Author: leonaldridge2015

“Artificial intelligence is wonderful. I told my computer that today is my birthday, and it said I needed an upgrade.” — Uncredited greeting card quote

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“You ever hear of the Turing Test,” Lou asked? “No, I haven’t,” I replied.

The question arose as I attempted to purchase a copy of Louis Antonelli’s debut science fiction novel, Another Girl, Another Planet.  Lou is a newspaper editor by day and a science fiction writer other times. He has authored 113 short stories published in the U.S., U.K., Canada, Australia, India and Portugal, and his work has garnered nominations for awards by a number of science fiction writer’s associations.

Paying Lou should have been easy, but the deal went South when I tried to use PayPal. Actually, groundwork was laid two years ago when I opened the account. For reasons unknown and unnoticed, until I began getting email greeting me, “Hello Aldridge Aldridge,” the account employed my last name as both first and last.

PayPal for online purchases with the unintentional alias worked without a hitch. However, selecting “cash” prompted the question, “Is Aldridge Aldridge your legal name?” Clicking “no” allowed minor corrections, two characters or less. Any further change was an artificial intelligence assumption that a “legal” name change was required necessitating a driver’s license, credit card statement, etc. All of this is accomplished lacking real-person intelligence. Translation: This is going to take a while.

Explaining to Lou the hassle I’d run into, I promised him one of those antiquated forms of payment, a check. Then added, “As I was dealing with PayPal trying to order a book titled Another Girl, Another Planet, I saw some strange irony that trying to get something done online can be like dealing with another person from another planet.”

This prompted Lou’s earlier question about the Turing Test, and his answer: “(Alan) Turing said (in 1950) the goal of computer science would be to come up with a machine or program that, if you are communicating with it via text or voice (not in person), you couldn’t tell that you weren’t communicating with a real person. Ever since then, every time someone invents a system to automatically communicate with people, they say they’re trying to beat the Turing Test.”

Wikipedia adds: “Since Turing first introduced his test, it has…become an important concept in the philosophy of artificial intelligence. Also known as AI.”

Book order done and back to PayPal, I uploaded required documentation asking simply for a correction of the first-name error. Some form of intelligence, I’m betting artificial, determined I needed an automated reply covering everything I already knew and had already done. Thinking I could outsmart their AI with a series of two-character changes to accomplish the correction proved to be a fail. It did however, prompt a real person response—a message that my name was successfully updated to Ledridge Aldridge. How ironic. Real-person intelligence intervened to foil my AI work-around. Happy to discover real-person intelligence, however, I responded with a recap of what needed to happen. Update: As of this writing, I’ve had no further response from PayPal intelligence, real-person or artificial. And, I also remain known in PayPal circles as Ledridge Aldridge.

Personally, I don’t think artificial intelligence will ever reach the point we cannot discern AI from human intelligence. I know, because I asked Siri, and she said so. She also knows about the Turing Test.

—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).

“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined.” – Henry David Thoreau

Made plans for celebrating as the old year fades away and the new year arrives? Better yet, what’s your plan for living the story of your life in 2018?

That’s not a stock question, by the way. I ask because it’s on my mind as I finalize a 2018 plan that includes more than just enjoying the fireworks. The new year will barely be underway before I hope to be celebrating another birthday. And, regardless of your personal reaction to birthdays, I’m still holding to the opinion that continuing to have them is a good thing.

This will be one of those landmark birthdays. You know, the ones that end with a zero? The kind that are deserving of special contemplation. I’m contemplating looking beyond the usual resolutions list: Lose weight. Save more money. Learn something new. Be a nicer person. Return all my overdue library books. Even the most noble of resolutions about being more productive and making life easier are paling in comparison to doing more of something we usually tend to do less of: Using our imagination. Being creative. Learning to play more.

We played as children, using our imaginations to become cowboys rounding up the bad guys, movie stars in the spotlight of a leading role, or sometimes firemen rescuing people and battling raging flames. But, there’s just something about this adulting thing that teaches us to grow up. Quit acting like a kid. Take on more responsibility. And, what happens? We forget how to play, of all things.

Playing is important because there is a fine line between a child’s play and an adult’s imagination. Both require using the mind to discover what’s hidden in the heart. My plan for 2018 is a return to playing more—using my imagination to live out the stories of life in my heart, the kind we all dreamed of as kids.

