Tag: friends

It all boils down to one thing

“I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you actually left them.”
— Edward Parker Helms, actor, comedian, writer, and producer.

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“I miss the good ol’ days,” someone said to kick off the coffee klatch last week.

“Yeah? What do you miss the most,” another queried?

Answers from those who had gathered to solve the world’s problems over strong, hot coffee were many. “Drivers who actually understand the concept of turn signals and stop signs.“ “How about people who let you finish a sentence without interrupting?” “Manners. Where did the good old day’s of being a decent person go?” “Courtesy — I remember my mother telling me that if you can’t say something nice about someone, just smile and don’t say anything at all.” “I miss how people could talk about their differences without calling each other names.”

“Yeah,” one of the problem solving coffee sippers agreed, ‘”My grandaddy said when slinging slurs and vulgar names start, be kind and understand that it’s folks who can’t help it. They just never learned an educated vocabulary to have a civil discussion with.”

Thoughts and opinions bounced around before silence fell on my side of the table. Just as I had a story to share.

Imagine that.

“It all boils down to one thing,” I began my two cents and change. “Respect. Years ago, as a young editor, I wrote what I believed was a balanced editorial. Carefully presenting both sides of a controversial local issue before supporting my position with facts. After committing my points to posterity, I sent the piece to press for the next edition.”

In those days, I arrived at the office by 6 a.m. at the latest to get a head start in the morning’s quietness before unlocking the door right before 8. The next morning, a visitor walked up as I was turning the key in the lock. A local attorney, a well-known and respected community leader. He was twice my age, tall and broad-shouldered, and his deep wisdom was matched by his deeper voice.

In his hand was a rolled-up copy of that day’s edition. The one bearing my carefully crafted editorial opinion.

“You got a minute for me,” he asked politely.

I returned his civility with a smile and, “Yes sir — always. Come in. The coffee is on.”

We sat down in my office, and he began, “I’ve read your editorial in today’s paper, and I disagree with your opinion. I think your argument is flawed.”

“OK,” I replied politely. “I did my research, and feel confident in having published it. But that said, with your experience and wisdom, I am eager to hear your viewpoints.”

I listened to him with respect and without interrupting. Respect for my elders, respect for authority, and courtesy in hearing out the opinions of others were virtues my parents instilled in me at an early age. My father summed it up by reminding me that a wise man learns more by listening than he does by talking.

When my morning visitor concluded, I expressed my gratitude to him for taking the time to share his thoughts and views with me. I also told him that I fully respected his opinions and would research them further, but for the moment, I still felt strongly that I was on the right track with mine.

He was quiet for a moment. I likewise sat silently. I had no idea what he might say next. That’s when he smiled and said, “Well, I thank you for hearing me out. I wish I could have persuaded you otherwise about your views, but I respect your right to your opinions, and I support your right to express them. Even if we can’t agree.”

Then he said something that I have come to understand more fully as the years have passed. “If we ever fail to respect each other’s freedom to express an opinion, I fear, we will have lost our country.”

With a hearty handshake and a smile, he rolled up the newspaper, put it under his arm and said, “Feel free to stop my office anytime for coffee.” Then he walked out the door.

“I recall that conversation often,” I started to wrap up my story. “Usually when I consider lifelong friends who might hold views on topics ranging from ‘politics to pole cats,’ as my grandmother used to say, very different from mine. And I value them knowing that our mutual respect exemplifies our belief that true friendship outweighs our differences in opinion. That hate and differences of opinion do not have to travel the same path.

I ended last week’s coffee shop commentary saying, “I had good parenting examples. My dad was a lifelong Democrat. My mother was an unrelenting Republican. Each voted their convictions, effectively canceling the other’s vote in every election. Yet, they were happily married for 63 years. Through love, they respected each other’s opinions, even when they disagreed.

“It worked then,” I said with a shoulder shrug. “And I believe it would work today. If more people just realized that with love and respect, we can salvage some of those good old days.

“Before they are completely gone.”

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Should I update my picture?

“Things that make you go ‘hmmm.’”
— Arsenio Hall, actor, comedian, and talk show host

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Interesting and surprising turns of events. Seemingly unrelated occurrences connecting in unexpected ways. Things that make you go, “hmmm!”

