Tag: travel

The dividends of freely offered friendliness

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

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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.’

What goes up must come down

“There are only four things you can do on skis: Turn right, turn left, go straight, or sell them.”
— Warren Miller (1924 – 2018) American ski and snowboarding filmmaker.

– – – – – –

Warren Miller was a man known for witty, philosophical narrations that made skiing look like a spiritual calling.

Me? I eventually chose option four, but only after disastrous flirtation with options one through three.

Spring cleaning at home last week, an exercise resembling archaeological digs, yielded a poster-sized photo of my son, Lee. In the photo, he’s not more than 10 years old, and slicing through the powder at Taos, New Mexico. Lee turned 46 this week, serving as a stark reminder of just how long ago my snow skiing career melted.

Back when the kids were in school, Spring Break wasn’t for cleaning closets; it was for packing the skiing gear and heading to New Mexico. Trips were where I eventually came to a profound realization: skiing wasn’t on the list of things I was assigned to do during my tenure on Earth.

Both Lee and his sister, Robin, took to the slopes like seals to water. I tried to learn along with them, at an age where “taking up a new hobby” should have involved birdwatching or stamp collecting. Not one where gravity is your primary opponent, and mistakes carry a heavy physical surcharge.

One particular year, I was in a beginner class, relearning the basics one more time because my brain seemed to reset every off-season. A cluster of trembling “older adults,” listening to the instructor’s drone that could have been condensed to one simple suggestion: don’t fall.

Suddenly, a blur of motion whizzed past. A young ski marvel, flying down the slope with the grace of a mountain goat. “Wow,” someone remarked. “Look at that kid!” “

Hmm,” I thought. “That backward baseball cap looks familiar.” The future Olympic hopeful looked back and came to a flying snow cloud halt just past our circle of strugglers.

“Hey, Dad!” Lee called out. “Is that you skiing with all those old dudes?”

 “Ah, hey Lee,” I muttered, trying to maintain some shred of parental authority while standing in a pigeon-toed “snowplow” stance. “How’s it going?” It remains a mystery how children possess an internal GPS guiding them to the exact location where their parents are at a most vulnerable moment.

Was it that distraction or my failure to master the physics of a smooth turn that plunged me headfirst into a snowbank shortly after that encounter? Either way, negotiating that curve with two skis going in the same direction apparently required a level of coordination I hadn’t packed for this trip.

While the ride down the mountain on a stretcher behind a snowmobile added a certain “extreme sports” flair to my vacation, the visit to the resort’s first-aid station was less than noble. Lying on an exam table as I watched a collection of white coats confer over my knee in hushed, ominous tones.

“What are y’all thinking?” I asked, nerves mounting as they glanced my way.

 “We’re conferring,” the doctor said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Whether to schedule you for immediate surgery in Albuquerque or send you home to your own orthopedic surgeon.”

“Doc,” I said, “I’ll take door number three: the one where you bandage me up and let me retreat to the lodge to sit by the fireplace, prop my leg up, and tell tall tales over hot chocolate about my daredevil skiing stunts to anyone who will listen.”

It turns out ski lodge doctors are remarkably short on humor.

The flight home required two seats—one for me and one facing me to keep my newly booted knee rigidly straight until I could see my doctor at home. As the flight attendant was helping me get situated, a voice drifted from across the aisle. “Skiing accident?”

“Yeah,” I replied casually without looking, trying to sound like someone who had conquered a “Black Diamond” run before his demise.

“Taking up skiing at your age with your kids?” he followed. Bracing myself for an interrogation, I turned toward my persistent inquisitor. That’s when I saw it. His leg in a full cast.

“So,” I said … hesitatingly, “Did you know there are only four things you can do on skis?”

—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.’

It’s a small town, after all

“It’s a small town, son. And the news travels quicker than wheels.“
—”Talking at the Texaco” song lyrics by James McMurtry.

