Tag: life

Lifetimes anchored by timeless reminders

“There are only two lasting bequests we can give our children – one is roots, and the other, wings.”– Hodding S. Carter. (1907 – 1972) American journalist and author.

– – – – – –

Dear kids and grandkids,

Every day, I live with history around me. Aging pieces that sat unmoved in my grandparents’ home, some of it for 63 years before coming to live with me.

A curved glass buffet with a dining table and chairs purchased as used furniture during the 1920s by your great- and great-great-grandparents. A bedroom suite that dates to WWII. And a library table that predates the bedroom furniture. To visitors, they are antiques. To me, they are time machines.

Please let me explain that connection.

My next birthday will be number 79; the exact age my grandfather was when he died in 1967. I was 19, old enough to know him well as a child, but only years later, old enough to understand the sheer scale of what his eyes witnessed compared to mine. These days, I’m awe-struck by how two lifetimes can span nearly 140 years of rampant human progress yet remain anchored by tangible timeless reminders.

Pieces that graced the small, frame house S.V. and Hattie Lois Aldridge called home at 323 Cypress Street in Pittsburg, Texas. Where they lived from Halloween night 1930, right at the dark beginning of the Great Depression, until my grandmother died in 1993.

Because their home remained a living time capsule, my childhood summers are permanently woven into the grain of this furniture I have. When I look at it, memories flow. I see their dining room filled with family, the table laden with food my grandmother spent hours cooking. I hear the laughter and clinking silverware during many Sunday and Christmas dinners together.

I vividly remember being just tall enough to reach the top of the buffet, stretching for the cut-glass bowls where Granny kept bananas and the cookie jar.

I’m at home with the bedroom suite where I slept during my magical summer visits—the dresser with the same small clock. The bed still wears the chenille bedspread, today some 70 years old, where I played for hours tracing the bedspread’s raised tufted patterns like tracks for my toy train.

Remembering that now feels incredibly poetic, remembering that my grandfather, born in Hamburg, Mississippi, in 1888, went to work for the railroad in 1901 at just 13 years old. He spent 53 years on the rails, a grueling career that ended only because he suffered a heart attack in 1954.

He worked through the transition from horse-and-buggies to automobiles in the early 20th century. He witnessed two World Wars, fought in WW I in France, and saw the dawn of airplanes, electricity, radio, and television. Had he lived just two more years, until 1969, he would have witnessed the historic event of humans landing on the moon.

By contrast, my 78 years have spanned the dawn of the space age, the rise of the internet, smartphones in our pockets, and a completely interconnected digital world.

My grandfather was also a uniquely special figure in my life. Dad’s parents were the only grandparents I grew up with and spent meaningful time with. Mom lost her mother while still in college, and her father died in 1951 right after my third birthday, leaving me with only faint memories of him.

So, the bond I share with my dad’s parents, and the physical things they left behind, became my deepest anchor to the generations before me. When they looked at the buffet, the Great Depression or recovering from his heart attack might have been on their mind. When I look at it, I think of them, and I think of you.

History isn’t just something found in textbooks. It’s alive in my house. It’s in the craftsmanship of a generation that built things to last. And it’s in the resilience of a 13-year-old boy who helped build the American railroad system.

I am writing this praying that you will consider these pieces not as relics of the past, but as a promise for the future. You carry their resilience and my memories in your DNA. I hope some of you will become trusted caretakers of these pieces someday.

And, more importantly, that you will take care of the stories I write that keep them alive.

All my love,
Grandpa Leon

—Leon Aldridge

(Photo above — The guest bedroom chest of drawers that dates to about WW II. On it is the clock that sat in that spot when I spent summers there as a youngster, a picture of Hattie Lois (Farmer) Aldridge, my grandmother, about the time she married in 1920, and a music box I gave her for some occasion many years ago. The lamp? Nah, that’s “vintage” dollar store stuff.)

– – – – – – –

Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting the 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 full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

Looking a lot Like Christmas

“The styles have evolved, but the soul is still the same.”
— Overheard at the car parts store.

– – – – – –

“I love this season of year,” I announced to the coffee club last week.

“Whoa, hold on,” one of them muttered, gripping his mug. “It’s not Christmas yet. There’s plenty of shopping days left.”

