Author: leonaldridge2015

“Being a good neighbor is an art which makes life richer.”—Gladys Taber

The tall, gray-haired fellow walked slowly toward me from the small house next door. There only for a phone number on the “For Sale” sign nailed to a pine tree at Lake Murvaul in East Texas, I had no idea I was about to meet the best neighbor I would ever have.

It’s my opinion that the art of neighboring is dying, the victim of instant, easy and impersonal communication. I was again reminded of that recently while being updated on Center, Texas, news—incredibly, via text from a good friend and former Center resident now living on the other side of the state. “Haven’t heard that,” I told him. ”You’d think news in a small town would travel faster.”

“It did before the internet,” was my friend’s profound comeback. He was right. The result of more and more email, texts, tweets, etc., is less and less visiting across the fence, across the street and across the coffee shop table.

“Looking to buy a place on the lake,” the old fellow quizzed me that afternoon. “Good fishin’ here. You’ll like it,” he continued. His thinning gray hair, weathered face and slow walk revealed his age in years. His smile, twinkling eyes, and friendly curiosity uncovered a much younger heart. “I love this lake, wouldn’t live anywhere else. Retired and moved here from Dallas 17 years ago.”

In the weeks that followed, Mr. Bill made working on our newly acquired lake property tolerable. “How ’bout a glass of tea,” I heard him call out, then looked over the edge of the roof where I was working in mid-July to see him holding two glasses of iced tea. “Come on down,” he laughed. “I got a new joke for you.” He always had a new joke, and no one laughed louder or longer at them than he did.

“Come over for supper later,” he offered as he headed back across the easement that separated us. “Katherine’s fixin’ pork chops. I might save you one,” he chuckled.

Mr. Bill and Miss Katherine quickly “adopted” my children. He timed his afternoon picnic table coffee break to coincide with the arrival of the Gary, Texas, ISD school bus. “Y’all better get over here,” he’d announce as they stepped off the bus. “Katherine just made cookies.”

“Bug,” was the name my daughter selected for the scruffy Terrier mutt she adopted, but Bill called the puppy, “Bitsey.” Robin constantly corrected him, but to no avail. I soon learned this was just Bill’s teasing way of keeping Robin’s attention. The dog with two names soon became Bill’s “bus alert.” Long before Bill’s failing ears heard the school bus coming, the dog’s head would pop up as she looked toward the curve signaling him that it was near.

Good hearing was not a requirement for his fishing, however. You could set your watch by the sound of Bill’s boat heading out full-throttle as the sun came up on the cove, and again just before the sun dropped behind the pine trees on the other side. “Catch anything?” I’d call out when I saw him coming back. “Naw,” he’d laugh. “One tried to jump on my hook, but I talked him out of it.”

Every back porch around the cove was within “hollering” distance, a perfectly acceptable form of communication. Every porch was also within sight, meaning that meandering toward your pier with a cup of coffee hoping to catch fish hitting the top of the water guaranteed someone would soon join you—coffee cup in hand.

Pier sitting wasn’t a requirement with Bill, though. “Got any more of that coffee,” he’d often ask, sticking his head in the back door on Saturday morning. “Katherine won’t let me have any more. Says I don’t need it. If she calls, don’t tell her I’m over here,” he’d laugh, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Miss Katherine was a determined woman, and she determined one day that it was time to sell their lake property and move closer to kids and grand kids in Ft. Worth. “Crazy woman,” Bill said, shaking his head one evening as we sat on the back porch. “I came to this lake to stay.” He protested to everyone, except Miss Katherine of course, and the “For Sale” sign went up on the hilltop place they had called home for 20 years.

‘Where ya’ going,” I asked one afternoon as I saw him heaving suitcases in the car. “Goin’ to Ft. Worth to see the kids,” he replied. Looking around to make sure Miss Katherine wasn’t within earshot, he smiled and said, “If anyone stops to look at the house, tell ’em it’s eaten up with termites, the roof leaks and the plumbing’s shot.”

“Got ‘cha,” I laughed. “Have a good trip.” The little place next door eventually sold, Bill and Katherine moved to Fort Worth and closer to family, all about the same time opportunity called me to Boerne in the Texas Hill Country. But to this day, every time someone talks about good neighbors, I still see the best neighbor I ever had coming across the easement laughing and saying, “I got a new joke for you…”

— 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).

“Never say ‘never’… karma has a wicked sense of humor.” —Experience

My first close encounter with a computer just months into the 80s occurred when we took delivery of our first one at the East Texas Light in Center, Texas, where it was set up in the bookkeeper’s office.

Computers of a sort were already used for typesetting, although primitive by today’s standards. Imagine tall boxy devices the size of a refrigerator beeping and humming at the command of multiple yards of perforated paper tapes generated by reporters on typewriter-style machines in the news room—a far cry from the new one in bookkeeping around which everyone huddled that day. Typically found in banks and big businesses, the newspaper now had a modern computer—one with a glowing black-and-green TV tube monitor, noisily generating reams of green-and-white paper.

Whereas children born today come with a plethora of knowledge pre-installed for intuitively knowing how to operate complex computing devices, I couldn’t spell ‘computer’ until my junior year of college. Remembering my only course in ‘computer science’ at East Texas State University in Commerce, Texas, involved thick stacks of punch cards created during many late nights in the computer center used to produce reams of that same green-and-white paper (most of mine with error messages attached), my reaction to the new computer was quick. “I’ll never need to know how to work a computer, just bring me the print outs.”

Karma was swift and sure. The first computer in my house came no more than a year later—an Apple IIe in about 1983. It was soon replaced with a first-generation McIntosh introduced the next year that came with two floppies required to operate it. One, a system disk and the other a data disk—cutting edge technology at 128k from a device that weighed 12-15 pounds.

So, here I was last week, some 35 years following my profound proclamation, attempting rationalization to a somewhat understanding friend how (and why) I possess six functioning devices, any one of which has mega times the capacity and power of the first one I owned. Never mind that the one called iPhone is small enough to fit in a pocket, or become easily lost under or behind something when the ringer is turned off.

