Author: leonaldridge2015

“Appreciate your parents. You never know what they went through for you.” — Anonymous

Some memories make you appreciate being here. Mine do, especially as applied to my sisters falling for my ideas of fun, to punishment those ideas earned me, and to my parents who endured it while still living long lives.

Eight of ten experts today discourage spanking, but research confirms eight of ten parents, as mine did, still consider sparing the rod less effective for discouraging undesired performance than reminders applied to a youngster’s backside.

Mom sometimes applied justice with a hairbrush considering it done. More serious infractions evoked the dreaded, “Wait until your father gets home!”

It was a memorable hairbrush lesson that marked the time I was about five and decided to join the neighbors for ice cream. Loading up the car and seeing me in the back yard, they extended an invitation. Mom’s decision was, “no.” Not pleased with that answer however, I went back outside and went with them anyway.

My return was to an extremely distraught mother. I thought it was because she was glad to see me, but mom corrected my error in judgement by marching me off to the bathroom. As was typical of mom’s punishment, she was an expert at applying the brush while simultaneously crying her eyes out.

An encore performance around that same time pushed my poor mother so far over the edge, she skipped the hairbrush. She didn’t even wait for dad to come home, but summoned him from work.

My younger sister, Leslie, was not blessed with lots of hair as a toddler. Mom nurtured it and taped bows to her head until it finally began to grow.

My idea one day was to play barbershop, and Leslie was my first customer. A few snips employing dull “safe” school scissors, and Leslie not only had a horrible haircut, she passed for legally bald.

Mom was sitting in the hallway floor sorting through boxes in some sort of closet cleaning endeavor when we beamed with pride to show her the fun we had been having. She looked, said something and returned to her project. In a heartbeat, her eyes got bigger, she turned and looked again, and began screaming. I thought something was wrong with her. Turns out something was wrong, and it was me.

Arriving at this conclusion, I figured my best move was to be somewhere else, and I took off. Mom reached out, grabbed the waistband on my pants and began reeling me in.

She looked at me and sobbed, then looked at Leslie and whimpered. She was hysterical, hugging Leslie and still holding me by my pants when dad arrived. Forget, “mom’s hair brush in the bathroom.” That day, I had earned a “dose of dad’s belt in the kitchen.”

Just as things seemed to settle down, Sunday rolled around. The family arrived at church with nicely groomed hair; everyone except Leslie who was sporting a bonnet. Mom tried to explain, but she just started crying all over again whereupon impromptu prayers were offered by nearby brethren. I bowed my head, hoping some of them were for me.

I can say, however, whether it was my parent’s prayers or my punishment, I am glad to be here and there were two things I never did again: Go rogue with the neighbors for ice cream, or play barbershop with my sisters.

—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 bought this house now you know I’m boss,
Ain’t no haint gonna run me off.”

—“Haunted House” 1964 song by Jumpin’ Gene Simmons

“Ghosts. Apparitions. Haunts, or haints,” my friend teased me, “Whatever you call them, do you believe in them?”

Listening to campfire stories as a youngster in Coach Sam Parker’s Boy Scout Troop in Mount Pleasant instilled in me an appreciation for lore. His story telling skills were legendary. While his recitation of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade” was unforgettable, his spooky stories could keep a Tenderfoot Scout camped deep in Titus County woods awake half the night trying to forget.

While never investing heavily in paranormal perception, I’ve also never doubted unexplained occurrences. Particularly, personal experiences in a Center house I called home a few years ago, one built in 1900. Experiences that were, well…difficult to explain.

They started with minor distractions—sounds of walking in the attic at night. Then a bedroom with “possessed” lighting.

I blamed George, as I called the assumed unseen inhabitant to give him some personality. I also decided George resided in one large bedroom connected to a smaller bedroom and bath via a common door—standard construction in houses from that era.

