A Story Worth Telling

“I tried to raise my children with patience, respect and good manners, but they still ended up being like me.”

— Author unknown, but the concept understood.

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Raising children is not for the faint of heart. It’s typically entered into with very little understanding of what’s ahead. And while many good books are found that touch on the topic, there is little hope the perfect owner’s manual will ever be completed.

Therefore, it’s my opinion that sharing child-rearing experience is largely a generational responsibility. We who have survived parenting owe the next generation fair warning about a few things.

First, sharing with those who carry on the family tradition is not only about what we learned to do, but more often about what we learned we shouldn’t have done.

That concept came to mind at a family gathering not long ago when a young soon-to-be father approached me seeking some pointers. “You’ve raised children, and you have grandchildren,” the expectant parent noted as we sat down to eat, “So at your age, what do you consider the most important part of child rearing.”

My knee-jerk reaction was teach kids never to seek advice prefaced with “at your age.” It’s bad enough at this age, that medical conversations come with those words. You’d think family would be more respectful to their elders.

But I was nice. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I replied. “Mom always said a parent is never through raising their children. Could be, however, she was just talking about me though.”

Chit-chat with the younger set was usually more manageable. Questions more like what was it like way back there when Elvis was alive? Did they have airplanes when you were a kid? Uncle what’s-his-name, sitting over there alone. Does he always drink coffee from his saucer and mumble to himself like that?

Parenting. That one, however, caught me off guard. Definitely, cause for reflection. I pondered my parenting style to that of my parents in the 50s and 60s. And my children’s style in their current generation’s efforts to bring up children. Three different philosophies, for sure. Four, when I remembered my grandmother’s words.

“Your father didn’t have those bad habits until he went in the Army,” Granny always said with a shake of her head. Usually when referring to his smoking or drinking an occasional beer when he was younger. “I trained him better than that,” she always added.

“Training,” I blurted out. “Raising a child requires dedication. But your training methods can make the difference.”

“That sounded good,” I thought to myself. Then, feeling like I had fulfilled my obligation, I reached for the fried chicken.

“What sort of training do you consider most important,” my interviewer responded.

Stopping the chicken short of my open mouth, I offered, “Maintaining that elusive balance of teaching life skills without being counterproductive. For instance, we devote the first two years to teaching children how to walk and talk. Then the next four, five, or fifteen, to teaching them to sit still and be quiet.

“There is no greater joy,” I continued, “than coaxing your offspring into uttering infantile noises that only a parent would recognize, things like ‘ma-ma’ or ‘da-da.’ On the other hand, nothing equals the agony, a couple of years later, when your sweet little one announces at the top of his or her lungs immediately following the dismissal prayer at church, “’Boy, I thought he was never gonna quit preaching. Can we finally go eat!’

“Inquisitive little faces will reflect deep wonder as you explain the mysteries of life. But,” I said, dropping my tone of voice, “the day will come when they ask things like, ‘Daddy, where does the fire go when the log is burned up?'”

“Hopefully,” I added, “you will be better versed in science than I was.”

Then I hit him with my best advice. “Just remember the one word that should never be taught to children under the age of 37.”

“And that is …,” he asked, tilting his head like a puppy trying to comprehend “sit” or “rollover.”

“The infamous one-word sentence. ‘Why?’ Once a child unlocks the power of what can be accomplished with that one word, life is never the same for you.”

“It’s a 15-minute delay for going to bed, taking a bath, or eating green vegetables,” I added, “Sadly, weary parents are sometimes slow to learn that explaining why is not the answer to young minds. It’s simply fodder for follow-ups.

“Try telling a four-year-old he needs to let go of the cat’s tail.”

“Why, daddy?”

“So he doesn’t shred the curtains.”

“Why?”

“So there is something left to mend and cover the windows.”

“Why?”

“So the neighbors can’t see frustrated parents trying to explain their way out of endless ‘why’ questions from preschoolers. That’s why.”

“Then the tyke will ask, ‘Why is Kitty hiding from me?’”

“Kitty is tired of playing. Maybe he will be back.”

“When?”

“In a year or two.'”

My dumbfounded student sat silently. A blank stare fixed on his years ahead.

“In fact,” I concluded, reaching for the chicken one more time before pausing for a moment of silence.

“Uncle what’s-his-name over there? Sipping coffee out of the saucer alone and mumbling to himself? And my dad’s smoking and drinking when he was younger?

“Both conditions caused by kids learning the power of one little word … why.”

—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.

“You put your left foot in, you put your right foot in, you let your left foot out, and you jerk the car about.”

— The Hokey Pokey stick shift driving school song

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Renewed my driver’s license a few weeks ago. Quite a few changes since I got a license to drive. Sixty years ago.

There’s been changes just since my last renewal. If your license comes back with a picture looking slightly better than that orange suit jail log photo in the newspaper, you now have to wait eight years for a chance at a better one. Plus, an appointment is required for renewal; no more walk-ins. And the appointment must be made online.

But there is a workaround for that … if you didn’t read the instructions. I saw it when I was there waiting for my appointed time.

A guy walks in and is asked if he has an appointment. “No,” he replies.

“You’ll need an appointment,” the lady behind the desk says with a smile, motioning toward the computer he had just passed up. “See if a time slot is open. We’ll try to work you in.”

I smiled because I had an appointment. Made it online. Yes, I read the instructions that came in the mail. I also read the TXDLP blog site. The part where it suggests one should learn to drive in a car equipped with an automatic transmission because it is easier.

“Once only popular with elderly drivers and those unable to drive a manual car, automatic cars are now commonplace,” the blog site said. As an “elderly driver,” I rolled my eyes and groaned.

I was driving before I turned 14, the legal age in Texas then with driver’s ed. The next Saturday morning, I was sitting in Lee Gray’s driver’s ed class at the Mount Pleasant High School choir building. Mr. Gray’s “day job” was the MPHS choir director.

Dad’s driver’s ed classes started when I was 11. Sunday afternoons on west Texas dirt roads near Seymour. That’s where he instructed me in the fine art of shifting a manual transmission while keeping his ’55 Chevy between the ditches.

My grandfather supplemented that with trips to DeWoody’s Western Auto or the barber shop in Pittsburg. Once out of sight of the house, he would pull into the A&P parking lot and let me drive his manual transmission ’57 Ford with overdrive to what the locals called “back street.” Off the main drag.

“Don’t tell your grandmother,” he warned. “Or me and you both will be in trouble.”

Back then, automatic transmissions were limited to Cadillacs, Oldsmobiles, expensive cars. The Aldridge family’s first car with an automatic was a ’58 Ford station wagon. It fared well until the day Mom left my grandparent’s house with three young kids aboard and other things on her mind. She accelerated to the point that familiarity felt it was time to shift into second gear. So, she threw the shift lever up in “three-on-the-tree” fashion where second gear would be. In a standard shift car.

Unfortunately for Mom and the car, that spot with an automatic is called ‘park.’

After recovering from the sudden screeching stop and the awful noises from under the car, she called my father in tears. He consoled her without ceremony or criticism. Soon after, our first automatic transmission car was replaced with another used car. One like we had always had, driven by synchronizing three forward speeds with the clutch pedal. The incident was never mentioned again.

Lacking the knowledge and experience of manual transmissions is a shifty concept to grasp growing up in a generation of kids who considered learning to drive a rite of passage. Learning how to shift gears by listening to the motor, downshifting to reduce speed, running through the gears in a four-speed high-performance car, popping the clutch to burn rubber, or the art of heel-and-toe braking and accelerating a sports car while maneuvering through a road course. What joy is there in driving without those memorable moments?

Besides the fun, learning to drive in manual transmission cars also had advantages. Enamored with cars long before the formality of a license, by the time high school graduation rolled around I had owned three old used car ‘hot rods’ of my own, bought with money earned working after-school and Saturday jobs. That experience opened doors to summer jobs like driving tractors, trucks, wreckers—anything that rolled on wheels and required gear shifting.

I know times change, however. Sometimes for good causes and other times not so much, in my book. But I’m prepared. With a couple of manually shifted ’57 Fords in my garage, I’ll do my part to help educate future generations of young drivers.

“Look at this automobile child. Let me show you what driving a real car is like—one with three pedals on the floor.”

—Leon Aldridge

Photo at top: My grandparents 1957 Ford Custom 300 with a manual three-speed column-shifted transmission and overdrive. The same one referenced above in which my grandfather helped with my driver’s education in Pittsburg, Texas in about 1959 or ’60. It has traveled a total 46,322 miles since the day they bought it new. It’s one of the two manual transmission 1957 Fords in my garage.

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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.

“Doing what you love is the cornerstone of having abundance in your life.”

— Wayne Dyer (1940 – 2015), American self-help author and motivational speaker.

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“So, your mom was in the newspaper business and earned the nickname, Inky,” someone who knew my mother remarked last week. “I guess you just followed your mother’s path. Doing something both of you obviously enjoyed?”

“Nothing could be farther from the truth,” I laughed. “I spent five years getting a four-year degree to do something I soon learned was not what I wanted to do the rest of my life. But at that time, working for a newspaper was the farthest thing from my mind.

“But you’re right about one thing,” I told them. “I can honestly say that despite taking a diverse path to get there, there’s nothing I might have done that I can imagine having enjoyed more.”

My mother’s newspaper years at the Mount Pleasant Tribune were best chronicled by another Tribune employee and one of her good friends, Ida Burnett.

In the August 12, 1984, Mount Pleasant (Texas) Tribune story bearing her byline, Miss Ida wrote, “Since 1967 when Inky Aldridge started working for the Tribune, she has seen the paper distribution increase from five carriers to 29 routes in 1984 and grow into the computer age.”

“When I came to work,” the story of her retiring began, “it was to help out because Hazel Palmer (first of three generations of Palmer family Tribune ownership) was out of the office so much with her husband who was sick at the at time. The office was in a building at the present location of the new jail.”

As a side note, the “new jail” obviously built sometime after 1967, is at 304 S. Van Buren. The Tribune, after 50 years and four locations, is currently located at 202 S. Van Buren, just a block north of where it was in 1967.

“I was one of about eight or ten employees,” the Tribune story continues, “and I did just whatever they asked me to do,” she said. “I gathered information for the Police Record from police, sheriff, etc. worked classifieds, took news, hospital notes, obituaries, weddings, club news as well as worked in the circulation department,” she recalled.

OK, let me add another side note here … a job at the local community newspaper today has not changed one iota in 50 years. Still the same.

Mom recounted people she worked with. “, “Mozelle Rhea worked in classifieds and was a reporter, Amy Flowers was in production, and Joyce Lane was a typist. “Her husband, Leon, moon-lighted,” Burnett’s story continued, “and came in to do the mail at night, tie bundles and some of the time, carried the paper to the printer in Gladewater.

“In 1968, The Tribune was moved to its present location, 111 East Second Street, and I remember helping with that move,” Mom said. “The whole setup was in what is now the front office. The building was the former Dr. Pepper Bottling Plant the Palmers bought from Otis McMinn. There was also a barber shop where R.B. Palmer (second generation of Palmer family ownership) now has a private office.

“The (building) space included the upstairs where the Odd Fellows met years ago before they built their place on the Texarkana Highway. The business grew, and Nortex Press was formed in 1973. The newspaper operation eventually filled the entire building which was remodeled several times in the process,” she said.

“I have been in the circulation department and have seen the addition of a circulation manager and finally going to a computer several years ago,” Mom continued. “There is also a route manager now. It’s a big business … circulation is over 6.000 on Sundays now.”

“I have enjoyed my work, and working with (everyone), but it is time now to quit and retire from the newspaper work,” Mom concluded.

“Mrs. Aldridge is leaving in the middle of a larger expansion to better facilities,” said R. B. Palmer. “(We) appreciate her loyal work through the years. Employees such as Inky made possible, our growth.

“We wish her and Leon the very best,” he added.

“After 17-years with The Tribune, Inky is retiring from one kind of employment to another,” the story continued. “She and husband, Leon, will be working together for Parker Craft and Evonne Originals. This job will be an entirely different pace for them. Leon was assistant manager for many years at Gibson’s that was later Howard’s.”

“Inky’s name is really Indianola,” Burnett’s story concluded. “And she has had the nickname ‘Inky’ since childhood. However, the nickname has proven fitting for one in the newspaper profession.”

Near the end of the story, Miss Ida quoted me. “I have often credited my newspaper career to Morris Craig at The Monitor in Naples for hiring me and showing me the rewards of small-town newspapering. But to my mother, I owe credit for sharing the sense of accomplishment and reward she felt (working) for a community newspaper a long time before I ever considered working a newspaper job.”

Thoughts and smiles raced as I re-read that story last week. In June of this year, Mom would have been 100. Nearing 40 years after that story about her was written and a little more than 12 years since she’s been gone, I can think of little to add about doing the same thing that brought her joy.”

Maybe just, “Amen, Mom.”

—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.

“Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen.”

– Orhan Pamuk, Turkish novelist, screenwriter, academic, and recipient of the 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature

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Energizing! That’s the best way to describe being outside this time of year. East Texas Spring at Mother Nature’s best.

Venturing out into the back yard one afternoon last week came with one slight distraction. A dog barking somewhere in the neighborhood.

Dogs bark because they’re dogs. They bark at cars. People. Bugs. Leaves. Sometimes they bark for reasons known only to dogs. But here’s the deal. A dog’s bark is understood only by those who have known the unconditional love of man’s best friend.

Forty was in my rear-view mirror when daughter Robin wanted a puppy. My excuses as to why she shouldn’t have one were creative, but futile. The terrier mix puppy we adopted, she called, “Bug.” A happy little creature someone had thrown away. In the trash. Literally.

Together, those two taught me that anyone who says, “it’s just a dog,” is missing one of God’s greatest gifts. Watching them got me in the game, but the hound that touched my heart was a basset needing a new home. “Max.”

Max lived with Bob and his wife in Lufkin. But then, they moved from the country farm to a city condo that just wasn’t big enough for two people and a big dog. That’s where we met.

Again, I made excuses to my kids, but …

Heading back to our new home in the Hill Country that afternoon, Max had no idea what was in store. Neither did I.

Bob had taken great care to tell me about Max. He gave me baby pictures and a letter of apology. One of Bob’s friends wrote it to Max after she casually referred to Max as “just a dog.”

“He’s a fine dog,” Bob said. We usually go for Saturday morning rides and burgers. You can cut the veggies on Max’s. Then, after that, we just ride around and smoke a cigar.”

In addition to his culinary and recreation history, Bob added, “If he ever barks at night, check on him. He’s hungry, lonely or hurting.”

