Author: leonaldridge2015

“Flight is the most profound metaphor for pushing our boundaries, reaching beyond ourselves, and freedom. And don’t we ALL . . . fly in our dreams?” — Fantasy of Flight founder Kermit Weeks

I’m 95-percent sure the name Isaac Newton Burchinal, Jr., or Flying Tiger Air Museum, means little to anyone who didn’t know Junior Burchinal, or never visited his small air strip west of Paris, Texas.

In aviation circles however, stories of his flying skills and his “less than museum quality” collection of WW II flying relics are classic. That includes one worth telling about a B-17 bomber visiting the old Mount Pleasant airport in the mid 1970s—although it wasn’t the plane that was supposed to have been there.

A recent interview with Burchinal’s son and grandson on Scott Glover’s Mid America Flight Museum Facebook page stirred memories of that story and of visits to Burchinal’s facility more than 40 years ago.

I.N. Burchinal, Jr. founded Flying Tiger Air Museum in the early 1970s although he bought his first warbird in the 1950s when they were little more than military surplus. Working out of his Northeast Texas crop dusting facility, he collected leftover military planes and fulfilled dreams for anyone wanting to learn to fly them. He also flew as a stunt pilot for Universal Studios along the way. His planes were featured in movies like “The Great Waldo Pepper” and “Midway,” plus the television series, “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.”

Flying was a childhood dream for me. It became a dream come true when I soloed in the early 70s, and weekend trips to Flying Tiger field from Mount Pleasant were frequent. Not only were the planes fascinating, but I stood in awe of anyone flying big warbirds off a small asphalt strip, uphill on one end with a fence and highway on the other.

That fascination remained when business took me to Vintage Flying Museum at Meacham Field in Fort Worth about ten years ago, landing me a photo op in the pilot’s seat of a B-25 bomber. Cool stuff for a lifelong hobby pilot flying nothing bigger than a Piper Cherokee. Then discussion a couple of years ago with Frankie Glover while touring the Mid-America Flight Museum in Mount Pleasant revealed that museum’s B-25 was the same one I cross paths with in Fort Worth. Follow that with the aforementioned video interview identifying it as once owned by Junior Burchinal, and it became apparent that the world of old airplanes is small and getting smaller.

I’m also 95-percent sure it was about 1975 when our fledgling Mount Pleasant flying club planned an air show, and I called Burchinal to see if the club could afford one of his planes. Discussing prices and budgets sealed a deal for his B-25 to make the show. But, a late afternoon call on Saturday before Sunday’s show changed that. “Leon, this is Junior Burchinal up here in Paris,” he said. “I’ve got bad news. We’re having problems with the B-25. It won’t make the trip tomorrow.”

My heart was rapidly losing altitude. Visions of, “what now,” spiraled as he continued. “But, if it’s all right with you, we’ll bring the B-17 for the same money.”

“All right,” I stammered, my spirits pulling out of the dive. “Yes sir, that’ll be all right.” He continued to apologize, almost as many times as I thanked him.

Early the next morning with club members scurrying around working on last minute preparation, I heard the huge four-motored bomber coming over Mount Pleasant before I saw it. I watched it make a long straight-in approach to the airport, mesmerized by the sound and the sight in the early morning sunlight. Wheels were just touching pavement when a WW II fighter “Corsair” made a hi-speed pass over the airport, then circled around to land.

Both planes taxied to the ramp. Burchinal climbed out of the single seat fighter, followed by a young lady who appeared literally to unfold and crawl out of a small added seat behind the pilot. He introduced young men embarking from the bomber, introduced the young lady as his daughter, and resumed apologizing for not bringing the B-25. Then added, “But, I brought the Corsair to make up for it.”

I thanked him again noting that I was sorry for his problems with the B-25, but folks at the air show that day got a great deal.

Junior Burchinal’s planes graced Mount Pleasant air shows after that creating memories for many. However, I’m 100-percent sure that in the small world of old airplanes, the story of a B-25 that was a no-show, but eventually found a home in Mount Pleasant, the B-17 that subbed, and memories of the legendary pilot who owned them is one worth telling.

—Leon Aldridge

Photo credit: Tom Griffith and Mid-America Flight Museum in Mount Pleasant, Texas (One of the best aviation museums in the country—check it out if you haven’t already)

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).