It’s one of those adulting things to spend our lives going, doing, looking, documenting, collecting, and other regimens considered to be important. And, to some degree, a fair amount of those regimens are required to figure out what the story of our life is all about.

We also spend a great deal of our lives thinking that story is the destination, where do we want to be and by what date? What do we hope to have accomplished? As we mature, we come to see our life as doing these things as a means of support, hoping someday to take a breath and look back on what we’ve accomplished. But, that’s not the story of our lives, that’s the destination.

The story of our life lies is the journey. Do we have a curiosity about the world we’re passing through? Do we daydream about the way we want the story to go? Do we play out the script we want for the story of our life? We should, you know. After all, when it’s the story of our life, the best part is we get to write the story ourselves.

Do we go confidently in the direction of our dreams like we did as a child with faith in ourselves, and without fearing mistakes? Perfection comes not in avoiding mistakes, but by learning from them to make corrections. Playing as a child meant sometimes falling off our stick horse, but we wiped away the tears and got back on it. If we didn’t, the bad guys would have gotten away.

One of the best things about the story of our life is that it is never too late to start on the best part of the story. Best sellers are not written in chronological order. Academy Award winners in blockbuster movies are rarely won by first time actors, or by the youngest actors. The best day to start playing again is today.

Remember to play during the journey, live the life you dream about every day, be the person you want the people around you to be, and that adulting destination stuff will magically take care of itself.

Oh, and that includes the fireworks this weekend. Best wishes for great fireworks, a new focus on the journey, and a happy and prosperous 2018!

—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).

“It is Christmas in the heart, that puts Christmas in the air.” —W.T. Ellis

Orange and yellow flames casting dancing patterns of light among soft shadows. Pinpoints of color accentuating a decorated tree. Children gazing at presents with anticipation and excitement. The mixture of sights and sounds with comforting warmth provides a perfect setting for Christmas-time reflections in the heart.

Christmas is a season for reflecting and a season that by tradition leans heavily on stimulating fires that are conducive to reflective moments. Whether a roaring camp fire in the wilderness, or a glowing fireplace at home, for reasons likely linked to those who first incorporated ceremonial fires before Christmas became a season, the glow of a mesmerizing fire has for generations been a stimulus for sharing thoughts. Stories reflecting on life’s memories passed from one generation to the next.

I learned a long time ago that the magic of Christmas resides in the heart of a child. I’ve also come to believe that Christmas is for children and the young in heart of all ages. Maybe that’s because Christmas reflections begin at an early age when as a youngster we are given cause to consider whether we have been “naughty or nice.” It took very little reflecting to leave us hoping that St. Nick had been more informed about our nice than about our naughty.

The years add depth and understanding about reflecting on what we can do for others as the Yule season turns from a time of getting to a time of giving. The joy of Christmas past as a child also causes reflection on special memories made with our children.

About 25 or 30 Christmases ago, I watched my son, Lee, as he busily worked at wrapping gifts. In the joy of it all, he stopped his busy pursuit long enough to look at me and say, “Dad, I love Christmas.”

“It is a wonderful time of the year,” I agreed with a smile in my heart and enjoying, through him, the excitement and the anticipation of Christmas.

My daughter, Robin, enjoyed Christmas, too—in her own memorable artistic manner. With presents opened and playtime at hand, she opted to make something from the empty boxes and paper leaving new toys to wait. Who needs new toys when you can recreate Elvis’ Graceland with cardboard and Christmas paper, right? Yep, she really did that.

These days, watching the grands giddy with excitement about the season underscores another generation of Christmas reflection. Children are a gift. They are given to us as a learning tool, typically at a time in life when we think we already know everything. If we learn the lessons intended for us, we realize there are several things we don’t know including the fact that we need to stay busy learning from them because we are granted only a few fleeting Christmases with their childhood. Time goes by much too quickly.

I’ve always thought it convenient that Christmas and the new year are positioned back-to-back. That way our seasonal reflections put us in the frame of mind not only to cherish the happenings of the year just past, but also to set our sights and hearts on the year ahead.

Reflecting on the past year in a moment of solitude and contentment brings to mind those who have made the year special. It’s in this moment of reflection that we try to remember those special people in our hearts and our lives, and to wish for them, the joy and happiness of Christmas.

