Author: leonaldridge2015

Linda Ellis’s poem, The Dash, crossed my mind last week. Surely you’ve read it or heard it used in eulogies, the one about the dash that separates the dates of one’s birth and death on a tombstone, and ponders the question of what “that little line is worth.”

I was thinking about that during the occasion of celebrating the worth of that dash in the life of Oscar Elliott.

My family moved to Mount Pleasant in March of 1959 where I finished the last few weeks of fifth grade at South Ward Elementary School. It was during that time, while wrangling my bicycle from the rack in front of the school building one day at lunch, someone asked, “You new here?” I looked his way and said, “Yes,” guiding my bike toward the street. “Where you live,” he asked falling in beside me to ride along. “Redbud,” I said. “I live on Stella, I’ll ride as far as Redbud with you,” he replied.

Time has blurred anything else we may have talked about in that two-block trip, but the first date separated by the dash in my friendship with Oscar was that Spring day at lunch within days of exactly 57 years ago. I smiled last week after the second date was added, recalling that day as well as another one some years later when Oscar and I were again riding together. We were both employed at Sandlin Chevrolet and Olds in Mount Pleasant—me in the body shop earning money to stay in college and Oscar earning a paycheck to help support his mother and sisters. He had just reassembled a perfectly good, practically brand new car that we had disassembled in order to make it go faster. Making things run better and go faster was one of many things that seemed to come naturally for Oscar.

The car in this story was as fast as any he ever built for me. And it was fast before he took it apart and put it back together, but it was now ready to go faster. On that Sunday afternoon, it was also ready for a test drive. Sans exhaust and in full race trim with me behind the steering wheel and Oscar in the passenger seat, I guided the loud, rumbling car slowly out of Sandlin’s service department and onto highway 67 headed east. I shouted at Oscar above the sound of the car’s motor, “How far down the street you want me to go?” He leaned toward me and shouted back, “Just stab it and steer it, I’ll ride it 50 feet farther than you can drive it.”

Oscar was also good at responses deftly delivered with humor and wisdom rolled into one line. Last summer as I sat at home contemplating retirement, I snapped a photo of a new rescue cat at the Aldridge household, a yellow tom I called B.C. Knowing that Oscar was a cat person, I sent him the photo of B.C. sprawled across my laptop, demonstrating one of his best free style naps. Oscar’s reply was swift and was not disappointing. “It appears BC certainly knows how to relax. Your B.C. is a good looking guy. My complements to whoever does his hair. Just a little free advice from an old friend…NEVER, NEVER, NEVER let your cat balance your check book or do your taxes. –ome”

The ‘ome’ signature was only one of many names by which Oscar was well known. Born Oscar Milton Elliott III, ‘ome’ was what everyone at Sandlin’s called him because it was his standard signature on service tickets. He also answered to OME 3, as well as Moe.  His sisters called him Bubba and Bub was what most of his family knew him as. Family was a dedication with Oscar from the time we were both in high school when I spent time at his house where his mother made me feel like I was family, throughout his life with the family he and Jeanette shared when they married.

On yet another riding occasion, Oscar and I were going somewhere…I’m not sure where at the moment, but I do remember he was driving. What I also remember is that I was about to start teaching communication classes at Stephen F. Austin State University and Oscar was about 15 years into his career at Texas Utilities Mining Company. He said, “I want you to tell your communication students something. Tell them your good friend who never went to college a day in his life has a pretty good office job working for a big company in Dallas because of communication skills he was blessed with. Tell them your friend can walk into the biggest state of confusion imaginable, high-dollar machinery down and people standing around trying to figure out what to do next. Tell them that because your friend is a communicator, he can assess the situation, tell everyone from the suits to the mechanics what to do next, have everything back up and running in short order and file a report that every one of them can read and understand. You tell your students that communication skills are one of the most important skill sets they can learn.”

Oscar blended his ability to communicate with his ability to analyze and simplify the mysteries of life and made everything run better and go faster for all who knew him by giving back more than he received. I don’t know of anyone whose dash is worth more and was better spent than Oscar’s. I will miss him dearly although I’m sure he would tell me the same thing he’s told me many times before, “Everything’s gonna be all right. And even if it’s not, it’s still gonna be all right.”

—Leon Aldridge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s presidential aircraft, Columbine II, was going to land in Mount Pleasant, Texas? “Seriously! Can’t miss that,” I thought.

Several things make the Lockheed Constellation named Columbine II a significant piece of aviation history: Its service as the presidential aircraft for the 34th president; the only former presidential aircraft sold to a private owner; and most notably perhaps, it’s the first presidential aircraft to use the universally recognized call sign of Air Force One used whenever the president is on board any aircraft.

The historic “Connie,” as Constellations are known in aviation circles, was on its way to Bridgewater, Virginia to undergo a cosmetic restoration. Plans call for the plane to be configured just as it was when transporting the president and first lady in the early 1950s, then displayed at airshows.

Stopping in Mount Pleasant was not just a random navigation decision. Mount Pleasant native Scott Glover’s Mid-America Flight Museum in the Northeast Texas city played a key role in the mechanical restoration that brought the plane back to airworthy condition after many years of sitting at an Arizona airport. The Texas stop was convenient, in terms of breaking up the nine-hour trip from Arizona to Virginia, but it was also selected to note the museum’s efforts in getting the plane back in the air, and give the city’s residents a glimpse of surviving history.

When I heard about the planned stopover up the road in Titus County, I knew I had to be there for a number of compelling reasons. First, as an old pilot and aviation buff, if there’s anything I get excited about as much as old cars, it’s old airplanes. Second, I vividly recall news stories as a youngster in the 1950s about President Eisenhower with pictures and mentions of Columbine. And, as a Mount Pleasant native, friend of the Glover family, and fan of the Mid-America Flight Museum, the opportunity was simply something I could not miss.