Home late that night in Bandera County, it was quick to bed for everyone. We tried to make the old boy comfy on the big back porch with a bed, water, and a midnight snack. I had no more than turned out the lights when I heard it. “Oof.” First, one bark, then two deep bass notes, “Oof, oof.”

As I stepped out onto the porch in the dark, I heard a rhythmic “Thump, thump, thump.” The big dog’s tail pounding the porch.

I stroked Max’s head, scratched his long floppy ears, and assured him he had been adopted by a good family. Then, with another “g’night,” I headed back to bed. I was scarcely settled when I heard it again. “Oof.”

I’d known Max less than 24 hours when I sat down beside him again. The rising moon down toward the Medina River suggested it was past midnight. “Max,” I said. “We both need some sleep.” He rested his head on my leg, and I began to understand what Bob had said.

“I get it, Max,” I said aloud. “You’ve lost your home and your cigar-smoking, burger-eating best friend. And now you’re a day’s journey from East Texas alone on a dark porch that smells like nothing familiar.”

A couple of minutes later, I was pounding my pillow into just the right shape and making sure my feet were covered. “Got enough room there, Max,” I asked?

The adopted dog that would teach me many life lessons and I settled in for the night on the back porch. Watching the moon and counting Hill Country stars while we drifted off to sleep.

Many moons raced by. Max and I traveled Texas, raised two kids, and shared a few burgers. I never developed an appreciation for cigars, though.

Kids grown and gone and me back in Center, I was awakened one night by another, “Oof!” I knew the tone too well. Max was long in the tooth; arthritis was taking over his joints.

“You’ll know,” Center vet, Dr. Hughes had told me when I asked how I would know when it was time.  

I went to the living room and stretched out by the fireplace next to the old dog that had schooled me in devotion, friendship, and loyalty. I stroked his head and rubbed his long floppy ears as I had for several years. He rested his head on my leg and drifted off to sleep long before I did. We both knew.

I looked out the window at the East Texas moon rising, knowing the phone call I would make in the morning. Knowing that the old dog and I were spending our last night together, just as we had spent our first.

Last Saturday, I hoped the dog speaking his or her heart somewhere in the neighborhood was barking for some reason known only to the dog.

Even more, I hoped someone who understood was listening.

—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.

“Science may never come up with a better office communication system than the coffee break.”

—Earl Wilson, American journalist, and author, perhaps best known for his syndicated newspaper column, “It Happened Last Night.”

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Things change.

And like it or not, the only constant in life is change. Except for one thing. Make a note of this; it will be on the final exam. Coffee is essential to communication in general. Newspaper offices in particular.

Very little escapes change and what has changed more in recent years than the venerable newspaper? Even the connotation of the word itself isn’t what it was a few years ago when newspapers were limited to ink and paper for distribution. Today, your local hometown newspaper is delivered by mouse and megabytes as well as hot off the printing press. In either form, however, we still call it “the newspaper.”

While the local newspaper remains just as much a staple as coffee, both have endured change.

Just last week, we were ready to launch the newest step in the string of digital newspaper initiatives. Advertisers were scheduled to come in for a sneak preview. Snacks were plentiful. The coffee maker was ready for action when scarcely five minutes before time to start, the unthinkable happened. Someone whispered, “We’re almost out of coffee.”

Well, stop the cyberspace and printing presses. Put everything on hold. Someone hot foot it to the nearest grocery store coffee aisle. Stat!

Delving deeper into this sense of urgency for coffee, it hasn’t been that long ago that an office brewing machine with a coffee-stained glass pot stood ready to provide strong and steaming black “pick me up” java. The strength of that next cup varied in direct proportion to how long the pot had been cooking on the warming plate. Thankfully, packets of real and fake sugar plus powdered creamer stood within arm’s reach ready to temper the taste for individual taste buds.

By contrast, today’s newspaper break rooms have literal “coffee bars.” Computerized coffee makers utilizing pods to brew always fresh individual cups in various flavors and strengths. Fake sugar and creamer now share space with a variety of refrigerated dairy enhancements, regular and low-fat. And lined up in a row, bottles of flavored syrups offer elegance to a quick shot of caffeine-charged fuel for getting the next digital edition done.

Pick-me-up fuel was working on Managing Editor Bobby Pinkston’s mind at The Light and Champion office back in the day of coffee that got stronger by the hour when he leaned in my door one morning and said, “I’ve solved the problem.”

“Which one,” was my natural response.

Bobby’s reference was to a rather intriguing issue. A higher-than-average number of “mid-morning dropouts.” Staff members going about morning duties with glazed stares as if hanging on merely by looking back at the weekend and ahead to Friday again. Able to work only because they had a cup of three-hour coffee and a five o’clock dream.

Those who usually made it to work at 8:00 were sliding in closer to 9:00. The already habitually late arrivals were clocking in just in time to break for lunch.

“What’s he doing,” I asked Bobby, nodding toward the sports reporter who had not moved in an hour. “I don’t know,” he said. “I told him to get me that story on last night’s game first thing this morning.”