“No,” I laughed. “I’m talking about the car show. Saturday morning of Poultry Festival weekend. Besides, I don’t start Christmas shopping until the week before.”

“I read where kids don’t care about cars like we did,” someone chimed in. “Some don’t seem want a driver’s license.”

“Not all of them,” I protested. “The machines look different today, and the technology has shifted. But wheels are still a passport to the outside world for many teenagers. The thrill of sitting behind the wheel the very first time feels the same today as it did in 1963—the year State Trooper Gene Campbell passed me on my driver’s license test at the Titus County Courthouse. And the year I bought my first car.”

I took another sip of coffee. “True, we spent our weekends under the hood of a home-built hot rod or a muscle car then. But look around today, that passion still exists. Same late-night garage hours and pride of ownership. The tools in the garage have changed, but the pride of driving something unique remains.”

The conversation took me back to a time when most young guys were graduating from building plastic model cars to hiding hot rod magazines inside their history textbooks and drawing flames on paper schoolbook covers. Book covers are gone as are books, but model car kits are still flying off the shelves at hobby shops.

It was an era when every Detroit built car had a distinct personality. You didn’t just know a Chevrolet from a Ford or a Dodge at a quarter mile away; even a novice could tell a Bel-Air from an Impala, a Mainline from a Fairlane, or a Coronet from a Meadowbrook.

Getting a license was a sacred rite of passage, and individuality was paramount. Dinah Shore filled the airwaves singing, “See the USA in your Chevrolet.” Ford ads touted sleek styling by promising, “Ford has a better idea.” Not to be outdone, Dodge captured the youthful spirit of the era by proclaiming, “One look and you’ve got Dodge Fever.”

And the autumn unveiling of the new model lines was pure September magic.

That magic never faded for me. I still feel it every time I walk into my garage, where my trio of mid-fifties Fords reside: a ’55 Ford Crown Victoria, a ’57 Ford Thunderbird, and a ’57 Ford sedan. That last one purchased brand new off the showroom floor by my grandparents in Northeast Texas. The very car in which I learned to drive, and in which I dated my first girlfriend. (And my second one too, now that I think about it, but that’s a column for another week).

It is fair to say my life would have turned out much differently if American steel and internal combustion engines hadn’t given me an incentive to survive high school afternoon classes. We lived for the final bell, just to watch the pilgrimage of rolling stock leave the parking lot, carrying classmates to after-school jobs or to the local burger joints.

We lived for the anticipation of cruising the Mount Pleasant city streets at night and blazing the asphalt at East Texas drag strips on the weekends. Slow driving past the Martin Theater on a Friday night to see who was at the movies, purely by the cars parked out front.

“So,” I said, tossing a couple of bucks on the table before exiting the coffee club. “Do yourself a favor and check out the 50th Anniversary Poultry Festival October 1-3 in Center, Texas, including the big car show Saturday 8:00 am to 1:00 pm at the HOPE Community Medicine parking lot. It’s going to be packed with incredible machines and memories for all generations.”

Because whether you’re sixteen or eighty-six, lots of horsepower and a drop-dead gorgeous paint job will always look a lot like Christmas.

—Leon Aldridge

(PHOTO — Dave Hitt Motors on North Jefferson in Mount Pleasant, Texas, in 1964. “Cleanest Cars in Town,” the sign said. Located on the main drag between the Dairy Queen and the Root Beer Stand on the north side of town and the Dairy Mart, I think it was, but better known as “Bobby Joe’s” on the south side, made it a favorite spot for kids dreaming of their first ride when I was in high school.

– – – – – – –

Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communication professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting the next big 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 full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

Simple missions render inspiring lessons

“Everyone you meet has a story of victory or defeat, success or failure, some life experience worth sharing.”  
— Long-ago lecture notes for aspiring journalists from my teaching days at Stephen F. Austin State University.

– – – – – –

My objective for going into the dreaded super center last week was simple. My goals were achievable. Get in, get what I needed, and get out. With minimal casualties.

Not unlike a black-ops mission, the detail was to slip into enemy territory undetected and secure “two items” while avoiding tactical ambush “sale” signs. Scan the perimeter for shoppers wearing sweatpants and pajamas bought two presidential administrations ago. All while steering clear of any unannounced class reunion in the produce department.

