Just allow me one wrong turn

“The best music a parent will ever hear is the sound of his or her children laughing.”
— Unknown

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“My daughter got her driver’s license, and I never see her anymore.”

This casual comment coming at the coffee club gathering last week hit close to home. So I took advantage of it. Being one of the group’s senior members allows me to offer first-hand experience. And share valuable advice. All, services I offer completely free of charge.

“Yep,” I said. “But don’t’ worry. It gets worse. Wait until she takes her first road trip. Then starts giving you directions on how to get somewhere.”

“They really do that,” he asked?

“I remember the time some years ago when Robin was giving me directions to the country church where her upcoming wedding was to take place,” I said.

“Robin was directionally challenged when she first started driving,” I explained. “I was riding with her after she got her learner’s permit one day. I let her drive five miles before she noticed she was going the wrong way. Kept asking her if she knew where she was going. She said she did, so I let her drive on.

After a while, she asked, “Where is the turn that goes to Boerne?”

“Oh, ’bout five miles behind us,” I offered nonchalantly. She did not laugh. I reasoned with her that some lessons are better learned when we’re allowed to resolve our mistakes without help. “Even when your little brother is laughing in the back seat.”

With that, I shared an old analogy about how raising children is like flying a kite. How we work diligently, running tirelessly to get the kite airborne. Then, once it’s flying a little, letting the wind take it up. Using the string to pull back when obstacles threaten and letting it out again as winds lift it clear. Then, one day, when it’s flying high and ready to plot its own course, you have to let the string go. Your job is done. “Just like kids,” I concluded.

“Teaching a child to drive is one of those alternately ‘pulling and letting out more string experiences.’ For them, it’s an adventure. For parents, it’s another gray hair. Or three.”

I also shared the first time Robin struck out on a cross-country trip with her brand-new driver’s license, traveling more than 300 miles from the Hill Country to northeast Texas. In a new car. With her younger brother, Lee. And her dog.

With my children gathered around the dining room table the morning of the journey, I announced, “Here’s your mission, your map, and your instructions. Lee, pay attention so you can help your sister.”

GPS for cars was yet to be discovered. So, for this trip, I unfolded my most trusted navigational device. A Texaco road map.

They watched me draw a dark, heavy line along the intended route. “Now here’s where you might have problems,” I said, carefully detailing the loop around Taylor, turns to navigate at Hearne, and other opportunities for getting lost that would be lying in wait.

“Any questions,” I asked? Drawing a deep breath; remembering Robin’s directional instincts.

Lee raised his hand. “Can ‘Buggie’ go with us?”

“Were you paying attention to the highway changes,” I asked, while adding instructions for traveling with a dog.

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“I’ll follow you for a while. Until your first major turn.”

Down the driveway, they went. They laughed. I followed. I prayed.

At the first highway change in New Braunfels, a convenience store parking lot provided for one last round of “bye” hugs and wishes for safe travels.

I felt good about the trip, until I watched Robin leave the parking lot without hesitation. To the left. When she should have turned right.

“No,” I said out loud.

Evidently, Lee must have said the same thing. Or it might have been the dog. Brake lights came on, Robin turned into a parking lot, circled through it, and re-entered the highway. Going in the right direction this time.

The kids waved and smiled as they passed in front of me. I’ll never forget the look of terror on Buggie’s face in the back window. My confidence of mere moments ago was waning. I was still praying. I was feeling sorry for the dog.

What was to have been a 300-mile trip probably took 500 miles or more. They never told me. I never asked.

Prayers were answered, however, when they called to let me know they had arrived safely. They were laughing, and that’s all that mattered.

“I reminded my daughter of that trip a few years later as she was giving me travel directions,” I told the coffee-drinking confab last week. “They probably made that trip better than I would handle my trip to her wedding.”

“Oh, I know I’ll find the church all right,” I told Robin. “Just allow me one wrong turn. I won’t have the dog to help me.”

She laughed.

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Choose friends wisely, they will shape your life

“Count your age by friends, not years. Count your life by smiles, not tears.”
— John Lennon (1940 – 1980) English singer, songwriter and musician.

– – – – – – –

When traveling alone, something I’ve done far too much of in my lifetime,  I’ve spent unknown hours just thinking. My brain’s hard drive revs up with the open road, shifting a myriad of memories into overdrive.

With the touch of a button, I have satellite radio, Bluetooth, and even antique CDs for entertainment. All waiting to be turned on as I sit thinking, listening to the hum of the highway that is still my preferred pastime for making miles fly by.

Driving last Saturday, alone, I reflected on knowing most of my life is in the rearview mirror, anticipating that whatever time is left will fly by all too quickly. That’s a thought that becomes increasingly poignant every time I’m headed home dressed in my Sunday best with a folded funeral home program in my pocket.

Loving parents instilled many good things in me. One being to “choose your friends wisely; those you call friend will shape your life.” Many good friendships were forged with members of my Mount Pleasant, Texas, high school graduating class. Friendships that have lasted a lifetime.

Ronnie Lilly and I graduated in that generation of students that remembers hearing the news at school that President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas.

A couple of years following that memory, in the fall following high school graduation, Ronnie and I were roommates at Kilgore College along with a third “partner in adventure.” Our mutual friend and high school classmate, Mike Williams. Memories of said adventures include sharpening our skills at at the pool hall, late night card games, the night clerk at the corner 7-11 we affectionately nicknamed “Hostile,” overflowing the washing machine with soap at the laundromat across the street from the girl’s dorm, and one memorable night that we drove to downtown Dallas. Seeking verification of rumors regarding the fun of experiencing a Texas O.U. weekend in “Big D.”

