A Story Worth Telling

I still hear those words

“Art washes away from the soul, the dust of everyday life.”
— Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973) Spanish artist

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While hanging the painting of a sad, wet dog on the wall in my newly refurbished “music room slash library” last week, words from some 30 years ago came back to me.

“You collect some heavy stuff, man.”

They were the words of Judy Snouffer. About July 1993. The day I accepted a generous offer from her and her husband Chuck to help unload truckloads of household belongings at my newly acquired Hill Country home near Pipe Creek, Texas.

As the newest editor and publisher at the Boerne Star, my charge included producing the Boerne newspaper and looking after Granite Publications properties in Bandera, Gonzales, and Fort Stockton.

Judy (better known to friends and co-workers as “Jet”) was composing supervisor and graphic artist at The Star. Chuck worked for the City of Boerne. What I didn’t know was Judy’s artistic skills reached far beyond that of just newspapers.

What Chuck and Judy didn’t know was that I collected unique but heavy stuff. Books, artwork, phonograph records, juke boxes, neon signs, gas pumps …and cars.

I knew Chuck and Judy owned a car. I don’t remember ever seeing it, but I did hear them talk about one. Their daily transportation was matching motorcycles. Not just any motorcycle, but Moto-Guzzis. Manufactured in Italy. Also, the oldest European manufacturer in continuous production.

Jet parked her bike by the newspaper office back door every morning. Far outclassing my Honda Shadow, whenever I rode it.

She was different. A cool kind of different. Like a refugee hippie from the 1960s. An artistic soul who worked and thought outside the dust of everyday life. She wore black fingernail polish before it was a thing. She personalized her work area with stars, moons, and crystals. Motivation for her creative vibe.

And creative she was. Jet surprised me one day with the painting I still have of a sad, forlorn looking dog in the rain. The dog closely resembled Max, the adopted basset hound who made the move to the Hill Country with me. He hung out at the office on Fridays, quickly becoming known to the staff as “Office Max.” Jet was moved by my story one day about Max getting rained on and wet in the back yard before I got a doghouse built. That’s when she gifted me with her painting titled, “Dog Day Blues.” Noted on the back as “No. 507” dated January 22, 1994.

It blew me away. “This is beautiful,” I said. “I knew you were an artist, but I didn’t know you painted.” Jet was humble, shyly showing me photos of her other work plus a feature story from the San Antonio Express News about her artistic awards.

Jet wasn’t the only one who contributed to my lifetime of acquired pieces still hoarding memories today in my music room slash library. “How would you like a Boerne fire hydrant for your quirky collection,” Chuck asked one evening?

“You’re speaking my language,” I quickly responded.

“The city’s replacing old ones. A pile at the yard is headed for scrapping,” he said. Go with me after work tomorrow and we’ll get you one.”

I was thrilled. Until I grabbed one end of it. “You didn’t tell me a fire hydrant weighed as much a Buick Roadmaster station wagon,” I laughed.

‘Bout like your Seeburg jukebox or that Mobil gas pump we unloaded,” he quipped.

I left the Hill Country in 1998. It was a few short years later the day the message arrived from a mutual friend in Boerne. An obituary.

Judy “Jet” Atkins Snouffer died tragically March 18, 2004. The way she would’ve wanted to go – on her motorcycle. She “died with her boots on.”

“Jet” was survived by her loving husband, Chuck Snouffer of Boerne, the obit continued. Judy grew up between Texas and Germany. She worked at the Boerne Star and STPS. Judy was a very free spirit, living life to the fullest. Aside from being a very eclectic personality, Jet was a very creative and talented person; a “’ane of all trades.’ She was a recognized artist having won several awards.”

The obit concluded with, “Ride on Jet!”

I think of Chuck and Jet when I glance at the painting.

And I still hear, “You collect some heavy stuff, man.”

—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.

If I’m lucky, it will happen again

“Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.”
— Mark Twain (1835-1910) celebrated American writer, humorist, and essayist.

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“Do you think animals … our pets, will be in heaven,” my friend asked.

I thought for a minute before answering. Before taking time to shovel another spade full of dirt from the hole I was digging. Helping my friend in their time of loss.

“I don’t know,” I said. “The Bible doesn’t directly address that topic. Some say yes, they will be, based on indirect reference to animals in the scriptures. Others say no because the Bible doesn’t mention animals having a soul or the ability to follow God’s will.”