That mission completely fell apart in the coffee aisle where my standard defense mechanisms failed against an unexpected encounter. I usually avoid small talk like incoming fire, but a chance conversation with a smiling elderly man completely disarmed me.

“Hello,” I greeted him as he rounded the corner. I keep my focus clear on patrol — this time searching for Green Mountain Maple Pecan Keurig pods. But I’m always still polite.

“How are you,” he countered, stopping to avoid walking in front of me.

“Better than I deserve,” I chuckled. “Come ahead, sir. I’m in no rush, not finding what I’m looking for any way.”

He shuffled past me with short, cautious steps. A forward lean suggested aging joints surrendering to many years of gravity. Deep facial lines accented by the glaze in his gray eyes completed the portrait of a man who had seen life from a myriad of decades, perspectives, and presidential administrations.

Once past me, he stopped and looked back with a grin. “I’m a Vietnam vet, you know.”

“Bless you,” I said, pausing my coffee canvassing to focus on what he had to say. “And thank you for your service defending our great country.”

“Thank you,” he returned with an emphasis on the “you.” His smile broadened when he added, “But I’m a preacher now.”

“Well, bless you for that service as well,” I said. “Thank you for your dedication to sharing God’s word.”

Citing names of Vietnam regions I’d read about, and battles repeatedly noted in the history of that war, he finished saying, “My life was different back then. I drank and gambled. The war was tough—took a lot out of a man.”

“Yes sir,” I said. “I’m sure that’s an understatement.”

“I hadn’t been back home long when I was in card game one night. There was a lot of money in that game,” he chuckled. “And I won all of it. Alcohol was involved, of course, and that’s not a good thing when you’re pocketing all the money on the table.”

“I was walking away when a guy …  ‘bout as far away as that lady pushing that buggy,” he said, pointing down the aisle, “took a shot at me.”

He patted the back of his head and added, “Hit me right back here.”

I grimaced, completely incapable of imagining what that must have been like. Then amazement took over, astonished that he was standing and talking to me. I said nothing, just listened. Slowly turning my head from side to side in disbelief.

“They told me later I should a died,” he laughed. “Took a long time to get over it, but I told the Lord that if He was willing for me to make it, I was willing to spend my life telling others about Him. How He saved me; turned my life around. And how He can do that for anyone who loves Him.”

“What an amazing story,” I said with emphasis. “Are you a fulltime minister at a church around here?”

“Oh no,” he replied. “Retired from that long time ago. Don’t get around like I used to. I just preach here and there.” Then added with a twinkle in his eye, “Sometimes, I preach in the stores.”

“Well, I enjoyed the sermon,” I laughed and shook his hand.

And just like that, in no more than five short minutes of listening, a stranger’s incredible story transformed my routine grocery “go and grab” mission into a profoundly inspiring lesson.

Truly, a story worth telling.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting the 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 full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

The grounding appeal of a nice yard

“Good people want to spend their time mowing the lawn and playing with the dog.” — Alan Furst, American historical spy novel author.

– – – – – –

It’s true. I’ve always enjoyed mowing and grooming my yard. Admiring the crisp, clean stripes across the freshly cut grass and the deep sense of satisfaction in a job well done.

And every time I’ve given that up in favor of hiring it done, I miss the crop of good mowing memories.

I started mowing grass as a kid taking care of two yards. Our yard on Redbud Street in Mount Pleasant and my grandparent’s yard on Cypress Street in Pittsburg. Ours was a chore to earn an allowance—a necessity. But mowing the grass at my grandparents’ house in Pittsburg? Now that was fun.

Funny how grandparents have a knack for always making the worst task seem like a trip to Six Flags.

Grand Dad’s lawn mower was an old Sears and Roebuck reel-type, early self-propelled, power mower. The only one of its kind I recall seeing. The aging green mower, riding on two big yellow wheels and a wooden roller following the blade, personified my grandfather. Both were outdated—even then. But both were hard-working and reliable to a fault.

One pull of the rope wrapped around the cranking hub was all it ever took to bring it life. Then releasing a handle-mounted lever set the mower into slow motion. All that was required at that point was to guide it slowly around the yard and let it do the job it was designed to do. That … and keep it out of my grandfather’s bluebonnets planted near the street.

