A Story Worth Telling

“Life is simple … either you’re qualified, or you’re not.

— Navy submariner saying.

– – – – – – –

We don’t know much about what Matt does, but the family sure is proud of him. He’s an ITSC with the United States Strategic Command. I know a little bit about the United States Strategic Command. Their mission is peacekeeping. But I can only imagine what the job description for an ITSC might be.

It is obviously a top security-level position, both in terms of the military and the family. Because nobody has a really clear understanding of what he does. Google doesn’t even know what an ITSC does. From listening to family reunion chatter, however, his duty has something to do with nuclear submarines.

While I don’t know exactly what Matt does, knowing he does it on a submarine means he spends a lot of time underwater. In close quarters. Often months at a time, according to his grandfather. My mother’s baby brother.

I’ve never spent months or even days underwater in close quarters. And as my mother used to say, there’s a second verse to that song. I’m not going to if I can help it.

But I did spend an hour in a submarine. Once. Well, almost an hour. And it was sort of a submarine. A tiny sightseeing submarine in the Bahamas. In the 1980s.

And that once was enough.

A “Flashback to the 50s” cruise aboard the S.S. Norway got me to the Bahamas. To enjoy entertainers like Fabian, Paul Revere and the Raiders, the Coasters, the Duprees, and other singers. Music appreciated mostly by those who listened to AM radio car radios in the early 1960s and bought 45 r.p.m. records at White’s Auto store in downtown Mount Pleasant.

It was a lapse of good judgment, however, that got me on the submarine. And my friendship with one of the entertainers. Gordon Stoker was a member of the Jordanaires who sang backup for Elvis Presley for 14 years, plus a host of other pop and country singers for several decades.

Stoker’s role on the cruise was to promote Elvis Presley Enterprises and Graceland. He and I had become friends on a previous sailing of the same cruise. This was our second “flash back together.”

“A sightseeing submarine,” Stoker said, looking at a shore excursion list of activities for the afternoon. “You ever been on a submarine?”

Following lunch, we looked around town and headed to the designated pier address. “Submarine Sight Seeing,” the sign proclaimed. The only thing tied to the small dock, however, was one tired old Evinrude-powered ski boat.

“Submarine? Submarine?” The question was coming from a local villager, smiling waving toward us. Stoker and I looked at each other. “What do you think,” I asked. We watched others boarding the boat, shrugged our shoulders, and boarded with them.

A quarter of a mile or so out in crystal blue Bahama waters, the overloaded ski rig met a vessel floating just below the water line. It closely resembled a submarine. Only smaller. With one small entry hatch protruding out of the water reminding me of the door to an East Texas homemade storm cellar. After tying up to the tiny sub, the same smiling islander-turned-worn-out ski boat driver pointed to the hatch. “Enter. Please. Watch step.”

I looked longingly back at the city’s shoreline. “Come on,” said Stoker. “It will be fun.”

Squeezed inside, we met our newest close friends. Literally. A baker’s dozen of people sitting in two rows. Back-to-back and shoulder-to-shoulder perched on one bench in the center. Perfect strangers snugly crammed next to each other. Noses glued to a row of small windows offering a panoramic view into the underwater world of marine life.

“We’re packed in here like sardines,” I said, seeking some semblance of humor for comfort. No one laughed.

Claustrophobia was tapping on my shoulder when the hatch closed. Strains of soft music and the aroma of floral fragrances begin to permeate the tiny space. “We’re going down,” I said to Stoker as the miniature sub started moving.

“Poor choice of words,” he retorted. “How about something like ‘we’re submerging?’”

The “captain’s” welcome and his assurance that in an “unlikely” loss of power, the sardine can was designed to automatically float to the surface did little to make me feel at ease.

But then something strange began to happen. Was it the elevator music? Maybe the sights of the ocean’s depths? My vote was for something suspicious in the funny fragrance filling the oxygen supply.

Whatever it was, tensions disappeared. Fears subsided. I forgot that I was descending into the deep, closer than cousins to people I’d never seen before, in a so-called submarine the size of a Volkswagen microbus.

“Oohs and aahs,” abounded. “Man,” I said, surveying the underwater world. “Would you look at that?” Narration described real life scenes resembling things I had seen only in pictures.

It barely started before it was quickly over. In less than an hour later, we surfaced. Right next to the waiting used car lot boat with the local islander. Still smiling and waving.

The platoon of new submariners, now seemingly best friends, hugged and exchanged addresses. Vowing to write. Everybody was happy.

Back on dry land and strolling through the village toward to the ship, the euphoric feeling from the underwater utopia was wearing off. “Well, that was different,” offered Stoker. “You think that perfumy stuff they pumped into the air was legal?”

“I was just wondering if they sell it,” I chuckled.

“Would you do it again?”

“Not in a million years,” I said. “If I want another look at fishes from the deep, I’ll buy an aquarium.”

That day, it was decided I was not qualified for the life of a submariner. Not that I ever thought that was a possibility.

I do thank God every day, however, for people like Cuz’ Matt. Doing whatever it is that an ITSC does every day. So that Americans can do what I do best every night.

Sleep soundly and safely.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“It’s a small world. And the older I get, the smaller it gets.”

— Original source unknown. I attribute it to my long-time friend and sage, Oscar Elliott. 1947 — 2016

– – – – – – – –

“Think we’ll see someone we know,” a traveling friend always asks when we venture out of town.

