A Story Worth Telling

Two scientific men on a mission

“The most disastrous crisis we face in the next two decades will be the food shortage crisis.”

— Jack “Spot” Baird, Professor of Possumolgy

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Fifty some-odd years is a long time to chronicle people, places, and events. Maybe that’s why, ever so often, one of the well-known or illustrious individuals I’ve been privileged to interview comes to mind.

Like the guys at the Possum Works up in Rhonesboro, Texas. That’s where “Possumologists” Jack “Spot” Baird and the director of research at the Possum Works, Dr. Richard “Dick” Potter were on a mission at the time I met them in the Spring of 1985. To solve a looming disastrous food crisis.

Maybe you’ve heard of them? For that matter, perhaps maybe you’ve met other possumologists, but I never had. I had also never heard of downtown Rhonesboro. The unincorporated city was founded in 1902 in Upshur County and named for W. M. Rhone, the only sawmill operator in the area until 1901. That’s when the Marhsall & East Texas Railroad came along and created a town with 15 sawmills, 10 stores, two churches, a school, a hotel, a bank, a gin, and a cotton yard.

According to online information, little remains of Rhonesboro today other than about 40 people. An historical marker. And a unique zip code. Unique because despite being assigned the 75755 postal code, according to the USPS, Rhonesboro is listed as “not acceptable” recognizing Big Sandy or Holly Lake Ranch for that postal code.

It was, however, on its way to being accepted and put on the map at one time by the Possum Works and its wholly owned subsidiary, the “Low Tech International Possum Fertilizer Factory.” When I talked to them 38 years ago, Baird and Potter felt strongly that their work was leading to a solution for looming food shortages, just one of the many perils facing mankind in the mid 80s.

According to Professor Baird in my interview at that time, “We live in a world where one crisis follows another, what with the energy crisis, the housing crisis, and the economic crisis. By far,” Baird emphasized, “the most disastrous crisis we face in the next two decades will be the food shortage crisis.”

“Professor Baird and Dr. Potter, being men with keen minds and strong convictions for a remedy will lead us through this valley of hunger,” I wrote after talking with them.

During the interview, the duo detailed how to prepare one of their prized recipes, Possum Treat. Not to be confused with the Shelby County community of Possum Trot, located down in the south end of the county near Goober Hill.

Preparation called for one dressed opossum, five-to-six-pounds. The ‘possum can be cooked whole or carved into specific cuts as diagrammed by Baird and Potter. “As you can see here on this chart,” Baird pointed out, “the best cuts include the possham, then the possbelly. Back here you’ll find the short ribs and possabaloney. Over here is the strip possaloin, and moving back you have your Rhoseboro rump, and the tasty tail portion is called the curloin.

“Once you’ve decided whether you want to prepare your ‘possum whole or in cuts,” Baird continued, “you will also need six number one East Texas yams, preferably the variety grown near Gilmer, home of the East Texas Yamboree. Plus, half a cup of ribbon cane syrup and a long white oak board. Place the ‘possum on the board, surround it with the yams and cook in a 350-degree oven until done, basting often with the syrup.”

“So, how does it taste,” I quizzed them.

“We’re still researching and experimenting with it,” Baird replied. “The best we’ve achieved so far is to dump the ‘possum and potatoes in the trash and eat the board.”

They must have achieved a certain degree of success with their research. They were called on to present their possumology findings not only at the East Texas Yamboree Festival in Gilmer for many years, but also at the San Antonio Folklife Festival.

Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to follow up with them to determine if they had perfected ‘possum pot roast. Or if they solved the pending world food crisis. Baird passed away not long after my interview.

I’ve always said, however, it was an honor to meet these two scientific men on a mission. I don’t know that two scientists ever had as much fun or were as entertaining as the Professors of Possumology from Rhonesboro, Texas.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page: [Richard “Dick” Potter and Jack F. “Spot” Baird Examining Cooked Possum], photograph, [1979-08-02..1979-08-05]; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth300194/: accessed September 3, 2023), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting UT San Antonio Libraries Special Collections.)

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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, and The Monitor in Naples.

© 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.

Things I’ve learned while thinking I was teaching

“You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.”

— Franklin P. Adams (1881 – 1960) New York Times columnist known for his wit and his newspaper column, “The Conning Tower.”

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My recent rummaging through a lifetime of photographs, negatives, and slides seeking some sort of organizational semblance for conversion to digital has been educational.

First, it’s taught me that making fun of my mother, who always wrote notes on the back of her photos, isn’t nearly as funny now as it seemed back then. I wish I had been that funny with some of my photos. Trivial things, like names, dates, and places would be nice about now.

Second, gazing at a gazillion images of my children’s parties, vacations, school events, and more, has reminded me of how much I’ve learned. While thinking I was imparting wisdom to them.

Like the time my son, Lee, wanted to go with me to the Museum of Automobiles’ annual antique car show and swap meet on Petit Jean Mountain near Morrilton, Arkansas. Sometime in the 1980s. There were no dates on the photos. And it wasn’t funny. Lee must have been about five or six.

Nightfall came quickly for a day that had started many hours and miles earlier. My mission was to find as many things as I could on a wish list of old car parts needed to keep my steed of oldies but goodies roadworthy.

Arriving around lunch, we walked the swap meet until dusk. Sifting through vent windows and valve covers, carburetors and chrome trim. All offered for sale by hundreds of vendors across acres of Arkansas mountainside.

My parents, who tagged along just for the trip, had called it a day earlier and retired to the room next to the one my son and I shared at the small motel near the mountain. Lee swam while I visited with friends from Shreveport, comparing notes on our most prized finds for the day.

