A Story Worth Telling

“Well, it’s one for the money, two for the show,
Three to get ready now go, cat, go
But don’t you, step on my blue suede shoes.”

— Rock and roll standard written and recorded by Carl Perkins in 1955. It was a hit song for Perkins in 1955 and for Elvis Presley in 1956.

– – – – – – –

I never noticed how many songs have been written about them until I wrote last week’s column. Shoes, that is.

“Old ladies’ shoes,” someone remarked on my column last week. “What’s that?”

“You’ve seen ’em,” I said. “Shoes that, let’s call them mature, women wore when I was a kid. Black. Lace up. Stocky heels. Back when, to a youngster, an older woman was one that had graduated from high school.

It was a memory on the fly. Popped into my mind as I was writing about two “mature” women visiting, one of them my grandmother. Back when shoes were real.

I like nice looking shoes. Leather shoes that are comfortable and last longer than temporary government programs.

Shoes like I wore to school. When tennis shoes were all high-top black-and-white lace up Keds or P.F. Flyers. Because other than cowboy boots, that’s all there was. High-top tennis shoes and real leather shoes.

Shoes that Mom made sure I polished every Saturday night, for Sunday morning church service. Shoes that were sold in shoe stores where clerks measured the customer’s foot to ensure the correct size. Then double checked by gently pressing the shoe to see where the toes were. Shoes that could be purchased in all sizes and all widths.

Shoes worn until the heels were run down and the soles were more holy than righteous. Well-worn shoes that weren’t thrown away but taken to the local shoe repair shop. Where the smell of leather lingered. Where the proprietor wore a canvas apron and used industrial strength sewing machines to bring shoes back to life. Repaired, polished, and returned to the customer shined to a gloss that dazzled in the sunlight.

I remember buying my first pair of leather loafers at Beall’s Department Store in downtown Mount Pleasant. Working after school during my sophomore year. Virgil Tolbert was the manager, Gerald Birdwell the assistant manager, and classmate Janice White’s mother was a salesclerk. Where Saturdays, I wore a sport coat and tie, and sold men’s clothing and shoes. Wearing frehly polished cordovan Bass Weejun loafers for which I had paid $4.95 out of my average $20 weekly earnings.

Then, in the early 1980s, the tennis shoe craze catapulted sportswear smack dab in the mainstream of “acceptable anywhere” dress. Overnight, everyone was wearing tennis shoes—with everything. In all colors and styles. For all occasions. Everywhere.

That’s when a friend noted that she thought it might be an excellent time to buy stock in one of the trendy tennis shoe brands. I sure hope she did. It was probably a good idea. She’s probably rich today. And probably owns lots of shoes.

– – – – – – –

Well, she walked in the shoe store, picked out a shoe,
She tried on a twelve, but that wouldn’t do.
Betty Lou got a new pair of shoes,
Betty Lou bought a new pair of shoes.
— Song lyrics by Bobby Freeman.

– – – – – – –

I watched shoe styles change again with my children in the 1990s. Daughter Robin was a teenager. “I like those,” she proclaimed, pointing to a store window in the San Antonio mall.

“Those combat boots,” I asked? Still wearing cordovan Bass Weejun loafers. For which I paid a lot more than $4.95.

“They’re Doc Martin’s, Dad,” she said. With an “Ugh.”

Those shoes would be the first of several pairs of combat boots … I mean shoes … that Robin would own and wear with jeans, shorts, dresses, formal wear—everything. Everywhere.

I always wondered if my tennis show friend invested in combat boots.

Regardless of the show style, I’m told my focus on footwear formulated at an early age. Mom delighted in talking about it. Told it far and wide. How the first thing I inspected was someone’s shoes. And it was a “no go” if I didn’t like them.

“We hired a babysitter one time when we lived in Ballinger,” Mom told every year at family reuninons. About a hundred times, “You looked at her shoes and started crying. Only after the poor woman removed her shoes and hid them in a closet would you consent to being in the same room with her.”

Even after Mom started losing her memory, she still managed to remember that story. Bless her heart.

– – – – – – –

“And someone else will fill the shoes that I once wore,
Cause them shoes, don’t fit me anymore.
— Written by Hank Cochran and Velma Smith, recorded by Patsy Cline.