Then traveling back to Kilgore that same night.

Ronnie was driving, I was riding shotgun, and Mike fell asleep in the back seat. Arriving at our Kilgore apartment just before dawn, Ronnie and I went in and hit the hay while Mike continued snoozing in the car. He awoke sometime after sunup, initially miffed at us thinking we had stopped to rent a motel room and left him in the car.

Through these memorable moments of fun and more, we miraculously still found time to attend a few classes.

Following spring finals, Ronnie and I flipped a coin to determine whose old Chevrolet, his ’57 or my ’58, was more likely to make a trip to Southern California. Memorial Day weekend, we were headed west in his car. The first night, we bunked with my aunt and uncle in the Texas Panhandle, then continued on to the second night in Las Vegas where we stayed at The Thunderbird on the old Vegas strip. Before the days of high-rise hotels and sprawling casinos.

After learning that the bellman knew where Mount Pleasant, Texas was and had family living there, we were just walking and gawking when we heard Dean Martin singing. Following the voice to the hotel’s nightclub entrance, we caught a glimpse of the crooner performing through an open door. No one was there at the moment to tell us we couldn’t, so we walked in and quietly disappeared into the shadows at the back of the room. After enjoying most of a couple of songs, this tall gentleman in a black suit walked up beside us and graciously offered two 19-year-old underage kids from Texas some options to consider. We heeded what we agreed was his best one. To leave … immediately.

Staying with my Uncle Bill in the Los Angeles San Fernando Valley suburb of Canoga Park that summer, Ronnie and I packed a lot into the experience. Working days to make money for school in the fall. Cruising popular hangouts Saturday nights listening to the Beach Boys on jukeboxes, and drooling over California cool cars and hot rods. Occasional weekend trips up the coast to Pismo Beach roaming the dunes in sand buggies with Uncle Bill and his friends.

Pismo Beach sand dunes, summer of 1967. Ronnie Lillly (left) and Leon Aldridge (right).

And those Sunday afternoons. Watching surfers at Malibu Beach and conducting memorable observational research on the still somewhat new beachwear fad of the mid 1960s. Bikinis.

Loaded with memories by Labor Day, we headed east back to Texas. Crossing the desert in the middle of the night to avoid excruciating daytime temps put us in Southern Arizona well before dawn. Sleep was beckoning, but a motel was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t the Hilton. It wasn’t even Motel 6. But we found a couple hours of shut-eye stretched out on picnic table in a middle-of-nowhere roadside park. Nestled near a rock bluff that, by dawn’s early light, was one of the most spectacular views of the trip.

Ronnie’s faithful ’57 made the journey without a hiccup in spite of one minor inconvenience. The gas gauge didn’t work. That proved to be a problem just once, however. Not far over the state line from New Mexico into Texas. In the middle of another nowhere between Carlsbad and Pecos. Ronnie flagged down a guy in a pickup for a ride into town for gas while I stayed to safeguard the car. About the time I reclined across the car’s front seat for a quick nap, some helpful motorists stopped to offer assistance. A host of hippies in a VW van covered with flowers and love symbols. I assured them everything was all right and gas was on the way back. So they rolled on, waving peace signs as they departed.

Ronnie returned with a can of gas, and we were back on the road. I was never sure, however, if he really believed me about the bus load of hippies. “We’re back in Texas,” he laughed. “We left all that behind in California two days ago. You sure you weren’t dreaming while you napped?”

It really happened.

Someone once said, “Life is an adventure best shared with good friends.” I’ve been blessed with many good friends like Ronnie Lilly, sharing adventures and making memories that have lasted a lifetime.

Friends and family gathered in East Texas last Saturday to remember Ronnie and celebrate his life. Afterward, I drove home. Alone. Dressed in my Sunday best. A funeral home program folded up in my pocket.

Thankful for memories and for friends like Ronnie.

Friends who have definitely shaped my life.

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Moments of wonder, to see and remember

“Sun, moon, and starry sky early summer evenings, when the first stars come out, the warm glow of sunset still stains the rim of the western sky. Sometimes, the moon is also visible, a pale white slice, while the sun tarries. Just think — all the celestial lights are present at the same time! These are moments of wonder — see them and remember.”
— Vera Nazarian, Armenian-Russian American writer.

– – – – – – –

It was a filler class—a last-minute pick because I was three hours short of graduation at East Texas State University. Years ago. But it fit my schedule and allowed me to graduate. “ESC1361 Astronomy.”

That decision left me with a love for everything celestial. A deeper appreciation and an insatiable curiosity about the wonder we call “the heavens.” The classroom hours were anything but easy, but “the labs” were a blast. “Classes” in the dark of East Texas nights in a field somewhere outside of Commerce. Observing stars, planets, constellations, and more.

Fast-forward about 25 years to Texas Hill Country starry nights. The back porch at our house just above the Medina River near Pipe Creek, where evening conversations and cooking outside with my kids were a thing.

“The stars are beautiful,” said daughter Robin, then about 15-16 years old. “They are,” I agreed. “It’s hard to believe that night sky universe just goes on forever. Without end.”

Silence prevailed as I watched the stars twinkle as Robin processed what I had just said.

“What do you mean,” she asked?

“The sky, the heavens, space,” I replied with a shrug. “It’s infinite – never ends.”

More silence.

“Dad, it has to end somewhere.”

“Nope.”

“How can that be,” she asked, her voice rising.

“OK, let’s say there is a stop sign a couple billion light years past planet Pluto,” I tested her. “What is beyond that sign? There is no such thing as nothing in space.”

“Mind boggling,” Robin said slowly.

“It’s like time,” I compared. “There never has been a time before time. Time has always been.”

“Awe Dad, come on. This is too much for one night,” Robin exclaimed. “It’s hurting my brain.”

Fast-forward once more to last Thursday night. When I was contemplating turning in for the evening, but one last check of messages revealed several about Northern Lights. Solar storms creating an aurora typically seen in high-latitude regions but rarely visible in Texas. Happening over Texas at that very moment.

A scan of the sky from my front porch revealed nothing—zilch. “Good,” I thought. I’m ready for bed anyway.” I checked my phone one more time and found images posted from Shelby County with, “You can’t see them with the naked eye. But they show up in photos.”

OK, I’m a lifelong photographer. And never had I ever captured a picture of something I couldn’t see. The universe is infinite, and time has infinitely, well … been time. But you can’t take a photo of something you can’t see. To prove my theory, I marched back outside, pointed my cell phone camera toward the east and above the streetlights, and pulled the trigger with a smirk.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered aloud when I saw it on the screen. Red, blue, and green tinted arches blending into a solid black sky. I looked back at the night sky in disbelief. Yep, it was black. Several more experimental photos of “darkness” yielded an array of colors that I could not see otherwise. I was super excited. After sending images to a friend to celebrate my findings, we were on the edge of town ten minutes later, looking for fewer lights, fewer trees, and better results.

The findings might have been more conclusive about better results, but the phenomenon was the same. Aim at a black patch of sky, snap a photo, and … voila! Beautiful views of celestial sightings on my camera.

It was breathtaking to capture pictures of “the northern lights a-runnin’ wild,” to borrow from Johnny Horton’s classic 1960s song.

Standing under an East Texas night’s blanket of darkness collecting images last week, I remembered nights in Northeast Texas long ago. Peering through a telescope into an endless universe of heavenly bodies for college credit.

And I also thought about my daughter’s attempts to comprehend the infinity of space and time. Like her, this night was almost too much for one night; it was hurting my brain.

Plus, pictures of celestial occurrences in an infinite universe that I could not see but could easily photograph. Truly “moments of wonder — to see and remember.”

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Barkin’ people; worse than barkin’ dogs

“Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice.”

— Steve Jobs, (1955–2011) American businessman, inventor, and investor best known for co-founding Apple Inc.

– – – – – – – –

They were sitting on a park bench at Veteran’s Plaza. The little guy and the old man. 

I saw them when I paused there during an after-work stroll. The park was a great place in Boerne to enjoy the beauty and cooler days of a Texas Hill Country fall, walk for exercise, or just sit and contemplate life when I published the newspaper there. Thirty-plus years ago.

They were not far away. Close enough that I saw a young face staring at the fountain. Dejection written all over it.

“Like to watch water,” I heard the old timer quizz him. Getting no response, he followed with, “Dogs been barkin’ at you again?”

“I don’t hear any dogs,” the youngster said softly as they both looked straight ahead.

The old man chuckled. “I’m talkin’ about them two-legged kind. People that give you a hard time, try to tear you down just to make themselves look better. They’re just like ol’ barkin’ dogs.” Pausing for a moment, he continued, “I like to watch water when I’ve got something on my mind. Did you ever watch fish in a fishbowl? Now that’s really relaxin’ when somethin’s eatin’ at you.”

“I had a fish one time,” the boy spoke up. “It died.”

“They’ll do that,” the old fellow said sympathetically.

“My friend made fun of me,” the little guy suddenly opened up. As if there were some connection between friends and fish.

“You know, that’s something else I’ve never understood,” the weathered old gent said. “People we considered our friends who do that. Let’s see if we can figure it out together.”

The youngster related a story about an honor he’d earned. About how the teacher recognized his achievement, praising him before his classmates. “Most of my friends were happy for me, but my best friend made fun of me,” the boy said. “Asked me if I thought I was smarter than him or something. Said the teacher was dumb for bragging on me.”

The old man was silent a moment, then offered, “Those people like barkin’ dogs I was telling you about. Ever tried to figure out why they’re makin’ so much racket? Dogs, they bark at cars, other dogs, people, at bugs or sticks. It’s just what dogs do. Just barkin’ to hear their brains rattle. But you ever wonder what people are barkin’ at when they say hurtful things about good people?”

The boy took his eyes off the flowing water and looked up at the man. “No. What are they barking at?”

“Let me tell you a story my father told me,” the man said. “He loved the circus when he was your age. The circus traveled by wagons back then, and when they rolled into town, it was a parade. Everybody came to see the animals, the clowns, the brightly covered wagons. Lot’s of excitement when the circus came to town.

“And the dogs,” said the old fellow. “They just barked at the wagon wheels, the horse’s hooves, dust from the wagon wheels. Causin’ havoc; distractin’ lookers from the joy of the parade. But when the parade rolled on; when it ended, everybody left. Forgot about the dogs, and they just went and found a shady resting spot.