“The journey is what brings us happiness, not the destination.” — Dan Millman, author of Peaceful Warrior

Do you ever pause to consider the, “what if?” You know, taking a little time to reflect on the journey—reviewing the course of events responsible for meeting someone or experiencing something that changed your life? Then trying to visualize how different your life might have been had you chosen the other path at any crossroads, knowing that not only the journey, but also the destination, would have been vastly different.

That’s where I found myself last week while crafting a magazine story about an old car. I watched the words I typed as they appeared on my computer screen…. “The white ‘55 Ford Crown Victoria calling my garage home for the last five years made a short trip coming across the Texas / Louisiana border from Bossier City to Center. But, it was a familiar trip. My long-time, very good friend, Joe Greene, had owned the car for almost as long as I had been calling him my friend.”

The story I was writing told of an old car, but my mind focused on the friend I found in Joe Greene. Sadly, we lost Joe earlier this year. Our 30-plus year journey with him left me cherishing wonderful memories made with Joe and his wife, Mary, and the many car shows, club meetings, road trips and garage sessions we shared as classic car enthusiasts and as best of friends. His trademark laughter was contagious, and his teasing personality with a desire to make others laugh made him an instant friend to everyone he met. Generous to a fault, he was always concerned more for his family and friend’s well-being than he was for his own.

The journey leading me to meet Joe and Mary was accomplished in old cars. Restoring old cars was a second career for Joe after 30-plus years in the military. He always had several projects of his own in progress, plus a number of customer’s cars to which he was applying his skills. But, the “car in the story” last week wasn’t the path to our meeting. That honor goes to a common passion for the Ford Thunderbirds known as “Little Birds” from the mid-50s.

Old cars and fast cars were my passion growing up in Mount Pleasant, one that continues today. Truthfully, it is still a disease for which I can find no cure—not that I’m looking for one, mind you. But, I was looking for my first “Little Bird” in the early 80s when I found one in Dallas. The seller told me the first thing to do was join a local chapter of the Classic Thunderbird Club International, adding that the closest one to me was the Ark-La-Tex Bayou Birds in Shreveport.

That ’57 Thunderbird purchased in Dallas, that took me to a car club meeting in Shreveport was the journey to shaking hands with Joe Greene. That meeting, however, was not a destination, but the beginning of a new journey.

The “car in the story” ’55 Ford started as one of Joe’s projects soon after we met. Not long after, I also bought one the same cars in Lubbock. After ten years of our making memories together, that car went to a new owner in Fredericksburg during a temporary lapse of good judgement on my part. I regretted the sale before the car was ever out of sight.

I don’t know how many years Joe worked on the “car in the story,” but progress was slow with little spare time from customer’s cars to devote to his own. Over time, however, it was immaculately restored in typical Joe Greene fashion, and shared garage space for several years with others in his personal collection.

When Joe decided to part with the car a few years ago, he remembered how much I missed my first one and gave me first opportunity to buy his. He knew the answer he would get before he called me.

I’ve put less than 1,000 miles on the car in the last five years. It gets out of the garage during nice weather for weekend pleasure cruises and for events with our Center car club, the Shelby County Cruisers.

Life is filled with wonderful journeys. For me, some of the best have been meeting people along the way with common interests in preserving the best generation of automobiles that ever rolled on American roads. While the cars are fun and rewarding experiences, writing the story last week about the destination of one 1955 Ford Crown Victoria and recalling the journey, makes me appreciate even more that the happiness in the journey is forming friendships with people like Joe and Mary Greene.

—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).

 

“No amount of planning will ever replace dumb luck.”— Old saying

I love this time of the year. Harvest moons. Fall festivals. The U.S. Supreme Court …

An opportunity to cover a small town event, writing stories as it became national news, provided me the first-hand opportunity to see a case argued before the U.S. Supreme Court. That experience instilled in me an appreciation for the first Monday in October, the start of each new Supreme Court session.

I also love old sayings, like, “No amount of planning will ever replace dumb luck.” Granted, a more sensible adage is the Old Italian saying, “Success is 90-percent hard work. And, if you aren’t lucky, just work harder.” However, much can also be said for being in the right place at the right time. It has been a factor in many memories from my years in journalism that I would not swap for anything.