It wasn’t long until Lee announced he was tired and ready for bed. “Two things,” I told him. “One, Grandmother and Grandaddy are asleep in the room next door. Be quiet so that you don’t wake them. The other is watch TV for a few minutes until I come up. Don’t go to sleep and leave me locked out.”

“OK,” Lee assured me. I gave him the room key and watched him drip pool water all the way up to the room and close the door. All in sight of the pool.

Arriving at the same door shortly after, I knocked lightly. No response. “Surely, he’s not already asleep,” I thought. I knocked on the door again and called out, “Open that door right now. I know you’re in there.”

Motel guests moving in next door cast a glance my direction while maneuvering luggage. I smiled. “Trying to get my son’s attention,” I laughed. They smiled cordially and disappeared into their room. I had the feeling they were watching from behind closed curtains to see just what sort of nut they were staying next to.

One more knock and one more request. A little louder. “Come on, open this door.” It had been a day long on travel and walking. And I was growing short on patience.

As I wondered why my son was not responding to my requests, I thought about our sharing the day together. He was patient while watching me dig through boxes of parts and pieces. Probably curious about someone’s fascination with old rusty car junk.

I tried to exercise patience on my part as we waited in line every half hour at the rows of “Port-O-Johns.” Trying to remember what it was like to have a first-grader’s endurance.

Still trying to exercise patience, I knocked on the door again. “Open this door … right now.”

I understood that there were things he surely would rather be doing than following me around. I also noticed he was taking two steps just to keep up with my leisurely walking pace.

One more time, I asked. Nicely. “Please open the door.” Just as I was contemplating my next move, the door opened. “Mom,” what are you ….?” My sleepy-eyed mother had come from the connecting room next door to let me in.

“See,” I scolded my son. “You woke up Grandmother and Granddaddy.”

“No,” Lee corrected me. “You woke them up knocking on the door.”

“Why didn’t you let me in,” I asked?

“Dad, you told me to never open the door unless I was sure it was you,” he replied. Then added, “You didn’t tell me that was you wanting in.”

Patience. Understanding. Lessons learned. I smiled looking at the pictures last week. Hoping my children had learned half as much as they taught me.

I also smiled knowing digital photos have dates.

—Leon Aldridge

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We don’t meet people by coincidence

Co·in·ci·dence – noun: a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection.

— Oxford Language Dictionary

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“So, what are you gonna do now,” asked Craig as we sat at the tall work table stools just inside The Monitor newspaper office.

“I don’t know,” I told the editor and publisher of the Naples newspaper who was always known only by his last name. Said the only two people who called him Morris were his mother and his first-grade teacher.

That was late 1974 or early 1975. A long time ago in newspaper years, but not that long after Morris Craig had purchased the northeast Texas publication.

“I went to school to learn how to teach,” I told him. “Discovered I wasn’t cut out to be a schoolteacher and went to work for Dan down the street at Hampton’s Building Supply because I could draw house plans. Now Dan is going out of business. At this moment, I don’t really know,” I said. “My mother always says the third time is the charm, so we’ll see.”

My mother was how I came to know Craig. He, like many other weekly publications in the area, printed his paper at the Mount Pleasant Daily Tribune office on Second Street where my mother worked in the circulation department. And Craig, being the outgoing and friendly guy he always was, made the rounds at the Tribune office every week to say, “Hello.”

I used to think it was just a coincidence I went to The Monitor the day I found out my job at Hampton’s was ending. Seeking a job was the last thing on my mind. I just needed a friendly voice that day, and there was no one friendlier or more uplifting to visit with than Morris Craig.

The next words out of his mouth, however, answered the question of the hour and opened the door to a life-long career path for a twenty-something-year-old with no idea where he was going.

“I know you can take pictures,” Craig said. “Come work for me a while until you find something else.”

“A while” turned into two years. Long enough to discover that community newspapering answered the callings of how I would ultimately spend my life. During that time, Morris Craig instilled in me what I still call “the basics of newspapering.” How to produce a respected community newspaper that everyone looked forward to reading.

What followed The Monitor was no coincidence. Time spent in a couple of other newspapers, classes at Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches to earn a master’s degree in communication journalism, and then what I call “almost a PhD” in journalism from The University of North Texas in Denton taught me something else.

I was knee deep and dollars into having learned about “textbook journalism,” but none of it taught me as much about good community newspapers as Craig did at The Monitor.

So, when I took my cumulative knowledge and experience into the classroom at SFA to teach aspiring young journalists, I added Morris Craig Monitor education to the curriculum. Knowledge gleaned from a community journalist who never took the first college course in journalism or anything else. Skills Craig acquired from previous Monitor owner, Lee Narramore, an old Army veteran journalist, that he applied with his unique understanding of people and appreciation for enjoying life.

Craig often recounted how Narramore approached him one night during his senior year. “I was working nights running the projector at the Inez Theater in Naples,” he said. “I was sitting on the curb, drinking a Coke and waiting for time to change movie reels when Lee walked out of the newspaper office across the street.”

Just as Craig asked me almost 20 years later, he said Narramore asked him that night what he was going to do after graduation. Craig said, “I told him I didn’t know, and he offered me a job.”

Craig accepted the offer, embarking on a career journey lasting almost seven decades at one newspaper.

Press association awards for editorial excellence filled the walls of The Monitor office in the beginning. However, Craig had said in recent years, he had nothing else to prove except delivering the best community newspaper produced to readers in North Morris County every week. And that’s all he ever did.

Criag’s journey ended Saturday, August 19. Morris Craig passed away at the age of 85 after 67 years of setting the standard for community newspapers.

