear confessions while cutting hair.

The barbershop also served as a common link between blue-collar workers and white-collar professionals. However you earned your living, when you entered the barbershop, you were just one of the guys.

Now that I think about it, most of the above pretty well describes Boyd’s Barber Shop in Center. Plus, you’ll get trimmed by a barber that has clipped the hair of patrons from presidents to Presley—Elvis that is.

Maybe we should all get one more trim at a real barbershop before they’ve all left the building.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“They call it golf because all the other four-letter words were taken.” — Pro golfer Raymond Floyd

“How about you, Leon,” the unexpected inquiry came last week from a colleague at the office where a small group of us were reviewing a selection of golfing related promotional items. “Are you a golfer?”

My eyes glazed over and my mind drifted, recalling three times when golf and I really tried to become acquainted. The first was in high school at Mount Pleasant. Golf and I, we desired a relationship, but the chemistry just wasn’t there.

Our paths crossed again at East Texas State University in Commerce (better known these days as Texas A&M at Commerce), and it appeared that the sun, the moon, and the stars would align this time when a brother-in-law with golf clubs for sale and my search for easy P.E. credits came together. When the semester was over, Coach Boley Crawford took pity on me gracing my transcript with a passing grade, and luckily my brother-in-law decided he wanted to buy his clubs back.

It would be a few years before golf and I would try one last time for a meaningful marriage. Completing Shelby Newspaper’s first week of ownership of the Siloam Springs, Arkansas, Herald and Democrat, Jim Chionsini, Albert Thompson and I huddled at Dawn Hills Country Club to assess the progress that morning and enjoy some rest and relaxation that afternoon. The only flaw in the plan (for me) was that Jim and Albert’s idea of R&R was a round of golf.

I had already been tagged as an anomaly among newspaper publishers attending press conventions where the standard first-day format is golf. Scarred by memories of failed attempts, I always managed to dodge the humiliation of participating.

Few options for dodging presented themselves that Saturday in Northwest Arkansas as I gave it my best attempt at politely opting out. “Go ahead guys,” I offered with a sweeping motion of my hand. “I’m not a golfer. I’m just going to relax this afternoon.”

“Come on,’ Jim countered. “This is not a serious golf game, just celebratory fun.”

“You don’t understand,” I pleaded. “I really don’t play golf. Y’all go ahead, I’ll be all right. I’m gonna knock the thermostat down to about 65, curl up on the couch and watch an old movie.”

“Aw, come on,” Albert joined in the beckoning. “We’re just gonna hit a few balls and have fun.”

“I don’t have clubs, don’t have shoes,” I tried one more time to beg off.

“We can rent clubs,” Albert responded, “I’ll borrow a pair of shoes out one of my buddy’s lockers.”

“You guys have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” I said, feeling myself weakening.

Golf clubs on the cart and shoes reasonably close to my size on my feet, we embarked on Dawn Hill’s front nine. The first hole was brutal. Amassing enough strokes on one hole to equal their score for the next three, we moved on to the second. It was no better. I felt bad, but then remembered how I offered ample warning. With three holes completed, my score was close … to a nine-hole score.

Collecting my ball as Albert tallied scores, I saw Jim coming toward me. He walked up, put his arm around me and said, “Would you be terribly offended if we got you to just drive the cart and make trips to the bar?”

Relief rushed over me like a waterfall. “Offended,” I blurted. “I would be relieved. I tried to tell you guys I couldn’t play golf.”

I smiled last week at the recollection of that day almost 37 years ago. I was probably still smiling when my thoughts focused again on the office discussion and the question posed to me.

“No,” I answered. “I’m not a golfer. But, I’ve tried it before.”

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“A long, long time ago, I can still remember how,
That music used to make me smile.” American Pie—Don McLean

Suicide, necker, knuckle buster, or steering wheel spinner: terms used to describe a rare piece of Americana that, to a kid from the mid-50s, was better known as a “girlie knob.”

Plans to attend the “Rust Rally” car show in Pittsburg last Saturday featuring rusty hot rods (a.k.a. “rat rods”), pinup girl contest and live “rock-a-billy” music had me searching for the iconic auto accessories I had stashed. Somewhere.

