Tag: nature

The paper goes to press on time tomorrow

“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) American writer, poet, philosopher, and lecturer.

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While putting these words together a few days ago, I couldn’t help but keep an eye on on the weather. Not out of fear or anxiety, but in awe of nature’s icy artwork.

Winter can be a playful paradox, delivering devastating damage and dramatic beauty in one cold blast.

That said, I’m good at some things, but I am not good at tolerating cold. When temps slip below 60, I’m finding a flannel shirt and kicking the heater up to “comfy.”

I’m also not good at being told I can’t do something when determination leads me to believe otherwise. It’s an affliction akin to being “bull-headed like your father,” as my mother lovingly put it. That personality flaw and this recent weather surge reminded of a Sunday afternoon journey that was going to prove either me or my mother right.

It started with a weekend trip home to East Texas a few years ago during time spent in the Texas Hill Country as publisher at the Boerne Star newspaper. Church concluded, and a home-cooked lunch offer tempted. But there was that nagging forecast.

“Better stay,” Mom warned.

“Can’t,” I retorted. “Press day tomorrow.”

“Might have to wait,” she suggested.

“You know the business,” I laughed. “The paper goes to press. On time. To borrow from the postal service, ‘neither sleet nor snow, nor fear of freezing …’ well, you know how that goes.”

By 1 p.m. I was rolling south when less that 30 minutes into the journey, light snow started falling. Roads were good through Nacogdoches and on to Crockett. But the farther I went, the faster snow fell, and the slower I drove.

Finding fuel in Caldwell, I slid in to top off the tank. Traffic was diminishing as roads deteriorated to little more than tire tracks of the brave (?) few still on the road.

“Should I stop?” I asked myself. “No way,” my other self said. “The paper goes to press tomorrow.”

Still talking with myself because it was the only company I had, I reflected on the unknowingly fortunate choice of vehicles I made for the weekend trip, my Ford Taurus. I had a Dodge pickup and the Taurus at home. Not just any Taurus, but a low production model designated “SHO” representing “Super High Output.” Ford’s mid-90’s offering of a small sporty sedan packing a high-performance engine and a five-speed manual transmission. Ran like a muscle car and handled like a sports car.

Darkness dominated white landscapes as the Taurus and I neared I-35 at San Marcos. Just a few miles of interstate to New Braunfels before the last two-lane miles to Boerne. But atop the first hill, tail lights as far as I could see on the icy thoroughfare led to a wreck blocking both lanes.

An exit appeared. Without thought, I took it. “Good choice,” I smiled as the service road rallied me past the freeway “parking lot.”

Traffic leaving New Braunfels was no problem. I was in the only one on the road. Literally. Never saw another car in the 45 miles that took an hour and a half to drive. Slow speeds, front-wheel drive, and matching gears to traction proved to be the perfect combination. Loved my pickup, but it would have never made it as far as Bastrop.

“Daniel,” I called an employee at home. “I need a favor. I’m almost to Boerne. See if you can get me a hotel room. I’ve made it this far, but no way I’m gambling on the hills and turns out to my house tonight”

“Couldn’t go anyway,” he said. “Highway Department closed all roads out of town hours ago.”

A big sigh of relief and a heart filled with gratitude marked my arrival at the historic Ye Kendall Inn. Even better, the hotel shared a parking lot with the newspaper office.

“Well played, Daniel,” I smiled.

Collapsing in the hotel room just short of 1 a.m., I reflecting on the last 12 hours of driving. Navigating snow and ice praying I would make it up the next hill or around the next curve. “What a trip,” I thought to myself. Lived the journey and made the destination with the added thrill of nature’s grand show viewed from a unique perspective.

Then I heard that other self again. Or was that my mother’s voice?

“You know you could be stuck in a snowbank somewhere, don’t you?”

“But I’m not,” I responded, because I was still the only one I had to talk to.

“And the paper goes to press on time tomorrow.”

—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 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.

That’s when I work in a nap

“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”
— Old saying attributed to many sources. I first heard it from my grandfather.

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“Do you ever wonder what birds are saying,” a friend once asked. “So peaceful, listening to them.” Her beautiful photographs of feathered species were, as I remember them, consistently stunning.

Listening to a bird’s song while drinking coffee outdoors and naps; seemingly lost regimens of respite from daily routines to which I was introduced as a child. Learned from my grandfather while spending summers with my grandparents in Northeast Texas.

My grandfather was a man of rigid routines, even in retirement. After awakening from his afternoon nap, he retrieved the Fort Worth Star-Telegram from the mailbox and settled into his backyard lawn chair beneath the big pecan tree. There, he spent the next hour or so reading the paper, listening to the birds with his pet chicken, Easter.

Seriously, I’m not making that up. My grandfather really had a pet chicken named Easter. He kept a half dozen laying hens in his backyard, but this one White Leghorn bird bonded with him, roosting on his leg while he perused the paper.

“Hear that Mockingbird,” he would say.

“What’s he saying,” I asked? “Do birds talk to each other?”

“During the day, they sing to attract mates,” he answered. “But they sing during the spring and summer evenings just because they have a song.”

Supper was at five sharp, followed by some old-fashioned front porch rocking that included casual conversation and evening serenades from the many birds in the trees that filled my grandparent’s yard in Pittsburg, Texas.

Outside sitting continues today at my house in Center. It’s not every day, and it’s also a little different from those childhood days.