Maybe it was just a coincidence that I wrote about another Naples resident and friend in this space last week, Dorothy Beggs. Monday, I sent the column to newspapers around the state that are kind enough to print it each week, including The Monitor.

Craig responded Tuesday with memories of Dorothy and her favorite song, and recalling “the good times.” When I uploaded the weekly piece to my blog Saturday morning, as I do every week, I added Craig’s comments. And as I did, memories of Naples, the Monitor, and my professional and friendship journey with Morris Craig made me smile.

There was no way for me to have known that would be the very morning that Craig’s journey had reached its -30- The traditional symbol once used by journalists that means “end of the story.”

You don’t meet people like Craig by coincidence. But for the “remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection” that allowed my path to cross with that of Morris Craig’s … I was beyond blessed.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at the top of the page — Morris Craig (left) and Leon Aldridge (right) photographed by Monitor staffer Melissa Lynn Goforth in July of 1998. The photo was published in the July 29, 1998 edition of The Monitor. The headline that week stated, “Change of ownership for Monitor —Tenth change in publishers since 1886.” Health concerns caused Craig to seek a buyer for his newspaper. Saying he didn’t want to sell it to just anyone, he convinced me to purchase the publication. Thankfully, his health returned to good standing, and in an ironic role reversal he worked for me a short time before I sold it back to him. In my mind, it was always his newspaper … even when he entrusted ownerhship to me for a short time.)

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That was one thing I had never forgotten

“I’ll never forget you, you’re a sweet memory.

It’s all over now, don’t worry ‘bout me.”
— Song lyrics, Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me, by Marty Robbins

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Too often these days, I ramble on about old times, family, and friends. Remembering stories about those who cross my mind. A name recalled in conversation. Someone rooted in the memory of an old song.

Like the song I heard last week that reminded me of Dorothy.

Dorothy Beggs left this life and her beloved hometown of Naples up in the Northeast corner of Texas Friday, August 27, 1999. Services were the following Monday. Many things said about Dorothy at her funeral, I remembered.

“Dorothy was a caring person who expected nothing more of anyone than to be themselves and do their best,” the preacher said.

That, I knew.

I knew it because I passed Dorothy’s desk on the way to mine every morning, and she always had something to say. Always with a smile. We both worked for Dan Hampton in Naples during the mid 70s. Dan operated a construction company with offices in the back of his parent’s lumber yard, M.B. Hampton’s Builders Supply, on Main Street.

She might offer a compliment for a job well done some days. Others, it might be an occasional admonition. That perhaps I was capable of a little bit more or a little bit better than she observed.

And she was always right.

I also remembered that anytime Dorothy felt like a kind word might make someone’s day better, you could count on her for that as well.

As I sat among the crowd assembled to celebrate Dorothy’s life that Monday afternoon 24 years ago, one day in particular that she made somebody’s life better came to mind. August 8, 1974. The day Richard Nixon resigned his presidency. Dorothy was what my grandfather would have called a “Yellow Dog” Democrat. As such, she was also a hard-core supporter of Congressman Wright Patman. As was a generation of loyal East Texans who returned him to office for 24 consecutive terms, from 1929 to 1974.

I was a young conservative Republican who had voted for Nixon in the first presidential election in which I was old enough to cast a ballot. Therefore, it was natural that Dorothy and I often jousted on political views. But always with laughter and respect … back when sensible people with differing opinions could do such things.

To Dorothy, like most people in a kinder, more respectful time, friends meant more than politics. On a day she could have delighted in the misfortunes of a Republican president, she stopped me as I passed her desk where her radio was recounting the resignation. “The news is bothering you, isn’t it,” she asked?

I confessed that it was. “Sit down,” she said, turning off the radio. “We can worry about work later. Let’s talk.” And it wasn’t politics she began to talk about, but about the good in humanity that often seems to be overshadowed by the desire of some folks to bring down others for petty faults no different from their own shortcomings. I listened. And she didn’t let me go until she was convinced that I had at least a little different slant on the day’s events.

Fast forward some 20-plus years. When I returned to Naples and The Monitor for a second stint at the newspaper there, Dorothy was among the first to come by the office and “welcome me home.” She was also usually the first to report an error in the paper. Not to chastise or criticize, but because “Someone must have given you the wrong information,” she would say. “And I just wanted you to know the facts.”

I smiled, listening to her eulogy just a year after that, when the mention of her exuberant dedication to the Naples Buffaloes was recited. The reunion for graduates of the school that preceded Paul Pewitt High School soon became known as the Dorothy Beggs Naples graduates party.

I knew that, too.

I knew she was a proud graduate of Naples High School who loved the Buffaloes, class of 1952 if I’m remembering correctly.

There was one thing, however, that I had forgotten about Dorothy until I heard Marty Robbins’ classic country tune “Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me” filling the First Baptist Church sanctuary. It may have seemed a little unusual for a funeral service, but it would not have been a proper celebration of Dorothy’s life without her favorite song.

“Even when I was playing the drums for Al Heard’s group,” said Monitor publisher Morris Craig recently, “we would play for the annual ‘Dorothy Beggs class reunion’ and she never failed to make a request that we play Don’t Worry ‘bout Me — and for Al to vocalize it.

In a column published in The Monitor when Dorothy passed away, I noted, “I’ve crossed paths with many of ‘the gang’ from Hampton’s. I’ve seen Mr. and Mrs. Hampton, Dan, Dorothy, Dennis Allen, and “Booger Red.” Norman Carter came by the office, but I missed him. I’ve even thought it might be fun to have a ‘Hampton Builders reunion.’