 

Research reveals that steering wheel knobs were invented by Joel R. Thorp of Wisconsin in 1936. Popular in an era that predated power steering, the freely rotating knobs attached to a steering wheel made guiding the car with one hand less difficult.

Quickly becoming an accessory and a convenience, two things probably boosted their popularity. One was their adornment with images featuring scantily clad or swimsuit-wearing pinup girls, hence “girlie” knobs.

Another was a generation of crew-cut wearing youngsters learning that the devices allowed for controlling the car with one arm while leaving the other tightly wrapped around their date sitting next to them.

Finally wrapping my hands around the right box last week, I removed the dusty lid to discover the four pristine examples procured from one proprietor in Memphis, Tennessee in 1986.

With time to spare before boarding a flight back to East Texas after a business meeting, I invested it in an indoor flea market near the airport. Spotting the spectacular spinners, I knew at once they would soon be headed for a new home in Texas.

As I gazed on them with awe commonly reserved for viewing rare pieces of museum art, I overheard a couple of ladies standing beside me.

“Oh, look,” one said to the other. “I haven’t seen one of them in years. My daddy used to have one on the steering wheel in his pickup truck,” she giggled. “My mother would fuss about it, but my grandmother refused to ride with him unless he covered it with his handkerchief,” she laughed. “As kids, we used to sneak out to the barn and peek under the handkerchief when no one was looking.”

Smiling last Saturday as I peeked at my collection seeing daylight for the first time in many years, I remembered the ladies at the flea market. I also remembered Saturday afternoons in Mount Pleasant after the movie matinee when my friends and I parked our bicycles at the Western Auto Store on the square to investigate the store’s newest 45 rpm record arrivals.

Tunes by Elvis Presley and Fats Domino weren’t the only things on our mind, however. Although we perused the records, when we thought no one was looking our direction, we also managed to sneak a quick peek at the cardboard display of girlie knobs displayed behind the counter for sale at 98¢ each.

With a touch of the same juvenile delight Friday, I whispered “Perfect,” to myself as I removed the pinnacle piece from its storage spot. Still looking like new, the 1940s image of a blonde in a one-piece swimsuit against a crimson red background smiled over her shoulder as if to tease the driver.

Saturday arrived with me teasing my ’55 Ford, “Miss Vicky” up toward Camp County for the Rust Rally, rat rods and rock-a-billy music as the bathing suit blonde smiled at me from the car’s steering wheel.

If only for a day, it was 1955 again.

—Leon Aldridge

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

“My two favorite types of homegrown retail establishments are bookstores and hardware stores.”—Gary Borders, in his recent column, “Looking for the Quirky Locally Owned Stores.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Growing up in Mount Pleasant, hometown hardware stores were the norm with two of them on the downtown square: Mason’s Hardware and Roger’s Hardware.

A true appreciation for them on my part was cultivated in Center after becoming acquainted with Vance Payne at Payne & Payne Hardware.

I knew about, “the big red hardware store, on the corner on the square,” before moving to Center. Texas Business magazine featured the long-time Shelby County family business in a mid-1970s issue highlighting the store’s practice of displaying lawnmowers, wheelbarrows, and other “hardware and such like” (a Payne’s original phrase) on the sidewalk and leaving the merchandise outside on display after the store was closed.

Unfortunately, that level of public trust fell victim to the times in the years that followed that article as did many of the hometown retail establishments. Payne & Payne Hardware that opened in 1915, closed their doors in 1996.

Long-time friend and fellow columnist Gary Borders’ thoughts reminded me of the Payne & Payne hardware store in Center and of one of my favorite Vance Payne stories to tell, of which there are many.

What makes the locally owned businesses enjoyable are the unique personalities of the entrepreneurs who own them. That certainly was the case for Payne & Payne Hardware when you walked through the door and met Vance Payne’s friendly smile heading toward you.

“What ‘cha looking for,” Vance greeted me on one such occasion some years ago.

“Some roll-rubber matting ‘bout three-feet wide,” I responded.

