A Story Worth Telling

“Family reunions are the place where you remember where you came from.”

— Author unknown.

“You know,” Stan said. “Those two are the reason we’re here.”

The ‘here’ he referred to was another gathering of the descendants of Arthur George Johnson and Bernice Conlee Johnson of Winchester, Kentucky. A family with Kentucky roots dating to the 1700s.

‘Those two’ were the family’s oldest remaining members, Bill Johnson and Jo Johnson Scott. Ages 88 and 92 years young, respectively. Both attended last weekend’s reunion in Abilene, Texas. Just as they have most of the previous gatherings for the last 70 some odd years, wherever they have been held.

Stan made the serious comment as we went through the animated antics of trying to line up all 45 attendees representing four generations for a group photo. With five minutes’ notice. An exercise in anything but seriousness.

“Everybody wants to take care of me,” laughed Uncle Bill, who uses a cane to offset multiple knee replacements. “They think I’m old. You should have seen them when I pretended to stumble and almost fall. Scared the you-know-what out of ’em.”

Stan’s mother, Wyama (Amy) Johnson Weatherred, and my mother, Indianola Johnson Aldridge, were members of that generation. Other siblings of the six children of Arthur and Bernice Johnson were another daughter, Katherine Johnson Fugitt, and a son, George Johnson, who did not survive childhood.  

Arthur Johnson was born in 1894 and is responsible for starting the familial gatherings that have become legendary with those of us who have spent a lifetime traveling to family reunions.

He died in 1951. He did not live a long life by most standards, but he did accomplish remarkable things. The most incredible might have been instilling in his children the importance of family ties.

Among family documents is a letter he wrote to my mother on her marriage in 1944. She was preparing to marry a young soldier named Aldridge from Pittsburg, Texas. Her plans to marry and move what must have seemed like a long distance in 1944 were probably intensified by the fact she was the first to marry and leave home.

His letter covered all the admonitions one might assume a father would offer his daughter. Things like honor and devotion to her new husband, remaining faithful to God, and the importance of family and frequent get-togethers.

And get together frequently; Mom’s family did.

Johnson reunions go back to the very early 1950s, that I recall. The familial gatherings were Kentucky events for many years. But, in the last couple of decades, locations convenient to aging members and growing families have included points from the Blue Grass State to Texas, where all but one branch of the family wound up.

After Mom married and moved to Texas, sisters Amy and Jo followed suit, eventually calling the Lone Star State their adopted home. Katherine married and settled in Ohio.

Bill stayed in Southern California after his discharge from the Navy in San Diego but later moved to Texas. Then to Phoenix before coming back to Texas. Twice, I think it was.

Geography proved to be no obstacle, however. Reunions were planned well in advance, and very few were missed. Generations have driven halfway across the country and through the night to attend.

Mom was the oldest of her generation. I’m the most senior of my generation of cousins who have grown up more like brothers and sisters than cousins.

With reunions a given in my life, it’s been surprising to read in recent years that family gatherings and families in general in America are declining. “Going out of style,” as one writer phrased it.

If that’s so, the Kentucky Johnsons were not informed.

Maybe we’ve slowed down a little. What used to be weeklong affairs are now three- or four-day weekends. Time spent catching up. Sharing photos. Relearning the names of each other’s children and grandchildren that often slip aging minds. Laughing about stories from decades ago. Stories I’ve heard more times than I can count. Late nights supplemented with snappy cheese dip and Ale-8-1 soft drinks—both Kentucky traditions rooted in the Winchester area.

But I’ll keep going for as long as I am able. And listen to the stories as long as they are still being told because, with each recitation, there are variations that only time and the love for recounting family history firsthand can enhance. Reminders of where we came from. And as Stan said, the reason we get together.

And that’s probably the best part of family reunions.

That, and the snappy cheese and Ale-8s.

—Leon Aldridge

Photo at top of the page: Probably the last photo made of my mother and all her siblings together. From left to right, my mother, Indianola “Inky” Johnson Aldridge (1923 – 2010), Wyama (Amy) Johnson Weatherred (1924 – 2016), Jo Johnson Scott (born 1931), Katherine Johnson Fuguitt (1934 – 2005), and William (Bill) Johnson (born 1935)

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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.

“The thing about parenting rules is there aren’t any. That’s what makes it so difficult.”

—Ewan McGregor, Scottish actor.

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I missed writing something special for Mother’s Day, so I skipped Father’s Day. Didn’t want to show any favoritism. However, I’m celebrating my own creation this week. I’ll call it parent’s day.

In deference to National Parent’s Day, July 23, I’ll call mine “my parent’s day.” Truthfully, parents should be celebrated every day.

I was blessed with wonderful parents. They weren’t “do as I say” parents; they were “good example” parents. I learned more by watching them than I did by adhering to any rules — which weren’t many.

Mom was not a doting mother. I heard, “You just wait until your father gets home,” more often than, “I love you.” But I never had any doubt about her love for me. She demonstrated it every day in everything she did. Including not spanking me herself before my father got home. Mom could wield a mean hairbrush.

In her defense, I was a trying child. Trying to stay out of trouble.

She tried to teach me how to stay out of trouble. Keep my clean room. Help with household duties. Dress properly for all occasions. Keep my shoes polished for Sunday because I was going to church with her. Every Sunday. Without fail.

She even taught me how to iron and designated that duty as one of my after-school chores.

Mom also helped establish the principle that there are no free rides. She set my allowance at 25¢ a week, which I collected every Saturday. Provided the trash was emptied, the grass was cut, and her flower bed by the front porch was weed-free.