– – – – – –

Driving west for an Abilene wedding 20 years ago, I did something that still brings me joy: taking impromptu detours off the designated route. Sometimes to satisfy curiosity. Other times, just to say, “I’ve been there.”

Searching last week for a source to get my hands on a copy of Tracy Daugherty’s new biography, “Western Star: The Life and Legends of Larry McMurtry,” reminded me of that road trip detour to Archer City, Texas. Hometown of the Pulitzer Prize-winning author.

Archer City is a small town—1,600 people small, give or take a few—where I’m sure news does travel faster than wheels as suggested by McMurtry’s singer-songwriter son, Larry McMurtry. It’s not on the road to anywhere, unless you’re traveling State Highway 25 between Wichita Falls and Olney. Then you’ll find Archer City, where 25 intersects State Highway 79. Close to Seymour, one of many small towns my family called home before settling in Mount Pleasant.

I wanted to see Archer City for two reasons. One: McMurtry’s bookstore. Once one of the largest bookshops in the country, “Booked Up” filled four downtown buildings, reportedly housing close to half a million books.

Another was the Royal Theater featured in the movie based on my favorite McMurtry novel, “The Last Picture Show.” It was filmed in and around Archer City, where my walking around that day was like stepping onto a film set. Where vivid visions of the gas station, the pool hall, the theater, and the novel’s characters surrounded me.

“Booked Up” buildings lined the streetscape. Assuming the largest was the main collection, I wandered inside. The door had barely closed behind me before the building whispered, “old car dealership.” Loving old cars almost as much as old books, floor-to-ceiling showroom windows and the obligatory parts department counter on the back wall were obvious giveaways for me.

Sitting at the one-time parts window was a young lady. She smiled. We made eye contact and exchanged soft-spoken “hellos” before I noticed bookstore “dos and don’ts” posted on a nearby wall. One with large black type caught my eye. In essence, it declared that after many years in the spotlight, Mr. McMurtry wished not to be disturbed, and that he no longer accepted requests for photos or autographs. The explicit notice concluded, “So, please do not ask.”

Seeing no one else or nothing more there, I followed a directional sign to what was unmistakably once the service department. High ceilings. Concrete floors. Roll-up doors at both ends. Now filled with endless rows of bookshelves higher than I could reach, divided by narrow aisles. A veritable book heaven.

Browsing the stacks in awe left me intoxicated by the aroma of old paper and mesmerized by countless volumes of history, romance, drama, history and goodness knows what else. Remembering however, that I had a wedding to attend, I made my way back to the “showroom” where an older man was now sitting alone, reading and taking notes. Looking through the large widows at the street outside for a moment, I turned back for a better view of the gentleman who never looked up.

“No,” I thought. “Can’t be.” Trying not to stare, I looked at “parts department lady.” She grinned, nodding yes, as if in answer to my unspoken question. But there was that sign again. “… so, please do not ask.” Looking her direction again, I saw her still smiling. This time, a sad smile while pointing to the sign.

With respect, I gave her a sigh and a silent “thumbs-up thank you.” Then I looked one more time before leaving, at one of the great authors of my time, in the same room with me, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.

McMurtry died in 2021. Most of the inventory of books were sold. One bookstore building remains as the McMurtry Legacy Center. And still standing is the restored Royal Theater.

I found Archer City to be more than McMurtry’s legacy, however. More than an inspiration for his works. It’s a small town, after all. The kind I enjoy detouring just to visit. Where, as the characters in McMurtry’s novels reflect, the more life changes, the more it stays the same.

And a place about which I can say, “I’ve been there.”

“Hey, what’re you up to? I already know.
I heard the boys talking at the Texaco.
It’s a small town, son.”

– – – – – – –

— Leon Aldridge

Photo above: Downtown Archer City, Texas, and the Royal Theater used in the movie “The Last Picture Show” from Larry McMurtry’s book by the same name.
Credit: Creative Commons / Photo by Rene Gomez
At: commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:ArcherCity5_(1_of_1).jpg#filelinks
Original color photo unedited but converted to black and white.