‘Wha ‘cha gonna do with it,” Vance inquired. The question was standard fare, and I regarded it as being friendly and inquisitive. It became apparent, however, that the questioning was based on his desire to find the best solution for the customer’s need.

“Top of my workbench,” I said.

“Follow me,” Vance replied, turning and heading for the back door. Across Shelbyville street, we entered a storage building where some rummaging around produced exactly what was needed to fill my needs.

“Perfect,” I told him. “How much for six feet?”

“Five dollars,” he said.

Reconsidering my need at this unexpected bargain price, I updated my quantity. “How much for 15 feet.”

“Five dollars,” he said again without hesitation.

The silence was deafening as I did the math while racking my brain for an understanding of such business logic. So, I floated another quantity. “I think I’ll buy 20 feet, just to be sure I have enough.”

“Five dollars,” Vance said, his ever-present smile growing larger.

Deciding I was all in on this one, I teased him, “So what if I want the whole roll.?’

“Five dollars.”

“Well then, I guess I would be silly not to buy the whole roll,” I laughed. “But, why price the whole roll the same as six feet?”

“Because I need to get rid of it,” Vance said.

This was not my first negotiation with Vance Payne, and I already knew that every question drew me closer to a punch line, but I had to ask. “So, why didn’t you just price me the whole roll for five dollars to start?”

“You said you needed six feet,” he retorted, about to laugh out loud. “And, the customer is always right.”

Handing him a five and shaking my head, I headed off with the prized purchase under my arm. “A pleasure doing business with you, my friend,” I waved.

“Come back to see us,” Vance replied.

Memorable people are what you get at “homegrown” businesses. And, memorable experiences are what you got with Vance Payne.

—Leon Aldridge

Photo and epilogue: Payne & Payne “Hardware N’ Suchlike,” opened in 1915 and closed in 1996, but the building has remained to house other local businesses like Lil’s Deals as tenants. In 2017, the building was renovated in its original red color, and a new Payne family business opened its doors. Vance and Billie Sue Payne’s son, Josh, and his wife Lacie opened Payne & Payne “Home N’ Suchlike” offering home decor, registries and gifts, kitchen wares, and more.

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

“Education is what survives when what has been learned is forgotten.”  —B.F. Skinner

“You boys in the last row,” Mrs. Page announced one memorable afternoon near semester’s end at South Ward Elementary. “Tommy, Rodney, Joey, Leon. Report to Mr. Whitaker’s office when class is over.”

Public school curriculum 50-plus-years ago in Mount Pleasant equipped us with the sciences, history, math, English and other “book learning.”

A dozen years of showing up, applying ourselves and presto—we were graduated into the real world.

What about the psychology we would need in the real world, however? Training for business negotiation, raising children, and knowing what to do with life’s frequent curve balls?

Enter the educators: teachers and principals. Individuals who skillfully blended lessons-in-life training with the educational curriculum.

I remember those whose teaching and training made a difference at South Ward Elementary. I also remember that some of us required a little bit of special training, often the result of mischievousness. Teachers like Mrs. Page, Mrs. Beck, Mrs. Edwards, or Mr. Mattingly faithfully administered the book learning, but our deviations from the curriculum landed a few of us in the principal’s office for some of that special training.

Hardin Whitaker was a tall man, especially viewed from the perspective of a grade schooler. His office was right in the middle of the building, near the front door, the restrooms and water fountains, likely the result of astute planning. Most mischievousness was perpetrated near the restrooms and water fountains.

Our special training was not free, we earned it fair and square for our mischievousness in general: activities like, but not limited to, spit-wad practice when the teacher’s back was turned.

Bragging rights for personal achievement was derived from being part of a “group mischievousness,” then escaping the consequences when guilty parties were singled out. So, when Mrs. Page said, “Boys, I’ve told you for the last time…,” we all held our breath to see who was busted.

Mrs. Page’s crafty postponing of the inevitable compounded the anxiety and gave us more time to contemplate the fate that awaited us. Special training introduction to psychology 101.

“Why are you here, fellows,” Mr. Whitaker asked. He was taller than ever at that particular moment in time.

