A Story Worth Telling

“A happy family is but an earlier heaven.” 

—George Bernard Shaw

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My mother was the oldest of five siblings and the first to marry. Before the wedding, her father offered her advice for a happy life in a letter. Among other things, that letter included three admonitions. Remain faithful to God, devoted to your spouse, and close to your family by getting together often.

Mom died in 2010 at the age of 87 years and six months. She and my father had been married 62 years and eight months when he died in 2007. And, she remained a lifelong faithful member of the church of Christ.

Indianola Johnson Aldridge, better known to most as “Inky,” had three sisters and one brother. That “little brother,” Bill, and a sister, Jo, are the only ones still on this side of eternity. Bill is 86, and Jo is 90.

My Uncle Bill and Aunt Jo were among the little more than 100 family members and friends who gathered in Sweetwater last Saturday to celebrate the life of Bill’s son, Danny Johnson. Danny was only 61; far too young to be saying goodbye to anyone. But dreaded diseases don’t seem to respect any boundaries, including age. 

The gathering out in West Texas reminded me once again of the family spirit that mom’s parents, Arthur G. and Bernice Conlee Johnson, instilled in their children. Both of them were educators. They had six children, five of whom reached adulthood. Although they were living in Tennessee when mom met my father, they lived most of their lives where my mother was born and graduated from high school in Winchester, Kentucky. 

Follow that advice to stay close, they did religiously although they were spread out geographically. My parents settled in East Texas, where my father was raised. Two of her sisters settled in West Texas and one in Ohio. Bill went into the Navy in California, married, and started a family there before eventually moving to Sweetwater some years ago.

Despite the distance, family reunions in Kentucky every summer were priority. They all made the trip from where ever they lived as long as they were able to travel. Also fond memories are Christmases at each other’s homes or long weekends together for the Texas-based sisters where the living room floor doubled as a kid’s dorm.

Good memories also include many Saturday meetings for one-day picnics and swimming halfway between Seymour, where we lived before moving to Mount Pleasant, and Kress up in the Texas Panhandle where mom’s sister, Amy, lived. The location was a roadside park with a creek and waterfall known as Silver Falls. And let’s not forget the times when delegations from Texas and Ohio, where mom’s sister Kathrine lived, banded together to make the trek to California while Bill was living there.

The point to sharing all of that is to say that if any family ever heeded a father’s advice, it was mom’s. And they each did it while hauling a car full of kids across the country to be together at every opportunity. Of that generation of kids, I am the oldest. With Danny’s passing, 11 remain. I have two sisters I love dearly, but our clan of cousins regard each other in many ways, more as brothers and sisters than as cousins.

We missed a reunion or any kind of get-together last year as the result of the CCP virus. We did manage a couple of Zoom meetings, but it just wasn’t the same. Someone noted last Saturday that our gathering to say good bye to Danny was sadly, “one of the best family reunions we have had in a while.” To that, they quickly expressed the need to resume the gatherings, but under better circumstances. And before we left, conversation was underway about where we were going to get together this summer.

Family is indeed an earlier version of heaven, and I’ve also heard it said that we don’t choose our family; we are God’s gift to each other. For family like ours, I am thankful. And I’m also thankful God gifted our family with Danny.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of the page: Johnson Family members doing what they do best when they get together—eating. Gathered at Allen’s Family Style Meal’s in Sweetwater, Texas in October of 2017 were (left to right) Michelle (Johnson) Rybacki, Jo (Johnson) Scott, Teri (Johnson) Brown, Danny Johnson, Judy Scott, Fred Scott (better known to most as “Derf,” Leon Aldridge, and Sean Rybacki.)

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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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2021. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“Success is 10-percent luck and 90-percent hard work. And if you’re not lucky, just work 10-percent harder.” 

—Jim Chionsini, my long-time friend, business partner, and mentor.

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I consider myself lucky that my parents never bought me a car or paid for my college education. Not that they didn’t want to, it was more a case of not able to. I was lucky because they gave me something far more valuable: love, direction, and the understanding that success from the fruits of hard work is the most gratifying kind.

A Facebook story last week about some old photos reminded me of how lucky I’ve been in that regard. Thanks to the efforts of an exceptional individual who took the time and effort to locate members of Virgil Tolbert’s family in my hometown of Mount Pleasant, a number of old family photos are once again with his family. As often happens, that started me to thinking about a couple of things. One was my first real job working for Mr. Tolbert at Beall’s Department Store.