I took my time to fashion the hole a little larger while considering whether my answer was appropriate. Or sufficient. Then, resting on the shovel for a minute, I said, “There are lots of topics in the Bible that have no bearing on salvation. The kind where our opinion one way or the other won’t have any bearing on where we spend eternity. This is one of those questions.

“While I can’t tell you for sure whether our pets will be in heaven,” I rambled on, “I can tell you about a few I’ve had that deserve to be there … in my humble opinion.”

I shared memories of my first dog at about the age of six. A faithful mutt named Brownie I had to give up when we moved. And how that broke my childhood heart.

I talked about Max, an old, rehomed basset hound I adopted later in life. Mine and his. A dog that traveled Texas with me. A fine dog by any standard.

And I recalled Benny, the fisty and funny miniature schnauzer that enjoyed every minute of life. His and yours.

“A dog is the only creature on earth that loves you more than he loves himself,” I said. “Love a dog and it will love you back tenfold — no questions asked. Scold one that loves you, and with its tail tucked between its legs, it beg your forgiveness with its eyes. Never questioning whether you were right or wrong.

“And if you don’t believe that,” I laughed. “Try coming home late one night to your wife and your dog with no explanation. Then pay close attention to which one of them is happier to see you.

“Never trust anyone who tells you your pet is just a dog,” I added. “A dog that gives you so many good times to remember. Afternoon walks around the neighborhood. Never tiring of fetching a toy or a ball as many times as you throw it. Napping at your feet, letting you know that its favorite time is with you.

“Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love,” I said. “And they depart to teach us about loss.”

I thought no dog could ever replace Max. I sat on the floor and wept when it was his time to go when arthritis robbed him of his joy and his ability to walk

But I was wrong. Benny, the runt that no one wanted in a litter of schnauzer puppies, came along and changed that. The tiny puppy napped in my lap from day one, assuring me that I had a new furry friend just as loving, trusting, and entertaining.

And he was right.

“One thing about our pets,” I said, “no matter how many years we get with them, it’s never enough. Max, then Benny, became traveling companions. Going many places with me. Making memories and giving me stories about the love and companionship of a pet that I could bore you with for hours.”

Finishing the sad task I had volunteered to perform for my friend, I placed the small, lifeless, furry body in the hole I had been digging. Then covered it with dirt.

“Thank you, little kitty,” I offered as an abbreviated eulogy, “for the brief moments of happiness, love, laughter, and memories you shared with us.

“The best thing I can say about our pets,” I added, “is if we’re lucky, they will come into our life, steal our heart, and change everything before they have to go.”

While I can’t say with any authority where our pets go from here, I can say without hesitation that I’ve been blessed more than once by ‘just a dog’ or ‘just a cat’ that has left me with heavenly memories.

And if I’m lucky, it will happen again.

—Leon Aldridge

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Why careful career planning is crucial

“What you get by achieving your goals is not as important as what you become by achieving your goals.”

— Zig Ziglar (1926 – 2012) world-renowned motivational author and speaker

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“So,” friends ask, “How is retirement going?”

“Great,” is my go-to answer. “I get just enough of it … between calls from people who need my expertise for a while.”

I’ve always advocated that careful planning of one’s career, even through retirement, is a crucial step in life. Having survived my attempts to chart a course from a very early age, I offer my thoughts on successes and failures while adding the best advice all. Advice is worth what you pay for it..

Before entering junior high, scrutinizing Popular Mechanics magazine classified pages at the barber shop was my source for career possibilities. Rare opportunities for unique businesses. Things like making authentic Bowie knives to marketing assembly plans for constructing scale models of the U.S.S. Constitution. In a bottle.

One I liked a lot seemed like a lucrative field. Army surplus dealers. “Return the postage free card for details,” the ad beckoned. “High demand, big profits.”

Exploring these and other rare opportunities kept both me and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, postmaster busy. My requests for information in outgoing mail and loads of informational literature coming in.

My concern was about which one of these money makers would be the best choice. The postmaster’s concern was which one of them I might be harboring plans to enter.

“You’re not thinking about anything like mail-order potbellied stove kits are you,” he quizzed me one day as I handed him another stack of postcards.

My search was going well when one Saturday afternoon while pondering empty pockets in front of the old Martin Theater in downtown Mount Pleasant, Texas, I heard voices. Mystic musings offering new concepts on career choice. “You see, son,” Dad said as he put his arm around me. “Think about this. No work … no money.”

I think he sensed I was broke and had missed the sci-fi flick matinee “I Married a Man From Outer Space.”

From that day forward, my life became a testbed for various after-school careers. I.E. Paying jobs. Sweeping floors at Perry Brothers five-and-dime store after school. Working Saturdays in the men’s department at Beall’s. Pumping gas and washing driveways at the Fina Station at night.

Efforts that dropped postage-free postcards going out in exchange for spending money coming in. Plus, providing valuable experience. Experience that led to seeking college advice on careers that didn’t involve manual labor. ” Well, Leon, looking at your grades,” I remember MPHS counselor Mrs. Sanders telling me, “It’s tough to tell … um, exactly what your field of expertise might be.”

“I’ve been thinking,” I replied. “I was trying to decide between truck driving and funeral director. But I really enjoyed Mr. Murray’s mechanical drawing class, so i’m leaning now toward being an architect.”

So, with a high school diploma plus extracurricular credits in fast cars, loud music, and late-nights, I was off to college to study building design. It was the beginning of five years spent trying to circumvent the evil conspiracy among college professors to prevent me from passing math courses and working when not in classes. To stay in school. Auto body shops, wrecker driving, and oil roustabout to name a few.

Then one day to everyone’s surprise, when the registrar’s office wasn’t looking, I slipped out the back door of East Texas State University with a degree in psychology and art.

“Tell me,” my understanding father asked after graduation, “what is it you plan to do with this varied preparation for your future.”

“It’s really very simple, Dad,” I assured him with my best college graduate look. “Unless I change my mind before Monday, I think I’ll teach school.”

Not long after that, by pure luck, I was afforded the opportunity to get the best career advice ever from motivational speaker and author Zig Ziglar. All right, so we just happen to get on the same hotel elevator together. I was still the only one in the room with him. For 12 whole floors.

“If you can’t control the events that happen to you, you can control the way you choose to respond to them,” he offered with a smile and a handshake.

All that said, I’m hoping to finish my long-awaited book by the end of the year. And I will include in the forward how all of this careful planning was crucial in leading me to a successful career … in communication and journalism.

I still get Army surplus brochures, though. And I’ve got a couple of canteens and a folding field shovel.

If anyone’s searching for a career path.

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Make it sound like we had a good time

“We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.”
— Author Herman Melville

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“Write an article about the banquet … and make it sound like we had a good time,” the judge pronounced as punishment after declaring me guilty.

The mock prosecution was part of the kangaroo court fun at the Center Noon Lion’s Club annual banquet last Thursday night. The proceedings lacked due process and exhibited bias with a predetermined outcome. But the judge was fair and impartial. Sort of. Every member attending was roasted and sentenced.

If you’re a Lion or know anyone who is, you already know that fun is a key element of not just the annual banquet but every week’s meeting. Following the pledge of allegiance to the flag, the prayer, and the singing of a song come “words of wisdom.” The cue that unleashes a barrage of weak humor laced with a few zingers here and there.

In addition to having fun, the service side of any civic or community club, such as the Lions Club, is the solemn dedication to enabling community growth and keeping it alive, viable, and connected. Serving others. Giving back to improve the current generation and prepare for the next.

An early mentor made his case to me on that topic long ago. That each of us has to “pay our rent” as a member of the community. “We can get involved where we live and help the community succeed, or we can sit back and watch it struggle,” were his words. “You are either part of the progress or part of the stagnation. There is no neutral ground.”

Because I never forgot those words from someone I admired and looked up to, membership in civic clubs and organizations everywhere I’ve lived and worked has been something I just do. I joined the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Lions Club after graduating from college in 1971. Similar associations I have been involved with throughout my lifetime include local aviation groups, car clubs, and other dedicated organizations that have fun while giving back to the community through donations, scholarships, sponsorships, volunteer work, and more.

I joined the Center Noon Lions Club in about 1979 and served as president in 1985. Although a lifelong Lion here and in other communities, there was one notable exception to that history. That time I relocated to Boerne down in the Texas Hill Country. Ready to jump into community service as the newspaper publisher there, my introduction in the paper included how I was a member of the Lions Club and a Lifetime Member of the Texas Lions Camp in Kerrville, Texas; a non-profit organization providing a free summer camp experience for children with physical disabilities, diabetes, and cancer.

The ink on the pages of that week’s edition was not even dry when a member of the local Lions Club walked into the office with an invitation for me to join. “Great,” I greeted him. “I’ll see you Thursday at noon. Where do you meet.”

“We don’t meet on Thursdays,” he responded. “We meet on Wednesday nights.”

“Oh man,” I lamented. I’m tied up on Wednesday nights … goin’ to church.”

Short pause. Then with just a slight squint, he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to be Episcopalian, would you,”

So it was that Boerne gave this lifelong Lion his first experience as a Rotarian meeting Tuesday’s at lunch. A move that allows me to give gratitude to both organizations. Indeed, numerous civic clubs collaborate to enhance the quality of life in every community. The key is getting involved. Becoming a part of that crucial role in fostering connections, addressing concerns, and driving positive change in your community.

Getting involved has been especially easy for me. Having spent a career in communication and media endeavors, my affiliation with a civic-minded group has made me a strong candidate for public relations-related offices wherever I go.

Civic clubs are comprised of many different members, some with more responsibility than others, but each with a definite role to play to be considered a member in good standing. I was even once a member of The Birch John Society, a little-known organization struggling to preserve the use of wooden toilet seats.

Think about that one for a minute if you didn’t get it right away. It will come to you. And remember that if you come to Lions Club, make sure you have a good joke. Or two.

To ensure I can work off my sentence by writing something about how we really do have fun.

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—Contact Aldridge at leonaldridge@gmail.com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge.com

Knowing who needs a prayer

“When your church is small, you know everyone’s prayer requests before they even ask.”
— Author unknown, but if you attend a small church, you know it’s true.

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Small churches and country preachers are the best at delivering sermons that combine spiritual appeal from the word of God with a touch of practical wisdom rooted in their own personal lives.

I was raised in a small town by loving parents. My mom attended church every Sunday, and it was an unspoken expectation that we would be going with her. No excuse was good enough for her to warrant missing the assembling of the saints.

Throughout my lifetime of hearing country preachers, I have acquired a deep appreciation for their dedication. And sacrifice. Because preaching at a small church is not a get rich quick proposition. Usually requiring what one preacher friend called “a day job” to make ends meet.

Like the East Texas preacher some years ago. An elderly gentleman with an ever-present smile and a kind word. A presence of stoic stature who, by the looks of his white hair and unfaltering recall of scripture without so much as looking at a Bible, had been delivering Sunday sermons for several presidential administrations.

A minister who not only preached the word of God and the promise of eternal salvation but included tidbits of practical advice for this side of heaven as well. Suggestions learned no doubt from years in the pulpit and tending to people’s spiritual needs.

“Your body is a temple unto the Lord,” he often delivered, leaning over the pulpit for extra emphasis. “Keep it healthy and ready for service by engaging in some form of exercise every day.” And being a minister who practiced what he preached, he always added that he personally walked several miles a day. But what he didn’t mention while proclaiming that walking was good for one’s health was that his “exercise” was usually executed with a cane pole over his shoulder. Walking in the general direction of a nearby fishing hole.

Another of his suggestions was to do God’s will through action. “Squeeze in random acts of kindness at every opportunity,” he preached. “Do a good deed every day.”

On this advice, he once admitted in a sermon that if he had to choose between doing a good deed for his neighbor or saying a prayer to God, God might have to hold off for a few minutes for the prayer until he was done helping someone.

Another tidbit of his advice was to “make two or three good friends among the old folks while you’re still young.”

Like everything he said, I agreed with him wholeheartedly on this one. I had just one problem. By the time I understood that philosophy, I was well past the point in life considered young by common standards.

Stories of down-to-earth wisdom from heaven-oriented country preachers came to mind last week. Carrying out my “once-a-year, whether it needs it or not” desk cleaning, I happened upon a message from my daughter, Robin. One from almost 30 years ago in which she included some preacher’s suggestions that she had collected.

One credited to a Tennessee preacher who advocated, “Most people are kind, polite, and sweet-spirited … until you try to sit in their pew.”

Another answered complaints about a preacher with, “If a church wants a better preacher, it can usually get one by praying for the one it already has.”

This one, I’ve heard many times since, but is still timeless. “A lot of church members who are singing ‘Standing on The Promises’ are merely sitting on the premises.”

There was also food for thought from Oklahoma. “We were called to be witnesses, not lawyers.”