“I don’t know. Got me. Nothing. Wasn’t my fault,” echoed in a cacophony.

“Boys, you know why,” he recited while slowly removing his paddle from the desk drawer for us to see. The board of education. Psychology 101, part two.

“Every one of you knows better,” he added. “You are smart young men, too smart to have behaved badly enough to be here.” Psychology 101, part three.

“Each of you is capable of better behavior. I’m certain your parents would not be proud of you right now.”

This was Psychology 101, grand slam. My parents and I had an agreement. They agreed to it, but I didn’t get a vote. One lick at home for every lick at school. No questions asked—the teacher was always right.

Talking in unison on our part was now replaced with group head bobbing up and down … also in unison.

Rather than the anticipated, “Bend over and grab your ankles,” Mr. Whitaker then slapped the palm of his hand with the paddle resulting in a loud pop. Psychology 101, lesson concluded.

“You boys think that if I let you go, you could go back to Mrs. Page’s class and behave?”

Heads were still bobbing up and down in unison.

Quietly and orderly, we left the principal’s office on a warm spring afternoon long ago having received “special training,” the realization for which would be many years in coming, but never forgotten.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parked car.”—Bruce Springsteen

“See my mom,” a Mount Pleasant friend noted about the photo she sent to my inbox in Center. “And there’s my Granny, too. She would be my great-grandmother.”

“Neat photo,” I responded. “Love that old Dodge they’re posing with. Looks like a ’37 model.”

Old family photo albums often produce as much automotive history as they do genealogy and memories. My penchant for details in old black-and-whites, trying to imagine what was happening the day the shutter was snapped, has lead me to believe that’s not always coincidental.

One explanation for including the family sedan while “striking a picture” as my Granny called it, could be the pride families once took in auto ownership during a time when not every family enjoyed motorized transportation. For most who owned vehicles prior to World War II, cars were simply basic transportation. Usually, an old Ford or Chevy was already well-worn by the time someone smiling in the photo had bought it for less than the cost of half a tank of gas today.

Aging glossies depicting more affluent families still exude pride from posing with their Packards or Cadillacs, nattily attired in the latest fashion for an afternoon at the country club.

Once automobiles debuted, they quickly infiltrated American culture becoming not just transportation, but often guideposts and references for times or events in our lives. For generations, earning a driver’s license has represented a major ritual in the passage of maturity for teenagers symbolizing mobility and personality.

Other times, they are also bookmarks for memories. “Hey,” someone asked me at a family gathering recently, “Remember that big family reunion in Kentucky when we were just kids?”

“You mean that one when Uncle Bill drove his ’51 Mercury convertible all the way from California,” I asked?

More than one article of late, however, has suggested that we currently have a generation reaching adulthood that doesn’t deem automobile ownership important. Cited as a contributor is the number of children growing up in cities where lack of parking and ease of public transportation renders automobile ownership more of a burden than a boon.

Other reasons noted include the passing of an era when distinctive designs and a keen competition among manufacturers for eye appeal drew auto enthusiasts of all ages into showrooms every fall to see the dazzle Detroit was displaying. I know it did me. As a teenager approaching the magic moment of possessing a driver’s license, I collected dealership brochures memorizing every option and color combination available. With that knowledge, I spent hours producing sketches of my favorites, adding custom touches to resemble cars featured in magazines like “Rod and Custom” and “Car Craft,” turning a kid’s artwork into a dream hanging on my bedroom wall.

Dream automobiles have dwindled in recent decades, done in by cost-cutting measures, plus safety and economy regulations that have relegated today’s car lots into little more than rows of homogeneous collections of carbon-copy shapes discernable only by the manufacturer’s nameplate on them. Hardly anything with enough identity to create a dream or excitement.

My friend’s photos last week continued to excite as she sent numerous family snapshots with beautiful examples of cars from the 20s, 30s and 40s. “By the way,” she interjected with one of her submissions. “Did you go to school with a guy named Gene?”

“Yes, I did,” I responded. “Are you talking about Gene who drove the old Chevy pickup or Gene who had the sharp looking black ’56 Chevy?”

—Leon Aldridge

(P.S.—Special kudos to my longtime friend in Mount Pleasant, Texas, Susan Prewitt, for remembering my addiction to photos of old cars and sharing with me some great ones from her family photos.)

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“Home of the free, because of the brave.”

Severely damaged during the Battle of the Coral Sea, the U.S.S. Lexington aircraft carrier was scuttled May 8, 1942, to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Japanese.

In March of this year, the research vessel RV Petrel discovered the wreckage resting two miles below the ocean’s surface.

Monday, we celebrate Memorial Day honoring the memory of all who died in service to their country—including 218 on the Lexington. The official day for honoring all members of the armed services is Veteran’s Day, another deserving date set aside to pay tribute to those who have served their county in defense of freedom.

While we mark these important dates with extra respect, thanking all who have served is a practice in which everyone enjoying life in a free country should participate every day.

In that spirit, I’ll mark Memorial Day with a poem credited to a sailor who served on the U.S.S. Lexington. No mention was found of his name, or his fate. Whether we honor that sailor as one who died in service, or who was lucky enough to return, the poem illustrates, better than I am able to do, why we should honor veterans every day.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“Just a Simple Sailor”

He was getting old and paunchy,
   And, his hair was falling fast.
He sat around with his buddies,
   Telling stories of the past.
Of a war in which he fought,
   And, deeds that he had done.
In his exploits with his buddies,
   They were heroes, every one.
Tho’ sometimes to his neighbors,
   His tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened,
   They knew whereof he spoke.
But, we’ll hear his tales no longer,
   For old Nick has passed away.
And the world’s a little poorer,
   For a sailor died today.
He won’t be mourned by many,
   Just his children and his wife.
For he lived an ordinary,
   And, very quiet sort of life.
Held a job, and raised a family,
   Going quietly on his way;
The world won’t note his passing;
   Tho’ a sailor died today.
When politicians leave this earth,
   Their bodies lie in State,
While thousands note their passing,
   And proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell of their life stories,
   From the time they were young,
But the passing of a sailor,
   Goes unnoticed, and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution,
   To the welfare of our land,
Some politician’s broken promise
   And, the cons of his fellow man?
Or, the ordinary fellow,
   Who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country,
   And offers up his life?
The politician’s stipend,
   And the style in which he lives,
Are sometimes disproportionate,
   To the services which he gives.
While the ordinary sailor,
   Who offered up his all.
Is paid off with a medal,
   And, perhaps a pension small.
It’s so easy to forget them,
   For it was so long ago,
That our Nicks, Jims and Johns
   Went to battle for one and all.
We know it wasn’t politicians,
   With their compromise and ploys
Who won for us the freedom,
   That our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger,
   With your enemies at hand.
Would you really want a politician,
   With his ever waffling stand?
Or, would you want a soldier, sailor,
   Who has sworn to defend,
His home, his kin, and country,
   And would fight until the end?
He was just a common sailor,
    And his ranks are growing thin.
But his presence should remind us,
   We may need his like again.
For when countries are in conflict,
   Then we find a serviceman’s part,
Is to clean up all the troubles,
   That the politicians start.
If we cannot honor him now,
   While he’s here to hear the praise,
At least let’s give him homage
   At the ending of his days.
Perhaps a simple headline
   In the paper that might say:
Our Country is in mourning,
   For A Sailor Died Today.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Memorial Day and every day, remember our troops, living and deceased, in your actions and your prayers. Take time to say “Thank you for your service.”

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“I am more vintage than I am high fashion.” —Kat Graham

Should you hear the term “Fashion plate” in the same sentence with my name, I guarantee it’s fake news. A slave to fashion, I am not. Style changes should be regarded in the same manner as computer software upgrades—let everyone else test them first to make sure they work.

During my “at least once every ten years whether it needs it or not” closet cleaning last week, I was again reminded of just how many decades and style changes my wardrobe spans.

My attire for any day is usually determined by whatever is hanging in front of me when I walk into the closet. If it’s there, if I can see it and it’s clean, that’s what you’ll see me wearing today.