From there, Dad took over when I graduated from allowance to an occasional night and Saturday job, sweeping floors and assembling bicycles and wagons at Perry Brothers. Overnight, I was promoted from 25¢ a week to 25¢ an hour.

Dad was practical, hardworking, and encouraging. Again, I learned more from him by example. Only two times do I recall him offering life lessons that may have been construed as rules.

Once was advising me that he feared I was “ripping my britches.” It’s a humorous old saying indicating that one is about to make a costly mistake. Time has blurred exactly what my intentions were. Likely buying another old hot rod car. An automobile to Dad was transportation. Point A to point B. Nothing more. As I said, he was practical.

To me, the objective was how fast I could get from A to B and how good my ride looked getting there. “I could tell you that I don’t think what you’re doing is a good idea,” he said as we stood in the kitchen that night. “But I also know you’re going to do whatever you want to regardless of what I say,” he added. “I know because that’s the way I did it. I had to learn from my mistakes. And I know you will learn from yours.”

The jury is still out on that one.

The other time was advice on love and marriage. Again, I don’t remember how we got into the conversation. It’s his response I remember.

“Love can be elusive in the beginning. You make the best decision you can, getting to know someone as well as you can,” he said. “Once you marry, it will take work and understanding every day, but that’s the key to making marriage last and love better.”

He must have known what he was talking about. Mom and Dad were married for 63 years before he passed away.

He did offer basic rules every father taught his son back then about being a gentleman. Remove your hat indoors. Open doors for the ladies. Address your elders with sir and ma’am. “Yes sir, no sir — yes ma’am, no ma’am.” Never talk back to your elders. And the one rule we all heard. “Children should be seen and not heard,” meaning remain quiet when adults are talking; don’t butt in.

With my children, I can tell you about one time when that rule failed me.

My son Lee was perhaps six or seven years of age the night we attended that social function in Shreveport. Dressed in our Sunday best, sporting a coat and tie. The crowd was large. The finger food was good.

Just as someone I knew spotted me; Lee tugged at my sleeve. “Daddy,” he said. “You’ve got …”

“Not now,” I smiled. “Daddy’s talking.”

When he tried one more time, I reminded him of proper etiquette for children when adults were talking. One more time, he politely responded, “OK.”

As the event ended, we thanked the hosts, said our goodbyes, and left.

Walking to the car, I said, “Thank you for being polite while Daddy was talking. What did you want to say?”

“You’ve ripped your britches,” he replied.

Reaching back to discover a gap where the seat of my pants once existed confirmed my son’s observation.

“Yeah, Lee, looks like I did. Perhaps in more ways than one,” I laughed.

“Just look at this way. Maybe this experience will seem funny someday … when you reflect on any rules about parenting I imparted to you.”

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo above: My parents, Leon and Indianola (Inky) Aldridge, about the late 1960s.)

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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.

“Customer: A person who pays for all your vacations, hobbies, rent, food, clothing, car notes, and gives you the opportunity to better yourself.”

— Unknown

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“Good afternoon, Elegante Suites reservations in Abilene,” the voice on the phone said. “How can I help YOU today?” Heavy emphasis on the word, ‘you,’ made me smile.

It also evoked memories of one of my mother’s favorite afternoon television shows when I was in grade school. One that turned dreams of prizes and giveaways into reality for one lucky lady contestant.

The show’s opening pitch was most memorable, enthusiastically delivered by host Jack Bailey. Mom and countless other housewives across the country were focused on the black-and-white TV show every afternoon to hear, “Would YOU … like to be Queen for a day?”

Hearing the same vibe from a hotel reservations clerk last week was as refreshing as a West Texas breeze in a society having seemingly forsaken customer service.

Also in my school days, I learned about customer service working for my father in five-and-dime stores. Before electronic cash registers. Before self-checkouts. Before dehumanizing conversations with computers. Before retail giants who achieved success built on customer service before abandoning the concept, ultimately doing away with door greeters.

Variety stores like Perry Brothers had door greeters 60 years ago. They were also called store managers. Dad was often found standing at the open front door in a time before air-conditioned businesses, speaking to customers. Calling most of them by name.

“First lesson,” Dad said. “You’re not making a sale. You’re making a repeat customer who will return because you made them feel good about shopping with you.”

“Second lesson. Learn how to make correct change. Place the money they give you in plain sight on the register. Leave it there while making change,” I remember Dad saying. “Start by stating the amount they owe and count the change back to the amount they gave you.

I still remember his example. “Their purchase is $1.79. They give you two dollars. You say, ‘That will be $1.79.’ Then count back to the amount they gave you, saying it aloud with each coin. Give them a penny saying, ‘This will make one eighty,’ then the dimes saying ‘ninety and two dollars.

“That’s all you have to do. Except smile and say, ‘Thank you, we appreciate your shopping with us. Please come back.'”

My guess is some people working in businesses today missed those classes.

“That will be $5.17,” the drive-through speaker crackled. Arriving at the window, I handed the employee a ten-dollar bill and 17 cents intending to make the transaction quick and easy. It did neither. The employee took my money, put it in the register, stuck some ones and loose change in my hand almost spilling the change in the process. Then turned away.

“What’s that,” I asked.

“Your change,” she looked back and responded.

“No, it’s not, I gave you $10.17.”

Her reply? “I know.”

I was momentarily speechless.

“But you owe me $5, not $4.87.”

“Our computer doesn’t know how to do that.”

“OK, I’m giving you back all this change, you give me a five-dollar bill, and we’re even. That’s how it works.”

Silence and a scowl from the employee.

“Can I speak to your manager, please?”

I reviewed the conversation. The manager listened, then replied, “I’m sorry, our computer is not programed to do that.”

Silence. Sigh. “So, at least give me my 17-cents back and we’ll call it a day.”