“Barkin’ people? They’re worse than barkin’ dogs. Just selfish; afraid somebody’s thinkin’ you’re smarter ‘n they are. All they know to do is distract with a ruckus; tear somebody down to make them look better. Pure and simple,” the old sage said, “They just like the sound of their own bark.

“But you know what,” the man asked?

“What,” said the boy.

“Just like those dogs at the circus parade. When they’re done making useless noise, life goes right on without ’em,” and they’re quickly forgotten.”

The youngster, still looking up at him, asked “So, are you saying I should just ignore my friend?”

“Just like you ignore barkin’ dogs,” the old man responded. “Ignore people with nothin’ better to do than criticize and complain. Don’t let their useless noise steal your dreams or your joy.”

“O.K.,” the boy smiled. “Well, I’ve got to go home for supper now.”

The youngster walked north toward town, and the old man ambled slowly across the street toward the Catholic Church.

I think about the elderly gentleman’s advice often. Every time I hear someone bark, “That won’t work.” Or, “You’re wasting your time.” Worst of all, “You can’t do that!”

Just barkin’ dogs, jealous of someone else’s ambition and success.

That’s when I think about the old guy in Boerne years ago. And my hope that his advice remained with the young man.

It did with me. I wish that old gentleman knew that, and how many times I’ve shared his story.

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Slowing the pace of life

“Uninvited, he sat down and opened up his mind,
On old dogs and children, and watermelon wine.
— song lyrics by Tom T. Hall

– – – – – – –

Those finer things in life celebrated in song by the American singer-songwriter nicknamed “The Storyteller” admittedly possess powers soothing to the soul. But my most trusted tool for slowing the pace of life was, for many years, something a little different.

My grandfather’s rocking chair.

I never knew where the piece of furniture came from. It was relegated to the front porch before I was born. It’s origin was one of many things I’ve wished I’d quizzed my grandmother about. I had a long list of questions for her, but many remained forever unanswered that October day in 1993 when she closed her eyes for the last time.

The plain wooden rocker with arms and a homemade red oil cloth seat cushion resided on their front porch along with the high-back cane rocker Granny called hers.

The chairs appeared to beckon them to the front porch every evening after supper with some sort of magical power. When John Kennedy occupied the White House, he taunted the value of rocking chairs as therapeutic for back problems. But for my grandparents, I think it was more than that.

My father’s parents settled in northeast Texas long before Kennedy was president. In fact, when they moved into their Cypress Street residence in Pittsburg on Halloween night, 1930, Herbert Hoover was in his second year as president. The railroad brought them to Camp County. Granddaddy worked for the Cotton Belt. He retired in the early 1950s when steam locomotives were still an occasional sight.

So, it’s probably not just coincidence that the small white frame house where they lived most of their life was across the street from the railroad tracks. Or the fact that his chair was perfectly positioned to spot approaching locomotives.

Rocking, talking, and occasionally singing hymns like “Blessed Assurance” were regular activities every evening. And waiting for a passing train when Granddaddy would glance at his pocket watch to see if it was on time. If not, he might declare something like, “The 6:15 is running a little behind this evening.”

My grandfather died in 1967, and with his death, regular after-supper porch sitting also ended. My grandmother lived in the house for another 26 years before joining him, but I don’t recall her ever using the rockers again.

Infrequent use and dirt daubers started were taking their toll on them by the time Granny moved the chairs inside to the living room.

After she died, my sisters and I out picked a few things for memories. Both rocking chairs went to my Hill Country back porch, where they once again waited for evening company.

My occasional “rocking and thinking spells” were mostly monitoring Hill Country sunsets. But when north winds caused Granddaddy’s old rocker to sway gently on some days, I saw him occupying his chosen chair. I was certain more than once that I caught a glimpse of a curl of pipe smoke rising above the brim of his hat.

The first night they spent at my house, I settled into his chair and began to rock. I relaxed and wondered. Did the old chairs really possess magical powers? Maybe, but my grandparents’ life seemed much more manageable at “front porch time.” My rocking was more intense when I consulted the chair to work out details of earning a living, rearing children, and other mindful matters.

Things like, “Dad, I need a new dress for the banquet,” or “Dad, the pickup’s making a funny noise and steam’s coming out from under the hood,” were always met with the same answer. “Give me a half hour and meet me at the rocking chair.”

Over time, the rocker became tattered and a little worse for wear, but I couldn’t bring myself to replace it. Changing anything about the chair would change its appearance, and most likely its powers as well I feared. For that reason, both retained their “as is” condition while I continued rocking and pondering.

During a move back to Shelby County a couple of decades ago, the relic rockers suffered crippling injuries. Consequently, they were confined to storage intended to last only “a few weeks.” But I never located that rare “round tuit” to b ring the back to life. Sadly, they still rest in storage, waiting for their resurrection.

With a little spare time on my hands, the rocking chairs crossed my mind last week. Maybe it was strains of “Blessed Assurance” reminding of their wait for attention. Or perhaps it was catching “old dogs, children, and watermelon wine” on the radio.

Really, I’m thinking it was just the same song my grandparents heard when they rocked in the evenings. The one calling them from the complexities of a hectic society. Wishing for that simpler time in life they remembered.

—Leon Aldridge

. . . . . . . . . . .

Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, and The Monitor in Naples.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The almanac, guaranteed good reading

“When a friend deals with a friend, Let the bargain be clear and well penn’d, That they may continue friends to the end.”