That program has its pitfalls, though. As an early riser, I’m typically getting dressed before sunup, and even more critical, before coffee. Many times, I’ve walked out confident about the way I was dressed only to discover by light of day, mixed with an infusion of caffeine, that my choices were not necessarily the best. Some days, it’s the wrong match, other days, the wrong decade.

These are the days when it’s a good thing I’m not a slave to fashion.

For me, it’s hard to get excited about fashion when today’s “in” styles are certain to be “out” by tomorrow. It does work in my favor, however, when things that were fashionable 30 or more years ago might be on the verge of a comeback. I’m never sure what’s “in” and what’s “out.” By the time I like something that’s in, it’s out. Not to worry, however. If it’s out, it will be back in soon.

A stroll in and out of my closet is reminiscent of something between a fashion museum exhibit and a thrift store clearance sale counter.

Over the years, I’ve tried samplings of styles touted as the fashion rage, and I still have most of them. That collection includes bell-bottoms (I hear they’re back in), white belts, paisley shirts (they’re definitely back in), and leisure suits (mine was light blue—but, I’m not sure they’ll ever make it back in).

I have a vested interest in suits, some with and some without—vests, that is. An interest in suits means I also have an extensive tie collection. Whatever the style, I have a variety of them: wide ones, narrow ones, striped ones, printed ones, special occasion and holiday ties—you name it, I probably have one.

Hanging in my closet are ties so wide that I can hide behind them and ties so narrow they won’t even cast a shadow. I’ve saved them all which means I can be tied to the fashion for any decade.

Decades of tee shirts adorn the better part of one hanging rack. Resembling travel posters for air shows, car shows, speed shops, vacation destinations and special events from California to Florida, they document time from the 1969 NHRA Springnationals drag races to the Highway 271 classic car cruise I enjoyed a few weeks ago.

Can’t fold them up and stuff them in a drawer, I wouldn’t be able to the see them. But, I can’t wear them— they’re memorabilia, not fashion.

So, with the shirts sorted, the ties tidy, and the closet cleaned, I can scratch that off my list for at least another ten years or so. What did I get rid of while cleaning? Nothing—after all, I’m not a slave to fashion.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

 

“God could not be everywhere, and therefore He made mothers.” —Rudyard Kipling

The first Saturday in May, I can usually be found right where I was last Saturday afternoon: watching the Kentucky Derby.

Am I a horse racing fan? Not particularly, but I am a huge fan of my mother’s home state, the Commonwealth of Kentucky. Her family lineage endears me to the running of the first leg of horse racing’s legendary Triple Crown, and reminds me that Mother’s Day is near.

While I’ve watched the race on television many times, experiencing the “Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports” in person remains on my bucket list. Maybe someday …

My mother, Indianola Johnson, was born in Winchester, Kentucky in 1923. She spent her childhood there and graduated from Winchester’s Clark County High School in 1941. She was the oldest of six siblings and was the first to marry. While making plans to wed a soldier in Texas named Aldridge and a make a move there to live, she received very good advice from a loving father. In a letter that she kept all her life in a cedar chest, Arthur Johnson advised his oldest daughter to “be true to God, to herself and to her family.” He emphasized the importance of the family part by urging all of his children to remain close to each other as they began their own families.

And, remain close they did. Annual family reunions spread between Texas and Kentucky, and Christmas gatherings for decades rotating between their homes, clearly defined the meaning and the importance of family for me.

As those years went by, Mom would listen to the “Run for the Roses” on the radio, or watch it on television when she could, fondly sharing stories about her heritage growing up in the horse racing region of Kentucky.

My adult years found me watching the derby while calling Mom, regardless of where my wanderings took me. It gave her an excuse to talk about Kentucky and gave me a chance to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. Mom died in 2010, but Kentucky Derby weekend still reminds me of her, and it still reminds me that Mother’s Day is coming up.

Not only was the Johnson family’s Kentucky heritage deeply instilled in me, but it also influenced my taste buds. I can’t think of Kentucky without a craving for snappy cheese dip from Hall’s on the Kentucky River at Fort Boonesborough, Hot Brown sandwiches made famous by the Brown Hotel in Louisville, and “Ale 8” soft drinks bottled only in Winchester. Though not a Kentucky original, White Castle hamburgers enjoyed while in Kentucky also rank high on that list.