Supplementing this collection of working wonders are three Mac desktops that preceded the current workhorse, a five-year old MacBook Pro. My Mac museum includes a PowerMac G5 currently living on a desk just in case it’s ever needed, in the same spot in which it’s collected dust since the MacBook Pro was first powered up. Stored in their original boxes are a PowerMac G4 and a first-generation iMac G3. It’s two-tone silver and gray. I just couldn’t take the plunge for one of the bright candy-colored configurations in which the revolutionary tear-drop shaped computers daringly debuted in the early 90s.

Rounding out the current collection of computing devices are:

• A first-generation iPad that still performs perfectly, at the ready for me to read Kindle books, or to provide chords and lyrics for my embattled endeavors to master the guitar.
• Two iPad minis. Why two? That’s an interesting story for another time.
• An Asus Android 7″ tablet that I own only because it was part of a promotion with my last phone contract renewal. Used to be my Kindle reader before I discovered the app existed for the iPad.
• Two iPhones. One for me which will have to be surgically removed when it dies so that a new one can be installed, and one that my wife uses for phone calls, taking photos of cats and grandchildren, and marveling at her newly discovered ability to send and receive text messages…that is when she remembers to take it with her.

A fitting footnote might be the prodigy of that first computer, the Apple IIe. No, I don’t still have that one. It wasn’t functioning properly and was handed off to my son after the first Macintosh was dedicated to duty. Lee was young, yet to enter school, but he somehow managed to make it work and was playing games on it the same day. How did he do that? He told me at the time, but I didn’t understand it, even then. Today, he has a degree in computer networking and maintains IT networks and automation equipment for a manufacturing company in Mount Pleasant, Texas, with locations in four, or is it five, states…and he still plays computer games.

So, what does a reformed “I’ll never need to know how to work a computer,” type do with all these devices? The easier answer is the same as it is for most of us today, “what would we do without them?”

Some things have not changed, however, since the days of that iconic green-and-white paper. I’m still getting error messages.

— Leon Aldridge

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

 

“Column writing is storytelling in written form. Those who understand the magic in words make the best writers and the best story tellers. Therefore, I believe there is only a thin line that separates the two crafts.”—Leon Aldridge

That thought came to me a couple of weeks ago while on a mission to name the newest series of Aldridge columns scheduled for publication in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune.

Columns published in newspapers have traditionally been identified by names. Sometimes, the name will include the author’s name in a catchy manner, such as “Borderline” written by friend and former colleague Gary Borders. Other times, it might refer to the publication itself, as in the column called “Monitoring Main Street,” written by Morris Craig and several publishers and staffers at The Monitor in Naples, Texas for more than at least 60 years that I know of.

Whatever the name, column writing has provided me with more fun and reward than almost any other aspect of the newspaper business. I was hooked on columns in high school reading Paul Crume’s, “Big D,” in the Dallas Morning News.

Crume’s first column was published in 1952 and was on the front page every Sunday through Friday edition for 24 years. He reportedly never missed a deadline, but also never made one with more than seconds to spare. And supposedly, never read his column in the paper the next day.

His last column appeared November 13, 1975, just three days before he died. No one took his place, and unfortunately, in my opinion, the tradition of front page columns also died—with one exception we’ll touch on shortly.

My first regular column ran in the Center East Texas Light (now the Light and Champion) in April of 1980, dubbed, “The Aldridge Report.” That was, however, not the first column bearing my byline. As editor for the Sabine News in Many, Louisiana in the late 70s, I penned sporadic contributions for the struggling weekly where time to write regular columns was a luxury—likely why it never garnered a name.

After Center, and after teaching journalism at Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas, my next publishing gig was at The Boerne Star in the Texas Hill Country. We called that column “This Week,” a name I also used at the Marlin Democrat, a brief stop on my way back to East Texas to publish the Naples Monitor.

Keeping with the aforementioned Naples Monitor tradition dating back many decades, my column ran on the front page as, “Monitoring Main Street.” Morris Craig still continues that tradition, as he did before me and after me, with the only front-page newspaper column of which I’m aware.

Returning to the Light and Champion briefly in 2014-2015, my column ran under the name, “It’s All in How You Look At It.”

All of that leads to naming this most recent Aldridge column, a process that started right before the first offering went to press recently when a message from Center publisher Steve Fountain asked about  a name. I honestly had no idea, so the brainstorming commenced. Now, if you think the catchy titles on newspaper columns are just whimsical taglines requiring little thought or creativity, read on.

I hastily jotted names on sticky notes and threw them up on the wall to stare at them for a while. As midnight struck, the list included:

• Life is a journey
• It’s gonna be all right
• The story goes on forever
• Everyone has a story
• I swear It’s the truth
• That’s how I remember it
• Still playing with words
• Miscellaneous Musings
• Random Ruminations

Employing the latest in scientific methods such as throwing darts at the notes while chanting the proposed names aloud, I began to think about how general interest column writing is little more than telling a story. People love a good story, and it doesn’t even have to be 100-percent true—minor embellishment can be a virtue, like careful use of spices when cooking, only to enhance what’s already there.

Other names fell out of contention as I recalled sage advice from columnist and local new writer Mattie Dellinger years ago in Center who always reminded, “Don’t use 50-cent words when nickel words will do.” Just before 12:30 a.m., the list read:

• It’s Gonna Be All Right
• The Story Goes On Forever
• Everyone Has a Story
• I Swear It’s the Truth
• That’s How I Remember It

I borrowed “It’s Gonna Be All Right” from my life-long friend Oscar Elliott in Mount Pleasant, one of the wittiest guys I ever knew. Also liked, “That’s How I Remember It.” It had merit for storytelling. Both of them needed additional words to complete, and column names should be brief. Approaching 1:00 a.m., the survivors were:

• The Story Goes On Forever
• Everyone Has a Story
• That’s How I Remember It

Delaying a final decision until morning, I turned off the computer in favor of sleeping. As darkness replaced lamp light at 12:58 a.m., I had an epiphany. Knowing it would be gone by morning, I wrote this on a note, “It’s a Story Worth Telling.”