— Written by Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) in Poor Richard’s Almanac under the alias of Richard Saunders. The publication appeared from 1732 to 1758.

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Fall has arrived! And I for one, am glad.

Because of fall foliage, pumpkin spice coffee, or cooler weather, you ask. All of that, but also because the 2025 almanacs will ship soon.

An almanac will never make the New York Times Best Seller list, but they are still one of my favorite reads. Whether it’s the Texas Almanac, the Farmer’s Almanac, or the Cardui my grandparents swore by, almanacs are still informative and entertaining.

Indelible childhood memories of the house in Pittsburg where my father grew up include what was always behind the back door. A single shot 22 my grandfather used to dissuade Blue Jays from fleecing fruit from his prized trees, a flyswatter for insects invading the un-air-conditioned house (and for unruly grandchildren), and the Cardui calendar for wisdom, advice, and entertainment.

Cardui calendars and almanacs were primarily to promote the elixir by the same name. It was good. I know that because Dolly Parton and Porter Wagner hailed its virtues every Saturday afternoon on their country music television show. Between songs like “Holdin’ On to Nothing” and “Just Someone I Used to Know.”

Dolly’s endorsement aside, some folks might say if you’ve seen one almanac, you’ve seen them all. But that’s just not true. They are all gems for weather forecasts, planting tables, zodiac ‘secrets,’ recipes, astronomical tables, tides, holidays, eclipses, articles, and remedies for all sorts of aches and ailments.

One thing that makes a good almanac interesting for “city slickers and country folk alike,” as Farmers Almanacs markets theirs, is that scores of advertisers and writers compete for space each year. The result is a “duke’s mixture” of diverse ideas offering new and old information, all of which defies usual descriptions. Let alone any sort of conventional best seller book review.

According to my old friend, fellow columnist, writer, musician, and folk historian remembered by many in Center, Don Jacobs, the standby book has saved many a columnist from “mundane” mumbo-jumbo writings.”

Jacobs once said, “Faced with the prospect of having to turn out yet mother Halloween column as October looms were writers dreading the dilemma of trying to describe orange-colored wax whistles to kids who know how to program computers. Then swooping in just as deadlines approach,” Jacobs added, “the Old Farmer’s Almanac manifested itself on countless shelves.”

The columnist even called the almanac tantamount to the Great Pumpkin himself, “… leaving a bag of goodies that could be reviewed from early Fall clear through to Christmas and still have ideas left over.” And he was right.

For instance, who remembers the turn-of-the-century Mail Pouch Tobacco thermometers? Still need one for the barn, the house, the garage, or the man cave? Faithful reproductions are available, as are windmills, weathervanes and Rosebud Salve … all in the almanac.

Other vital information you’re likely to find can also include pitches for learning to be a locksmith, learning how to read small print easily, or instructions on sending off for a mail order government surplus directory.

If it’s your health that concerns you, the almanac has that covered, too. Dealing with a hernia, hard of hearing, or huffing because you’re just plain run down and worn out? There are products guaranteed to “perk you up, hold you together, or cure what ails you.” Things like “Rooster Pills” that, according to the ad, promised to have you “feeling active, vigorous, and crowing again.”

And where else besides the almanac can you read about how one family of seven cut their water heating bill in half, the latest on comets, the history of the mule, and how to pick the perfect mate? All in one edition. There’s the internet now, some say. But you know you can trust what you read in the almanac.

Plus, you can trust pearls of wisdom by philosophers such as Old Nels, Reese Davis, Homer Stillson, Padric Gallagher, Gertrude Bailey, or one Miss Keller — whose writings might cause modern philosophers to take notice.

Miss Keller wrote, “I’ve never met a trollop who was a good cook, or a good cook who was a trollop.” She also had some choice words about tomcats and high-heeled shoes, but her all-time classic was on chickens.

“If you want to raise chickens,” she offered, “you have to put up with the rooster. And if you want to raise children, you have to put up with a husband.”

So, if you find the latest list of best sellers to be boring, just grab yourself an almanac. They are guaranteed good reading on topics you never thought about, offering advice you didn’t know you needed.

Just ask Dolly.

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Inspiring lives, well lived

“To do what you wanna do, to leave a mark – in a way that you think is important and lasting – that’s a life well-lived.”

— Laurene Powell Jobs

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Accumulating clippings, notes, earmarked books, unmarked photos, mysteriously scribbled-on pieces of paper, meaningless mementos, business cards, and other small pieces of junk. It’s what writers do. We often consider ourselves to be quasi-historians. Known to keep an immense library of outwardly appearing random reference material. Because we might need it someday.

Or sometimes simply because these things are reminders of an inspiring life well lived. Lives about which we are compelled to write.

While performing the once-a-year, whether-it’s-needed-or-not, organization of outwardly appearing random reference material last week, I matched up a picture, an obituary, and one of my old columns. The photo was taken in 2017. Albert Thompson, Charles Hutchins, Jim Chionsini, and me at the 60th Anniversary of A&A Machine and Fabrication in LaMarque. The photo hung on my office wall until I came home to write recently. The obituary will be one year old the 17th of next month. Both related to a friend about whom I wrote in the mid-90s while at the Boerne newspaper down in the Texas Hill Country.

“An old friend popped up in the news this week and stirred up lots of memories,” the column starts. “While listening to NPR radio early Friday morning at the office, I heard the name Charles Hutchins.”