More silence. After a moment, the manager opens the drawer, gives me 17 cents, and closes the window without saying another word.

A couple of nights later, giving the same establishment the benefit of the doubt for having had a bad employee day, I’m back in the same drive-through. I place my order on cue. “Two medium Cokes and two small fries, please.”

“Your total will be $13.22.” After a pause, I heard what sounded like, “Are you calling from the drive-through?” I’m hard of hearing these days, so I looked at my friend in the car with a “what did they just say” look on my face.

“Yep, that’s what she said.”

I looked ahead. The same star employee was at the window. The one who I’m reasonably sure never met a high school UIL numbers sense test they liked. Hasty digging in the console produced exact change, thereby avoiding another mathematics meltdown. 

But, it appears that some fast-food franchises have seemingly developed a business model that avoids all that drudgery of learning first-grade math.

An employee at another establishment and I exchanged food for folding money. The window closed. I waited for my change. In a moment, he was back. “You want something?”

“My change,” I said politely.

“Oh … you wanted your change?”

“When I am waited on politely and the service is good, I usually just say ‘keep the change’ when it’s offered to me. Otherwise, I want my change back.”

I extended my open hand.

He opened the drawer, took out the change due, handed it to me, and closed the window. No, “I’m sorry, excuse me, thank you, I assumed you wanted to donate your change to me, to the French Foreign Legion.” Not even, as my grandmother would have said, a “kiss my foot.”

My father is rolling in his grave.

—Leon Aldridge

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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.

“A good snapshot keeps a moment that s gone from running away.”

– Eudora Welty, (1909—2001) American short story writer, novelist, and photographer.

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A McCormick porcelain decanter bust of Elvis Presley was priced at $35. Framed photos of The King of Rock and Roll, obviously from someone’s collection, were modestly priced.

Perusing small-town antique shops is the way I break the monotony of travel. Can’t pass them up. Plus, I sometimes score neat things.

Photos are a fascination for me in shops like this. Family pictures, school pictures, historic events, and people. Snippets of time, frozen forever. Once a treasured part of someone’s albums. Or framed and displayed on the wall of their home.

What happened on the day the photo was made? What memories stirred emotions when they looked at the picture over the years? What was the story behind these pictures now relegated to antique emporiums and second-hand stores? Stories, many likely now lost to time.

One such picture in the Taylor, Texas, shop caught my eye last weekend. A black-and-white snapshot of Elvis playing the piano with his backup group, The Jordanaires, singing behind him. Something they did for 16 years.

It caught my eye because I have a similar photo. I wondered about this one because I was fortunate to have been friends with one of the people pictured.

I met Gordon Stoker, leader of the Country Music Hall of Fame vocal quartet, in about 1986. Our paths crossed on a cruise ship. Stoker was representing Elvis Presley Enterprises and Graceland. I was enjoying a week of 50s and 60s music entertainers. Fabian, Paul Revere and the Raiders, Little Anthony and the Imperials, The Coasters. From an era of good music.

Stoker was a master storyteller with an engaging personality. I was an Elvis fan. Following his presentation of stories about his years of recording with the most famous resident of 3764 Elvis Presley Boulevard in Memphis, I introduced myself to express gratitude for his insight into the life of one of the most influential singers in music history. Our conversation led to an invitation to join him and his wife, Jean, at dinner that night.

And thus began our friendship that would include other oldies music cruises plus Elvis Week events in Memphis.

Stoker’s career started as a teenager in 1942 as a pianist for the John Daniel Quartet. The Jordanaires quartet was formed in 1949. Stoker’s story about connecting with Elvis was about a young aspiring singer who heard them at a gospel music program in Memphis in the early 50s.

“He came backstage after our show that night,” said Stoker, “… told us, ‘When I get a contract with a major company, I want you guys to back me up.’

“We didn’t know him. So we told him, ‘OK, give us a call.’”

When Presley began recording for RCA in January 1956, he requested The Jordanaires as his backing vocalists, a job they held until 1972.

“Little did we know,” Stoker laughed. “The only reason we stopped was Elvis’s strenuous concert schedule made it impossible to keep up our other studio commitments. And, we all had families, too.”

The Jordanaires were heard on more hit recordings than any other vocal group. Hundreds of classic recordings with legends like Patsy Cline, Jim Reeves, Loretta Lynn, Ricky Nelson, Fats Domino. Songs like Ferlin Husky’s “Gone.” Jim Reeves’ “Four Walls.” Tammy Wynette’s “Stand By Your Man.” Kenny Rogers’ “Lucille.” George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” To name a few.

According to Stoker’s son Alan, a curator at the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum since 1980, the quartet was on Grammy-winning recordings during six decades. Besides singing with Elvis in 1956, that history ran from Johnny Horton’s 1959 number-one hit, ‘The Battle of New Orleans’ through 2007 with an album by Ray Price and Willie Nelson.

What would have perhaps been a job to some was obviously a joy to Stoker. That was apparent in listening to him reminisce, telling stories about recording sessions with well-known performers. Anecdotes and personal insights into the personality of each one that bore no hints of boasting about the tremendous successes of the quartet. Simply fond recollections of someone who loved life and making music.

During one “Elvis Week” in Memphis, the annual pilgrimage of the faithful to memorialize the singer’s death, I singled out Elvis Presley Enterprises CEO Jack Soden after a concert. Told him how much I enjoyed getting to know Gordon Stoker on the “oldies cruise.”

Back home in Center a few weeks later, the phone rang one night. “Soden said he’s heard good things about the cruise and mentioned your name,” said Stoker. “Looks like we’re cruising for Elvis again this summer. You are booked, aren’t you?”