At home, mowing the grass was just one of many chores on the list that earned me a lofty allowance of 25 cents a week. It doesn’t sound like much today, but a summertime Saturday matinee at the Martin theater, plus a Coke and popcorn, didn’t cost much, either.

Chores in general never excited me; I was in it for the money. And soon after making the connection between working and income, I figured out that the shortest route to get a raise from that weekly two bits was a summer job.

It became natural then, that to increase my standard of living beyond my allowance, I started mowing yards for other people. For at least a couple of summers, keeping yards around south-side Mount Pleasant neighborhoods neatly cut for three dollars a pop not only raised my standard of living, but transformed my pocket money from the rattling kind to the folding kind—converting green grass into green in my pockets.

I’ve since owned a lot of lawn mowers over the years. I don’t recall an exact number, but I always remember my first one. Not quite up there with my first car or first date, but a vivid memory no less.

It was also from Sears, a yellow rotary “had to push it myself” mower. But it nicely groomed the thick carpet of San Augustine grass surrounding my first house on Dogwood Street in Mount Pleasant where I finally realized what my parents had been trying to teach me. Admiring the sight and smell of the newly mowed grass of my own lawn turned a chore into a labor of love.

And all that time, I thought it was punishment. Even when my father tried to explain that theory long before I was old enough to understand it. “Dad,” I asked him once, “Why do parents punish their kids by making them mow the grass?”

“It’s not punishment, son,” he said. “It teaches the value of working to earn money. Pride in what you do. And a nice looking yard has a grounding effect when it’s your yard.”

“I’d be prouder if you mowed it,” I told him.

“You’ll understand some day,” he assured me. “For now, let me see if I can explain this more precisely. Think about it as your mother teaching pride in a job well done by authorizing me to pay your allowance for mowing her yard.”

So, I’ve canceled my lawn service this summer, retrieved the lawn mower from retirement in the storeroom, and returned both of us to active duty. Remembering the pride in a nicely mowed yard, and about good people wanting to spend time mowing the lawn and playing with the dog. Then wondering …

Does this mean I have to get a dog now?

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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 full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

Checking in for that perfect attendance pin

“If you don’t know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else.”
— Yogi Berra.

– – – – – –

The Center Noon Lions Club annual banquet rolled out a couple of weeks ago. Living up to its reputation for fun, fellowship, and reminding that the local civic club knows exactly where it is going.

Following the official motto of Lions Clubs International, “We Serve.”

Awards were made, and new officers were installed. The best description of the evening was, as old-school community columnists used to write about church socials, “a good time was had by all.”

The June banquet every year also reminds me of my only perfect attendance pin—that story in a minute.

First, my Lions Club story began in Mount Pleasant, Texas, in the early 1970s. Since then, the only place I’ve missed being a Lion was in Boerne.

In town just a few days, a dutiful member of the Boerne Lions was recruiting me at the newspaper office.

“Sounds great,” I said. “Usual time — noon Thursdays?”

“No,” he said. We meet Wednesday nights.”

“Oh … that’s sadly not going to work, I replied. “I attend Bible study on Wednesday nights.”

The fellow looked at me with a pause. “Are you Episcopalian?”

His question makes more sense looking into the Hill Country Texas cultural breakdown; a region settled by mid-19th-century German “Freethinkers.” Boerne stats state that 59 percent of the county population is Catholic. Southern Baptists come in second at 19 percent and other factions claim tiny slices of the pie at 17 percent or less.

So, Boerne was not to be my opportunity for earning a second Lions Club “Perfect Attendance” pin. The first and only remains as the year I served as president in Center. But even that was close.

Ferociously working on my attendance record that year, a message arriving from the newspaper’s home office in Fort Payne, Alabama posed a problem. “Annual review time,” it read. “Your appointed time is next Wednesday afternoon.”

In Alabama. Six hundred miles from Thursday’s Lion’s Club meeting at Center’s Lake Country Inn.

“It’s all right,” a well-meaning soul consoled me. You can make it up with another club.”

“Not the same,” I growled. “As Yogi Berra said, ‘It ain’t over ’til it’s over.'”