I met Charles in the early 1980s. We were introduced by a mutual friend, Jim Chionsini. Charles worked for A&A, cofounded by Jim’s father. In the years that followed our meeting, he became a faithful reader of my columns. Sending notes from time to time, comments, or additional info about something or someone about whom I had written.

I was honored when Charles trusted me to collaborate with him in writing the history of A&A Machine and Fabrication for the company’s 60th Anniversary celebration.

The radio interview focused on the Commemorative Air Force (CAF) life-like reenactment of the December 7, 1941, Japanese air attack on Pearl Harbor known as TORA! TORA! TORA! scheduled at a festival preceding the Kentucky Derby horse racing classic. Hutchins was a member, of the CAF and flew his North American AT-6 converted to resemble WWII Japanese aircraft in the reenactment.

“The pounding of horses hooves running at full power at Churchill Downs creates excitement,” I wrote, “but equally exciting is the pounding horsepower of WW II era aircraft engines at full power. If you’re addicted to that sort of thing. Which I am. And so was Charles.

“Charles Hutchins is as nice a man as you’d ever want to meet,” my column continued. “He’s quiet, polite, and best resembles a corporate executive wearing blue jeans. In fact, when he’s not piloting vintage airplanes for fun, or racing them at more than 200 miles-per-hour just above the desert floor, he’s working as vice president and general manager of A&A Machine Shop.”

I smiled, then reread the 2023 obituary. Charles Leo Hutchins passed away on October 17, 2023, in League City at 86. He was a 1955 graduate of Texas City High School. He worked for Union Carbide as a machinist apprentice before he was invited to work with Manuel Chionsini and Fred Heinemann who, in 1957, started A&A Machine Shop. He worked there for 62 years. First as a machinist, retiring in 2022 as a managing partner.

The obit noted that Hutchins possessed a quality that is too often lacking in business today. He was interested in his employees, frequently visiting and talking to each one, shaking their hands, and showing an interest in their lives.

Outside of business, “Papa Charles” was active in activities with his sons and grandchildren, and served as a lay preacher at a church in Texas City. He was involved in the Celebrate Recovery program because he cared about those addicted to alcohol or drugs.

Hutchins learned to fly in 1959 in a Piper J-3 Cub. He joined the CAF TORA! TORA! TORA! Airshow Demonstration Team in 1975, flying his first airshow in October 1976. He became TORA! Lead in 1987, serving for 23 years.

His honors in aviation were many. Winner of the Reno National Championship Air Races AT-6 Gold National Championship in 1995. Cofounder of the Wings Over Houston (WOH) Airshow at Ellington Field. Awarded the Lloyd P. Nolen Lifetime Achievement in Aviation presented by WOH Airshow, the Marvin L. “Lefty” Gardner Flight Excellence Award, and the CAF’s Lloyd P. Nolen Achievement Award. In 2006, he was awarded the Sword of Excellence presented by International Council of Airshows (CAS) for which he was chairman, the highest honor in the airshow industry. He was inducted into the CAF Hall of Fame in 2013.

I smiled again. Then I carefully placed the photo, the column, and the obituary in a file, labeling it “Charles Hutchins – inspiration for a life well lived.”

Because it’s what writers do. That, and share the stories of people who have inspired them. And no doubt inspired many others as well.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo above: Left to right, long-time friend and newspaper business associate Albert Thompson, Charles Hutchins, Jim Chionsini, and me at the 60th Anniversary of A&A Machine and Fabrication in LaMarque, Texas, in 2017.)

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

I saw Elvis last week – twice

“I wanted to say to Elvis Presley and the country that this is a real decent, fine boy.”

— Ed Sullivan, during Elvis’ third appearance on his show, January 6, 1957

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I saw Elvis Saturday of last week. In Center.

Saw him again Sunday at church. Sort of, but that’s another story.

Saturday’s sighting was Elvis tribute performer Kraig Parker who delivered an incredible show for the Shelby County Outreach Ministry fundraiser event. It was only fitting that Parker’s appearance was for an organization whose mission is to help the hungry and those in need. Elvis’s generosity toward those in need was almost as legendary as his singing.

Although a lifelong fan of the King of Rock and Roll, I never saw him in person during his Las Vegas years. But I think I might have seen him early in his career. When he was performing in small towns across the South, between appearances at the Louisiana Hayride in Shreveport.

My assumed sighting was in Seymour, some 54 miles west of Wichita Falls. That was home for about four years when I was in grade school. One of those small towns where everything was a couple of blocks from downtown. Our house. The schools. The doctor’s office. The movie theater. Everything, including the high school gym where it was documented that Elvis performed in the mid 50s, was not far away.

About the time of that early Elvis performance, the teenage daughter of a family friend wanted to attend a country music show at the gym with one of her girl friends. Permission was granted on the condition they take a couple of “the younger kids” who wanted to go. Most likely a parental ploy to hinder any plot of meeting boys at the show.

I was one of those younger kids.

My childhood memories for years included a very late night, loud music, some guy dressed in a brightly colored outfit singing and dancing all over the stage, and girls screaming. Little of which made sense to my young mind.

Until years later when I got a phone call.

Fast forward to 2003. A call from Ernst Jorgensen. I recognized his name as the record executive who re-mastered Elvis’s songs into box sets and published books about his career. Said he was working on a book about early Elvis appearances and needed confirmation of an appearance in Mount Pleasant, and that Jordanaires singer Gordon Stoker suggested he call me. “Gordon says you’re from Mount Pleasant.”