Enjoy the season in your heart, see the magic through the eyes of a child, preferably by flickering firelight. Merry Christmas to you and yours.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo by the author, Christmas 1982 in Center, Texas. My daughter, Robin Elizabeth Aldridge, making a deal with Santa Claus.)

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).

“You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lips.” Oliver Goldsmith— Irish novelist, playwright and poet

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Silent role model. The term leaped off a yellowing newsprint page last week from a column I wrote more than 20 years ago.

What other kind of role model is there? I don’t recall ever singling out anyone and saying, “That person would make a great role model. I’ll just do what they do.” I learned long ago that we silently, and often unconsciously, emulate actions we see in others. And, we likewise become unknown role models the same way when people view us in the same manner, more by default than by choice. I learned that from one of the best silent role models I knew, my father.

The aforementioned column drafted for The Boerne (Texas) Star newspaper years ago was rooted in reflecting on realizing that my primary role model had been my father. He might have been surprised had you told him that he was my role model. Truthfully, I would have been as well because I never told him until I wrote that column. And, that’s because I didn’t fully realize it myself until then.

The column, discovered while going through folders of old columns attempting to digitize them, was written during the week of dad’s 72nd birthday. There had to be a bit of irony in also discovering last week that November was National Inspirational Role Models Month.

My father was a man of few words, at least about offering advice. He taught me much about life, logic and love. But, he didn’t do it often by telling me, he did it more by living it. I learned by watching how he loved and cared for his family, how he took care of his business, and how he lived his life. I saw his work ethic. I saw how he contributed to the community by volunteering, and how he loved his country.

There were at least two memorable times, however, when he did offer direct advice in father and son conversation. “Offered” is not an accidental term. He never mandated, or pressured me into doing anything, opting mostly for telling me what would happen should I follow the course I was on, leaving the decision to stay the course, or not, up to me. That thought would become obvious in the second piece of advice

The first dealt with love. Details of how the conversation began are lost to time, likely someone I dated. He shared his thoughts on the fragile nature of love between a man and a woman, how nurturing it required a great deal of time and work. To that, he added how easily it could be lost. Particularly insightful were his thoughts on growing over time, becoming stronger as years go. “I didn’t love your mother nearly as much when we married as I do now,” he said. “And, it was different kind of love in the beginning. There were times along the way I wasn’t sure it would last. But, it did. Understanding that you have something worth working for, and how the more you work at it, the stronger it becomes because you’re both working, that’s true love.”

The other conversation was sage advice on why he thought it unwise for me to exchange my hard-earned money for the hot rod automobile I had deemed necessary to own for life as I knew it to continue. He concluded, “I wish that I could share with you the pitfalls of mistakes I’ve made and save you the consequences of making them yourself. But, it appears that part of the design of life is that everyone has to learn those lessons for themselves. I know, because I did.”

I concluded the 1995 column noting that I would call him, wish him a happy birthday, and tell him what an excellent silent role model he was for me. I’m glad I did tell him when I could. My opportunities for doing so ended ten years ago when he passed away at 83.

It’s ironic that I was so long in figuring out that we are all silent role models, one way or another. Perhaps that’s what my silent role model meant when he said, “It appears that part of the design of life is that everyone has to learn some of those lessons for themselves. I know, because I did.”

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo—Leon Aldridge and Leon Aldridge, Jr. – July 1948 at Childress, Texas)

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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).

“At Christmas, all roads lead home.” —Marjorie Holmes, columnist and best-selling Christian author

Knowing Christmas is just around the corner awakens the wandering spirit in me. Holiday time was synonymous with travel time for most of my early years. I’m pretty sure it was a gene on mom’s side of the family that had my siblings and me believing “Christmas” was spelled “r-o-a-d  t-r-i-p.” Many Christmases until I left home, we were going somewhere or someone was coming to our house for the holidays. That somewhere was to visit mom’s family. The someone was her siblings, if we weren’t already headed to one of their homes—something that was always a road trip.

The shortest Christmas road trip was just shy of a couple hundred miles, the distance between our house in Seymour, west of Wichita Falls, to mom’s sister’s house in Kress, a wide spot in the road north of Plainview in the Texas panhandle. I use the term “wide spot” with great fondness in my heart, and in the strictest of interpretation. I have many wonderful memories of family gatherings in Kress, although it must have experienced a population explosion in recent decades. The latest reported census I found for the small farming community says it’s all the way up to 715 now.