“I guess the idea will have to wait,” I concluded. “Dorothy’s walk on earth ended last week. I, like many others, will miss her. And I suspect I’ll never hear the song, ‘Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me’ again without thinking of her.”

It was her favorite song, but in her absence, it’s also likely the words by which she would have wanted us to remember her. While she worried about others, she didn’t want anyone worrying about her.

That, I had never forgotten.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo Credit: “The History of Naples” website at angelfire.com)

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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, and The Monitor in Naples. © 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.

These moments to remember

“The drive-in movie where we’d go,
And somehow never watched the show..
We will have these moments to remember.”
— Song lyrics, American singer and actor, Bing Crosby,.

“Was that a drive-in movie,” I asked out loud?

Quick braking and a U-turn on Texas 36 South leaving Gatesville not long ago answered my question. The marquee where I parked proclaimed the entrance to “The Last Drive-In Picture Show.”

There I beheld a small family entertainment complex in a small Texas town. A drive-in theater. With a walk-in and a miniature golf course.

Drive-in movies were born during the 1930s. The era when growing numbers of families could afford a car, and gas was cheap.

At the peak of their popularity in the late 50s and early 60s, more than 4,000 drive-in theaters in the United States offered movies viewed from the comfort of an automobile. Texas was home to more than 400 of them, more than any other state in the union.

The Pleasant Drive-In Theater on Highway 271 South in Mount Pleasant is my first drive-in moment to remember. It was the late 1950s and loading up the family for movie fun was a frequent summertime treat.

Mom and Dad took in the movie from the comfort of the car. But my sisters and I bailed out for fun on the playground equipment under the big screen before the movie started. Then as the lights dimmed and the previews rolled, a herd of kids vacated the swings and merry-go-round, headed for popcorn and metal lawn chairs outside the concession stand in time to catch the cartoon.

Great fun for a grade-schooler. However, the man who always left the concession stand in the middle of the movie to walk the back row of cars with a flashlight was a mystery. “What is he doing,” one of my sisters asked. “Probably looking for people trying to sneak in under the back fence” was my best theory.

That mystery was solved a few years later. The summer before I entered high school. That’s when I learned that what was playing on the screen up front was often secondary to playing in the darkness of the back row where dating couples parked.

Another few years down the road, relief from Kilgore College class rooms in the late 60s was The Kilgore Drive-In, located south of town on Highway 259. The college town theater opened in August of 1950 and flourished for many years before closing in 1975.

It provided entertainment for generations of college guys like me. Some who were lucky enough to get a date. And others who engaged in the thrill-seeking exuberance of youth by hiding in a car trunk full of other guys to sneak in.

By the time I settled in Center in the late 70s, the Apache sat at the edge of town on Texas 7 East before it closed in 1985. The last movie I saw there was “Easy Rider.” Owners Mike and Nita Adkison hosted the East Texas Ramblers motorcycle club in Center where Cushman drag races culminated a day of cycle rallies. Then, as darkness fell, the iconic motorcycle movie lit up the big outdoor screen.

American movie viewing was changing drastically as the 70s approached. Television had become commonplace rather than a luxury. Feature movies broadcast on television debuted in September of 1961 with Saturday Night at the Movies featuring the 1953 Marilyn Monroe, Lauren Bacall and Betty Grable film “How to Marry a Millionaire.” Presented “In Living Color.” By the time we were ringing in 1970, there was a feature movie on TV almost every night.

Faced with declining revenue, drive-ins began closing. Real estate that used to grow rows of speaker stands was growing shopping centers, manufacturing plants, and trees as nature reclaimed the land in some places. Even today, ghosts of movies past, framework skeletons of long-gone drive-in movie screens overgrown by trees, still spot the landscape. Recognized only by those who know what they once were.

However, drive-ins have not screened their final movie yet. They’re making a comeback. Some say the pandemic spurred additional interest in the outdoor movie experience when most theaters were closed. Truthfully, the renewed interest in the drive-in movie theater experience had already begun more than a decade before.

Today, Texas is ranked 5th for the most drive-in movie theaters in the US, a few of them with the country’s newest state-of-the-art facilities. Like Gatesville.

Taking photos of The Last Drive-In Picture Show there, I remembered the drive-in days watching Rock Hudson, Humphrey Bogart, and Doris Day movies on the big outdoor screen at the Pleasant Drive-In Theater.

I remembered junior high Saturday mornings racing bicycles through the drive-in with Eddie Dial. Pretending the ups and downs of the raised parking rows designed to enhance movie screen viewing through a windshield was really a moto-cross track.

Stopping at “The Last Drive-in Picture Show” put a smile on my face. Or maybe it was those many movie moments to remember. Memories of nights under the stars and movie stars on the big outdoor screen.

Some of which may or may not have included admission via hiding in the trunk of a car. Or being spotlighted with a flashlight in the back row.

—Leon Aldridge

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Don’t let a little dust bother you

“I’m a-goin’ where the dust storms never blow.”
— Song lyrics, “Ain’t Gonna Be Treated This Way,” American folk singer Woody Guthrie.

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While in the West Texas city of Abilene a couple of weeks ago, I spent time visiting familiar landmarks. Recalling my fondness for the region. Remembering a time not long out of college when I lived there. In the 70s.

By the time I entered grade school in Crockett, we had lived in the West Texas burgs of Ballinger and Muleshoe plus Pampa up in the Panhandle. The following year, we were back out west in Baylor County just in time to enroll me in the second grade at Seymour Elementary School. That stay was longer than anywhere. Then we moved to Mount Pleasant in Northeast Texas just as the fifth-grade year was wrapping up.