Morning and 5:50 came quickly. I let the dogs out and glanced at the words hastily scribbled scant hours before. Reading the survivors aloud for the last time, I fired off an email to Center and to Mount Pleasant … “It’s a Story Worth Telling.”

After seeing it in print, I felt good about it. Truly, we all have a story or two worth telling, and we should be sharing them.

—Leon Aldridge

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

 “We do not quit playing because we grow old — we grow old because we quit playing.”  — Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

Traveling the path of what was once U.S Route 66 from one end to the other while driving one of Detroit’s finest from the era is but one of many items remaining on my bucket list. Time, or money, or both will determine what’s left on the list at the end of my road. For now, it’s one of the dreams, and I know of no better motivator for growing older than dreams.

Read a news article about Route 66 last week, one of the original super highways within the 1920s U.S. Highway System. The legendary 2,448-mile thoroughfare was designated in November of 1926 and signs went up. It ran from Chicago, Illinois to the Los Angeles suburb of Santa Monica, California through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona opening new destinations to a generation of American travelers while inspiring a number of movies, a 1960s television series, and one of the great songs of our time.

During its heyday, the highway was filled with dazzling neon-adorned buildings that housed one-of-a-kind eateries, motels and tourist attractions bringing new-found prosperity in small towns along the way. It also served as a major path for those who migrated west, especially during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, supporting the economies of the communities through which it passed. Many of the original buildings and even stretches of the highway itself have been restored and are still in use, but according to last week’s article, a 10-year-old federal program to help fund small town promotional endeavors along the historic highway may be ending soon.

Route 66, and other well-known American thoroughfares like the transcontinental Lincoln Highway, and even the Bankhead Highway through my hometown of Mount Pleasant, Texas, saw the beginning of the end with President Dwight Eisenhower’s interstate system in the 1950s. As interstates began crisscrossing the country, Route 66 became less and less traveled. It was officially decommissioned as a US Highway in 1985.

So, it was in that year while opening mail as publisher of the Light and Champion newspaper in Center, Texas, I found myself reading a press release from the Texas Highway Department announcing the highway’s official closure. As a part of marking the end of US 66 through Texas, the state conducted a sealed bid auction for the road signs that were taken down and stored in Austin that year. The soon to be historical pieces were offered in two groups—steel signs and aluminum signs.

“Got to have one,” I told myself. I wish I could tell you the strategy I employed, but details are lost to time…and to all the other tidbits of data my mind has heaped on top of 1985 since then. I remember it had something to do with bidding in several price ranges on both types, so that if they went higher, I would hopefully snag at least one or two. And, if they sold at a lesser price, I might wind up with several. Notification came soon that I was a successful bidder and proud owner of two genuine Route 66 highway signs—one aluminum and one steel.

I still have one of the signs. It hangs on my garage wall amid a lifetime collection of other memorabilia from the golden age of American automobiles surrounding my stable of three mid-50s Fords—any one of them a candidate for completing the aforementioned, highly anticipated bucket list trip.

Traveling Route 66 from one end to the other is a common aspiration of auto enthusiasts like me who enjoy playing with old cars. During the 80s, I managed to set foot on both ends of the “Mother Road,” as it’s been called, on unrelated trips at different times. Also, a portion of it is the route Ronnie Lilly and I took driving from Mount Pleasant to Los Angeles in 1967 in Ronnie’s 1957 Chevrolet. If we knew that we were traveling Route 66 then, I could not say today. But, looking back now, we picked up the iconic highway near Albuquerque where we spent a night and left it around Flagstaff headed to Las Vegas.

Thus, the itch yet to be scratched for traveling Route 66 from one end to the other in one memorable and fun road trip remains. Something I must do before I quit playing.

Won’t you get hip to this timely tip,
When you make that California trip,
Get your kicks on route sixty-six.

—“Route 66” lyrics 1946 by American songwriter Bobby Troup

— Leon Aldridge

Phone calls can often orchestrate unexpected news—news typically falling in the category of really good or really bad. One such call out of the blue a couple of weeks ago proved to be a little of both. While the news was a sad message, it stimulated many good memories.

“This is Steve Hubbard in Fort Worth,” the caller began. “I know that doesn’t mean a thing to you,” he said with a smile in his voice. “I just read a column you wrote for a newspaper in Mount Pleasant…I think it was…maybe a year or two ago,” he articulated hesitatingly. “…and in it, you mentioned Wallace Read.” With the mention of Wallace Read’s name, I instantly had a great deal in common with someone I had never met before I answered the phone.

“Yes sir,” I told him. “If I recall correctly, I think that was a column about the importance of music in my life, and there’s no way I can talk about my love for music without remembering or mentioning Wallace Read.”

“I’ve been a long-time friend of Wallace’s,” Mr. Hubbard continued. “And, I hate to have to tell you that Wallace passed away this morning.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “I’m really sorry to hear that. I haven’t heard anything about him in years, but have thought of him often. He was my band director at Kilgore College in ’66 and ’67.”

“He was 93,” Mr. Hubbard replied. “But, was in good health and still performing and playing trumpet until about six months ago.”

News of the former Kilgore College band director’s death opened the floodgates for memories of my high school and college band years. Without a doubt, memories that are among the best of my educational experience.

Lufkin, Texas, native Wallace “Wally” Read was a trumpet player at Lufkin High School who followed a love for music through his military service in World War II playing in USOs, to becoming a band director after graduating from Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas. After high school jobs in East Texas at Beckville, Gaston, and White Oak, he went to Kilgore College to direct the Ranger Band where he remained until he retired. At Kilgore, he took the band program to a position of an award winning, internationally recognized band performing with the Rangerettes, earning invitations for events from the Cotton Bowl and Dallas Cowboy halftime shows to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, plus appearances in a number of events in countries around the world.

After a little research, I located the column Mr. Hubbard had read. It was published in May of 2015 in both the Center (Texas) Light and Champion, and the Mount Pleasant (Texas) Daily Tribune.

