A Story Worth Telling

The cost of conversation is going up

“If it’s a penny for your thoughts and you give your two cents worth, where did the other penny go?”
— Comedian George Carlin

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“Are they really going to going to stop making pennies.”

“Must be true, I read they will stop production in 2026,” I said. The lowly penny surfaced as a topic of conversation at dinner with friends last week. Sadly, it appears that a penny saved is no longer a penny earned, as Ben Franklin once noted. As a matter of economic fact, they’ve been a monetary loss for most of 20 years.”

According to the U.S. Mint, the production cost of a penny was 3.69-cents in 2024. About 3 cents for manufacturing and the rest for administrative costs and distribution.

“Rising costs aren’t the real reason pennies are going away,” someone added. “No one spends them anymore. Most pennies put into circulation are given as change in cash transactions, then never reused. There were about 240 billion in circulation last year. That’s 700 pennies per person; most in jars or dresser drawers.”

“I have my share,” I laughed. “At least that many on my dresser, more in my car’s console, and not telling how many under the front seat.”

“I save pennies I find on the ground,” said another. “Haven’t you heard the poem? ‘So don’t pass by that penny when you’re feeling blue. It may be a penny from heaven, that an angel’s passed to you.” Finding a penny is a reminder that someone in heaven is thinking about you.”

Adding to the poetic perspective, I contributed, “‘Find a penny, pick it up. All day long you’ll have good luck.’ I’m guilty of picking up a heads-up penny for luck. But if I spot one that’s tail’s up, I turn it over and leave it for someone else to find good fortune.”

While financial fortune might be hard to measure in pennies today, the copper coins represent more than mere monetary value to many. The humble penny represents priceless value in conversational expressions that have coined philosophies of American life for generations.

My grandmother’s favorite was, “Take care of the pennies, and the dollars will take care of themselves.” Survivors of the Great Depression, like my grandparents, characterized the less fortunate by saying, “They’re so poor, they don’t have two cents to rub together.”

“A penny for your thoughts” attributes value in wisdom to the meager one-cent piece. However, I am also quick to remind that “advice is worth what you pay for it.”

Today, “rattling money,” as one longtime friend always described pocket change, can be little more than a nuisance amid plastic money or folding money … or in my case, no money. However, it was historical appreciation for a penny that caused me to pause long enough to peruse a wheat penny in my pocket pile a couple of years ago.

Some my age will remember that the first version of the still-current penny, portraying a likeness of “Honest Abe” on one side, was first issued with two grains of wheat and the words “one cent” on the other. “Wheat pennies,” as they are called by coin collectors,” were minted from 1909 to 1958 when the reverse side was replaced with a likeness of the Lincoln Memorial in 1959.

Finding a wheat penny in pocket change, or anywhere today except in a coin collection, is rare enough. But the odds of someone giving me one in change at a Center, Texas, business that day might have been good enough to win the lottery. It bore the date 1919, minted when plenty of Indian Head pennies produced from 1859 to 1909 were still familiar in pockets and cash registers.

The coin had been in circulation for nearly 100 years the day it ended up in my pocket.

It was crazy to think that World War I had just ended when someone first pocketed the penny. The same year that Congress approved the Grand Canyon as a national park. The year a flight from New York to Atlantic City established the first commercial airline service. When Woodrow Wilson was president. The 19th Amendment to the Constitution, giving women the right to vote, was newly ratified.

And the year before my father’s parents became newlyweds in 1920.

So, what’s a 1919 “wheat” penny worth? Besides lots of memories and some sage sayings about life and luck? Around a dollar, maybe two, according to numismatic value guides.

“What will we ever do without pennies,” one of my friends lamented.

“One thing for sure,” I concluded, “The cost of conversation will go up.”

“From now on, it’s going to be ‘a nickel for your thoughts’ to start discussions like this.”

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. 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.

Learning to cope with emerging technology

“Our mission is to connect every person in the world.”
– Mark Zuckerberg

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Technological advancement, properly applied, should bring improved quality of life with rewards in time savings and productivity. Don’t you agree?

But with every application of cutting edge techie tools comes more knowledge not enjoyed by those with a learning curve geared to outsmarting a computer. Or worse, nefarious characters with devious ideas for using it never intended by the developer. The internet, cell phones, mind boggling apps. A plethora of digital diversions that delight one day and dishearten the next.

Even with the newest … AI. Don’t we have enough artificial intelligence already serving as elected officials, television news analysts, and customer service reps?

Tech tools and toys were just emerging when fax machines were hailed as futuristic. We marveled at the one installed at the newspaper office in Center back then. “It’s going to save so much time,” we cheered, gazing at documents magically transferred through telephone lines. With every screeching sound of the machine’s “handshake” tone, everyone gathered to “ooh” and “ah” at letters from the other side of the country arriving in mere minutes.

In no time at all, we were sharing jokes and cartoons with friends and business associates. It was the best source for laughter around. Until Facebook came along.