It’s funny nowadays to joke about how the dime store chain, Perry Brothers, moved store managers like my dad more often than the Methodist Church moved ministers. But for a grade school kid, leaving friends and having to make new ones in the next city wasn’t all fun. Or funny.

That nomadic lifestyle in West Texas, however, probably accounts for my fondness for the state’s western region and my desire for frequent visits.

Truthfully, living in Abilene back then was based on a good job offer rather than fondness. But I liked the dry summer heat, comfortable nights, and four distinct seasons. It was just some springs that could often be, as Paul Harvey used to say, “the rest of the story.”

Those “West Texas springs” were the topic of reminiscing with a friend recently who also onced lived in West Texas.

“West Texas Springs are exactly what drove us back to East Texas,” he grumbled. “We didn’t even have to drive back. We were deposited somewhere near Henderson by one of those beautiful West Texas spring dust storms.”

Texas newspaper columnist Clyde Wallace once had a few words to say about Texas dust storms, “In some parts of the state, you have to live there for years before you’re accepted as a local, but in West Texas, you’re in after you’ve survived ‘The Winds.’ All it takes is one spring.”‘

Like Wallace, I remembered my first spring in Abilene. I arrived in March, just in time to get acquainted with co-workers before the first “duster” blew in.

Maybe it was listening to me bragging about East Texas small towns, green trees lining creek banks, lots of lakes … all uncommon sights in West Texas. But for whatever reason, everyone in the office seemed eager for me to experience what was going to happen.

Happen it did one day just before lunch when the western sky got dark. Everyone gathered in the front office near a large window looking south from our location at Eighth and Pine Streets in downtown Abilene. As the storm swallowed the city, a flurry of activity was underway. People were locking doors and packing wet towels around window and door openings.

“All for a little dust,” I thought?

Then darkness slowly swallowed the sun. The old 16-story Wooten Hotel just four blocks away gradually disappeared. Darkness in the middle of the day was eerie. You knew there was a city surrounding you, but you could no longer see it.

Seeking a personal experience with the freaky phenomenon, I went to the service department in the back and opened a door. Regret was immediate.

My face was sandblasted. My eyes and my lungs filled with dust. My nose flattened against my cheekbones. Convinced it was real, I grabbed the door and pulled it shut.

“Bet you never saw anything like that in East Texas,” someone chuckled.

“Sure, we did, “I replied, dusting myself off and coughing. “But over there, they blow up out of the Gulf, they’re a little wetter, and we give’m names.”

In the same slow manner the duster had surrounded the city in darkness, it faded away. All over in a couple of hours. Office cleanup started, and my co-workers granted me full-fledged West Texas citizenship, including a certificate of authenticity.

The following year, as winter gave way to warming hints of spring, I was sitting on the back porch at my house “on the hill,” as they call the ACU area of Abilene. Enjoying a cup of coffee and the late afternoon ritual of watching B-52 bombers from Dyess Air Force Base on the city’s west side. For about an hour late in the day, they could be heard taking off with a roar reminiscent of another dust storm blowing in. Once airborne, they flew around the city’s south side to Abilene Regional Airport on the east side, where they practiced landing approaches before pulling up and returning to Dyess.

Just as sure as knowing I could catch the bomber practice shows in the evening, I also knew that winter’s warming meant spring was coming back to West Texas. That’s when I laughed, recalling how Wallace ended his West Texas column.

“So come on out. You’ll love the summer, the autumns, and the winters. The springtime is nice, too. Ha, Ha, Ha … sucker.”

I stayed in Abilene for a couple more dust storm seasons. They didn’t seem that bad, although it could have been the experience of the first one that caused the others to pale in comparison.

To me, West Texas is still a great place to live. If you don’t let a little dust bother you.

—Leon Aldridge

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Inspiration for reaching a ripe old age

“You can live to be a hundred if you give up all the things that make you want to live to be a hundred.” — Woody Allen, filmmaker, actor, and comedian.

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Age and I have long been odd acquaintances. I’ve never felt as old as I assumed someone my age should feel. Certainly not as old as that guy looking back at me in the mirror every morning.

Maybe it’s the spill I took a few weeks ago. The one that ended when my body collided with the concrete. Guardian angels were working overtime that day. The fall was harmless. It was the landing that hurt. Luckily, the damage was minimal. But experiences like that can change one’s outlook on aging. And thoughts about living to a ripe old age.

Like 100 or so.

I read recently that one in 10,000 people are termed “slow agers,” someone for whom the odds favor reaching 100. Aging studies fascinate me as one who has always wanted to hang around for as long as possible.

When my parents were the age that I am now, I regarded them as “old.” Really old. I see clearly now that was not the case, however. My father had been retired for 13 years when he was my age, but I can’t give it up. And this age doesn’t look “really old.” Not from this side.

It does seem that time goes by faster than it once did, however. As a kid, waiting a year for Christmas, a birthday, or the last day of school felt like an eternity. Today, years are like weeks. Weeks like hours. How did all that time go by so quickly?

The answer could be rooted somewhere in the percentage of life those measurements of time represented compared to today. For instance, at age 10 those 12 months represented 10 percent of our total life experience. For Baby Boomers like me, it’s less than two percent today.

Guess that’s what Dad meant when he said, “Aging’s like toilet paper. The closer to the end you get, the faster it goes.”

Modern philosophies on aging advocate reaching a ripe old age through healthy living. I try to be “healthy conscience.” To a reasonable degree. Mom always said that most things are acceptable in moderation. She often said those kinds of things while baking sweets for my sisters and me. Guess that’s why I’m inclined to include chocolate chip cookies and banana pudding in my healthy eating. In moderation, of course.

