A Story Worth Telling

“In the corner of the bar there stands a jukebox,
With the best of country music, old and new.
You can hear your five selections for a quarter,
And somebody else’s songs when yours are through.”

“Please, Mr. Please” written by Bruce Welch and John Rostill.
Recorded in 1974 by Olivia Newton John.

“Have you seen these,” daughter Robin’s text asked last week? The subject of her inquiry was a photo of a plain black box the size of a small refrigerator. It was adorned with silver and blue accents sitting in what appeared to be a restaurant. My first thoughts were along the lines of a Star Wars reincarnated 1940s jukebox.

“No,” I responded. “What is it? Sort of reminds me of an old jukebox.”

Recorded music players offering entertainment in public locations debuted in 1890, soon after the arrival of Thomas Edison’s phonograph. Edison is said to have thought his invention was best suited for office dictation, but America’s love for music quickly capitalized on the recording phenomenon. By the early 1930s, personal record machines at home were common, and large wooden boxes with glowing lights, mesmerizing mechanisms and hungry coin slots called jukeboxes were common forms of entertainment in public venues. As World War II was escalating toward Pearl Harbor, jukeboxes made by Wurlitzer, AMI, Rock-Ola and others were everywhere from malt shop hangouts to renowned restaurants, as well seedy joints and brawling barrooms.

“Juke” was derived from their popularity in “jook joints,” a term applied to establishments featuring music, dancing, gambling, and drinking which were typically, shall we say, low-class establishments—also known as “dives.” An association with the growing popularity of swing and rock and roll music with teenagers, not well regarded in society by some parents, didn’t help. Neither did the government’s exposure of Mafia control over the coin operated machine industry at the time.

Every negative factor aside, jukeboxes not only survived, they flourished. Artistic use of plastics, glass, chrome and wood combined with eye-popping designs made them instant classics then and sought after collectibles today. Since the advent of digital music, they have ebbed and flowed in popularity with some new iteration popping up every few years. My daughter’s discovery last week was the newest.

“It’s a ‘new’ jukebox,” She replied, continuing our text conversation. “At my favorite real Mexican food place in Tyler! Takes credit and debit card payment!”

 “Naturally,” I said with a smile. “Cash—it’s just so yesterday.” But, not so with America’s love for music. As one who has loved and appreciated music since childhood, my attraction to jukeboxes many years ago led me to acquire three working examples of 40s and 50s models. While I grew up with them in the 50s and 60s at places like the Dairy Queen, the bus stop cafe, and up the street at the Hillbilly Cafe in Mount Pleasant, Texas, my children grew up in the 80s with them in our home in Center, Texas.

Robin’s favorite, and the pinnacle of my small collection, was a Wurlitzer 1015. Arguably one of the most beautiful jukeboxes to ever cast a soft, amber glow across a well-worn dance floor, the 1015’s arched top with cascades of bubbles down both sides, changing hues of softly illuminated plastic pillars emanating from a furniture-quality wooden box, and 78 r.p.m. records spinning behind a brightly illuminated glass window provided hypnotizing visual entertainment. Tunes like Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood,” Big Joe Turner’s “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” or Hank Williams’ “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” were almost secondary entertainment.

No stranger to a jukebox, one of Robin’s favorite childhood delights was dropping a nickel in the coin slot to watch the elaborate mechanism swing into action selecting the 1958 hit record, “Rockin’ Robin,” by singer Bobby Day,

Thirty years later, the sole survivor of that collection is a 1955 Seeburg offering a selection of 100 songs on 45 r.p.m. records resting in a horizontal tray. Although real wood boxes and bubbling tubes were gone by the mid 50s, the shiny chrome Seeburg box with faux-wood side panels and subdued lighting still spotlights a mechanized record changer to entertain in a fashion that no jukebox since has ever matched.

“That’s interesting,” I told my daughter. “I’ll have to look for one.”

“My favorite Mexican food restaurant, or a digital jukebox,” she teased?

 “Both, I guess,” was my reply.

“If you find yourself in Tyler, you better look for me,” she ordered. “I’ll take you to lunch and play the jukebox.”

“Wonderful,” I told her. “Guess there’s not much chance, though, that new one plays ‘Rockin’ Robin,’” I laughed. “Or that it will tap your plastic card just a quarter for five selections.”

—Leon Aldridge

“Multitasking is over rated.” —Leon Aldridge

Recent discussion with a friend over the practice of doing multiple things simultaneously (a.k.a. multitasking) led me to research the topic, and as expected, expert opinions agree that multitasking is in reality, not possible. The brain can do only one thing efficiently at a time. I already knew that. I conducted my own personal research at home last week.

It was admittedly not scientific research, but none-the-less conclusive. Turn a frozen dinner (TV dinner to my generation) into a gourmet meal for one—“Easy Peasy.” Manage a “look what the cat drug up” escapade—a bit more daunting maybe, but not impossible. Carry on a phone conversation from an old friend—piece of cake. But, throw them all together into one evening, and then let me know how that multitasking stuff works for you.

It started innocently enough with the “prefab” dinner in the oven. The offering of frozen gourmet meals at supermarkets today is nothing short of amazing, especially when compared to the TV dinners in aluminum trays that was half of my college cuisine. That and cheeseburgers.

Things were well underway for dinner. The oven timer was set, a place at the table was prepared with condiments neatly arranged on the table.

This was about the time I was leisurely thumbing through the latest issue of Hot Rod Deluxe magazine while waiting for the oven timer to summon me back to the kitchen. It’s also when the cat appeared at the back door. Now, it’s possible I might have noticed she had something with her had I not been deeply engrossed in the magazine. As it was, she was already through the door bounding for the laundry room when I saw it. It was moving. And, worse—it was a snake.