Huddling with a travel agent, we mapped out a method. Fly Wednesday morning from Shreveport to Chattanooga, Tennessee, connecting in Memphis. Hop a rental car and blast down to Fort Payne just in time for my Wednesday afternoon corporate interrogation. Thursday, race back to Chattanooga and reverse the entire crazy course putting me in Shreveport at 10:45 a.m.

That would work. If … there was not one tiny hiccup along the way to collapse the whole house of cards

Made the Wednesday afternoon meeting. Done. Thursday morning, headlights cut through the darkness toward Chattanooga at 5:00 a.m. Guiding me to the city’s Metropolitan Airport before the terminal was open.

“Good morning,” the arriving ticket agent greeted me. “Checking in? Been waiting long … early bird?”

“No ma’am; got a meeting in Texas. At noon.”

“Good luck,” she smiled. “Hope you make it.”

I had to wonder, “Does she know something I don’t?”

The Memphis connection went down as smooth as an Elvis Presley love song at Graceland, and I watched Interstate 20 pass underneath the big jet before it kissed the tarmac at Shreveport.

The Buncombe Road shortcut from the airport’s back side put me on 59 between Shreveport and Carthage, and the Tenaha city limit sign was in my rear-view mirror at 11:46.

I slammed into a parking spot at the Lake Country Inn at high noon and walked into the meeting room cool as a cucumber. Just in time, I picked up the gavel at the podium, rang the bell calling the meeting to order, and asked, “Lion Joe Fomby, will you return thanks for our meal?”

During Joe’s prayer, I offered my personal silent appreciation for a successful and safe trip home. Then I smiled, thinking about yet another piece of Yogi Berra wisdom: “Make a game plan and stick to it. Unless it’s not working.”

Mine worked!

I wound up where I wanted to be.

And that’s the story of my only Lions Club perfect attendance pin.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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 full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

Silent role models; just doing without saying

Sunday is Father’s Day.

Previous pieces occupying this space have waxed eloquent on Father’s Day and Mother’s Day, more often when my parents were still living. Partially because I knew they both read Number One Son’s column faithfully. Which saved me from struggling to get a card in the mail on time.

Something at which I never excelled for any occasion.

Dad’s earthly journey ended in 2007, and Mom followed him in 2010. Thinking about role models on Father’s Day, my parents were the pinnacle of examples I held in highest esteem. Simply living by their own goals and standards, just being silent role models for my sisters and me, instead of talking about it.

How that usually plays out didn’t sink in on me, however, until years later. Growing older before fully realizing just who our heroes and role models were, and why. Sort of like hindsight. You know, turning on the porch light after we’ve already stumbled up the steps.

My first role model and hero was always my dad. He worked hard all his life, demonstrating how to love and care for a family, run a business, and treat others with kindness and courtesy. Every day since, I’ve thought about how he faced difficult decisions. Asking myself at times, “How would he have handled what I’m facing now?”

Alongside Dad, Mom added her own lessons by example. Watching her, I learned about silent stability, taking care of the home front, and the grounding effect of enjoying a mid-morning coffee break. Most importantly, however, I learned from her the strength of an unyielding faith in God to get through the challenges in life whenever fastballs fly without warning, and to be thankful when they aren’t.

Beyond my parents, I was blessed with other role models—some were sort of “alternate moms” who helped shape me in ways I likewise did not fully understand until later in life.

“Granny”—Dad’s mother—was unbelievably stern in matters of honesty, hard work, and frugality, but she was equally soft in the areas of love and patience. She never hesitated to claim “helping raise” any youngster she spent more than a couple of hours with. And somehow, a couple of hours’ worth of her wisdom and philosophy stayed with you like the smell of her homemade biscuits in the morning.

“Alternate Moms” also influencing me were two of my best friends’ mothers. David Neeley, Oscar Elliott, and I were always into something together while growing up in Northeast Texas. So much so that we also often shared moms.

Oscar’s “Momma,” Bobbie Jean Elliott, was a small, quiet woman with an easygoing but strong influence on neighborhood kids who passed through her house. We all knew what she expected of us. And she also let us know what she wouldn’t stand for with just one of her looks and a few words—economical but effective—and always served with a smile.