“But, we didn’t move there until 1959,” I told him. “We were living in Seymour during the time you’re talking about.”

Jorgensen responded, “Well, Elvis was in Seymour, too. But I’ve documented that one. I’ll email you a copy of a newspaper clipping.” The writeup related a story about a ” Volunteer Fire Department sponsored country music show at the Seymour High School with special guest star, Elvis Presley.” Writer Doug Dixon, who attended the show, wrote, “… the crowd was impatient to see Elvis who was late. Every singer sang twice. Even the man who had taken our money at the door got up and sang.”

His account of the event said the emcee finally admitted that Elvis wasn’t there, but that he would be soon. “Eventually, most of the audience left, grumbling about being ‘took.’ Only the hard-core Elvis fans remained,” Dixon documented.

“Suddenly a girl screamed, ‘He’s here!'” The newspaper reporter described Elvis as “… wearing a fire engine red sport coat, bow tie, white shirt and blue trousers. Both coat and trousers were two sizes too large, so he could make his moves without ripping something. Elvis suddenly grabbed his guitar and broke into ‘That’s All Right Mama’… and the show was on.

“Elvis shook, danced and twisted,” Dixon wrote, “as he sang one song after another. Bill Black rode his bass like it was a horse as he slapped out a rockabilly beat. Scotty Moore’s guitar lashed out adding to the frenzy of the crowd. Girls screamed, cried and several appeared to faint. The girl standing next to me moaned and slid to the floor and lay there jerking, as if she was having some kind of a seizure.”

According to the story, after the fourth or fifth song Elvis paused to explain, “We were booked into Miller Brothers over at Wichita Falls for a dance. We didn’t know about this booking until we got a phone call earlier in the evening. … some kind of mix up.” He reportedly said he asked for a long intermission for a quick appearance in Seymour when they learned that fans were staying late. The problem was compounded, according to Elvis, when they ran out of gas just outside Seymour and had to hitchhike into town.

“Hectic, man,” Dixon quoted Elvis as saying. “Real hectic.” Elvis also reportedly said they would appreciate someone taking them back to their car with some gas after the show, and that “… almost every girl in the house volunteered.”

Later accounts in the book released related that Elvis did not get paid for either event. The Seymour Fire Department reportedly didn’t pay him because he was late, and by the time they got back to Wichita Falls, the show there was over.

Reading the newspaper article was an, “Oh wow,” moment. Was my childhood memory from the long ago night in West Texas; the night Elvis rocked Seymour? I’ll never know for sure, but I like to think it was.

Oh yeah, about last Sunday’s Elvis appearance in Center? Just sayin’ for a friend, if you attempt to silently text someone an inspirational thought from Sunday’s church bulletin, make sure your phone is silenced. And, make sure the last thing opened on your phone is not videos of the previous night’s Elvis tribute concert.

It was good, I guess, that the unexpected song was “How Great Thou Art.”

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Come on, I’ll make the popcorn

“Saturday night at the movies
Who cares what picture you see.
When you’re hugging with your baby,
In the last row in the balcony.”

— Song lyrics by the Drifters, 1965.”

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“Is it OK to sit there?”

My question was about finding a place to land and enjoy a freshly brewed cup of coffee a few Saturdays ago. I was at the Farmer’s Market in downtown Center, where Stacy Riley’s coffee bar is a new addition to her business. Searching the array of fruits and vegetables, arts and crafts, and freshly baked goodies to find a chair, my eyes skidded to a stop on a row of old theater seats resting quietly against the wall.

The quest was a place to sit and enjoy the java, but I couldn’t stop staring at the antique seats. A friend joining me for coffee suggested, “Look, this bistro-style table and chairs will be prefect. I think that’s what they are here for.”

While I agreed that choosing not to roost on the row of antiques was the wiser choice, my attention was still fixated on the movie house refugees. I couldn’t quit admiring them.

“Wonder if they might be for sale,” I whispered to myself. I could already picture them in my living room. Amid my eclectic collection of relics I fondly call home furnishings — my refuge from formality. Where a unique application of “vintage  fêng shui” pieces create a harmonious balance of well-being and positive energy.

No, I’m serious.

Subtle touches. Like a four-foot tall working traffic light that once did intersection duty in Nacogdoches spannig half the distance from the floor to the ceiling. A 1957 Mueller fire hydrant weighing more than three refrigerators that once graced a street corner in Boerne, down in the Texas Hill Country. A 1920s windup RCA Victor “Victrola” with a genuine 1950s “Nipper” display dog, both from the well-known Ken Woods collection. My grandfather’s old manual Underwood typewriter he used at the depot in Pittsburg, Texas. Did I mention he retired in 1954?

“Yes,” I smiled. “The theater seats would go perfectly with the set of drive-in movie speakers that is slated to be added soon.”

Excitement escalated when Stacy shared that the row of four folding wooden seats belonged to someone who purchased them a couple of years ago at a garage sale at the old ice house where her business is located in downtown Center, and never returned to pick them up.

“I’ve reminded her,” said Stacy. “I’m afraid something is going to happen to them.”

It was meant to be upon learning that the purchaser and I attend the same church and have been friends for many years. Who would have guessed? One phone call and a deal was done. I purchased them and the seats were headed to my house.