– – – – – – –

When I closed the door on the “every year, whether needed or not,” spring closet cleaning ritual recently, 35 pair of shoes remained. Yeah, it scared me, too. Mostly dress and casual shoes, most of them leather. Seven pairs of cowboy boots, all leather. One pair of Bass Weejuns that cost more than I paid for my first car. One pair of tennis shoes, just for the gym.

And … from Lansky Brothers Men’s Shop in Memphis. Where Elvis shopped. The store that still markets themselves as “Clothier to the King.”

One pair of genuine blue suede shoes.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo taken by the author in May of 2021 during the renovation of a downtown Center, Texas building that was for many years an attorney’s office. Obviously at some point before “legal” was the office buzzword, “leather” was. Removing the facade revealed signage advertising “Shoes 2 pair $5. Even thought they were real leather, it’s a safe bet they weren’t Bass Weejuns.)

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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.

“But the mere sight of a needle makes me pass out, I can’t even knit!”

— Mrs. Betty Slocombe’s character in the 1977 film “Have You Been Served.”

– – – – – –

“On a scale of one to ten …,” the nurse began.

“Pain? About a one or two,” I responded. “On the stupid scale, about an 87.”

“Accidents happen,” she said politely.

I nodded. Maintaining a death grip on the kitchen towel hastily wrapped around my finger as I headed for the ER. After my unfortunate Saturday afternoon encounter with a power saw.

“Pressure on the wound.” Distant voices from Boy Scout first aid training. Sometime during Dwight Eisenhower’s second term.

The exam room was silent, save some medical sounds like those heard on TV doctor shows. A blood pressure cuff tightening and releasing. Beep, beep, beep beside the bed. Assurance that I still had a heartbeat. The nurse methodically placing various medical apparatus on the tray beside me. Enough tools for a major organ transplant.

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” I offered. “I’m just here as a precaution, you know.”

“The doctor will see you in just a few minutes,” she said. Politely.

I nodded again. Alone for a few minutes with silence to savor, questions crossed my mind. Things like “when was the last time I had stitches in an emergency room?”

My racing mind was quick to respond. “It was that warm summer afternoon at your grandparent’s home in Pittsburg,” it whispered. “Before you entered first grade.”

Summer days spent with my father’s parents in Northeast Texas as a child were good times. Great memories.

Granny lived in Pittsburg in the same house from 1930 until she died in 1993. That likely had something to do with why she had lots of friends.

Mrs. Martin was one of those friends. She lived on a street somewhere south of the old downtown depot. Over toward what I remember everyone calling the box factory.

Granny and Mrs. Martin enjoyed coffee together. On that afternoon that came to mind, Mrs. Martin’s grandson was visiting. Lucky for me. I was rescued from listening to their coffee chatter. Not having to sit quietly in a house adorned with ornate little knickknacks on every table. Each one arranged on crocheted white doilies. And not having to look at Mrs. Martin’s shoes. Black lace-up shoes with thick high heels. What I called “old ladies” shoes.

“You two be careful,” the grandmothers harmonized. And we dashed out the door.

As I recall the rest of the day, my newfound friend was the good guy for a game of cops and robbers. I was the bad guy. Fair enough. We were on his turf.

Roles established; play time was on. In the 1950s, kid-type make-believe. Shooting at each other with trusty pistols that were always with us. Three fingers rolled into the palm, the thumb stuck up for the hammer, and the index finger pointed to resemble the gun barrel. Shots mimicked with lots of loud “pows” and “p-pings.”

I hid beside a car in the driveway, confident I had found temporary cover from make believe flying bullets. That’s about the time law and order got the drop on me. Literally.

From out of nowhere, something landed on the back of my head. I was hit. The renegade outlaw was down. Crying his eyes out. Blood everywhere.

Grandmas to the rescue. Granny took me to Pittsburg’s M&S Hospital on Quitman Street. The old white 1940s structure with hospital rooms on one side and doctors’ offices on the other.

“Let’s have a look at that,” said Dr. Reitz.

Percy Reitz was a World War II veteran physician who often saw me during summers spent in Camp County. Our relationship began in 1948 when he delivered me into the world on a cold January night. That same M&S Hospital. Snow was falling, so I was told.

He had a deep, husky voice. Primarily professional. Not much chit-chat. Medical treatment often delivered while smoking a cigarette. An ashtray sitting among the medical paraphernalia. It was the early 50s. Everybody smoked. Everywhere.

“Hold him tight, Mizz Aldridge,” he said. “I need to stitch him up, and he doesn’t like needles.”