“Naw,” I say. Always.

Bet you a dollar,” the friend challenges me. Always.

My record is zero for every dollar I’ve wagered. Because I lose. Every time.

Crossing paths with someone we know in a place where we both are out of our element. Those “what are the odds” happenings that can often be startling.

We talked about that very thing just a few days ago at our regular weekly meeting of coffee consuming codgers. We’d already worn out the big natural gas outage in Center the weekend before and moved on to other topics. Like how those “small world” chance meetings with people you know make the world seem smaller.

“You …” one of the caffeine cohorts shot in my direction. “You know lots of people from the newspaper business. And I’ve heard you peg geographical references for Texas towns by the newspaper there … and people you know in the business.”

“Let me tell you a funny story about that,” I replied. “Some years ago, a group of newspaper types were telling tales one night at a Texas Press convention social gathering. We were swapping stories about how the newspaper business can be like a fraternity. You mention someone’s name you’ve worked with and the person you’re talking to says, ‘I know him. We worked together at a paper down in Hill Country back in the 80s.’

“At the peak of the conversation,” I continued, “Suzanne Bardwell, late wife of Gladewater Mirror publisher and friend Jim Bardwell, looked at me and said, ‘You win. I’m going to print bumper stickers that say, ‘Honk if you know Leon Aldridge.’”

I still regard that as an honor coming from Suzanne. Her reach of friends and influence in press circles far exceeded mine.

Last week, Center’s city-wide gas shutdown reminded me of another small-world scenario. Happened a few years back when the newspaper group for which I worked at the time acquired the Tribune in my hometown of Mount Pleasant.

Calls and visits from old hometown acquaintances were frequent that first week, but one call caught me off guard. A Center voice that was living in Mount Pleasant.

“Marshall Waldrup,” I said. “How are you, and what are you doing in Mount Pleasant?”

Marshall was the manager of the local Entex Gas office during my first stint in Center as publisher. When the paper was still the “East Texas Light.” Back when utility companies had local offices. With real people to talk to.

Marshall filled me in on his retirement to Mount Pleasant. Then we laughed about the time in Center, around the mid-1980s, when I jumped into the deep end of home ownership and bought a swimming pool. Checking the boxes to commence pool construction, a heater to keep the chill off in early Spring was “a must.”

“It’s going to take a couple of days to get the water up to a comfortable temperature,” said the pool company crew.

“No problem,” I said. “We’re going out of town for a long weekend. Should be just right when we get back.”

And just right it was. By Sunday afternoon, we were living the “American dream,” enjoying a heated swimming pool in our backyard.

A few weeks later, I awoke from that dream when Marshall came into the newspaper office looking for me. “I wanted to come tell you this personally,” he said quietly as we sat down.

“I didn’t want to mail this bill to you. I was afraid it might shock you.” Sharing that he had sent gas company meter reader and technician Hugh Gambill over to double check my meter, he continued, “Hugh didn’t find any problems, so I was wondering if you’ve made any changes in your equipment or gas appliances. Something big? Hugh noticed you’ve added a swimming pool. Is it by chance heated?”

“How bad is it,” I asked before looking at the bill.

Marshall said nothing. I looked.

“Seven hundred and fifty dollars,” I gasped.

Thoughts of a second job or mortgage on the house raced through my mind. He must have seen the fear in my eyes. “We can extend that over two or three months,” Marshall said. “You don’t have to pay it all in one month. That’s the other reason I came over here personally.”

The heated pool was nice that Spring. I remember it like yesterday because it was the only time we used it. Cold pool water early in the season wasn’t that bad. Once you got used to it.

And we were also never again shocked by a gas bill equaling what was at that time, probably a couple of house payments.

I thought about Marshall today. He would have been busy in Center lately. First, to restore the city-wide natural gas outage. Then, a week later, when Ol’ Man Winter blew into town, grabbing East Texas in an icy grip.

I also thought about my swimming pool story. And that if I still had one, it would still be unheated.

And I thought of another of Oscar’s old sayings. The one about “No matter where you go, there you are.”

I can only add that wherever you are, you are also likely to see someone you know.

I’ll bet you a dollar.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“I say that half your life is spent trying to get out of a small town and the other half trying to get back to one.”

— Kelly Cutrone, American publicist, television personality and author.

– – – – – – –

The preacher’s sermon centered last Sunday on a prevalent problem in America today. Shrinking church attendance. Congregations dwindling in some places to the point that small-town churches are closing their doors.

During the sermon, it crossed my mind that houses of worship are not the only ones facing that fate. Many small towns are going away as well.

I love small towns. And I love small churches. Just to clarify, I don’t consider Center, Texas, where I live a small town. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the city’s population in 2021 was 5,133, down from a peak of 5,879 souls in 2009. The same source tags Joaquin at 728, Tenaha at 991, Timpson also at 991, and Shelbyville with a population of 221.

Salute! Now we’re talkin’ small towns.

Small Texas towns I frequented before coming to Shelby County included places like Kress, Nazareth, and Happy. And yes … there really is a Happy, Texas. Population 613. I don’t know how happy the community of Happy is. But I had an uncle who was a coach in Happy at one time. We called him the Happy Coach. He was also a coach in Nazareth, population 312.

