Tag: nostalgia

Spontaneity is the best kind of adventure

“A stranger is just a friend I haven’t met yet.”
— Will Rogers (1879 – 1935) American vaudeville performer, actor, and humorous social commentator.

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I’m a huge Will Rogers fan. But last Saturday afternoon, personal philosophies leaned toward: “A stranger is just someone standing between me and my easy chair.”

The mission was uncomplicated. Pop into the local supermarket, grab a prescription at the pharmacy, find a few pantry basics, and retreat to the laziness of my living room. I was making good time with medication in hand and a basket of culinary delights. Frozen dinners and canned tuna.

I even found an empty checkout lane where a pleasant voice beckoned, “And how are you doing this fine Saturday?”

I recognized her immediately. A checkout regular at the local Brookshires, a genuine breath of fresh air in a retail world where most transactions are processed with the warmth and thankfulness of an IRS auditor. My guard dropped.

“I’m fantastic,” I said. “And you?”

“Good,” she answered.

Acting on her cheerfulness, I dusted off one of my well-worn conversation starters—a line serving as a coded handshake for people of a certain vintage. “As I sometimes say, I’m like Minnie Pearl—I’m just so proud to be here.”

Her expression lightened from “customer service friendly” to “nostalgic reminiscing.”

“I remember Minnie Pearl,” she said. “Her, Loretta Lynn, Porter Wagoner.”

I couldn’t help myself; the floodgates were open. “The Wilburn Brothers, Ferlin Husky, Faron Young,” I added. “My mother used to clean house on Saturday afternoons. And she made sure every floor was scrubbed before her favorite country music shows came on.”

Then, in a sharp segue from the 1950s Nashville sound to pure Louisiana rock and roll, she uttered a name: “Dale Hawkins.” The name hit me like a power chord in the key of E. “Suzie Q,” I thought, just as she said it aloud.

“Great song,” we agreed in unison.

“I knew Dale,” she continued, still beaming. It turns out she had lived and worked in Shreveport back in the day. “He used to tease my younger sister. He’d tell her he wrote ‘Suzie Q’ just for her. But she’d always tell him, ‘Dale, you couldn’t have written that for me—I wasn’t even born yet!’”

For the uninitiated, Dale Hawkins was the pride of Richland Parish, Louisiana before landing in Bossier City. He was playing the local clubs by 1956, and in 1957, co-wrote and released “Suzie Q.” The record was cut at Radio station KWKH in Shreveport. It was not only a charting success, but was covered by many artists including Creedence Clearwater Revival, and ultimately inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

“You know who played that infamous guitar solo on Suzie Q?” I asked?

“James Burton,” we said together, laughing again.

“He played with Elvis and Ricky Nelson,” she added, clearly enjoying the trivia match.

“Another legendary Shreveport musician,” I confirmed. “He played for others, too—Roy Orbison, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Everly Brothers.”

I checked to make sure our chat wasn’t creating a logistical logjam in checkout. Seeing the coast was clear, I continued, sharing how I met James Burton through a car club in Shreveport. “One of our members was Dick DeMoss,” I said. “Whose wife was James’s sister. I was lucky enough to sit and listen to him reminisce about his career several times.”

“And Stan Lewis…” she said before hesitating to tally up my purchases.

“Stan’s Record Shop!” I interjected. “I bought records there all the time at the downtown Shreveport location. Also, the home of the Paula Record label.” She told me she still had records she’d bought there before the shop closed its doors.

We shared a brief, silent moment of reverence for a lost era of vintage vinyl and local legends.

“Great music, and even better memories,” I said, picking up my bags.

“I enjoyed the talk,” she said.

“Yes, great visit,” I responded.

On the drive home, the easy chair didn’t seem quite so urgent. I had gone in for a prescription and weekend meals, but I left with much more: a reminder that spontaneity is the best kind of adventure.

And that, once again, Will Rogers was right.

—Leon Aldridge

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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.’

Fondness for a family motoring icon

Let’s leave town on a permanent vacation,
Lock up the house, pack up the station wagon.
— “Outta Here” song lyrics by Kenny Chesney

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“Station wagon—where did that come from,” a friend laughed loudly, talking about her new sport utility vehicle approaching the size of a World War II Sherman Tank.

