Tag: respect

A special kind of educational tool

“Modern schools use computer programs for misbehavior issues. When I was in school, rebooting bad behavior with a paddle worked faster than a software update.”
— Source unknown, but I’ll give it an “amen.”

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“Special education,” answered one of the long-timers group last week. We meet occasionally for solving the world’s problems. And coffee.

The corresponding question arose during discussion on news accounts about declining performance and rising violence in public schools, and what to do about them.

“It’s not called special education anymore,” someone quickly corrected. “These days, it’s called somethin’ like Specialized Academic Instruction.”

“No-o-o,” groaned the first. “I’m talking about a special kind of educational tool that’s sadly missing from today’s classrooms.”

“I think he’s talking about the ‘board of education,’” I chimed in.

“The school board?” another asked.

I laughed amid the comedic confusion. “You guys sound like ‘Who’s on First.’ Listen, problems in public education began when two things were removed from the classroom. I don’t remember today’s issues arising years ago when we were in school up in Mount Pleasant. What I do remember is, when it came to learning and discipline, some of us just required, um … ‘additional training.’”

During grade school at South Ward Elementary, teachers like Mrs. Page, Mrs. Beck, Mrs. Edwards, or Mr. Mattingly diligently delivered lessons from textbooks. But occasional deviations from the published curriculum landed a few of us in the principal’s office for an application of that additional training.

“Tommy Milam and Leon Aldridge,” Mrs. Page announced one Spring afternoon just before recess. “You boys remain with me when the bell rings.” After the classroom emptied, she let us know in no uncertain terms that trying to disrupt the class behind her back would not be tolerated and we had just earned a trip to the principal’s office.

Hardin Whitaker was a tall man from the perspective of a grade schooler. His office sat right in the middle of the building — near the front door, the restrooms, and the water fountains. That was likely the result of astute facility planning, since most mischief was primarily perpetrated near the water fountains. Unless it was spit-ball practice behind the teacher’s back.

Regarding school conduct, my father and I had a special agreement. We agreed to it, but I didn’t get a vote. The deal was for every lick I got at school; I got one at home. No questions asked, no excuses, and my parents never once stormed up to the school to give my teacher “what for.” Because we also agreed the teacher was always right.

As I got older, Dad and I amended our agreement — again, without my vote. That if I were ever arrested, he would not bail me out. Police Chief B.C. Sustaire would keep me overnight, and my father would deal with me at home after I was released. Because Dad taught me the value of respecting authority.  

Thankfully, for me, we never tested that last part of the deal. Probably because, by that time, we already understood the principles of respecting authority learned at school.

At school, Mr. Whitaker had his own board of education, aka “additional training” for unruly students. “Boys, you know why you’re here,” he recited, slowly removing his paddle from the desk drawer for us to see. “You are both smart young men, too smart to have behaved badly. I’m certain your parents would not be very proud of you right now.”

We politely agreed.

Rather than the anticipated “Bend over and grab your ankles,” Mr. Whitaker then slapped the palm of his hand with the paddle, resulting in a loud pop that made both Tommy and me flinch.

“You boys think that if I let you go, you could go back to Mrs. Page’s class and behave?”

We politely agreed again.

“Great story,” laughed one of the long-timer’s group. “I bet I know what that other missing from school thing is,” he chuckled. “Prayer.”

“Naw,” I said. “Granted, it was a mistake to remove it verbally. But silent prayer never left the classroom.

“Just ask any student today on test day.”

—Leon Aldridge

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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.’

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.

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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

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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.’