It certainly was a factor in Boerne, Texas, where I published the newspaper and wrote most of the stories covering a lawsuit that was ultimately heard by the highest court in the land. In 1996, the Catholic Archbishop of San Antonio, Patrick Flores, applied for a permit to replace the 1920s mission style St. Peter’s Church atop a hill at the south of end of Main Street. The city denied saying the church sat within a historical district. The Archbishop sued based on the Religious Freedom Restoration Act (RFRA) of 1993. Boerne won in District Court, Flores appealed. The Fifth Circuit in New Orleans reversed the ruling, and Boerne filed to the Supreme Court for review. It was accepted and hearing was set for February 19, 1997 at 10:00 a.m.

At first, I didn’t plan to go. “Time and expense,” was my rationale. Picking up major stories from a number of sources is easy and often more practical for small town papers. All great logic before I had lunch with long-time and well-respected Boerne attorney and friend, Gordon Hollon. Mr. Hollon was a good lawyer and therefore naturally astute. I suspect he already heard I wasn’t planning to go. When I affirmed it, he replied, “I’ve been in the legal profession all my life and never seen the Supreme Court in action. How many small town editors do you know who have had the opportunity you have before you?”

I‘ve counted many lawyers as friends over the years, and all bore one common trait: it’s hard to argue against them. This would be not only a once in a lifetime news reporting for a small town newspaper, but also a once in a lifetime story for the reporter to tell. Press credentials were easy to obtain once they learned the Star was the Boerne newspaper—easier than physically getting into the court room. That required three metal detectors and a briefing: no cameras or recording devices, only a note pad and a pen allowed. Oh, and don’t touch the press gallery railing. I momentarily forgot that one putting my hand on it to straighten my chair and was swiftly reminded by a bailiff.

Seated in the second row, I was surrounded by BBC, CNN, AP and others with much larger audiences than the Boerne Star enjoyed. Beyond that, watching Justices Rehnquist, Kennedy, Breyer, Souter, Stevens, Thomas, Ginsburg, O’Connor and Scalia was sobering. Nothing regarding the historically steeped significance of where I sat that day escaped me.

The court rules only on the constitutionality of the law on which cases are based. Each is allotted 30 minutes—15 minutes per side, then it’s over. Keeping up and taking notes was near impossible as neither attorney enjoyed the luxury of finishing many of his or her statements. Two of the finest church-and-state attorneys in the country at the time—Marci Hamilton from San Antonio representing Boerne, and Jeffery S. Sutton for the Archbishop—fielded almost constant interruptions by the justices questioning their application of precedent case law, or finer points of interpretation . One would swear the justices knew where the attorneys were going before either finished making a point.

Arguments over, time for phase two of the small-town editor rubbing elbows with the major news outlets. Out the door with my camera, I hurried to the front steps where reporters gathered around Ms. Hamilton. Finding a perch on the wall beside the steps, I shot several frames looking down at the press bombarding her with questions. Digital photography and email still a vision of the future then, I walked three blocks with the film to a FedEx office and checked, “Early Next Day,” for Boerne. Moments later, I was on the phone dictating the story to our editor, Travis Priddy.

On my flight home the next day, reading a USA Today story about the case already dubbed as “landmark” made me smile for two reasons. One, knowing readers of the Boerne Star would be reading the same news the same day, with photos, because a small town publisher was in the right place at the right time and had luck on his side. And, two, because the small town publisher had one more story worth telling.

Epilogue—The court sided with Boerne’s argument and ruled the RFRA unconstitutional. The city extended the Archbishop the same offer it had before legal action began—build a new facility attached to, but preserving, the original. That’s what you will see at the end of Main Street if you drive through Boerne today.

—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).

“If you don’t recount your family history, it will be lost.” — American writer Madeleine L’Engle

Better late than never, I always say. I’m saying it again as I start researching my father’s family history. Never mind that I said it 30 years ago when my father, and presumably many of his family members, were still alive. “Presumably” is a subtle hint that my father was not close to his family. I can count on my fingers all of the Aldridge family members I’ve met.

In stark contrast, my mother’s family would travel halfway across the country for a reunion, for Christmas or just because someone said “let’s get together.” They are still like that.

A couple of books on mom’s family history, plus reams of research, already exists thanks to two people. One is a cousin in mom’s generation who some years ago explored family lineage tracking an inherited illness prevalent in the family. The bonus was an excellent family history dating to the 1600s and the arrival of the Johnson family’s ancestors in America.