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.’

A good story needs a good buildup

“My life is basically a series of long-winded stories fueled by caffeine and late-night writing.”
—Popular opinion put forth by family and (some) friends.

– – – – – –

“You ever see Elvis perform live?”

Someone in a group gathered in the lobby of the Rio Theatre in Center, Texas, Friday night a couple weeks ago, asked me that question. We were busy blending thoughts and memories after watching the new documentary “EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert.” Great movie, if you’re a fan. Lots of recently discovered never-before-seen footage from 1970s performances and moments, both on and off stage.

“I think so,” I responded. “But that’s a long story; one you’ve probably heard. But I’ll bet you a cup of coffee that I have an Elvis story you might not have heard before.

“Seriously?”

“You know that I contend coffee is somewhere between medicinal and therapeutic, right? It’s also my belief,” I continued, “that the beverage’s benefits may also be determined by what sort of container from which one’s java is enjoyed.”

This comparison of coffee containers arose a couple of years ago at the downtown morning coffee club business meeting. When conversation centered on caffeine consumption from one of the popular insulated metal cups versus my favorite: the classic curved-side, thick-bottom, white porcelain mug.

The signature mug long revered by serious coffee drinkers originated during World War II. The military commissioned Victor Insulator Company to design a mug with thick walls for insulation and durability, plus extra weight on the bottom to prevent tipping. The result quickly became an American eatery icon known as the “diner mug.”

“I thought you said you had an Elvis story,” my questioner quizzed.

“Wait for it,” I pleaded.

Blessed to have grown up in a coffee-drinking family during pre-interstate highway days, many of my memories include diner mug coffee. It was a time when every Texas wide-spot-in-the-road cafe or diner offered not only tables and booths but also a counter near the kitchen where the coffee-only bunch or the dine-alone clientele perched on stools. Chatter was constant as white-uniform-wearing waitresses moved about, rapidly refilling coffee mugs. They knew what regulars wanted and greeted everyone as “sweetheart” or “honey.”

My grandfather always looked for the place with the most trucks in the parking lot. He swore that’s where the best coffee was being served. His guaranteed first coffee stop on regular trips between Pittsburg in East Texas where I spent summers with my grandparents, and our home at the time in the West Texas small town of Seymour, was a small cafe and motel in Greenville. The inconspicuous eatery sat on the north side of Highway 67 just east of town. Right before the highway bends southward toward Dallas. A simple sign noted the name of the place. “Floyd’s Cafe.”

‘Still waiting for Elvis to enter the building,” my impatient friend said, pretending to check his watch.

“Patience,” I replied. “A good story needs a good buildup.”

So … one morning during a stop at the East Texas eatery, we entered to see a brightly colored plate displayed on the wall above one of the booths. On it was hand-printed: “Elvis Ate Here 3-14-58.”

After hesitating to get the timing right, I delivered the long-awaited plot-twisting surprise ending.

“So, 68 years ago tomorrow, Elvis ate at Floyd’s Cafe in Greenville, Texas. Where I also like to think that he enjoyed a cup of good, hot coffee in a diner mug.”

After that, I always looked forward to seeing the plate during subsequent visits to Floyd’s. As a student at nearby East Texas State University during the late 60s (now East Texas A&M University at Commerce), Floyd’s was still a good place for coffee. Or a chicken-fried steak or hamburger, for that matter. Either one, remembering trips with my grandparents, and enjoying good coffee.

Floyd’s faded away sometime after I graduated from ETSU in the early 1970s. Also fading from Americana by then were uniformed waitresses, diners, and cafe lunch counters. The venerable diner mug filled with hot medicinal coffee has remained a favorite, however. As has Elvis Presley’s music and his place in American entertainment history.

Along with my long-winded story…at least, so far.