Numerous articles detailing the aircraft’s history can be found online, including the Mid-America Flight Museum’s Facebook page, or just pop “Columbine II” into Google for enough information to keep even a speed reader busy for a couple of days. But, a Reader’s Digest version for quick background here is that this Air Force Constellation tail number 8610 served as a presidential aircraft for a couple of years until Columbine III, another Constellation, went into service. During it’s tenure, confusion over the plane’s tail number coinciding with a commercial flight bearing the same number in 1953 led to a near miss prompting the creation of the Air Force One call sign. It was a backup for Columbine III for a short time before seeing service in other assignments and eventually being retired to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Arizona, the large outdoor military storage facility in the desert for retired and “mothballed” aircraft.

The Connie was sold by the government to a private owner as a part of a package deal of several Constellations in the late 60s and was almost cut up for scrap before the aircraft’s heritage was discovered. A second owner returned it to flying condition around 1990, but the plane was once again relegated to a long nap in the Arizona desert awaiting its next step in destiny. That happened about this time last year, and mechanical restoration to get the plane back in the air, with Mid-America Flight Museum personnel assisting, was competed just last week.

The Constellation is an icon from the era of propeller driven commercial airliners. It was one of the last of the breed and remained in service several years even after jets began replacing propellers. The sight of Columbine II completing its approach into Mount Pleasant last week personified the beauty of the plane’s porpoise shaped fuselage and distinctive triple rudder tail design. It was breathtakingly elegant as it floated toward the runway, touched down and rolled out on landing gear tall enough to elevate it well above other planes. The sound of the four 2,500 horsepower 18-cylinder radial engines as it taxied to the ramp gave rise to goose bumps on my arms. However, the symphony of that many cylinders rumbling in delightful cacophony is pure pleasure to any vintage airplane buff’s “music appreciation” senses.

My camera stayed busy for a couple of hours capturing images of the majestic airship, as well as the Mid-America Flight Museum’s stunning North American B-25 WWII bomber, God and Country, that had served as escort for the Arizona to Texas leg. Mellowing in the thought of Columbine being in Mount Pleasant called to mind another time that the Mount Pleasant airport was host to presidential history.

It was a night sometime about 1964, give or take a year. I have a clipping from the old Mount Pleasant Daily Times documenting the event. However, my somewhat-sorta filing system defied attempts to locate the article, so I’m flying solo from memory on this one.

A student at MPHS and a member of the local Explorer Scout Post, I was part of the crowd control program for the scheduled arrival of President Lyndon B. Johnson at the old airport on the other side of Highway 271 and closer toward town from the new airport where I stood last week photographing Columbine. The president was coming to town for a celebratory function honoring a local citizen and friend at the National Guard Armory on North Jefferson.

Darkness arrived prior to the president as onlookers crowded the airport, many in disbelief that the president was actually coming to the small East Texas community. Then, the presidential aircraft’s landing lights appeared. The plane touched down and taxied to an apron close to the terminal building and a car awaiting the chief executive. Explorer Scouts were posted along a designated walkway and instructed to assist in reminding the crowd to stay off the walkway.

President Johnson stepped out of the airplane, waving and smiling, and the night sky lit up with flash bulbs. The crowd cheered and clamored to get a glimpse, waving outstretched arms, each hoping the president would shake his or her hand. Young scouts stood with backs to the crowd and arms spread wide attempting to keep the walkway clear. I looked to my left as the president neared, surrounded by secret service personnel. He made his way along the narrow path, waving, tipping his hat and shaking hands before pausing in front of me. He smiled, grabbed my hand, shook it vigorously and said, “Nice uniform, son. Thanks.” Then quickly, he and his entourage moved on to the car and off to the event on the other side of town leaving me among the rapidly dispersing crowd. All I could think was, “You just shook hands with the president of the United States.”

The crowd was gone in short order and I went home to nearby Redbud Street where I charged in the house to tell my parents, “I shook the president’s hand tonight.” My dad smiled and exclaimed, “Well how about that.” My father pretty much voted Democratic in those days, and I’m reasonably sure that he cast his vote for “Landslide” Lyndon Johnson in his resounding victory over Republican Barry Goldwater.

Seeing and photographing the first Air Force One last week at Mount Pleasant was pretty heady stuff for an old pilot and airplane buff. Just about as heady as shaking the president’s hand at the Mount Pleasant airport was to a teenager in the 1960s.

—Leon Aldridge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They were two different concerts with 50 years separating them, however at least two people were present at both concerts.

The second event was Saturday night, March 19 at the S.E. Belcher Jr. Chapel and Performance Center on the campus of LeTourneau University in Longview, Texas.

The evening’s playbill in the East Texas city on a chilly night was Herman’s Hermits starring Peter Noone. If your birth certificate bears a date that is anywhere near mine, and you grew up listening to popular music of our youth, you’ll recognize the name. For generations younger or older than you and me, Herman’s Hermits was one of the more popular groups associated with the period in American pop music dubbed the British Invasion.

At a time when names like Elvis Presley, Ricky Nelson, Pat Boone, and Fats Domino dominated buttons on the juke box at the hamburger joints and malt shops, a group from England calling themselves the Beatles appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show. That national broadcast on a Sunday night in February of 1964 changed music forever. The Beatles opened musical gates between England and the U.S. shores, and British singing groups flooded America’s music listening youth who greeted them with open arms.