The specific paragraphs about Mr. Read were: “Wherever my appreciation of band music originated, it was forever ingrained in me at Kilgore College as a member of the Ranger band under the direction of Lufkin native Wallace ‘Wally’ Read. Stage performances were more prevalent in college band, and it was not uncommon for Read to join in for a chorus, or a solo. I still remember his trumpet solo on Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White.”

“The crowning touch at KJC was the spring concert May 2, 1967. Read was friends with Tonight Show band leader ‘Doc’ Severinsen who started with NBC-TV’s Tonight Show in 1952 during Steve Allen’s tenure. Severinsen played trumpet in the band directed by Skitch Henderson, taking over as bandleader in 1967 for Johnny Carson, and continued until Carson and Severinsen’s band left the show in 1992. Under his direction, The Tonight Show NBC Orchestra became the most visible big band in America.”

“However, the Ranger band’s performance that night in East Texas was second to no other when the well-known bandleader walked on the stage to join the Ranger band and cap the evening with a signature solo in Concert for Trumpets.”

“The entire performance was recorded and a copy of that record still on my shelf serves as proof positive should anyone challenge my lighthearted, boastful claim to have once played on the same stage with legendary musicians Wallace Read and Doc Severinsen.”

The day after our phone conversation, Mr. Hubbard sent an email detailing his relationship with Wallace Read and his family. The professional musician, trumpet player and trumpet builder wrote:

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

I grew up in the small Texas town of Keene, home of Southwestern Adventist University. In the early 1960s, Professor (later, Doctor) John Read and his family moved to Keene, where Dr. Read became the director of choral studies at the college. One of my earliest memories is when Dr. Read invited the Kilgore College Band to perform at the college, directed by his brother, Wallace Read. 

As I grew older, and became more and more interested in music, I came to realize that Wallace Read was a legend among Texas college band directors. Although Kilgore College was a small two-year college, Wallace had developed a band program that was nationally famous. On several occasions, they were invited to perform in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in New York, with all expenses paid. This honor was reserved for only the finest bands in the land.

After I began to learn the cornet and trumpet at age 10, I became aware that Wallace Read was also a world-class jazz and big-band trumpet player. He would come to Keene on occasion, to visit his family. Dr. Read saw to it that Wallace was available to coach me, as I worked to develop my abilities on the trumpet. Wallace took an interest in me, because of my association with the Read family, and went out of his way to mentor me. 

In the many years since, I have had numerous opportunities to visit with Wallace, and to play trumpet duets with him. We would improvise solos, trade choruses on Dixieland tunes, and discuss the various trumpet players who had been our heroes. Doc Severinsen, Harry James, Bunny Berigan, Rafael Mendez, and many others. Doc was a personal friend of Wallace, and sent his daughter to attend Kilgore college, just so she could be in Wallace’s band. Doc made multiple visits to Kilgore, and appeared as a soloist with the band. One of Wallace’s prize possessions was a Getzen Doc Severinsen Model trumpet, given to him personally by Doc. 

In 2012, I designed and built a custom sterling-silver trumpet, dedicated to Wallace, John, and Delbert “Sleepy” Read. John and Wallace were my musical mentors, and their older brother “Sleepy” gave me my first set of instrument repair tools. I had each of these brothers sign the bell of the trumpet with a felt marker. Then, I hand-engraved their signatures right into the sterling silver. I have a photograph of John, Wallace, and “Sleepy,” with Wallace holding the trumpet. John’s son, Clayton, now has that trumpet, and plays it on occasion. 

I am sorry that Wallace has passed away. His insights into jazz trumpet stylings, breathing, range studies, and overall musicianship, have been invaluable to me in my professional career. I seldom pick up a trumpet, without thinking about Wallace. I will always treasure his memory, and the time that I was privileged to spend with him.

 – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

I’ve always considered myself privileged to have played in a college band under Wallace Read’s direction. He made a lasting impression on me, and was an influence on my love for music. To be fair, so did both high school band directors at Mount Pleasant High School—Max Murphy and Blanton McDonald. All three were completely different personalities with different directing styles.

Mr. Read’s style was animated. He moved around the band hall “zooming in” to direct individual sections, often emphasizing the tempo or inflection of the music with body language. He was never without a signature smile, and was the upbeat persona in the rehearsal hall, on the football field or visiting one-on-one in his office.

He also cared about his students as individuals, although it would be nearly 40 years before I realized that. Bass horn players are essential to a band, but seldom garner lots of recognition or become a stand out in anyone’s band memories.

However, in about ‘04 or ’05 when the “Sounds of Swing” East Texas big band orchestra performed in Center, I recognized the lead trumpet player as Wallace Read, just a few bars into the group’s first song. Catching up with him during the intermission, I introduced myself and said, “Mr. Read, I was in your band at Kilgore in ‘66-‘67.” He paused a few seconds, smiled and said, “Yes…bass player from Mount Pleasant, right?”

All very good memories. Wonderful memories recalled because someone I had never met read something I wrote about a man who obviously played an important role in both our lives, and contacted me not only to deliver a message, but also to share memories. That’s beautiful music in anyone’s memories.

—Leon Aldridge

“Enjoy the world outside.”

“Escape the routine life.”

Enticing slogans combined with pictures of happy campers, smiling faces and lovely families enjoying the great outdoors camping in travel trailers. Sales brochures like these reminded me of the pleasure my parents derived from years of camping experiences, and kept the thought of owning a travel trailer on my bucket list.

So, it seemed funny to me that none of those alluring thoughts came to mind recently after a half-dozen failed attempts at successfully backing my newly acquired 30-foot get away-on-wheels into my 31-foot driveway while concurrently attempting to negotiate a 90-degree turn. The huge white RV filling my rear-view mirrors at the moment really didn’t look all that big when it was just sitting there before I bought it—calling my name, whispering seductive things like, “Buy me, run away with me, fulfill your dreams spending quality time camping in the wilderness just like mom and dad used to do.”