George was seeking attention, it seemed, with the light in that room. After we ignored the attic sounds, the light began randomly coming on for no reason, frequently as someone walked by the door. Switching it off worked, but it would come on again at some point.

Fearing faulty wiring in the old house, an electrician was summoned, but nothing found. In fact, he argued events such as described were not possible. Nobody told George that. It continued during the years we lived there. We also learned to ignore that.

Other events were less easy to dismiss. Like one quiet morning when a slight noise caused me to look in time to see a kid’s football rolling through the door. It apparently fell off a bookshelf in the large room, rolled across the floor, through the door and stopped at my feet.

Early morning, no one else up. What made it fall off the shelf, and at that moment? What made a football that neither rolls easily or straight, navigate perfectly from one room to another, through a door, stopping at my feet? Having no other explanation, I said, “George, I don’t have time to play ball. I have to go to work.”

Preparing for work another morning, I deposited a washcloth on the lavatory and exited the bathroom, making the 180-degree U-turn necessary to face the closet. As I did, the aforementioned washcloth came flying out of the bathroom and landed on the floor beside me.

Again, I was the only one awake—an assumption I verified this time. Taking time to allow my heart rate to slow down, I looked around the room and announced loudly, “George, you gotta cut this out. If you have something to say, can you just write it on the wall? I’ll get back to you.”

Numerous oddities came and went at the old house, all in the area of those same rooms. I became accustomed to it, audibly addressing George with the blame and assuming he was hearing me.

Despite everything, after leaving the old house we often wished our stay there had been longer. Pending of course, George’s approval … and, whether I admitted to really believing in him.

—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).

“These are the good old days.” — Oscar Elliott (My late friend and long-time purveyor of philosophy, wit and wisdom.)

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Stuck at home entertaining an uninvited bout of flu last week gave rise to discussion touting methods of modern medicine against Granny’s old-fashioned home remedies.

The winner, and the cough cure recommended by nine out of ten Grannies, was the proverbial lemon, honey and a shot of whiskey. Mine endorsed it. Granny Aldridge, a devout teetotaler quick to admonish alcohol as the work of the devil, kept a small bottle of spirits in her cupboard—for medicinal purposes only, of course.

The affliction itself, she attacked with a concoction of garlic, vinegar and other ingredients that I not only couldn’t identify, I didn’t want to know. Today, I’m convinced the cure was not in the potion itself, but in the fact that no one else was going to get close enough to infect you.

Everything was just different at Granny’s. From miracle cures, to more pleasant memories, like eating: if it was from Granny’s house, it was better. Simple things like chips. I eat Fritos today because Granny kept them at her house. My favorite chip could be a toss up. “Ruffles,” or barbecue potato chips are contenders, but, I’m thinking Fritos would win two out of three times just because eating them recalls time spent at her house.

Fritos were not a common pantry item at home. We had chips—just the plain ones for “sandwich night.” Mom prepared simple meals, even on sandwich night, and I guess Fritos were too fancy.

Granny’s stash of Fritos, cookies, candy and other treats was kept only in her dining room buffet and that was the attraction. Special treats, kept in a special place.

For instance, we had mellorine at home, not to be confused with real ice cream, in the half-gallon square cartons. But, Granny kept ice cream sandwiches, and for a practical reason. Her refrigerator was old, even for the 50s. It had a very small freezer compartment with space on either side for milk, juice, and a water bottle, because there was no need to “waste” ice on a drink of water.

The tiny freezer in Granny’s ‘fridge had only two shelves for frozen food, each one accommodating something no larger than a couple of ice trays—which it also had just below the shelves. Therefore, she bought ice cream sandwiches because they fit. Today, however, I still eat ice cream sandwiches for no other reason than it reminds me of snacking at her house.

Another special treat at Granny’s was one I’ve not seen in many years—vanilla ice cream and devil’s food cake roll. That was not going to fit in her freezer in any case, making it a special treat bought only on Sunday afternoons at the A&P, after which we drove to the “gravel pit” to enjoy it picnic style.