One of those bands was Herman’s Hermits whose lead singer was a 15-year-old by the name of Peter Noone. According to Noone’s website, Peter Blair Denis Bernard Noone was born in Manchester, England, studied voice and acting at St. Bede’s College and the Manchester School of Music and Drama. As a child, he played in the long-running British soap opera Coronation Street and other television series before becoming known as “Herman,” lead singer of the legendary 60s pop band Herman’s Hermits.

At the Longview, Texas show last Saturday, Noone and the Hermits performed most of their classic hits from the mid 60s including: “I’m Into Something Good,” “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter,” “I’m Henry VIII, I Am,” “Silhouettes,” “Can’t You Hear My Heartbeat,” “There’s A Kind of Hush,” “A Must To Avoid,” “Listen People,” “The End of the World,” and “Dandy.” Noone also demonstrated remarkable skill as an impersonator pulling off believable mimics of Johnny Cash, Mick Jagger and Tom Jones, much to the delight of the audience that was dominated by a gray haired, retirement age demographic.

Noone’s site also reports that Herman’s Hermits sold more than sixty million recordings producing fourteen singles and seven albums that reached Gold Record status. The Hermits were also twice named Cashbox magazine’s “Entertainer of the Year.”

The group was on the cover of Time Magazine, performed on top-rated television programs including appearances with Ed Sullivan, Jackie Gleason, Dean Martin and Danny Kaye. Noone starred in ABC’s musical version of The Canterville Ghost, Hallmark Hall of Fame’s presentation of the classic Pinocchio (in which he played the title role) and three feature films for M-G-M.

When music changed once again moving into the 70s and 80s, Noone’s success continued in other arenas. He performed, composed songs and produced recordings with artists such as David Bowie, Debby Boone and Graham Gouldman. His album with the Tremblers, Twice Nightly and his solo effort One of The Glory Boys were both critically and commercially successful. He had leading roles in numerous theatrical productions and in the 80s, starred on Broadway in the New York Shakespeare Festival’s production of The Pirates of Penzance. He also enjoyed an acting career with guest-starring roles in prime-time television shows such as: Married With Children, My Two Dads, Quantum Leap, Dave’s World, Easy Street, Too Close For Comfort and Laverne and Shirley.

Accompanied by his band, Herman’s Hermits, Noone still plays to venues the world over, and enjoys a faithful following of not only aging fans who enjoyed the music back in the day, but also newer generations of fans that has prompted VH-1 to select him as their viewer’s choice for the “Sexiest Artist of the Year.”

All this for a guy whose performance Saturday night looked and sounded like he was still a teenager as he joked about being 68, and thereby “enjoying the 60s all over again.”

Oh, the first concert? That was at the Dallas Memorial Auditorium in July of 1966 where the performers were also Herman’s Hermits and the Animals, another 60s Band from England. That group headed by Eric Burdon was known more for music with a little more bluesy and edgy sound than the polished and squeaky clean sound of Herman’s Hermits, but no less popular among young Americans filling the concert halls and buying the records.

Oh yes, I did say at least two people were at both concerts, didn’t I. Who were they? Well, one was Peter Noone, obviously. The other one was me. Enjoying the music and enjoying smiles from memories generated by Saturday’s performance in Longview was was a throwback to the summer following my high school graduation when I watched Noone and his band perform the same songs in Dallas. That was a time when Noone and I both were enjoying the 60s…the first time.

— Leon Aldridge

Read somewhere recently that many young adults today have no desire to own a car. Moreover, that many of them don’t even have a driver’s license.

Before I had time scoff at the silliness of the idea that a generation of Americans lack the DNA necessary for the desire to drive a car by junior high, a columnist writing in one of the dozen or so automotive magazines on my subscription list offered a similar notion.

The earlier opinion was based on young urban dwellers with little or no need for their own mode of transportation. The latter was pegged on the view that nine of every ten automobiles seen on the road in the last 20 years more closely resemble each other than first cousins at a family reunion. That, combined with the thought that legislation based on politics more than real science leaves hot rodding, custom cars and auto racing with a dim future.

And restoration of antique automobiles? Even if there were any cars on the road today that held enough mystique for an auto historian down the road to appreciate, automotive offerings of the last few decades have been crafted from a myriad of disposable materials that offer little hope of leaving behind enough of a relic to restore or modify.

Either way you look at it, that’s somewhat disturbing for anyone who grew up in a time when most young males were reading hot rod magazines in history class by the seventh grade, drawing cool looking cars on book covers and building plastic model cars on weekends.

Every single car rolling out of Detroit then had its own personality. Not only could you tell a Chevrolet from a Ford or a Dodge at a quarter of a mile, but even the youngest novice had no problem distinguishing the various model lines within each manufacturer’s offerings. There was no mistaking a Bel-Air for an Impala, a Mainline for a Fairlane, or a Coronet for a Meadowbrook at a hundred yards.

Getting a driver’s license was once a right of passage, something that was nurtured by playing Auto Bingo in the back seat of the family sedan out to “See the USA in a Chevrolet” during summer vacation trips. Innovation and individuality were paramount during the years when Ford ads featured their newest in styling and performance innovations with the slogan, “Ford has a better idea.” Not to be outdone, Dodge touted the distinctiveness and flair of their designs with marketing that proclaimed, “One look and you’ve got Dodge Fever.”

Then there’s the makes that have faded into history in the last couple of decades. Names like Oldsmobile, Pontiac, Plymouth, Mercury and other marks that succumbed to the homogenized history that once took pride in their own individual looks, colors, and engines, even within the ranks of the big three.

So how did we get from a society built on the automobile to one that’s content with the city bus or Uber? From generations based on the legends and mystique of the new model unveiling every year to a generation that seemingly could care less?