Well, let’s call it my first “employee” job with a regular paycheck. “Self-employed” jobs in junior high were my early sources of income. Things like collecting empty soft drink bottles along the roadsides to cash in for two cents each at the neighborhood grocery and mowing lawns in the summer for a dollar or two. While still in junior high, I graduated to working Saturdays at the Ben Franklin variety store on the downtown square. That paid 25-cents an hour for assembling bicycles and wagons, plus “trash management” and floor-sweeping and was paid in cash for hours worked. Simple economics, but when I spent that money on comic books or a movie, I quickly understood and appreciated just how many hours of work each of those expenditures represented.

Getting a paycheck every week at Beall’s was a warm and fuzzy feeling for a 15-year-old sophomore at MPHS. I had just purchased my first car, a 1951 Chevrolet acquired for $250 from Rex Kidwell at the Fina station. Working after school and Saturdays at the minimum wage of $1.25 an hour meant I could put gas in my car and still have spending money.

The best part, however, was getting to dress like a business professional and work all day Saturday selling clothes in the men’s department. A dress shirt and tie was the norm in most businesses then. Mr. Tolbert at Beall’s and my father, who was the manager of the Perry Brother’s five-and-dime just across the street, wore them every day. Getting to wear a dress shirt and tie every Saturday made me feel like “I had arrived” in the business world.

Mr. Tolbert was the best boss a 15-year-old “just arriving” in the business world could have had. Always wearing a smile and having something pleasant to say, he was courteous to employees and customers alike. He instilled by example the importance of making both feel welcome and appreciated.

More than a half-century later, I can say again, “I was lucky.” I’ve had many bosses, and I’ve been a boss as well. Most of the bosses I’ve had were individuals I’ve enjoyed working for and from whom I’ve learned a lot. Sure, there were a couple of stinkers along the way, but that happens, too.

So what was the second thing? The meaning of real success. I was lucky to learn from my parents, plus these individuals and others like them that success is best measured with a yardstick not marked by dollars. Also, that inspiring individuals to succeed through hard work, care, and respect for others who are also working hard to reach the same goals is more of a measure of someone than what they accumulate.

I’m thinking my luck has been better than 10-percent.

—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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2021. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“Why don’t you go haunt a house? Rattle some chains or something.” 

— Oda Mae Brown in the 1990 movie “Ghosts.” 

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It was really just a joke. After all, who was going to consider as serious, someone snooping around a building and mumbling, “I’m just looking to see if I have any ghosts hiding around here.”

It wasn’t haunting, chain-rattling apparitions I was seeking. Nor was I looking for the invisible variety with which I once shared a house with in Center, Texas. George was the name I gave that one, and we got along famously occupying the same dwelling. He made his presence known in playful ways but never caused a problem. And likewise, I gave him no trouble. After all, I was pretty sure he had lived there longer than I had. 

My views on other-world spirits were noted in a column I wrote about George a few years ago. “While never investing heavily in paranormal perception,” I declared, “I’ve also never doubted unexplained occurrences. Particularly, personal experiences in a house I called home a few years ago, one built in 1900. Experiences that were, well … difficult to explain.” 

Those I joked about last week were more like memories. Recollections aroused by returning to scene of my first assignment as a newspaper publisher 40 years ago at The Light and Champion in Center. Not the office on the corner of San Augustine and Austin Street folks in town have been familiar with since 1983, but the building nearby on Austin Street where the printing company is still located. That facility still has the offices once occupied by staff members, but since the newspaper was moved up on the square decades ago, they have been used only for equipment and storage.

Even so, “haints” were the last thing on my mind last Thursday as I trekked through the snow down to the pressroom to make sure the power was on.  Although I’d been there numerous times in recent years amid the activity of presses and people, the empty quietness that cold morning greeted me with old memories and a feeling that something was beckoning to me. Instead of printing paraphernalia, I saw visions of receptionist Patsy McNamara at her desk to my left. Straight across to the newsroom, I saw Gary Stewart, Patricia McCoy, and Eddie Burke working on stories. And to my right were the ad guys, Richard Pierce and Doug Stark, busy on the phone. Busy throughout the building making sure everything was running smoothly was Lois Cooper.

I walked down the hall to the last office on the left and envisioned where my desk sat. The paper’s owner, Jim Chionsini, preceded me in at that desk before he named me the publisher. I was the last person to occupy it. 