In the real world, technology can make the impossible happen with ease and in record time. But just like a questionable joke inadvertently faxed to the wrong number, tech can create a desire to disappear into the unknown. Or render us ready to take the device and “throw it in the horse lot” as my grandmother used to say, when it doesn’t work as we think it should,

The late Lewis Grizzard, Southern humorist and author, put it succinctly in his book entitled, “Elvis Is Dead, and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself.” With his insightful humor, Grizzard poked fun at baby boomers trying to cope with emerging technology when he said, “The world around me is a tuxedo, and I’m a pair of brown shoes.”

That very thought came to me a while back. When my home security system designed to provide the secure feeling of a bad dog backing up a Smith and Wesson failed to function properly.

It’s a great piece of technology. Monitors doors and windows, the thermostat and selected appliances, the lights, reports the weather, and more that I have yet to master. It records videos of anyone approaching the doors and allows me to answer the doorbell from across town or across the country via my cell phone that has features I have yet to comprehend. Things that work great, provided the system installer and said smartphone user are both smarter than the technology.

It started the day a young technician came to my house and upgraded the control panel. Is it my imagination, or do all technical service reps look like they are a couple of years shy of being old enough to get a driver’s license? After he explained the changes to me in a language that might as well have been Swahili, he assured me it was the best on the market and was gone in short order. “Thank you,” I smiled.

At bedtime that night, cats were put out, dogs let in, doors locked, and pillows fluffed. As the last measure before drifting into blissful slumber, I armed the alarm confident in the sophisticated system with my “three dog night” backup.

For the record, my money’s on the dogs for reliability. They do one thing the alarm doesn’t—wake me without fail at 5:30 a.m., reminding me of their urgent need to go out and visit nature.

5:32 a.m. The doggie alarms goes off. With blurry vision, I poke the control panel app with my code. Nothing, followed by the words “Incorrect Code.” A second attempt with glasses was equally unsuccessful. By the third try, the dogs were poised and pointing at the back door with tears in their eyes.

“What next?” I could simply open the door. Within seconds, I would be on the phone with someone from the security company checking on me. “Wait,” I thought. I could also be talking to uniformed police officers. With guns.

I dialed the number for the alarm company and was pleasantly greeted. “XYZ Security, how may I help you?”

“My dogs and I are being held hostage in my house,” I joked about the non-functioning panel. I’ve always considered humor as an ice breaker for pleasant conversation. Please note, however, that humor is not the appropriate response when talking to a home security agent. At 5:30 a.m.

Once we reached an understanding of what constitutes funny and what does not, tests were performed to arrive at a conclusion. The servicing technician had failed to program the new panel with my security code.

“No problem, I can walk you through it,” the understanding agent said. Her discovery that she was dealing with someone who could not program their VCR, combined with realizing she was talking with someone who still uses a VCR, appeared to dash all hopes of a speedy solution.

We stumbled through it, though. Much to the delight of the agent and me. And three agonizing dogs who burst out the back door when it was finally opened.

Crisis over, my thoughts turned to caffeine. And to Zuckerberg’s philosophy and Grizzard’s humor. With the last sip, I wasn’t convinced that chatting with security system people at 5:30 a.m. was Zuckerberg’s vision of “connecting to every person in the world.”

Especially when I’m wearing brown shoes in a tuxedo world.

—Leon Aldridge

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We thought it was funny — everyone laughed

A well-meaning friend gifted me a coffee mug on my 40th birthday … a few years ago.

Black in color, it reflected the American mindset of 40 as the midnight hour of aging when birthday celebrations turn into pumpkins. I still have the mug. Every so often, I glance at it once more, and the message that foreshadowed coming years.

“After 40, it’s patch, patch, patch.”

How funny, we all laughed at the party. These “Golden Years” were still a distant vision when we celebrated as I announced my intentions to remain “thirty-nine and holding.” A motto, which I also used to think was funny when my optimistic Uncle Freddie joked about it years ago.

While sitting in the waiting room of the hospital imaging area last week, leisurely looking at dog-eared magazines dating back to just after Y2K, the mug’s message returned to me in a vision. One with memories of household items routinely patched when I was a kid. Things that no one patches anymore. At least, not that I know of.

Things like blue jeans. With cuffs turned up a couple of rolls. Extra leg length allowing for growing boys because buying new jeans didn’t happen frequently. Usually once a year. At back to school time. And when they were finally tossed, the dark color was long gone, the cuffs completely unrolled, and the knees patched. Sometimes more than once.

Iron-on blue jean patches were a staple of every mother’s mending basket back then. New patches stood out like a bandaged sore thumb on worn out jeans. Something that no doubt promoted the popularity of decorative patches.

I remember going to school sporting a likeness of Davy Crockett on my knees. “King of the Wild Frontier.” Other times, with Roy Rogers riding on Trigger, hat waving high above his head.

Patching clothes was not limited to blue jeans, though. Mom darned my socks. Who today even remembers the word “darning?” Or knows what it means. The domestic art of stitching up small holes in clothing by weaving thread to cleverly hide the repair was also used on my sisters’ sweaters. Extracting extra miles from everything we wore.