In fact, trying to get my brain around the elusive relationship that turning the steering wheel one direction guaranteed said trailer out back would go where you think it should go was anything but seductive … actually closer to grounds for divorce. But, it was enough to make one think that surely, just as there are rules for successful relationships, there are more than likely rules one should first consider when contemplating fulfilment of any lifelong dream to develop a relationship with an RV. That was the exact moment I was also pretty sure I knew what the first rule should be.

Rule number one: Make sure you have a place to keep the thing. You can’t park an RV, especially a big one, just anywhere—more particularly if putting it somewhere requires rear view mirrors combined with a brain that “gets it” about the whole steering wheel, trailer direction backing up thing.

Recalling how mom and dad enjoyed their camping excursions really did have a large influence on crossing “buy a travel trailer” off my bucket list. They genuinely enjoyed camping, opting to vacation camp year after year, seldom traveling to any of the traditional destinations using motels or hotels. Enjoying the outdoors was never very far from where they lived in Mount Pleasant, Texas. Memories dated by my school years places them at setting up camp at Beaver’s Bend in Oklahoma until about my junior high era in the early 60s. My high school tenure in the mid-60s and into college years, they ventured over to Camp Albert’s Pike in Southwest Arkansas, eventually making that their go-to camp site for as long as they continued the life of happy camping. Both of these meccas in the natural wilderness were within a half-day’s drive of home. Their stays were typically a week.

Good memories are the recollection of times I would join them at Albert’s Pike for a weekend-long brief taste of the outdoors, complete with campfire smoke, long hikes, S’mores and cold Arkansas river water.

Their first choice of camping gear in the early 1950s was a trailer, home-crafted from the rear section of an old pickup truck and pulled by the family car, a 1950 Studebaker Starlight Coupe. My father fashioned a wooden A-frame roof structure on the pickup bed turned trailer and covered it with an Army surplus tarpaulin. It looked for all the world like a refugee from a WWII convoy, perhaps more than coincidence since dad was less than five years post discharge from the Army Corp of Engineers with service in that war. What it looked like notwithstanding, it served them well for a few years including one trip I remember as a pre-schooler when we traveled from East Texas to Colorado, camping within site of the Royal Gorge, sleeping in the homemade camper.

Sometime in the late 50s to early sixties, renting a small travel trailer for their annual summer treks replaced the old Army trailer clone. Trailer renting was replaced when they invested in a large tent. Over the years, they graduated from tents to a cab-over pickup camper before finishing their years of making camping memories with a travel trailer they purchased. A small one. A lot smaller than the 30-footer I was still trying to plant in my driveway. That’s when the next potential rule for buying an RV came into clear focus.

Rule number two: Start small and work your way up.

Neighbor’s some years ago in Center, Texas, Kenneth and Theron Sanders, were also campers for a time. Jumping right into it, they bought a nice, reasonably-sized (a.k.a. smaller than 30-f00t) travel trailer, loaded it up and headed south for Galveston and the Texas Gulf Coast beaches. “Keep an eye on the house while we’re gone,” Kenneth said. “I will,” I told him, smiling and waving while watching them roll out of the driveway.

Didn’t think much about it at first when our family feline, “Kitty,” (no sense in getting too creative with naming a cat—they’re genetically engineered not to respond to anything else any way) didn’t make role call the next morning for breakfast. She was a hunter, independent as cats tend to be, and not one to keep a schedule. But, a day or so later, when I had not seen hide nor fur of her, concern began to nest in my mind. Then after several days, I silently and sadly began to think that she must have, in some unfortunate way, used up all of her nine lives. I knew she didn’t have many left because five or six of them had already been spent living through my children’s toddler years.

After a week or so, the Sanders returned from their coastal excursion, smiling and happy as they arrived home. They looked good, tanned and relaxed, all three of them. Kenneth, Theron … and Kitty?

As Kitty hit the ground, appearing genuinely happy to be back on home turf, Theron related as how somewhere past the point of no return, they made their first fuel stop. “Imagine my surprise,” she said. “When I glanced at the trailer window and saw this wide-eyed cat staring back at me from inside.” While curiosity failed to kill the cat, it evidently played a pivotal part in enticing the critter to sneak inside the trailer’s open door as our neighbors busily prepared for the trip.

Deciding to make the best of entertaining the stow away, they bought a litter box, stocked up on Fancy Feast, and treated Kitty to a week’s all expense paid vacation on the coast. Which brought to mind another rule—or maybe we’ll call this one an option if you’re still struggling with numbers one and two.

Rule number three (optional): Consider skipping ownership entirely and just stow away in the neighbor’s RV. Don’t laugh, my cat made it work.

No doubt, the list of rules for considering RV ownership are long, far exceeding the accepted length of this missive. Also no doubt, I will learn more of them as I go, accumulating my own list pretty much like everyone else has done, from experience.

That, of course, is necessarily preceded by ending the spectacle of this novice attempting to get his first trailer in the driveway with a minimum of dents and dings on it, structural damage to the house, decimated landscaping, or all of the above. Hopefully, we can do that soon so we can experience the most important rule for being a happy camper.

Most important rule: “Enjoy the world outside—escape the routine life.” Go camping.

— Leon Aldridge

Goodbye 2016, hello 2017! Strike up the band, it’s time for the perennial favorite, Auld Lang Syne. English translation of the 1700s Scots poem set to music and adopted as tradition to mark the end of something, be it an event, someone’s life, or simply another year, is “for (the sake of) old times.” Traditional use of the song in our culture has also developed an association with wishes for good luck and prosperity in the new year.

Prognostication and preparation for what sort of luck the new year might offer was an art form for my grandmother, something for which she relied on a tad of tradition, a smidge of superstition and likely a lot of old time wit and wisdom handed down to her. I’ve also wondered if it might have been in some way remotely related to the fact that she and my grandfather married on New Year’s Day in 1920.