Station wagons disappeared from dealership model lineups in the mid-1990s. But, for those of us whose first driver’s license predated man’s landing on the moon, there’s usually a lingering fondness for the one-time icon of family motoring.

Two things likely paved the road south for true station wagons. One is the demise of “full-sized” cruiser automobiles that served as the station wagon’s platform. Caprices. Roadmasters. Galaxies. The other was the introduction of minivans and the gussied-up domestication of truck-based work vehicles.

The term “station wagon” originated in the early 1920s during the age of train travel. A wooden wagon body mated to an automobile chassis served to transport people and freight to and from train stations. Hence, “station wagon.” The wood look remained in fashion through the last true station wagons of the 90s, long after metal was the better suited method of manufacturing. The last of the “woody wagons” utilized decorative vinyl to obtain the popular faux wood look.

Old station wagons are cool today. I’ve long harbored a secret lust for a ’55 Ford Country Squire wagon. Black with a red interior.

“My father had a station wagon,” my friend said, recalling where her words came from. “I backed it into a pole and bent the bumper when I started driving. Didn’t think he would notice right away,” she laughed. “I was wrong.”

“We also had one,” I replied. “A 1958 Ford Country Country Sedan. Beige and white. And huge. Dad traded in a ’56 Chevy sedan when he brought the Ford wagon home in about 1960. Mom made frequent after-school trips in those days from Mount Pleasant to Granny’s house in Pittsburg, checking on Dad’s parents.

One memorable day, Mom and Granny were engaged in one of their spirited conversations, I’m guessing over one of my grandmother’s critiques on child-rearing. My grandmother, bless her heart, could ruffle Mom’s feathers in a heartbeat. She really meant well, it was just in her personality to be everyone’s life coach.

Nearing tears over their discussion and deciding it was time to go home, Mom loaded us in the wagon and gave ‘er the gas heading south on Cypress Street. As the motor revved up and the car gained speed, Mom took the column-mounted shift lever and threw it up into the “second gear position.”

Now, that would have have been just fine had she still been driving the recently traded-off Chevy. It was a standard shift. What Mom forgot in her aggravated emotional state was that the wagon was the first car Dad bought with an automatic transmission.

For anyone never having experienced this automotive faux pas, it’s something you long remember. Shifting an automatic transmission car from “D” to “P” at about 20-25 miles per hour and still accelerating produces a conglomeration of noises. The loud and ugly grinding kind coming from under the car. Almost always accompanied by violent lunges when the rear tires start bouncing up and down on the pavement.

Inside the big station wagon, three wide-eyed children flew off the seats and onto the floor. The seat belt craze was still a relatively new fad as a seldom purchased extra cost option. In brief silence after the car screeched to an abrupt and unexpected stop, my mother uttered one of her rarely used vocabulary words usually called on in extreme frustration. Words we kids were sternly forbidden to repeat.

In that moment of silence in the middle of the street, Mom folded her arms on the steering wheel and the tears came. Soft sobs soon became subtle, muffled laughter. Mom had that quality about her.

She carefully moved the shift lever back into “D.” Luckily, the big behemoth continued under its own power. We arrived home without further incidents or subsequent strange noises.

For the next couple of years, the reliable wagon transported everything from camping gear to groceries and Christmas trees to Cub Scouts. It also took us on memorable family vacations including one in the summer of 1960 when we lodged at the Rose Motel in Mena, Arkansas.

Still a year or two away from buying our first television, I was enamored watching the black-and-white set in the motel room. Gazing at the news of John F. Kennedy being tagged by the Democratic Party to appear on the ballot in November against Republican nominee Richard Nixon.

My fondness for old station wagons remains to this day. Maybe one day I’ll find that ’55 Ford Country Squire wagon I’ve been longing for. Perhaps I’ll even offer my friend a ride for old time’s sake.

But I don’t think I’ll let her drive—not if backing up is required.

—Leon Aldridge

(Image above — 1958 Ford Ford Motor Company original advertising piece that today, not only boldly portrays an iconic American automotive vehicle, but also subtly reminds of a long lost lifestyle in the U.S.)

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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.