A favorite photo of mom, the one at the top of this page, records her and her sister, Amy, standing near a roadside Ale 8 sign. Mom is on the right holding a kitten. I would guess them to be teenagers, which dates the snapshot in the mid to late 1930s. As with most old photos, it would be interesting to know the circumstances that placed them flanking that sign and posing for a picture. The additional sign behind Amy would indicate it might have been at a country store, perhaps the one at Becknerville they frequented, but that’s pure speculation on my part. However, the photo speaks volumes about them as it is. Both kept Ale-8 and a cat or two around all their lives.

Mom and Dad married in 1944 in Pittsburg, Texas, and lived their entire married life in Texas, but she never forgot her roots in the Bluegrass State.

I miss you, Mom. Thought about calling you Saturday. Justify got out of the gate clean and ran side-by-side with Promises Fulfilled, a 49-1 long shot, through the first half of the race. He took the lead and extended it down the backstretch to stake the win by two and a half lengths at the pole with jockey Mike Smith aboard.

And, by the way Mom, Happy Mother’s Day.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“What is economy for you? When you buy quality merchandise at consistently low prices and get S&H Green stamps on your cash discount.” —S&H Green Stamps ad slogan

“You keeping that old trash can,” asked someone as we disassembled the household my parents spent 62 years putting together.

“You mean this little black trash can with the poodle holding a parasol painted on it,” I asked? “Reminds me of Mom. I was just a kid the day she got this at the S&H Green Stamp store.”

Memories are a facet of harboring everything from old cars to small remnants of life past. The garage housing my trio of old cars is adorned with reminders of an era celebrating the same one the cars represent, the one during which I grew up. There’s the standard complement of automotive signs hawking cars and products long gone, but not forgotten. But, there are also a few recalling snippets of every day life that have unceremoniously slipped into extinction.

Things like trading stamps, once a boon to generations of families, that were dealt a blow from a changing retail economy ushered in by big-box stores and finished off by the Internet.

They originated almost 100 years earlier when merchants in the 1890s reportedly devised trading stamps as a bonus enticing customers to pay cash instead of carrying credit with the store: a common practice many years ago. Gas stations followed suit about 20 years later with chain supermarkets were on board by the 1920s.

Filled books of stamps were originally taken in trade for merchandise in the store giving away the stamps. In 1896, the Sperry & Hutchinson company became the first to offer them to different types of merchants and opened redemption centers where books of stamps could be exchanged for household items, furniture, jewelry, toys, and many other items.

S&H Green stamps became the most popular brand alongside names like Blue Chip, Gold Bond, Plaid and others employing the connotation of value, savings and “something for free.”

Traveling from Mount Pleasant, Texas, to the Green Stamp redemption center on South High Street in Longview with Mom and Granny was a big deal. The expectation was that Mom might have enough left over for something fun. That seldom happened, I suspect because she already had her books budgeted toward household needs before making the trip.

A little budgeting today will be in order among collectors seeking an original sign identifying the brand of stamp a merchant offered for doing business with them.

Inquiring about the price of one S&H Green Stamp sign at a car swap meet down close to Houston a few years ago very nearly required a dose of oxygen for me to recover and continue the quest. The search did continue however, and a couple of years later I happened up on one priced within my budget in an antique shop in Jefferson, albeit one with a little more “patina.”

A companion for it was adopted last weekend from a car swap meet in Fort Worth when a blue and yellow sign bearing “Blue Chip Stamps,” almost covered up by other items, caught my eye.

“Blue Chip Stamps” was a competitor to S&H Green Stamps, but research yielded little history about them other than their demise amid lawsuits and acquisitions.

They did have cool looking signs, however. A deal was made for the one I stumbled onto last weekend, and it has been added to my garage wall collection.

As I counted out money for the agreed on price, I briefly considered the humor in asking the vendor if he gave trading stamps with a purchase. That is until that other old stamp memory crossed my mind. You know the one .. about Mom making the kids lick stamps to stick in the books. That part wasn’t so funny.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).