“You don’t know me,” said the man approaching the table where I was sitting. “But I recognize you. You look just like your picture.”

“Oh man,” I thought to myself. “Didn’t post offices stop displaying wanted posters a long time ago?”

We were both guests at a 50th wedding anniversary celebration in my hometown of Mount Pleasant a couple of weeks ago. He was family. I was longtime friends of the celebrating couple.

“My name is Gerald Hampton,” he said. “I read your column. You look just like your photo.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, standing to shake his hand. “I know another Gerald Hampton. From Naples.”

“I’ve heard of him,” the Gerald Hampton standing in front of me said. “But I’ve never met him.”

“Really nice guy,” I replied.

“You know, it’s funny,” I said. “That you recognized me from my picture. Met a nice lady a few minutes ago who said she heard someone mention my name and wanted to tell me she reads my column. Then added, ‘But you don’t look like your picture.’”

“Gerald Hampton in Naples is a really nice guy,” I said again as we chuckled about the photo story. “I met him many years ago, working my first newspaper job as a photographer and reporter at The Monitor newspaper in Naples.

“Gerald’s day job was fireman at a plant near Texarkana,” I said, sorting through old memories. “It might have been the Lone Star Army Ammunition Plant. That one shut down some years ago.

“Gerald also had a sideline business as the local printer. He had a small shop just off Main Street. Back when almost every small town had someone that printed things like letterheads, business cards, and invitations.

“He was a longtime good friend of Monitor publisher Morris Craig,” I continued, “and was in the newspaper office on a regular basis. I want to think he and Craig may have also worked together at The Monitor. When it was owned by Lee Narramore.

“I do know he was also a co-founder of The Printing Factory in Naples,” I said as my memories trailed off for a moment.

“I never met him,” the Titus County Hampton said. “But I’ve heard good things about him. And I do have a story about him. My wife asked me about a bill from Sears one evening some years ago. I told her I hadn’t bought anything from Sears recently, and she said, ‘Well, we got a bill from them for two bicycles.’”

Hampton said when he checked with Sears, he learned it was the Naples Gerald Hampton who made the purchase that was mistakenly billed to their account.

Following that visit a couple of weeks ago, other memories about Gerald Hampton in Naples came to mind. Things like walks down Naples’ Main Street. Going to the post office to get the mail… sometimes glancing at the wanted posters. Or to Rodney Cook’s Piggly Wiggly for a snack. Stopping at Gerald’s print shop, for business sometimes, but more often just to visit. Because I knew what would greet me when I opened the door. The rhythmic clacking of the small job presses, a friendly greeting from Gerald, and a good story.

The last time I saw Gerald, 20 years or more ago, he talked about how he and his wife were enjoying retirement, managing camp sites and entertaining campers with their bluegrass music performances.

My short visit with Titus County Gerald Hampton recently taught me that he was a lifelong educator. It didn’t take long to also learn about his congenial nature and his ease in getting to know people. Very much like the personality of the Morris County Gerald Hampton.

Shortly after that visit, however, I learned that the Gerald Hampton I called a friend from Naples had passed away. Mere days before I met the Mount Pleasant Gerald Hampton. I wondered how two Gerald Hamptons with similar personalities lived less than 20 miles apart and never met.

I also wondered about two people seeing the same picture and disagreeing on whether it resembled the person they to whom they were talking. I wondered why wanted posters are no longer displayed in the local post office. And now I’m wondering … should I update my picture?

You know. Just things that make you go, “Hmmm!”

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo Credit: Mom’s photo album. Yours truly about age 3 or 4 in Pampa, Texas. Mom made notes on some photos, but not all of them. )

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

I still hear those words

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

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

“You collect some heavy stuff, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The obit concluded with, “Ride on Jet!”

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

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

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Friendships that foster fond memories

“My old friend, I apologize
For the years that have passed
Since the last time you and I
Dusted off those memories
The running and the races
The people and the places
There was always somewhere else I had to be.”
— Song lyrics by Tim McGraw 2004

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We never forget friends. It’s easy when we see or talk with them frequently. But it’s the friends we lose contact with that linger in memory. Friendships that fostered fond memories.

I met Minnesota native Tom Lund while living in Boerne. He played guitar and sang at local restaurants and entertainment spots. His wife, Tenlee, had an advertising agency that conducted business with the newspaper I published there during the 1990s, The Boerne Star.