David’s mother, Doris Neeley, had roots in “Old North Dallas,” back when most of Big D was inside Loop 12, and the White Rock Lake area was the nicest place to live. An invitation to join her and David for a Saturday trip to Dallas was a unique treat, whether for shopping at NorthPark or for a taste of culture at Fair Park Music Hall.

She was refined, elegant, and just classy enough to laugh when I ordered a hamburger with catsup in a five-star North Dallas restaurant.

My silent role models… all gone now. I sometimes wonder if they knew they were leaving their fingerprints on the wet cement of my young life? I sure didn’t.

I doubt they did either, really. I suspect they were like all silent role models, just doing without saying a word. Silently handing down family recipes for a rewarding life written in good examples rather than with fading ink.

I know it’s Father’s Day, but I tend to celebrate my silent role models of all types these days: fathers, mothers, and more, on every occasion I can.  

Wishing they could read my “cheap card columns” about how much I miss and appreciate them all.

—Leon Aldridge

• (Photo at top) Three generations of Aldridge men in a painting my daughter, Robin Osteen did from an old black-and-white photo and presented me with about ten years ago … I think it was. Left, my grandfather Sylvester Aldridge (1888-1967), right, my father, Leon Aldridge (1923-2007), center, yours truly. Date of that photo (judging from my youthful appearance) would have been late 1949 to early 1950.

– – – – – – –

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 full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

The dividends of freely offered friendliness

“A warm smile is the universal language of kindness.”
—William Arthur Ward (1921-1994) American motivational writer.

– – – – – –

We met Bobbi Jo at a restaurant across the street from our Appleton, Wisconsin hotel. Her smile was exactly the kind of welcoming presence one needs a thousand miles from home. Exhausted after a long day enjoying an airshow … and swatting ginormous mosquitoes rivaling those found in East Texas.

The official name of the world-famous airshow and aviation gathering we were attending is EAA AirVenture Oshkosh. But just say “Oshkosh” around anyone who knows their aileron from an altimeter, and they’ll tell you exactly where we were.

Wittman Regional Airport, 30 miles from Appleton, is the home of Oshkosh. The world’s largest aviation extravaganza features daily aerobatic performances, historic warbirds, and aircraft exhibits attracting around 700,000 visitors. All in one week in July when this quiet Midwestern airfield becomes the busiest airport in the world with more than 10,000 planes flying in creating some 16,000 aircraft operations.

And, when every hotel room, spare bedroom, and makeshift space for miles around is booked years in advance.

I loved airshows long before I logged my first hour as a pilot. In fact, the ink was still wet on my new license 40-plus years ago when I flew a Cessna 172 from Mount Pleasant, in the northeast corner of Texas, down to Harlingen at the southernmost tip of the state for the Commemorative Air Force airshow—one of the largest regional aviation events in the South.

To most pilots, major airshows represent a small slice of heaven on earth. And as a once regular Oshkosh attendee absent now for a decade, my yearning gets strong about this time every year.

But I digress anytime you get me to talking about airplanes.

It’s memories of people like Bobbi Jo that prompted this missive. Years spent working trade shows from New York City to Los Angeles, and San Francisco to Orlando meeting countless friendly people everywhere. Memories that keep me smiling, reminding that even in a society ill with divisiveness and hate, friendly still begets friendliness when we remember to share it.

Like the day Bobbi Jo greeted me and my Oshkosh trade show colleague and friend, Jim Altom. “Hi guys, how are we doing today?” her voice rang out loudly in the busy restaurant. “Can I start ya off with some cheese curds?”

“Yes,” I responded. “And we’re great. How ‘bout you?”

“Blessed to be here, don’tcha know,” she returned warmly. “How about something to drink while ya look over the menu?”

“Sweet tea please,” I replied. “Same,” Jim echoed.

She paused, looking at us with a knowing smile. “You two are from Texas, aren’t ya?”

“I guess it’s the accent,” I laughed. “Or was it the sweet tea?”

“Well, that too,” she said. “But honestly, it’s because you’re so polite. People from Texas are always polite, and politeness cures whatever ails ya. Right?”

Then she added, “Texas is quite a haul! What brings ya up to Wisconsin? Let me guess—the airshow.”