Don’t ask me. My small fleet is more mid-fifties than later current year makes. It includes a ’55 Ford Crown Victoria, a ’57 Ford Thunderbird and a ‘57 Ford purchased off the show room floor by my grandparents in North East Texas. It’s a survivor of America’s automotive hey day and the very car in which I learned to drive, and in which I dated my first girl friend. My second one too, now that I think about it, but that’s a different column.

It’s fair to say my personality would be much different had American automobiles and internal combustion engines not been an incentive to survive afternoon classes in high school just to watch the pilgrimage of rolling stock leaving the school parking lot carrying classmates to after school jobs, or to the local Dairy Queen.

The anticipation of cruising the Mount Pleasant city streets at night and blazing the asphalt at East Texas drag strips on the weekend made automobile ownership my top priority by age 12. My first year or so of driving was the family sedan until an after school job sweeping floors provided enough money for a set of wheels to call my own. But, when that first car deal was made, it had to be different. A young man’s car was an extension of his personality.

That’s a concept to which dad didn’t necessarily subscribe. “It’s just something to get from point A to point B,” I can still hear him saying. “True,” I admitted, but added that the trip had to be made in distinctive style making it possible for your friends to identify you simply by the car you drove. One trip by the local theater on a Friday night, and you knew exactly who was at the movies that night just by the cars parked around the square.

Even if dad was right, for me that trip from point A to B also had to be made in the shortest amount of time possible. Whatever I drove had to be fast which usually also meant that it was loud. Switching off the ignition and coasting the last block into the driveway at home was my only hope of preventing my parents from knowing exactly what time I got home.

That need for speed did two things. It kept me on a first name basis with most of the local police officers, and it spawned a brief career in drag racing during high school and college.

A love for American iron shod with four tires has been a part of our culture all my life. There’s never been a time when I didn’t own something interesting, different or unique to drive.  My motto is that life is too short to drive anything generic or slow.

Personally, I’m not writing off the car just yet. Once you get past the econo-sedans that the government has tried to make us love, the pickups and SUVs still outnumber the cars on lots. And once you peek beneath the look-alike skin of today’s cars, there’s comfort, economy and technology that wasn’t even dreamed of before the days of space exploration. In addition, the likes of Mustang, Camaro, Charger and Challenger, all throw backs to the 1960s, make up a large part of today’s car sales. And they produce horsepower that was unheard of even in the days of muscle cars. Unique and fast rides are far from extinct.

Maybe there is a generation lurking in the inner cities that doesn’t put as much emphasis on cars as those of previous years. Every generation is different and there’s a lot to be said for that as well.

But as for me, I think I’ll go cruising tonight in my ’55 Ford Crown Victoria.

— Leon Aldridge

Searching for a couple of needed replacement parts for Blackbird on EBay

this week failed to yield the desired results, but it did inspire me to research another long forgotten topic from a long time ago. Model cars.

An adult’s vision begins with the dream of a child and model kits are in many ways one of those visions.

While searching for real world car parts needed for my classic ’57 Thunderbird last week was less than fruitful, the number of model car kits and parts for sale online was an eye-opener. To clarify, we’re talking about plastic model car kits that were produced and sold on store shelves when Blackbird was still a very young chick on America’s highways. The model kits allowed youngsters like me to build, customize and dream about cars that we were not yet old enough to own or drive.

The surprise to me was learning these glue together kits are now collectible and fetching much more than the $1.29 they sold for at the five-and-dime stores in Mount Pleasant, Texas when I was buying them prior to reaching teenage years. Some of the like-new kits (unassembled model car kit, all the parts and instructions still in the box) were on EBay at asking prices of $30-$50 or more. Even assembled cars, or partially assembled cars, were bringing bids of $20-$30.

What great memories the thought of building model cars conjured. Quickly forgetting Black Bird’s needs, I was lured into a memory land of kits I gazed at though the eyes of a 10-year old on a 25-cents a week allowance for taking out the garbage and pulling weeds from my mother’s flower beds. Models I had not seen or thought of in half a century.

At the peak of my model car building days, my bedroom was garage to some 100 assembled and painted model cars displayed on shelves. Most of the them were customized to some degree: lowered, smoothed bodies, custom painted, fashioned after real cars of the era.

The popular scale was 1/25th and the preferred brand, at least In my circle, was the AMT “three-in-one” kits. Build ‘em stock, custom or in racing trim. Monogram and 1/24-scale boulevard cruisers and hot rods were a close second. Opening the box exposed the builder to all of the parts needed that were molded, most in white plastic, on “runners” or “trees” to facilitate manufacturing of the kit. Removal of each part from the tree was required by gently twisting them to snap off. After that, each part had to be painted the correct or desired color, depending on individual preference for stock appearance or a customized version. Bumpers, grilles and wheels were typically chrome plated as were some engine parts on custom cars. So, each kit also required the purchase of Testor’s paints and plastic glue. Then an X-Acto knife, sandpaper and other tools were required. Before long, I had a model car custom workshop in my parent’s garage on Redbud Street turning out what I was certain would be the finest scale versions of the cars. Models that looked exaclty like the cars I saw in the hot rod magazines sneaked into history classes at school.

Moore’s Discount Center on the west side of the square in Mount Pleasant staged a handful of model car contests in the very early 60s. The pride for winning came not only in the trophy awarded, but for also having your winning custom car on display in the store window for a week.

Scale model cars were soon exchanged for the real thing as attaining driver’s ed age rolled around. The models collected dust as spending money on kits, glue and paint escalated into buying gas, oil and tires for the real thing.