On another Elvis weekend in Memphis, without tickets to a sold-out dedication at Holmes High School, Elvis’s Alma Mater, I stood at the door. Hoping to get a glimpse of the event renaming the auditorium in Elvis’ honor.

From down near the stage, Stoker saw me and waved for us to come in. All I could do was shrug, “No can do – no tickets.” He walked to the door and told the attendants, “He’s family. Seat them with the rest of my family at the front.”

Between these visits, I often heard from him. About an upcoming TV special, a copy of a new album. Once when he was seeking advice about the value of his parent’s 1953 Pontiac.

That’s when he sent the photo I have. Probably a stock publicity photo from the 50s. But I kept it and the letter. For the memories.

Stoker died in 2013. “The group is over,” said his son Alan in a press release. “It was a wonderful run. My father lived a great life and left us a great legacy.”

And that’s the story behind my photo. In case you see it one day in an antique shop. After I’m gone.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page: Elvis Presley and The Jordanaires. Gordon Stoker is at the far left of the photo.)

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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.

“Opportunity knocking usually sounds like hard work, so most people don’t answer the door.”

– I heard it from friend and mentor Jim Chionsini as one of his “Old Italian Sayings.” He likely borrowed it, but he was, among other things, a master at repackaging good advice.

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An imaginary light from above formed a halo around the camera in the display case. I was in Howard Petty’s Camera Shop in downtown Mount Pleasant. Many years ago.

It was a Holy Grail moment in my college-kid eyes. I never saw a used camera with its nicks and bumps. I saw only a Minolta SR-7 35 mm single-lens reflex camera at that moment. A real camera. As opposed to my mother’s borrowed Kodak Brownie I was using when I first felt the magic of photography.

I thought about my first real camera last week while reading about 2023’s generation of high school graduates. I’m sure many clearly envision what they want to do in life. And some will complete that journey with success.

Others may be more like me the night I walked the Mount Pleasant High School stage.

During those dark ages, graduating seniors wrapped up the school year with an obligatory counseling session with Mrs. Sanders, the sweetest and most caring teacher ever to walk the halls of MPHS. I don’t remember whether she actually taught classes or was a full-time counselor. But I remember that she was always smiling, and conversations with her could make the worst day better.

“So, what are your plans after graduation, Leon,” Mrs. Sanders asked. With a smile, of course.

“I’ve enjoyed Mr. Murray’s mechanical drawing classes. I think I want to be an architect,” I told her.

“Excellent choice,” she replied. “Where do you plan on going to college?”

“I think I’m going to Kilgore Junior College for two years; then a four-year university after that.”

“Good decision. I’m sure you will do well,” Mrs. Sanders said with a pat on my hand.

High school counseling 50-plus years ago was a little more informal than it is today.

Real-world reality ruled out portions of the plan I shared with Mrs. Sanders. Minor mishaps like a couple of failed math classes. No one told me math was not my strong suit. Or that my brain may have been better wired for creative thinking, right brain stuff. I’m not sure if left brain; right brain was even a thing then. I wasn’t sure I had a brain at that point in life.

I left Kilgore after a year; knowing things like psychology, writing, music, and art felt good as opposed to anything involving calculating numbers.

Five years to get a four-year degree in psychology and art at East Texas State University, a few jobs failing to hold my interest, and a year of laboring to figure out where I belonged followed.

Enter a long-time friend who would become a mentor for my future, Morris Craig, who offered me a job. “While you’re deciding what you want to do, come work for me,” Craig said. “I know you’re a photographer. I can use you at The Monitor.”

Thus began the path that has provided great gratification, a prosperous livelihood, and unforgettable memories for 50-plus years. All because I asked, “How much for that one, Mr. Petty, pointing to the used camera at which I had been gazing.

“That’s a good camera,” he said. “I’ll let you have it for $50.”

I stared a moment longer. Where would I ever find $50? Working every hour possible between classes to pay for school? Before I could respond, he added, “And you can pay it out for $10 a week, if that helps.”

After another short silence, I looked up and said, “I’ll take it. If you will teach me how to use it.”

“Deal,” he smiled and placed the camera in my hands.

I can’t tell you who spoke at my high school graduation. Or my college graduations. Maybe a school official or a former graduate. Maybe someone well-known or super successful in life.

No one has ever asked me to speak at a commencement. A record I’m confident will remain unbroken. But if anyone ever did, it might go something like this.

Always have a dream. A vision. An idea of what you want to do and how you want to do it. Make it your own. Do all you can do to achieve it.

But don’t get discouraged if it doesn’t work out immediately. Don’t give up. No one is limited to just one dream. Or just one chance in life.

What may become the future is not love at first sight for everyone. But you are not just everyone; you are you. So be the best you that you can be.

And when doors open for you in life, always remember those who oiled the hinges for you along the way. Someone who sells you your first camera. On a payment plan. Someone who offers you a job at a newspaper. At a time when you have no idea what you want to do.

And don’t miss those imaginary lights; signs right under your nose.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page: First page of seniors 1966 in the MPHS yearbook, the Arrowhead. Classmate Patty Allen gets to share top billing on the column with me because this blog format page requires a horizontal photo. And everything back then, from assigned seating in classes to yearbook photos, was in alphabetical order. Meaning Patty sat right behind me in every class we had together for four years. And I was first … unless I had a class with Jack Abbott or Sue Abner. It also doesn’t hurt that Patty’s picture makes the page look a lot better than mine does!)

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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.

“Mowing the lawn, because man is the only animal on the planet that plants, fertilizes, and waters a weed that he has to spend his weekend cutting.”

— Internet humor

“You got a haircut,” one of the ladies at church complimented me Sunday. 