—Leon Aldridge

(PHOTO ABOVE: Left to right, guitar player Scotty Moore, Elvis Presley, and bass player Bill Black. Date and location unknown. Original black-and-white photo was in a collection of other photos and two Sun label Elvis Presley 45 RPM records I purchased at an East Texas estate sale in the mid-1980s. The high school stage setting, portable amp in a folding chair, etc. pictured was a typical venue for Elvis touring southern states in the mid 1950s between Louisiana Hayride appearances.)

P.S. If you missed the above mentioned story about “I think I saw Elvis,” it’s available here: https://leonaldridge.com/2015/07/07/the-night-elvis-finally-entered-the-building/

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Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting his next big opportunity. 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.’

Some things make me wonder

“Man must rise above the Earth, to the top of the atmosphere and beyond, for only thus will he fully understand the world in which he lives.”
— Attributed to Socrates, Greek philosopher (470-399 BC)

– – – – – –

I wonder about things.

For instance, how Socrates envisioned “rising above the earth to the top of the atmosphere” 400 years before Christ? Way before TSA security checkpoints, photo IDs, and lost luggage.

Was he sipping some of that fabled undiluted red wine commonly consumed at the ancient Greek symposiums—social gatherings for drinking, philosophy, and poetry? Ethereal visions of some sort filled his mind the day that Grecian Gazette reporter covering the Lyceum lecture beat captured his famous quote for the evening edition.

Whatever the backstory, the noted philosopher nailed the feeling. Even today, top-of-the-atmosphere views from any flight foster a remarkably unique understanding of the world in which we live.

As a personal side note, window seat views are my second-favorite. My first choice for years was the pilot’s seat. I’ve really missed that view the last couple of decades or so,. And sadly, trying to book it through a travel agent gets really tricky.

Commercial flight window seats transform humdrum travel into awe-inspiring experiences. Panoramic views of living maps with miniature cities and patchwork landscapes, dotted with lakes and ponds. Majestic mountains, endless oceans, and intricate ribbons of rivers.

Visual experiences that make the journey as memorable as the destination.

Which makes me wonder about something else. Why would someone book a window seat, then lower the shade and slip into deep slumber or tiny-screen hypnosis?

Seeking answers at one time, I began my own research.

Sitting for hours packed like sardines with strangers has never been my idea of fun. Therefore, I make every effort to get acquainted with seat mates early in every flight. Collecting opinions from passengers like Darlene going to San Diego. “When I can’t get a window seat, I’m sad,” she said. “Window seats are my visual adventures.” I wondered if she might have been hinting that I defer my window seat to her?

Didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to budge.

Daphne on the way to Daytona seemed somewhat irritated. “People asking me to lower my window shade are crazy. I’m like ‘If you want control over the window, buy a seat with one, dude!’”

Mary, bound for Minneapolis explained, “I like to look down at cities and wonder what it would be like, living in places I may never get to visit.”

I really relate to that because I’ve looked down on places like the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, and the Great Salt Lake. I’ve seen Iceland, Greenland, parts of Eastern Europe, and the Swiss Alps from a window seat. And I always think about visiting those places … someday.

Well, maybe everywhere except Iceland. I don’t even like Texas in the winter.

On a winter’s night flight to Europe once, a young student named Elaine shared that she couldn’t sleep like all her classmates. She was too excited. As we talked about window seats, a faint orange glow slowly defined the horizon, separating black sky and terra firma. Mere moments later, a magnificent sunrise unveiled Amsterdam, and the Netherlands, below.

“Why would anyone want to sleep through something like that,” Elaine asked.

Sunrises and sunsets were my favorite view from the pilot’s seat. Take-offs around dusk, watching the setting sun during climbout. Landmarks fading into darkness spotted with patches of twinkling cities connected by trails of car lights.

I’ll never forget one August sunrise departure out of San Francisco, seeing the Golden Gate Bridge towers protruding through a fog layer covering the Bay Area.

Bob’s take on the topic was a great “pilot’s seat” observation on our way to Chicago. “After half my career as a military jet jockey and the other half as a commercial pilot,” he said. “I always had the best office window in the world. Every day was different and I never had a boring view.”