Tom was fun. Always upbeat and positive with a great sense of humor. He graduated from Minnesota State University in 1968, served with the U.S. Air Force including time in Vietnam. Returning to civilian life in sales and sales management with U.S. Surgical Corporation found him starting in Milwaukee, followed by moves to Dallas and San Antonio before settling in Boerne.

Tom was always involved in music. Classic and “Outlaw” country songs by others. But he was also a songwriter, singing songs that, although he never said so, hinted at biographical bits put to music. Lyrics from life. Something typical of good songwriters.

Like the young blues musician who was consulting one of the older seasoned artists for advice. Sizing up the young man before responding, the old musician told him, “You won’t never be no blues singer driving a Cadillac with hun’ert dollar bills in your pocket. You gots to live heartbreak and sorrow before you can sing the blues.”

I got that feeling from Tom’s repertoire. Songs like “I Can’t Think About You Now” and “My Losin’ Was Really My Gain.” Even some of his others with whimsical titles. “You’re Just a Pimple on the Backside of My Life” and “Honey Won’t You Please Be My Ex-Wife.” Lyrics with brief myopic views of lost love and old friendships. Some with hints of haunting memories from Vietnam.

Above the depths of his music, Lund’s life was a fascinating success story. Two successes. I invited him to a Boerne civic club meeting to recount the details of his career utilizing his gifted storytelling, song writing style.

It was a story revolving around Laparoscopic surgery, a procedure used as early as 1901 that didn’t flourish until some 75 years later following advancements in technologies aiding medical care.

Enter Tom Lund. The tall, outgoing guy who dominated not only in stature but in smiles, personality, and a Midwestern accent deep in the heart of Texas. Never met a stranger. Always made people feel like a friend from the first handshake. Traits that, no doubt, contributed to his becoming one of the leading sales reps for surgical tools when laparoscopic surgery surged in the early 1980s.

The “new” medical procedure ultimately opened doors for the other side of medicine: malpractice suits. Enter Tom Lund for the second time. As the country’s leading sales rep for surgical instruments a decade earlier, his phone now rang off the hook with legal counsel seeking expert witnesses.

“Twice,” Lund said, “laparoscopic surgery provided a successful career for me. Something I never, ever dreamed of.”

That good fortune allowed Tom time in the Texas Hill Country to pursue his love for music becoming acquainted with other singer/songwriters. Lund performed at times solo, and others under the name of “Back Roads” with a young Boerne vet tech, Steve Ammann, who Tom credited with helping improve his “three oord country song” guitar playing.  

Lund was a lover of all kinds of music. So much so that he organized a music festival at the Kendall County Fairgrounds in 1995. Called it the “Texas Music Jamboree” featuring a varied lineup. Joining Back Roads was Conjunto flavored music from Conjunto Los Aguilas, the duet ballads of Brian and Bonnie, old time country from Tom and Classic Country, and some Cajun sounds of Swamp Angel. The festival kicked off right after lunch and ran into the evening hours with other performers. Too many for me to remember.

I left Boerne in 1998. Tom and Tenlee moved “home” to Brainard, Minnesota, a couple of years later. We lost contact.  

Time gets away from us much too quickly. We turn around twice, and our children are grown with families of their own. Lives go in different, often unexpected, directions. Friends we once laughed with, cried with, and made memories with start new chapters of life in other places. And for many, earthly time expires too soon.

When I began looking for Tom not long ago, that’s what I found. An obituary. Tom’s time ran out in 2022.

So, tonight, I’ll strum a few guitar chords and sing Tom’s song about “best friends” one more time. I might even take a stab at McGraw’s song. Vowing to get better at dusting off memories made with old friends.

While I still can.

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo above: Tom Lund (on the right) with his Backroads duet partner, Steve Ammann. Photo from the Wednesday, October 4, 1995 edition of The Boerne Star highlighting the first Texas Music Jamboree organized and produced by Tom, set for the following Saturday.)

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

How do they possibly know

Sometimes I think we are alone in the universe, and sometimes I think we’re not. In either case the idea is quite staggering.
— Arthur C. Clark, (1917 – 2008) English science fiction writer.