“Sure did,” I acknowledged. “Just so happens Boyd’s Barber Shop had one left Saturday. Almost ran out before I got there, though.”

Her thoughts were very nice and much appreciated. The statement also started me thinking about how I use the same criteria to know when I need a haircut that I do to know when It’s time to mow the grass. Whether looking in the mirror or out the window at the yard, it always starts out, “That’s gonna need trimming before long.” And it usually ends with, “Mmm, I shoulda done that a couple of weeks ago.”

Both situations approached that pinnacle last Saturday morning when I finally headed to the barbershop before it was back home to drag out the dreaded lawnmower.

I’ve always wondered who said it first. “Hey, I think I’ll cut that green stuff growing out there in the yard instead of just letting it grow.” Whatever the logic, manicured lawns have remained a curse to people like me. Those who would be happy to have our yards declared a natural wilderness area.

I remember a Spring not so long ago. Wondering who would break the winter silence. Be the first one on the block to fire up a lawnmower and set an example for the rest of the neighborhood. 

For the record, it was never me. 

However, I did earn “Yard of the Month” once from the local garden club. Caught me off guard. Tried my best to convince the ladies they had the wrong address. Neighbors accused me of creating a hoax. 

It was true, though. I have pictures to prove it.

The fun began to fade, however, about the time social security checks started coming. I still do my own yard, however, and still have everything it takes to make it through another lawn care season. Mowers, edgers, rakes, trimmers, fertilizer, Bengay, aspirin, band-aids, and a good chiropractor.

“Hire a lawn service,” they said. Tried that. While doing it myself may take more effort than it used to, I sometimes still enjoy that feeling of satisfaction from backing off and seeing how nice it looks when it’s finished.

Almost makes me forget how much effort it often takes to start the lawnmower, wondering what sort of punishment-oriented society invented and approved pulling on a rope to start something that is used for work.

Historians and “ologists” digging around eons from now, searching for clues of ancient society from the 21st century, will no doubt unearth many mysteries. One will most certainly be homo sapiens who evolved to have one arm longer than the other.

Perhaps these scientific searchers will surmise it resulted from countless hours of jerking the starter cord on hard-to-start lawnmowers. Or maybe they will accidentally stumble across an account of the kid who put his old mower in the front yard bearing a sign that read “Will trade for bicycle.” 

As the story goes, before long, a preacher walked by and stopped to look. 

“Run all right,” he asked? 

“Yes sir,” the boy assured him.

“Well son, it just so happens I have a bicycle I don’t ride anymore,” the preacher told him. “I’ll be back with it in ten minutes, so don’t let anyone else have it.”

Sure enough, he returned with the bike, they made a trade, and the parson pushed his new acquisition home. 

The lad was out riding his newly acquired bicycle later when he passed the parsonage where the preacher was yanking on the mower’s starter. “Hey sonny,” he called out. “This mower won’t start.”

“Sure it will,” the youngster responded, coasting over to the curb to stop. 

“I’ve pulled on that rope for an hour, and it never offered to start.”

“You have to cuss it,” the boy explained.

“Son,” the preacher said. “I’ve been a minister for 30 years. So, I wouldn’t know how to cuss.”

“Just keep pulling on that rope preacher,” the kid told him. “It’ll come to you.”

When Springtime came this year, it looked like mowing wouldn’t be an issue following Mother Nature’s hissy fits. Alternating droughts and Arctic blasts wiped out half of what I once called grass and most of the shrubbery in my yard. What I have left is a crop of weeds, dust, and landscaping that more closely resembles the aftermath of an atomic bombing than a yard of the month. 

And that was before the rains came. In torrents. And continued coming. In torrents. So, here I am again this week, struggling to get rid of shrub stubs that will never see any shade of green again, cranking on my cantankerous lawnmower, and thinking.

Wonder if that nice lady at church will notice I mowed my weeds.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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

“Oh, them golden slippers,
Oh, them golden slippers.
Golden slippers I’m a gonna wear,
To walk the golden street.”

— ‘Golden Slippers’ song lyrics by James Bland (1854 – 1911)

– – – – – – –

Bluegrass music drifted across the way in downtown Nacogdoches Saturday when we walked out of Dolli’s Diner.

Omaha, Nebraska and New York City have a hundred-year dispute going as to which one is the home of the Reuben sandwich. Dolli’s gets my vote as the best place in East Texas to get one.

Focusing again on the music, I recognized the well-known spiritual popularized by bluegrass musicians in the early half of the last century.

James Bland, the song’s credited writer, is also said to be the first man to put the 5th string on a banjo.

Which reminded me. My banjo needs new strings.

The tunes on the afternoon Spring breezes were emanating from the front porch of the General Mercantile and Old Time String Shop. Instrumental harmony blended in bluegrass style is a Saturday staple on the corner sidewalk outside Steve Hartz’s place of business.

A seat on the narrow concrete ledge along the front of the building was a great spot to kick back and soak up the ambiance and the weather on a great day outside in East Texas.

Hartz personifies laidback. It’s the signature mood of his business. Like his obligatory blue overalls. He even talks refreshingly slower than the frantic rush of most people in today’s digitally dumbing race-to-right-now society. And always with a smile.

The crowd varies. Saturday’s circle of pickers included Hartz playing mandolin. Other unidentified members of the group included another mandolin player, a guitar player, a banjo picker, a fiddle player, and a dog napping at their feet. Norman Rockwell would have been envious.

Speaking of fiddle players, who knows the difference between a violin and a fiddle? The correct answer would be that a violin has strings … as opposed to a fiddle that has ‘strangs.’ That’s not been confirmed by the Old Time String Shop crowd. Just knowledge I acquired by hanging out with musicians. Better than me. Which is just about everybody who plays.  