We both nodded.

“So, what part of Texas do you guys call home?”

“Originally from Northeast Texas but spent most of my life in Center, small town near the Louisiana border,” I said.

“North Texas, over toward Dallas,” Jim added with a nod.

“Texas is just huge,” she remarked with emphasis.

“It is,” Jim agreed, leaning into his natural sense of humor. “Did you know that back in the covered wagon days, if a baby was born in Texarkana while a family was crossing the state line, by the time they reached El Paso, that baby would be in the third grade?”

Bobbi Jo laughed loudly at the old Texas tale. “You guys are definitely Texans. Always polite and always bragging about your home state.”

For me, politeness and humor have always functioned as a universal language. Everywhere I’ve been, here and abroad, I’ve found that freely offered friendliness is most often repaid with dividends.

The 73rd edition of Oshkosh is just around the corner, and a return trip just isn’t in the cards this year. One more time I will miss the greatest aviation celebration on earth, the best cheese anywhere, and mosquitoes that are jokingly (kind of) called the state bird.

And I’ll miss that Midwestern hospitality like Bobbi Jo freely shared. Matching that of any Texan, and guaranteed to cure “whatever ails ya.”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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 full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

Smile, and lean into the mystery

“Studies reveal the mystery of gifted people often having bad handwriting. It’s because their brain is working faster than their hands.”
—Author unknown, but I’m signing on to it.

– – – – – –

Put your John Hancock right here,” the nice teller instructed with a practiced smile. In those prehistoric, pre-ATM days, being 400 miles from home and short on cash was a high-stakes adventure.

“Here you go,” I replied, sliding the signed check and pen back across the counter.

Her smile faltered. “Is this … ah?”

“Aldridge,” I assured her, putting forth my most convincing smile.

“I’ll need identification with a matching signature.” With that, she dialed my bank in Center as I waited, watched, and wondered. Worrying. Would I be hitching a ride to get home?

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said, counting out the bills, “but it’s for your protection. We always double-check when a signature looks forged.”

“Forged?” My smile waned.

“Well, the way you sign your name, it looks a bit like ‘Arp,’” she laughed. This wasn’t the first time my penmanship had been insulted. There is evidence, however, that my teachers did their job. Historical documents still exist with my name penned in perfectly legible script.

The downfall began, as I recall, following college and the start of a career. Coincidentally, around the time I signed a marriage license, though I’ll avoid drawing any dangerous parallels there for safety’s sake. Mostly mine.

Today, though, who scrutinizes a signature anymore? What’s a signature really worth?

Graphologists—a fancy term for handwriting analysts—claim our artistic loops, eloquently crossed ‘t’s, and even the “loop and a line” variations reveal our deepest secrets. Friend and former colleague, Lois Cooper, used to say that every time we drop a “John Hancock,” we reveal traits as unique as a fingerprint. Lois claimed to have the “gift,” but she refused to analyze mine. Claimed she didn’t like to “read” people she knew.

I think I learned why Lois felt that way, from a total stranger at an out-of-town dinner party. She was the guest of a guest, a visitor who knew no one in the room or in the community. When the friend with whom she was attending turned the conversation to her skills, she shied away. Eventually, however, she gave in to the group’s curiosity.

At her direction, we wrote a couple of sentences in cursive on a blank sheet of paper. No name. “You will know yours,” she smiled.

We watched intently as she opened each folded note, studied it for a few seconds, and delivered unsettlingly detailed descriptions. I tuned in when she started with, “This is a middle-aged, right-handed male. Tall—six feet. More of a ‘right-brain’ artsy type than a ‘left-brain’ detail person.”

I started listening more closely.

“He works in a professional office setting, likely a supervisory position. Loves music, art, and creativity. A writer, perhaps?”

Then she got spooky. “He’s married; children, more than one. Two … or is it three? I’m not sure.”

“And he has an injury scar on his right leg, lower. Ankle or foot maybe?”

I not only stopped smiling, I had to check my breathing. I’m exactly six feet tall. She nailed my personality, my career, and my family. Right down to the children, even in her hesitancy. Two living children was correct. But three, counting our firstborn son we lost a week before his first birthday—an event that occurred some six years prior to that night. Scars? A large one on my right ankle. From a lapse in good judgement during high school.