This is about the best time to interject that I’m one who believes there is only one good kind of snake. Add to that I’ve also long subscribed to the theory that a live snake’s place is not in the house. A lunge toward the snake-toting cat was too little, too late. This was also about the time the phone rang. Should I answer it, or, should I pursue the cat with the snake? And, it seems like I was doing something else when all this started…what was it?

”Hello.”

“Yes, hey I’m fine, how are you?” Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on being cordial when you’re pretty sure there’s a reptile loose in the house. And, what else was it that I was doing?

This was about the time I saw the cat dart out the still open back door. “You better get out,” I hollered. “Oh, no, not you,” I told my friend on the phone. Did she take the snake with her, I wondered? Perhaps the only thing worse than knowing there’s a snake in the house is wondering if there’s a snake in the house.

“Yes,” I continued the conversation while looking all around my feet. It has been a long time, hasn’t it? “Uh-oh, dinner’s ready,” I said aloud. “No,” I told my friend, “We can talk. Hang on for a minute.” I removed dinner from the oven and placed it on the stove top before returning to our conversation. A short time later, we shared good-byes with a vow to not wait another 25 years before talking, ignoring the fact that the long shot at Saturday’s horse race has better odds than another 25 years for us at our age.

This was about the time I decided I should conclude whether or not I was sharing my living quarters with a snake. A search under the dryer and behind the water heater, in the clothes hamper and under the utility room sink cabinet utilizing a flashlight with dying batteries turned up no snake. I shifted my sleuthing efforts to the back porch from which the cat and snake had come, and to where the cat returned. Maybe, just maybe, she carried the thing back outside with her. The same failing flashlight uncovered only the furry feline curled up and sleeping soundly on the porch rocker. Returning to the house, I continued looking on my way to the bedroom, deciding there had been enough action for one night. Still no snake.

Morning came and the critter was still on my mind as l went about preparing for another day at the office. Heading for the kitchen in need of caffeine, I was tiptoeing through the house looking for a snake when I rounded the corner into the kitchen and was startled at the sight of a hot oven and last night’s mealtime offering still sitting on the stove top.

So much for multitasking. Hot dinner was a disaster, I never found the snake, and my phone visit was cut short by crazy events of the evening. This week, I’ve switched to cold sandwiches and the cat doesn’t come inside without a full TSA shake down.

Oh, and the online research? It also concluded that multitasking has been decisively proven to be an ineffective way to work citing repeated evidence that performance suffers when people multitask.

Again, who needs scientific research. It’s just as over rated as multitasking.

— Leon Aldridge

“We made too many wrong mistakes.”—Yogi Berra

Writing can be an immensely rewarding endeavor one day and the most humbling of exercises the next—all but for one simple letter, or misused word.

Typo, the nemesis of every writer, can crush a masterpiece and render it a disaster quicker than you can say, “Proofreaders, untie against typos.”

There may be only 26 letters in the alphabet, but a mistake with just one within the 228,132 current words, obsolete words, and derivative words that the Second Edition of the 20-volume Oxford English Dictionary says we have at our literary disposal, will rain on even the best creative writer’s parade.

Whatever the odds, it has happened to every writer, and it happened to me last week in my day job as marketing director for Advanced Ecology. I was on a roll with our newly launched weekly e-card for sister company Bird & Crawford Forestry. Crowds were cheering, bands were playing, streamers were flying—it was deemed a success. Then in the flash of a keystroke, less than two minutes after the latest edition was released into cyberspace, someone pointed out a glaring typo. What should have read, “…long-range…” unfortunately read, “…long-ramge…”

While a typo is typically not a terminal illness, it can make any writer sick to his or her stomach. The frustration factor in this one ran higher than normal because the misspelled word was caught in the first draft and corrected, only to agonizingly reappear in a later revision.

The advent of spell check helped wordsmiths a great deal, but it’s not fool proof. Typos in any case are usually traced to lack of attention, rushing to finish, or both. I have to admit both played a role in mine.

If there can be a positive side to publishing a typo, mine was not the kind that can make a writer want to wear a disguise before going out in public—the kind that used to serve as fodder for Jay Leno’s feature, “Headlines,” on the Tonight Show. About the time Leno was born, The (Naples, Texas) Monitor publisher Lee Narramore was already collecting them. His tradition has been continued by Monitor publisher since 1968, Morris Craig, and supplemented with a few of mine in the last 30 years or so.

The following samples date back a couple of decades and more. We’ve applied some computer magic to protect the innocent and the guilty as the statute of limitations (or laughs) may not have expired. Under admissions and disclaimers, some of these were published in newspapers on my watch, and none were borrowed from social media. They were collected “pre-social media,” and I have the clippings.

Headlines can be the worst. In 30-point type, it’s like saying, “Let’s not just make a mistake, let’s shout it out in huge type.”

Like the East Texas newspaper headline on a story reporting that a Catholic School would be leasing a local building. Sure, the story explained it all, but after reading the headline, the reader’s mind has already gone down the road of thinking there’s a well-known and powerful new tenant in town.

No explanation needed in the central Texas newspaper headline utilizing a similar sounding, but unfortunately, incorrect verb.

Then there are those headlines that just should never have made it to press, like the coastal Texas newspaper headline that used an incorrect abbreviation. So many questions begging to be asked. I don’t know, maybe it resulted in a few more cookbook sales.

Sometimes, a headline can be perfect, but placed on the page in such a manner as to suggest something entirely different than was intended. Like the photo in an East Texas weekly some years ago of four people standing waste deep in water, obviously prepared for a baptism service—which is what the headline and story below the picture reported. Unfortunately, the story and headline positioned right above the photo reported on an altogether different event that coincidentally, involved the same number of people pictured.