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Mount Pleasant friend and MPHS classmate Dick Zachary noted on social media a couple of weeks ago, his struggle to comprehend how much “six trillion times several billion” might be.

I agree with him. We had great teachers. I mastered the slide rule that I never used outside of class and was able figure out the cost of a Frito pie and a Dr. Pepper at the Tiger Den across the street from the campus. But even Mount Pleasant High never equipped us with calculation capabilities involving billions and trillions.

Dick’s mathematics mystification was triggered by a newspaper article he shared with his post. I didn’t see a source on it, but a portion of what looked to be an Associated Press byline was visible. The headline read, “Sneaking a peek at distant galaxies — Data trove from European telescope previews areas of new six-year study.”

The text reported, “A European space telescope launched to explore the dark universe has released a trove of new data on distant galaxies.

“The images and other data released Wednesday by the European Space Agency’s Euclid observatory includes a preview of three cosmic areas that the mission will study in finer detail mapping the shapes and locations of galaxies billions of light years away. A light-year is nearly six trillion miles.”

And this is where Dick asked his first question, “How do they possibly know? It blows my mind. At the speed of light, it would take around 20 years just for a light beam to reach a billion miles.”

I bring up my friend’s curiosity not to imply that I have an answer. Oh no, far from it. I still get cross-eyed trying to figure out how the GPS app on my phone knows where I am, where I am going and that I missed the last three turns. And that’s just traveling a few miles in East Texas. Heaven forbid I should attempt six trillion miles into deep space.

Dick’s doubts about grasping distance in space, however, does remind me of my daughter Robin. And a conversation we shared on the back porch one night at our home in the Texas Hill Country near the Medina River. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away … about three decades ago.

My beautiful daughter inherited my gift of gab and thirst for questions that make one think, which led to some wonderful and often spirited conversations. That heritage, and the fact that she excelled in high school debate — a skill she practiced on me every day when she was a teenager — made for moments I remember as if they had happened just yesterday.

“Do you ever wonder how far the sky goes,” she quizzed me one night as we gazed at stars in the Hill Country sky and discussed her report card.

“That’s easy,” I replied. “The sky never ends. The heavens go on forever.”

Silence.

“W-w-what do you mean … it never ends,” she responded slowly.

“It never ends,” I repeated. “Some things are infinite, and space is one of them. It has no end.”

More silence. Silence indicated differing processes with my children. It made my son, Lee, smile. He was the quiet type who was always thinking about something. With Robin, the more you offered, the more freely she vocalized her thoughts while processing them.

“No wait,” she recovered sitting up on the edge of her chair. “That’s not possible. It has to end somewhere. Everything has to have a beginning and an end.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “Space is one thing that has no beginning and no end.”

More silence.

‘Dad, there has to be an end. Nothing can go on forever without end.”

“OK,” I proposed. “Let’s say that you are right, that trillions and trillions of miles and light years out there is a stop sign that says, ‘The end. Space ends here. Please take an alternate route to wherever you were going or go back from where you came.’ Something has to be on the other side of that sign. A brick wall. A different kind of space. Something. With space and the universe, there cannot be just nothing.”

Longer silence.

Before she could arrive at a response, I added, “Let me give you something else to think about. Just as the heavens have no end, time also has no end.”

“Daaaddd!” Her falling tone of voice was filled with frustration. “I’m still working on this space thing.”

“Work on this while you are at it,” I added. “God has always existed. There never was a time when there was not God. He has always been and always will be. And He created ‘the heaven and the earth.’ It’s all in the Bible.” Just start at Genesis one and one.”

The silence by this time was deafening.

“Do you want to know something else,” I asked?

“No,” she replied sharply. “We’ve covered enough space and time for one night.” She got up, turned toward the door, and paused. “Good night, Dad. All of this makes my brain hurt. I’m going to bed.” Then added with a smile, “This conversation has an end … for tonight.”

So, how do modern space researchers really know? Maybe I can get my daughter and my friend together to figure this out. Then they can let me know. I’ll even loan them my slide rule.

Goodness knows I can’t help them, though. I can’t even follow a GPS out of the county without missing a turn.

—Leon Aldridge

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

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

We were just there for the fun

“Life is about the adventures you take and the memories you make.” 
— Katie Grissom, author

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News that Jimmy Mason in Mount Pleasant had passed away reached Center a couple of days ago.

