Tag: confidence

One of many who oiled the hinges

“There’s only one thing you have to know.“

— Dr. Heber Taylor, former Department of Communication Chair at Stephen F. Austin State University.

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“Alfred Heber Taylor,” his obituary read. “A retired journalism professor and veteran of the Battle of the Bulge answered the Call of Taps on Feb. 28, 2022.”

Dr. Taylor’s good advice one morning was but one small part of his helping me attain one of my goals in life. I count him among the many who oiled the hinges when doors of opportunity opened for me.

After the communication business picked me for a career, the resulting roadmap included practicing journalism and sharing it with those aspiring for the same journey. It took an extra step to bridge those two, however. That happened when a group of Shelby County citizens convinced me to run for the Texas House of Representatives.

Although finishing a few votes short of an address in Austin, I’ve always looked back on the experience favorably. I consider the campaign trail one the best “educations about people” available. One not found in a classroom. Throw your hat in the ring sometime. It’s a unique learning opportunity.

The best part of the process for me turned out to be meeting educators at Stephen F. Austin State University. Parking on campus was a challenge, but worth the effort when one of the doors I knocked on was Dr. Taylor’s office. After getting acquainted over shared viewpoints regarding education, he asked a question I never saw coming.

“I wish you the best, but what are your plans if you’re not elected?”

“Well,” I hesitated. “I’ve harbored aspirations of teaching journalism someday.”

With his ever-present smile, he responded, “If it turns out that politics is not part of what life has in store for you, come back and see me. We have a department full of journalism degrees, but none with experience. It would be nice to have someone who could bring real-life journalism to the classroom.”

After Super Tuesday primary votes were all in, I remembered Dr. Taylor’s offer, and was back in his office the very next week. “Leveling classes” and an assistant’s position in the summer and fall aligned my previous experience and non-related degree with university requirements. By the start of the spring semester, I was added to the full-time staff.

And with the best perk of all—a faculty parking permit.

I had given up my comfortable existence as a practicing journalist, editing copy and meeting deadlines, and gained a classroom of aspiring news writers. I had studied the assigned text. I had crafted a simple syllabus promising a passing grade in exchange for grasping the fundamentals of news gathering and breathing life into a story utilizing AP style and inverted pyramid format.

There was one thing I had not anticipated. An unexplained fear of facing news writing 101 students.

It wasn’t fear of public speaking. I was coming off a five-month trail of impromptu campaign speeches, candidate forums, pie suppers, church gatherings, civic clubs, media interviews, and more. It wasn’t lack of knowledge. I had 15 years of newsroom time in the trenches and a wall of press association editorial excellence awards.

It was more like, “what if I fumbled, sounding like the hard-nosed editor I had once been, but coming off sounding more like a nervous substitute teacher.” What if I stumbled teaching difficult situations like avoiding the pitfalls of relying on unnamed sources?

Before I could finish stressing over my fears, it was time. The hour to face my first class was here. I left my office and walked down the communication hallway in the Boynton Building. At the classroom door, I glanced in to see a couple dozen waiting students—then kept walking. At the other end of the hallway, I whispered, “You got this.”

Walking past the classroom a second time, I saw Dr. Taylor exiting his office. Same ever-present relaxed smile. Looking in my direction.

“Nervous,” he asked.

“A little,” I lied.

That’s when he offered advice that has served me well many times in the years since.

“All you have to know,” he said, “is just a little more than they do.”

“Good morning,” I announced to the class as I walked in . “My name is Leon Aldridge, and we are here to learn from each other.”

—Leon Aldridge

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(Photo above: The Boynton Building on the campus of Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas. — Wikipedia Commons photo by Michael Barera.)

Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting his next challenge. His columns appear in: 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 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

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.

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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.