The other contributor was mom’s youngest sister, the unofficial family historian for their generation—the children of Arthur G. Johnson in Kentucky. It was a job she took seriously, researching to supplement what was already done. It became a passion and the volumes of photos and records that occupied a room in her Ohio home still exists today with her children.

Our sum total of knowledge regarding dad’s family consists of those few relatives we met personally, scant stories from my grandmother, and a few pages of notes my youngest sister obtained from a source neither of us remembers. What we do know is that our father was the last of 13 children born to a family of South Louisiana and Mississippi heritage. His mom died giving birth to him, and his two oldest sisters set out to raise him, also providing his name. One was dating a boy named Leon, the other, a boy named Dallas. Thus he became Leon Dallas Aldridge. The name with most uncharacteristic of origins would be carried through two more generations.

Not long after birth, he was reported to have contracted one of the childhood deadly diseases of the 1920s—some type of “fever.” His father (Willie Aldridge) wrote to his own brother (Sylvester Aldridge) telling him “the baby was sick” and they didn’t think he would survive. Sylvester’s bride of three years, a feisty, little woman from West Texas named, “Hattie Lois,” who was 17 years his junior, wrote back to reply, “no way,” that she was coming to “get the baby.”

Sylvester and Hattie drove from Mineola, Texas to Doyle, Louisiana in a Ford model T, and took the child home with them. She nursed him back to health, they legally adopted him at the age of 11, and he grew up in Pittsburg, Texas, living to the age of 83.

I met only two of dad’s many siblings, his oldest brother, Zebadee, and a sister, Willie Lee who was named after her father. Zebadee ‘s wife, Vada, had family in Terrell, and that’s about all we know about her. Zebadee was the only Aldridge family member I recall coming to visit us, something they did frequently.

Willie Lee and her husband, whose name I don’t recall, lived just outside Baton Rouge near the Mississippi River in the tiny community of Tickfaw, Louisiana.

My one and only trip to visit dad’s family was with my father and his brother, Zebadee, to pick up a new 1961 Ford Zebadee had purchased in Baton Rouge.  On that trip, we visited my dad’s sister and his biological father who lived nearby. To my knowledge, that was one very few times my father ever visited his real father. Willie Aldridge lived alone near the Mississippi River in an old Southern dog-trot style home that I’m pretty sure had never known a coat of paint.

My favorite memory of that trip was Willie making coffee by stirring grounds in a skillet and boiling them in a coffee pot before straining the resulting liquid through a cloth. Zebadee was never without a coffee thermos wherever he went, and I’m guessing everyone in the family knew that. When we left, Willie told Zebadee to get his thermos out of the car, and he would put the rest of that coffee in it for the trip home.

Just like it was yesterday, I remember sitting in the back seat on the way back to Texas listening to my uncle and my dad talking. Zebadee asked dad if he wanted some of the coffee. Dad looked at him and said, “No, but save it. I’m pretty sure we can use it if we run out of gas.”

One facet of this genealogical exercise is to document as much family history still lurking in my mind as I can—stories and memories for my children while a sufficient number of active brain cells to get it done reamin. It’s something that for most families, if you don’t do it yourself, no one else is going to do it for you. Looking back, it’s something I wish I had started sooner rather than later.

—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).

Roots, stems, leaves, flowers, fruits and seeds,
That’s six plant parts that people need.
—Children’s learning song by the ‘Banana Slug String Band’

An email last week announcing an upcoming forestry seminar related to my day job in marketing for a forestry and ecology firm in Center caught my attention. Seminars and workshops on just about any topic are as plentiful as weeds in the wild. This one, however, had me at the very first sentence.

The author of the short introductory message confessed that after following biologists and ecologists in the woods listening to them noting common and Latin names for plants, he always had just one question: “Can I eat that?”

The clever method of calling attention to a class on foraging caused me to laugh out loud. But, after a little thought, I decided that part of the human species genetic structure must certainly be to wonder, “Can I eat that.” Otherwise, how did things like eggs, caviar and pickled pig’s feet ever make it onto the menu.

The question certainly crossed someone’s mind a long time before my fifth-grade days at South Ward Elementary in Mount Pleasant, Texas, where many years ago my buds and I spent numerous recess periods “foraging” for sour dock weeds along the edge of the playground fence. I’m pretty sure the plant has a more scientific name, but identifying  it was not a priority then, chewing it for the tart taste was. We, by no means, were the first brave souls to look at a stalk of the skinny green and red-hued wild weed and ask, “Can I eat that?”