Others theorize that aging is more about genes than lifestyle. I remember my paternal grandfather’s lifestyle. He was born in 1888. I was 19 when he died in 1967. His working career started at the age of 13 in 1901. He worked for the railroad until a few years before he died. Many of those years outdoors. In all kinds of weather.

Although the vice of smoking never appealed to me, I was mesmerized by my grandfather’s ability to manipulate flimsy cigarette paper and Prince Albert tobacco into one smooth roll sealed with a lick and inserted between his lips as he reached for a match.

And when he wasn’t smoking a roll-your-own cigarette, he was puffing on one of his many pipes.

Add to that smoking his unhealthy diet. Fried eggs and bacon for breakfast. Every morning. And my grandmother cooked the best fried chicken for Sunday dinner anyone ever sat down to after church. Used lots of lard and bacon grease from the collection can she kept on her stovetop.

And that unhealthy lifestyle finally got him too — just months short of his 80th birthday.

Both of my parents died in their 80s, as did my father’s parents—if you count my grandfather’s almost 80. Mom’s parents died young, her father in his 50s, and her mom in her early 40s. However, her father had siblings who lived well into their 80s and 90s.

And some of my research reveals that’s a good thing. They say longevity odds may be better in families with lots of elderly relatives swinging from the family tree limbs. That covers my Mom’s family. In more ways than one.

Last but not least, research ranks high on long-life odds for those who continue social engagement activities.

“There was a clear, similar trend among people who had civic engagements, were active in their communities, volunteered, and otherwise stayed connected, whether with families, friends, or coworkers,” according to Leslie R. Martin, a professor of psychology at La Sierra University in Riverside, California, coauthor of The Longevity Project.

More enlightening tidbits from The Longevity Project included findings that religious women lived longer—primarily because of the social connectedness of their faith-based lifestyle. They worship together, join committees, and engage in social outreach.

Mom was faithful in her church activities. She and her good friend from church also enjoyed occasional morning coffee together. Blended with just “a pinch of brandy.” I didn’t see that statistic noted. Must be something to it; however, they both outlived their husbands.

So, what does all my irreverent research mean? Perhaps a ripe old age is good. Just don’t sit home and rot once you’re ripe.

We won’t know for sure until, and if, those 100 candles start to glow. In the meantime, I’m sticking with my secret for longevity—enjoying the things that make me want to live to be a hundred.

At least the things I can still do . . .

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

The legendary check ride pilot had one surprise left

“Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
— John Gillespie Magee Jr., World War II Royal Canadian Air Force fighter pilot and war poet.

– – – – – – –

“Mistakes to avoid on your pilot’s license check ride,” the magazine headline declared. Made me chuckle. I could liven up that list a little.

I still read a lot about flying, although I haven’t piloted an aircraft in more than 20 years. Some things I used to do that I don’t do any more for whatever reason; I have no strong desire to do again. Been there, done that. But fly an airplane? I’d do that again in a heartbeat.

Doing so would entail, at the least, some FAA required catch-up instruction and a check ride. Another FAA certification and sign-off on the observation of one’s ability to fly an airplane in all situations. Should that ever occur, I doubt this new check ride would be as, let’s call it, memorable as my first.

Flying was a childhood obsession with me. Drawing pictures of airplanes in school. Model airplanes suspended from my bedroom ceiling with Mom’s sewing thread. Watching movies like “30 Seconds Over Tokyo” and “12 O’Clock High.”

Following that dream, I budgeted for flying lessons once out of college and gainfully employed. A few hours a week spent at the old Mount Pleasant Airport with instructor Doyle Amerson, and I was one my way. I was a soloed student pilot.

Friend and Marine pilot veteran, Grady Firmin, readied me for the final phase. The check ride. Flying with Grady offered insightful moments differing from those of a civilian instructor. Always throwing in little extras. Like the day he asked, “Wanna learn how to slip an airplane?’

“Sure,” I said. “What’s a slip?”

“They don’t teach it anymore, and you won’t need to know it for the check ride. But I’ll show you how. Might come in handy,” Grady assured me.

Non-pilot note #1. Coordination of aircraft controls produces desired and expected results. Cross-controlling (uncoordinated) in a manner for which they were not necessarily designed will yield different, but sometimes useful, results.

Where coordinated application of rudder and aileron produces gentle turns, uncoordinated application produces rapid loss of altitude. Think, “Falling from dancing skies on silver wings.” But you can call it “slipping.”

Fast forward to check ride day. Winging my way to Gregg County Airport, I had almost forgotten hanger talk, tagging FAA check ride pilot Johnny Walker as the “get him and you’re doomed” guy. “He’s tough,” one soul said. “Most students fail the first ride with him,” said another. “Made me cry,” admitted one poor guy.

Signed in and paperwork approved, I nervously awaited my turn. Then I hear, “Aldridge?”

“That’s me.”

“Good morning, Mr. Aldridge, my name is Johnny Walker. Are you ready to fly?”

“Yes sir,” I affirmed boldly, hoping to hide that sudden sinking sensation sweeping over me.

We began the pre-flight walk-around inspection. Engine check, control surface check, fuel sample check, and more. I was almost done when I ran into the wing. Yep, walked into the trailing edge of the high-wing Cessna with my forehead. Forgot to duck.

Fumbling for a paper towel behind the seat to wipe the blood away, I thought, “Great job, clutz, you aren’t even off the ground, and you’ve already failed.”

We did get off, however. And into the check ride pilot’s tests. “Fly a heading of one eight zero for thirty seconds and make a climbing turn to 3,500 at two seven zero. Show me a power-off stall. A power-on stall. Slow flight maneuvers. Recovery from unusual attitudes.” (That’s the gut-wrencher where you close your eyes and put your hands in your lap, the instructor takes the controls and throws the plane into some crazy downward-turning, almost out-of-control thing. Then gives it back to the petrified pilot to recover.)