Other times, just the combination of words in a perfectly good headline that is well written and factually accurate  can still cause the reader to  think, “I’m not sure I would have stated it exactly like that.”

It’s a fact that there is a Butt Street in the East Texas city where the newspaper was published. And it’s a fact that police officers raided a crack house on that street. But, I just don’t think I would have pieced all of that together in the same headline … at the top of the front page.

Typos and other things that make you wonder “why” can also sneak into an ad.

Technically, there is nothing wrong with advocating, “Knock ‘em Dead Big Red,” on any given Friday night somewhere in Texas. It’s perfectly acceptable football jargon when the gridiron competition warms up on a cool fall night. But, there are just some businesses, for which it might not be totally appropriate ad copy.

Having suffered the anguish of misprint maladies myself, I can testify that no writer is immune. Adding insult to injury, these few samples serve as evidence that once published, some typos will live in infamy for many years. Once the ink is on the newsprint, it’s there for published posterity.

The 60-plus year collection, long years ago dubbed “The Proofreader’s Bible” by Narramore, or Craig, or maybe both, contains more examples than space allows here. Plus, a number of them venture into the realms of political incorrectness and content deserving of a restricted movie rating.

While the dreaded typo can range from mildly humorous to downright hilarious for readers, the typo will forever cause writers to cringe. Therefore, should you find one in this column, laugh all you like, just don’t tell me.

“I find that the harder I work, the more luck I have.” —Thomas Jefferson

“Know where I can buy a used lawn mower,” someone asked a few days ago? “Afraid not,” I said, explaining how I was a couple of years removed from owning or operating a lawn mower. Finally gave up mowing in favor of hiring it done.

There was a time when I enjoyed the pride of a well groomed yard resulting from my hard work. That time was when it didn’t take as long to recover from the aches and pains such physical labor induces. However, recalling lessons learned while walking behind a lawn mower creates a crop of good memories.

Mowing the family lawn while growing up on Redbud Street in Mount Pleasant, Texas, was part of earning an allowance—a necessity. On occasion, I also mowed my grandparent’s yard just down the road in Pittsburg, Texas. Now, that was fun. Funny how grandparents somehow make the worst tasks seem like fun.

My grandfather’s lawn mower was an old Sears and Roebuck reel-type, self-propelled, power mower, the only one of its kind I recall seeing. The old green mower with big yellow wheels and a wooden roller device trailing them personified my grandfather. Both were outdated—even then, but both were hard working and both were reliable to a fault. One pull of the starter rope and it was running and ready. Flipping a handle mounted lever released the machine to roll slowly around the yard, doing the job it was designed to do. The only work required was walking along behind the mower and keeping it on course.

Mowing the grass at home for an allowance was a chore, one of many on the list. Completion of those chores that earned my mother’s approval also earned me 25 cents a week. Not much money by today’s standards, but not bad for the late 1950s. In reality, both were chores, but somehow having to mow for my allowance was anything but my idea of fun until I figured out that walking behind the lawn mower for mom meant money in my pocket.

Soon after making that connection between working and wages, I determined that the shortest route to a raise from my quarter a week income was a summer job. So, where did I go to increase my standard of living over the two-bit allowance? Mowing yards. For at least a couple of summers after that, keeping lawns around south-side Mount Pleasant neighborhoods neatly manicured—converting green grass to green in my pockets, also converted my pocket money from the rattling kind to the folding kind.

Thinking about mowers also caused me to contemplate how many of the devices I’ve owned over the years. Although, I failed to arrive at an exact number, two recollections stuck with me.

One: in my fifty-something years of mower ownership, I owned only two riding mowers and didn’t keep either one very long. Walking behind a lawn mower was, in some unexplained way, a great time to solve the world’s problems.

Two: buying my first lawn mower. Not quite up there with my first car or my first date, but a vivid memory no less, coinciding with the purchase of my first house. It was bright yellow and performed a splendid job grooming the thick carpet of San Augustine grass surrounding my first home on Dogwood Street in Mount Pleasant. That experience miraculously turned what had been a chore into a genuine source of pride. As I admired the sight and the enjoyed the smell of newly mowed grass, I knew then what my mom was striving for when she chided me to keep the yard looking nice. It wasn’t punishment, it was pride.

I also understand the lawn mowing lesson my dad tried to instill in me long before I had mowed enough lawns to understand. “Dad,” I once asked him, “Why do parents punish their kids by making them mow the grass all the time?”

“It’s not punishment, son,” he told me. “It’s to teach the value of working to earn money. It’s about taking pride in what you do, being proud of how nice the yard looks.”

“I’d be more proud if you mowed it,” I suggested.

“You’ll understand some day,” he said. “In the meantime, let me see if I can make this lesson a little easier to understand for today. Remember that working hard to make the yard look nice will result in your mother proudly paying your allowance.”

“Being a good neighbor is an art which makes life richer.”—Gladys Taber

The tall, gray-haired fellow walked slowly toward me from the small house next door. There only for a phone number on the “For Sale” sign nailed to a pine tree at Lake Murvaul in East Texas, I had no idea I was about to meet the best neighbor I would ever have.

It’s my opinion that the art of neighboring is dying, the victim of instant, easy and impersonal communication. I was again reminded of that recently while being updated on Center, Texas, news—incredibly, via text from a good friend and former Center resident now living on the other side of the state. “Haven’t heard that,” I told him. ”You’d think news in a small town would travel faster.”

“It did before the internet,” was my friend’s profound comeback. He was right. The result of more and more email, texts, tweets, etc., is less and less visiting across the fence, across the street and across the coffee shop table.