We used to joke about missing Kress if you blinked. Before the completion of I-37 through the center of the Texas Panhandle bypassed it, US 87 went right through Kress passing Lawson’s Cafe and the Phillips 66 full service station on the way. The joke took on new meaning one night when mom must have blinked. Despite having been there many times, in the dark of night, she drove right through Kress—yep, flat missed it. Being the eldest child riding shotgun in the front seat at about age 10 or so, I asked her where she was going. In her delayed reaction style (bless mom’ s heart), she replied a minute or so later, “To Kress…where do you think we’re going?”

Breaking the news to her that the street she passed a ways back, directly across the road from the huge grain elevators, was the turn to her sister’s house evoked a typical response. She uttered one of her go-to terms of frustration that she always denied using, then turned her ’54 Chevrolet around and headed back to Aunt Amy’s house.

Another family Christmas gathering, this time in Mount Pleasant, saw her youngest sibling and only brother, Bill, making the trek from Southern California with his wife and three kids in a ’62 Chevrolet Corvair, the early 60s compact car. He accomplished this feat in typical style for someone on mom’s side of family—driving 24 hours non-stop. This was no ordinary American compact car, however. It was the turbocharged Corsa (a highly collectible car today), which is noteworthy because it set the stage for one my fondest holiday memories.

The year was 1964 and my driver’s license still had that new luster about it. The first night, as mom and dad congregated around the eggnog and fruitcake with her brother and sisters, Uncle Bill tossed me the keys to his car and told me to go have fun. Didn’t have to tell me a second time. Good friend Ronald Rust, who lived two houses down Redbud Lane, and I cruised the streets of Mount Pleasant that night in a hot-rod Corvair from California—a big deal at 16. The memory of keeping “the drag” warm between the Dairy Queen on the north end of town and the Dairy Mart on the south end that mid-60s winter night is still a top-ten Christmas memory.

Then there was the time we hit the road around midnight going to another of mom’s siblings for Christmas. In Sweetwater. Six hours away. We arrived just in time for breakfast.

But, that’s another story. You get the idea. We traveled a lot at Christmas making holiday memories with family. Time has changed that some, as time has a way of doing. Christmas at home these days sounds a little more attractive to me … until someone says, “Road trip.” Then I’m all in.

If your holiday plans call for travel to small town U.S.A, possibly heading home for Christmas to make memories with family and friends, travel safely … and make sure you don’t blink at Kress, you’ll miss your turn.

—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).

 “Ask any pilot how they started flying, and you will hear a love story.” —Author Unknown

 “You can do this,” I said. Never mind there was no one to hear me within … oh, 1,000 feet or so. Straight down. “Nothing to it,” I added. Nothing like a pep talk for confidence, even if it’s with yourself.

That little self support session occurred more than four decades ago, however thinking about it last Saturday while at the Mount Pleasant (Texas) Regional Airport made it seem more like yesterday. The occasion last weekend was a tour of the Mid-America Flight Museum, without a doubt the finest collection of WW II and vintage aircraft in this part of the country.

Our group making the tour included my daughter, Robin, her husband Jonathan and their children, and my sister Sylvia. Few in my family are strangers to flying, especially my sister or my children. New pilot’s license in hand in 1974, my first passengers included many trusting family members. A few years later when my children came along, Robin and her brother Lee often accompanied me on Saturday afternoon jaunts exploring the Shelby County Texas countryside, or cross country trips, spending a portion of their childhood in the air.

Saturday’s tour guide was Frankie Glover, brother of museum owner Scott. Frankie and I earned a license about the same time at the old Mount Pleasant airport located on property now part of Priefert Manufacturing.

Walking through the collection of old planes and watching new ones come and go reminded me of that “yesterday” at the old airport long ago. It was a day marked by one of the best conversations ever experienced with myself on one of the most memorable days for every pilot—the first solo flight.

Instructor Doyle Amerson’s style was soloing student’s with little, if any, warning. I suspect that was likely to reduce anxiety. But, in any case, that’s exactly how Doyle played it April 23, 1974.

Flying an hour of instruction after work, we practiced the usual stuff: turns, stalls, patterns, etc. Our return to the airport included another training standard: “touch and go”— letting the wheels touch the runway on landing, then applying full takeoff power without stopping in order to go around and repeat the process as often as the instructor deems appropriate.