Even down to our shoes. Making them good for more miles. When every small town had a “shoe shop” where the rich smell of leather greeted customers at the door. Glynn’s Shoe Shop on the south side of the square in Mount Pleasant extended the life of footwear with new soles and heels and a complimentary shine, all at a fraction of the cost of new shoes.

New heels and soles were still available at Center’s shoe shop when I located here during Gerald Ford’s presidency. It was just off the square on Logansport Street .

Another shoe shop service was cutting a couple of inches off the ends of leather belts and punching extra holes to extend their life of keeping pants up on young boys as they sprouted into lanky teenagers.

Washing machines, refrigerators, and other appliances were once repaired when they stopped working. Now, we go shopping for a new one when the old one hiccups. A popular advertising slogan touting quality back in the day proclaimed the Maytag repairman to be “the loneliest man in town.” Today, simply finding a service technician to repair any brand in some communities is a lonely search.

Patching practices included the family car. Repaired tire tubes for flat tires on Dad’s Studebaker Starlight Coupe. A box of Camel brand inner tube patches was ever-present in his toolbox. Like most men then, he did minor repairs on the family’s only car. When automobile maintenance required little more than common sense and logic.

Today’s riding lawnmower is a more complex machine than a 1950 Studebaker. And cost as much as three or four new Studebaker cars did then.

Household repairs were creative by today’s standards. My grandfather patched Granny’s pots and pans utilizing a nut and bolt with flat washers on both sides of the hole. And I own a rocking chair on which he repaired a broken leg. I remember him repairing and patching his favorite rocker when the US flag had 48 stars.

Previous generations were adept at patching and repairing to make household items and money last longer. One repair shop I remember displayed a sign claiming, “We can repair anything but a broken heart.”

“Mr. Aldridge,” a voice interrupted my daydreaming. It was an invitation to join the technician for an MRI party in my honor down the hall. A party where there will be less laughing than was heard at my 40th birthday.

By the time you’re reading this, I likely know the test results. I should also know the options for dealing with that aching, aging shoulder. The one that’s endured everything from a 1970s motorcycle wreck to a hillside hiking spill just a couple of years ago. But it’s amazing what modern medicine can patch now.

If I’m lucky, maybe one of those Camel tube patches might even work.

—Leon Aldridge

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It’s just the way my daddy trained me

“Things Money Can’t Buy: Time. Happiness. Integrity. Love. Manners. Respect. Trust. Class. Common sense. Dignity.” ― Roy T. Bennett, inspirational author

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“You don’t have to get up,” someone told me during an introduction and handshake meeting last week.

“Are you kidding,” I laughed as I rose to my feet. “That’s the way my daddy trained me. I don’t know any other way.”

Good manners will never be down and out in a civilized society, we agreed at the boomers coffee klatch last week. But random acts of kindness and courtesy once commonly taught in every home are gowing scare in public places.

“It’s not as much of a thing as it used to be,” one personality-less employee in a local business told me last week. Guess they didn’t like my facetious “thank you” for noticing their overwhelming lack of customer service and manners.

All debates aside, the boomers coffee klatch also agreed on one thing. Courtesy and manners still matter. We all get one chance to make a first impression. Often, before we ever speak the first word.

“You always dress that way for work,” I recall a member of management asking one of the new guys on a job many years ago.

“Yeah,” the newbie stuttered,

“And you always address your supervisors and elders with, “Yeah? Where’s your manners?” Before the young man could dig himself any deeper, the manager offered advice I’ve never forgotten.

“If you want customers and colleagues to perceive you as a professional, you have to dress and act like a professional. No one gives you respect for free, you earn it by the way you present yourself and the way you treat others.”

Manners were important to my parents and grandparents. Something for which I have always been deeply grateful. Learning manners requires no textbook and very little intelligence. Just treat others like you would like to be treated.

“Manners make the man,” Mom used to say. “Real men are considerate of others, especially ladies.” My father made sure I understood that one well one day at the Perry’s 5¢ and 10¢ store in downtown Mount Pleasant where he was the manager. Quickly stepping up to hold the door for a lady behind us, he smiled and said, “Please pardon my rude son. I’ve tried to teach him some manners, but he seems to have forgotten that today.”

A big one with my grandmother was hats. “A gentleman always removes his hat indoors,” she reminded me often. “Take that cap off,” she informed me the first time. “It’s rude to wear a hat inside. And don’t ever sit down to eat with a cap or hat on your head.”

The second time, she wasn’t as subtle. She snatched the cap off my head, handed it to me, and asked, “What did I tell you about a gentleman and a hat indoors? People will think you were raised in a barn.”

My grandmother also clearly illustrated “Please” and “Thank you.” She bought a strawberry ice cream cone one afternoon at Lockett’s Drug Store soda fountain in downtown Pittsburg, Texas and handed it to me. Just as I was about to enjoy the first bite, she abruptly took it back.

“Thank you,” she said to the young man who had just scooped the delectable delight. She then took a bite of it and said, “You must not have appreciated it, I didn’t hear you thank anyone.”

After a most humble “thank you” to both her and the soda fountain attendant, she returned the ice cream cone to me … minus one bite. The price for missing my manners.

“What do you say when speaking to someone?” I remember Mom asking.