Dr. Reitz knew me. This was not our first rodeo.

Granny got my attention with promises of an ice cream cone from Lockett’s Drug Store and a trip to the toy store down by the post office. Just as I let my guard down, she embraced me in a bear hug that would have rendered even Walker Texas Ranger immobile.

I was snapped back to the ER at Center, Texas and to 2024, when The ER doctor came in. Whisked away from memories of the last time and the only other time I’ve required emergency room stitches.

“That’s gonna need a few stitches,” he said, assessing the self-inflicted wound. “But your finger is otherwise OK. No major damage. Luckily.”

“Just some stitches on my left gun barrel, huh,” I chuckled.

“What’s that,” the doctor asked?

“Aw, just on old memory,” I said, rubbing the scar on the back of my head. With my good hand.

“Just don’t hurt me, Doc. Granny’s not here to hold me. And I still don’t like needles.”

—Leon Aldridge

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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 more things change, the more they stay the same.”

— Well-used term, credited to French critic Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr (1808 – 1890)

– – – – – – – –

Taking stock of what has silently disappeared over time, I thought about neighborhood grocery stores last week. How they’ve all but disappeared from the American way of life.

“Run over to Raney’s,” Mom often directed me with a list of two or three things. “I need this to have supper ready when your Daddy gets home at five.”

And in a flash, I was peddling my bicycle through the neighborhoods. From our house on Redbud Lane to Raney’s Grocery Store. A few blocks away on South Jefferson.

“Hello, Leon,” Mr. Raney said from his stool, where he often sat at the cash register just inside the door. “Your mother needing some things for supper?”

“Yes sir,” I said, placing the items on the counter.

“Charge ‘it today,” he asked, reaching for the account book with Aldridge hand-written on the cover.

“Yes sir … please.”

Everything placed carefully in my bicycle basket, I was soon headed home. And I aimed to make it back without a torn bread wrapper or a leaking milk carton.

Mom never had eggs on her list for me, with good reason.

The white frame building bearing the “Raney’s Grocery sign sat at the top of the hill on South Jefferson, at Holland Street. Today, a modern convenience store sits in the exact location. A far cry from the once commonplace neighborhood grocery store.

Raney’s had gas pumps, unlike many neighborhood groceries of the day. In fact, it resembled a gas station where a grocery store was added after the fact. Even had a door separating the two.

Following the years of bicycle trips to Raney’s, I left and went off to college. Followed with a headfirst dive into the working world. During a visit home, I noticed Raney’s was gone one day. Replaced by a new business in a new building.

I don’t recall if he was the first to follow Raney’s, but the newer proprietor I remember the most was Robert Dunavant. Because he followed the same “greet the customer by name” business model practiced by his predecessors.

Fast forward a few more years into the age of computers. The day a message from long-time friend and one-time business partner Albert Thompson hit my inbox. “An old associate and friend from Mount Pleasant passed away this week in Ripley, Mississippi,” it read. “Robert Dunavant.”

Albert related how Robert came to Ripley from Mount Pleasant in the 80s to purchase his, and the community’s, first McDonalds restaurant. “Robert was one good person, as hard of a worker as I ever shook hands with,” He concluded in his native Alabama, country boy terms.

“We ran a picture of him mowing the grass at McDonalds as he was wearing his necktie. In reading his obit,” Albert added, “I see he is going back to Pittsburg, Texas, for a graveside on Saturday.

“We always talked about Mt. Pleasant, as I knew you were from there,” Albert said. “Robert owned and sold a convenience store there, if I remember right. He always wanted a McDonalds. He had the opportunity to purchase other franchises but chose to be hands-on with the one. He worked until three weeks ago.

“Something tells me ya’ll likely passed ways one way or the other,” the message concluded. “A great guy.”

Robert Dunavant and I, in fact, did “pass ways” to borrow Albert’s axiom. Where our family and many others on the south side of Mount Pleasant frequented Raney’s neighborhood grocery store, they continued to stop at Dunavant’s.

Mount Pleasant had more than one neighborhood grocery, but growing up on the south side of town, Raney’s is the one I remember. Neighborhood groceries were just a few blocks away, and always had that quick loaf of bread or gallon of milk needed right at suppertime.

Also, the go-to place for a kid looking for a candy bar or cold drink on a summer afternoon. Or needing air in a bicycle tire.