“OK, take us back to the airport,” Walker said. I sighed silently, test done. I was wrung out.

But just as I contacted the tower and turned into the airport traffic pattern, the legendary check ride pilot had one surprise left.

“You just lost electrical power. Show me a no-flaps landing.”

Non-pilot note #2. Wings flaps increase lift allowing for slower landing speeds and sometimes shorter take-offs. Although their use is not essential, they make landing easier. And all basic pilot training is done by teaching the application of flaps for landing.

The solution was not hard, just not practiced much: extend the downwind leg to lose altitude on final approach before reaching the end of the runway. That lack of practice became obvious when Walker said, “You’re still too high. Can you slip it?”

“I can,” I said with pleasure and surprise. Then executed the technique Grady taught me. The one I wouldn’t need to know for the check ride. Reacting to the cross-controlling applied, the airplane pitched nose up like a horse fighting the reins before settling into a descent. Then started down like a fast-falling elevator.

Just before touching down, releasing the airplane from its cross-coordination contortion allowed it to settle gently on the runway. To quote pilot jargon, “right on the numbers.”

“Good job,” Walker said as we taxied to the terminal. “Congratulations, you passed!”

Once inside and with Mr. Walker’s signature on my license, I thanked him, borrowed a band-aid for my forehead, and flew back to Mount Pleasant, having reached my childhood goal of “licensed pilot.” Battle wounds and all.

I thought about that day last week as I read the article about check ride mistakes to avoid. I was disappointed. Running into the wing with your forehead was not on the list.

Maybe I should contact the author. Perhaps they should also add legendary check ride pilots to their list.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page: The author getting his shirt tail clipped following his first solo flight, a time-honored flying tradition, by instructor Doyle Amerson. The date was April 23, 1974, and the place was at the old Mount Pleasant Municipal Airport, which was located on property that is currently part of the Priefert Manufacturing facilities.)

– – – – – – –

This car tag discussion has me thinking

“If an expired license plate means another decoration for your living room wall … you might be a redneck.”
—Jeff Foxworthy, comedian, actor, author, writer and member of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour.

– – – – – – –

“I’m going to the courthouse to get new tags for the car,” I remember my grandfather saying as he tapped his pipe on the ashtray, dislodging remains of Prince Albert tobacco.

“You want to go with me.”

That was a no-brainer. It meant he would let me drive as soon as we got out of sight of the house. I was still a couple of years short of the required license age of 14. But my grandfather saw no harm in teaching a youngster how to drive with behind-the-wheel instruction on the way to the hardware store, the gas station, or the courthouse.

My grandmother, on the other hand, was adamantly opposed. “Take him out to the pasture where I learned how to drive,” she reprimanded him.

I loved my grandmother, but that declaration always puzzled me. They lived in town. There was no pasture. My grandmother was also a wise woman. So maybe there was a message in there somewhere.

Going to the courthouse to get new tags, as license plates used to be characterized, was once a springtime ritual in Texas when every car and truck license expired on the same date. Lines were long at the license office on that last day.

Like many back then, my grandfather hung expired tags on the wall of his garage. I don’t have expired plates on my living room wall … yet. But I do have a wall of them in my garage. A 40-year collection spanning a brand new, still wrapped in paper from the courthouse, set of 1929 plates up to a few personalized plates from the ‘70s and ’80s. About the time my interest in cars and plates begins to wane.

A look at the history of the often-ignored license plate is intriguing. Texas first required registering motor vehicles in 1907. Car owners made their own license plates in the beginning, most often by attaching metal numbers to a piece of wood using a “serial number” assigned to them by the county. That remained the norm until 1917, when the state began issuing metal license plates.

In 1933, the legislature approved the manufacturing of license plates in the Huntsville prison, and the first ones produced there were in 1935.

Early license tags came in a variety of colors before the state began alternating black and orange plates every other year during and after World War II. In 1957, the alternating colors were changed to white with black letters and black with white letters. That was the style in the early 1960s when I began driving.

“How do I get plates like those black and white ones,” I asked while in the courthouse a few weeks ago to renew the registration on my Tahoe. I noticed the new plates when they were offered as personalized or “vanity” plates a few years ago because they reminded me of the plates on my 1965 Chevelle Malibu SS I bought that year.

I bought my first vanity plates in the 1970s. Texas initially offered them in the 60s. Mine read “CAMEO.” Looked great on the first vehicle restoration I attempted, a 1956 Chevrolet “Cameo Carrier” pickup.

Regular issue plates in the ‘70s were white with different color letters every year. Several ho-hum variations followed until the late 90s. That’s when Texas issued what was, in my opinion, the ugliest license plate ever conceived. Supposedly symbolizing all things Texas, they were adorned with a space shuttle, an oil derrick, a cowboy, and I forget what else. Mostly because I’ve been trying hard to forget about them.

Thankfully, in 2012, white plates with black letters replaced them. And they remain the standard. Probably will for a while, as the Department of Motor Vehicles reported recently, they have no plans to change the design anytime soon. Likely because the plethora of custom plates at an extra $99 a pop has become good revenue for the state.

All of this contemplation of car tags last week reminded me that misuse of license plates can come with consequences. A reminder of a long-ago moment of temporary insanity when visions of making license plates loomed large as an addition to my resume.

That was the summer between college semesters spent working in my uncle’s body shop in California. Amazing as it may seem, money intended for college funds found its way into purchasing a Southern California hot rod Ford Model A with a hopped-up DeSoto Hemi motor.