“Yes,” I responded.

“Yes … what?”

I soon learned that “Yes, ma’am” and “Yes, sir” were the only acceptable words for a mannerly answer. As were “No, ma’am” and “No, sir.”

“Manners are not important just because I say so,” Dad told me many times. “They are a measure of how you respect people. If you show others respect, they will respect you.”

Someone asked me about a fellow employee in a workplace not long ago, “Why doesn’t she respect me when I ask her for something?”

Recalling the words of the supervisor I always remembered and my father’s words, I said, “Could be the way you ask. No one gives you respect for free, you earn it only by giving it.”

True enough, money doesn’t buy respect or manners. But if it did, a lot of people these days are apparently broke.

—Leon Aldridge

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Friendships that foster fond memories

“My old friend, I apologize
For the years that have passed
Since the last time you and I
Dusted off those memories
The running and the races
The people and the places
There was always somewhere else I had to be.”
— Song lyrics by Tim McGraw 2004

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We never forget friends. It’s easy when we see or talk with them frequently. But it’s the friends we lose contact with that linger in memory. Friendships that fostered fond memories.

I met Minnesota native Tom Lund while living in Boerne. He played guitar and sang at local restaurants and entertainment spots. His wife, Tenlee, had an advertising agency that conducted business with the newspaper I published there during the 1990s, The Boerne Star.

Tom was fun. Always upbeat and positive with a great sense of humor. He graduated from Minnesota State University in 1968, served with the U.S. Air Force including time in Vietnam. Returning to civilian life in sales and sales management with U.S. Surgical Corporation found him starting in Milwaukee, followed by moves to Dallas and San Antonio before settling in Boerne.

Tom was always involved in music. Classic and “Outlaw” country songs by others. But he was also a songwriter, singing songs that, although he never said so, hinted at biographical bits put to music. Lyrics from life. Something typical of good songwriters.

Like the young blues musician who was consulting one of the older seasoned artists for advice. Sizing up the young man before responding, the old musician told him, “You won’t never be no blues singer driving a Cadillac with hun’ert dollar bills in your pocket. You gots to live heartbreak and sorrow before you can sing the blues.”

I got that feeling from Tom’s repertoire. Songs like “I Can’t Think About You Now” and “My Losin’ Was Really My Gain.” Even some of his others with whimsical titles. “You’re Just a Pimple on the Backside of My Life” and “Honey Won’t You Please Be My Ex-Wife.” Lyrics with brief myopic views of lost love and old friendships. Some with hints of haunting memories from Vietnam.

Above the depths of his music, Lund’s life was a fascinating success story. Two successes. I invited him to a Boerne civic club meeting to recount the details of his career utilizing his gifted storytelling, song writing style.

It was a story revolving around Laparoscopic surgery, a procedure used as early as 1901 that didn’t flourish until some 75 years later following advancements in technologies aiding medical care.

Enter Tom Lund. The tall, outgoing guy who dominated not only in stature but in smiles, personality, and a Midwestern accent deep in the heart of Texas. Never met a stranger. Always made people feel like a friend from the first handshake. Traits that, no doubt, contributed to his becoming one of the leading sales reps for surgical tools when laparoscopic surgery surged in the early 1980s.

The “new” medical procedure ultimately opened doors for the other side of medicine: malpractice suits. Enter Tom Lund for the second time. As the country’s leading sales rep for surgical instruments a decade earlier, his phone now rang off the hook with legal counsel seeking expert witnesses.

“Twice,” Lund said, “laparoscopic surgery provided a successful career for me. Something I never, ever dreamed of.”

That good fortune allowed Tom time in the Texas Hill Country to pursue his love for music becoming acquainted with other singer/songwriters. Lund performed at times solo, and others under the name of “Back Roads” with a young Boerne vet tech, Steve Ammann, who Tom credited with helping improve his “three oord country song” guitar playing.

Lund was a lover of all kinds of music. So much so that he organized a music festival at the Kendall County Fairgrounds in 1995. Called it the “Texas Music Jamboree” featuring a varied lineup. Joining Back Roads was Conjunto flavored music from Conjunto Los Aguilas, the duet ballads of Brian and Bonnie, old time country from Tom and Classic Country, and some Cajun sounds of Swamp Angel. The festival kicked off right after lunch and ran into the evening hours with other performers. Too many for me to remember.

I left Boerne in 1998. Tom and Tenlee moved “home” to Brainard, Minnesota, a couple of years later. We lost contact.

Time gets away from us much too quickly. We turn around twice, and our children are grown with families of their own. Lives go in different, often unexpected, directions. Friends we once laughed with, cried with, and made memories with start new chapters of life in other places. And for many, earthly time expires too soon.

When I began looking for Tom not long ago, that’s what I found. An obituary. Tom’s time ran out in 2022.

So, tonight, I’ll strum a few guitar chords and sing Tom’s song about “best friends” one more time. I might even take a stab at McGraw’s song. Vowing to get better at dusting off memories made with old friends.