Everybody in town knew Jimmy. Soft-spoken, kind-hearted, and ready to help anyone he came in contact with, he never gave anyone the option of not liking him.

He was also the hardware store guy. Third generation. The Mason Family Hardware store was a reliable resource for nails to nuts and bolts, and gift items to garden supplies. They were located on the north side of the downtown store when I was a youngster in Mount Pleasant. By the time Jimmy retired in 2022, the iconic store was on North Jefferson in the old Safeway building.

After I left Titus County, I stopped in to say “hello” every chance I got when I was back in town. Because Jimmy and I shared a friendship and a couple of common memories related to airplanes. One easily classified as an adventure I’ve recounted before. One worth telling many times.

I was a brand-new licensed pilot in 1974 with less than 100 hours in my logbook. Jimmy was a student pilot working on his license. We shared a common instructor in Grady Firmin, who instigated this adventure turned good memory.

“Let’s go to the CAF air show down in Harlingen,” Grady offered during hanger flying conversation one evening. For decades, the Commemorative Air Force has produced one of the best air shows in the country that celebrates vintage warbirds.

 A plan was forged for flying to the southernmost Texas border, packing bags and bedrolls for camping under the wings. I was designated pilot-in-command for reasons lost to time. Student pilot Jimmy filled the right seat. Grady, the Vietnam veteran combat pilot and military instructor with Huey gunship experience in his logbook, took the back seat. Jimmy and I looked at each other and shrugged. “OK,” we agreed.

Ready for an evening departure with a planned stopover in Corpus Christi, Grady said, “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” I objected.

“Yeah,” Jimmy added, “We haven’t done a weight and balance check with all this baggage and full fuel.”

Grady countered, “Give it ten degrees of flaps, run up full power and release the brakes. If it doesn’t rotate by mid-field, stop and we’ll throw some stuff out and try again.”

Jimmy and I also agreed that we never met a Vietnam vet pilot that wasn’t fearless or fun.

The plane groaned a time or two, hesitated, and lifted off. We were on our way south as sunlight slipped below the right wingtip. In my book, sunsets and sunrises viewed from a mile high or more are the best.

With Jimmy’s navigation, we found the Corpus airport a few hours later, and we were on the runway.

The next morning, I prefilghted the plane and Jimmy went to grab a sectional to get us to Harlingen. Navigation then was with paper “sectionals.” Think aviation version of a Texaco road map.

“They’re sold out,” Jimmy reported. “No problem, though,” He added. “Someone suggested we fly the coastline south until we don’t understand the radio language. Then fly back about 30 miles and we should be pretty close.’”

“He was kidding … I think,” Jimmy laughed.

Airborne again, a welcome stretch of early morning serenity along coastline viewed from low altitudes was soon disrupted by hundreds of other planes swarming the area, all headed for Harlingen.

We tuned to the assigned frequency for air show traffic where a recording repeated, “enter holding pattern over Combes, maintain 500-foot vertical spacing, listen for the last digit of your N number to breakout, switch to tower frequency and enter left downwind for 36 left maintaining one-mile spacing.”

We circled until we had the instructions memorized. Then Jimmy heard it. “Our turn.” In the pattern at Harlingen, we were about to land; a good thing because fuel was low. That’s when the tower instructed, “Green Cessna on final, go around—too close to aircraft ahead.”

“Forget it,” Grady said from the back seat, “Go!” I looked at Jimmy, he looked at me, and we agreed, “OK.” Keying the mic, I replied, “Harlingen tower, green Cessna, negative go around. Insufficient fuel.”

We breathed a sigh of relief when the plane’s tires reconnected with terra-firma issuing a reassuring chirp. We were on the ground.

Two days of memories later, we headed home. After one late-night landing for fuel at a sleepy Bryan, Texas airport, we made our final touch down at Mount Pleasant around midnight with no clue regarding the value those memories made with friends would hold in the years to come.

Because Jimmy, Grady, and I … we were just there for the fun.

Friends we haven’t yet met

There are no strangers here, Only friends you haven’t yet met.

— William Butler Yeats (1865 – 1939) Irish poet

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Friends come from everywhere. Some we have for a short time, some for a lifetime. And a few, it takes a little longer to meet.