Years had passed when one day my mother called some 20 or more years ago to deliver an ultimatum. “I’ve cleaned out closets and the attic,” she said, “and there’s several boxes of things you may want to keep. If not, I’m throwing them away.”

Much to my surprise, one of the boxes contained a half dozen or so of the model cars I had built and displayed in my bedroom circa 1960 or so. They were suffering a little from box wear and maybe some attic heat, but these were the model cars I had built. As I looked at each one, blowing the dust away and pushing on parts that were turning loose, the memories flowed faster than model plastic glue on my mom’s dining room table on a summer afternoon.

I’ve saved them, sometimes placing them on display for not only my own enjoyment, but to share memories with others. Learning recently these icons of an era and a part of my past were becoming collectible caused me to find them in the closet this week and get them out one more time. Maybe I’ll put them on a shelf in the garage to take their respective place among my automotive culture alongside Black Bird, Miss Vicky and Liz.

If you are acquainted with her, and possibly concerned about my mention of shopping for parts for the ’57 Ford Thunderbird in my garage dubbed and affectionately referred to as Blackbird, she’s fine. I was simply seeking to upgrade some of her carburetor linkage. Cars knocking on the door of 60 years old tend to acquire incorrect parts over the years and other parts tend to wear out. Not unlike me, now that I think about it.

But not to worry, Black Bird and I can always sit in the garage and gaze on the model car survivors, the dreams of a child from an era long, long ago.

—Leon Aldridge

 

 

 

 

Sage advice gleaned from a good friend and business associate some years ago suggests that reaching desired goals sometimes requires utilizing the 25th, 26th and 27th hours of the day. Being one who has never hesitated investing the time required for completing a task, I have been on a first name basis with those three hours most of my life. The only drawback is they typically are available only when it’s dark outside and everyone else is enjoying a good night’s sleep.

Arriving at a time in life that I used to envision as one when I would slow down and take things a little easier, I instead find myself with foot still on the accelerator and gaining speed, still depending on those three elusive hours. Compounding matters is the fact that I more often than not, tend to take on more than I can get done. Some delight in crossing things off their “to do” list, but not me. I throw everything on it and feel great if I get half of them done.

While I’ve long wondered whether this was a healthy approach to feeling any sense of achievement, I may have moved closer to an answer recently. An ex-military fighter pilot and former Navy Blue Angels flight demonstration team pilot got my attention a couple of weeks ago on one salient point while applying military planning to business strategy. Paraphrasing his comparison of flying combat missions in the Middle East to running a business, as long as you return from the mission, there are no failures. Some are successful, the others you learn from in order to increase the success rate of future missions. Maybe that’s been my subconscious mind set all along. I succeed at completing some, I learn from the others that I’m not going to get the rest done, but at least it gives me something to look forward to.

One of those learning missions for me in 2015, a year wrought with more surprises and adjustments than most, was posting a regular column or two in this cyberspace hole every week as I cheerily promised I would do at the outset. Started great off the line and built some speed early in the mission, then along came some of those surprises and challenges rendering the column space more a learning experience than a successful mission.

Also on my list was to recapture some fun in my photography endeavors. Years of using a camera as a tool to put food on the table neutralized a desire to get out and shoot purely for pleasure. Therefore, two of my “goals” in 2016, as I addressed them in this same space as the new year rolled in, was to resume regular writing for fun and to regain pleasurable photo pursuits.

Already well into the new year, I was still fumbling for the switch to ignite these endeavors when along comes long-time friend and photographer Susan Prewitt from my hometown of Mount Pleasant, Texas. She unknowingly fanned the flames for one, if not both, of those personal goals when she challenged me last week to a seven-day Nature Photo Challenge on Facebook. The objective was to post a new nature photograph every day for seven days.

Something else on my list to do? Will this one be a successful mission or a learning experience? I already knew the answer because on the list with working extra hours and putting too much on my “to do” list in the first place is the fact that I can’t say “no,” especially to a good friend like Susan.  My smiling response to her? “I accept your challenge. I’m on it.”

Sunday was four days in, and I’m already lamenting that it’s only a seven-day mission. Posting Sunday night’s photo, a “moon set” picture taken at Lake Murvaul in Panola County reminded me of two things. One, capturing that set of images was fun. Two, it required several sessions at 3:00 to 4:00 a.m. during full moon phases meaning I was working on the moon’s schedule as opposed to mine.

Accepting Susan’s challenge helped fire up my return to photography purely for fun, ensuring that learning experience would become a successful mission. The fact that this column was posted soon after, I’m thinking, is no coincidence. I’m leaning more toward the theory that returning to photos for fun was also the stimulus to remember that I was writing for fun as well.

Also not coincidentally, I’m pretty sure the 25th, 26th and 27th hours of the day are found somewhere around 3:00 to 4:00 a.m.

— Leon Aldridge

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About “Moon Over Murvaul”—While living on Lake Murvaul in about ’04, I woke up early one morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. Part of why I couldn’t sleep was because the moon light was so bright, you could have read a newspaper in the bedroom. Despite the fact that it was between 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning, the moon light lured me into the back yard and down to the pier with camera in hand where I spent the next half hour or so shooting frame after frame of the setting full moon.

This became a ritual with me for the next several months during the ensuing full moon phases. The result was a collection of fantastic full-moon-setting shots that I treasure. The one I posted to Facebook for the challenge, the same one accompanying this column, resembled what I would call a harvest moon. I’ve seen many harvest moons rising, but this was my first setting harvest moon to witness.

I’m not sure whether that’s because a harvest moon set is that unusual, or if my being up that early in the morning is really unusual.