For my grandparents in Pittsburg, it was Unger’s Grocery Store on Mount Pleasant Street. In Center, I’ve been told, it was places like Pete and Mattie Dellinger’s neighborhood grocery on Shelbyville Street.

Every community had them.

As South Jefferson grew from a sleepy two-lane street into a busy four-lane thoroughfare, I remember Robert as the friendly and outgoing guy Albert described as “hands-on” at the McDonald’s in Ripley. Always there and always the one behind the counter.

My father probably knew him better than I did. When coming home to visit, a trip to Dunavant’s for something with my father was a given.

“I need to run over to Dunavant’s,” Dad would say. “Want to go with me?”

“Sure,” I always said. Figured it was most likely for something Mom needed to get supper on the table.

Because, despite change as a constant in the world, even then, some things just never changed. 

—Leon Aldridge

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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.

“Only memories remain,
For a time, there by the sea.
There was only you and me.”

— Song lyrics by ‘My Morning Jacket’

– – – – – – –

Stumbling onto tidbits of history about an old friend last week was heartwarming.

Though she’s been gone for several years, learning things about her I never knew made me smile. Remembering the many good times we shared.

We first met sailing out of Miami. Late one October afternoon. About 1986. Or was it 1987? As we set a course for the Caribbean, the setting sun was disappearing into the ocean.

I had no clue of her storied history. And she had no premonition of what the future held for her in the years after we parted.

She was elegant and hospitable, something for which she is still remembered by those who knew her and have written about her. And I was savoring the moment, intoxicated by her luxurious charm. Attracted to her elegance and formality. Both attributes of society already fading faster than the setting sun.

I quickly fell in love. We would sail together more than once in the years that followed.

She was born in 1960, commissioned SS France at Saint-Nazaire, France. She sailed into service in early 1962 as the longest passenger ship ever built at 1,037 feet. A record she held until 2004 when RMS Queen Mary 2 set sail at 1,132 feet.

At about the same time, air travel entered the jet age eclipsing times for Atlantic crossings from New York to London. While Atlantic cruising was losing favor to increasingly popular Caribbean party excursions.

She was sold to Norwegian Cruise Lines in 1979 having logged 377 crossings, 93 cruises, and two around-the-world trips. She had carried 588,024 passengers on trans-Atlantic crossings, 113,862 passengers on cruises, and sailed 1,860,000 nautical miles.

NCL spent $18 million reconfiguring her for island cruising, changed her name to SS Norway, and made her the world’s largest and most luxurious cruise ship. The only Caribbean passage offering sophistication.

And that’s where our affair flourished.

Holdovers from her luxury liner days, lacking on other island cruises, were amenities like spacious rooms, a large library, artwork in public areas, a grand piano in the lounge, and reserved seating for dinner. Proper attire required, of course.

I still have my tux. Miraculously, it still fits.

In time, casual culture took over. Mundane mega ships dominated more stylish formal island cruising. The “Grande Dame” of the Caribbean was renamed SS Blue Lady and demoted to join run-of-the-mill bargain cruising.

When time began to catch up to her mechanically, she was slated for retirement. Norway sailed out of Manhattan for the last time in September 2001 on a transatlantic crossing to Scotland before going to her home port of Le Havre, France. Passengers heard about the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington while still at sea.

She was sold for scrap in 2005. By the end of 2008, only memories remained.

Her bow was cut and preserved; a ceremonial move done to most ships that end up in the Alang, India ship breaking yard. The same bow where I stood many nights at sea. Feeling the breeze. Listening to the churning water below. Where one night, I leaned over the railing, and my glasses slipped from my pocket, disappearing into the ocean depths below.

Her bow was exhibited in Paris but returned to her home port, part of an auction deal made before scrapping.

So many things I never knew about her when we had our flings. Nights spent in spacious upper deck rooms, unaware I was occupying quarters celebrities, film stars, and aristocratic cruisers enjoyed on her maiden voyage. Preparing for island snorkeling using her lower deck swimming pool. Oblivious that it was the first-class pool during her Trans-Atlantic days when tourist class cruisers gathered at the upper-level deck pool. Visiting with the ship’s entertainers in the first-class library, untouched from her early days.

Listening to lounge music played on a piano Elton John used while crossing the Atlantic aboard the France in 1974. When he wrote the music for the Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy album.

And never knowing she once carried the Mona Lisa from Le Havre to New York for an American tour.