“Has he done it?”

“Don’t know that either,” said Bobby. “I hate to wake him up to ask.”

“You been makin’ the first pot of coffee every mornin’ haven’t you,” Bobby quizzed me like he was interviewing for the next breaking story.

“That usually comes with being the first one in the office,” I laughed.

“Well, it’s that stuff you been using to make coffee,” he said.

“That stuff called coffee,” I countered?

“That’s the problem, it’s not coffee. I saw that green package. It’s unleaded coffee.”                        

“Oh, you mean that new decaffeinated coffee.”

“I mean it ain’t real coffee, and we can’t get anybody jump started around here in the mornings as long you keep using it,” he said.

“I changed it because they say it’s supposed to be healthy.”

“OK,” Bobby grinned. “Then you finish that sports story I need, and I’ll let Rip Van Winkle out there finish his healthy nap.”

So, while no one was watching, I made a fresh pot with “real” coffee and ditched what was left of the unleaded stuff. Then over the next few days, Bobby and I marveled at the miraculous resurrection that unfolded before our eyes.

Change has transformed newspapers, coffee, and more since I entered the business decades ago. But luckily, there were a couple of things I learned early in the game.

One, there really is no better office communication system than coffee—real coffee.

And some forms of change are, well … simply best not tampered with.

—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.

“So many are now gone,
Time keeps rolling along.
I cherish all the memories,
Of the people back home.”

— L.A.

The obituary from a couple or three years ago was in a box marked “clippings to save.” The name was Walker. Said he had, among other jobs as a mechanic, worked eight years for Sandlin Motors.

It’s a funny phenomenon. Feelings for those short days we spent in that place we call home, even after a life lived far from where it all began.

Memories of more than half a century ago, before I left home in search of fame and fortune, suggested that the person in the obit and I worked at the same place about the same time. Sandlin Chevrolet-Olds body shop was one of the “worked my way through college” employers. Those paychecks not only helped put me through college, but they also helped fuel my addiction to gasoline fumes and drag racing.

According to the clipping, the eulogized James Walker would have been about 14 years older than me, making him mid-30s when I was there at the end of the ’60s. I remember him as “older than me,” but youth works in weird ways when defining terms like “older” and “younger.”

The guy I knew was funny. A cut-up, and a comic who always wore a smile. Usually not far away when mischief surfaced.

Service Manager E.O. “Mac” McNeil, Jr. greeted customers at the front door of the big arched roof service department building. After diagnosing the vehicle, he would take the car to one of the service bays. Four on the right of the staggered path through the building and two on the left, just past the parts department.

The first mechanic on the right at the front door for a long time in those days was Oscar Elliott who doubled as a service writer in Mac’s absence. The second bay was often assigned to new hires and the next two were where “senior members” Hubert Gill and Jack Sandlin worked for years before I arrived and a long time after I was gone. Mr. Jack was a brother of the company’s founder, Bob Sandlin.

James Walker and Bob Bright worked in the two service bays on the other side of the building.

The funny James Walker story (there were many) that came to mind when I read the obit last week was about a customer who bought a new ’68 El Camino and had it serviced religiously.

To hear James tell it, the owner could at times, however, be a bit distracting shall we say. Looking over his shoulder and questioning everything James did, something modern-day service departments won’t allow. For obvious reasons like liability and sanity of the mechanics.

The El Camino was almost out of warranty and was there for its last in-warranty-period service. Obsessed with what might happen once the warranty expired, the overbearing owner quizzed James about this and about that, and all of the “what-ifs,” once the guarantee was gone.

The vehicle got a clean bill of health, but James decided a little fun with the worry-wart customer was in order.

Without looking up from where he was working under the hood, James asked, “You know where these vehicles get their name, don’t you?” When the fellow said, “no,” James responded. “They’re built in Mexico—that’s why they have that Mexican name.”

“Seriously,” the fellow asked with a wrinkled brow. This was a time when American brands were built in the U.S., and anything imported was often deemed to be inferior quality.

“Yep,” James said. “Cheap quality. And parts are already getting hard to find.”

The prank backfired when the guy beat a straight path to the service department and asked about buying up whatever parts were in stock to fit his vehicle.

One of the parts guys at the time, probably Alvie or “Cotton,” cued Mac who was soon headed back to James’ bay.

“He said somethin’ about the coffee shop when he left out the back door,” said Bob sliding out from under a car he was working on. “And he was laughing awfully hard. Must have been somethin’ funny going on.”

James loved a prank, but unknown to many, he had a big heart. He was said to have loaned grocery or rent money to friends down on their luck. And I know for a fact he kept cars running for people who couldn’t afford to take them to a mechanic, doing the work at home on weekends.

Whether the saved obituary was for the James Walker I worked with those many years ago, I can’t say for sure. I never knew his family. And once I left Sandlin’s and Mount Pleasant, I never saw him again.

That fame and fortune I left home in search of still eludes me. What I have found, however, is a treasure in the memories and friendships I made at places like Sandlin’s in Mount Pleasant.