All of these small-town gems are located in the Panhandle region of Texas. Places where relatives on Mom’s side of the family lived and communities we visited frequently.

Mom’s side of the family all had the “traveling gene.” We grew up believing “family” and “road trip” were synonymous terms. Five minutes notice was sufficient preparation time for a three-day trip. Christmas, summer vacation, sometimes for no reason at all. We were headed to visit somewhere unless they were coming in our direction.

Many of those were trips to Kress. A veritable “wide spot” in the road located in Swisher County between Plainview and Tulia. The current census for the small farming community says it was down to 608 in 2021 after peaking at 817 in 2000. I can testify that it’s a small town where everybody knows everyone. Where, if you need help, half the town is there in five minutes. And a place where if you can’t remember what you did Tuesday three weeks ago, don’t worry. Someone does.

Traveling U.S. 87 in the 60s and 70s took motorists through Kress, passing Lawson’s Cafe and the Phillips 66 full-service station on the way. We joked about missing Kress if you blinked. Until one night, Mom blinked. Despite having been there many times in the dark of night, she drove right through Kress—yep, flat missed it.

Being the eldest child with front-seat “shot gun” privileges, I asked, “Where we going, Mom?” In her trademark delayed reaction style, she replied after a pause, “To Kress … where do you think we’re going?”

I broke the news to her about the one streetlight she passed a ways back. The one directly across the road from the tallest structures for miles, the grain elevators. Where we turned to go two blocks to her sister’s house. After one of Mom’s go-to terms of frustration that she always denied using, she had her ’54 Chevrolet turned around. And were heading back toward Aunt Amy’s house.

Small communities are great for times like the Saturday night I arrived in Kress with an ailing alternator on my car. The next morning, a phone call from my uncle to the local parts store owner who lived nearby … in small towns, everybody lives nearby … was all it took to get a new alternator. On a Sunday morning.

Sunday in Kress, we all went to church. Walking together. The Church of Christ was just a couple of blocks away. In small towns, everything is just a couple of blocks away in one direction or the other. My uncle worked at Taylor Evans Farm Supply, just a block north of their house if you cut through the alley. The church, a couple of blocks south, and the only grocery store in Kress was, you guessed it, a couple of blocks east in “downtown” Kress.

Kress has changed like small towns everywhere. My aunt and uncle, who lived their entire married life in Kress, passed away a few years ago. My cousins graduated from Kress High School – go, Kangaroos! Then scattered to different parts of the state.

I saw on Facebook last week where the unofficial population of Kress is reportedly down to 500 and something. And a cousin told me that the Church of Christ in Kress closed its doors a few years ago, once taking the attendance was accomplished using the fingers on one hand.

So, what did the preacher here offer last Sunday as a solution to declining church attendance? Mainly for those of us attending to do as the Bible instructs. Spend more time inviting others. Sharing our faith with others. Expressing our love for God and the fellowship of kindred hearts.

“Maybe,” I pondered as we turned to page 29 in the hymnal to sing “I Surrender All, “those of us who spent time getting back to small towns should be spending more time preaching the gospel of small-town living.”

Before someone misses our hometown community when they blink.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo above — A great picture of Kress, Texas entering from the south side driving north including the grain elevators where Mom blinked one night driving through the small Panhandle town. I don’t know the photographer’s name. The photo was was sent to me by a friend and I’m assuming it’s from Facebook. It was obviously taken a few years ago as evidenced by the larger population figure and presumably before the last sermon was preached at the Kress Church of Christ .

– – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.

— Eleanor Roosevelt

– – – – – – – –

Looking back is part of the fun of having writen a weekly column for decades.

It’s something I’m trying to do more of at the beginning of every new year. Revisiting dreams. Laughing at resolutions. Reflecting on what was worthy of writing about, both now and back then.

“What is a resolution,” she asked. The young visiting family member was barely taller than the table where my laptop rested as I sat writing. She quietly watched me working at the 1950s chrome dinette that occupies my breakfast room. A seat offering the most incredible view of the sunrise, my neighborhood, and that stop sign across the street at which no one ever stops. 

“It’s making plans for a new year as the old year fades away,” I offered my young visitor as small talk. “So, have you made a plan for living the story of your life next year?”

She smiled politely. But she didn’t have a clue. I could tell by the look on her face. It was the same look I often see in the mirror while finalizing plans that include little more flash than enjoying the fireworks. 

New Year’s Day, for me, always comes with the prospect of celebrating another birthday in January. I count that as a blessing. And, regardless of one’s personal reaction to birthdays, I’m still holding to the opinion that continuing to have them is the best blessing.

I used to note specific birthdays as “landmarks.” You know, ones that end with a zero. This is not one of those years for me. These days, however, I regard every birthday as a landmark. Deserving of particular contemplation. Plus, I’m also trying to look beyond the rudimentary resolutions list. Lose weight. Save more money. Learn something new. Be a nicer person. Return all my overdue library books. 

But in recent years, something that has dominated my mind is the fear of not using my imagination like I used to. Failing to be creative. Not making time to dream. Forgetting to play more.

“Can I go out and play,” my young observer asked. 

“Ask your mother,” I encouraged her. “Personally, I think it’s a great idea. But I don’t want to create a family tiff while y’all are here visiting for the holidays.” 