The county gravel pit in the late 50s was on a county road off 271 north near the current Pittsburg hospital. Why we didn’t just go to the park, I don’t know. There was obviously some sort of attraction to enjoying a cake and ice cream roll on a sunny Sunday afternoon at the gravel pit.

It was in any case, a much easier and simpler way of life than today…except for those old-fashioned home remedies. You can keep them, but let me know if you see a cake and ice cream roll, will you?

—Leon Aldridge

(PHOTO: By the author—”Granny’s buffet,” the same one I went to for “special treats in a special place” at her house. She bought it used from a neighbor in Mineola, Texas sometime between 1923 and 1930. It sat in the same spot in her house in Pittsburg, Texas from 1930 to 1993. It has resided with me since 1993.)

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).

“Today is the oldest you’ve ever been, and the youngest you’ll ever be again.” ― Eleanor Roosevelt

Many people regard birthdays ending with a zero as milestones. That’s a title I use for events like the day I graduated from high school, the day I got my first car, or the day I retired. Oh wait, haven’t completed that last one yet.

Honestly, I don’t mind aging. I’m of the opinion that continuing to have birthdays is a good thing—a blessing, and that an optimistic outlook about having birthdays will lead to a long life.

Thinking decade by decade last weekend about the zero-year birthdays with which I’ve been blessed, two or three birthdays are all that really stood out. Truth is, I’m thankful for every one I have been blessed to celebrate.

I’m reasonably sure I had a tenth birthday, but possess no memory of it. I do, however, remember Valentine’s Day as a fourth grader in Mrs. Poe’s class at Seymour (Texas) Elementary. Why Valentine’s Day instead of my birthday? Maybe it was something to do with the little blonde I had big crush on.

Fast forward ten years. Fourth grade quickly became my second year of college at East Texas State University in Commerce sharing a rented house with two of my Mount Pleasant classmates, Ronny Narramore and Gary Cornett. Birthday? I guess, but memories are likely overshadowed by the next year’s birthday—turning 21. Now, that’s a milestone.

Birthday 30 as a blank could have something to do with emotions falling between losing a first child short of his first birthday and celebrating a new daughter within eight months. Thirty was the first birthday I remember thinking getting “old” seemed closer than it had once been.

Forty was a big one. Friends and family heaped three celebrations on my “big Four Oh.” Turning the dreaded 40 made me feel more blessed than anything else. It was also the first time I realized a lot can happen in ten years, and that ten years can go by before you have time to think about it.

50 and 60 were marked with memories of settling into thinking, “Just another birthday. Yesterday, I was one day younger. Tomorrow, I will be one day older.” With each one, however, the ten-year spans were not just fast any more, they were picking up speed like a runaway locomotive.

So, what about 70? I’m proud to say, today is the day. If you’re reading this, chances are I’ve made it. My aforestated philosophies of remaining optimistic and maintaining a humorous outlook as prerequisites for a good life and a long life remain intact. And, today, I’m pretty sure those principles came from my dad whose wisdom on birthdays was, “Life is like a roll of toilet paper—the closer to the end you get, the faster it goes.”

I also believe there’s truth in the clichéd adage that age is a state of mind, that we are only as old as we feel. I can report today that 70 doesn’t loom nearly as old as it did when I viewed it on my parents. My goal is 100, which by then will surely be the new 70, and we’ll take a look at things from there.

I’ve been blessed to have known two centenarians while living in Center, Texas. Mattie Dellinger, with whom I worked for many years, lived to see 100 and beyond. She embarked on a journalism career after she was past 50, wrote columns, and hosted a radio show at one point, while reaching 100.

The other was Grover Hicks who saw 100 still driving a car, teaching a Sunday School class, and going wherever she wanted to go.