Steve has been the owner and proprietor of the String Shop and Mercantile Store for 43 years that I know of. He describes it as “maybe not be the only place left in America where a fiddle tune played by a pot-bellied stove is a regular occurrence and phone calls are still answered on an old wooden crank-box phone. However, we can’t help but wonder if there is another old general store that makes and sells banjos, flutes, and wooden spoons and offers stringed instruments for sale along with things like washboards, hand-made brooms, oil lamps, mayhaw jelly, and tin toys.

“At the General Mercantile and Old Time String Shop, we don’t use a computer because our 1890s cash register works fine, and we don’t have air conditioning because there is usually a good breeze whipping through the windows. Come in and rediscover that life can still be simple if you want it to be.

“The best things in life are free,” he concludes, “but we can sell you a banjo and a cane pole.”

I know Steve has been in business at least since 1980 because I still own a banjo he sold me that year. And I know that date not because I have a good memory, but because I bought lessons with the instrument. I knew nothing about playing the banjo.

While driving back to Center from Nacogdoches after a class the night of December 8, 1980, I heard a news bulletin on the car radio. Like it was yesterday. “English musician John Lennon, formerly of the Beatles, was shot and fatally wounded in the archway of the Dakota apartment building, his residence in New York City.”

That’s how I know.

I also know attempting to learn the banjo was a significant leap for me. My ability to play music included 8-track tape players and the bass horn in high school and college bands. But what I lacked in skill, I made up for in desire. Back then, I rode a motorcycle to far-reaching parts of East Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas many weekends to bluegrass festivals because I loved the music made with stringed instruments. And the banjo was my favorite. 

I persevered painfully to produce somewhat recognizable resemblances of Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Cumberland Gap before kids and moves relegated the instrument to a closet. Three decades would fly by with me still fantasizing about making music on stringed instruments. Then one day, good friend, working colleague, and singer-songwriter Thomas Morrison walked into my office and tempted me, laying a Taylor guitar on my desk. “If you really want to play, I will help you learn,” he challenged me.

There was a catch, he wanted to sell me that guitar. Which he did. But between him, master musician and long-time friend Dickie Gilchrist, and a well-worn copy of “Guitar for Dummies,” I marked progress as the day the dogs didn’t get up and leave the room when I started to play.

Today, I can navigate some simple chord rhythms to accompany a good lead player, or just entertain myself relaxing at home — with or without dogs. But I haven’t touched the five-string first object of my desire since the Regan era. I think about it whenever I stop in the Old Time String Shop on a lazy spring afternoon. Listening to bluegrass music, relaxing, and watching people passing by Steve’s place and waving. Enjoying life at the slower pace God intended for it to be lived. After I’ve eaten a Reuben at Dolli’s.

Did you know they have a picture of Steve on the wall at Dolli’s?

I told him one more time last Saturday. “I need to bring my banjo over; it needs new strangs. And I might want to try it one more time.”

Before I “walk that golden street.”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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

“Grandpa, everything is changing fast
We call it progress, but I just don’t know.”

— Grandpa Tell Me ‘Bout The Good Old Days, song lyrics by Jamie O’Hara, recorded by The Judds.

– – – – – – –

I glance that way every time I walk by. Reminds me of the good old days.

I’m talking about the vacant building on the north side of the Center square with the letters P.B. in the mosaic tile entrances. I know it’s there, but I still look. I also know the letters represent Perry Brothers, a long-gone chain of general merchandise stores, once a staple in small towns.

What I didn’t know until last week was the first Perry Brothers store was established in Center, Texas, in 1918. That’s according to a National Register of Historic Places Inventory Nomination Form filed in 1988. 

The Lufkin structure described on the form was the home of C.W. Perry, one of the Perry brothers founding family members. The document also notes that after its beginning in Center, the Perry Brothers company was incorporated in 1924 with headquarters in Lufkin.

The company’s Lufkin history I know only too well. My father worked for Perry’s while in high school at the Pittsburg store. He returned to work for Perry’s after his discharge from the Army in 1945 and remained with them for 20 years.

The multistory building in downtown Lufkin on the corner of E. Lufkin Avenue and South First Street housed the Perry Brothers retail store Dad referred to as “Number One.” The upper stories of the building were corporate offices for the five-and-dime store chain. The basement level, now home to the Manhattan Fine Dining restaurant, was a company cafeteria.

The term “five-and-dime store” faded from conversation when the stores vanished from Main Street America, unable to compete with big discount stores and malls. 

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

The popular retail stores that sold everything from comic books to cosmetics and bicycles to baby dolls were found under the name of Perry’s Duke and Ayres and Ben Franklin in smaller towns. Big city versions were Woolworths, Kress, and TG&Y.

Memories of growing up during the era, for me, are triggered by smells. Aromatic experiences like fresh bulk candy strategically displayed just inside the front door in long glass cases next to a popcorn machine. Popular confections like circus peanuts, orange slices, Boston baked beans, and candy corn—each with unique olfactory delights. 

Forget prepackaged bags hanging on hooks. Instead, the sugary treats were sold by the ounce, weighed on scales, and served up in paper bags. Ten cents would buy enough to last for the bicycle ride home.

The variety store’s heyday was before air conditioning was standard fare. Front doors of businesses were open, and ceiling fans swirled smells out to the sidewalk. Identifying a dime store, a clothing store, a bakery, or a drug store from the sidewalk was easy.

Walking into Perry’s, the nose was still a navigation tool. Past the candy to the smell of sizing in fabric sold by the yard. To the fragrances and distinctive scents like “Blue Waltz” perfume. To the toy department’s metallic odor of bicycles, tricycles, and wagons.