While I can’t vouch for its nutritional value, I’m assuming sour dock was not toxic. At least I don’t recall any of us becoming ill or dying from consuming it. Never heard one of my teachers say, “Oh yeah, he ate that funny weed out behind the school house. That’s what got him.”

Tasty and also non-toxic is sassafras. There’s surely more value to sassafras trees than just the root, but once again as kid, the idea was not to study the species, it was chewing on the root with the distinctive taste, or boiling it to make a tasty tea. That’s what we did on hiking cookouts and overnight campouts in Coach Sam Parker’s Boy Scout Troop in Mount Pleasant. The best sites for cookouts and for camping were near a sassafras tree providing ingredients for a hot drink to complement our campfire cuisine and something to chew on afterward while we swapped manly stories about the rugged outdoors.

As with the sour dock, someone had to be the first. Someone had to think about digging up a root, cleaning off the dirt and chewing on it a while before thinking, “Can I make tea with that?”

Being the first to evaluate grapevine had to be a little easier. After all, it obviously produced a tasty edible fruit of its own readily available for the picking. More than half a century ago, a bunch of young bicycle riders on a Saturday morning expedition in Mount Pleasant discovered a large, brush-filled ravine near the site of a new bypass following Highway 49 on the south side of town that was to become Ferguson Road. Deep into a grape vine forest spanning the construction chasm, our first fascination was swinging on the maze of gnarly vines. That soon turned to sampling the wild grapes which eventually lead to turning our attention back to the vines and asking…?

No, this time it wasn’t, “Can I eat that?” We looked at each other in silnce, knowing the common question in our minds was the “big boys” braggadocios stories. The question that day was, “Can I really smoke this?” It turned out to be a question left begging an answer once we discovered none of us possessed anything with which to produce fire. We then resorted to the more common question, “Can I eat that?”

“Why not,” we decided? Having already proven sour dock and sassafras as delicious delicacies of the wild, why would a vine that already produced a fruit, and from all accounts a pretty good smoke as well, not do the same thing?

Such juvenile exploits could be considered foraging, in a manner of speaking. While it was adventurous as a youngster, I honestly can’t remember the last time as an adult that I looked at a plant growing in my yard and thought, “Can I eat that?”

Perhaps I just need a refresher course…what was the date on that seminar?

—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).

 

“If the world had a front porch like we did back then,
We’d still have our problems but we’d all be friends.”
—by Tracy Lawrence

A friend called Saturday afternoon. I answered the phone, then went to the front porch and sat down, got comfortable and enjoyed the conversation.

The front porch on my house is big. It spans the full 45-foot width of the house and is all under the roof line. That means it is protected from weather and harsh sunlight, and also means it is more than half the square footage of the first house I owned many years ago.

Potted plants and a variety of furniture adorns the big old porch. The focal point is a wicker love seat and two chairs originally purchased for watching sunsets from the back porch where we lived on Lake Murvaul in East Texas One of the obligatory reproduction park benches and a couple of old rocking chairs provide additional places to sit a spell.

It’s a really great front porch, and I really enjoyed sitting there Saturday afternoon…which makes me really wonder why I don’t sit out there more often than I do.

Front porch sitting is a wonderful pass time, a relaxing ending to any day, and can be excellent therapy. My grandparents were avid front porch sitters. If they ever missed a day, it was a sure bet someone was deathly ill, the weather was awful, or some similar catastrophic circumstance.

The small white frame house at 323 Cypress Street in Pittsburg, Texas, where my father was raised, had a small wooden-floor front porch—small compared to mine today in Center, Texas. Two old rockers fit the porch perfectly and were year-round permanent fixtures. As long as company didn’t exceed two additional people, another one or two chairs recruited from the living room could be squeezed in. It was a little crowded, but also sort of cozy for friends or family. And, that included just about everybody invited to sit on the porch, because if they were not friends or family before the visit, they surely would be before the evening was over.

The routine seldom varied. With supper over and the kitchen cleaned, everyone migrated to the porch. Things got underway by simply relaxing and visiting about anything that came up, but conversations typically were a recap of the day’s highlights. Maybe a discussion about one of my grandfather’s trees. They were his hobby before he retired and his passion after his paycheck days were over. Huge pecan trees lined the front of the house, trees he planted when they moved in the house in 1930. The back yard was shaded all day with just about any variety of fruit tree imaginable.