I knew Miss Grover had celebrated 100 when I saw her in the bank a few days after her milestone birthday. “You missed my 100^th birthday party,” she teasingly scolded me. I acknowledged that I had, but apologized, letting her know I didn’t know about the party until I read it in the paper. She smiled and replied, “That’s all right, you can come to my 101^st party next year.”

That’s the optimism I hope I have…should I still be doing this at 100.

—Leon Aldridge

(Youngster’s birthday party photo from author’s collection. A birthday party, but not his, in Pittsburg, Texas, about 1950 or ’51. He’s the one behind the table, between the two girls and looking at the camera.)

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).

“Our memories keep yesterday alive.”—Author unknown

Roller rinks. Not so long ago, every small town had one. Facebook discussions last week about the “good old days” of roller skating in my hometown of Mount Pleasant, Texas, gave new life to lots of great memories. The smell of leather rink skates, the sound of skate wheels on wood floors and music by Bill Black’s Combo.

Invented in 1863 and popularized in the late 1800s, roller rinks boomed after World War II. Roller skating birthday parties became a rite of passage for children from the 1950s through the 1980s. Changes in the 70s with the disco craze boosted skating’s popularity as many rinks became roller discos. Replacing staid lighting, organ music and aging clientele, teenagers were skating under mirror balls to disco beats.

The skating rink was my primary hangout as a youth in the 60s. Owner J.B. Hall lived across the street from us on Redbud Lane, and I enjoyed time spent as his semi-sort-of employee riding to the skating rink with him to help open up for business. This entailed opening large wood “barn doors” over the screen windows and turning on evaporative coolers in the summer, or leaving the windows closed and lighting gas heaters in the winter. Dust mopping the floor performed on roller skates was next, followed by ensuring that stacks of 45 r.p.m. records were ready to spin.

Best part of the job, however, was that I was also the “bouncer” on some nights, a job that rotated between a number of guys. That meant wearing a whistle and pointing at anyone skating recklessly, too fast, or in any other unacceptable fashion.

My pay? Free ride to the skating rink, free admission, free snacks, and a free ride home. Oh, and the coolness that came with being a bouncer.

I wasn’t the best skater, but do anything often enough and you eventually get the hang of it. I was fair on wheels, held my own with most of the crowd. One of the crowd, however, stood out as “the pro.” Bobby Rhea moved with the fluid motion of an Olympic ice skater, turning circles, spinning on one skate, forward or backward, never faltered. Made it look easy.

The most amazing thing he did was strike a match on the floor while holding it in his teeth. I could attempt a description of the rolling acrobatics he accomplished to pull this off, but mere words are weak short of seeing someone do it. To every young guy wanting to skate like he did, and to every young girl he impressed, Bobby personified cool on skates.

The Halls purchased the rink from the McMahans, then later sold it to the Henry’s who owned it for a long time. By then, my skating days in Mount Pleasant were fading away as high school faded into college.

I never completely left roller skating behind though, accomplishing two “comebacks” since those early days. One in the late 80s when with my children, daughter Robin and son Lee, we started skating at the rink in Nacogdoches, the nearest one to home in Center, Texas. Despite a 20-year absence, old skating skills returned with a few laps around the floor. To ensure an authentic atmosphere for a respectable return, I even worked a deal with the rink manager to play my 60s Bill Black combo music.

The last comeback was just a few years ago in Longview, Texas, when my wife’s nephew decided a skating party for his birthday would be the bomb. As I had 20 years before, I calculated about 20 fingers and toes since the last time I had rolled on a rink—and this time I was in my 60s. None-the-less, I laced up my skates and rolled out on the floor one more time with “the other kids.” Within 15 minutes I was 16 years old again, even without the aid of what I termed proper music.

Perhaps there will be other comebacks before I hang up my skates for good, at least as long as Bill Black’s Combo music is still available.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo: Author’s 60s vintage Chicago Trophy roller skates still doing time, these days as a reminder of the “good old days” displayed in the back seat of his 1955 Ford Crown Victoria at vintage car events.)

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).

“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).