My father’s mother, who was born in Aledo, Texas in 1905, married my grandfather when she was 15. My grandfather was born in Natchez, Mississippi in 1888, and was 31 when they married. He was already a veteran of 18 years of service with the Cotton Belt railroad having gone to work for them in 1901 when he was a mere 13 years old. Ten years later in 1930, when my father was seven years old, they moved to Pittsburg in Northeast Texas, where they lived in the same house for the rest of their lives. For him, that was 1967. For her, 1993.

Life was, to say at the very least, different a hundred years ago. My grandparent’s age difference when they married was not that far removed from the lives of many other members of the working class at the time. Many of my grandmother’s philosophies about explaining and coping with life were likely based in her parent’s and her husband’s thinking, all of whom were born in the 180os. While some of that philosophy was part superstition, the Lord certainly had a hand in her thinking as well. Granny was also a devout Christian and faithful member of the First Methodist Church in Pittsburg for more than 60 years.

As each year drew to a close, she wasted no time in sharing those personal philosophies—her old sayings, as she called them—to ensure that everyone in the family knew exactly what was in store for the new year. Those sayings included plenty of sage advice on how to predict and how to influence one’s life and luck as the calendar rolled over to January 1.

Perhaps the pivotal piece of providence was making sure you ate for prosperity. Dinner (the noon meal for her generation—a.k.a. contemporarily known as lunch) at her house on New Year’s Day held true to the common southern states tradition by including black-eyed peas and cabbage. Still widely practiced in Southern culture, popular belief is that dining on these delicacies will assure good luck and financial good fortune. Some hold to the premise that the key menu item is the peas, and that cabbage is simply a side dish for backup, or additional wealth. I’m a fan of peas and cabbage any day of the year as long as they come with cornbread and iced tea. And, while I’ve consumed more than my share over the years, I would truly be hard pressed to say how much worse off I might be had I opted for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead. Whatever the cuisine on January 1, I’ve always been blessed.

Her second favored New Year’s advice she proposed for approval regarded the weather. She noted on her Cardui calendar for every day of the first 12 days, exactly what the weather was on that day. These notes became her forecasting tool for each of the 12 months to follow. If New Year’s Day was stormy, cloudy or cold, then we were surely in store for bad weather during the first month of the New Year. Rain on the third meant March was going to be a wet month. I thought it was a really fascinating substitute for science until the year snow fell on the eighth. And, no‑it did not snow in August that year.

There was also something to do with the wind on New Year’s Day. I never could keep that one straight, something about if the wind was from the south, nice weather and good times were in store. Wind from the north was an omen of bad weather all year. Seems as wind from the east was a sign of bad things to come while westerly winds were hope for good things, or vice-versa. So what if it’s calm on New Year’s Day? A happy and prosperous year was in store for all, according to granny.

Other lesser pressed premises included gems such as the first person entering your home on January 1 would have a strong influence on your new year. She always advocated that it was especially good fortune if that first visitor to your house for the new year was bearing a gift or something good to eat. Truthfully, I’ve always thought any day someone came to my house with a gift or food was a good day.

For some odd reason, blondes and redheads arriving first were strong signs of bad luck according to my grandmother. And, another oddity offered as how the first one to your house should knock and be allowed in rather entering unannounced. But, it didn’t stop there. When leaving, that first visitor must be let out through another door other than through the door he or she entered. Last, but not least, no one in the house was supposed to leave before the first visitor arrived. The initial direction of travel through the door had to be in. It was bad luck should anyone dare go out of the house first.

Granny also did not wash any clothes on New Year’s Day. No how, no way. Dirty clothes would wait until January second. If you didn’t get your laundry done before January 1, you were on you own until January 2. That one, I recall, was not exclusive to New Year’s Day, however. She also held that it was bad luck to labor with laundry on any Monday. I wondered later in life if this had anything to do with the fact that my grandmother, who died in 1993 while still living in that same house she first occupied in 1930, never owned a washing machine. “Doing the laundry” for her meant a couple of number three wash tubs, a scrub board, and a clothes line. That, in my book, would constitute bad luck whatever day dirty clothes had to be dealt with.

Looking back, our good fortune is in many ways that life today is immensely better than it was then. Regardless of our perspective, it’s hard to deny these are the good old days.

Whatever your New Year’s traditions may be, my wish for you is a happy and prosperous 2017. Enjoy your black-eyed peas and cabbage, check the weather, may that first visitor bring you good cheer and a small gift, and leave your laundry basket full until Monday.

Oh, and “for (the sake of) old times,” I also wish for all of us that our good fortune in the new year lasts longer than our resolutions.

— Leon Aldridge

Christmas comes in a variety of manifestations in America. To a child, it can be the anticipation of St. Nick delivering a shiny bicycle or a new doll on Christmas morning. To those of us who have seen a number of Christmas seasons come and go already, it can be the comfort of family and loved ones being blessed with one more Christmas together to share a meal, laugh and be thankful to our Creator. To many, it’s a season of thanksgiving and renewing of faith. To someone struggling to find the ends—let along make ends meet—it can be a meal and a warm place to sleep.

This morning, as I pondered a sampling of ideas for a column this Christmas weekend, I was at the point of feeling that if any one of those short-circuited brain wave thoughts came together in time to post a few words here, that I would truly be a believer in Santa Claus one more year.

Before I had very long to fret over writer’s block, however, Christmas Eve at the Aldridge household took a sharp, unexpected left turn Saturday morning. With plans for a family gathering at dinner tomorrow taking shape, illness struck the family event planner, chef, Christmas decorator, and household organizer—a.k.a. better half, Terry. What had been shrugged off as a nagging illness all week rose up and swiftly took her out of commission before morning coffee ever reached the second cup stage.

A doctor in Center, Texas on Saturday morning? On Christmas Eve? Not happening. So, before you could say, “On Donner and Blitzen,” we were on the way to urgent care in Nacogdoches. Short version of the rest of the story is that we were thankfully back home with a less than emergency status prognosis. Dinner plans for tomorrow were quickly rearranged with a quick handoff to other family members who pitched in to keep the turkey and dressing flowing, and Terry will be fine soon.