“Looking to buy a place on the lake,” the old fellow quizzed me that afternoon. “Good fishin’ here. You’ll like it,” he continued. His thinning gray hair, weathered face and slow walk revealed his age in years. His smile, twinkling eyes, and friendly curiosity uncovered a much younger heart. “I love this lake, wouldn’t live anywhere else. Retired and moved here from Dallas 17 years ago.”

In the weeks that followed, Mr. Bill made working on our newly acquired lake property tolerable. “How ’bout a glass of tea,” I heard him call out, then looked over the edge of the roof where I was working in mid-July to see him holding two glasses of iced tea. “Come on down,” he laughed. “I got a new joke for you.” He always had a new joke, and no one laughed louder or longer at them than he did.

“Come over for supper later,” he offered as he headed back across the easement that separated us. “Katherine’s fixin’ pork chops. I might save you one,” he chuckled.

Mr. Bill and Miss Katherine quickly “adopted” my children. He timed his afternoon picnic table coffee break to coincide with the arrival of the Gary, Texas, ISD school bus. “Y’all better get over here,” he’d announce as they stepped off the bus. “Katherine just made cookies.”

“Bug,” was the name my daughter selected for the scruffy Terrier mutt she adopted, but Bill called the puppy, “Bitsey.” Robin constantly corrected him, but to no avail. I soon learned this was just Bill’s teasing way of keeping Robin’s attention. The dog with two names soon became Bill’s “bus alert.” Long before Bill’s failing ears heard the school bus coming, the dog’s head would pop up as she looked toward the curve signaling him that it was near.

Good hearing was not a requirement for his fishing, however. You could set your watch by the sound of Bill’s boat heading out full-throttle as the sun came up on the cove, and again just before the sun dropped behind the pine trees on the other side. “Catch anything?” I’d call out when I saw him coming back. “Naw,” he’d laugh. “One tried to jump on my hook, but I talked him out of it.”

Every back porch around the cove was within “hollering” distance, a perfectly acceptable form of communication. Every porch was also within sight, meaning that meandering toward your pier with a cup of coffee hoping to catch fish hitting the top of the water guaranteed someone would soon join you—coffee cup in hand.

Pier sitting wasn’t a requirement with Bill, though. “Got any more of that coffee,” he’d often ask, sticking his head in the back door on Saturday morning. “Katherine won’t let me have any more. Says I don’t need it. If she calls, don’t tell her I’m over here,” he’d laugh, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Miss Katherine was a determined woman, and she determined one day that it was time to sell their lake property and move closer to kids and grand kids in Ft. Worth. “Crazy woman,” Bill said, shaking his head one evening as we sat on the back porch. “I came to this lake to stay.” He protested to everyone, except Miss Katherine of course, and the “For Sale” sign went up on the hilltop place they had called home for 20 years.

‘Where ya’ going,” I asked one afternoon as I saw him heaving suitcases in the car. “Goin’ to Ft. Worth to see the kids,” he replied. Looking around to make sure Miss Katherine wasn’t within earshot, he smiled and said, “If anyone stops to look at the house, tell ’em it’s eaten up with termites, the roof leaks and the plumbing’s shot.”

“Got ‘cha,” I laughed. “Have a good trip.” The little place next door eventually sold, Bill and Katherine moved to Fort Worth and closer to family, all about the same time opportunity called me to Boerne in the Texas Hill Country. But to this day, every time someone talks about good neighbors, I still see the best neighbor I ever had coming across the easement laughing and saying, “I got a new joke for you…”

— 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).

“Never say ‘never’… karma has a wicked sense of humor.” —Experience

My first close encounter with a computer just months into the 80s occurred when we took delivery of our first one at the East Texas Light in Center, Texas, where it was set up in the bookkeeper’s office.

Computers of a sort were already used for typesetting, although primitive by today’s standards. Imagine tall boxy devices the size of a refrigerator beeping and humming at the command of multiple yards of perforated paper tapes generated by reporters on typewriter-style machines in the news room—a far cry from the new one in bookkeeping around which everyone huddled that day. Typically found in banks and big businesses, the newspaper now had a modern computer—one with a glowing black-and-green TV tube monitor, noisily generating reams of green-and-white paper.

Whereas children born today come with a plethora of knowledge pre-installed for intuitively knowing how to operate complex computing devices, I couldn’t spell ‘computer’ until my junior year of college. Remembering my only course in ‘computer science’ at East Texas State University in Commerce, Texas, involved thick stacks of punch cards created during many late nights in the computer center used to produce reams of that same green-and-white paper (most of mine with error messages attached), my reaction to the new computer was quick. “I’ll never need to know how to work a computer, just bring me the print outs.”

Karma was swift and sure. The first computer in my house came no more than a year later—an Apple IIe in about 1983. It was soon replaced with a first-generation McIntosh introduced the next year that came with two floppies required to operate it. One, a system disk and the other a data disk—cutting edge technology at 128k from a device that weighed 12-15 pounds.

So, here I was last week, some 35 years following my profound proclamation, attempting rationalization to a somewhat understanding friend how (and why) I possess six functioning devices, any one of which has mega times the capacity and power of the first one I owned. Never mind that the one called iPhone is small enough to fit in a pocket, or become easily lost under or behind something when the ringer is turned off.

Supplementing this collection of working wonders are three Mac desktops that preceded the current workhorse, a five-year old MacBook Pro. My Mac museum includes a PowerMac G5 currently living on a desk just in case it’s ever needed, in the same spot in which it’s collected dust since the MacBook Pro was first powered up. Stored in their original boxes are a PowerMac G4 and a first-generation iMac G3. It’s two-tone silver and gray. I just couldn’t take the plunge for one of the bright candy-colored configurations in which the revolutionary tear-drop shaped computers daringly debuted in the early 90s.