We all played as children, using imagination to become cowboys rounding up the bad guys. Movie stars in the Hollywood spotlight. Airplane pilots flying high above the earth. But there’s just something about this adulting thing gig makes us think growing up is mandatory. Stop acting like a kid. Take on more responsibility. 

And what happens with that? We forget how to play.

Playing is important. Truthfully, a fine line exists between a child’s play and an adult’s imagination. Both require using the mind to discover what’s hidden in the heart. Spending life going, doing, looking, documenting, and collecting is one thing. And to be sure, a modicum of that activity motivates us to figure out what our life story is about. 

But it’s occurred to me lately that the real story of life lies in the journey. A curiosity about the world we’re passing through. A daydream about the way we want the story to go. Scripting the life we desire instead of just existing long enough to file one more tax return.

We should, you know. After all, it’s our life, and the best part is we get to write the story ourselves.  

Going confidently in the direction of our dreams, like we did as a child, without fearing mistakes. Perfection comes not by avoiding mistakes but by learning from them. Playing as a child meant sometimes falling off our stick horse. But we wiped away the tears and got back on it. Because if we didn’t, the bad guys would have escaped.

The best thing about our life story is that it is never too late to start. Or to kindle a restart. Best sellers are not written in chronological order. Look behind the scenes of any “overnight success,” and there is usually years of hard work and failure.

“A resolution,” I told my inquisitive young visitor, “is a plan. And my plan for this year is getting back to playing more. Using my imagination to live out the stories of life we all dream of as kids. So once again, I’m resolving to play during the journey. Dream every day. Be the person I want the people around me to be. And let that adulting stuff magically take care of itself.”

She looked at me with that same look. She smiled, but didn’t she have a clue. I could tell by the look on her face. 

“Come on,” I said, taking her hand. “Let’s go outside and play. Maybe even set off some fireworks. Then we’ll both in trouble. But it will be soooo much fun!”

Happy New Year! Watch a sunrise. Dream more often. Ignore some of those “pretending to be an adult” stop signs. Go out and play in 2024.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“Families are like branches on a tree. We grow in different directions, yet our roots remain as one.”

– Unknown

Dear Sarah and Luke,

Congratulations! Your December 23 wedding was beautiful! I wish you two the best of God’s blessings in life.

With this letter, Sarah, I’m finally doing something your mother suggested I do when you and Haven graduated from high school. To write each of you a letter. I never got around to doing that for a number of reasons, all pitiful excuses honestly. And I’m sorry that I didn’t. Apparently, the muse must have been on vacation.

But when I learned you were getting married, the idea of the letter came to mind. This time, a specific thought filled my heart. Writers can be a little quirky like that. So, we can now tell your mother that I am finally doing what she once suggested. Kind of. Just a little later. She will probably smile. Because she knows her father is a little quirky like that.

With a bit of luck, perhaps I can mark future occasions in the lives of your brothers and sisters with a letter from Grandpa Leon.

As I told you at the wedding, I have a letter to my mother written to her by her father on the occasion of her marriage .

Your father, being the good man and loving parent I know him to be, has likely offered you similar advice. From a family historical perspective, I simply want to share a letter of advice offered almost 80 years ago by another father in your family. Plus, it will make your mother smile. Again. Because she knows how I am about family history.

When I remember where I filed it, which I pray will happen before your first anniversary, I will give you a copy of that letter.

The letter was written by Arthur G. Johnson, your great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side. He was born and reared in Kentucky and lived most of his life in Winchester. He was a schoolteacher and principal. His daughter, who became my mother and your great-grandmother, was born Indianola Johnson in 1923 in Winchester. She was the oldest sibling in her family. She had three sisters and one brother who lived to adulthood and one brother who passed away at a young age.

In 1944, she married Leon Aldridge, my father and your great-grandfather “to be.” He was born in Doyle, La., the last of 13 children. His mother died giving birth to him, and he was raised in Pittsburg, Texas, by his biological uncle and wife, Sylvester and Hattie Aldridge. He never knew them as anything other than “mom and dad.” Likewise, they were Grandmother and Granddaddy to my sisters and me, and she was Gran Gran to your mother.

My mother was the first of her siblings to marry. She did that at the age of 21 by traveling to Texas, where they were married at the Pittsburg Methodist Church parsonage just a few days before he shipped out for combat duty in Europe with the U.S. Army 276th Combat Engineers during World War II. She lived in Pittsburg with my father’s parents until he returned the following year.

They were married for 62 years until he passed away in April of 2007. I have photos of them holding you and Haven as newborns.

Family was important to Arthur Johnson, who, with his wife Bernice, raised their children in a large white two-story home that still stands today at 382 South Main in Winchester, Kentucky.

When I first read the letter, I tried to fathom the emotion with which my mother’s father penned it knowing his oldest child was following her husband-to-be 800 miles from home to Texas to marry. And that within days of their marriage, her new husband would leave for how long, she had no idea. To fight in a war. One from which many husbands and fathers did not return.

In the letter, he wished his daughter love and happiness, encouraging her to do four things:
• Stay true to God.
• Stay true to your husband.
• Stay true to yourself.
• Stay close to your family and get together often.

Arthur Johnson’s children took the advice of staying close to family to heart. Although they settled from Ohio to Texas to California, they had family reunions every summer in Kentucky. Really — every summer. Without fail. Some driving days to attend.