Feeling the familiar old vibes, I recognized the built-in storage cabinet to my left. Like every nook and cranny in the building now, it was filled with press-related parts except for a bottom shelf where a stack of yellowed, dust-covered newspapers rested. 

Always curious to examine an old newspaper, I pulled them out. That’s when blowing the dust off brought me face to face with my ghost. In my hands were several issues of three publications; The Monitor in Naples, The Sabine News in Many, Louisiana, and The Plaquemine Post in Iberville Parish (Metairie), Louisiana. Every issue bore dates between 1975 and 1977.

So, what was that spooky about a stack of old newspapers? The common spirit in them was mine. I moved into that office in 1980 with previous experience at two publications. The first was The Monitor from 1973 to 1976, followed by The Sabine News in 1976 and 1977. While at the Louisiana publication, I gave it a new look resembling The Plaquemine Post, which I regarded as one of the best-looking newspapers around at the time.

That combination of newspapers from that time period could have gotten together in that cabinet by only one means—I put them there when that was my office. And the thick dust on them served as pretty good evidence they had remained where I put them four decades ago before I found them last Thursday.

I’m betting even George would consider the odds of that happening to be pretty spooky.

—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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2021. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood.”

—Andy Goldsworthy, British sculptor, photographer, and environmentalist.

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Crafting a column about weather in Texas that will not see the light of ink and paper or digital pixels for several days can be tricky stuff. We all know that today’s forecast can change in two or three hours, let alone days.

As I was writing this last weekend for print publication Wednesday, the weather prognostication through this week was calling for sleet, snow, freezing rain, and temps lower than Black Friday Sale prices. However, I knew it was possible that by Wednesday we could be basking in sunny and 70 degrees. Turns out the weather forecasters were on the mark this time.

But even when bitter winter weather wreaks havoc in our lives, there is always something magical about childhood memories of excitement in the snow and ice. For that matter, even a few adult memories can seem magical, depending on how one defines magical … or adult

Like the day back before I acquired good sense when classes were canceled at East Texas State University after a wave of winter snow and ice clobbered Commerce. With a reprieve from the books and teacher’s looks, some of us decided it would be great fun to make an ice rink out of a huge iced-over parking lot located, to the best of my memory, near the student center and Gee Lake. Instead of skates, however, we found fun on the ice with our cars.

A little acceleration and various brake, steering, and throttle applications provided spinning out of control rides ending on a grassy lawn between the parking lot and Highway 11 where we slowly made our way back to start the fun over again. And great fun we were having until we noticed a new player in the slip and slide activity: a plain Ford sedan with red lights on top and “campus security” on the doors. Parking lot car skating must have been a new activity to them, however. We stood by our cars and waved as they went sliding right past us. Once they did manage to stop, they were quick to also put a stop to our fun.

Some ten years or so later, I like to think I had acquired a little bit of sense, but evidently not enough to prevent me from taking a bus trip across West Texas in an ice storm: a journey that added new meaning to “taking the scenic route.”

“One way to Dallas,” I told the agent, remembering three hours flat and driving the speed limit was a decent time for this trip. “Will the snow pose travel problems to Dallas.”

With a short “no,” I was handed my ticket to some real excitement. In addition to that inaccurate travel information, not disclosed was a seemingly sub-sonic travel time of little more than two hours, including stops in every burg along I-20 boasting at least 10 inhabitants and a convenience store.

The big silver dog express danced on the slippery super slab passing every creeping car and truck in the night. Gotta give the driver credit, though. He missed not one single icy spot as the bus did a series of Texas Two Steps with each one until the wheels accidentally caught the next patch of pavement.

While it was scary, there were memorable moments. A young man toward the rear of the bus traveling with his guitar broke into song. “They say music soothes the soul,” said a nice lady behind me traveling to Mobile with her daughter. “Join us in the singing.” I tried but just couldn’t pick up on the next verse of “Magic Carpet Ride.”

It was a night trip, so I tried to sleep. I’ve always said I hope to die in my sleep. But, truthfully, I had something more peaceful in mind than a bus careening off an icy highway going down Ranger Hill on I-20.

Every slip and slide elicited screams from the women, various expletives from the men, and both from the pregnant lady about two rows up. A couple of older guys across the aisle were taking wagers on when she was going to deliver. One bet on somewhere between Cisco and Strawn while the other put his money on the stretch between Weatherford and Aledo. She didn’t deliver during the trip, but the bus driver did. He brought us into Dallas at 10 minutes to midnight and 15 minutes ahead of schedule.