I used to ride motorcycles. I used to fly airplanes. Both have taken me to many places where I’ve met many friends.

Like the time about 1978, give or take a year. I left out of Mount Pleasant, heading south on a motorcycle. Harlingen in the Texas Rio Grande Valley was the destination. To an air show. Not just any airshow, but the annual October event staged by the Texas war plane preservation group known today as the Commemorative Air Force. Their trademark was, and still is, a realistic reenactment of the 1941 Japanese attack on the U.S. Naval fleet at Pearl Harbor. Flying authentic 1940s vintage combat aircraft.

At the Harlingen airport, I dismounted my bike and walked toward the entrance gate, camera bag over my shoulder. I saw a small portable building off to one side bearing a sign simply saying, ‘Press.’ So, I pulled out my Texas Press Association card. I was not preregistered for credentials, but as my grandmother always told me, “It doesn’t hurt to ask, all they can say is no.” In this case, the young lady at the desk said, yes. “What publication are you representing?”

“The newspaper in Naples, Texas … The Monitor,” I reported. Then waited for questions.

“Here’s your credentials.” She shoved a lanyard across the table and added, “There’s a golf cart outside. Someone will take you to the media bleachers.” I was disappointed that she didn’t ask, “Where’s Naples, Texas?”

The cart stopped at a grandstand on the flight line and center stage for the show. “Take any seat not marked VIP,” instructed the driver. From where I stood at the moment, it all looked like VIP to me.

Spotting an empty seat just aft of the designated ones, I settled in as a black 1941 Lincoln convertible pulled up. “Ladies and gentlemen …” the PA system blared. “Featured announcer and celebrity guest, Tennessee Ernie Ford.”

Ford, popular singer and television host known in country and western, pop, and gospel musical genres from the 1940s through the 1970s, served as a navigator and bombardier in World War II leading to his involvement with the CAF from 1976 to 1988. He was seated in the VIP section. Right smack dab in front of me.

I would attend many CAF air shows in the years to come, but that first time was memorable for several reasons. Sitting near Tennessee Ernie Ford. Meeting Greg “Pappy” Boyington, the World War II fighter pilot Ace portrayed by Robert Conrad in the 1970s TV show “Baa Baa Black Sheep” about Boyington’s wartime service. And learning the perks of a press card.

I also remembered the Pearl Harbor dramatization. Fighters, bombers, pyrotechnics, smoke, sirens blaring. And that pause in the middle of it all clearing a Southwest Airlines commercial flight for landing.

That trip, and the events of that day, I would remember for a long time. Some 30 years later, in fact, when I was at the EAA Air Venture air show in Oshkosh, Wisconsin watching the CAF reenactment again. Working an outdoor trade show at the largest airshow of its kind in the world. Where every July, aircraft take-offs and landings total 21 to 23 thousand in 11-days. This time, working with Portacool colleague, Jim Altom.

A guy stops and greets Jim as a longtime friend. Jim turns to me and says, “Leon, meet Randy Henderson … best pilot you’ll ever meet.”

We quickly became acquainted as airplanes buzzed overhead. I learned that Henderson was a championship aerobatic pilot flying airshows worldwide and a captain for Southwest Airlines.

I related to my newfound friend, the story of that first CAF event down in Harlingen where the show paused for a Southwest flight to land. “I couldn’t help but think,” I laughed, “what an experience it must have been for passengers looking out the window and seeing WWII “war birds” and a full-scale “battle” underway.

“You were there, too,” Randy smiled? “I was a rookie pilot on that Southwest Flight. And I remember that day.”

Sometime after that simply-by-chance meeting, Randy performed his Texas T-Cart flying skills at a Center, Texas airshow on a Spring Saturday afternoon. We visited again, laughed, and talked about Jim Altom.

Randy is retired from Southwest now, but still dazzles spectators with airshow performances. I haven’t talked to him since our mutual friend, Jim Altom, passed away three years ago. Maybe I’ll catch Randy at a show. Soon.

I don’t ride motorcycles anymore. I don’t fly airplanes anymore, either. Both activities best left to those who keep their skills sharp.

But I do still believe that God sends people into our lives, turning strangers into friends. Some we meet right away. And some we come close to, but have to wait a while for the meeting.

—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.

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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.