Those reunions are precious childhood memories for me. And because of them, my generation of cousins are more like brothers and sisters than cousins.

Today, two of Mom’s siblings remain. Uncle Bill, the youngest, turned 88 this year. Aunt Jo is 93. My generation continues the tradition with some degree of success. We meet in Kentucky every five years or so and in Abilene for other years. Because that is where Uncle Bill and Aunt Jo live, and they are not able to travel.

Your mom and dad have created a beautiful family with values and a bond like none I have ever known. I suspect there may be a bit of Arthur Johnson’s heritage there somewhere. I once asked your mom, an incredible woman in so many ways, “Robin, how did you do that? You sure didn’t learn it from me?”

She just smiled. Like she always has. Because she knows her father.

I know that’s a boatload of family history in one heap, some you may have already heard from your mother. But the thought of that letter Mom kept in her cedar chest her whole life, both of you marrying at the same age, both of you the oldest sibling, and both coming from homes with strong family values was on my heart at the wedding. And the muse, fickle as she can be at times, would not let me pass on the opportunity to share it with you.

So, I wanted to write the letter to you, Sarah. Hopefully, it will make everyone smile. Especially your Mom. Because I like to see her smile.

Many smiles and much love to you and Luke. And Happy New Year!

Grandpa Leon

– – – – – – –

(Photo credit — The perfect wedding photo taken by the father of of the bride, Jonathan Osteen.)

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“A sister is someone who knows everything about you and loves you anyway.“

— Author unknown 

– – – – – – –

It was just a few days ago.

November 14. 11:04 p.m. “Ding.” A late night text.

My bedtime routine is … well, routine. With the best of intentions, I plan to be sound asleep by 10:00. When around 11:00, I’m reading, cleaning house, or sometimes simply struggling to improve my guitar skills, I know I will be midnight getting in bed. Again.

Only one person texts me that late. My baby sister, Sylvia. 

“What are you doing,” her message inquired. That’s her cue for me to call. Sylvia already knows I’m reading, cleaning house, or struggling to improve my guitar skills. If I’m awake.

“Hello,” she always said with that melodic tone of voice. Her clocks were chiming in the background. She had a wall of them. Some on tables. Some on shelves. They made her happy. Most days, Sylvia was a happy camper any time of the day. Especially if she’d been working on crossword puzzles or making something good to eat. “Made some of mom’s pimento cheese today. You should be here.”

Thinking about eating anything my youngest sister prepared in her kitchen made me wish I were there. Mom’s pimento cheese. Kentucky Snappy Cheese. A cheese sandwich. Anything. 

November 16. 3:26 p.m. “Ding.”

“I had a Reuban at the Anvil.” 

“I’m jealous,” I replied. “So, you went to Pittsburg today? Are you moved in at Mount Pleasant?”

Sylvia was in the middle of a move from Longview, her home for the last 30 years or so. She was moving to Mount Pleasant where my sisters and I grew up and graduated from high school. I’m the oldest, Sylvia; the youngest. Leslie fits somewhere there in the middle. 

Mom always said she didn’t feel old until all of her children were in their 40s. When Sylvia turned 70 earlier this year, I wondered how Mom might have felt when all of her children were in their 70s. We lost Mom on December 10, thirteen years ago.

“Not yet,” Sylvia responded about the move. “It will be a slow process.” 

My sisters and I talked frequently at times, infrequently at others. Sometimes about nothing in particular, others about specific problems. I was lucky. I could confide in both of them, confessing my fears and concerns. They knew everything about me and loved me anyway.

And they were always compassionate. Leslie is typically quick to offer, “It will be OK. Everything will work out.” Sylvia was equally encouraging with words like, “Well, that was dumb, Bubba. So, how’s that working for you?” But she said it with love.

Anytime Sylvia and I weren’t solving a crisis, we talked about food.

November 25. 4:34 p.m. “Ding.” 

“Eating at Nicky’s in Bossier City.” A picture of the sign followed.

“Great place,” I replied. The food is still just as good as when we ate there many years ago with Joe and Mary Greene.”

November 19. 10:36 p.m. “Ding.”

“Can you call me when you get a minute?”

“What’s up,” I asked. 

“Are you still coming for Thanksgiving?

“Yes. What do you need me to bring?”

“Just a dessert.”

Thanksgiving at her house this year was small. Just me, Sylvia, her daughter Diana, and grandson Aiden. Aldridge gatherings that once numbered a dozen, 15, or 20 are smaller now. Kids grow up and move away. Older generations might not be able to attend. Sometimes, it’s another family member’s name in the family Bible with that second date added after the dash.

We all talked and ate. Diana and Aiden left for another round of Thanksgiving at someone else’s house, and we talked some more. Just Sylvia and me. Settling on the couch and talking is usually all I’m suitable for after Thanksgiving dinner. 

Her clocks had struck two when we started. I left just before they chimed six. “That’s as long as we’ve talked in a long time,” she said. “It was nice,” I agreed. “Let’s do it again. Soon.”

December 13. 4:04 p.m. “Ding.” It wasn’t late. There was no small talk. No questions. One message. “In the ER.” We exchanged short messages until she wrote, “They are keeping me overnight,” adding that tests found nothing other than “abnormal bloodwork.” Whatever that means. 