Needless to say, Christmas here for this year is one of thanksgiving—thankful that Terry’s medical diversion was not more serious than it was. Being sick is no fun for anyone at any time, but it’s a real bummer at Christmas.

Medical emergency scare? Taken care of and done. Christmas dinner plans? Rearranged and done. A Christmas story column for the blog? Oh yeah, I knew there was something else hanging. Turning back to face the Grinch of Christmas writer’s muse from earlier this morning, I placed fingers to keyboard, closed my eyes and prayed.

OK, I can’t explain it, but there is something in my twisted sense of perspective about panic attacks during medical emergencies that ratchets up my humor button. Probably some sort of psychological diversion, like Freud’s defense mechanisms, but I‘ve honestly caused emergency room medical staff to break out in laughter while turning an ER into a comedy improv at the slightest suggestion of pain or anguish.

So, it was that on the way home and thinking about the prospect of returning to a silent keyboard hoping to create a Christmas miracle tonight before Santa parked his sleigh back in the garage at the North Pole, an unexpected trip to urgent care was looming … well, humorous, when viewed in the right light, given that all was well in the end with the household event planner, chef, Christmas decorator, and household organizer. Really, it’s OK to laugh afterward, right?

Borrowing from a Christmas classic, and apologizing in advance to the memory of poet author Clement Clarke Moore, today’s trip to urgent care called to mind the time honored immortal poem entitled, “A Visit from St. Nicholas.” We’ll call ours, “A Visit to Urgent Care.”

A Christmas Visit to Urgent Care

‘Twas the day before Christmas, when all through the house
,
Not a creature was stirring, except maybe the mouse.
The stockings were hung, on the mantle up there,

Didn’t matter though, ‘cause we were at Urgent Care.


The dogs were nestled all snug in our beds,

While visions of chew bones danced in their heads.

Mamma watched TV, I was outside in the garage.
Polishing the old ’57 T-Bird, with loving massage.


When from the house, there arose such a clatter,
I tripped over the tool box, to see what was the matter.

Away to the back door, I flew like a turtle,

Hurrying at this age, is somewhat of a hurdle.


The 70-degree weather on the lawn’s dead grass,
Gave the luster of Texas, during winter’s last.
When, what to my blurry eyes should appear,

Mamma was telling me, “Hurry, I’m sick I fear.”


Like a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment we had to get there quick.
To the top of the hill! On past the next ridge!

Now dash away! Past Wal-Mart! After the bridge!

And then in a twinkling, we were finally there.
It all turned out OK said the doc, just a little scare.
I wrote them a nice check, and we turned around,

Out of town we rolled, back home with a bound
.

I sprang to the Tahoe, to it gave a whistle,

And away we flew like a guided missile.
I heard mamma exclaim, ‘ere we smoked tires out of sight,

”Merry Christmas to all, Lord get us home safely tonight!”

Whatever Christmas represents in your heart, I wish for you a modicum of fulfillment of your seasonal hopes, dreams and aspirations. I also wish for you, save travels, good health and happy memories to cherish a lifetime.

Merry Christmas, and best wishes for a glorious New Year!

— Leon Aldridge

“Station wagon—where did that come from,” a good friend laughed loudly after accidentally using the term to reference her Chevrolet Suburban.

Anyone born after 1970-75 or so will likely get that deer in the headlights look while asking questions like, “What kind of wagon did you say?” But, those of us driving the roads prior to the 1970s know exactly what a station wagon was. Still, however, it’s often an awakening to realize that what was once the standard mode of transportation for generations of American families quietly made the last exit off the freeway decades ago. Two things likely paved the road south for the icon of family motoring. One perhaps, the demise of the “full-sized” cruiser automobiles that were the platform for them. The other, likely the introduction of mini vans and the domestication of truck-based work vehicles, gussied up and relabeled as sport utility vehicles—or SUVS (aka soccer mom-mobiles).

Historical note to the previously mentioned younger crowd who never traveled to a ballgame, went on a family picnic or took a vacation riding in the back of a station wagon: The term was coined during the age of train travel, around the 1920s. Designed as utility vehicles and used at depots to transport people and freight lead to, “station wagon.” Primitive metal forming technology was expensive, therefore, the utility bodies were fashioned from hardwood incorporating metal front sections from regular cars and trucks of the period. This manufacturing method lasted through World War II and into the early 50s when advanced technology reduced the cost of an all-metal body. The popular style continued well into the 70s however, but the last of the “woody wagons” were all metal utilizing vinyl to obtain the faux wood look.

Today’s small SUVs and crossovers are occasionally referred to as station wagons. But, take my word for it if you’ve never ridden in a real station wagon, it’s just not the same experience.

Once the words were out of her mouth last week, the brake lights came on as my friend was driving right through her sentence doing about 65 to 70 words per minute and called her plush, modern SUV a “station wagon.” The silence before the laughter was deafening before she plowed into trying to analyze why “station wagon” so easily rolled off her lips.

While she thought about that, I shared with her as how it was actually odd that she used the term while talking to me. Old station wagons are cool today, and I’ve long harbored a secret lust for a ’55 Ford Country Squire wagon to compliment the trio of mid 50s Fords already in my stable. “Black,” I said. “Love the black with wood-grain trim on the side, and a red interior.”

“My father had a station wagon,” she said. “I backed it into a pole and bent the bumper when I started driving. I didn’t think he would notice right away,” she laughed. “I was wrong.”

“We also had one,” I echoed. “A 1958 Ford, beige and white, and huge. When I think about the car, I remember how my grandmother—my father’s mother—could so easily ruffle my mom’s feathers.”

My sisters and I were young, still grade school age, when dad traded the family’s blue ’56 Chevy sedan for the Ford wagon. Mom frequently made the short trip from Mount Pleasant to Pittsburg in Northeast Texas then, checking on dad’s parents, usually after school and always with three kids in tow. Soon after we acquired the big cruiser, mom and granny were engaged in another spirited conversation one afternoon, I’m guessing over one of my grandmother’s critiques on child rearing. Bless her heart, granny meant well, it was just in her personality to be everyone’s life coach.