After getting my breath back, I smiled. Faintly. Thinking that if that bank teller had been one of those graphologist types, she would’ve known that I was not a forger.

The faint smile grew as I thought about how our signatures, like our stories, are unique, often messy. We spend our lives writing them and watching them change. Hoping the world reads the mystery and meaning behind them in good faith.

So, if my signature is that telling—yet that messy—maybe I should just lean into the mystery.

“Hello, my name is Leon Arp.”

It has a catchy ring to it, don’t you think?

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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 full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

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.

– – – – – –

“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

– – – – – – –

(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.’

The scary thought of a thumb typers fate

“If you type adeptly with 10 fingers, you’re typing faster than your mind is working.”
— James A. Michener (1907 – 1997) American writer of more than 40 books.

– – – – – –

The doctor’s waiting room was full. People of all ages were sending and receiving messages on cell phones, but never making eye contact with each other.

It looked like a preview of the next horror flick coming soon to a theater near you. “Night of the Living Device Zombies.”

“Hello” I said to the man I sat down next to. He glanced my way and went back to his phone without missing a thumb tap.

The “thumb typers” amuse me, remembering that I, too, once typed with just two digits. It was a well-known hack for those of us who cut typing class in high school. We called it “hunt-and-peck.”  Instead of thumbs, hunt-and-peck utilized two index fingers. The system served me well until I learned to use three fingers, then graduated to four. I’m up to about five fingers now.

I learned on a real typewriter. Few of today’s thumb typers even know what a typewriter is, let alone ever seen one. Seriously. Case in point. A young student, seeing my grandfather’s old manual typewriter in my office recently, asked, “What is that?”

“It’s a very old computer,” I said attempting to keep a straight face.

“Wow,” was his response. “Does it still work?”

“No,’ I said sadly. “It needs a ribbon.”

“A what,” he asked?

My dad’s father, S.V. Aldridge, retired in 1954 from the Cotton Belt Railroad, which today is part of Union Pacific. The railroad was his sole lifetime occupation, one he embarked on in 1901 at the age of 13 as a rail crew laborer. The last 24 years of his 53-year career were spent as a section foreman with an office in the small depot that sat between two crossing lines at the intersection of Quitman and Mill Street in downtown Pittsburg, Texas.

When he retired, the typewriter went home with him, where he showed me how to type my name on it as a youngster. Slowly using one finger at a time.

An added delight, sheer magic to a kid, was pushing the metal tab that changed the type from black to red.

After he died in December of 1967, I became custodian of the old black Underwood with gold lettering and pin striping.

During the almost 60 years I’ve owned it, it has shared space in my home office alongside a parade of computers from a first-generation Apple Mac in the 1980s to the current MacBook Pro laptop I’m typing on as we speak. Sometimes using six fingers.

In its day, however, the old manual typewriter was just as revolutionary as computers are today.

Current keyboards are exactly the same as they have been since 1874, when Remington updated the layout by introducing the “QWERTY” keyboard, so named for the sequence of keys that begins the top row of letters. Therefore, the typing class exercise that is older than I am, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’s back,” employs every letter of the alphabet typed the same way, whether on a 19th-century typewriter or a 2026 digital device.

Come to think of it, the typewriter was one up on the computer. It had its own built-in printer. Multiple copies? No problem. You do remember carbon paper, don’t you? Plus, power outages and dead batteries were never a problem. A typewriter required neither. Software updates? That was a new cushion for your desk chair.

And obsolescence was never an issue. My grandfather’s 90-year-old machine has never required the first software update. In fact, it would produce documents just as well today as it did back then … if it had a new ribbon.

Quaint, but just a relic of the past, you say? Hold on. Just like vinyl records that came back from the dead about the time their obituary appeared in print, brand new manual typewriters began appearing on the market several years ago. Specialty retailer Hammacher Schlemmer rolled out one that honestly made it sound like the “newest thing under the sun.”

And speaking of honesty, I came clean with the young man I teased about the old typewriter being a computer. I did caution him, however, to beware the fearful fate too many thumb typers fall into.

“Never type faster than your mind is working.”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

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 2026. 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.