Made your resolutions for 2016? A good friend asked me that question this week to which I responded, “I’ve always had problems with resolutions, I do better setting goals.”

Honestly, my response was a lame way of dodging the fact that yours truly hadn’t made any resolutions yet. And as long as we’re speaking honestly, that’s because keeping resolutions has never been one of my strong suits. For me, resolutions are just something that goes in one year and out the other, in a manner of speaking.

However, after popping off to my friend, I felt as though resolving to something was in order. So, goals it’s going to be for 2016.

Goals, so the experts say, are supposed to be well defined, have a time line and a target date, and include a reward for attaining them. Check back with me this time next year for a progress report, and we’ll try to answer the proverbial question, “So, how’s that working for you?”

In fact, I think I’ll make my first goal: being here this time next year for a progress report, and we’ll try to answer the proverbial question, “So, how’s that working for you?”

Certainly, most of us desire to enjoy as many years as possible while we’re here. Personally, I’ve always favored what comedian Groucho Marx said on that topic. When reportedly asked in an interview what he hoped people would say about him a hundred years from now, he responded, “Boy, doesn’t he look good for his age?”

Getting the maximum mileage toward reaching a ripe old age and looking good along the way begs an entirely new set of goals altogether, the primary one being a positive and happy outlook on life. Marx had something to say about that as well, possibly one of the very few serious Groucho Marx quotes recorded. “I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.”

So, if we seek a longer life, my question would be why would we want to live it being unhappy? Hopefully, we would not, unless you’re like one of my relatives about whom I jokingly say, “… was in a good mood last time I saw them, but was able to get over it.” Funny? Yes, unless you know my relative.

Two of my favorite theories on how to be happy were put forth in a book entitled The Upward Spiral by Alex Korb. The postdoctoral researcher in neuroscience at UCLA says listening to music from the happiest time of our life is one key to happiness. Korb, says that we love our favorite songs because they’re associated with an intense emotional experience in our life, adding that the music we enjoyed when we were around the age of 20 is the type of music we will probably love for the rest of our life.

If you know me, you know that I’m walking, talking, living, breathing proof of that premise. The happiest memories of my life have always been centered in music. Listening to music, studying music, making music, thinking about music—makes no difference. I can’t be involved with music and be unhappy.

As for music being rooted in an intense emotional experience in life, let me tell you about my Uncle Bill, my mom’s baby brother (no, he’s not the crabby relative, he’s likely the happiest family member we have) who taught me a great game many years ago. It works like this: get a bunch of friends together and a bunch of tunes from the time period Korb suggests. Start the first song and have everyone shout out (1.) the name of the first city that comes to mind, (2.) the car they were driving at that time, and (3.) the name of the girl or guy they were dating. Guarantee a happy person won’t make it through the first verse of any song, which makes me pretty sure my aforementioned crabby relative has never played the game.

The next thing you’ll notice when you play the game is that everyone is all smiles. When a favorite song and the memory of an emotional experience collide, you can’t keep me from smiling, even around my aforementioned crabby relative.

And, this gives credence to another of Korb’s happiness factors that I like. Smile. Smile when you are happy. Smile when you’re not happy. Smile all the time. “Why would I want to do that,” my aforementioned crabby relative might ask. My mom had the answer for that. She said it makes everyone wonder what you’ve been up to.

Korb has a different theory, though. He says, “The brain isn’t always very smart.” His explanation is that the brain tries to sort out random information by looking for clues on how to react. He says that when you smile, even when you aren’t happy, it fools the brain into thinking you must in fact be happy. So, it therefore sends out happy signals counteracting how you really feel. I think Korb is on to something there as well because aforementioned crabby relative never smiles.

So, there’s my goals, aka resolutions, for 2016. I’m going to keep on enjoying my favorite music and relishing in those intense emotional memories it evokes. That will make me smile which will keep my brain thinking that I’m happy all the time and make everyone keep wondering what I’ve been up to … especially, my aforementioned crabby relative.

The reward will be living another year to do it all again. Then, as Groucho Marx also said, “Getting older is no problem. You just have to live long enough.”

Happy New Year! My wish for 2016 is a happy, blessed and prosperous year for us all, even my aforementioned crabby relative.

—Leon Aldridge

 

 

 

 

 

 

Darkness filled most of the small white frame house on Cypress Street in Pittsburg, Texas. A small bedside lamp cast a warm glow on the book from which my grandmother read Christmas stories to me. Silently, I lay beside her, excited and thinking about Santa’s pending arrival at any minute.

The year must have been about 1952 or ’53. Why we were at my father’s parent’s house for Christmas fails to come to mind, but I do recall I had not yet started school most likely meaning I was about four years old, five at the most.

Going to sleep was the farthest thing from my mind. Memories of my grandmother reading to me, or engaging in simple play activities like cutting pictures from a catalog, or making toys from empty spools and string are among some of the best. No doubt, I was enjoying her recounting stories of the season. Foremost on my mind however, was jolly Saint Nick and what he may have in his bag for me.

Then, I heard a noise. It came from the living room. The bedroom door was ckosed, so I couldn’t tell for sure. It also meant I couldn’t see the Christmas tree with it’s lights still glowing in the living room.

I listened carefully, but my grandmother continued to read. Then, I heard it again. This time I was sure it was a bicycle bell, the kind that bolted to the handlebars and was activated by the rider’s thumb. “Ding-ding. Ding-ding.”

Before I could think about what was taking place, my grandmother closed the book, turned off the lamp and whispered in my ear, “There’s ol’ Santy Claus. We better go to sleep or he won’t leave us anything.”