Mornings are on my secluded patio with a hot cup of strong, black coffee where I’m typically welcomed by three resident cats. “Lover Boy” wastes no time making his way to my lap. He earned his name for his constant craving of attention. He will purr for as long as you will pet him. Not far behind L.B. is “Fuzzy Butt” who was named … well, you can probably figure that one out easily enough. She enjoys the attention almost as much. And the third feline, Marshmallow? She came with that name. She loves petting as much as the others, but loves the food dish even more..

Bird watching is not my thing, I’m more about the melodies. I seldom see the singers, anyway, something to do with having three cats.

Some evenings, I’ll perch on the front porch. Fewer birds there with more activity on the busy street. Walkers and runners burning calories and shedding pounds. Reminding me that I should be out there with them, looking out for loose nut birds behind steering wheels. A species noted for its lack of intelligence flying faster than the law allows in residential neighborhoods and blowing through the corner stop sign.

These birds are likely the reason why the cats and I prefer the patio.

Patio sitting one morning last week, I recalled another cat that once called this place home. About a decade ago, when I took my longtime weekly newspaper column into the digital age with a blog site. My debut post was observations of a young orange tom “walk on” that adopted me.

Hardly more than a kitten, he spent long periods sitting, looking out the back door. I speculated that he might be wondering what was happening on the other side of that door where the birds were singing.

Which was kind of the way I felt at the time about what was ahead in the digital age of column writing.

My lifelong friend, Oscar Elliott, suggested I not worry about what might come next. That everything would always be all right if I did just one simple thing.

“Relax in your recliner,” was his direction. “Put that orange cat in your lap and take a nap.”

I’ve worked on relaxation in the years since. Trying to be like the birds that don’t sing because because they have all the answers, they sing simply because they have a song.

Working in a nap when I can. And if a cat wants to join me, that’s fine.

Just no chickens. Please!

—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.

Will I need my walking shoes?

“Everywhere is within walking distance if you have the time.”
Steven Wright – American comedian, actor, writer, and film producer.

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“Just another mile and a half,” cheered the treadmill display. “But 3,000 more steps,” groaned the voice in my head.

The same voice reminds me every month about gym membership fees. Some months I call it dues. Others, I just call it a donation.

Walking is more than the dying art of getting from one place to another on foot. Some walk to exercise. I do. On the streets. At the gym. Mornings. Evenings. Keeping the heart healthy, the body moving, cholesterol levels down, weight off. It works for some. I keep hoping for me, too—someday.

Walking is also a good time to think. Like I did last week, reminiscing about walking to school. Back when grade-school kids actually did such things. Through rain, sleet, and snow. Uphill, both ways. Carrying 87 books and a Roy Rogers lunch box emblazoned with pictures of Roy and Dale, Trigger and Bullet.

I also wondered how many miles I’ve walked in my lifetime.

I walked to school during third, fourth, and fifth grade in the West Texas town of Seymour. The elementary school was about four blocks north of our house on East Morris Street. Which was about the same distance east of the downtown square. My father ran the local five-and-dime Perry Brothers store, and walking to town for a haircut after school and riding home with him is a great memory.

When we moved East to Mount Pleasant, hikes to school at South Ward Elementary were just two blocks from our house on Redbud Lane. Walking then also included real hikes. Saturday five-milers were commonplace in Coach Sam Parker’s Boy Scout troop. Sometimes hiking to a spot for a cookout lunch, then hiking back to town. A ten-mile hike or even an occasional 20-mile hike provided miles of memories.

Not every walking experience is intentional, however. Walking can sometimes be a necessity. Even a last resort. Like the time my son, Lee, and I stopped at an antique mall while traveling home to Pipe Creek in the Hill Country after a visit to East Texas. As I made my exit, I noticed the fuel gauge. “Gas at the next stop,” I noted.

Back on the road and making good time on I-10 west of Houston, the truck hiccupped a couple of times then went silent. “Oh yeah,” Lee reminded me. “Don’t forget, we need gas.”

Coasting to the top of the next hill revealed a fuel stop down the road. A long way down the road. I didn’t count the steps to the station. Nor did I count them walking back carrying our newly purchased fuel can with a couple of gallons in it. At the station to top off the tank, the odometer pegged our walk there and back to be at a little over two miles. Lee swore it was 20. One way.

Then there was that flight from Milwaukee to Appleton, Wisconsin. Arriving late one summer afternoon. The Appleton airport was small, and so was the airplane that got me there. My hotel was located on West College Avenue, which conveniently ended at the airport entrance.

“I can have a cab here in 30 minutes to an hour,” reported the ticket agent seeking transportation to the hotel.

Squinting a little, I looked down the street and convinced myself I could almost see the place where I had reservations.

“Thanks,” I replied. “My walking shoes are in my bag. I can beat that.”

“It’s 2.3 miles to the airport,” the hotel desk clerk said later. Looking at me askance while tapping on her keyboard.

Thank goodness my bag was a roller. I skipped the treadmill session I’d planned for the hotel gym that evening.

These days, according to the app on my phone, I breeze through about 3,500 to 5,000 steps a day, gusting to 7,500 or more on days when the treadmill and I connect. That’s 1.75 to 3.75 miles a day. Some charted exercise; some not so much.

I can honestly say that I’ve learned a great deal from walking. Like watching the gas gauge more closely. And I’ve given up walking from airports to hotels.

As I finish writing this just now, I’m wondering how many steps is it from the couch to the refrigerator?

And will I need my walking shoes?

—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.

The almanac, guaranteed good reading

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just ask Dolly.

—Leon Aldridge

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

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