Through the icy winter weather this week, I found myself still working on that good sense thing remembering the days when excitement on the snow and ice seemed magical. I have decided one thing. At this point in life, it’s much more magical viewed through my breakfast room window at home than the windshield of a spinning car or a careening bus.

On the serious side of often dangerous weather like we’ve endured the last few days, I sincerely hope that as temps are rising, everyone has either recovered from the week’s historical event, or is close enough to recovery to see the end. Also, at this point in life, I have a sufficient number of magical memories from every age without adding new ones.

—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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2021. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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

—Alphonse Karr, French critic, journalist, and novelist.

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More years ago than I care to remember, a young newspaper writer and photographer sat down to pen his weekly column about being named the paper’s new publisher. Although he had about five years of community newspaper experience under his belt plus seven months at this newspaper, this charge would be his first as a publisher. 

That column began, “I’m ready for you, world … is the world ready for me,” sings Kermit the Frog in The Muppet Movie as he heads for California and Hollywood. Being charged with the responsibility of publishing summons me to ask myself, ‘Are you ready?’ The answer to that lies in the fact that here I am writing this column to answer my questions as much as to answer yours.” 

“There will be nothing new at your newspaper,” he continued, “other than a new publisher. And since I am neither new to the paper nor the community, the only thing new will be my face in the publisher’s office.” He espoused some basic principles, which he believed to be the foundation of community newspapers. Things like a common interest in the hopes, the fears, the happiness, and the sadness of the community. “Reporting the news, good and bad, fully and objectively, is any newspaper’s highest task and to that end, we fully subscribe.”

“In today’s economy,” he added, “The shopper wants the most for their spending dollar, the merchant wants the best coverage for his or her advertising dollar, and we intend to help both of them achieve just that. There will be no changes there.” He also touched on supporting the local community by shopping at home. “We are all in this together and if the businesses can’t make a profit, they can’t support the community with the product or service you seek.” 

Concluding by quoting successful newspaper entrepreneur Carmage Walls, he wrote, “Mr. Walls once said something to the effect that newspapers are owned by the people they serve. The stockholders are merely temporary custodians.” Nothing could be truer; this is your newspaper. Let us know what you want. That will never change.”

Some 30-plus years and a resume of publishing stints later, he was crafting another “I’m the new publisher” column at the same newspaper. This time he wrote, “A line in Ben Kweller’s tune ‘Full Circle’ allows as how the singer is ‘… havin’ fun sittin’ shotgun ’cause I’ve come full circle.’  I can’t escape the music of this business. I’ve left a couple of times not so much by choice, but more so by following my muse. And once again, she has tiptoed up and tapped me on the shoulder while softly crooning her hypnotic song, ‘I’m baaack.'” 

And now here I am this week, a few years following those words, once again writing an “I’m the new publisher” column at the very same publication in Center, Texas. This time comes at a period in life when almost everyone in my circle is doing retirement things. However, the Moser Community Media folks who I have known almost all my newspaper life offered me the opportunity to follow the publisher and ad director team of Mike and Stephanie Elswick at The Light and Champion. My response was they will be a very tough act to follow, but I will give it my best.

While I acknowledge the products and methods have changed since I drafted my “no changes” missive decades ago, the mission of community newspapers has not. They may look different, feel different, and in some cases arrive in your home by different means, but they still serve the same community role. The same philosophies I held then remain true today.

The old saying, “the more the things change, the more they stay the same,” comes to mind this time around. Perhaps that has been used as song lyrics as well, but I didn’t research it. We’ll save that for another column.

In the meantime, come see us at The Light and Champion. The coffee is on and that will not change either.

—Leon Aldridge

(Newspaper clipping at top of the page: The Center, Texas, East Texas Light, now The Light and Champion, November 11, 1980.)

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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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2021. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“We may not be able to prepare the future for our children, but we can at least prepare our children for the future.” 

― Franklin D. Roosevelt, 32nd President of the United States

It would be wonderful to tell you that I felt like I prepared my children for the future. But honestly, there were times when I worked diligently, just hoping they were prepared for school tomorrow and wondering if I would be prepared for next week.