As wheels touched mother earth the third time that day, Doyle said, “Make it a full stop landing.” Thinking we were done for the day, I let the airplane roll out approaching the first turn to the ramp. “Stop here on the runway,” he added.

As I braked the plane to a stop, Doyle unbuckled his seatbelt and exited the aircraft. Pausing before shutting the door, he said, “Show me two touch-and-goes and a full-stop landing.”

“By myself,” I stammered?

“That’s the idea,” he smiled.

Taxiing to the end of the runway for takeoff, I stared at the 3,000-foot narrow ribbon of asphalt ahead of me. And, this is where we came in at the beginning of this missive. The day I not only soloed, but the day I learned that the best conversations are often with ourselves. This one began with a little pep talk, appreciating the full gravity of the fact I was about to pilot an airplane for the first time—alone.

Centering the airplane on the runway and applying full power, I simultaneously threw in a short prayer and a reminder to breath every so often, whether I needed to or not.

A short run and we lifted off. “We” being me and the plane, but that’s not the hard part. Most modern aircraft will lift off and began climbing with very little control needed. Getting it back on the ground right side up and in one piece, now that’s where the fun really begins.

Our conversation, “our” being me, the plane and I, continued for the flight’s duration—out loud. Suddenly, I was both the student and the instructor, an arrangement that really worked very well. “Downwind 1,200-foot altitude.” Check. “Airspeed and flaps” Check. “Maintain 70 on final.” Check.

The little Cessna’s wheels gently kissed the runway. “Flaps up for takeoff.” Check. “Full takeoff power and trim.” Check. I got a glimpse of Doyle kneeling in the grass just off the right side of the runway as we regained flying speed. I counted it a good thing that while he was kneeling, he was flashing a “thumbs up.” At least he didn’t appear to be be praying.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I thought as we lifted off the second time. Small successes foster confidence plus a little humor. ”So,” I smiled. “You aced one, now the goal becomes making sure all the takeoffs and landings come out even.”

Fortunately, they did. Immediately following, the old tradition of the instructor cutting off the student’s shirt tail after the first solo was ceremoniously conducted amid plenty of smiles.

Thus, in the months and years that followed that summer in ‘74, a childhood dream of flying an airplane became a passion and source of enjoyment. There is little in life that matches a majestic view from the heavens when you’re directing the journey.

Unless, of course, it’s quality conversation with yourself on the day you log your first solo flight.

—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’m thankful for every moment.”—Al Green, singer and songwriter.

Thanksgiving 2017 is a memory now, leaving only 28 shopping days until Christmas. But, while there may still be just one piece of pecan pie left from Thanksgiving dinner, I’m still savoring the best part of the holiday season—the memories.

My blessings are many, and long is the list enumerating things for which I am thankful. However, conversation last week with a friend in Dallas prompted memories of one thing for which I am truly thankful—Thanksgiving dinner at my grandparent’s house as a child.

While wrapping up business via email with Wachelle Williams at Sunwest Communications, preparing for the short holiday week, she said something that resonated with me for the rest of the day.

“We are scheduled for next week! Yay…” her message read. I decided this was a good time to share that we also had another two weeks of our social media programs in the works beyond Thanksgiving. Her lighthearted reply was, “My grandmomma would say…’Stop showing out!’”

“I like your grandmomma’s sayings,” I told her. “Mine was a wise woman for someone whose education went only to the 8th grade. She had a large influence on my life.”

“Don’t you miss her,” Wachelle asked, commenting on memories of her grandmother, saying, “I really miss her cooking.” I agreed. Then for the rest of the day, all I could think about was holiday and Sunday dinners at my grandparent’s house.

Truthfully, any Sunday dinner prepared by my father’s mother was the equivalent of a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. She stopped preparing festive dinners when my grandfather died in 1967, but I remember her cooking like it was yesterday.

It was a yesterday when families ate more meals at home. The fast food boom was yet to happen, and eating out at a “real” restaurant was a treat for rare occasions. It was also a yesterday when, like for most families then, a meal at our home in Mount Pleasant was on the table precisely coordinated with dad’s arrival from work. Not being at the table at that time was not an option unless you were so badly incapacitated that walking was out of the question. Also not an option was deciding whether mom’s menu coincided with your taste buds. You ate what was on the table without criticism or comment—unless it was a comment praising mom’s cooking.

