Tag: travel

What would Granny say today?

“Just can’t wait to get on the road again.” — Willie Nelson (1980)

– – – – – –

• The Road Trip: 1957.

It’s 3:15 a.m. The dog days of summer, and we’re preparing to depart Pittsburg, Texas.

“Got the thermos full of coffee?”

My grandfather’s questions about this and that were always the same before every trip, as were Granny’s answers. “Yes,” was her routine reply as she closed the car door. Then she had her say: “Suitcase in the trunk? Did ya get a new map at the Texaco yesterday? How ‘bout the oil and the tires?”

“Yep,” Granddad drawled while looking at his pocket watch. “And it’s time to go.” The same watch he used checking freight train schedules for 55 years working for the railroad also timed his personal life.

Meanwhile, I settled sleepily into the backseat with a pillow, ready to resume my nap the moment we rolled on the road trip across North Texas to Seymour. The annual summer trek taking me home after two weeks with my dad’s parents.

My grandfather’s early departures were to get miles behind him before Texas highways started to bake. The six- to seven-hour journey covered about 300 miles and air-conditioned cars were a rare luxury in 1957. Plus, breakfast at Floyd’s Cafe in Greenville was his favorite first stop.

The Dallas-Fort Worth Turnpike had just opened that summer, and I-30 expansion east to Greenville was still just a plan on paper. Traveling through McKinney and Denton dodged Dallas, but challenged with two-lane roads, traffic lights, stop signs, and reduced speed limits.

In those days, “reduced” meant dropping below the statewide maximum of 60 mph during the day and 55 at night. Because that’s the top speed cars were built to travel then.

• The Modern Era Road Trip: Easy Peasy.

Remembering my last road trip—a drive up to Kentucky for a family reunion last summer—started me thinking about how the open road has changed since those trips with my grandparents.

My mom’s DNA included a fierce “travel gene.” If someone says, “road trip,” I respond, “Gimme five minutes to pack.”

1958 Texaco road map. Yes, they can be refolded after each use. Notice the lack of interstate highways on the image at the top of the page.

Truthfully, you needn’t worry about packing much now. With today’s network of dollar stores and mega-centers outnumbering orange construction cones in Texas, one can practically travel without packing anything. Need something you forgot? Just pick it up along the way.

Road maps? Won’t find one today. Cars come with more built-in global positioning satellite capability and “autopilot” driving assistance than a trans-Atlantic Airbus 380 passenger jet. And autonomous controls scream at you if your course drifts more than a half inch.

Vehicle prep is also equally effortless. If a “change oil” or “low tire pressure” light pops up on the dashboard, simply slide into a mega-center and pull around to the automotive department. You’ll be back on asphalt before you can ask, “Is there air in the spare?”

As for that thermos of coffee, who even owns a thermos now? Every two-lane road today boasts enough convenience stores, donut shops, and drive-thru Starbucks to keep any caffeine addict buzzing through three time zones.

• A Different Kind of Travel Gene.

I am incredibly thankful for the travel gene I inherited from my mom. My dad’s family had a travel gene, too; but one I am glad skipped me.

That gene ensured my grandfather never missed an early-morning arrival, but it also made him obsessively punctual on the return leg. The rigid agenda for his journeys allowed for an early arrival, lunch, and an afternoon of visiting before supper. But the very next morning, on the exact same schedule, he was checking his pocket watch, antsy to get on the road back to Camp County.

“Gotta get home. Check the mail,. Feed the chickens.”

Looking back at road trips as a kid versus traveling today, I can’t help but wonder what my grandparents would think. Road trips, to them, meant cars with roll-down windows and outside air vents to keep cool, a fold-up paper map from the gas station and two-lane roads for navigation, and an AM radio with one dash speaker for entertainment.

What might they say about today’s automobiles with dual-zone climate controls, heated and cooled seats, touchscreens larger than their television set, surround stereo?

I can hear my sweet little Granny’s response now.

“Well, ain’t that something! Next thing you know, somebody will invent a car that can drive itself.”

—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.’

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.’

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.’

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/

– – – – – –

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

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© 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.

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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.

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.

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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.