Tag: writing

Every newspaper needs a Hank

“All I know is what I read in the papers.”
— Will Rogers

– – – – – –

I still read newspapers for all I want to know. Usually with coffee

That’s where I saw the article about Hank’s retirement. While I never met Hank, Albert Thompson, my longtime friend and former newspaper associate when we worked for Jim Chionsini, told me about him. Albert once owned the Ripley, Mississippi, newspaper where Hank worked.

The way Albert told it was, “Hank worked for us 21 years, and another four with new owners before semi-retiring. Retired Marine, black belt, and wealthy from an inheritance, he drove a new customized pickup one day, a new car the next day, and his Harley another, weather permitting.

“I would love to have a picture of him delivering rack papers on his Harley. He would strap them on, and off he went.

“Few mayors liked him, but all respected him for obvious reasons. He worked because he liked what he was accomplishing, not for the money.

“I remember him telling me one night as I walked through the newsroom, ‘Boss, a bus wreck is all we need for a perfect front page.’ He already had murders, drug busts, scandals, and politicians going to jail—yet joked about needing a bus wreck. It was all in fun to get a laugh out of the crew.

“Every newspaper needs a Hank,” Albert concluded

I also read a newspaper piece Hank wrote defining news. It was titled, “They say only bad news sells newspapers.”

“They joke that bankruptcy courts are jammed with obituaries of newspapers that died because they only printed what’s right with the world,” Hank began. “They’re wrong.”

“Good news sells newspapers, too. At least on the community journalism turf. Goodness sells more papers more often than bad news.

“Take this test. Pick up the community newspaper of your choice and see how much of it is bad news. Whatever went wrong that day — deaths, crashes, robberies, disasters both large and small, the dog bite, the bee sting. Then look at what’s left. A lot.

“Readers will get madder faster about good news being left out than bad news being omitted. A newspaper will get more calls for leaving out the school honor roll or a community correspondent’s column than for omitting a car crash or a mugging.

“To prove how well good news sells, try ignoring it the next time you buy a newspaper. Scan the headlines and read only what’s wrong with the world.”

I’m paraphrasing the rest of Hank’s piece for brevity, but you’ll get the point. He proposed ignoring honor rolls because no one wants to read about the best and the brightest. He suggested disregarding school activities like band and sports, arguing “anyone trying to better themselves or earn a scholarship is probably a kid who says Grace before dinner and goes to church on Wednesday nights.”

Skip engagements, weddings, family reunions, and wedding anniversaries, because who wants to read about people settling down and starting families?

Armed services promotions and honors. Who cares about people serving their country?

Church news. Who cares about do-gooders? Civic clubs, associations, or volunteer groups. Just chumming around together to get out of the house.

Local businesses. Advertisements. None of that self-serving stuff.

Fairs, Christmas parades, and all that foolishness. Agriculture stories. Who cares what’s happening on the farm?

Special sections. Why recognize local people, businesses, and industries?

Then he concluded with, “Now … get to the bad news. See who got arrested, indicted, convicted, injured, or killed. