A Story Worth Telling

“These are the good old days.” — Oscar Elliott (My late friend and long-time purveyor of philosophy, wit and wisdom.)

– – – – – – – – – –

Stuck at home entertaining an uninvited bout of flu last week gave rise to discussion touting methods of modern medicine against Granny’s old-fashioned home remedies.

The winner, and the cough cure recommended by nine out of ten Grannies, was the proverbial lemon, honey and a shot of whiskey. Mine endorsed it. Granny Aldridge, a devout teetotaler quick to admonish alcohol as the work of the devil, kept a small bottle of spirits in her cupboard—for medicinal purposes only, of course.

The affliction itself, she attacked with a concoction of garlic, vinegar and other ingredients that I not only couldn’t identify, I didn’t want to know. Today, I’m convinced the cure was not in the potion itself, but in the fact that no one else was going to get close enough to infect you.

Everything was just different at Granny’s. From miracle cures, to more pleasant memories, like eating: if it was from Granny’s house, it was better. Simple things like chips. I eat Fritos today because Granny kept them at her house. My favorite chip could be a toss up. “Ruffles,” or barbecue potato chips are contenders, but, I’m thinking Fritos would win two out of three times just because eating them recalls time spent at her house.

Fritos were not a common pantry item at home. We had chips—just the plain ones for “sandwich night.” Mom prepared simple meals, even on sandwich night, and I guess Fritos were too fancy.

Granny’s stash of Fritos, cookies, candy and other treats was kept only in her dining room buffet and that was the attraction. Special treats, kept in a special place.

For instance, we had mellorine at home, not to be confused with real ice cream, in the half-gallon square cartons. But, Granny kept ice cream sandwiches, and for a practical reason. Her refrigerator was old, even for the 50s. It had a very small freezer compartment with space on either side for milk, juice, and a water bottle, because there was no need to “waste” ice on a drink of water.

The tiny freezer in Granny’s ‘fridge had only two shelves for frozen food, each one accommodating something no larger than a couple of ice trays—which it also had just below the shelves. Therefore, she bought ice cream sandwiches because they fit. Today, however, I still eat ice cream sandwiches for no other reason than it reminds me of snacking at her house.

Another special treat at Granny’s was one I’ve not seen in many years—vanilla ice cream and devil’s food cake roll. That was not going to fit in her freezer in any case, making it a special treat bought only on Sunday afternoons at the A&P, after which we drove to the “gravel pit” to enjoy it picnic style.

The county gravel pit in the late 50s was on a county road off 271 north near the current Pittsburg hospital. Why we didn’t just go to the park, I don’t know. There was obviously some sort of attraction to enjoying a cake and ice cream roll on a sunny Sunday afternoon at the gravel pit.

It was in any case, a much easier and simpler way of life than today…except for those old-fashioned home remedies. You can keep them, but let me know if you see a cake and ice cream roll, will you?

—Leon Aldridge

(PHOTO: By the author—”Granny’s buffet,” the same one I went to for “special treats in a special place” at her house. She bought it used from a neighbor in Mineola, Texas sometime between 1923 and 1930. It sat in the same spot in her house in Pittsburg, Texas from 1930 to 1993. It has resided with me since 1993.)

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“Today is the oldest you’ve ever been, and the youngest you’ll ever be again.” ― Eleanor Roosevelt

Many people regard birthdays ending with a zero as milestones. That’s a title I use for events like the day I graduated from high school, the day I got my first car, or the day I retired. Oh wait, haven’t completed that last one yet.

Honestly, I don’t mind aging. I’m of the opinion that continuing to have birthdays is a good thing—a blessing, and that an optimistic outlook about having birthdays will lead to a long life.

Thinking decade by decade last weekend about the zero-year birthdays with which I’ve been blessed, two or three birthdays are all that really stood out. Truth is, I’m thankful for every one I have been blessed to celebrate.

I’m reasonably sure I had a tenth birthday, but possess no memory of it. I do, however, remember Valentine’s Day as a fourth grader in Mrs. Poe’s class at Seymour (Texas) Elementary. Why Valentine’s Day instead of my birthday? Maybe it was something to do with the little blonde I had big crush on.

Fast forward ten years. Fourth grade quickly became my second year of college at East Texas State University in Commerce sharing a rented house with two of my Mount Pleasant classmates, Ronny Narramore and Gary Cornett. Birthday? I guess, but memories are likely overshadowed by the next year’s birthday—turning 21. Now, that’s a milestone.

Birthday 30 as a blank could have something to do with emotions falling between losing a first child short of his first birthday and celebrating a new daughter within eight months. Thirty was the first birthday I remember thinking getting “old” seemed closer than it had once been.

Forty was a big one. Friends and family heaped three celebrations on my “big Four Oh.” Turning the dreaded 40 made me feel more blessed than anything else. It was also the first time I realized a lot can happen in ten years, and that ten years can go by before you have time to think about it.

50 and 60 were marked with memories of settling into thinking, “Just another birthday. Yesterday, I was one day younger. Tomorrow, I will be one day older.” With each one, however, the ten-year spans were not just fast any more, they were picking up speed like a runaway locomotive.

So, what about 70? I’m proud to say, today is the day. If you’re reading this, chances are I’ve made it. My aforestated philosophies of remaining optimistic and maintaining a humorous outlook as prerequisites for a good life and a long life remain intact. And, today, I’m pretty sure those principles came from my dad whose wisdom on birthdays was, “Life is like a roll of toilet paper—the closer to the end you get, the faster it goes.”

I also believe there’s truth in the clichéd adage that age is a state of mind, that we are only as old as we feel. I can report today that 70 doesn’t loom nearly as old as it did when I viewed it on my parents. My goal is 100, which by then will surely be the new 70, and we’ll take a look at things from there.

I’ve been blessed to have known two centenarians while living in Center, Texas. Mattie Dellinger, with whom I worked for many years, lived to see 100 and beyond. She embarked on a journalism career after she was past 50, wrote columns, and hosted a radio show at one point, while reaching 100.

The other was Grover Hicks who saw 100 still driving a car, teaching a Sunday School class, and going wherever she wanted to go.

I knew Miss Grover had celebrated 100 when I saw her in the bank a few days after her milestone birthday. “You missed my 100^th birthday party,” she teasingly scolded me. I acknowledged that I had, but apologized, letting her know I didn’t know about the party until I read it in the paper. She smiled and replied, “That’s all right, you can come to my 101^st party next year.”

That’s the optimism I hope I have…should I still be doing this at 100.

—Leon Aldridge

(Youngster’s birthday party photo from author’s collection. A birthday party, but not his, in Pittsburg, Texas, about 1950 or ’51. He’s the one behind the table, between the two girls and looking at the camera.)

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“Our memories keep yesterday alive.”—Author unknown

Roller rinks. Not so long ago, every small town had one. Facebook discussions last week about the “good old days” of roller skating in my hometown of Mount Pleasant, Texas, gave new life to lots of great memories. The smell of leather rink skates, the sound of skate wheels on wood floors and music by Bill Black’s Combo.

Invented in 1863 and popularized in the late 1800s, roller rinks boomed after World War II. Roller skating birthday parties became a rite of passage for children from the 1950s through the 1980s. Changes in the 70s with the disco craze boosted skating’s popularity as many rinks became roller discos. Replacing staid lighting, organ music and aging clientele, teenagers were skating under mirror balls to disco beats.

The skating rink was my primary hangout as a youth in the 60s. Owner J.B. Hall lived across the street from us on Redbud Lane, and I enjoyed time spent as his semi-sort-of employee riding to the skating rink with him to help open up for business. This entailed opening large wood “barn doors” over the screen windows and turning on evaporative coolers in the summer, or leaving the windows closed and lighting gas heaters in the winter. Dust mopping the floor performed on roller skates was next, followed by ensuring that stacks of 45 r.p.m. records were ready to spin.

Best part of the job, however, was that I was also the “bouncer” on some nights, a job that rotated between a number of guys. That meant wearing a whistle and pointing at anyone skating recklessly, too fast, or in any other unacceptable fashion.

My pay? Free ride to the skating rink, free admission, free snacks, and a free ride home. Oh, and the coolness that came with being a bouncer.

I wasn’t the best skater, but do anything often enough and you eventually get the hang of it. I was fair on wheels, held my own with most of the crowd. One of the crowd, however, stood out as “the pro.” Bobby Rhea moved with the fluid motion of an Olympic ice skater, turning circles, spinning on one skate, forward or backward, never faltered. Made it look easy.

The most amazing thing he did was strike a match on the floor while holding it in his teeth. I could attempt a description of the rolling acrobatics he accomplished to pull this off, but mere words are weak short of seeing someone do it. To every young guy wanting to skate like he did, and to every young girl he impressed, Bobby personified cool on skates.

The Halls purchased the rink from the McMahans, then later sold it to the Henry’s who owned it for a long time. By then, my skating days in Mount Pleasant were fading away as high school faded into college.

I never completely left roller skating behind though, accomplishing two “comebacks” since those early days. One in the late 80s when with my children, daughter Robin and son Lee, we started skating at the rink in Nacogdoches, the nearest one to home in Center, Texas. Despite a 20-year absence, old skating skills returned with a few laps around the floor. To ensure an authentic atmosphere for a respectable return, I even worked a deal with the rink manager to play my 60s Bill Black combo music.

The last comeback was just a few years ago in Longview, Texas, when my wife’s nephew decided a skating party for his birthday would be the bomb. As I had 20 years before, I calculated about 20 fingers and toes since the last time I had rolled on a rink—and this time I was in my 60s. None-the-less, I laced up my skates and rolled out on the floor one more time with “the other kids.” Within 15 minutes I was 16 years old again, even without the aid of what I termed proper music.

Perhaps there will be other comebacks before I hang up my skates for good, at least as long as Bill Black’s Combo music is still available.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo: Author’s 60s vintage Chicago Trophy roller skates still doing time, these days as a reminder of the “good old days” displayed in the back seat of his 1955 Ford Crown Victoria at vintage car events.)

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“Artificial intelligence is wonderful. I told my computer that today is my birthday, and it said I needed an upgrade.” — Uncredited greeting card quote

– – – – – – – – – – –

“You ever hear of the Turing Test,” Lou asked? “No, I haven’t,” I replied.

The question arose as I attempted to purchase a copy of Louis Antonelli’s debut science fiction novel, Another Girl, Another Planet.  Lou is a newspaper editor by day and a science fiction writer other times. He has authored 113 short stories published in the U.S., U.K., Canada, Australia, India and Portugal, and his work has garnered nominations for awards by a number of science fiction writer’s associations.

Paying Lou should have been easy, but the deal went South when I tried to use PayPal. Actually, groundwork was laid two years ago when I opened the account. For reasons unknown and unnoticed, until I began getting email greeting me, “Hello Aldridge Aldridge,” the account employed my last name as both first and last.

PayPal for online purchases with the unintentional alias worked without a hitch. However, selecting “cash” prompted the question, “Is Aldridge Aldridge your legal name?” Clicking “no” allowed minor corrections, two characters or less. Any further change was an artificial intelligence assumption that a “legal” name change was required necessitating a driver’s license, credit card statement, etc. All of this is accomplished lacking real-person intelligence. Translation: This is going to take a while.

Explaining to Lou the hassle I’d run into, I promised him one of those antiquated forms of payment, a check. Then added, “As I was dealing with PayPal trying to order a book titled Another Girl, Another Planet, I saw some strange irony that trying to get something done online can be like dealing with another person from another planet.”

This prompted Lou’s earlier question about the Turing Test, and his answer: “(Alan) Turing said (in 1950) the goal of computer science would be to come up with a machine or program that, if you are communicating with it via text or voice (not in person), you couldn’t tell that you weren’t communicating with a real person. Ever since then, every time someone invents a system to automatically communicate with people, they say they’re trying to beat the Turing Test.”

Wikipedia adds: “Since Turing first introduced his test, it has…become an important concept in the philosophy of artificial intelligence. Also known as AI.”

Book order done and back to PayPal, I uploaded required documentation asking simply for a correction of the first-name error. Some form of intelligence, I’m betting artificial, determined I needed an automated reply covering everything I already knew and had already done. Thinking I could outsmart their AI with a series of two-character changes to accomplish the correction proved to be a fail. It did however, prompt a real person response—a message that my name was successfully updated to Ledridge Aldridge. How ironic. Real-person intelligence intervened to foil my AI work-around. Happy to discover real-person intelligence, however, I responded with a recap of what needed to happen. Update: As of this writing, I’ve had no further response from PayPal intelligence, real-person or artificial. And, I also remain known in PayPal circles as Ledridge Aldridge.

Personally, I don’t think artificial intelligence will ever reach the point we cannot discern AI from human intelligence. I know, because I asked Siri, and she said so. She also knows about the Turing Test.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined.” – Henry David Thoreau

Made plans for celebrating as the old year fades away and the new year arrives? Better yet, what’s your plan for living the story of your life in 2018?

That’s not a stock question, by the way. I ask because it’s on my mind as I finalize a 2018 plan that includes more than just enjoying the fireworks. The new year will barely be underway before I hope to be celebrating another birthday. And, regardless of your personal reaction to birthdays, I’m still holding to the opinion that continuing to have them is a good thing.

This will be one of those landmark birthdays. You know, the ones that end with a zero? The kind that are deserving of special contemplation. I’m contemplating looking beyond the usual resolutions list: Lose weight. Save more money. Learn something new. Be a nicer person. Return all my overdue library books. Even the most noble of resolutions about being more productive and making life easier are paling in comparison to doing more of something we usually tend to do less of: Using our imagination. Being creative. Learning to play more.

We played as children, using our imaginations to become cowboys rounding up the bad guys, movie stars in the spotlight of a leading role, or sometimes firemen rescuing people and battling raging flames. But, there’s just something about this adulting thing that teaches us to grow up. Quit acting like a kid. Take on more responsibility. And, what happens? We forget how to play, of all things.

Playing is important because there is a fine line between a child’s play and an adult’s imagination. Both require using the mind to discover what’s hidden in the heart. My plan for 2018 is a return to playing more—using my imagination to live out the stories of life in my heart, the kind we all dreamed of as kids.

It’s one of those adulting things to spend our lives going, doing, looking, documenting, collecting, and other regimens considered to be important. And, to some degree, a fair amount of those regimens are required to figure out what the story of our life is all about.

We also spend a great deal of our lives thinking that story is the destination, where do we want to be and by what date? What do we hope to have accomplished? As we mature, we come to see our life as doing these things as a means of support, hoping someday to take a breath and look back on what we’ve accomplished. But, that’s not the story of our lives, that’s the destination.

The story of our life lies is the journey. Do we have a curiosity about the world we’re passing through? Do we daydream about the way we want the story to go? Do we play out the script we want for the story of our life? We should, you know. After all, when it’s the story of our life, the best part is we get to write the story ourselves.

Do we go confidently in the direction of our dreams like we did as a child with faith in ourselves, and without fearing mistakes? Perfection comes not in avoiding mistakes, but by learning from them to make corrections. Playing as a child meant sometimes falling off our stick horse, but we wiped away the tears and got back on it. If we didn’t, the bad guys would have gotten away.

One of the best things about the story of our life is that it is never too late to start on the best part of the story. Best sellers are not written in chronological order. Academy Award winners in blockbuster movies are rarely won by first time actors, or by the youngest actors. The best day to start playing again is today.

Remember to play during the journey, live the life you dream about every day, be the person you want the people around you to be, and that adulting destination stuff will magically take care of itself.

Oh, and that includes the fireworks this weekend. Best wishes for great fireworks, a new focus on the journey, and a happy and prosperous 2018!

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“It is Christmas in the heart, that puts Christmas in the air.” —W.T. Ellis

Orange and yellow flames casting dancing patterns of light among soft shadows. Pinpoints of color accentuating a decorated tree. Children gazing at presents with anticipation and excitement. The mixture of sights and sounds with comforting warmth provides a perfect setting for Christmas-time reflections in the heart.

Christmas is a season for reflecting and a season that by tradition leans heavily on stimulating fires that are conducive to reflective moments. Whether a roaring camp fire in the wilderness, or a glowing fireplace at home, for reasons likely linked to those who first incorporated ceremonial fires before Christmas became a season, the glow of a mesmerizing fire has for generations been a stimulus for sharing thoughts. Stories reflecting on life’s memories passed from one generation to the next.

I learned a long time ago that the magic of Christmas resides in the heart of a child. I’ve also come to believe that Christmas is for children and the young in heart of all ages. Maybe that’s because Christmas reflections begin at an early age when as a youngster we are given cause to consider whether we have been “naughty or nice.” It took very little reflecting to leave us hoping that St. Nick had been more informed about our nice than about our naughty.

The years add depth and understanding about reflecting on what we can do for others as the Yule season turns from a time of getting to a time of giving. The joy of Christmas past as a child also causes reflection on special memories made with our children.

About 25 or 30 Christmases ago, I watched my son, Lee, as he busily worked at wrapping gifts. In the joy of it all, he stopped his busy pursuit long enough to look at me and say, “Dad, I love Christmas.”

“It is a wonderful time of the year,” I agreed with a smile in my heart and enjoying, through him, the excitement and the anticipation of Christmas.

My daughter, Robin, enjoyed Christmas, too—in her own memorable artistic manner. With presents opened and playtime at hand, she opted to make something from the empty boxes and paper leaving new toys to wait. Who needs new toys when you can recreate Elvis’ Graceland with cardboard and Christmas paper, right? Yep, she really did that.

These days, watching the grands giddy with excitement about the season underscores another generation of Christmas reflection. Children are a gift. They are given to us as a learning tool, typically at a time in life when we think we already know everything. If we learn the lessons intended for us, we realize there are several things we don’t know including the fact that we need to stay busy learning from them because we are granted only a few fleeting Christmases with their childhood. Time goes by much too quickly.

I’ve always thought it convenient that Christmas and the new year are positioned back-to-back. That way our seasonal reflections put us in the frame of mind not only to cherish the happenings of the year just past, but also to set our sights and hearts on the year ahead.

Reflecting on the past year in a moment of solitude and contentment brings to mind those who have made the year special. It’s in this moment of reflection that we try to remember those special people in our hearts and our lives, and to wish for them, the joy and happiness of Christmas.

Enjoy the season in your heart, see the magic through the eyes of a child, preferably by flickering firelight. Merry Christmas to you and yours.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo by the author, Christmas 1982 in Center, Texas. My daughter, Robin Elizabeth Aldridge, making a deal with Santa Claus.)

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lips.” Oliver Goldsmith— Irish novelist, playwright and poet

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Silent role model. The term leaped off a yellowing newsprint page last week from a column I wrote more than 20 years ago.

What other kind of role model is there? I don’t recall ever singling out anyone and saying, “That person would make a great role model. I’ll just do what they do.” I learned long ago that we silently, and often unconsciously, emulate actions we see in others. And, we likewise become unknown role models the same way when people view us in the same manner, more by default than by choice. I learned that from one of the best silent role models I knew, my father.

The aforementioned column drafted for The Boerne (Texas) Star newspaper years ago was rooted in reflecting on realizing that my primary role model had been my father. He might have been surprised had you told him that he was my role model. Truthfully, I would have been as well because I never told him until I wrote that column. And, that’s because I didn’t fully realize it myself until then.

The column, discovered while going through folders of old columns attempting to digitize them, was written during the week of dad’s 72nd birthday. There had to be a bit of irony in also discovering last week that November was National Inspirational Role Models Month.

My father was a man of few words, at least about offering advice. He taught me much about life, logic and love. But, he didn’t do it often by telling me, he did it more by living it. I learned by watching how he loved and cared for his family, how he took care of his business, and how he lived his life. I saw his work ethic. I saw how he contributed to the community by volunteering, and how he loved his country.

There were at least two memorable times, however, when he did offer direct advice in father and son conversation. “Offered” is not an accidental term. He never mandated, or pressured me into doing anything, opting mostly for telling me what would happen should I follow the course I was on, leaving the decision to stay the course, or not, up to me. That thought would become obvious in the second piece of advice

The first dealt with love. Details of how the conversation began are lost to time, likely someone I dated. He shared his thoughts on the fragile nature of love between a man and a woman, how nurturing it required a great deal of time and work. To that, he added how easily it could be lost. Particularly insightful were his thoughts on growing over time, becoming stronger as years go. “I didn’t love your mother nearly as much when we married as I do now,” he said. “And, it was different kind of love in the beginning. There were times along the way I wasn’t sure it would last. But, it did. Understanding that you have something worth working for, and how the more you work at it, the stronger it becomes because you’re both working, that’s true love.”

The other conversation was sage advice on why he thought it unwise for me to exchange my hard-earned money for the hot rod automobile I had deemed necessary to own for life as I knew it to continue. He concluded, “I wish that I could share with you the pitfalls of mistakes I’ve made and save you the consequences of making them yourself. But, it appears that part of the design of life is that everyone has to learn those lessons for themselves. I know, because I did.”

I concluded the 1995 column noting that I would call him, wish him a happy birthday, and tell him what an excellent silent role model he was for me. I’m glad I did tell him when I could. My opportunities for doing so ended ten years ago when he passed away at 83.

It’s ironic that I was so long in figuring out that we are all silent role models, one way or another. Perhaps that’s what my silent role model meant when he said, “It appears that part of the design of life is that everyone has to learn some of those lessons for themselves. I know, because I did.”

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo—Leon Aldridge and Leon Aldridge, Jr. – July 1948 at Childress, Texas)

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“At Christmas, all roads lead home.” —Marjorie Holmes, columnist and best-selling Christian author

Knowing Christmas is just around the corner awakens the wandering spirit in me. Holiday time was synonymous with travel time for most of my early years. I’m pretty sure it was a gene on mom’s side of the family that had my siblings and me believing “Christmas” was spelled “r-o-a-d  t-r-i-p.” Many Christmases until I left home, we were going somewhere or someone was coming to our house for the holidays. That somewhere was to visit mom’s family. The someone was her siblings, if we weren’t already headed to one of their homes—something that was always a road trip.

The shortest Christmas road trip was just shy of a couple hundred miles, the distance between our house in Seymour, west of Wichita Falls, to mom’s sister’s house in Kress, a wide spot in the road north of Plainview in the Texas panhandle. I use the term “wide spot” with great fondness in my heart, and in the strictest of interpretation. I have many wonderful memories of family gatherings in Kress, although it must have experienced a population explosion in recent decades. The latest reported census I found for the small farming community says it’s all the way up to 715 now.

We used to joke about missing Kress if you blinked. Before the completion of I-37 through the center of the Texas Panhandle bypassed it, US 87 went right through Kress passing Lawson’s Cafe and the Phillips 66 full service station on the way. The joke took on new meaning one night when mom must have blinked. Despite having been there many times, in the dark of night, she drove right through Kress—yep, flat missed it. Being the eldest child riding shotgun in the front seat at about age 10 or so, I asked her where she was going. In her delayed reaction style (bless mom’ s heart), she replied a minute or so later, “To Kress…where do you think we’re going?”

Breaking the news to her that the street she passed a ways back, directly across the road from the huge grain elevators, was the turn to her sister’s house evoked a typical response. She uttered one of her go-to terms of frustration that she always denied using, then turned her ’54 Chevrolet around and headed back to Aunt Amy’s house.

Another family Christmas gathering, this time in Mount Pleasant, saw her youngest sibling and only brother, Bill, making the trek from Southern California with his wife and three kids in a ’62 Chevrolet Corvair, the early 60s compact car. He accomplished this feat in typical style for someone on mom’s side of family—driving 24 hours non-stop. This was no ordinary American compact car, however. It was the turbocharged Corsa (a highly collectible car today), which is noteworthy because it set the stage for one my fondest holiday memories.

The year was 1964 and my driver’s license still had that new luster about it. The first night, as mom and dad congregated around the eggnog and fruitcake with her brother and sisters, Uncle Bill tossed me the keys to his car and told me to go have fun. Didn’t have to tell me a second time. Good friend Ronald Rust, who lived two houses down Redbud Lane, and I cruised the streets of Mount Pleasant that night in a hot-rod Corvair from California—a big deal at 16. The memory of keeping “the drag” warm between the Dairy Queen on the north end of town and the Dairy Mart on the south end that mid-60s winter night is still a top-ten Christmas memory.

Then there was the time we hit the road around midnight going to another of mom’s siblings for Christmas. In Sweetwater. Six hours away. We arrived just in time for breakfast.

But, that’s another story. You get the idea. We traveled a lot at Christmas making holiday memories with family. Time has changed that some, as time has a way of doing. Christmas at home these days sounds a little more attractive to me … until someone says, “Road trip.” Then I’m all in.

If your holiday plans call for travel to small town U.S.A, possibly heading home for Christmas to make memories with family and friends, travel safely … and make sure you don’t blink at Kress, you’ll miss your turn.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

 “Ask any pilot how they started flying, and you will hear a love story.” —Author Unknown

 “You can do this,” I said. Never mind there was no one to hear me within … oh, 1,000 feet or so. Straight down. “Nothing to it,” I added. Nothing like a pep talk for confidence, even if it’s with yourself.

That little self support session occurred more than four decades ago, however thinking about it last Saturday while at the Mount Pleasant (Texas) Regional Airport made it seem more like yesterday. The occasion last weekend was a tour of the Mid-America Flight Museum, without a doubt the finest collection of WW II and vintage aircraft in this part of the country.

Our group making the tour included my daughter, Robin, her husband Jonathan and their children, and my sister Sylvia. Few in my family are strangers to flying, especially my sister or my children. New pilot’s license in hand in 1974, my first passengers included many trusting family members. A few years later when my children came along, Robin and her brother Lee often accompanied me on Saturday afternoon jaunts exploring the Shelby County Texas countryside, or cross country trips, spending a portion of their childhood in the air.

Saturday’s tour guide was Frankie Glover, brother of museum owner Scott. Frankie and I earned a license about the same time at the old Mount Pleasant airport located on property now part of Priefert Manufacturing.

Walking through the collection of old planes and watching new ones come and go reminded me of that “yesterday” at the old airport long ago. It was a day marked by one of the best conversations ever experienced with myself on one of the most memorable days for every pilot—the first solo flight.

Instructor Doyle Amerson’s style was soloing student’s with little, if any, warning. I suspect that was likely to reduce anxiety. But, in any case, that’s exactly how Doyle played it April 23, 1974.

Flying an hour of instruction after work, we practiced the usual stuff: turns, stalls, patterns, etc. Our return to the airport included another training standard: “touch and go”— letting the wheels touch the runway on landing, then applying full takeoff power without stopping in order to go around and repeat the process as often as the instructor deems appropriate.

As wheels touched mother earth the third time that day, Doyle said, “Make it a full stop landing.” Thinking we were done for the day, I let the airplane roll out approaching the first turn to the ramp. “Stop here on the runway,” he added.

As I braked the plane to a stop, Doyle unbuckled his seatbelt and exited the aircraft. Pausing before shutting the door, he said, “Show me two touch-and-goes and a full-stop landing.”

“By myself,” I stammered?

“That’s the idea,” he smiled.

Taxiing to the end of the runway for takeoff, I stared at the 3,000-foot narrow ribbon of asphalt ahead of me. And, this is where we came in at the beginning of this missive. The day I not only soloed, but the day I learned that the best conversations are often with ourselves. This one began with a little pep talk, appreciating the full gravity of the fact I was about to pilot an airplane for the first time—alone.

Centering the airplane on the runway and applying full power, I simultaneously threw in a short prayer and a reminder to breath every so often, whether I needed to or not.

A short run and we lifted off. “We” being me and the plane, but that’s not the hard part. Most modern aircraft will lift off and began climbing with very little control needed. Getting it back on the ground right side up and in one piece, now that’s where the fun really begins.

Our conversation, “our” being me, the plane and I, continued for the flight’s duration—out loud. Suddenly, I was both the student and the instructor, an arrangement that really worked very well. “Downwind 1,200-foot altitude.” Check. “Airspeed and flaps” Check. “Maintain 70 on final.” Check.

The little Cessna’s wheels gently kissed the runway. “Flaps up for takeoff.” Check. “Full takeoff power and trim.” Check. I got a glimpse of Doyle kneeling in the grass just off the right side of the runway as we regained flying speed. I counted it a good thing that while he was kneeling, he was flashing a “thumbs up.” At least he didn’t appear to be be praying.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I thought as we lifted off the second time. Small successes foster confidence plus a little humor. ”So,” I smiled. “You aced one, now the goal becomes making sure all the takeoffs and landings come out even.”