While I still can.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo above: Tom Lund (on the right) with his Backroads duet partner, Steve Ammann. Photo from the Wednesday, October 4, 1995 edition of The Boerne Star highlighting the first Texas Music Jamboree organized and produced by Tom, set for the following Saturday.)

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Score another one for dumb luck

“Dunn’s Law: Careful planning is no substitute for dumb luck.”
― Arthur Bloch, author of “Murphy’s Law and Other Reasons Why Things Go Wrong”

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In short order, I was back on the road. Listening to the ball game. Smiling at the good fortune of meeting one of the last living members of the original Bob Wills Texas Playboys band that played with music legend . And scoring a couple of records to remember the day.

Records.

I have lots of them. The vinyl kind now making a comeback after being kicked to the side of the audio road a few years ago.

Many audiophiles’ claim that vinyl records produce a richer, broader sound. Others laud the large, often artistic covers of long-playing albums. To me, it’s the story. Which song made us buy the record? What’s the memory that’s caused us to cling to the album for decades. Was it the time in our life? Maybe someone we remember?

Friend Leroy Newman exemplified it well after hearing “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night at a recent concert. “That was the number one song when I graduated from High School in May of 1971.”

Digging into my record collection last week, I stopped at a Bob Wills Texas Playboys album when the cover reminded of a fall drive through northwest Arkansas one Saturday afternoon during the early 1980s.

American musician, songwriter, and bandleader James Robert “Bob” Wills (1905 –1975), is considered by music authorities as the founder of Western swing. He formed the Texas Playboys in 1934 hiring many memorable musicians. Not the least of whom was steel guitar player Leon McAuliffe.

Bob Wills buffs will recall the musician’s “Ah-haaa” vocals and “Take it away, Leon,” leading McAuliffe into a steel guitar solo.

After years of success, Wills’ health forced him to disband the Playboys in the mid 1960s. He continued to perform solo, dreaming they would someday play together again. And they did in 1973 before Wills died in 1975.

The Country Music Hall of Fame inducted Wills in 1968, The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1999, and the Texas Country Music Hall of Fame in 2000. Turkey, Texas lays claim to the title of “The Home of Bob Wills” with a museum and a Bob Wills Day the last weekend in April.

On that afternoon drive through Arkansas some 40 years ago, I was listening to a football game on the radio. The old Southwest Conference was still a thing, and Arkansas was defeating SMU. An ad caught my attention, “Only at KOMA studios can you get this recording of the Original Texas Playboys with the history of Faded Love by Leon McAuliffe.”

“Sure wish I knew where that radio station was located,” I thought. Who would have guessed. Minutes later, I rounded a curve between Bentonville and Rogers, and lo and behold, there it sat. KOMA studios.

Small radio stations have never been known for large staffs. The only person visible entering the front door was the D.J., and he was awaiting the next network commercial break during the game.

Before he could leave the control board to see why I had wandered in, someone else from another part of the building saw me. After telling this guy I was interested in the advertised Bob Wills albums, he raised a finger to point and responded, “Follow me.”

In a back office, boxes of the records sat beside a desk where another man appeared busy navigating through a stack of paperwork.

“This is the Faded Love album,” the first man said, handing me a copy for inspection. “And we still have a few of the San Antonio Rose albums left.”

I unhesitatingly obligated myself to one of each.

As I was fumbling for my wallet, the first man asked, “And your name?”

“Leon Aldridge,” I replied.

“Leon Aldridge,” he repeated, turning toward the man at the desk, “Meet Leon McAuliffe of the Original Texas Playboys.”

Completely forgetting the albums, my wallet, and the balancing act as they all fell to the desk, I extended my right arm. We shook hands, exchanged hellos, conversed about country music, and even talked about who we wanted to win the football game on the radio.

The country music legend autographed the records as we talked. I thanked everyone, including a nod to the busy DJ on the way out. Delighted with the completely unplanned and unexpected happening that had just occurred.

And recalling an old saying. Something about, “No amount of planning can ever replace dumb luck.”

—Leon Aldridge

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History not found in books

“Count your age by friends, not years. Count your life by smiles, not tears.”
— John Lennon

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Nothing defines the perspective of time for a writer better than aging manuscripts in a life’s collection of work. Less than subtle reminders of lives chronicled half a century or more ago; people who were witness to history not available in books.

May 1 will mark 50 years since I penned a piece printed in the Naples Monitor on Thursday, May 1, 1975. An interview with a gentleman born when Ulysses S. Grant, commanding general of the Union Army in the Civil War, was serving as the 18th president of a United States with only 38 states.

Burgess Peter Jacobs, aka “Papa Jake,” had just celebrated his 99th birthday when we talked. “Came here the 15th day of January 1907,” he said with a big smile. “I stepped off the train at the Naples depot with a wife and five kids. Came from North Carolina where I worked in a sawmill and raised a little patch of cotton.

“There were no brick buildings,” he reminisced, recalling dirt streets and wood sidewalks as if it were only yesterday. “Charlie Pope built the first one in 1908 or ’09. You know where the Lee Davis’ store is? He put his name in the brick on that building. Course, when Lee moved in, he covered up Charlie’s name.”