For this dime-store brat, however, the most potent memory remains wood floors that required weekly maintenance, an undertaking accomplished with a big push mop and floor oil. 

Of course, sweeping floors and pushing the mop was just one of my jobs as the offspring of a Perry Brothers store manager. Others included assembling bicycles and wagons, taking out the trash, washing windows, or unpacking freight. All good after-school and Saturday jobs for a junior high kid.

The pay was 25¢ an hour, not much today. But in the late 1950s, a quarter would buy a bag of the above candy or a comic book with change. Or a Saturday afternoon matinee at the Martin Theater. With popcorn.

When we moved to Mount Pleasant in 1959, Perrys was on North Jefferson in the same block as Duke & Aryes. Today, Glyn’s Western Wear occupies space where portions of both businesses once stood. In the early 60s, a newer store opened a few blocks up Jefferson in the strip shopping center with Piggly Wiggly. 

But soon after, discount centers spelled the beginning of the end for variety stores. Perry Brothers lingered into the early 80s in a few places before closing. By then, Dad had moved over to McKellar’s Department store before joining Gibson’s Discount Center in 1968, his last job before retirement. 

Passing the old Perry’s Center location again last week, I paused to peer through dust-covered doors. The warped wood flooring was pushing up vinyl tile, obviously applied over it in later years.

With little imagination, I smelled oiled floors. Candy. And popcorn. But that’s a sensory trip likely reserved for someone who grew up in that era. The good old days. When the five-and-dime was the center of downtown business.

“Paint me a picture of long ago.
Grandpa, tell me ’bout the good old days.”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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

“I ain’t old, but I’ve been around a long time.
Long enough to know that age is just a state of mind.”

 — Song lyrics by Delbert McClinton

– – – – – – –

“Ask Leon, he probably knew him.”

That insinuation by Texas Press Association Executive Director, Mike Hodges was a humorous jab suggesting that I had been around the newspaper industry for a long time. It was offered in response to a serious question posed at the North and East Texas Press Association’s convention in Nacogdoches last weekend. Was anyone still living who may have known Texas newspaper publisher Sam C. Holloway who worked in the trade during the early part of the 19th century?

The Holloway Award is presented annually in his memory by the state’s regional press association to an “outstanding NETPA member and journalist who has gone above and beyond the call of duty in support of the association while upholding high standards of journalistic integrity and service to the community.”

Holloway was born in 1888 and bought his first newspaper, the Deport Times, in 1912. Shortly after, during the 1930s oil boom in northern Titus County, he established newspapers in Talco and Bogata. Holloway was one of the founding members of the NETPA in 1926 and served as its second president in 1927. The first Holloway Award was presented to its namesake at the 1958 convention in Tyler.

In keeping with the spirit of the conversation at last weekend’s gathering, I countered Mike’s question with, “I remember him, but I was just a cub reporter.”

The exchange was fun, but it evoked a weighty reflection on my time in the business. Also made me wonder how many conventions I have attended since I was, well … a cub reporter.

I entered journalism in a back-door fashion through the front door of The Monitor in Naples when Morris Craig, aka “Craig,” offered me a job as a photographer. It was supposed to be temporary “until I found something else.” Journalism wasn’t my first career path choice.

We all know now how that worked out.

I had been a newspaper employee just long enough to learn how to spell journalism when Craig sent me up to Sherman to accept NETPA awards for his newspaper at the association’s 1976 convention.

The Monitor had earned a wall of plaques and awards dating before Craig’s time which started in 1956. But while Craig produced a newspaper worthy of accolades, attending the conventions to collect acclaim was not his cup of printer’s coffee.

So, I showed up at my first newspaper convention 47 years ago sporting a new light blue leisure suit and a tie wide enough to lease out for billboard space. It was also my first time meeting seasoned newspaper veterans that I would not only come to consider mentors for journalism “done the right way,” but also as longtime friends.

People like Roy Eaton at Decatur, Bob Hamilton at Iowa Park, John Crawford at Dennison, Jerry Tidwell at Granbury, Harlan Bridwell at Bridgeport, Dick White from Pittsburg, and others whose names will come to me. Right after this piece goes to press.

That first stint at the Monitor was followed by doing time at the Many, La., Sabine News for Lloyd Grissom, who, at the time, owned the East Texas Light. Purely by fate, I wound up in Center a couple of years later when Jim Chionsini was the new owner of that Shelby County publication. He took me down a new path of publishing where, along the way, we merged the Light with the Center Champion in 1983. And that was the beginning of today’s Light and Champion, and the office from where I am penning this piece in 2023.

But connecting those dots was not a straight line. Far from it.

In the late 90s, teaching journalism at Stephen F. Austin State University beckoned before I returned to ink and newsprint as editor and publisher in Hill Country burg of Boerne and later in Marlin. Working the second time with Jim C. Then it was back to The Monitor as owner, editor, publisher, window washer and janitor.

I was grateful the Monitor building had only one small window,

During those years, I served as president of NETPA twice, one of only two people to do so; my friend Jim Bardwell being the other. My first time was in 1986 while at the Light and Champion and again in 2002 at The Monitor.

After that, the road detoured to the other side of the communication desk in marketing positions before circling back to newspapers a few years ago splitting time between Center and at the Tribune in Mount Pleasant. My third time partnering with Jim Chionsini.

Two years ago, I returned to the Light and Champion in Center for “one more time.” This appearance, carrying the banner of Moser Community Media.

Whew! I think the Aldridge “Lifetime Newspaper Tour” needs a tee shirt.