Fortunately, they did. Immediately following, the old tradition of the instructor cutting off the student’s shirt tail after the first solo was ceremoniously conducted amid plenty of smiles.

Thus, in the months and years that followed that summer in ‘74, a childhood dream of flying an airplane became a passion and source of enjoyment. There is little in life that matches a majestic view from the heavens when you’re directing the journey.

Unless, of course, it’s quality conversation with yourself on the day you log your first solo flight.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion (http://www.lightandchampion.com) and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers (http://www.tribnow.com).

“I’m thankful for every moment.”—Al Green, singer and songwriter.

Thanksgiving 2017 is a memory now, leaving only 28 shopping days until Christmas. But, while there may still be just one piece of pecan pie left from Thanksgiving dinner, I’m still savoring the best part of the holiday season—the memories.

My blessings are many, and long is the list enumerating things for which I am thankful. However, conversation last week with a friend in Dallas prompted memories of one thing for which I am truly thankful—Thanksgiving dinner at my grandparent’s house as a child.

While wrapping up business via email with Wachelle Williams at Sunwest Communications, preparing for the short holiday week, she said something that resonated with me for the rest of the day.

“We are scheduled for next week! Yay…” her message read. I decided this was a good time to share that we also had another two weeks of our social media programs in the works beyond Thanksgiving. Her lighthearted reply was, “My grandmomma would say…’Stop showing out!’”

“I like your grandmomma’s sayings,” I told her. “Mine was a wise woman for someone whose education went only to the 8th grade. She had a large influence on my life.”

“Don’t you miss her,” Wachelle asked, commenting on memories of her grandmother, saying, “I really miss her cooking.” I agreed. Then for the rest of the day, all I could think about was holiday and Sunday dinners at my grandparent’s house.

Truthfully, any Sunday dinner prepared by my father’s mother was the equivalent of a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. She stopped preparing festive dinners when my grandfather died in 1967, but I remember her cooking like it was yesterday.

It was a yesterday when families ate more meals at home. The fast food boom was yet to happen, and eating out at a “real” restaurant was a treat for rare occasions. It was also a yesterday when, like for most families then, a meal at our home in Mount Pleasant was on the table precisely coordinated with dad’s arrival from work. Not being at the table at that time was not an option unless you were so badly incapacitated that walking was out of the question. Also not an option was deciding whether mom’s menu coincided with your taste buds. You ate what was on the table without criticism or comment—unless it was a comment praising mom’s cooking.

Although it was the age of “eat what your momma put on the table,” there was no way even the pickiest eater was going to leave granny’s table hungry on any day. The big table that occupied my grandmother’s dining room, and now resides in mine, was filled to capacity with choices. Common fare was fried chicken or ham, usually both. Every imaginable vegetable, salad and a casserole was there, along with hot rolls. If that wasn’t enough, the aroma of a fresh baked pie wafted from the kitchen as a reminder to save a little room.

The cooking was a labor of love, and meals were always on the table on time. That was no small feat for a Sunday dinner considering everyone at the Pittsburg Methodist Church knew my grandmother was really under the weather if she was not in her pew for worship service. That was a feat accomplished only by many hours spent in the kitchen Saturday night and early Sunday morning, something that never dawned on me as a child. I thought the meals were just another form of “grandmother’s magic.”

It was hard to notice behind the scenes work that our parents and grandparents put into family get togethers when, as kids, we were in the yard running through fall leaves and looking for pecans under huge trees that lined my grandfather’s yard. Smell is purported to be one of the strongest sensory preceptors linked to memory, and I know that it’s true. A whiff of leaves burning even today reminds me of raking and burning leaves in that same yard more than 50 years ago.

“Don’t you miss her,” Wachelle’s words echoed in my mind last week? I do miss her and I’m thankful for the memories of many Thanksgiving pasts she gave me. I’m also thankful for the values my grandparents and parents gave me regarding family traditions that have fashioned my Thanksgivings for a lifetime, and every moment of the memories I’m still making.

I hope your Thanksgiving was the best yet, and that you added many new memories of the season.

—Leon Aldridge

Aldridge columns are also published in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion http://www.lightandchampion.com and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune newspapers https://www.tribnow.com