But wait!

There was a bonus. A story. An antique is just an object, but an antique with a story becomes a treasure. Stacy said the theater seats were said to have once provided seating for movie patrons at Center’s almost 100-year-old historic Rio Theatre. Still showing movies on the downtown square.

The Rio Theatre has a history of its own. It was built and opened in 1926 by the C.P. Smith family and has been in continuous operation since. It was originally named the Shelby but changed to “Rio” when neon was added. As the story goes, the high cost of neon made the shorter name “Rio” with half the number of letters the more economical choice.

Mike and Nita Adkison bought the Rio in 1975 and renovated it to keep its vintage appearance and feel.

“I recognize this part,” Mike said, pointing to a cell phone photo of the seats. “And this part here,” he noted of the armrests. “I thought the sides were straight and these are curved, but that was a long time ago.”

“Yep,” he finally confirmed, “These seats came from the Rio. Replacing the seats was one of the first things we did when we bought the Rio.” Nita’s recollection added specifics. “Those are the seats that were in the balcony.”

I think I’ll invite friends over to enjoy a cup of coffee and a movie. A movie viewed from seats that, in all likelihood, were once occupied by Center movie patrons watching all-time movie favorites gracing the silver screen over the years. Gone With the Wind in 1939. Citizen Cane in 1941. Casablanca in 1942. On the Waterfront in 1954. Lawrence of Arabia in 1962. Maybe even the Godfather in 1972.

Y’all come on. I don’t have a balcony, but I’ll make the popcorn.

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

It’s still a work in progress

Call it the end of a chapter,
The next stanza of the song.
But the party’s not yet over,
There’ll be no sad, “… so long.”

— The first verse from a new song I’m working on.

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How many ways does one write, “Hello, I’m the new publisher?”

With my first publishing assignment at The East Texas Light in Center some 43 years ago, that message began like this:  “’I’m ready for you, world … is the world ready for me,’ sings Kermit the Frog in The Muppet Movie as he heads for California and Hollywood. Being charged with the responsibility of publishing a newspaper summons me to ask, ‘Are you ready?’ The answer to that lies in the fact that here I am writing this column to answer my questions as much as to answer yours.”

Following that, I noted a few basic principles which I believed then to be the foundation of community newspapers. Principles that have not changed since communication became my calling. A common interest in the hopes, the fears, the happiness, and the sadness of a community. “Reporting the news, good and bad, fully and objectively—all of the news without favoritism, is any newspaper’s highest task, and to that end, I fully subscribe.”

Similar new-publisher-in-town pieces followed with my arrival at Boerne, Marlin, and Naples, before I found myself back in Center a few years later. When “hello” took on a different vibe. That column began, “Some 30-plus years and a resume of publishing stints later, I’m the new publisher at an old newspaper.” In that one, I engaged a line from Ben Kweller’s tune ‘Full Circle’ allowing as how the singer is ‘… havin’ fun sittin’ shotgun ’cause I’ve come full circle.’ 

“I can’t escape the music of this business,” I wrote. “I’ve left a couple of times, not so much by choice, but more so by following my muse. And once again, she has whispered softly in my ear. Crooning her hypnotic song, ‘I’m baaack.'”

Little did I know, however, that even then she wasn’t through with me. That I would make one more “homecoming” at The Light and Champion, Shelby County’s newspaper, three years and seven months ago September 1.

But now the time has come to write that other column. That “good-bye” to the newspaper community piece. How does one say “so long” to a community that has always greeted me with hospitality, appreciation and most importantly, respect? Which I appreciate, recalling my father telling me years ago, “… respect and love have two things in common, son. No one gives you the genuine article for free. You have to earn them.”

First, I say “thanks” to each and every one from the bottom of my heart. The readers, the advertisers, staff members, and associates, the mentors and newspaper owners who opened the doors of opportunity for me along the way. To all, I extend my sincere appreciation. It would not have happened without you. And, in the words of the old crooner, Bob Hope, I will say, “Thanks for the memories.”

But here is where we depart from the normal parting. While this will be my last week as editor and publisher of The Light and Champion, there will be no “goodbye” to the community that has graciously embraced the newspaper during the time I have been fortunate enough to serve as its caretaker.

I have no plans to leave Center. And, I’ve lived my life following the dream that wearing out is a far better option than rusting out. A feeling affirmed by quizzing my retired friends.

“Retirement is all right,” said one. “The only trouble I’ve found with retirement is that you never get a day off.”

Said another, “I’m spending my time trying to find something to do with the time I rushed through life trying to save.”

The best answer, however, the one I embraced long ago is, “Being at the end of something should be viewed as being at the beginning of something else.”

What that something else might be is but a vision today as I cobble these thoughts into my last weekly column wearing the title of editor and publisher. And on that thought, rest assured this weekly column will continue. I can’t quit. For too many years, it’s been my cheap therapy. Writing helps me to put order in the weekly chaos we call life.

Therefore, wherever you see me pop up down the road, I will still be writing. Not just for local readers, but also for the handful of other newspapers and magazines where my column appears.

“Thank you” to everyone who stopped in at the office Friday afternoon, some coming from as far away as Austin with decades of memories, laughter, and well wishes. And, If I didn’t see you at the office Friday, I’ll see you around town. Somewhere. Soon.

In the meantime, I’ll be working on my new song.

It’s still a work in progress, you know.

— Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.