And from Ohio, stating, “Every evening, I turn my troubles over to God. He’s going to be up all night anyway.”

Included with Robin’s communique was a message I’m sure is preached somewhere by a country preacher in a small town every Sunday. She didn’t say where she found it, but it’s called “The Bible in 50 Words.”

“God made; Adam bit; Noah arked; Abraham split; Joseph ruled; Jacob fooled; Bush talked; Moses balked; Pharaoh plagued; People walked; Sea divided; Tablets guided; Promise landed; Saul freaked; David peeked; Prophets warned; Jesus was born; God walked; Love talked; Anger crucified; Hope died; Love rose; Spirit flamed; Word spread; God remained.”

Whatever the tidbits of wisdom might be, somewhere every Sunday a country preacher delivers a spiritual message with a deep understanding of human nature. Focusing on faith connected with a sense of rural life.

And one knowing who needs a prayer before they ever ask for it.

—Leon Aldridge

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My friend, the belated birthday card

“Since I’m late sending you this birthday card, let’s make sure that doesn’t happen again. Please consider this your first happy birthday wish for the year.”
— My standard birthday card greeting.

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“The difference in Father’s Day and Mother’s day,” Center Church of Christ minister Tim Perkins began last Sunday’s sermon. “… is that some people feel like you don’t have to spend as much on Father’s Day presents as you do on Mother’s Day.”

I laughed. But Tim’s signature humor reminded me of my long-established habits regarding those special days. Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, Christmas, Valentine’s Day. And the big one, birthdays. Each one, a special occasion for remembering those we love and cherish.

“Caring enough to send the very best,” as Hallmark once promoted, I still do. And I still prefer the lost art of sending a real card that can be held, saved, and cherished.

My only problem is I’m always late. Believe me when I say the “belated” birthday card was invented just for me.

Striving to improve over the years, I had one great idea about 40 years ago. And it was genius, if I do say so. Came up with it all by myself.

Instead of sending belated birthday cards all year long, just send everyone a card at the first of the year. Sign them, “Let me be the first one to wish you happy birthday this year.”

The plan was to mail them all between Christmas and New Year’s. However, since February events typically cross my mind at the Fourth of July picnic, it was around St. Patrick’s Day before this stroke of genius came to me. Therefore, the ship had already sailed for January and February birthdays.

“Oh well,” I thought. “They’ll get the belated version one more year. Which is what would have happened anyway.”

“This is going to be a great idea,” I giggled with glee.

My sister Leslie’s birthday is in February. One more belated card for her would be no problem at all. Unless I forgot to mail it.

And the timing was perfect for my grandmother’s birthday on March 6. There was some concern, however. Granny was dealing with some minor heart issues at that time. Would getting a birthday card from me on time be too much of a surprise for her heart?

Next on the list was my baby sister, Sylvia. May 21. A card from me a couple of months early might make her wonder, “What can this be. Leap year? National Pickle Week? Jewish New Year?”

She had never received a birthday card from me on time. So, I knew she would have laughed. She would also have been the first one to say, “Now that is really dumb … even for Leon.”

Next on the list was my mother’s birthday in June. But getting a card in March, she would have still just quietly opened it, smiled, and said, “How nice. Leon remembered.”

Then, she would have put it aside to go into her cedar chest later, with every other card she had ever received, before returning to lunch or the latest episode of All My Children.”

Mark my word, however, sometime between 3:30 p.m. and next Tuesday, the light would have come on, and she would have said out loud, “My birthday is not until June!”

Dad would have opened his card, laughed softly, and shook his head because his birthday was in August. And because for as long as I could remember, he was the only one who knew exactly what I did, why l did it, and most of the time, before I did it.

Dad would have also been the one to explain it all to Mom. Sylvia would be calling Leslie to figure out what marble I’ve lost now. Leslie would then have been trying to understand why she got a belated card when everyone else got a regular card.

It’s an idea that still might work. At the time, I decided it was just too risky. More than everyone could figure out, and too much confusion to explain. Even for me.

But feel free to give it a try. I still think it’s the best idea since the “Vegematic” was promoted on late-night TV.

In any case, remember this. If someone forgets your birthday, take it as a compliment. It could mean you don’t look like you’ve aged enough to have another birthday yet.

—Leon Aldridge

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Time flies faster than we realize

“Time flies.”

— 19th Century English idiom. One that I undertsand better with every passing year.