My heart raced one minute and stopped the next. Santa was in the house and I was still awake! I scooted under the bed cover, pulled the pillow around my head and closed my eyes so tightly; nothing could have pried them open. “Please, let me go to sleep quickly,” I thought.

Fast forward about 30 years. I’m watching my children play games in the glow of the fireplace at our house in Center, Texas, and listening to their excitement about Santa coming to visit. “Bed time kids,” I announced. “Better get to bed and go to sleep if you want him to stop here. He stops at the houses where children are fast asleep.”

Off to bed they went. “If only they would do that so willingly every night,” I said to myself. “Got those toys put together, Santa,” the kid’s mom called out to me.

“Won’t take long.” Visions of slumber danced in my head.

Insert tab ‘A’ into slot ‘B’ and secure with slotted screw ‘12’ the instructions read. Just how hard could it be to assemble a little girl’s playtime kitchen? Obviously harder than the degree of difficulty I was prepared for on that particular Christmas Eve.

Midnight, then one in the morning crept by as I worked to finish the assembly of Santa’s goods and ensure that all needed batteries were properly installed. I thought about how many times my parents must have faced similar Christmas Eves making sure that Santa’s delivery was on time, completely assembled and ready for smiling faces come sunup on Christmas Day.

I recalled that night long ago that I heard Santa at work in my grandmother’s living room. Christmas morning, when I saw my first shiny bicycle, maroon and white with training wheels, little did I realize the “Ding-ding” of the mechanical bell was probably my frustrated father attempting to fit all the parts together, performing the task out of love for his children.

Not wanting to disappoint young hearts, I stayed with this chore out of love for my children on yet another Christmas night 30-plus years ago until everything was arranged and ready under the Christmas tree … just as the pale blue light of dawn announced the arrival of one more Christmas morning in the 1980s.

I came to realize, as no doubt my parents had done before me, that Christmas is all about the children. Christmas lives in the heart of a child. And often times, adults best understand the true meaning of Christmas through the heart of a child and through giving the gift of love.

Merry Christmas! And may we all enjoy the season with a gift of love through the heart of a child.

Leon Aldridge

 

 

“This is the last year I’m doing this.”

That lofty ultimatum was issued by yours truly setting out to decorate for Christmas last Saturday. As hard as I tried otherwise, the “Bah Humbug” spirit just seemed to take over.

Dragging out all the lights and decorations; deciding which pieces of Yule cheer and what string of lights had one more year left in them; and what needed replacing; what would stay and what would go … it was overwhelming. I was pretty sure there was something I would rather be doing, maybe that root canal waiting at the dentist’s office.

An SUV load of large containers filled with “Christmas decorations past” rescued from storage buildings was supplemented by an equal sized SUV load of “Christmas decorations present” sourced from all over town. Braving rain looming on the horizon, I pressed on confident that I could produce one last encore performance to transform our corner into the Winter Wonderland envy of the neighborhood before hanging up the ladder and the staple gun.

“Why did I feel this way?” After due consideration, Ellen Griswold’s line in the movie modern classic, “Christmas Vacation,” said it best when she responded to her daughter with, “I don’t know what to say, except it’s Christmas and we’re all in misery.”

Don’t get me wrong. I like the Christmas season. I like everything about it. Everything except putting up the decorations. Perhaps I’ve reached that stage in life. You know the one, the “I’ve been doing this all my life and I don’t need the frustration any more” stage.

Undaunted, I set out Saturday to make my last time a good one. Surely nothing could be as bad as the year I strung lights across the front of our 100-plus-year-old Victorian home. Ceilings in the 1900 structure were 12 feet high, and the house sat a good four feet off the ground. The thrill of dashing through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh can’t hold a candle to dangling lights above your head with one hand and operating a stapler with the other while standing atop a 20-foot ladder.

Attaching lights all the way across the front required a routine that was something like, climb the 20-foot ladder, staple as far as you can reach, go back down the ladder, move the ladder over ten feet, repeat the previous steps several times until all lights are securely affixed to the roof’s edge all the way across the front. Then plug the end of the strand into the extension cord.

And that’s where the project went south, when I discovered that it’s impossible to plug two matching ends of an electrical cord together.

The remedy for such a malady? Easy. Just repeat the above steps in reverse order to get the lights down, and then do it all over again starting with the opposite end, the one with the plug on it.

Despite that setback however, I continued to decorate the house and yard for several more Christmas seasons there before we moved across town to our current location. Any doubt I might have had about this being my last Christmas decoration was quickly dispelled before I finished when I (a.) found one brand new string of lights to be defective—after I had installed them (b.) accidentally cut another line and had to repair it; and (c.) climbed the ladder countless times only to discover the string of lights I was working with had wrapped itself around the bottom of the ladder. Oh yeah, let’s not forget the three trips back to town for “just one more “ extension cord.

All that behind me, I’m now happy to report that the Christmas lights and decorations are up at our house in Center, Texas.

Well, almost, but the few adjustment that will be made over the course of the next few days are standard procedure. Distributing seasonal festoons on the house, in the house, and around the yard is more of a journey than a destination.

Did they work you ask?

Clark Griswold: Russ, we checked every bulb, didn’t we?

Rusty Griswold: Sure, Dad.

Clark Griswold: Hmm … Maybe we ought to just go up there and check…

Rusty Griswold: Oh, woo. Look at the time. I gotta get to bed. I still gotta brush my teeth, feed the hog, still got some homework to do, still got those bills to pay, wash the car…

My electrical engineering skills are slightly less than Clark Griswold’s in the “Christmas Vacation” movie. Yes, I have a couple of extension cord and outlet splitter configurations that easily classify as an “electrician’s nightmare.” The good news is that when I plugged the last two strands together and sang, “Joy to the world…” the lights did come on and there was no reported decline in power at the generating station.