She even amassed film credits in her day. The conclusion of 1973’s Serpico when the main character is sitting on the dock with the France behind him. Opening shots of Dog Day Afternoon while docked in New York. Kolchak: The Night Stalker episode “The Werewolf” as the cruise ship on which the story takes place. When Anne Murray, Richard Simmons, Eddie Rabbitt, and Luis Rodriguez performed while aboard the Norway In 1983 for a TV show called Caribbean Cruise. And in 1986 when the morning show ‘Today’ spent a week-long cruise on her.

Plus, a 2014 episode of The Simpsons with the Couch Gag featuring an animation with a picture of her plus the 2015 animated feature Minions as they left New York City.

True, there were other times I spent cruising after we drifted apart. But they pale in comparison to my first love.

And to memories of her, “… for a time, there by the sea.”

—Leon Aldridge

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(Historical data and photos: Wikipedia)

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.

“Long as I remember,
The rain been comin’ down.”

— ‘Who’ll Stop the Rain’ song lyrics by John Fogerty.

– – – – – – –

The idea was to thread some thoughts together for this week’s column early last Sunday morning. Sunrise through the breakfast room window was cloudy. A welcome improvement from Saturday’s most-of-the-day deluge.

Dashing out the door for church a couple hours later, it was apparent things had changed. Dark skies were serving monsoon-sized showers blended with notes of hail.

“Looks like I’ll be late this morning,” I murmured. Dashing back inside to escape the weather.

Honestly, waiting for a reprieve in the weather just seemed like another chapter in the recent week’s string of plagues.

“No electricity one week, no gas the next,” said someone at the coffee confab one day last week. “Then an arctic freeze followed by early Spring weather and floods. What next!”

I broke the silence. “Locust.” 

Blank stares. 

“I reckon the only plague left is a hoard of locust.” 

More blank stares. 

“You know,” I struggled. “In the Bible. Never mind. I’ll simply settle for no tornadoes.” 

I don’t like tornadoes. Not that anyone does. But I don’t even like “conditions favorable for tornados,” as the weather prophets often foretell.

Maybe it’s related to my childhood. I remember standing behind my father in a doorway of darkness framed by bursts of near-constant lightning flashes, popping power lines, and piercing sideways torrents of rain.

He and I braved the elements together at the top of the concrete steps, leaving the safety of the dank storm cellar below. Watching as the black funnel danced across the other side of the small West Texas town of Seymour. But ready to retreat if needed.

Just blocks away, utility poles were snapping like matchsticks. Debris bigger than refrigerators was swirling in the air. The twister was threatening a steel suspension bridge across the Salt Fork of the Brazos River.

Memories of watching the twister gyrate through the night, leaving what daylight would reveal as a path of destruction, have endured since the mid-1950s. I remember wanting my father to make it stop.

In my third-grade mind, my father was invincible. With him one step ahead of me, I was fearless. However, the image of the weather’s wild side illuminated by the storm that spawned it plays vividly in my mind every time one of nature’s most violent forms of wrath comes to life.

That was not the only night my parents spent racing through the rain and darkness. Kids in tow. Seeking shelter in the storm cellar. 

The underground shelters were a way of life in West Texas. 

They were also excellent places for storing canned vegetables or garden-fresh onions and potatoes in the summer. And cool places for kids to play. Literally. 

Playing changed to praying during nights spent waiting out the weather. Trying to sleep on an army surplus cot. In an underground space the size of a closet. Illuminated by a kerosene lantern. 

Scary at any age.

Storm-watching was not limited to my childhood. I observed a tornado that rumbled across the west side of Oklahoma City some 30 or more years ago. The good news is I was on the east side of the city. Ready at the drop of a tornado-tossed hat to hastily retreat, if needed.

News of twisters close to home always gets my attention. And you can define close as 100 miles. Give or take the power of the storm.

Without a West Texas-style storm cellar, I have no place to hide. But in my forty-plus years living in Center, the only tornado I recall blew through sometime in the mid-1980s. I didn’t see that one, but the weather bureau reported it as a tornado.

What I did witness was its fury.

Lacking was today’s on-the-spot reporting that “a tornado has been sighted in Podunk County, 2.375 miles away southeast of Toadhop, traveling north-northeast at 25.782 miles per hour, expected to be at the intersection of 78 and 281 in 14.34 minutes.” It was still obvious that something terrible was looming when the skies were dark at midday.

“You have a phone call,” Lois Cooper summoned me. 