My paternal grandmother, a devout Methodist, was quick to use Biblical scripture backing up her advice for raising children. That said, she humorously confessed her doubts about Proverbs 22:6, “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” To hear her tell it, she had my father perfectly trained until “he went off to the Army where he learned all of his bad habits.”

My mother once expressed thoughts on her parenting, telling me she wished she had done some things differently in raising my sisters and me. I assured her that she apparently did a good job—just look at how great I turned out to be. In the event she didn’t buy that, I also suggested that her sentiment was likely one shared by many parents. Children, unfortunately, do not come with owner’s manuals.

While I concur with my predecessors on parenting, there must have been a bit of acceptable guidance involved in my children’s paths to adulthood. Along with a little luck and a lot of God’s blessings, I have two wonderful children, Robin and Lee, who I love and of whom I am proud to say, “Those are my children.” At 42 and 40, they have families and, like most of us, have thoughts of their own about preparing children for the future.

It’s hard to say where she gets it (wink, wink), but Robin has a penchant for sharing her thoughts through writing short essays on various topics, including parenting and the society in which she is raising her children. Maybe it started with our communication habits at home when she was still in school. Some nights Robin and I sat on the back porch and talked. Other times she would leave me long notes, and I would respond likewise. These days, she posts her thoughts on Instagram, a form of social media I know nothing about other than how to find some of her work. 

One recent piece resonated with me, and I am doing something I have not done in all the years I’ve been writing columns; feature the work of a guest writer. The following was written by my daughter, Robin Osteen, after the recent siege of censoring and blocking social media platforms and news outlets. She closed her Amazon account of many years and wrote the following to express her thoughts on the company’s termination of their hosting agreement with Parler because of political and social opinions with which Amazon did not agree.

“I support companies having every right to make their own policies, support the causes they believe in, and refuse to do business with causes they can’t in good conscience support.”

“But, if we are going to be a country that retains its freedom, individuals have to have enough backbone to put aside their own convenience and even security in order to stop funding entities that are vying for control over other’s freedom.”

“I don’t agree with everything shared on Parler. But I refuse to teach the next generation that the answer to bullying is to become the bully. If society deems disagreement, dissent, and questioning the current perceived reality as unacceptable behavior, the next generation will live as silent slaves to those who dictate and define acceptable reality.”

“Over the last two years, I have extracted myself from social media other than checking in once a week for about 30 minutes. My husband and all of my older children have come to me individually telling me how much better our life is now that I’m not glued to my phone. It’s been over a year since I went down to my half-an-hour-a-week policy and, it was a rough transition. But my relationships have gotten so much better, I feel more connected with my world, and my anxiety has decreased by at least one half.”

“You do what’s right for you. But know that the next generation will look back at the choices this generation made in this season. You are only one person, but the choices you make will affect the people around you. All I ask is that you choose intentionally and with courage.”

“One more thought for the road: We have always taught our children that responsibility and authority are inseparable. You cannot give another person or entity responsibility for an area of your life without also giving them the authority to call the shots.”

That’s my daughter. I’m thinking her children will be prepared for the future as well as prepare a better one for their children.

—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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2021. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“To become old and wise, one must first survive being young and dumb.”

— philosophical humor novelty sign in the Jefferson (Texas) General Store

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Last Saturday was not the first time I had smiled at that particular bit of pithy humor. In fact, most of us with older and hopefully wiser credentials (a.k.a. gray hair) would agree that the saying is more truth than humor. We would also tend to agree that guardian angels are a real thing.

Soon after seeing that sign, I read a social media post about some old wood bridges that once crossed the White Oak Creek bottom in Titus County, Texas, where I grew up. Connecting young and dumb with one of those bridges known as “the mile-long bridge” reminded of a night when guardian angels were definitely on duty.

As was most of my Mount Pleasant, Texas, high school classmate’s, my favorite high school pastime was cruising city streets from the north end Dairy Queen to the Dairy Mart on the south side of town, also known as “Bobby Joe’s.” Repeating that route for as many hours as was needed for sufficient socializing satisfied many Friday and Saturday nights.

When the city scenery became boring, some chose cruising the country roads. One country cruising loop involved two parallel roads connecting Mount Pleasant to Talco in the county’s northern end. Both Farm-to-Market 1402, sometimes called the “Hart’s Bluff Road,” and County Road 2152, commonly referred to as the “Green Hill Road,” crossed the White Oak Creek and slough that snaked its way through the county. Both roads intersected Highway 71 near the Talco oil fields’ eastern side.