The mail was another frequent topic. Mail was a big deal then. The postman’s daily delivery was a highly anticipated event.. Things like the newspaper, a Fort Worth Star-Telegram every day, or a Pittsburg Gazette once a week. Perhaps a letter or postcard from a family member like “Aunt Ruby” in Fort Worth, my grandmother’s sister. They were all read and talked about on the porch. Most family news traveled via the mail as long distance phone calls were reserved for birth and death events. It was just too expensive for chit chat.

The sound of a train coming might prompt my grandfather to reach for his pocket watch before announcing something like, “The 6:15 to Texarkana’s right on time this evening.” Habits formed working for the railroad from the age of 13 were hard to break. He always carried his pocket watch and he knew the time of every passing train and its destination.

We knew it was time to go in when my grandmother softly started singing a hymn. While my grandfather’s favorite was “Blessed Assurance,” whatever the song for the evening was, songbooks weren’t needed. They both knew the words to every verse.

Just like my grandparent’s front porch, the mood on my front porch last Saturday afternoon was perfect for relaxing and chatting with a friend, albeit via the modern contrivance of cell phones. In fact, sitting on the porch was so enjoyable that when the chat was over, I lingered a while longer before leaving. A couple of neighbors walked by. We exchanged a “howdy” wave, and I smiled thinking they must have suspected something was terribly amiss since I never sit on the front porch.

Oh, and those two rocking chairs that were front porch fixtures at my grandparent’s house for decades? Although they are in need of repairs, I still have them. Maybe I’ll get them fixed now, add them to my front porch collection and spend more time porch sitting.

Not only is it relaxing and therapeutic, it reminds me of summers evenings at my grandparent’s house many years ago. Plus, it’s also kind of fun making the neighbors wonder what I’m up to.

—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).

 “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” —Bert Lance

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Cooler temps this week are a sure sign Fall is near. And Fall, to the old car addict, has special meaning—car shows and comfortable cruising weather.

It also means Fall maintenance before hitting the road. And, that means facing one of the hardest decisions for old car tinkering types afflicted with the insane hobby of keeping 50, 60 and 70-year-old cars on the road—avoiding temptation to change something that is working fine just like it is. It’s true, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” also affects the classic car cult.

“I have a long list for this ride,” I noted as Dickie Gilchrist, my long-time friend and fellow car fanatic, silently looked on. He didn’t say anything right away. Sort of made me think of how Granny used to say, “If you can’t something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Dickie’s polite like that. But, he also knows about, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Trying to think of something to break the silence, I struggled with what really needed to be done to keep the aging auto on the road, and what constituted things I simply wanted to do to it. The difference is a very fine line, and the price tag for “want to do” items that glimmered brightly through the summer was quickly losing its luster. However, I tried to remain positive.

“I’m positive it’ll be a good investment,” were the first words out of my mouth. “Put a little money in it, and when it’s time to sell … just wait and see,” I said, slapping Dickie on the shoulder. “You know how this works. Come on, let’s go for a ride.”

The old Ford fired up and drove like a dream. It just had a few, uh … minor problems. “What’s that noise,” Dickie asked?

“Exhaust leak. “I said, waving off his question with a sweeping hand gesture. “We’ve all dealt with exhaust leaks before, right? No big deal.”

“So, how’s the radio working,” Dickie inquired, twisting the knobs?

“Not very well, hums, makes a little static.” I responded. “You know those old tube radios. Just another minor problem to fix. Besides, who listens to the radio when the motor sounds that good?”

The exhaust repair proved to be easy, but an electronics expert, I’m not. Off the radio went to one of the few remaining shops still working on them.

Executing exhaust repairs greatly improved noise levels inside the car. That was good news. The bad news was the assortment of other noises that were now discernable. “What’s that noise, ” Dickie asked?

“Could you be a little more specific,” I teased. “I hear several.” Defining the one Dickie was detecting, I replied, “Doesn’t sound good, does it?” Back in the garage, I offered as how I thought it was an axle bearing. “Not too difficult,” I said. Several hours later, time enough for Dickie to go home for a while and come back to check my progress, I was still at it. “What’s the problem,” he quizzed me. “Can’t get the bearings off?”

“Well, you know how it is,” I stuttered. “These old parts haven’t been off in years, just a little stubborn,” I added, exchanging the sweat on my face for the grease with my hands. “I’ll just run over to a local shop and get these bearings replaced.”