Still smiling last weekend at Mike’s suggestion that I had been around a long time, I glanced around the room. There was Jim Bardwell from Gladewater. Phil Major from Mineola, Candice Velvin, now serving with the Texas Press Association in Austin. And Mike Hodges, the one who got me to thinking about all this history with his suggestion of my having been around a long time. He’s been around for much of that time himself.

That’s when the sobering realization soaked in. We were now the “seasoned ones.” We were filling the shadows of those I remembered from Sherman almost 50 years ago, trying to “do journalism the right way.”

No, I wasn’t around when Sam Holloway printed the news in Northeast Texas. He passed away in 1960. But I was honored by NETPA in 1999 with the award that bears his name. Still not sure I deserved it, but I was humbled that my colleagues in the profession thought so.

Maybe that’s why I’m still doing it and trying to do it the right way. And maybe that’s what Delbert McClinton meant in his song.

“If there’s a secret to life that I’ve ever found,
It’s all about staying in the here and now. 
I ain’t old, but I’ve been around a long time.”

— Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of page — 1976 Monitor newspaper clipping picturing the plaque awarded the Naples newspaper that year for feature stories and the much younger version of the “cub reporter” who traveled to Sherman to accept it. The clipping overlays the actual 47-year-old award. When Morris Craig closed the newspaper office on Main Street in town that had been home to the The Monitor since the mid-70s and moved the operation to his house, he gifted me with with the plaque that had hung on the wall of the newspaper entry foyer since 1976. Morris and Melba Craig, still publish the newspaper that started the Craig family’s newspaper career in 1956, then owned by Lee Narramore. Still a family operation, they are today aided by family members Dylan, Andrea , Denise, Jeremy, Sam, and Mike.)

– – – – – – –

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.

“Weep no more my lady,
 Oh, weep no more today.
 We will sing one song,
 For My Old Kentucky Home,
 For My Old Kentucky Home, far away.”

— “My Old Kentucky Home” by Stephen Collins Foster, known as “the father of American music.”

– – – – – –

May 6 is Derby Day.

That’s when jockeys dressed in brightly colored silks will parade thoroughbred horses before fans at Churchill Downs. The University of Louisville marching band will play “My Old Kentucky Home.”

Ladies will sport their finest in large, lavish hats. Men and women alike will wash away all cares enjoying the time-honored ritual of sipping mint juleps from frosted cups.

Week-long activities will peak late Saturday afternoon with the starting bell for “The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports.” Time will stand still for the “Run for the Roses.” The 149th running of the Kentucky Derby will be underway in Louisville.

If you’re new to the Derby and by chance find yourself engaged in lively conversation about it, make sure to pronounce the city’s name correctly. That’s ‘Lu-ah-vull’ or even ‘Lu-vull.’ Pronounce it ‘Louis – ville’ with an ‘s’ and you’ll become a social outcast, ignored as someone who knows nothing about the Commonwealth of Kentucky.

The event that made Lu-ah-vull famous, the first leg of horse racing’s legendary Triple Crown for three-year-olds, has long served as my reminder that Mother’s Day is just a few days away. The two events are one to me. My Mom, Indianola Johnson, was born in Winchester, Kentucky, in 1923 and graduated from Clark County High School in 1941. 

A couple years of college and working defense-related jobs later, she met a soldier from East Texas. He was a young recruit with the U.S. Army 276th combat engineers on maneuvers in Tennessee preparing for action in the European Theater as World War II raged. 

On leave following training in August of 1944, the young soldier took her to his hometown of Pittsburg, Texas, where they were married at the Methodist parsonage. Days later when the 276th sailed for Belgium, she lived with his parents until he returned home after V.E. Day. They spent 63 years of married life together in Texas before Dad died in 2007. Throughout those years, Mom never forgot her roots in the Bluegrass State.

Mom was the oldest of six siblings and was the first to marry. As she was planning a wedding and a move to Texas, her father wrote her a letter that she kept in her cedar chest. It remains with me today. In the letter, Arthur Johnson advised his oldest daughter to be true to God, herself, and her family, emphasizing the importance of staying close to her siblings as each of them began their own families.

Remain close they did. Annual family reunions spread between Texas and Kentucky, and Christmas season gatherings rotating between homes for decades clearly defined the meaning of ‘family’ for me.

That heritage led me not only to an appreciation for the Kentucky Derby, but it also strongly influenced my fondness for food found in the region. Namely snappy cheese dip, and Ale-8s. 

Originating in Clark County more than 85 years ago, the tangy cheese snack debuted at a well-known Kentucky River eatery at Fort Boonesborough called Allman’s Fisherman’s Inn. The dip and its heritage are alive and well today thanks to Hall’s on the River, a restaurant near the location where Allman’s once stood.

Snappy cheese is best enjoyed with a ginger flavored Ale-8 soft drink bottled only in Winchester since 1926. A favorite snapshot of Mom captured her standing under an Ale 8 sign with her sisters. They appear to be teenagers, dating the photo in the late 1930s.

Mom often talked about introducing my father to snappy cheese and Ale-8 at Hall’s before they married.

For many years, my watching the Derby included a phone call to Mom regardless of where my wanderings took me. It gave her an excuse to talk about Kentucky, sharing often repeated stories of her memories of growing up in the horse racing region of Kentucky.

It also gave me a chance to wish her a happy Mother’s Day.

Mom died in 2010, but Derby day still reminds me of her. And it still reminds me that Mother’s Day is coming up.

I miss you, Mom. Thought about calling you with the Derby approaching. Saw some odds in the paper yesterday that Forte out of South Gate Farms is the 5-2 favorite to win. Tapit Trice is the 6-1 second choice, and Angel of Empire at 9-1 is third.

And by the way, Mom, Happy Mother’s Day. Once the Derby’s run, it’s just a few days away, you know.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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