“We’re scared,” housekeeper and babysitter Mae said. “The plaster is coming off the wall in Robin’s room. When I got there, insulation and wall studs were punching through sheetrock. Braving wind and rain to investigate outside, I saw it. Tallest pine tree in my yard. One to have caused even mythical lumberjack Paul Bunyon to run and hide. Trunk measuring more than five feet in diameter, and the top fading into the clouds. It was working its way out of the ground with the wind whipping it against the house. 

“Go,” I commanded, grabbing Mae and the children as I ran out the door. 

The alleged tornado took out seven trees, damaged my house, and cleaned off my patio. Took metal tables and chairs, plus a plethora of potted plants, and deposited pieces down the street.

Other damage reports included the Rio Theatre sign, the elementary school roof two blocks away, and several houses.

“So, what was thing about those locusts,” my friend interrupted. Jerking me out of my recollections of storms past. Back to 2024.

“Oh, you know,” I said. The Biblical account of the plagues in the book of Exodus. Disasters inflicted on Egypt by God to convince the Pharaoh of his wrongdoings. The wind brought the locusts; they invaded Egypt … in great numbers. And they followed the hail and lightning storms. Worst in Egypt’s history.”

Blank stares.

“Never mind,” I said. 

“Did I ever tell y’all that I still don’t like tornadoes? Especially since I don’t have my father to stand behind. 

“I always thought he could make the rain and storms stop.”

—Leon Aldridge

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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.

“Anything worth saying is worth repeating. It’s rare that we come across something worthwhile in life, and a single encounter is enough for it to stay with us.”

― Humble the Poet (Kanwer Singh), Canadian-born YouTube personality, poet, bestselling author, and former elementary school teacher.

– – – – – – – –

During my first decade or so of column writing, it was my profound opinion that one column, fanfare or failure, was a stand-alone work of art. Published, one and done. Filed for posterity.

But I’ve mellowed somewhat on that philosophy. Regular readers will have noticed that especially if you caught last week’s offering. What was a worthy piece based on reconnecting with an old friend a few years ago deserved another time around with an added chapter on his recent passing. And that’s what I did last week.

That wasn’t the first time. Over the years, I’ve dusted off other old columns, updated them, and ran them one more time when it was deserved. I came to appreciate with time that an old column is not necessarily finished just because it’s been written and read. Many can find new life and acquire new meaning for any one of several reasons.

It could be a new twist on an old thought because time changes everything. Or it might be new information that adds a new chapter where the original work left off. I’ve even learned it’s also all right to repeat one verbatim. Because what was once good is often still good after time has faded memories.

That works incredibly well for writers finding themselves in unexpected circumstances, high and dry, and on deadline. Serious situations like Illness. Family emergencies. Equipment malfunctions. Lack of coffee.

Crisis situations that are cause for fleecing the files in hopes of re-airing an oldie but goodie. With proper explanation and reference to its original appearance date, I’ve rerun old works word for word that were more popular the second time around.

In complete transparency, a portion of this piece was once published in the pages of the Boerne (Texas) Star newspaper. The early to mid-90s, as best as I can recall. In that first publishing, I compared longtime column writing to preachers who move from one congregation to another proclaiming the gospel. And how each new flock is an opportunity to introduce previously preached sermon texts to a whole new audience.

Works for newspaper column writers, too. Because it’s true that anything worth saying once is always worth repeating.

That topic came up not long ago in a discussion with preacher friend Tim Perkins. Well, it wasn’t columns or sermons, but my song leading. And how I fear repeating songs too frequently. So much so that I’ve built a searchable database of song services for the years I’ve served as song leader at Center Church of Christ.

“I can tell you what songs we sang on any given date,” I bragged. “Or I can give you a list of each song with all the dates that hymn was included in the order of worship.”

Tim, however, pondered whether people remembered precisely what songs they had sung on any given Sunday, more than a week or two removed. Excepting perhaps, one of their personal favorites.

“Well, I admit there are times I don’t even remember myself,” I said with a quick shoulder shrug. “So many songs in the hymnal, I guess any song we sing could quickly be forgotten after a week or two.”

“Yes,” Tim smiled, “but there is always that one.”

Tim began preaching as a teenager, often referring today to a time “… way back when I was just a boy preacher.” He comes from a long line of preachers, with his grandfather, father, sons, and other relatives serving in full and part-time ministry roles over the years.