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That carelessly tossed-about old saying has a special meaning seasoned in humor among old pilots. Like me. Those who smile when standing in the shadow of propeller-driven aircraft as old or older than we are. Feeling goose bumps with every smoky, rumbling startup of an antique radial aircraft engine.

Even so, it still doesn’t seem like it’s been almost ten years since the time Frankie Glover at Mid America Flight Museum up in Mount Pleasant sent me the message. “Columbine II will be arriving in Mount Pleasant tomorrow afternoon. I’ll keep you updated.”

Columbine II was the name given to the U.S. presidential aircraft used by Dwight D. Eisenhower from 1952 to 1954. Better known as “Ike,” the five-star U.S. Army general served as Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force in Europe during World War II. He had been elected president by the time I entered the first grade.

**Photo above and at top of the page: Leon Aldridge 2016 at the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Airport)**

The historic aircraft’s stop in Northeast Texas some 60 years later was no coincidence. Mount Pleasant native Scott Glover and his MAFM team in the Northeast Texas city played a key role in the first phase of efforts to get the historic aircraft back to flying condition after years of neglect, ignored in the Arizona desert. The second step was helping the owners fly it to the restoration shop to Bridgewater, Virginia. The Mount Pleasant based museum helped in that effort as well.

Scott and his crew in the MAFM’s WWII era B-25 “Mitchell” bomber, “God and Country,” escorted Columbine II from the Grand Canyon state to Mount Pleasant. The Texas stop not only gave Northeast Texas residents a chance to see the historic aircraft, but also provided a break in the nine-hour trip from Arizona to Virginia, where it has since been undergoing a long and tedious restoration to its early 1950s configuration as the presidential aircraft.

**President Dwight D. Eisenhower air plane landing in Harlingen Texas Oct. 18th 1953. Photo Credit — US ARMY – Harlingen Arts and Heritage Museum**

Given its name by First Lady Mamie Eisenhower in honor of the official state flower of her adopted home state, Colorado, the former presidential plane is a military version of the Lockheed Constellation. “Connies,” as they were called, were a highly successful four-engine propeller-driven 1950s airliner. Known for their speed, range, luxury, and pressurized cabin for comfortable long-distance flights, this Connie carries tail number 8610, confirming it as the first presidential aircraft to use the universally recognized call sign, “Air Force One.” The official designation for any aircraft once the President of the United States is on board.

I kept my camera busy that day in early 2016, capturing fleeting images of time flying by. The beauty of the plane’s porpoise-shaped aluminum fuselage and distinctive triple rudder tail design stood out against the East Texas afternoon sun. Breathtakingly elegant as it floated toward the runway in its landing approach and touched down on its uniquely tall landing gear.

The day reminded me of another time that had flown by, the night Mount Pleasant was host to a sitting U.S. President.

I was an MPHS student, and a member of the Explorer Scout Post called upon to assist with crowd control for the scheduled arrival of President Lyndon B. Johnson. The president was coming to town for a celebratory function at the National Guard Armory on North Jefferson Street, honoring an East Texas citizen and friend.

Darkness arrived as onlookers crowded to the airport, many skeptical that the president was really coming to the small Texas town. Anticipation mounted as the presidential plane touched down and taxied to the apron near the terminal.

Flashbulbs lit up the night sky when President Johnson emerged, waving and smiling. The crowd cheered. Performing our assigned task, we stood firm with backs to the crowd and arms spread wide against the encroaching throng.

I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of the president as he neared. Waving, tipping his hat, and shaking hands. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

As the president neared, he paused, grabbed my hand, and shook it vigorously. “Nice uniform, son,” he said before moving on to the next handshake and ultimately the waiting car taking him to his scheduled event on the other side of town.

All I could think was, “The President of the United States just shook my hand.”

I hurried home on nearby Redbud Street and charged into the house. “I shook the president’s hand tonight. He shook my hand.”

My father, who voted pretty much Democratic in those days, smiled and commented, “Well, how about that.”

You might say time has flown since I shook a president’s hand at the Mount Pleasant airport. Even since the time since I saw another president’s plane, the first Air Force One, at the Mount Pleasant airport.

Looking back, however, the feeling is more like one moment, it’s today, the next it’s a memory.

Because time flies faster than we realize.

—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.