Mom, in tears by then, loaded us up and gave ‘er the gas, headed south on Cypress Street toward highway 271 that would take us home. About the time the wagon’s motor revved up to shift gears, mom took the column-mounted shift lever and threw it up into second gear position, “three on the tree” style. That would have been just fine had she still been driving the Chevy. It was a standard shift. What mom had forgotten in her aggravated emotional state was that the wagon was not. It had an automatic. The first car with an automatic transmission dad bought.

Warning: Do not try this at home. What happens when you shift an automatic transmission equipped car from “D” to “P” as it’s passing through, oh, probably about 20-miles-per-hour, and still accelerating, is still a vivid memory. Loud and ugly grinding and grating noises emanating from under the car are accompanied by the rear tires violently bouncing up and down on the pavement from their abrupt termination of the ability to continue rolling smoothly. Signs inside the car that something is wrong include three wide-eyed children flying off the seats and into the floor (note: this was also the before seat belts era), the car screeching to a sudden and unexpected stop, and my poor stressed out mother uttering special words that she reserved just for such occasions. Words, that by the way, we were sternly forbidden to repeat.

Once the car came to a screeching stop, mom rested her head against her arms that were folded on top of the steering wheel for a moment, still in tears which soon became subtle, muffled laughter. Mom had that quality about her. She carefully moved the shift lever back into “D” and luckily, the big beige and white behemoth took us home without further incidents.

The wagon remained a part of our family for several years. I remember it being used to transport everything from groceries to bicycles to Christmas trees. I also remember one classic family vacation in the car during the summer of 1960 when we stayed at the Rose Motel located in, I believe it was Mena, Arkansas. We were still a year or two away from buying our first television at home, and I remember my fascination at watching the black and white set in the motel room, gazing at the news proclaiming that John F. Kennedy had been tagged by the Democratic Party to appear on the ballot in November against Republican nominee Richard Nixon.

Definitely before station wagons were cool—so, where did I see that ad for a ’55 Country Squire wagon? Maybe I’ll offer my friend a ride for old time’s sake, but I don’t think I’ll let her drive—not if backing up is required.

—Leon Aldridge

Does my heart good to hear someone say, “Five-and-dime store.” It’s something heard very little any more. The term is disappearing from American conversation just as the stores vanished from Main Street America some years ago.

Friend and fellow wordsmith Gary Borders mentioned Perry Brothers in one of his columns a few weeks ago, resurrecting memories of the long gone variety stores once found in every small community in Texas and adjoining states.

From the early to mid-20th century, the terms five-and-dime, five-and-ten-cent store, or dime store identified a retail establishment offering a wide variety of merchandise, inexpensive for the most part with many items priced at 5¢ or 10¢ — hence the name.

Perry Brothers, just one of the many dime-store chains that marked an era, was where my dad spent the majority of his retail business career. Others similar in size to Perry Brothers included Duke and Ayres and Ben Franklin. They were mainstays in the smaller communities and most were regional. In the bigger cities and at the national level, it was Woolworth’s, Kress Stores, or TG&Y. Five-and-dimes were typically located downtown, the place where everyone went to buy what they needed before urban sprawl gave birth to shopping centers and malls.

My memories of growing up during the era of five and dimes are triggered by smells. The aromatic experience started with the bulk candy case strategically placed just inside the front door. Long glass cases of popular confections like circus peanuts, orange slices, Boston baked beans, haystacks and candy corn—each with their own unique olfactory delight. And forget about prepackaged bags. These sugary delights were displayed in bulk, bought by the ounce, weighed on balance beam scales and served up in paper bags.

The variety store’s heyday was a time before air conditioning was standard fare. When the weather was warm, the front doors were open and ceiling fans were busy churning inviting smells out onto the sidewalk. Shoppers on the street really didn’t need signs. With a keen sense of smell, it was easy to identify a dime store, a clothing store, a bakery or a drug store along the sidewalk.

Once inside a variety store, the nose was still a satisfactory guide for directing a shopper past the candy to the unique smell of sizing in new fabric sold by the yard, to the fragrance counter identified by distinctive scents like “Blue Waltz” perfume, or to the machined metallic odor area of bicycles, tricycles and wagons in the toy department.

For this dime-store brat however, the strongest reinforcement scent was that of the oiled wood floors. Maintenance on the wood floors required a weekly oiling, an undertaking accomplished with a wide push mop. Sweeping floors and pushing the mop was just one of my jobs as the son of a Perry Brothers store manager. Others included assembling bicycles and wagons, taking out trash, washing windows or unpacking freight. All were good jobs for a youngster in junior high school.

The pay was 25¢ an hour. Doesn’t sound like much today, but in the late 1950s a quarter would snag a large bag of the aforementioned candy with change, at least a couple of comic books, or a ticket into the Saturday afternoon matinee at the Martin theater in Mount Pleasant, Texas.

Discount centers in the late 60s were the beginning of the end for variety stores. Perry Brothers, a Lufkin based chain lingered into the early 80s in a few places before closing or selling locations to other retailers or individuals. My dad saw the handwriting on the wall and migrated from Perry’s to Gibson’s Discount Centers before retiring.

When we moved to Mount Pleasant in 1959, Perry Brothers was on North Jefferson where Glynn’s Western Wear is located today. A newer store about 1964 was opened few blocks farther north on Jefferson near the city’s current water department. Gibson’s Discount Center came to Mount Pleasant in 1968, and not long afterward, Perry’s closed.

For one who remembers dime stores, it’s really pretty easy to look at the front of a building, squint just a bit and recognize an old Perry’s storefront. Many places, I’ve walked in the door and was pretty sure I could still smell the old diagonally cut oiled wood floors underneath another generation or two of floor covering. With a little imagination, the smell of candy near the front was not a far stretch, but that’s a sensory trip likely reserved for someone who grew up in an era when the five-and-dime store was the hub of downtown retail.

Happy Father’s Day dad, we miss you … and we miss the five and dime stores.

—Leon Aldridge, Jr.