Finishing his “always that one” story, Tim said. “Dad was the preacher at this small church over by Nacogdoches. After he left, I also preached there on an interim basis when they were looking for someone to fill the pulpit full-time. Then, when my son Matt was attending school at SFA, he preached there a few Sunday mornings to help out.

“As people were filing out after the service concluded one Sunday when Matt had preached,” Tim continued, “this little lady placed her hand on his shoulder and said, ‘I really did enjoy your sermon this morning.”

“Matt thanked her.

“Then she added, ‘I also enjoyed it when your grandfather preached it, and I enjoyed it when your father preached it.'”

Because it’s really true that anything worth saying once is always worth repeating. Even if just for that one person who remembers.

—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.

“We do not remember days, we remember moments.”

—Cesare Pavese, Italian novelist, poet, short story writer, and essayist.

– – – – – – –

Friendships endure, I’m convinced, because of memorable moments. Life often puts time and distance between us, but unforgettable experiences live forever in memories that surpass physical boundaries.

Another friend with whom I shared many memories reached the end of his journey on Earth last week. It’s part of this age in life, so I am told. But it sure seems like it happens way too often these days. For any age.

Weldon Campbell and I forged a friendship 50 years ago in Mount Pleasant, Texas. Life lured me in different directions out of Titus County, but Weldon remained to live out his life there.

Memories were many for the seemingly short time before I left. Things like our friendship that started as teaching colleagues at Frances Corprew School. Impromptu “just for fun” basketball games with a bunch of guys after work at the P.E. Wallace gym. A camping trip or two with our wives. Weldon’s business partnership with friend of the family, Monroe Wright. A marine business located near the intersection of Ferguson Road and the “Monticello highway,” as we called it then.

In fact, it was one recollection that started with a boat about which we laughed the most a couple or three years ago. During an email conversation with Weldon’s wife, Huella. She contacted me about something else in one of my columns; I don’t remember now. But I will never forget the incident recalled.

She had not heard the story, but Weldon confirmed it as told. “Yep,” he chuckled. “That’s a true story.”

I referred to it as the infamous day Weldon and I witnessed a bonified East Texas miracle. The dog that came back from the dead. Given up as a goner after falling victim to a car chasing caper.

The column I crafted then from memories of the incident related as how stopping at the boat business after school was common occurrence. Just to see what was going on. In hopes maybe a boat might need a checkout. At the lake.

As the last school bell rang that day, we were headed to one of the then-new lakes, Lake Cypress Springs, to test run an antique wooden hull inboard speedboat. The prospect of working in some skiing time on this spring afternoon was, I am sure, purely a coincidental afterthought.

As we passed the small black-and-white dog on the two-lane country road near the lake, I saw him. Poised and ready in a driveway. And I recognized the universal canine surprise attack stance for chasing cars.

Sure enough, “bullet dog” launched into the road, barking in hot pursuit of a tire.

The same question about dogs chasing cars came to mind. Why do they do that?

The sport of the chase ended quickly. The pooch dropped back and slowed down. But it overlooked one small detail—the boat trailer following closely behind Weldon’s blue and white Chevy Blazer.

I still remember the sad sight. The trailer wheel caught the unsuspecting pup, rolled it around a time or two, and then launched it into the air and off into the ditch. Where it landed in a lifeless lump.

We turned around and went back. The dog’s owner, an old farmer type, was standing over the dog’s body, surveying the situation. As we gathered around in silence, it was unanimous. We were all in agreement. That dog was dead.

Weldon apologized profusely and offered to pay the man for his poor animal. The fellow laughed and said, “Don’t worry about it, you did me a favor. I didn’t like the dog anyway.”

Amid one last apology, the miracle began to unfold as we were about to leave. The dog moved. We watched in disbelief as it shook its head, slowly got up, and wobbled back toward the driveway to lick its wounds.

Awkward silence was broken when the farmer said with genuine disappointment, “And here, I thought I was finally shed of that darn dog.” We all shared laughter of nervous relief that the pup was apparently OK. Then, Weldon and I continued our journey to the lake, having witnessed “the dog that came back to life.”

Passing the scene later that evening while headed home, I looked around. “You think that dog will remember today’s trailer encounter the next time he feels the urge to chase a car,” I asked aloud?

“I doubt it,” Weldon said. “What I’ve always wondered is what a dog would do if it actually caught a car.”

Thank you, Weldon, for memories that make friendships last a lifetime. After all, who else could say they witnessed something like the day that dog came back?

—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.

“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.