The mile-long bridge on the Green Hill Road was a one-lane wood structure built in the early 1900s. It is long gone today, replaced years ago with a more modern means to traverse the swampy creek. Whether it was actually a mile long or not, I cannot confirm. Still, it was undoubtedly longer than any other one-lane wood bridge I remember crossing.

In remembering my own youthful lack of good judgment, I will protect the identity of others along for the ride that long-ago night. But, should this story sound familiar, admitting to being an accomplice is solely at your discretion.

Memory does not discern whether it was four or five souls who loaded into the big late-50s Pontiac Bonneville belonging to one of the perpetrators anticipating a night of seemingly innocent fun in Talco. Fun for this trip was loosely defined as sitting atop an oil derrick stargazing, talking, and reflecting on our impending high school graduation.

Choosing the Green Hill Road as our route to Talco and derricks in the dark of night, we were quickly on our way. However, it was much too quick for comfort from my back-seat view that I saw the mile-long bridge entrance appearing in the headlight’s glow. Before I had time to process that perception, the big highway cruiser hit the uneven spot where the bridge and the county road’s asphalt didn’t align perfectly, pitching it upward in a posture not unlike a 747 ready for liftoff.

I’m confident today that not one of us knew or considered that Bonneville weighed in at just over two tons and was 18 feet and a few inches more in length. That aside, the resulting momentary weightlessness felt like “the rubber may have actually left the road,” contradictory to the old Firestone tire ads. Whether it was actual or perceived flight, gravity soon interceded and did so with the aforementioned car’s weight compounded by G-forces that I’m sure Mr. McDowell could have easily calculated for us in physics class the next day. Fortunately, the big wide track hit the bridge on all fours and stayed there. The tired wood timbers survived the landing, and we reached the other side unscathed.

Looking back, scaling an iron ladder to the top of an oil derrick in the dark later that night oddly didn’t seem nearly as scary as launching a two-ton land yacht across a creek bottom on a one-lane wood bridge.

But again, young and dumb often looms as much less dangerous through the eyes of youth. It becomes scary only when the gray begins to hint at older and hopefully wiser thoughts. And when we begin to realize we may have given our guardian angels some gray hair of their own.

—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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2021. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“It’s not really hoarding if it’s cool stuff.” 

—Poster seen on Pinterest

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“Thank God for the hoarders,“ proclaimed Terry McKenzie at Chrome Reflections Motorcars in Longview last week. 

That moment of appreciation was realized as we discussed a rarely seen vintage piece of automotive service equipment displayed on the coffee table in the classic and collectible vehicle dealership lobby. The metal frame supporting an inverted glass bottle with a small tube extending downward through the lid, to me, more closely resembled a barnyard chicken watering device than anything automotive.

“It was for adding water to car batteries,” Terry explained. “A gentleman with a large collection of items saved from his father’s service stations that closed many years ago brought it in.” While we admired the antique auto piece, we also marveled at old things considered junk and lost to time that survive and are resurrected from someone’s hoarded collection—moments in life that are near to my heart.

At one time 30-plus years ago, I ran newspaper ads wanting to buy old records, signs, and car parts. My conversation with Terry reminded me of one such call years ago. “I bought some property down south of Shreveport,” the caller said. “It has an old country store and auto shop that’s been closed for decades. I need to tear it down and will make someone a deal on these old car parts.” Statements like that always start my motor to revving. “Gimme three hours,” was my eager reply. “Wait, make it two.”

I returned to Center late that night with a truckload of dust-covered Ford parts from the 1950s still in their aged boxes. I’ve since used, sold, or given away many of those parts. Yet, a good-sized portion of that hoarded find remains in my shop today, along with other auto-related “stuff” collected for who knows how many years.

Terry and I laughed at his newly minted, “Thank God for the hoarders,” saying last week. But, the thought later occurred to me: “Could I be a hoarder?” 

“Heaven forbid—if you organize it, it’s not hoarding,” I assured myself. “I’m a collector.” Prompted by that panicky rationalization, I started to take stock of my collections, those in my garage and beyond. Things like a library of books dating to my college textbooks from 1967 through 1971 sharing several bookcases in my home office (recently dubbed “The Relic’s Room”) that houses hundreds of publications on a variety of subjects. Psychology, American automobiles, Texas history, Biblical topics, journalism, aviation, to name a few. Not to mention a prized first edition copy of “The Specialist” by Chic Sales that my mother’s father gave my dad some 75 years ago.