Several days and many dollars later, we were back in the garage. “Time to check ‘er out,” I said. Job completed, we were on the road again for another shakedown cruise. We weren’t even up to speed yet when Dickie tilted his head, frowned and asked, “You hear that? Is it … ”

“Yeah,” I agreed, frustration creeping in. ” It’s the same noise.”

“Know what that sounds like,” he said.

“Did I really want to know,” was the more poignant question?

“Stop the car,” he said. After a quick inspection under the car, and some precision fine tuning adjustments with a big hammer on a bracket rubbing against the drive shaft, we turned the old car around and headed for home. No more noise, just gentle breezes and warm sun while cruising with the top down.

“I think that worked,” Dickie said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Now, if I can just get the radio back in.”

“Good music on a Fall afternoon cruise would be nice,” he followed.

“Actually,” I said, hesitating. “I was thinking more along the lines of so I can’t hear any more noises. Fixing things that ain’t broke is wearing me out.”

—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).

 

“The magic moment is that in which a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ may change the whole of our existence.” — Paulo Coehlo

This week’s column was written while watching news coverage of the havoc Harvey heaped on the Texas Coast and the historic Houston flooding.

Hurricanes are violent, damaging, devastating acts of nature claiming lives and costing billions when crossing paths with civilization. Staying out of their path is the wisest course of action. Not everyone chooses to do that, including yours truly on one occasion. I fared better than some have during my one lapse of good sense, and am fortunately here to tell about it. Also, to say that doing so is taking a risk, so as the disclaimer says, “Do not try this at home.”

Twice in the mid-to-late 80s, a caravan of ’55 to ’57 Ford Thunderbirds from the Shreveport chapter of the Classic Thunderbird Club International (CTCI) traveled to Daytona Beach Florida for an annual October fall classic Little ‘Bird event staged there. The first year, only three cars made the journey. However, when we returned with a glowing report of fun and adventure, more than twice as many cars signed up the next year.

On the way back, our one caravan split into two when some of us elected to stop at the Cypress Gardens attraction that operated near Winter Haven, Florida from 1936 to 2009, while the others continued on toward home.

Leaving Cypress Gardens late that afternoon, we decided to travel as far as possible before stopping for the night. This is probably a good time to share little things about the little Thunderbirds. One, factory radios in the Little ‘Birds were tube-type AM only, and usually offered very little entertainment traveling with windows or the top down—the preferred style of most T-Bird owners . Also worth mentioning is that listening to a radio is not a high priority for a road trip in an old car. This one time, however, a radio of any kind might have proven helpful. Minor tidbits of news we missed included something about a hurricane named Juan headed for the Gulf Coast.

Two, old car vacuum wipers are not great for clear vision, and running into rain about dark was not fun. Deciding we had endured enough, pulling into a hotel on the beach somewhere in Mississippi seemed like a prudent idea. Spotting one with an indoor parking garage was an answered prayer traveling in a classic car. Why we didn’t notice there were no other cars around, or no one in the lobby except the desk clerk reading a newspaper was unusual escapes me now.

“Got four rooms,” I asked brushing the water off my jacket?

“Sure do,” he replied. “Got lots of rooms. No one else here.”

When it all came together, I heard it, “You are about to enter another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of imagination. Next stop, the Twilight Zone!”

Obviously recognizing the bewildered look on my face, the desk clerk offered, “Guess you haven’t heard? There’s a hurricane coming in tonight.”

If I appeared bewildered before, my next look had to be disbelief. “A hurricane,” I gasped.

“Yep, not sure where it will hit yet, somewhere between here and New Orleans, they say.”

By this time, half our group was already at the door. Me, and my friend Joe Greene were still processing.

“I’ll be here all night,” said the clerk, “Unless something changes. If it does, and I decide to leave, I’ll wake you up first.”

Joe and I looked at each other, then at the others standing near the door. Almost in unison, their heads were shaking, “no.” We bid them farewell and watched as tail lights disappeared in the rain heading north.

Winds howled all night and rain pelted the hotel room door overlooking the Gulf. I would be lying to say that I slept soundly rather than spending most of the night debating the wisdom of our decision. However, come sun up, we were all present and accounted for—Joe and me, our wives, and the guy at the front desk. Juan had reportedly gone in near Morgan City, Louisiana.