Both, far more valuable than I ever dreamed while I was making them.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page — Sandlin Motors in Mount Pleasant, Texas in 1964. Photo from the 1964 Mount Pleasant High School yearbook, “The Arrowhead.”)

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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.

“It’s got safety tubes, and I’m not scared
The brakes are good, and the tires are fair.”

—”Hot Rod Lincoln” song lyrics by Charlie Ryan

– – – – –

“Looks like about a ’41 Chevrolet truck,” I responded to my son’s email photo. A one-corner close-up of an old primer-coated project being refurbished with mild hot rod touches by his friend.

“You’re right,” Lee texted a couple of minutes later. “It is a ’41 Chevy. I asked. But how could you tell from that picture?”

I’ve heard it said that deep in the human being DNA genome lies a recessive gene known as LOC. Biologists will say they’ve never heard of it. Laboratory research in that area of genetics, I would wager, is rare.

It can be found in anyone but appears to have peaked in males who grew up in the ’50s and ’60s. Carriers are easy to spot. They display an affinity for old cars and trucks powered by internal combustion “dead dinosaur burner” engines.

LOC is short for ‘loves old cars.’

How do I know that? I have the gene. Lee inherited it from me, but his displays a generational mutation that allows for newer and imported makes. Mine is limited to cars I grew up with. American manufactured predating the dilution of foreign cars that began in the mid-to-late 60s.

I could have wowed him with all of that. But, instead, I just told him the truth.

“I had a short but memorable relationship with a 1941 Chevy panel truck in my youth,” I said. “She was a member of Mount Pleasant’s Explorer Post 206.”

I was a scout most of my school years. Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Explorer Scout. Mount Pleasant’s Explorer post in the 60s was organized as an “emergency service” post with a mission that today, would cause overprotective parents and over-enthusiastic legislators to suffer a meltdown.

We were 15-, 16-, and 17-year-olds working alongside first responders on emergency calls. High school students who aided city police and highway patrol officers at wreck scenes directing traffic and helping with clean up. Working with firefighters extinguishing grass fires in the country. Helping with hoses at city structure fires and directing traffic. We even trained with firefighters at the old North Washington fire station.

And that’s where the ’41 Chevy panel truck came into my life. And the lives of others like David Ward, H.O. Townsend, Scott Conner, J.B. Davis, Jay Jackson, Terry Landrum, Keney McDougal, Richard Shaw, Terry Nicholson, Terry Gaddis and others that will come to mind. About a week after this is published.  

Along with some names, where we got the old hauler escapes me. It was well-worn before it began serving time with Post 206. Its straight-six motor provided blazing power equaling that of a herd of turtles in a cloud of snail dust. Which was fine. We didn’t need anything fast.

It wasn’t without flaws. The floor-shifted three-speed transmission tended to jump out of high gear at speeds over 45 miles per hour, which were rare. But making it the scene of an emergency, the driver sometimes needed a shotgun rider keeping a death grip on the gear shift lever.

We may not have been the first to arrive, but we looked official when we got there. A local body shop donated a bright emergency orange paint job. We cleaned the inside and applied an all-white rattle-can paint job. Emergency flashing lights were mounted up top. The interior was fitted with brooms and Army Surplus “Jerry” water cans,

The pièce de resistance professionally painted on both sides of the truck was “Explorer Post 206 Emergency Service.”

While Explorer Scouting taught us responsibility, service, and dedication, we also learned a lot about auto mechanics. Many nights and weekends were spent “shade tree mechanicing” to keep the Big Orange ’41 on the road. One time it was a head gasket and valve job. Another was a carb overhaul. And one time, when we forgot to check the anti-freeze, we learned about ingenuity.

Scratching our heads in silence as we watched coolant seeping from an inch-long crack in the block, someone whispered, almost reverently as if directed by a divine suggestion, “J-B Weld.”

“Won’t work,” one of our fathers offered. You’re going to need a new motor. Undaunted, we cleaned the crack with a grinder and slathered it with a liberal layer of the miracle substance. The old ’41 never lost another drop. At least not from that cracked block.        

Maybe it is that gene thing. But for appreciating old Detroit iron, recognizing it from minuscule clues, and keeping it patched and on the road, I owe some credit to Big Orange ’41. Mount Pleasant Explorer Post 206’s emergency service vehicle.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page — From one of my boxes of “closet archives.” Undated but about 1963 would not miss it much. Memory does not produce information about the event, but it was staged at the old National Guard Armory in Mount Pleasant across Highway 271 from the current Titus Regional Medical Center, known back then as Titus County Memorial Hospital. Pictured are, left to right, J.B. Davis, Scott Conner, Terry Gaddis, Leon Nicholson, and David Ward.)

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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.

“I’ll tell you a secret. Old storytellers never die. They disappear into their own story.”

—Vera Nazarian, author.

– – – – – – – –

“Tell a story,” I encouraged my feature and column writing students at Stephen F. Austin a couple or three decades ago. “Everybody has a story.”