Although it was the age of “eat what your momma put on the table,” there was no way even the pickiest eater was going to leave granny’s table hungry on any day. The big table that occupied my grandmother’s dining room, and now resides in mine, was filled to capacity with choices. Common fare was fried chicken or ham, usually both. Every imaginable vegetable, salad and a casserole was there, along with hot rolls. If that wasn’t enough, the aroma of a fresh baked pie wafted from the kitchen as a reminder to save a little room.

The cooking was a labor of love, and meals were always on the table on time. That was no small feat for a Sunday dinner considering everyone at the Pittsburg Methodist Church knew my grandmother was really under the weather if she was not in her pew for worship service. That was a feat accomplished only by many hours spent in the kitchen Saturday night and early Sunday morning, something that never dawned on me as a child. I thought the meals were just another form of “grandmother’s magic.”

It was hard to notice behind the scenes work that our parents and grandparents put into family get togethers when, as kids, we were in the yard running through fall leaves and looking for pecans under huge trees that lined my grandfather’s yard. Smell is purported to be one of the strongest sensory preceptors linked to memory, and I know that it’s true. A whiff of leaves burning even today reminds me of raking and burning leaves in that same yard more than 50 years ago.

“Don’t you miss her,” Wachelle’s words echoed in my mind last week? I do miss her and I’m thankful for the memories of many Thanksgiving pasts she gave me. I’m also thankful for the values my grandparents and parents gave me regarding family traditions that have fashioned my Thanksgivings for a lifetime, and every moment of the memories I’m still making.

I hope your Thanksgiving was the best yet, and that you added many new memories of the season.

—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 https://www.tribnow.com

 

 

 

“The thrill is in the chase.” — Popular old saying

Old car hobbyists can be an easily entertained bunch. Three or four-hour drives to a swap meet with nothing in mind to buy, just to look around. Then coming home with a collection of rusty and dusty car parts unrecognizable to most people. All in a day’s fun.

“So, what did you score at the Conroe meet,” a friend asked last weekend. “Set of ’57 Ford hubcaps for myself and a ’52 Packard hood ornament for my buddy, T-Mac.” I replied.

“Hubcaps,” my befuddled friend responded with a questioning look. “And, a hood ornament? What’s a hood ornament?” Worthy of mention is that said friend was maybe half my age, and let’s just say that old car parts is not one of his conversational strong suits. I sighed and responded, “You’re kidding, right?”

Maybe it’s a generational thing if you didn’t grow up when a driver’s license was a right of passage. When the memory of a guy’s first car lingered longer than that of his first girlfriend. Reading hot rod magazines in study hall is where you learned that early automobiles had radiator caps with a built-in thermometer mounted on top of the radiator where the driver could keep an eye on it and have a ball-park idea as to when the car was about to overheat. That was an era when the radiator had nothing to do with the hood that opened to either side of the radiator rather than covering it.  It was also an era when “dash boards” contained little more than a speedometer crude by today’s standards and an on-and-off ignition switch—before there was a need for the term “instrument panel” because there were between few and no instruments.

Into the 20s and 30s, radiator cap thermometers became works of art that were focal points of the car’s styling. Some were large and ornate often with wings or birds, and they were all either chrome or brass. That was also an era when cars were constructed of metal.

As cars became more modernized into the 40s and 50s, gauges moved inside the car and hoods grew to cover the radiator, but the artistic forms remained as adornments on the leading edge of the hood thus becoming “hood ornaments.” Designs grew to include elegant graceful birds, animals, even aerodynamic concepts mimicking airplanes, rocket ships and long sweeping spears with fins as reflections of the jet age.

While Cadillacs are T-Mac’s first choice in collector cars with a ’56 limo, ’67 convertible and a ’59 two-door hardtop in his garage, he’s fond of a hood ornament from any make, as long it’s “cool looking.”

Walking the swap meet in the spirit of the chase, scanning tables of junk in hopes of spotting a gem to justify the long drive, I saw the prize. Lying among rusty parts and old tools languished the graceful form of a long-necked swan, curved neck and head down with long, backward flowing wings. With dulled chrome supporting a degree of surface rust, I had no idea what make or model of automobile it once adorned. However, while lingering in condition, it was still elegant in form.

A cell phone photo dispatched to T-Mac garnered a response within minutes. “How much,” he queried? “It’s a ‘52 one-year-only Packard.”