Oh, one other feature of the ’55-’57 Thunderbirds is they leak in rainstorms. A lot. Hurricane driven rain followed us all the way home, a very long, challenging and dangerous trip endured only by stopping frequently to dry towels used in futile attempts at keeping water out of the passenger compartment…and to have one more cup of coffee.

Tempting fate is seldom a wise choice. Luckily, this experience resulted in a story that can be recounted with a smile 30 years after the fact, as some of the questionable calls we live to tell about do. But, this experience I also remember soberly when another hurricane is headed our way, and one that leads me to extend special prayers when one like Harvey comes ashore.

—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).

“If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”—Will Rogers

Saying goodbye to a pet is difficult, especially if you are like me—one who loves a pet and treats them like family. A message from a friend enduring that difficult time in Mount Pleasant last week reminded me of my first dog and how my heart broke when it was time for him to go. I should add I was way past 40 when that happened.

“Max is fine dog.” Those words on a note accompanying the 75-pound lemon basset hound said it all. “He likes to play. Take good care of him.” With that note and one puppy picture, Bob Morgan in Lufkin passed ownership of the long-and-low dog to me and my kids. There was also a letter of apology to Max from one of Bob’s friends who mistakenly referred to Max as, “Just a dog.” That was more than 20-years ago coinciding with our move to Boerne, just outside San Antonio.

It was a significant time for both of us. Here was an uprooted old basset hound making a move across the state, taking up a new residence with a single newspaper editor raising two kids. One, as I noted earlier, who had survived more than 40 years without becoming a dog person. Despite those odds, we hit it off on the back porch that very first night, inspiring a column posted to my blog a couple of years ago at:

https://wordpress.com/post/leonaldridge.com/109

Max transitioned from “East Texas dawg” to “Hill Country hound” in style, becoming somewhat of a celebrity in the process. A dog is said to be man’s best friend, but where is it written they are allowed to steal the show?

“How’s Max,” a friendly voice asked one day as I walked in the Valley Mart convenience store in Boerne, near the newspaper office? My mission was trading pocket change for “sweet tooth satisfaction.” It was break time. “When are you going to write about Max again,” the lady at the register followed?

“Max is fine,” I reported. “He’s doing just great.

“Well, then you need to write something about him,” she said.

“I’ll do that.” I promised, heading back to the office, snack in hand.

“Max,” I told him that evening during our usual walk. “Folks in town want to know how you’re doing and why I haven’t written about you lately. You’re a celebrity.”

Max was impressed. I could tell by the way he let loose with a deep-throated bay, and darted off under cedar branches in pursuit of a rabbit.

Soon after, a friend called from Center. “You’ll never believe, I met some folks from Boerne. And, they know you…sort of.”

“Define sort of,” I retorted suspiciously.

“I told them I had a friend there, Leon Aldridge. They asked, ‘Who?’ Aldridge, I said—he publishes the paper there—The Boerne Star.”

“I was about to decide they didn’t know you,” my Piney Woods friend continued, “when somehow, Max’s name came up. ‘Oh Max,’ they said. ‘Yeah, we know Max—you’re talking about that newspaper guy with the basset hound. Yeah, why didn’t you mention Max to begin with.’”

That evening as we walked among the cedars and oaks, I told Max, “You’re a charmer. Your reputation extends all the way from East Texas to here and back.”

Max was again impressed. I could tell by the way he sniffed the underbrush searching for scents of another Hill Country critter.

The realization of how the ol’ dog’s charisma even spanned age barriers struck me one day while delivering my children to classes. First order that day was to get the kids to school, second was to get Max dropped off at the veterinarian’s office where he had a standing boarding reservation—pool side with margarita service.

Almost late and rolling up the driveway at Bandera High School, my children were hanging out the window, their ears flapping in the breeze while Max was stoically seated, seatbelt fastened. Pulling to the curb, the kids bounded out of the car as the ol’ dog stuck his nose out the window. All at once, hands across the campus waved and fingers pointed, but instead of greetings for my children, what I heard was, “Max—there’s Max! Hey, Max.”

The big dog just smiled, panting with his tongue hanging out as we drove away.

“Max,” I said as we headed toward the vet’s office, “Bob was right. you’re a fine dog. We should all follow your example and not take ourselves so seriously.”

Once again, he was impressed. I could tell by the way he stared out the window. Max knew he was more than, “Just a dog.”

—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).