“Keep us updated,” I responded. “Let me know if there is anything I can come up there and do. I’m not that far away. Love you!!!”

“Thanks,” she replied.

The phone call came early the next morning. One of those you know when it rings — you just know. Good news seldom comes that early.

Sylvia Anne Aldridge Crooks’ life spanned 70 years, six months, and 23 days before she became the most recent name in the family Bible with that second date added after the dash.

It was just a few days ago. My phone has fallen silent after 10. No clocks chiming. And we will have to wait for that next talk we were going to have.  

Sisters are the best. I love how they’ve always known everything about me. And how they’ve loved me anyway.

— Epilogue —

Christmas columns are often random recollections of the joys of Christmas, past and present. Like everything in life, however, periods of joy and grief intersecting show no respect for time or circumstance. However, those who believe in God accept all seasons of life knowing He is in control. Because we also believe that time here on earth is little more than a period of preparation.  And because we are truly thankful for the many Christmases we were blessed to share with Sylvia.

My sincere wish for each of you is a Merry Christmas with family, friends, and loved ones. Cherish every moment.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“Your big-time writer is a person with incredibly poignant things to say about life and the profundity of the human condition … a columnist’s highest aspiration is for someone to cut his or her column out of the paper and hang it on the refrigerator.”

— Sean Dietrich, columnist, novelist, instrumentalist, singer, and stand-up storyteller.

– – – – – – – –

“Sean of the South,” the program flyer proclaimed. “After the show, stick around to meet Sean, hug his neck, and maybe share a story of your own.”

As someone who has written a weekly column off and on for some 40 years, I also read a lot of columns. Especially the storytelling kind. Hence, the tagline on my weekly word offering; “A Story Worth Telling.”

Sean Dietrich also tells stories in columns. He’s famous. I’m not. Yet. And he writes a column every day while I struggle to string stories together once a week.

I remember Paul Crume’s “Big D” column on the front page of the Dallas Morning News every Sunday through Friday for 24 years. I read Crume’s column in high school and college durin the 60s and 70s.

Reading columns was something I relished long before the thought ever crossed my mind that I might one day grow up and pretend to be a column writer.

In addition to writing a daily column and having authored 15 books, Dietrich’s work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader’s Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and The Mobile Press-Register. And his column appears in newspapers throughout the U.S.

Not just an overachiever in writing; he entertains with his stand up story telling, plays multiple instruments, sings, and appears on the Grand OIe Opry, too.

Sunday afternoon a week ago, Dietrich was in Mineola, Texas, of all places. A stretch for someone famous who lives in Birmingham, Alabama. He was there not just as an entertainer, but also as a fundraiser for the Flint and Steel Foundation. According to the same program flyer in each seat at the civic center, “the Wood County non-profit foundation’s aim is to advance educational, recreational, and artistic opportunities for people of all ages in the area, especially older youth and young adults.”

Dietrich entertained for some 90 minutes, intertwining singing, playing several instruments, and relating humorous anecdotes about Southern lifestyles. Said and done, all the proceeds went to the Flint and Steel Foundation. He is just that kind of guy. Something you quickly learn about him if you’re a regular reader of his columns.

Having been one of those regular readers for a few years, I waited after the show to see him. Not for a hug so much as for the unique opportunity to see him in person and simply to shake his hand. Maybe get him to autograph his book I bought before the performance. And I even had a story to tell him. If he had time to listen.

Waiting in line, I thought about the meager feeling of accomplishment I had enjoyed seeing my column audience grow, now published in a handful of Texas newspapers plus a blog for the last eight years. And how that was underscored recently when an automotive magazine contacted me. They wanted to include my column in their publication.

That was the beginning of the story I wanted to share with Sean of the South. If he had time to hear it.

Turns out he had time to hear my story and lots of others. He spent as much time visiting and hugging after the show as he did performing. Taking all the time needed, listening to what anyone who had waited in line had to say.

My time came. I stepped forward; arm extended for a handshake. Instead, he grabbed me in a bear hug with a slap on the back. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Where are you from?”

“Center,” I said. Reading the “I don’t know where that is” look on his face, I explained. “Just 17 miles from the Louisiana border; closer to Shreveport than any sizable town in Texas.” After expressing my delight with his show and appreciation for his generosity, I added, “I have a quick story to share with you.”

“And I want to hear it,” he said. I told him I was just an old newspaper guy who enjoyed telling stories in columns. One who, after some years, had built an audience in a few newspapers and a weekly blog.

“But the pinnacle of my pursuit,” I continued, “was when Motorsports Magazine wanted to start publishing my work recently. I was super excited when I received my first issue and saw my column in it. Then I turned the page and there was yours. Imagine that,” I said. “My column; published in the same magazine with Sean Dietrich!

“I’ve shown it to everyone,” I added.

The gracious Southern gentleman, writer, storyteller, and musician listened intently without interruption. When I finished, he said with a smile, “Well, if I’m going to be in the same magazine with you, I’m going to have to up my standards.”

“Wow,” I thought while driving home that night. “Maybe someone will cut my column out of a newspaper and hang it on their refrigerator. Someday.”

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo above: Meeting Sean Dietrich, hugging his neck, and sharing a story with Andi Foster, my friend who turned me on to reading the Southern author’s columns. If you don’t already read Sean of the South’s columns, I encourage you to start as soon as possible at https://seandietrich.com/. He famous. I’m not. Yet.)

– – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“The greatest lesson in life is realizing I still have a lot to learn.”

— Author unknown

– – – – – – – – – –

The view from my office window is thought-provoking.

From where I sit on the southeast corner of the downtown Center square, I have a front-row seat for many things. Chief among them is the number of people operating cars who don’t know how to drive. Or how to read traffic signs.

I also see a lot of wreckers. Towing services. “Why would I notice that,” some may ask? It could be related to my first observation about people driving on the square. Or it could be related to personal experience. And memories. My college “self funded scholarship” was working for Sandlin Chevrolet and Olds and Surratt and Heimer body shops in Mount Pleasant.

Johnny Garner at Sandlin’s took a chance on me based on experience gained working the previous summer at Ogner Volkswagen body shop in Canoga Park, California. A memorable summer gig for a 19-year-old, working for the shop manager, my mother’s baby brother, and my Uncle Bill.

Body shops introduced me to the world of wrecker driving. Experience that afforded me many more stories worth telling than painting cars.

In the late ’60s, wreckers were on 24-hour call for one week at a time. As the newbie at Sandlins, I was tagged “the wrecker driver.” Because no one looked forward to sleeping close to the phone for middle-of-the-night calls from the police department.

Every time I bailed out of bed in the middle of the night and hit the road, I came home with a different story.

Some like the family I rescued from the old roadside park on Highway 67 toward Omaha. Where their big Olds VistaCruiser station wagon’s transmission had given up the ghost and left them stranded. With the crippled cruiser ready to two, I set out to engineer a man, his wife, their child, and the family dog into the wrecker’s cab. Miraculously, there was still room for me to drive. Never mind that we were all close friends by the time I dropped them off at the Holiday Inn. Almost too close.

Other memories still haunt me. It was before the invention of “The Jaws of Life.” A time when wrecker drivers were called on to pull mangled doors open or raise crushed car tops. Hopefully, to free injured occupants. Not to aid in the removal of bodies.

And there were rewards sometimes. Like the time I worked a truck wreck on I-30. An overturned semi with a full load. Of bananas. Green bananas. The job took more than one wrecker service. When the rig was righted and ready to tow, the truck driver announced, “Take some of these bananas with you. We can’t sell them since they’ve been involved in an accident. So, take a case. Or two. Or three.”

I stacked my bounty in the kitchen that night, relishing the thought of fresh bananas. In doing so, however, I failed to factor in one thing. The bananas would get ripe. Every one of them at the same time. Mom made banana pudding and banana bread. We ate bananas on cereal. On ice cream. On toast. On things I never thought of eating. We shared bananas with family, friends, neighbors, perfect strangers.

Then there are those unusual stories. The bizarre stories. Warped humor in some cases. But they became stories because laughing is better than crying.

The phone rings, and in minutes, I’m on my way out Highway 67 again. No details, just that DPS needs a wrecker. In the wee hours of the morning and really foggy. I pull up behind the ’69 Dodge black-and-white parked beside the road. Lights flashing. No other vehicles in sight. Just the officer waving his red baton flashlight and a visibly shaken driver sitting in the car.

The trooper pointed down an embankment to the local funeral home’s hearse. Front front end in a creek bottom. Barely visible from the road. I make my way, sliding down to the hearse and pulling the cable. After slithering in the damp darkness under the wrecked vehicle and securing the line on the rear axle, I opened the driver’s door to ensure the transmission was in neutral.

In the dim glow of my flashlight, the first thing I saw was the last thing one wants to encounter in the middle of a foggy night. Another occupant. The impact had broken the casket from its mount in the back, propelling it forward, allowing the dearly departed therein to partially depart the damaged coffin.

I jumped back, fell down, dropped my flashlight. Said things I would have been embarrassed for my sweet Momma to hear her baby boy say.

While gathering my wits and attempting to get up, I heard hee-hawing from up the hill. “I forgot to tell you the funeral home is dispatching another hearse to transfer the body,” the officer shouted through his uncontrolled laughter. “As soon as you get that one back up to the highway.”

Looking out my office window, watching traffic on the square last week, I thought about how things have changed and what I’ve learned from change. Wreckers are better and safer. Cars are better and safer. Drivers are …. well, not so much.

I thought about how the most important thing I’ve learned really is that the greatest lesson in life is realizing I still have a lot to learn.

That, and laughing still beats crying.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“When you come to a fork in the road, take it.“

— Yogi Berra

– – – – – – –

There are no coincidences in life. Only the mystery of what might have been had we taken that other fork in the road.

“Hello,” she offered from her car. We had a class together at Kilgore College. Likely English, history, or math. We were both freshman students at KJC in 1966.  

I don’t remember her name. Time does that to me a lot these days. What I remember is the yellow ’65 Mustang she parked next to us at the Dairy Queen. And that she was attractive, and her long blonde hair and cool car fit the image of absolute perfection in my 18-year-old college male mind.

My friend and roommate, Ronnie Lilly, and I were cruising the DQ in his ’57 Chevy. “Hello,” I waved. “What are you up to this evening?”

“You won’t believe it,” the car-to-car conversation continued. “I just got back from seeing a fortune teller in Longview. Unbelievable, the things she knew about me.”