Packard was an American luxury automobile marque produced in the United States from 1899 to 1956. They bought a failing Studebaker company in 1953 and the final Packards were actually Packard-badged 1958 Studebakers. The last Studebaker rolled off the assembly line in 1967.

I told him I didn’t know about a price, but I would find out. Rule number one at swap meets: If you find something you like, either buy it or map the exact location of the vendor. Swap meets are like huge outdoor flea markets, just all cars and parts. Returning to the scene of something like a tired, faded chrome swan hiding in a box of car parts can be a challenge.

Once I was successful in locating the vendor again, negotiations were on. The thrill is in the chase, but half the fun is bargaining over prices. Deal done, the Packard swan was acquired, and the rusty old bird was headed toward a new home.

Thrilled with the find, T-Mac renewed his standing invitation for me to see his collection. When I do make the trip to his garage in the Longview, Texas area to see it, I’m thinking I’ll invite my young friend who didn’t know what a hood ornament was. And just maybe, we’ll make the trip in a car with hub caps … before he asks, “What’s a hub cap?”

—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).

Thank a veteran every day for their service to our country.

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Today is Veterans Day, but truthfully, every day should be Veterans Day. We are the home of the free, only because the brave sacrifice to serve.

While I am grateful to all veterans, my favorite, of course, was my father. Between the day he answered the call to serve his country in the spring of 1942 and V.E. Day, Leon D. Aldridge attained the rank of Master Sargent serving with the U.S. Army 276th Engineer Combat Battalion. He returned home to Pittsburg, Texas, wearing battle ribbons for participation in three campaigns: Ardennes, Rhineland and the Central Europe Campaign.

Every veteran has stories to tell, but like most, dad talked little about his with one exception. That was in 1984 in Cologne, Germany during a trip to the Netherlands, Germany and France, the areas where he spent his service years in World War II. As we walked around the perimeter of the majestic Cologne cathedral on the banks of the Rhine River, he began to tell stories that day I had never heard. I was 36 and he was 61.

He talked in detail, often with tears in his eyes, about a night of gunfire huddled close the base of the cathedral. “See that spot,” he said pointing to a sheltered area created by two of the many huge buttresses supporting the 750-year old structure. “I spent a night there with a half dozen guys. We were engaged in gun battles with the Germans, separated from the rest of our detail while attempting to occupy the village. “

“We returned fire until it was secured at daybreak,” he said recalling obviously painful memories stirred by standing on the same ground 40 years later. “I wasn’t sure I was going to make it out that night…and I sure never expected to be here again.”

When we reached the side of the cathedral facing the Rhine, he pointed south and said, “Remagen. That’s where I was standing on the abutment when the bridge fell.”

The 276th Combat Engineers were also at the Ludendorf Bridge at Remagen, Germany, March 17, 1945 when the bomb damaged structure collapsed and fell into the Rhine River. “We returned the damaged bridge to operational status under gunfire,” he said. “We  had the Germans on the run, and they tried to blow up the bridge to stop our advancement.”

“We were still working on the bridge on the day it fell,” he continued. “Steel trusses began to groan, rivets started ‘popping like gunfire,’ and the bridge collapsed into the Rhine. Some scrambled for safety,” he said, “but many were not so fortunate. I had been on the bridge earlier that morning. Part of us fell back for materials and supplies. We were back at the abutment, waiting for the unit ahead of us to advance. Just as we started onto the bridge, it fell into the river. Five more minutes and I would have gone into the river with it and the others who were lost that day.”

Once my father began to talk, he shared many experiences. Like a story about sweeping fields near a combat zone when he stepped on a land mine. “I knew what it was when put my foot on it,” he said. “But at that moment, it was too late. I honestly thought I had taken my last breath. I fell and rolled, hoping for the best but fearing the worst. Only by the grace of God,” he said, “the land mine failed to detonate, and I lived to tell the story.”

His stories included details about artillery lighting the night sky like daylight, bright enough “to read a newspaper,” as he put it. His memories of the weather were many, things like freezing weather in which they used newspaper to line boots and clothing, hoping to avoid frostbite, or sleeping on cots in tents that were flooded with water.

My father died in 2007, and never talked as much again about his service years as he did on that trip. He was proud of his service and I was proud of him. His stories of duty and sacrifice as part of the nation’s military are but tiny, individual examples of why America has survived for 240 years as a free and proud nation.