Other shelves are lined with phonograph records dating to their inception 100 years ago. Despite advances in technology, to my ears, there is no substitute for enjoying the music while watching their colorful labels spin. Once an extensive collection, I’ve downsized in recent years to something in the neighborhood of 2,500 or so … if you count storage areas and closets around my house. That does not count, however, what was once the linen closet. That is reserved for an extensive assortment of automotive magazines spanning 60 years, plus a first edition copy of Life, the magazine’s premiere issue dated November 23, 1936.

I never thought of myself as a hoarder, long ago convinced that collecting things is just a part of who I am. When my kids were young, daughter Robin was doing her best to help by tugging at a box of books during a move. “Dad,” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you collect something like butterflies or stamps.”

“I did collect stamps when I was in high school,” I told her. “Still have them. They’re in that box we just loaded. Or, maybe they’re in one of those boxes stacked over there by the wall.”

After deciding my collections are cool stuff, for the time being, I’m secure in the knowledge that I’m not a hoarder. It’s all a matter of semantics, and should that change, I’ll just call Terry up, and he will remind me, “Thank God for the hoarders.”

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo at top of page—One just never knows when they might need a harmonic balancer pulley for a 50s or 60s high performance Chevrolet engine, or a vacuum heater valve assembly, headlamp trim, or glove box lock and key set for a mid-50s Ford. Therefore, I’ve kept these new old stock original parts still in the boxes, and lots more like them, for about 35 years, or is it 40?)

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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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2021. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“The older you get, the more you realize you have no desire for drama, conflict or any kind of intensity. You just want a cozy home, a good book, and the company of someone who knows how you drink your coffee.” —Uncredited motivational poster

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While writing resolutions last week (hey, the year is still relatively new), I recycled all the usual suspects: lose weight, exercise, save more, quit buying so many old car parts. After some hesitation, I crossed off that last one and wrote, “get a bigger store room.” Pleased with my efforts, I concluded by adding one more, “avoid drama.”

Never one to enjoy drama, my disdain for it has only increased with age. I’ve always enjoyed healthy discussions on politics, religion, philosophy, cars, music … you name it, so long as its civil. I’m not naïve enough to think I’m going to change anyone’s mind, therefore I don’t enter into a discussion with hopes of doing so. I just strive to respect individual differences because to me, agreeing to disagree is better than losing a friend. As Thomas Jefferson once noted, “I never considered a difference of opinion in politics, in religion, in philosophy, as cause for withdrawing from a friend.”

I come by that honestly. Dad was a confessed “yellow dog” Democrat, and mom was an unbending Republican. She was also a lifelong member of the church of Christ, and dad dodged her diligent efforts to convert him. Despite differences that often create difficulties in marriages, theirs lasted 62 years and 8 months before dad died unexpectedly in 2006. Every election cycle, they canceled each other’s votes. Dad never joined the church of Christ, and mom never missed a service until Alzheimer’s eroded her mind in the last years of her life.

Yet, I never heard a disparaging word over politics, religion, or anything else for all my years with them. Oh, they disagreed on things all right. But when they failed to see eye-to-eye, there was never an ugly or harsh word, not even a change in either’s tone of voice. Most disagreements ended quickly with dad shrugging his shoulders, walking away, and shaking his head with that, “I’ll never understand her,” expression every married man knows. And mom? She voiced her differences by pleasantly presenting her case, then ignored any further comment busying herself with housework or reading a book.

Often wondering what might be on his or her mind, my assumptions of unspoken words my father might have had were like, “I don’t understand, but it’s not worth an argument.” And it always seemed to me that mom’s thoughts could have been, “I’ve stated my case. If you didn’t understand me the first time, there’s no sense in repeating it.”

It’s that inherited dislike for drama that prompted my final resolution for 2021 to reduce it, and a good start will be reducing my intake of social media. Digital messaging has its good side. It’s facilitated reuniting friends and family as well as finding new friendships in a manner that was impossible 25 years ago. On the downside, however, it’s exacerbated what family and friends sometimes do: fuss, argue and get mad. And even worse, it’s normalized dissension between total strangers who by some unfathomable logic consider it sane to call each other, or others, ugly or even profane names and broadcast the whole sordid speech to an anonymous worldwide audience.