Greg, going to Las Vegas, may have said it best of all, though. “Consider this about window seats. Throughout the centuries of those who may have dreamed about it, we are the first to experience the view from a seat above the clouds.”

And now I’m wondering—Socrates dreamed about it, but what might he have had to say about a literal view from a seat above the clouds?

Even without a decanter of his best 400 BC undiluted Grecian red wine.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

© 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.’

Leon Aldridge is an “enjoying semi-retirement until a better gig comes along” newspaper editor and publisher, communication and marketing practitioner. His columns are featured 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.

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.

– – – – – –

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

– – – – – – –

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.

I still remember both

You’ll never relive the moment you got your first car. That’s it, that’s the highest peak… it has a lot of meaning to me” —George Lucas, American filmmaker best known for Star Wars and Indiana Jones.

– – – – – – –

Cooler evenings a couple of days last week were a nice break from summer’s sweltering heat. But don’t be fooled. Mother Nature plays tricks in East Texas, teasing that there will actually be a real fall.

Cool breezes were just enough, however, to entice me into the garage where my ’50s vintage first-love cars spent the hot summer. The garage where I connect to motoring memories dating back some 60-plus years ago when I bought my first car.

Memories of first cars and first dates have been an American phenomenon for generations. Typically beginning with captivating garage aromas—gasoline, motor oil, chrome polish, and unique interior fabric scents lingering longer than the finest French perfume. Or at least until the fragrance worn by your first date in your first car.

Memories of my first car are somewhat more vivid than those of my first date. But that’s no reflection on the attractive young lady who first caught my eye at Mount Pleasant High School. After all, she was the first to take my mind off cars long enough for me to make a stammering attempt to ask her out for a date.

Still, I must admit that my first date memory moments pale ever so slightly in comparison to the time I laid eyes on the first automobile I envisioned as mine. That dark blue 1951 Chevrolet Styleline DeLuxe. Sitting at Rex Kidwell’s Fina Station on South Jefferson Street in Mount Pleasant, Texas.

Everybody knew Rex. The friendly service station proprietor with autographed black-and-white photos of country music stars on the walls. Most of them signed, “To Rex …”

Where customers were always greeted with a smile, gas was pumped while they sat in the car, the oil checked, the windshield washed, and the floor mats hand swept with a whisk broom, one just like every service station attendant used to keep in his back pocket.

And all that for about 30¢ a gallon.

That service was standard for everyone. Not just customers filling up with ethyl gas and getting change from a five. The “Gim’me a dollar’s worth of regular ‘til payday, please,” drivers received the same treatment.

I was no stranger to driving when the car at Rex’s turned my head. My father and grandfather had groomed me in driving skills since I was 12 years old. I made it legal at 14 by taking driver’s ed, the minimum age for becoming a licensed driver in Texas in 1963.

Stopping at Rex’s station on the way home to gas up Dad’s car that night, I saw the old Chevy. It was love at first sight, gleaming in the spotlight beside the building.

Rex was known for acquiring pristine used cars meeting his standards of ‘nice,’ and parking them at his station with a ‘for sale’ sign.

With some meager money pocketed from my after-school job at Beall’s department store and an interest-free loan from my grandmother repaid at five dollars a week, I was back the next day with the $250 asking price in hand.

If I live to be 100, I will never relive that moment of driving home in my first car during my sophomore year at MPHS.

As time and money permitted, personal touches were added. A split manifold with dual exhaust and glass-pack mufflers from Redfearn’s Automotive. Baby moon hubcaps from the J.C. Whitney catalog.

My first car got me to school, to work, to Saturday night drag races, and to church on Sundays. It was a participant in many nights of cruising fun between the Dairy Queen and “Bobby Joe’s,” aka the Dairy Mart, located at opposite ends of town.

Last but not least, it was a trustworthy mode of transportation for a Saturday night at the Martin Theater to see “Goldfinger,” the third film in the James Bond series. With my first date.