My last Christmas decorating endeavor complete, I stepped back into the darkness of the balmy Spring winter weather currently gripping East Texas to evaluate the results.

So, how did it look? Envision Clark Griswold declaring, “I dedicate this house to the Griswold Family Christmas.”

OK, so maybe I will do it another year or two.

—Leon Aldridge

It’s been said that we don’t remember days, we remember moments. What’s often amazing are the moments we remember on the days we forget everything else.

Recalling our earliest childhood years dominated conversation with a good friend recently. By chance, or by destiny, my friend and I both arrived in Mount Pleasant, Texas in 1959 coming from opposite directions. We talked about what we remembered as new students at South Ward Elementary that year, but marveled more so at what we were able to remember prior to that time.

The Aldridge family hit town in late March coming from small-town Seymour in West Texas, some 50 miles the other side of Wichita Falls. This pilgrimage east followed one from Crockett in East Texas in early 1955 where had lived since 1951. Basically, we zigzagged between East and West Texas about ten years before arriving in Mount Pleasant to stay for a while.

I can remember our Crockett home, a small frame structure paired with one next to it in the middle of an empty field. The two houses were not far from downtown just off Highway 21 east, but isolated with a long unpaved driveway to a shared double garage. Wooded areas surrounded both houses on three sides. That solitude was shared only with neighbor, Lacy Hooks, and his wife. Mr. Hooks worked at Knox Furniture in downtown Crockett

We didn’t have a television, nor did have a telephone. What we did have was the sound of rain falling on a tin roof, the smell of mom’s morning glories covering the trellis on the front porch and a splendid view of an open field through a large picture window. That field also provided memories of excellent kite flying with my dad in the spring, and an occasional covering of winter snow.

The woods next door provided a rescued baby rabbit for a pet on one occasion, and the kitchen provided warm memories of sharing late night crackers and milk with dad. It was his favorite bedtime snack.

A green 1950 Studebaker provided transportation for our one-car family until the fateful Sunday afternoon dad and the neighbor went fishing. Timbers failed while navigating an old wooden country bridge sending them off the side and into a dry creek bed some distance below. I remember the sight of the crumpled car at the Studebaker dealership, and of my father in bandages coming home from the hospital. They were banged up and bruised, but otherwise all right.

The Studebaker dealership is of course long gone, as is the iconic American auto brand. But, Knox Furniture store was still there the last time I went through Crockett a couple of years ago.

My youngest sister, Sylvia, was born in Crockett. I remember dad leaving middle sister Leslie and me in the car near a hospital side door while bringing our newborn family addition to the door for her older siblings to see. My mental picture of that event also includes mom in a bathrobe, standing behind dad, both them beaming with smiles.

Dad worked for the old five-and-ten-cent store chain, Perry Brothers in those years. He often brought home small empty wooden crates in which china dishes had arrived at Perry’s. They served a variety of uses, but it was great fun when we got to incorporate them in playtime.

One pinnacle of playtime was the day I launched a crate in the creek behind our house to see if it would float. And, it did. Beaming in that delightful discovery, I then talked Leslie, who was no more than three at the time, into getting in “the boat” to see if it would still float. It didn’t. Fortunately for Leslie, the creek was shallow.

Leslie also aided my experimentation once by jumping off the roof of the house solely to test my theory that a bed sheet with the corners tied together would function similarly to a parachute. It didn’t. Fortunately for Leslie once again, she landed in a rather large clump of shrubs near the house, so she wasn’t hurt—too badly.

Mom seldom spanked us deferring that chore to dad. I can still hear her saying, “You just wait until your father gets home!” But, on the rare occasion she was really mad, there was no waiting around for dad. She administered her own swift punishment via a hairbrush applied to the posterior of the convicted perpetrator who was made to stand on the toilet lid in order to accept what was coming to them. One such hairbrush spanking in Crockett sticks in my mind, and I’m reasonably certain that it was somehow related to my employing younger sister Leslie as a guinea pig in playtime scientific experiments.

When I wasn’t in trouble, dad would take me to town following his lunch break on summertime Saturdays. He would give me a quarter that was ample funding for admittance to the double-feature afternoon matinee western or sci-fi flick, plus a bag of popcorn and a Coke.

The last of summer movies in 1954 was the beginning of first grade classes for me in the basement of an old brick school building. The room was supplemented by small windows along the ceiling that allowed just enough sunlight in to somewhat dispel the feeling of actually being in a basement. The teacher was your quintessential older schoolmarm with gray hair up in a bun wearing lace-up, high-heeled shoes. I recall the black chalkboards above which resided examples of cursive writing, an American flag, and the obligatory portrait of George Washington—the unfinished one rendering the appearance of clouds at the bottom.

The first grade also saw my first (and last) playground fight near the front steps of that huge brick schoolhouse. Don’t remember what it was about, or who won it. What I do remember thinking was that I didn’t particularly enjoy it and I made a note to never get in another one, if I could help it.

First grade classes moved into new classrooms after the Christmas break. We moved from the basement dungeon “into the light” as the new structure employed lots of glass and open spaces. Prominent memories from that spring included standing in line at the gym to take doses of the Salk polio vaccine from little paper cups, and a spring tornado coming through town one day around noon. The sky was completely black, dark as night, and we huddled with the teacher in a walk-through space behind the chalkboard used for coat and book storage.

We left Crockett with our memories early in 1955 arriving in Seymour about the same time Elvis did for an appearance at the high school gymnasium. But that’s a different memory on a different day.

Now, where did I leave my keys five minutes ago?