“But Mr. Aldridge,” I was challenged once. “You’ve been around longer. You know more people, you’ve seen more. Where do we get ideas as students?”

“Family, friends, folks you’ve just met,” I said. “There’s a story in everyone you know and everyone you meet. Your challenge is telling it. Tell their story for them. Keep it, and their memory, alive.”

Fast forwarding fifteen years found me in the newsroom again. The gig this go around was the Texas Country Music Hall of Fame up in Carthage, where Willie Nelson and Ray Price were in town to announce inductees for that year. After making the news official that it would be Kris Kristofferson, the pair of country music legends hung around to tour the museum, perusing the exhibits and swapping memories.

Following at a respectable distance, I took pictures and listened to them talk. And I gained another story. One about watching the two entertainment icons swapping their stories.

“Look at that,” Willie chuckled with a backhanded slap on Ray’s arm. “You remember that time in San Antonio we played that beer joint, and he was with us,” the memories continued.

And that’s the premise of my missives. Recounting memories. We all have stories to tell. And the important thing about them is that we keep telling them. I’ve always preached the importance of storytelling. But I’ve amended that sermon lately. And the best way to make my point is … with stories.

Stories like favorites about my dad. I’ve shared before that he was a quiet man, never offering advice, and how I learned from him by example. He strayed from that norm twice, that I remember. Once was about love and how what seems like love sometimes isn’t. The only way to know the difference is time,” he offered. “You can’t rush it.”

The other was making decisions. “I can tell you what to do, but you’ll probably do what you want to do. You’ll learn like everyone else, and like I did. The hard way by making mistakes.”

Then there are stories about my good friend and “partner in crime” through life, Oscar Elliott. The story about driving somewhere one afternoon, I forget where. I just remember telling him I was moving from the newsroom to the classroom to try my hand at teaching journalism.

“Here’s what you tell your students,” Oscar said. “Tell them communication skills are the best education they can get. With communication skills, you can be successful in any field. Tell them about your good friend since the fifth grade who never took a college class, who has an office in Dallas reporting to the vice-president of a big company because he can assess any situation and communicate it to anyone from the machine operators to the company ‘suits’ in the office.”

About my Center friend Vance Payne and his exemplary customer service skills. The story about the time I needed rubber mat material. He produced a dusty leftover roll from the warehouse of his hardware store, “on the corner, on the square.” With a smile, he asked, “How much ya’ need?” As he rolled it out to measure, I said, “three feet. How much would that cost.”

“Five dollars,” was Vance’s answer.

“That’s a good price.” I acknowledged. So would six feet be ten dollars,” I countered while counting my money. “No,” he said, still grinning. “That will be five dollars.” Confused but curious, I quizzed him. “So how much for the whole roll?’

“Five dollars,” he said again. “I need to get rid of that roll.”

There are many more like those above, so many. Far too many to tell in this space. But all with one common thread. Swapping stories last week with long-time good friend Mark Henry, I allowed as how for all the years I’ve been sharing stories about good old days and good old friends, I had just come to a sobering conclusion.

Far too many of my stories are now ending with the realization that I am the only one in the story who is still here.

And that is why we should all share our stories with as often as possible. Storytelling is our obligation to the next generation. Keeping alive, the events and memories of the people with whom we made those memories.

Before you and I disappear into our stories.

—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 chose the road less traveled. Now if I can just figure out where I am.”

Anonymous

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Roads less traveled have always been my preferred routes.

Dodge the interstates. Enjoy the scenic route and the small towns. Unfortunately, there was no scenic route to where I was going last week. There just wasn’t any way to get there from here without battling NASCAR wannabes running wide open, five freeway lanes wide. Also known as any given day driving in Dallas.

I have a good sense of direction. There was a day when a road atlas was all the direction I needed. You can still find one in my car, but the current edition is not as well-worn as previous issues. Electronic devices have replaced them with ease and convenience for finding a route to almost any place on earth — most of the time. There are still places where even the current array of electronic devices is not foolproof, however. I found one of them a couple of years ago.

“I’m at an intersection somewhere in the middle of Southeastern Kentucky,” I said aloud. I also had directions that night. Not good ones, as it turned out. “It’s late, it’s dark, and the only lights in any direction are from my vehicle. I have no cell phone signal. And GPS took me in circles, then admitted it was lost. I hear banjos playing. Please tell me you can help me.”

My pitiful plea was answered with the push of a button. “OnStar, how may I help you.” A voice in the wilderness. “Don’t worry. We’ll have you back to civilization soon. Give me just a moment to pinpoint your location,” she said.

I heard a tone of humor in her voice. Was she laughing at me?

“I’ve found you,” she chuckled. Then, giving me the names of the two intersecting rural roads where I sat alone in prayer, she asked, “Where would you like to go.”

Alone again in silence after furnishing the name and address of the lodge that was eluding me, I looked out into the pitch-black darkness. Glowing green eyes dotting the dark woods had joined the banjo music. I decided against sharing that with the OnStar agent.

