A Story Worth Telling

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

It’s all over now, don’t worry ‘bout me.”

— Song lyrics, Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me, by Marty Robbins

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

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

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

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

That, I knew. 

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

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

And she was always right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I knew that, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, I had never forgotten.

—Leon Aldridge

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

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Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, and The Monitor in Naples. © Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

“The drive-in movie where we’d go,
And somehow never watched the show..
We will have these moments to remember.”

— Song lyrics, American singer and actor, Bing Crosby,.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Leon Aldridge

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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’m a-goin’ where the dust storms never blow.”

— Song lyrics, “Ain’t Gonna Be Treated This Way,” American folk singer Woody Guthrie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All for a little dust,” I thought?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Leon Aldridge

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

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

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

Like 100 or so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least the things I can still do . . .

—Leon Aldridge

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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.

“Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

— John Gillespie Magee Jr., World War II Royal Canadian Air Force fighter pilot and war poet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure,” I said. “What’s a slip?”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Leon Aldridge

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

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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.

“If an expired license plate means another decoration for your living room wall … you might be a redneck.”

—Jeff Foxworthy, comedian, actor, author, writer and member of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour.

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

“You want to go with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Leon Aldridge

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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.

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

— Catchy saying that used to be funny.

– – – – – –

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

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

Are you allergic to anything?

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

Recent surgeries?

“No.”

Recent illnesses?

“No.”

Ever broken any bones?”

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

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

Accidents in the last five years?

“You mean prior to the one this morning?”

Have you fallen lately?

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

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

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

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

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

That was before I tried to walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Leon Aldridge

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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.

“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)

– – – – – – –

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.

– – – – – – – –

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

– – – – – – –

“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.