Some things never change

“The good physician treats the disease; the great physician treats the patient who has the disease.”
— William Osler (1849 -1919), one of the founding Johns Hopkins Hospital professors and creator of residency programs.

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“Come in Dr. Reitz.” With those words, my grandmother welcomed the Pittsburg, Texas, family physician of many years into her home. “Thank you for coming. S.V. isn’t feeling well; he’s coughing and feverish.”

Sylvester Aldridge was my grandfather’s full legal name. No middle initial. Why she called him S.V. was a question I never thought to ask.

The good doctor pulled a chair next to the bed, opened his small black bag, and took out a tongue depressor and a thermometer. “I expect your fruit trees will be blooming before long,” he small talked with my grandfather.

Standing silently at the edge of the room, I was just tall enough to peek over the windowsill. The physician’s shiny new 1951 Chevy sitting in the driveway caught my eye. When I looked back at him, we made eye contact. I can still hear his deep voice say, “My, you’re getting to be a big boy.”

Dr. P.A. Reitz had delivered me into the world a little more than three years before that day. On a cold January 20, 1948, evening at the M&S Hospital he founded in Pittsburg. I don’t remember much about that day, but I was told light snow was falling outside.

I do remember house calls, once a common convenience by small-town physicians that slowly slipped into the past in the years that followed. A time when doctors wore suits and ties in the clinic and for house calls. And nurses wore white uniforms and caps. When “scrubs” were seen only in operating rooms.

Much of my childhood healthcare fell to Dr. Reitz. Dad’s years with Perry Brother’s five-and-dime stores moved us from one small Texas town to another before Mount Pleasant became the last stop. Many of my summer days, however, were still spent at my grandparents’ house.

“He’s going to need some stitches, Mrs. Aldridge.”

The wound for which I still display a scar on my head was inflicted during an afternoon of friendly playtime. Granny was enjoying afternoon coffee inside with her friend, Mrs. Martin. Outside, Mrs. Martin’s grandson and I whiled away the time with comic book fantasies. I don’t remember if I was the good guy or the bad guy, but I became the wounded guy when the other youngster got the drop on me with a piece of pipe. From atop a car in the driveway.

“Get a good grip on him,” Dr. Reitz cautioned my grandmother. His recall of my extreme dislike for doctors wielding needles was impeccable.

Those aged memories offer a different perspective on healthcare of today. Opinions abound, but popular views rival genealogical histories of Biblical proportions.

“Therefore, in all the days of medicine, throughout the land, specialization begat doctors passing small towns for big cities; and that begat the decline of rural hospitals; which begat small towns with clinics staffed by P.A.s and nurse N.P.s who take care of routine exams and illnesses begatting acute cases to emergency rooms or specialists.”

In bigger cities.

– – – – – – –

Dr. P.A. Reitz, one of Pittsburg’s best known, most respected and beloved citizens, died at M&S Hospital early Monday morning after suffering a massive heart attack,” the 1978 newspaper article in my archives read.

The yellowed paper news story bore no attribution. I suspect from the heartfelt and personal tone used by the writer, it might have been published by Pittsburg’s long-time local newspaper, the Gazette.

Dr. Reitz was born April 18, 1904, in Kansas. He moved to Pittsburg in 1935. He was a graduate of the University of Nebraska Medical School and completed his internship at Parkland Hospital in Dallas. He served in the U.S. Army in Europe during World War II.

“He was a family doctor for 43 years …” the story shared. According to the newspaper tribute, Dr. Reitz gave M&S Hospital to the citizens of Pittsburg in 1968.

“The business community closed Thursday afternoon for his funeral at the First Methodist Church,” the clipping concluded. “Interment was at Rose Hill Cemetery.”

I still visit Dr. Reitz … in a manner of speaking. My father and mother, Leon and Indianola Aldridge, are buried at Rose Hill Cemetery. Right next to Dad’s parents, Sylvester and Hattie Lois Aldridge.

Just across the narrow lane at the Pittsburg cemetery, maybe 50 feet away, are the graves of Percy. A. and Hazel Reitz.

I miss small-town hospitals with doctors’ offices in or near the facility. Doctors who made house calls and knew their patients like family. That said, I get it that change and adaptation are inevitable aspects of life.

Some things never change, though. Like needles. I still don’t like needles.

And I still don’t know why Granny called my grandfather S.V.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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

– – – – – –

“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

– – – – – – –

Learning to cope with emerging technology

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

– – – – – – –

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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