His crystal-clear mind revealed knowledge like someone reading from a history book. “The big business here was the sawmill, but it shut down a few years after.”

When questioned about occupations through the years, he called on quick wit and humor. “Like everyone else — as little as I could. Two years in Bowie County and a year in West Texas before settling down near Naples.

“I farmed mostly. Until about 17 or 18 years ago,” Jacobs continued. “My house was in Morris County, but I farmed in Cass County. About as far as from here to the street,” he said, looking out the window.

“Tax collector came one day. Spent the whole day measuring,’ lookin’ and askin.’ When he discovered I lived in Morris County, he tore up the papers and Ieft. I could have told him if he had asked,” he chuckled.

Laughter and a zest for life filled his stories. “This fellow was runnin’ for sheriff in Cass County once and came by to ask me to vote for him. I told him that no one was coming that far to get me, and no one there was going to bother me. So I didn’t need a sheriff.”

Shifting to birthday cards, he showed me one from President Gerald Ford. “Seen a lot of presidents come and go,” Jacobs said, proudly displaying the greeting. “But sure was surprised to get a letter from one.”

According to Jacobs, family has commemorated his birthday since the early 1920s by staging the family reunion on the Sunday falling nearest his birthday. And family came large for Papa Jake.

Looking fondly at a picture of him and his wife, Quincey Adalee, he added, “I was married to her for 69 years, five months and a few days. I liked a little being 20; she was a little over 16 when we married.” After a noticeable hesitation, he said softly, “She’s been gone about ten years now.”

The couple had nine children and 42 grandchildren. Asked about great and great-great-grandchildren, Jacobs shook his head and laughed. “I don’t know. I can’t count ’em all. I just call ’em my dirty dozen.”

Papa Jake reported his daily activities included “watching a right smart of television. Like to watch the wrestling. Listen to the news on radio. I walk to the mailbox every day. Used to get the mail for the ladies around here ’till I got to where I couldn’t see too well.”

Jacobs expressed pride in seeing roses growing around his house. Especially the white roses. “We call them “Mama’s blooms,” he said, holding his wife’s picture.

I attended his birthday party Saturday night at the Naples Community Center and the family reunion Sunday. “He did not miss a minute of the activity while spreading humor and warm smiles,” I wrote. “Posing for pictures with family that came from as far as California to attend.”

You can read history books all day long. But none will touch your soul the same as talking to someone who has lived it.

Papa Jake was a living example of the old saying that you are only as old as you feel. Smiles on a weathered face and laughter in an aged voice recalling family, friends, and a century of living left me thinking I was the old timer in that conversation.

Fifty years ago, come May 1.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

Adventures meant to be

“Blessed are the curious, for they shall have adventures.”
— Lovelle Drachman, author

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Adventure was not on my mind after another day at the newspaper office almost 40 years ago. I was simply cruising the day’s mail that included the newest issue of Hemmings Motor News (aka “the car nut’s bible). And the best place to satisfy anyone’s curiosity about any car for sale.

I braked to a stop in the Chevrolet ads when I saw, “For sale by original owner, 1965 Malibu SS, factory L-79 engine. Stored in Iowa.”

Cars collectors are known for many strange behaviors. Including, but not limited to, buying long lost siblings to something they had back in the day and “shoulda kept it.” Or wanted to have but couldn’t afford it then. And just about anything hidden away in storage for some time. Better known today as a “barn find.”

My story is no different. While still a student at East Texas State University, I became the third owner of a 1965 Chevy Malibu SS factory born with that same L-79 high horsepower motor as the car in the ad. I parted with the vehicle too soon, vowing quickly to replace it … if I ever found another one.

It was way after dark the night I saw the ad some 15 years after taking that vow. But I dialed the number anyway, apologizing profusely for the late hour when a lady’s voice said, “Hello.” My inquiry was met with, “My husband is working the night shift, all I can do is read the window sticker for you.”

That’s when I sensed my first adventure that was meant to be.

Combing the huge auto Pate Swap Meet near Fort Worth the next day, the car in the ad still weighed heavily on my mind. Near dawn the next morning, DFW airport was fading from view at my American Airlines window seat. Before lunch, I was shaking hands with the man who had special ordered the car as a high school student. Drooling over all the paperwork he had on the car and loving his stories.

“Because I wasn’t 18 yet,” he laughed. “The dealership required my mother to sign for the car because of the high-horsepower engine. And the car took five months to get, not because of the motor, but because I ordered a vinyl top. Figure that one out!”

Just days before my arrival, He had brought the car to his home in the northern Chicago suburb of Northbrook, Illinois, from his father’s home in Iowa, where it was stored. “They don’t salt the roads in the winter like they do here,” the car’s owner said, “Salted roads are the best way I know of to get the rust worm in your car.”

Technically speaking, a barn is not required for an old car to gain the status of barn find. When the rescue story is told, any neglected shelter leaving a coat of dust on a desirable relic will elevate that hidden ride to “barn find” status at the next storytelling night.

“Barn finds” are on the opposite end of the spectrum from beautifully restored cars bought at televised auctions for stratospheric prices. Often a little more revered in some circles. And almost always, the beginning of an automotive adventure.