Visiting in Mount Pleasant a few years ago, I happened to see her coming out of a store where I was going in. We spoke briefly, and I wondered if she remembered that she was my first date all those years ago. Or if she remembered my first car.

I still remember both.

—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 the circle be unbroken

 “… Havin’ fun sittin’ shotgun ‘cause I’ve come full circle.”
— song lyrics by Ben Kweller

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“I didn’t know you rode motorcycles,” the voice behind me said.

Sunday morning Bible class had just ended. I was marking my place on the front pew as song leader by stacking my songbook, Bible, and other assorted paraphernalia.

It’s just a habit. Goodness knows I’m not competing with anyone for Sunday morning front-row seating.

The voice behind me belonged to one of the sweet ladies at church. Before turning around, I thought for a fleeting second about her perception of me after learning I used to ride motorcycles. Then laughed at myself for thinking that sweet little church ladies might have questionable connotations about cycle riders.

Riding was something I did for almost 50 years before contrasting my aging reflexes and vision with the noticeably increasing number of drivers who have no concept of what they are doing at 75 miles per hour other than texting or talking on a cell phone.  

“Yes,” I said as I turned her direction. “Steve Windham asked me back around Thanksgiving last year what I was doing. I told him, ‘Just sitting home bored, trying to dispel the ugly rumor that I retired.’ He said he needed help in parts and service at his motorcycle dealership, so there I am.”

Her questioning statement was understandable. It’s been long enough since I sold my last bike that someone who knew me only by my mild-mannered news reporter image could easily be surprised.

Truth is, though, I wanted a motor scooter way back in the sixth grade after my friend Gary Cornett did something that kindled one of my life’s more serious love affairs. Just as I threw a leg over my bicycle to go home for lunch, Gary rolled up on his Cushman. “Nice scooter,” I said.

Before I could start peddling, he hit me with, “Wanna ride it to your house for lunch?”

Some questions have only one logical answer at age 12. I thanked Gary, jumped once on the kick-starter and was gone. Arriving at home two blocks away, Mom met me with, “I don’t like those things. You could get killed. Eat your lunch and get it back to school. And I never want to hear of you getting on one again. Do you understand me, young man?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said. Another easy answer for a 12-year-old. Or at any age for a son responding to his mother.

Scant weeks later, my grandfather in Pittsburg invited me to go to W.R. DeWoody’s Western Auto with him. Yet another question with only one answer because I knew what he was thinking. A stop at the Piggly Wiggly parking lot where he would let me drive his ’57 Ford the remaining few blocks to town.

“And, don’t tell your grandmother I let you drive,” he always added.

Once inside, he sought help for his needs, and I went straight to the new Cushman scooters lined against the wall to fantasize. I was still dreaming when my grandfather found me, took the price tag in his hand, looked at it and said, “Two hundred and nineteen dollars!” Then whistled loudly, registering his opinion of the cost.

“Reckon you could ride that if I bought it,” he asked?

“I rode my friend’s,” I said as my heart raced. Then, just as fast, it flatlined. “I better not. If I bought that for you, your mother would have my hide.”

“We can keep it at your house,” I pleaded.

“Then your grandmother would have my hide,” he chuckled.

Mom still objected years later when I bought my first motorcycle at age 20. She continued to do so for the rest of her life every time I shared with her accounts of my trips traveling the U.S. Riding to Florida, crossing Colorado Rocky Mountain passes, or cycling through the Smokies. “I don’t like those things. You could get killed.”

“So, you see,” I told the sweet lady at church. “Me working for a motorcycle dealership is nothing new. It’s actually like coming full circle.”  

Going in circles has been a positive and rewarding way of life for me. I started my publishing career at the newspaper in Center, returned for a short stint about ten years ago, and came full circle to presumably finish it there last year.

Full circles cross my mind every day at the motorcycle dealership. I look longingly at the variety of two-wheeled rides on the showroom floor and think, “Maybe just one more time—one more circle.”

I could even ride it to church.

—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.

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.

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.