Rounding out the current collection of computing devices are:

• A first-generation iPad that still performs perfectly, at the ready for me to read Kindle books, or to provide chords and lyrics for my embattled endeavors to master the guitar.
• Two iPad minis. Why two? That’s an interesting story for another time.
• An Asus Android 7″ tablet that I own only because it was part of a promotion with my last phone contract renewal. Used to be my Kindle reader before I discovered the app existed for the iPad.
• Two iPhones. One for me which will have to be surgically removed when it dies so that a new one can be installed, and one that my wife uses for phone calls, taking photos of cats and grandchildren, and marveling at her newly discovered ability to send and receive text messages…that is when she remembers to take it with her.

A fitting footnote might be the prodigy of that first computer, the Apple IIe. No, I don’t still have that one. It wasn’t functioning properly and was handed off to my son after the first Macintosh was dedicated to duty. Lee was young, yet to enter school, but he somehow managed to make it work and was playing games on it the same day. How did he do that? He told me at the time, but I didn’t understand it, even then. Today, he has a degree in computer networking and maintains IT networks and automation equipment for a manufacturing company in Mount Pleasant, Texas, with locations in four, or is it five, states…and he still plays computer games.

So, what does a reformed “I’ll never need to know how to work a computer,” type do with all these devices? The easier answer is the same as it is for most of us today, “what would we do without them?”

Some things have not changed, however, since the days of that iconic green-and-white paper. I’m still getting error messages.

— Leon Aldridge

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

 

“Column writing is storytelling in written form. Those who understand the magic in words make the best writers and the best story tellers. Therefore, I believe there is only a thin line that separates the two crafts.”—Leon Aldridge

That thought came to me a couple of weeks ago while on a mission to name the newest series of Aldridge columns scheduled for publication in the Center, Texas, Light and Champion and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, Tribune.

Columns published in newspapers have traditionally been identified by names. Sometimes, the name will include the author’s name in a catchy manner, such as “Borderline” written by friend and former colleague Gary Borders. Other times, it might refer to the publication itself, as in the column called “Monitoring Main Street,” written by Morris Craig and several publishers and staffers at The Monitor in Naples, Texas for more than at least 60 years that I know of.

Whatever the name, column writing has provided me with more fun and reward than almost any other aspect of the newspaper business. I was hooked on columns in high school reading Paul Crume’s, “Big D,” in the Dallas Morning News.

Crume’s first column was published in 1952 and was on the front page every Sunday through Friday edition for 24 years. He reportedly never missed a deadline, but also never made one with more than seconds to spare. And supposedly, never read his column in the paper the next day.

His last column appeared November 13, 1975, just three days before he died. No one took his place, and unfortunately, in my opinion, the tradition of front page columns also died—with one exception we’ll touch on shortly.

My first regular column ran in the Center East Texas Light (now the Light and Champion) in April of 1980, dubbed, “The Aldridge Report.” That was, however, not the first column bearing my byline. As editor for the Sabine News in Many, Louisiana in the late 70s, I penned sporadic contributions for the struggling weekly where time to write regular columns was a luxury—likely why it never garnered a name.

After Center, and after teaching journalism at Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas, my next publishing gig was at The Boerne Star in the Texas Hill Country. We called that column “This Week,” a name I also used at the Marlin Democrat, a brief stop on my way back to East Texas to publish the Naples Monitor.

Keeping with the aforementioned Naples Monitor tradition dating back many decades, my column ran on the front page as, “Monitoring Main Street.” Morris Craig still continues that tradition, as he did before me and after me, with the only front-page newspaper column of which I’m aware.

Returning to the Light and Champion briefly in 2014-2015, my column ran under the name, “It’s All in How You Look At It.”

All of that leads to naming this most recent Aldridge column, a process that started right before the first offering went to press recently when a message from Center publisher Steve Fountain asked about  a name. I honestly had no idea, so the brainstorming commenced. Now, if you think the catchy titles on newspaper columns are just whimsical taglines requiring little thought or creativity, read on.

I hastily jotted names on sticky notes and threw them up on the wall to stare at them for a while. As midnight struck, the list included:

• Life is a journey
• It’s gonna be all right
• The story goes on forever
• Everyone has a story
• I swear It’s the truth
• That’s how I remember it
• Still playing with words
• Miscellaneous Musings
• Random Ruminations

Employing the latest in scientific methods such as throwing darts at the notes while chanting the proposed names aloud, I began to think about how general interest column writing is little more than telling a story. People love a good story, and it doesn’t even have to be 100-percent true—minor embellishment can be a virtue, like careful use of spices when cooking, only to enhance what’s already there.

Other names fell out of contention as I recalled sage advice from columnist and local new writer Mattie Dellinger years ago in Center who always reminded, “Don’t use 50-cent words when nickel words will do.” Just before 12:30 a.m., the list read:

• It’s Gonna Be All Right
• The Story Goes On Forever
• Everyone Has a Story
• I Swear It’s the Truth
• That’s How I Remember It

I borrowed “It’s Gonna Be All Right” from my life-long friend Oscar Elliott in Mount Pleasant, one of the wittiest guys I ever knew. Also liked, “That’s How I Remember It.” It had merit for storytelling. Both of them needed additional words to complete, and column names should be brief. Approaching 1:00 a.m., the survivors were:

• The Story Goes On Forever
• Everyone Has a Story
• That’s How I Remember It

Delaying a final decision until morning, I turned off the computer in favor of sleeping. As darkness replaced lamp light at 12:58 a.m., I had an epiphany. Knowing it would be gone by morning, I wrote this on a note, “It’s a Story Worth Telling.”

Morning and 5:50 came quickly. I let the dogs out and glanced at the words hastily scribbled scant hours before. Reading the survivors aloud for the last time, I fired off an email to Center and to Mount Pleasant … “It’s a Story Worth Telling.”

After seeing it in print, I felt good about it. Truly, we all have a story or two worth telling, and we should be sharing them.

—Leon Aldridge

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

 “We do not quit playing because we grow old — we grow old because we quit playing.”  — Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

Traveling the path of what was once U.S Route 66 from one end to the other while driving one of Detroit’s finest from the era is but one of many items remaining on my bucket list. Time, or money, or both will determine what’s left on the list at the end of my road. For now, it’s one of the dreams, and I know of no better motivator for growing older than dreams.

Read a news article about Route 66 last week, one of the original super highways within the 1920s U.S. Highway System. The legendary 2,448-mile thoroughfare was designated in November of 1926 and signs went up. It ran from Chicago, Illinois to the Los Angeles suburb of Santa Monica, California through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona opening new destinations to a generation of American travelers while inspiring a number of movies, a 1960s television series, and one of the great songs of our time.

During its heyday, the highway was filled with dazzling neon-adorned buildings that housed one-of-a-kind eateries, motels and tourist attractions bringing new-found prosperity in small towns along the way. It also served as a major path for those who migrated west, especially during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, supporting the economies of the communities through which it passed. Many of the original buildings and even stretches of the highway itself have been restored and are still in use, but according to last week’s article, a 10-year-old federal program to help fund small town promotional endeavors along the historic highway may be ending soon.

Route 66, and other well-known American thoroughfares like the transcontinental Lincoln Highway, and even the Bankhead Highway through my hometown of Mount Pleasant, Texas, saw the beginning of the end with President Dwight Eisenhower’s interstate system in the 1950s. As interstates began crisscrossing the country, Route 66 became less and less traveled. It was officially decommissioned as a US Highway in 1985.

So, it was in that year while opening mail as publisher of the Light and Champion newspaper in Center, Texas, I found myself reading a press release from the Texas Highway Department announcing the highway’s official closure. As a part of marking the end of US 66 through Texas, the state conducted a sealed bid auction for the road signs that were taken down and stored in Austin that year. The soon to be historical pieces were offered in two groups—steel signs and aluminum signs.

“Got to have one,” I told myself. I wish I could tell you the strategy I employed, but details are lost to time…and to all the other tidbits of data my mind has heaped on top of 1985 since then. I remember it had something to do with bidding in several price ranges on both types, so that if they went higher, I would hopefully snag at least one or two. And, if they sold at a lesser price, I might wind up with several. Notification came soon that I was a successful bidder and proud owner of two genuine Route 66 highway signs—one aluminum and one steel.

I still have one of the signs. It hangs on my garage wall amid a lifetime collection of other memorabilia from the golden age of American automobiles surrounding my stable of three mid-50s Fords—any one of them a candidate for completing the aforementioned, highly anticipated bucket list trip.

Traveling Route 66 from one end to the other is a common aspiration of auto enthusiasts like me who enjoy playing with old cars. During the 80s, I managed to set foot on both ends of the “Mother Road,” as it’s been called, on unrelated trips at different times. Also, a portion of it is the route Ronnie Lilly and I took driving from Mount Pleasant to Los Angeles in 1967 in Ronnie’s 1957 Chevrolet. If we knew that we were traveling Route 66 then, I could not say today. But, looking back now, we picked up the iconic highway near Albuquerque where we spent a night and left it around Flagstaff headed to Las Vegas.

Thus, the itch yet to be scratched for traveling Route 66 from one end to the other in one memorable and fun road trip remains. Something I must do before I quit playing.

Won’t you get hip to this timely tip,
When you make that California trip,
Get your kicks on route sixty-six.

—“Route 66” lyrics 1946 by American songwriter Bobby Troup

— Leon Aldridge

Phone calls can often orchestrate unexpected news—news typically falling in the category of really good or really bad. One such call out of the blue a couple of weeks ago proved to be a little of both. While the news was a sad message, it stimulated many good memories.

“This is Steve Hubbard in Fort Worth,” the caller began. “I know that doesn’t mean a thing to you,” he said with a smile in his voice. “I just read a column you wrote for a newspaper in Mount Pleasant…I think it was…maybe a year or two ago,” he articulated hesitatingly. “…and in it, you mentioned Wallace Read.” With the mention of Wallace Read’s name, I instantly had a great deal in common with someone I had never met before I answered the phone.

“Yes sir,” I told him. “If I recall correctly, I think that was a column about the importance of music in my life, and there’s no way I can talk about my love for music without remembering or mentioning Wallace Read.”

“I’ve been a long-time friend of Wallace’s,” Mr. Hubbard continued. “And, I hate to have to tell you that Wallace passed away this morning.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “I’m really sorry to hear that. I haven’t heard anything about him in years, but have thought of him often. He was my band director at Kilgore College in ’66 and ’67.”

“He was 93,” Mr. Hubbard replied. “But, was in good health and still performing and playing trumpet until about six months ago.”

News of the former Kilgore College band director’s death opened the floodgates for memories of my high school and college band years. Without a doubt, memories that are among the best of my educational experience.

Lufkin, Texas, native Wallace “Wally” Read was a trumpet player at Lufkin High School who followed a love for music through his military service in World War II playing in USOs, to becoming a band director after graduating from Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas. After high school jobs in East Texas at Beckville, Gaston, and White Oak, he went to Kilgore College to direct the Ranger Band where he remained until he retired. At Kilgore, he took the band program to a position of an award winning, internationally recognized band performing with the Rangerettes, earning invitations for events from the Cotton Bowl and Dallas Cowboy halftime shows to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, plus appearances in a number of events in countries around the world.

After a little research, I located the column Mr. Hubbard had read. It was published in May of 2015 in both the Center (Texas) Light and Champion, and the Mount Pleasant (Texas) Daily Tribune.

The specific paragraphs about Mr. Read were: “Wherever my appreciation of band music originated, it was forever ingrained in me at Kilgore College as a member of the Ranger band under the direction of Lufkin native Wallace ‘Wally’ Read. Stage performances were more prevalent in college band, and it was not uncommon for Read to join in for a chorus, or a solo. I still remember his trumpet solo on Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White.”

“The crowning touch at KJC was the spring concert May 2, 1967. Read was friends with Tonight Show band leader ‘Doc’ Severinsen who started with NBC-TV’s Tonight Show in 1952 during Steve Allen’s tenure. Severinsen played trumpet in the band directed by Skitch Henderson, taking over as bandleader in 1967 for Johnny Carson, and continued until Carson and Severinsen’s band left the show in 1992. Under his direction, The Tonight Show NBC Orchestra became the most visible big band in America.”

“However, the Ranger band’s performance that night in East Texas was second to no other when the well-known bandleader walked on the stage to join the Ranger band and cap the evening with a signature solo in Concert for Trumpets.”

“The entire performance was recorded and a copy of that record still on my shelf serves as proof positive should anyone challenge my lighthearted, boastful claim to have once played on the same stage with legendary musicians Wallace Read and Doc Severinsen.”

The day after our phone conversation, Mr. Hubbard sent an email detailing his relationship with Wallace Read and his family. The professional musician, trumpet player and trumpet builder wrote:

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

I grew up in the small Texas town of Keene, home of Southwestern Adventist University. In the early 1960s, Professor (later, Doctor) John Read and his family moved to Keene, where Dr. Read became the director of choral studies at the college. One of my earliest memories is when Dr. Read invited the Kilgore College Band to perform at the college, directed by his brother, Wallace Read. 

As I grew older, and became more and more interested in music, I came to realize that Wallace Read was a legend among Texas college band directors. Although Kilgore College was a small two-year college, Wallace had developed a band program that was nationally famous. On several occasions, they were invited to perform in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in New York, with all expenses paid. This honor was reserved for only the finest bands in the land.

After I began to learn the cornet and trumpet at age 10, I became aware that Wallace Read was also a world-class jazz and big-band trumpet player. He would come to Keene on occasion, to visit his family. Dr. Read saw to it that Wallace was available to coach me, as I worked to develop my abilities on the trumpet. Wallace took an interest in me, because of my association with the Read family, and went out of his way to mentor me. 

In the many years since, I have had numerous opportunities to visit with Wallace, and to play trumpet duets with him. We would improvise solos, trade choruses on Dixieland tunes, and discuss the various trumpet players who had been our heroes. Doc Severinsen, Harry James, Bunny Berigan, Rafael Mendez, and many others. Doc was a personal friend of Wallace, and sent his daughter to attend Kilgore college, just so she could be in Wallace’s band. Doc made multiple visits to Kilgore, and appeared as a soloist with the band. One of Wallace’s prize possessions was a Getzen Doc Severinsen Model trumpet, given to him personally by Doc. 

In 2012, I designed and built a custom sterling-silver trumpet, dedicated to Wallace, John, and Delbert “Sleepy” Read. John and Wallace were my musical mentors, and their older brother “Sleepy” gave me my first set of instrument repair tools. I had each of these brothers sign the bell of the trumpet with a felt marker. Then, I hand-engraved their signatures right into the sterling silver. I have a photograph of John, Wallace, and “Sleepy,” with Wallace holding the trumpet. John’s son, Clayton, now has that trumpet, and plays it on occasion. 

I am sorry that Wallace has passed away. His insights into jazz trumpet stylings, breathing, range studies, and overall musicianship, have been invaluable to me in my professional career. I seldom pick up a trumpet, without thinking about Wallace. I will always treasure his memory, and the time that I was privileged to spend with him.

 – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

I’ve always considered myself privileged to have played in a college band under Wallace Read’s direction. He made a lasting impression on me, and was an influence on my love for music. To be fair, so did both high school band directors at Mount Pleasant High School—Max Murphy and Blanton McDonald. All three were completely different personalities with different directing styles.

Mr. Read’s style was animated. He moved around the band hall “zooming in” to direct individual sections, often emphasizing the tempo or inflection of the music with body language. He was never without a signature smile, and was the upbeat persona in the rehearsal hall, on the football field or visiting one-on-one in his office.

He also cared about his students as individuals, although it would be nearly 40 years before I realized that. Bass horn players are essential to a band, but seldom garner lots of recognition or become a stand out in anyone’s band memories.

However, in about ‘04 or ’05 when the “Sounds of Swing” East Texas big band orchestra performed in Center, I recognized the lead trumpet player as Wallace Read, just a few bars into the group’s first song. Catching up with him during the intermission, I introduced myself and said, “Mr. Read, I was in your band at Kilgore in ‘66-‘67.” He paused a few seconds, smiled and said, “Yes…bass player from Mount Pleasant, right?”

All very good memories. Wonderful memories recalled because someone I had never met read something I wrote about a man who obviously played an important role in both our lives, and contacted me not only to deliver a message, but also to share memories. That’s beautiful music in anyone’s memories.

—Leon Aldridge

“Enjoy the world outside.”

“Escape the routine life.”

Enticing slogans combined with pictures of happy campers, smiling faces and lovely families enjoying the great outdoors camping in travel trailers. Sales brochures like these reminded me of the pleasure my parents derived from years of camping experiences, and kept the thought of owning a travel trailer on my bucket list.

So, it seemed funny to me that none of those alluring thoughts came to mind recently after a half-dozen failed attempts at successfully backing my newly acquired 30-foot get away-on-wheels into my 31-foot driveway while concurrently attempting to negotiate a 90-degree turn. The huge white RV filling my rear-view mirrors at the moment really didn’t look all that big when it was just sitting there before I bought it—calling my name, whispering seductive things like, “Buy me, run away with me, fulfill your dreams spending quality time camping in the wilderness just like mom and dad used to do.”

In fact, trying to get my brain around the elusive relationship that turning the steering wheel one direction guaranteed said trailer out back would go where you think it should go was anything but seductive … actually closer to grounds for divorce. But, it was enough to make one think that surely, just as there are rules for successful relationships, there are more than likely rules one should first consider when contemplating fulfilment of any lifelong dream to develop a relationship with an RV. That was the exact moment I was also pretty sure I knew what the first rule should be.

Rule number one: Make sure you have a place to keep the thing. You can’t park an RV, especially a big one, just anywhere—more particularly if putting it somewhere requires rear view mirrors combined with a brain that “gets it” about the whole steering wheel, trailer direction backing up thing.

Recalling how mom and dad enjoyed their camping excursions really did have a large influence on crossing “buy a travel trailer” off my bucket list. They genuinely enjoyed camping, opting to vacation camp year after year, seldom traveling to any of the traditional destinations using motels or hotels. Enjoying the outdoors was never very far from where they lived in Mount Pleasant, Texas. Memories dated by my school years places them at setting up camp at Beaver’s Bend in Oklahoma until about my junior high era in the early 60s. My high school tenure in the mid-60s and into college years, they ventured over to Camp Albert’s Pike in Southwest Arkansas, eventually making that their go-to camp site for as long as they continued the life of happy camping. Both of these meccas in the natural wilderness were within a half-day’s drive of home. Their stays were typically a week.

Good memories are the recollection of times I would join them at Albert’s Pike for a weekend-long brief taste of the outdoors, complete with campfire smoke, long hikes, S’mores and cold Arkansas river water.

Their first choice of camping gear in the early 1950s was a trailer, home-crafted from the rear section of an old pickup truck and pulled by the family car, a 1950 Studebaker Starlight Coupe. My father fashioned a wooden A-frame roof structure on the pickup bed turned trailer and covered it with an Army surplus tarpaulin. It looked for all the world like a refugee from a WWII convoy, perhaps more than coincidence since dad was less than five years post discharge from the Army Corp of Engineers with service in that war. What it looked like notwithstanding, it served them well for a few years including one trip I remember as a pre-schooler when we traveled from East Texas to Colorado, camping within site of the Royal Gorge, sleeping in the homemade camper.

Sometime in the late 50s to early sixties, renting a small travel trailer for their annual summer treks replaced the old Army trailer clone. Trailer renting was replaced when they invested in a large tent. Over the years, they graduated from tents to a cab-over pickup camper before finishing their years of making camping memories with a travel trailer they purchased. A small one. A lot smaller than the 30-footer I was still trying to plant in my driveway. That’s when the next potential rule for buying an RV came into clear focus.

Rule number two: Start small and work your way up.

Neighbor’s some years ago in Center, Texas, Kenneth and Theron Sanders, were also campers for a time. Jumping right into it, they bought a nice, reasonably-sized (a.k.a. smaller than 30-f00t) travel trailer, loaded it up and headed south for Galveston and the Texas Gulf Coast beaches. “Keep an eye on the house while we’re gone,” Kenneth said. “I will,” I told him, smiling and waving while watching them roll out of the driveway.

Didn’t think much about it at first when our family feline, “Kitty,” (no sense in getting too creative with naming a cat—they’re genetically engineered not to respond to anything else any way) didn’t make role call the next morning for breakfast. She was a hunter, independent as cats tend to be, and not one to keep a schedule. But, a day or so later, when I had not seen hide nor fur of her, concern began to nest in my mind. Then after several days, I silently and sadly began to think that she must have, in some unfortunate way, used up all of her nine lives. I knew she didn’t have many left because five or six of them had already been spent living through my children’s toddler years.

After a week or so, the Sanders returned from their coastal excursion, smiling and happy as they arrived home. They looked good, tanned and relaxed, all three of them. Kenneth, Theron … and Kitty?

As Kitty hit the ground, appearing genuinely happy to be back on home turf, Theron related as how somewhere past the point of no return, they made their first fuel stop. “Imagine my surprise,” she said. “When I glanced at the trailer window and saw this wide-eyed cat staring back at me from inside.” While curiosity failed to kill the cat, it evidently played a pivotal part in enticing the critter to sneak inside the trailer’s open door as our neighbors busily prepared for the trip.

Deciding to make the best of entertaining the stow away, they bought a litter box, stocked up on Fancy Feast, and treated Kitty to a week’s all expense paid vacation on the coast. Which brought to mind another rule—or maybe we’ll call this one an option if you’re still struggling with numbers one and two.

Rule number three (optional): Consider skipping ownership entirely and just stow away in the neighbor’s RV. Don’t laugh, my cat made it work.

No doubt, the list of rules for considering RV ownership are long, far exceeding the accepted length of this missive. Also no doubt, I will learn more of them as I go, accumulating my own list pretty much like everyone else has done, from experience.

That, of course, is necessarily preceded by ending the spectacle of this novice attempting to get his first trailer in the driveway with a minimum of dents and dings on it, structural damage to the house, decimated landscaping, or all of the above. Hopefully, we can do that soon so we can experience the most important rule for being a happy camper.

Most important rule: “Enjoy the world outside—escape the routine life.” Go camping.

— Leon Aldridge