“I’ve located your destination and have the correct coordinates.” She was back. “The information you gave for the lodge does not match what’s in our system. It’s close but we have it under a different 911 address. Would you like to go there now?”

“Ma’am,” I said meekly. “There is nothing in the world I would rather do at this very moment.”

“Hold on while I download the directions to your vehicle,” she said. “Listen to your radio for turn-by-turn directions as you travel.” I listened closely to see if she was still laughing.

While I waited for Miss OnStar to work her magic, I reviewed the previous two hours in my mind. How was I to know the GPS address on the brochure was not the same one stored in GPS computers? How was I to know that instead of telling me, “The address you gave me for that name does not match my records,” GPS would instead find delight in directing me in circles through sparsely populated Kentucky mountain regions in the dark of night.

Maybe GPS has a sense of humor, too.

A couple of missed turns later with OnStar nudging me back on course, I finally arrived. Three hours behind schedule. A sigh of relief came with those words, “You have reached your destination.”

A similar sense of relief awaited me at the end of my trip to Dallas last week, where my plea for help with big city traffic was to a power a little higher than guidance satellites. That prayer was answered as well. It may have been the phone app that directed me to my destination, but I’m confident that signal was getting a large dose of divine direction.

By whatever means, I’ve usually always made it to where I’m going, even if I am the last one to arrive. And people are glad to see me when I get there. I know that because they say things like, “I thought you’d never make it.”

“You know me,” I tell them. “I always go the extra mile. Whether I want to or not.”

—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 child learns from his parents, but sometimes, the parents can learn from their child.

— Gregorio Santos, composer.

– – – – –

“My son learned to water ski this summer.”

I penned that proclamation September 22, 1987. My son, Lee, was seven years old.

“No big deal you say,” that column continued. “Lots of youngsters tackle things like water skiing, swimming, and bicycle riding. Oh yeah, did I tell you he also learned to ride a bicycle this summer?”

I revisited that piece last week for the first time since I wrote it. It surfaced while working on my latest project, collecting, and cataloging many years of my attempts at weekly ramblings. All the way back to my first column in November of 1980. It’s been fun. It’s been frustrating. It’s been fulfilling.

When I wrote my first more than 42 years ago, the farthest thing from my mind was that it may have been the beginning of what would someday resemble my life’s resume. More often, I have said column writing became my cheap therapy. Something I admitted in writing as early as the column I wrote about Lee. “People who write often share their souls with the world by committing things to the posterity of print for all the world to read,” were my exact words. “Things that others may think but never say. It keeps me sane, and it’s cheaper than a therapist.”

“What follows has been on my mind for some time,” that column continued. Thoughts waiting to be set free. Feelings that started when our seven-year-old, Lee, first maneuvered a bicycle down the driveway earlier last spring. He was proud, but proud couldn’t touch my feelings.

“Then, this summer, when I watched as he overcame frustration and failed attempts to stay on top of water skis, I wasn’t sure which was bigger. The lump in my throat or the smile on his wet face as I watched from the boat when he finally persevered, holding on to the ski rope for dear life.

“What father is not proud of his children’s achievements? Bear with me a minute longer. Let me tell you about my pride,” I wrote.

“Go back with me to 1980 when Lee was born. May 12. Share with me disbelief, fear, and heartache when doctors said shortly after Lee entered the world that his chances for survival were not good. As I tried to process what the doctor was saying. I heard words like, ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ Statements about how fewer than 10 percent of babies born with the problems Lee came with survived. And how survivors are typically weak and frail children who never properly or fully develop to adulthood.”

The column chronicled the six weeks we stood vigil at Schumpert’s Neonatal Intensive Care Unit in Shreveport with a glass partition separating us from our newborn. I also confessed thoughts about my weakness, doubts about whether hours of reconstructive surgery the same day he was born would be successful. And if he did make it, what kind of a life would he face.

“But,” the column also recounted, “that’s only background for the message that follows.”

I lauded long about how Lee quickly became an impatient second grader making excellent grades, climbing trees, skateboarding, and water skiing. About him decorating his sister’s room with Crayolas, running off the cat, and mesmerizing the neighbors. But most of all, about how he, along with his nine-year-old sister, brought so much love into our home.

I concluded by writing, “Still, every time I watch him accomplish another milestone in life, I’m thankful for his accomplishments and thankful that he’s my son. Not because of what he’s done or how far he’s come from where he started. Hey, by the time he reached his first birthday, you’d never know what he went through the first year of his life.

“I’m grateful most of all for what he’s taught me. Because every time he rides his bike across the yard or skis across the lake, I think God knew seven years ago what Lee could do for me.

“But that’s another story, another part of my soul to be shared in another column.

“I’ve told you my son learned to water ski this summer. Only God in heaven knows what I’ve learned from him.”

As I share my soul in this message in 2023, my son Lee will be 43 this coming May.

I still thank God for him and his amazing sister, Robin. I’m still learning from both.

And I’m still writing for therapy. Cheap therapy.

—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.