It’s no coincidence to me that the proliferation of social media and deep divisional discord in our society have traveled parallel paths. The divide can be traced at least to the rebellious 60s. It increased dramatically in the mid-90s when Hotmail became the first free web-based email service in 1996 and “SixDegrees.com,” debuted as the first social media site in 1997. Facebook launched in 2006, and as they say, “the rest is history.”

I enjoy social media to stay in touch with family, friends, and special interest groups dedicated to old cars, airplanes, and music. But, the political and societal drama has for the most part, made the rest distasteful. So, it was when I found myself sucked into these frenzied free-for-alls foolishly dreaming civil discourse was somehow possible that I realized it was time for a change. For now, my goal is to keep the positive, uplifting, and civil elements of social media. But for all the “invitations” to hate-fueled drama, just like changing the TV channel to avoid vast wastelands there, I will keep on scrolling.

Will I avoid all discussions expressing my opinions? Heavens, no. I didn’t say I was rolling over and giving up on my beliefs, just that I’m tired of the hate-filled, disrespectful content based mostly on misinformation from which nothing good comes anyway. As I’ve said in this space more than once, the biggest threat to America’s future is our loss of respect for each other, for our country, and to a large degree a growing loss of self-respect.

That said, if you need any 1950s Ford parts, message me. I’ll respect you with a “no drama deal.” Plus, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee to boot. Just let me know how you like yours.

—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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2020. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“There is much pleasure to be gained from useless knowledge.”

—Bertrand Russell (1872-1970) British philosopher, mathematician, historian, writer, social critic, political activist, and Nobel laureate

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What better way to start a new year than expanding one’s vast store of useless information? It’s an exercise especially helpful when trying to forget what we see every day on the evening news.

“Vast store of useless information” is a term I learned to appreciate from long-time friend, Randy Brogoitti. Randy and I grew up following the same paths through school at Mount Pleasant, Texas, and East Texas State University. Every Sunday we were both also at Southside Church of Christ. From there, Randy’s path led him to Kilgore and mine led to Center. 

Since our birthdays aren’t that far apart, I’m certain Randy’s vast store of useless information remembers a long forgotten but once essential household tool with an unusual name questioned by a Center friend last week. It came up while recalling everyday things that have disappeared from use since we were kids. Words like funeral home fan, payphones, rabbit ears, and more were bounced back and forth, but the conversation came to a screeching halt when I blurted out, “church key.” 

Truth be known, it had been a while since I heard anyone refer to a church key myself. I penned a piece about the once household item while at The Monitor up in Naples 20-something years ago and touched on the tool in this blog space a few years ago as well. They were extinct even when friend and mentor at The Monitor, Morris Craig, engaged the Methodist church secretary about the church key that day. To be clear, that conversation was about the small brass key used to disengage the lock securing the front door at the Northeast Texas house of worship, not the legendary tool necessary for opening cans and bottles.

However, I must admit my first connotation upon hearing Craig use the phrase wasn’t Sunday go-to-meeting related. What it did call to mind was a term I learned as a child from my father. When I was growing up in Mount Pleasant, a beverage in a can was something new, having just been introduced in 1959 before “pop-tops” and “twist-offs” made someone rich. Drink can tops were just as smooth and flat as the oil can tops at the local Esso filling station. So, whether it was Pepsi or Pearl to quench one’s thirst, 30-weight Quaker State to keep the family car running, or pork and beans from the local Piggly Wiggly supermarket, a tool to access any can’s contents was required.

Can openers for food were standard in every home for mealtime. But the required tool for a beverage or sometimes an oil can could be found at home, in the garage, or even wired in a handy place under the hood of a car. They had a sharp point on one end to puncture cans while the other end was rounded and designed to remove bottle caps with ease. The small tool designed to perform either function was sometimes called an opener, but more often than not went by the nickname of “church key.”

While varying explanations for the name associated with them abound, Wikipedia reports the term church key is thought to have been derived from the tool’s shape. The predominant version is “… the ends of some bottle openers resembled the heads of large keys such as have traditionally been used to lock and unlock church doors.”

Whatever the origin, anyone who lived during that time will never forget the convenience of the lowly “church key” or the frustration of looking for one when needed.

And for anyone born since then, here’s hoping that like Russell, you find pleasure in adding to your vast store of useless information in the new year. It might even help forget the frustrations of the old one.

—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, and the Alpine Avalanche.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2021. 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 that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.