The first decision with a barn find is whether to drive it home or trailer it. The owner had already changed the oil, filled the tank with fresh fuel, and washed away the “barn” dust. I checked fluids, tires, hoses, belts, and electrical.

My curiosity satisfied after a short test drive, I opted for the adventure … “Let’s drive ‘er home.” By 5 a.m. the next day, I was beating rush hour traffic out of the city. On board were some basic tools, an extra fan belt, a fire extinguisher, and a spare quart of oil. All acquired from an auto parts store the previous evening.

And a hand full of fast food joint coupons pulled from the newspaper.

Now, if you’re considering something similar at home, let me be transparent on this one point. Taking time to thoroughly assess a stored vehicle before driving it any distance is critical. Looking back, I could have been — should have been — much more thorough in this, my first rodeo, before putting Chicago in my rear-view mirror and a smile on my face.

Another point of perspective is that was back when gas station road maps were the only form of navigation, interstate highways were not as connected as they are today, and the only decent coffee was at truck stops.

GPS says in 2025 the nearly 1,000-mile trip will require 13 hours of driving time with good traffic. I made the same trip non-stop again in 2016, attending the Muscle Car and Corvette Nationals, using only Waze and hot, black coffee. Took me fourteen hours in a rental car.

The mid-1980s adventure in an aged muscle car that hadn’t seen daylight in a long time consumed 21 hours. On tires that “looked pretty good” but were manufactured before date coding where the rubber meets the road was a thing. I was easy on her, too. Monitoring gauges, listening for noises, and stopping regularly for visual inspections.

Granny always joked that “God takes care of old folks and fools.” Whatever the case, He was with me on that trip right up the time I turned into my driveway at 1 a.m. Without incident. Four tanks of gas, one quart of oil, and a myriad of tasteless fast food later.

Other trips would follow. The value of the treasure rescued aside; the adventure has always been the best part. Because even when the journey is without incident, there is always an interesting story to tell.

Like this one. One I’ve shared countless times in almost 40 years.

Every time with a smile.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

How do they possibly know

Sometimes I think we are alone in the universe, and sometimes I think we’re not. In either case the idea is quite staggering.
— Arthur C. Clark, (1917 – 2008) English science fiction writer.

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Mount Pleasant friend and MPHS classmate Dick Zachary noted on social media a couple of weeks ago, his struggle to comprehend how much “six trillion times several billion” might be.

I agree with him. We had great teachers. I mastered the slide rule that I never used outside of class and was able figure out the cost of a Frito pie and a Dr. Pepper at the Tiger Den across the street from the campus. But even Mount Pleasant High never equipped us with calculation capabilities involving billions and trillions.

Dick’s mathematics mystification was triggered by a newspaper article he shared with his post. I didn’t see a source on it, but a portion of what looked to be an Associated Press byline was visible. The headline read, “Sneaking a peek at distant galaxies — Data trove from European telescope previews areas of new six-year study.”

The text reported, “A European space telescope launched to explore the dark universe has released a trove of new data on distant galaxies.

“The images and other data released Wednesday by the European Space Agency’s Euclid observatory includes a preview of three cosmic areas that the mission will study in finer detail mapping the shapes and locations of galaxies billions of light years away. A light-year is nearly six trillion miles.”

And this is where Dick asked his first question, “How do they possibly know? It blows my mind. At the speed of light, it would take around 20 years just for a light beam to reach a billion miles.”

I bring up my friend’s curiosity not to imply that I have an answer. Oh no, far from it. I still get cross-eyed trying to figure out how the GPS app on my phone knows where I am, where I am going and that I missed the last three turns. And that’s just traveling a few miles in East Texas. Heaven forbid I should attempt six trillion miles into deep space.

Dick’s doubts about grasping distance in space, however, does remind me of my daughter Robin. And a conversation we shared on the back porch one night at our home in the Texas Hill Country near the Medina River. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away … about three decades ago.

My beautiful daughter inherited my gift of gab and thirst for questions that make one think, which led to some wonderful and often spirited conversations. That heritage, and the fact that she excelled in high school debate — a skill she practiced on me every day when she was a teenager — made for moments I remember as if they had happened just yesterday.

“Do you ever wonder how far the sky goes,” she quizzed me one night as we gazed at stars in the Hill Country sky and discussed her report card.

“That’s easy,” I replied. “The sky never ends. The heavens go on forever.”

Silence.

“W-w-what do you mean … it never ends,” she responded slowly.

“It never ends,” I repeated. “Some things are infinite, and space is one of them. It has no end.”

More silence. Silence indicated differing processes with my children. It made my son, Lee, smile. He was the quiet type who was always thinking about something. With Robin, the more you offered, the more freely she vocalized her thoughts while processing them.

“No wait,” she recovered sitting up on the edge of her chair. “That’s not possible. It has to end somewhere. Everything has to have a beginning and an end.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “Space is one thing that has no beginning and no end.”

More silence.

‘Dad, there has to be an end. Nothing can go on forever without end.”