As I wrote a few years ago in a similar Veterans Day column, I am glad I got the opportunity to thank him. And, I will end this one the same way saying that if he were here today, I would hug him and thank him again.

—Leon Aldridge, Jr.

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 don’t have any out-of-body experiences. I had indeed seen a bright, beautiful light once and had followed it, but it turned out to be a Kmart tire sale. – Lewis Grizzard

Laughter is still the best medicine. It’s essential to living, or at least to living a worthwhile life. I’ve long worried about people who find fault and criticism in life quicker than finding something to laugh about.

That’s likely why the work of columnist, author, philosopher and speaker Lewis Grizzard has remained one my favorites since attending a newspaper conference in Atlanta many years ago where he was the keynote speaker.

Without any particular specialty, Grizzard was noted for commenting on just about everything in life, exposing the humor in every topic. That included politics, culture, women, men, mothers, fathers, dogs, sex, honor, racism, the past, the present, the future, and the South—there were few topics Grizzard didn’t tackle.

A true Southerner he was, born at Fort Benning, Georgia on October 20, 1946 and claiming Moreland, Georgia as his hometown. An internet article last week, noting he would have been 71, recalled the unique, easy-going humor that made his columns a favorite in the Atlanta Constitution, and led to his publishing some 20 books (18 of them New York Times bestsellers) which put him in great demand for speaking engagements.

My library includes several of his works, including a few I can recall as favorites. “If Love Were Oil, I’d be About a Quart Low,” about his three marriages and three divorces; “Elvis is Dead and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself,” about a child of the 50s coping with life in the 80s; and “Shoot Low, Boys–They’re Riding’ Shetland Ponies: In Search of True Grit,” about Americans he considered to possess genuine true grit.

Grizzard died in 1994. Shortly afterward, I wrote a column expressing my disappointment in “Life” magazine when they failed to include Grizzard’s death in their yearly review recognizing significant individuals lost that year.

Perhaps it was because Grizzard did not achieve greatness through many years of writing. He was just 47 years of age, and had really just “come into his own.”

Perhaps it was because his writing was not eloquent or culturally philosophical. He wrote about things he loved from chicken-fried steaks to his beloved Georgia Bulldog’s football. He lauded American institutions from family to a solid work ethic and the importance of education. In his own skillful manner, he often wove many subjects together successfully reminding us of the simple humor in life, and often the importance of laughing at ourselves—something he did frequently.

Writing about “That There Education,” Grizzard said, “Mother began saving for my college education with the first paycheck she ever earned. She bought bonds. She put cash in shoe boxes and hid them in the back of the closet. Having enough money to send me to college when the time came consumed my mother. Besides the bonds and the shoe-box cash, she kept a coin bank, bought day-old bread, sat in the dark to save on the electric bill, never had her hair done, quit smoking, and never put more than a dollar in the collection plate at church. She used some simple logic for not tithing the Biblical tenth: ‘If the Lord wanted me to tithe that much, he wouldn’t have made college so expensive.”’

Perhaps it was because his writing often laughed at things some hold sacred. He rallied against political correctness, and was often described as “politically incorrect and proud of it.” Grizzard fought to preserve a sense of humor, maintaining that it was impossible to be politically correct and smile.

Grizzard never won a Pulitzer Prize. In fact, he poked fun at that institution, too: “They handed out the annual Pulitzer Prizes, journalism’s highest awards, the other day, and once again, I didn’t get one. It’s becoming an all too familiar occurrence. Each year, I call my friends over, we ice down the beer and await the word from the Pulitzer committee. Word never comes, but my friends drink all the beer I bought, anyway. How two people can drink that much beer is beyond me.”

Grizzard died of complications from heart surgery, something else at which he poked fun with his book entitled, “They Tore Out My Heart and Stomped That Sucker Flat.” Prior to his fourth heart procedure to repair a valve, he was told that his chances of survival for the risky surgery were less than 50-percent to which he replied, “I just have one question: When’s the next bus to Albuquerque?”

Humor was the common factor in everything Lewis Grizzard addressed, and he didn’t waste a single day—right to the end.

Some have considered Grizzard to be a contemporary, southern version of Will Rogers who said, “We are all here for a spell, get all the good laughs you can.” Lewis Grizzard made that easy to do.

—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).