I thought it was college related. A guy needed a cool car for school.

Needing to drive the yet unregistered car to the shop for a paint job one night, borrowing the front plate off my friend’s ’57 Chevy seemed like a reasonable solution. MPHS classmate Ronnie Lilly made the summer trek out west with me, and between my car and his, we decided his would come closer to making the trip than mine.

My plan began to unravel when on the way to the paint shop, one of Canoga Park, California’s finest, decided he needed a closer inspection of what I was driving. And he was about to buy my story about driving the car from Texas. too. Until Ronnie, who had gotten a late start, passed us and pulled over to see what was happening.

The jig was up when the officer noticed the car stopping to join us had a matching plate to the one on my hot rod. To his credit, he lightheartedly gave me an A for effort. Delivered with an expensive ticket.

So now, all of this talk about tags has me thinking. Jeff Foxworthy’s humor notwithstanding, I’m thinking some of those old Texas plates might look pretty good on the living room wall at my house.

Right next to the Studebaker grille and the Mobil gas sign.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Two ‘dumb stuff’ records that are still intact

“Don’t worry about getting older. You’re still going to do dumb stuff. It’s just going to hurt a little more.”

— Catchy saying that used to be funny.

– – – – – –

Even at this age, two of my dumb stuff records are still intact. Neither is worthy of notoriety. But one of them, I seem destined to challenge every so often.

Last week’s attempt resulted in another unscheduled visit for medical attention, replete with all the stereotypical “yes or no” questions.

Are you allergic to anything?

“Falling on concrete,” I groaned with a grin and a grimace.

Recent surgeries?

“No.”

Recent illnesses?

“No.”

Ever broken any bones?”

“No,” I offered. “And that’s a record I hope is not broken today.”

I thought it was funny. Apparently, however, not everyone appreciates my humor.

Accidents in the last five years?

“You mean prior to the one this morning?”

Have you fallen lately?

“Well, since you brought it up, let’s talk more about this morning.”

Falling was not on my list of things to do that morning. Beautiful day. Sun shining. Summer in full, hotter than a road lizard, oh my gosh, broiler mode. I had acres of perfectly level, unobstructed concrete parking lot on which to walk back to my car. Notebook under my arm, cup of coffee in one hand with the other in my pocket reaching for car keys.

That’s when it happened. For still unknown reasons, putting weight on my right leg caused it to respond with, “I don’t think so, not right this minute.” Natural reflexes called on my left leg as a backup. “Hey man,” that leg shouted. “I’m not done with my job over here yet.” Conflicting signals collided, and gravity sent me rolling on the concrete.

Fortunately, my guardian angel working the day shift was Johnny. Johnny on the spot. I’ve been through several guardian angels in my time. Some, I’ve scared the daylights out of. Others, I’ve worn out or simply caused them to throw up their hands and resign.

Last week’s was right there. Despite torn slacks, scraped elbow and knee, and coffee splashed everywhere, I felt decent when I stood up. “Dodged another bullet,” I thought.

That was before I tried to walk.

I am no stranger to accidents or emergency rooms. Over the years, things like car wrecks, ladders, lawnmowers, and temporary losses of good judgment preceded by statements like, “Stand back and watch me, I can do this,” also include a motorcycle wreck. The night a team of angels was riding with me.

The late-night trip from where I worked at the newspaper in Naples to home in Mount Pleasant ended when the bike’s rear tire surrendered its air at about 70 miles per hour. Catapulted me over the handlebars, and I took the windshield with me. Meeting the pavement head-on, literally. I still remember thinking, “This is gonna leave a mark.”

After body-surfing the pavement and narrowly missing the tumbling motorcycle, I stood up slowly and looked around. In the middle of a dark four-lane highway where I could see no car lights in either direction, I realized the extent of good fortune that was allowing me to do so.

A quick inventory revealed that I had not simply survived but did so miraculously without gaping holes or missing limbs. Removing my helmet was most sobering. Much of the outer shell on the right side was missing. Ground completely through to the padded lining. Angels at work again.

Angels were still on duty when I walked toward a light at the top of the hill, where I found a friend who provided comfort and a trip to the emergency room. A call was made to family physician Dr. Lee McKellar, who arrived minutes later. A “patient-first” care procedure sadly not often seen anymore in today’s healthcare world.

“What happened,” doc asked while checking me over.

“I had a motorcycle wreck … near your house on 67.”

“Why didn’t you come on up to the house,” he asked?

“Guess a late-night visit just didn’t cross my mind,” I laughed.

Determining that nothing was broken and a shoulder separation was the worst of my injuries, he “harnessed” me back together with plans for a morning visit with an orthopedic surgeon in Paris. A healthcare provider who just may have missed his calling as a comedian.

The funny physician concluded a six-week plan for repair and healing with a light-hearted proclamation. “You’ll be good as new; with one exception. The collar bone typically doesn’t go all the way back down. So, you may heal with a slight bump on your shoulder … which shouldn’t be a problem unless you plan on wearing strapless evening gowns.”

The verdict last week was, once again, nothing broken or fractured. I reached up and felt the collarbone bump that’s been there for decades as I waited for providers and insurance companies to haggle over making sure all the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed before providing treatment. A patient care procedure sadly seen far too much in today’s healthcare world.

This time, the damage was limited to ugly bruises, concrete rash, and hyper-extended muscles and tendons in my right leg that scream in agony whenever I sit. Walk. Bend. Lie down. Breath. Or think about it.

But thank the Lord, as I’m recovering from this latest episode, two of my dumb stunt records remain intact.

I’ve never broken a bone. And I’ve never worn a strapless evening gown.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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