“Really,” I asked? Wondering how well I was disguising my skepticism. Never did put any stock in so-called mystics. Carnival sideshows at best.

While I successfully figured out how carnival sideshow magicians sawed damsels in half as a youngster, I had never been close to a clairvoyant. Therefore, perhaps it was out of curiosity that a couple of days later I paid the Longview lady a visit on my way home for the weekend in Mount Pleasant.

She got no more than “name, rank, and serial number” from me. No facial expressions. No responses to her leading “I see …” statements. Paid and done, I continued my journey home.

More than half a century later, I can honestly say that little of what she “foretold” was anywhere near my life story as it exists today.

She did, however, stumble onto two memorable moments. One, that I lost a gift from a girlfriend, and rather than tell her I lost it, I replaced it. True.

Two, that my stay-at-home mother for all my life had taken a job.

Mom was glad to see me when I arrived later that evening. “Your timing is perfect,” she said. “I just got home from work. I haven’t told you. I started working at the Tribune this week.”

“You did what,” I choked?

Thus, a life-long series of fortunate incidents was set in motion. Now, memories that often cause me to think. Asking, “What if? Wonder what my life might have been like had I taken that other fork in the road? Or if I had missed just one of those people I met on that path?”

Such as meeting Morris Craig because Mom took that job at the Tribune where Craig’s paper was printed every week. The same person who asked what I planned to do after one of my fork-in-the-road choices turned out to be less than fulfilling. “Dunno yet,” I responded.

“You’re a photographer. Come work with me for a while until you decide,” Craig offered. That unplanned intro into the world of communication led to a second newspaper gig in Louisiana at a weekly owned by Lloyd Grissom in Tenaha. Lloyd also owned the Tenaha East Texas Light with an office in Center. A community that, at that time, was still on my “never been there” list.

But it was there, a place I frequented only one early morning a week, that a Shelby County resident came in to place an ad. Someone who, by sheer chance, I had met in Naples while working at the Monitor. That reunion resulted on a move to Shelby County a couple of years later. Right after newspaper entrepreneur Jim Chionsini purchased the East Texas Light from Lloyd.

Do you see where this going?

My path crossed with Jim’s at a Center Lions Club meeting. That started a life-long friendship and partnership connecting me with an incredible number of newspaper professionals from Texas to Alabama.

Meeting Fred Wulf and Rick Campbell while working at the Center newspaper led to them offering me a job some 15 years later. After I had taught journalism at Stephen F. Austin State University and after publishing the newspaper in Boerne for Jim. They hired me to assist in shaping a marketing department for their rapidly growing new company, Portacool. Fourteen years there connected me with marketing professionals and incredible people across the U.S. and abroad.

Coming full circle, Jim bought the Center newspaper a second time in 2013, recruiting me to help in that effort and initiate talks with the Palmer family that resulted in the acquisition of The Mount Pleasant Tribune. The newspaper where Mom worked for 17 years. Where I met Morris Craig.

Almost three years later, the current owners of the local newspaper, individuals with whom I had worked or known professionally during tenures with Jim, called on me to publish the Center newspaper. One more time. Marking my third time at the helm of the publication in 41 years.

Through it all, I still don’t believe in coincidence. And I still don’t believe in phony prognosticators professing to foretell the future.

I remain convinced, however, that everything happens for a reason. And that’s really the reason I took that fork in the road a lifetime ago.

You know … the one Yogi was alluding to.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

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

– – – – – –

The holiday season is the best. I’ve long contended Thanksgiving preceding Christmas is not by coincidence. It’s a subtle reminder to be thankful for the most joyous season and to end the year on high note.

My blessings are many. And long is the list of things for which I am thankful. Including conversation about Thanksgiving memories with a former business associate a few years ago.

While wrapping up holiday week business with Wachelle at the Dallas PR firm employed by the company for which I worked, she said something that resonated with me the rest of the day.

“We are scheduled for next week! Yay…” she responded to my submissions. I countered with the good news that we also had another couple weeks worth of social media programs in the works.

“My grandmomma would say, ‘Stop showing out,’” she countered.

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

“Don’t you miss her,” Wachelle asked? “I really miss my grandmamma’s cooking.”

I agreed, remembering the meals at granny’s house. Then for the rest of the day, all I could think about was those holiday and Sunday dinners.

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

It was a yesterday time when families ate more meals at home. The fast food boom was a few happy meals down the road, and eating out at a “real” restaurant was a treat for rare occasions. It was also a yesterday when a meal at our home in Mount Pleasant was on the table precisely coordinated with dad’s arrival from work. Not being at the table at that time was not an option. That is, unless you were so badly incapacitated that walking was out of the question.

Also not an option was deciding whether mom’s menu coincided with your taste buds. You ate what was on the table without criticism or comment—unless it was a favorable comment about how good it was.

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

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

It was hard to notice behind the scenes work that our parents and grandparents put into family get togethers as kids. We were running through fall leaves in the yard. Looking for pecans under huge trees that lined the yard.

Smell is purported to be one of the strongest sensory preceptors linked to memory. I know that it’s true. Even today in an age of eating most meals out, a whiff of home cooking reminds me of family gatherings and of food at granny’s house that I haven’t tasted in almost 60 years.

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

Best wishes for a Happy Thanksgiving and all of the memories that go with the season.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.