“OK,” I proposed. “Let’s say that you are right, that trillions and trillions of miles and light years out there is a stop sign that says, ‘The end. Space ends here. Please take an alternate route to wherever you were going or go back from where you came.’ Something has to be on the other side of that sign. A brick wall. A different kind of space. Something. With space and the universe, there cannot be just nothing.”

Longer silence.

Before she could arrive at a response, I added, “Let me give you something else to think about. Just as the heavens have no end, time also has no end.”

“Daaaddd!” Her falling tone of voice was filled with frustration. “I’m still working on this space thing.”

“Work on this while you are at it,” I added. “God has always existed. There never was a time when there was not God. He has always been and always will be. And He created ‘the heaven and the earth.’ It’s all in the Bible.” Just start at Genesis one and one.”

The silence by this time was deafening.

“Do you want to know something else,” I asked?

“No,” she replied sharply. “We’ve covered enough space and time for one night.” She got up, turned toward the door, and paused. “Good night, Dad. All of this makes my brain hurt. I’m going to bed.” Then added with a smile, “This conversation has an end … for tonight.”

So, how do modern space researchers really know? Maybe I can get my daughter and my friend together to figure this out. Then they can let me know. I’ll even loan them my slide rule.

Goodness knows I can’t help them, though. I can’t even follow a GPS out of the county without missing a turn.

—Leon Aldridge

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Will the circle be unbroken

“… Havin’ fun sittin’ shotgun ‘cause I’ve come full circle.”
— song lyrics by Ben Kweller

– – – – – – –

“I didn’t know you rode motorcycles,” the voice behind me said.

Sunday morning Bible class had just ended. I was marking my place on the front pew as song leader by stacking my songbook, Bible, and other assorted paraphernalia.

It’s just a habit. Goodness knows I’m not competing with anyone for Sunday morning front-row seating.

The voice behind me belonged to one of the sweet ladies at church. Before turning around, I thought for a fleeting second about her perception of me after learning I used to ride motorcycles. Then laughed at myself for thinking that sweet little church ladies might have questionable connotations about cycle riders.

Riding was something I did for almost 50 years before contrasting my aging reflexes and vision with the noticeably increasing number of drivers who have no concept of what they are doing at 75 miles per hour other than texting or talking on a cell phone.

“Yes,” I said as I turned her direction. “Steve Windham asked me back around Thanksgiving last year what I was doing. I told him, ‘Just sitting home bored, trying to dispel the ugly rumor that I retired.’ He said he needed help in parts and service at his motorcycle dealership, so there I am.”

Her questioning statement was understandable. It’s been long enough since I sold my last bike that someone who knew me only by my mild-mannered news reporter image could easily be surprised.

Truth is, though, I wanted a motor scooter way back in the sixth grade after my friend Gary Cornett did something that kindled one of my life’s more serious love affairs. Just as I threw a leg over my bicycle to go home for lunch, Gary rolled up on his Cushman. “Nice scooter,” I said.

Before I could start peddling, he hit me with, “Wanna ride it to your house for lunch?”

Some questions have only one logical answer at age 12. I thanked Gary, jumped once on the kick-starter and was gone. Arriving at home two blocks away, Mom met me with, “I don’t like those things. You could get killed. Eat your lunch and get it back to school. And I never want to hear of you getting on one again. Do you understand me, young man?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said. Another easy answer for a 12-year-old. Or at any age for a son responding to his mother.

Scant weeks later, my grandfather in Pittsburg invited me to go to W.R. DeWoody’s Western Auto with him. Yet another question with only one answer because I knew what he was thinking. A stop at the Piggly Wiggly parking lot where he would let me drive his ’57 Ford the remaining few blocks to town.

“And, don’t tell your grandmother I let you drive,” he always added.

Once inside, he sought help for his needs, and I went straight to the new Cushman scooters lined against the wall to fantasize. I was still dreaming when my grandfather found me, took the price tag in his hand, looked at it and said, “Two hundred and nineteen dollars!” Then whistled loudly, registering his opinion of the cost.

“Reckon you could ride that if I bought it,” he asked?

“I rode my friend’s,” I said as my heart raced. Then, just as fast, it flatlined. “I better not. If I bought that for you, your mother would have my hide.”

“We can keep it at your house,” I pleaded.

“Then your grandmother would have my hide,” he chuckled.

Mom still objected years later when I bought my first motorcycle at age 20. She continued to do so for the rest of her life every time I shared with her accounts of my trips traveling the U.S. Riding to Florida, crossing Colorado Rocky Mountain passes, or cycling through the Smokies. “I don’t like those things. You could get killed.”

“So, you see,” I told the sweet lady at church. “Me working for a motorcycle dealership is nothing new. It’s actually like coming full circle.”

Going in circles has been a positive and rewarding way of life for me. I started my publishing career at the newspaper in Center, returned for a short stint about ten years ago, and came full circle to presumably finish it there last year.

Full circles cross my mind every day at the motorcycle dealership. I look longingly at the variety of two-wheeled rides on the showroom floor and think, “Maybe just one more time—one more circle.”

I could even ride it to church.

—Leon Aldridge

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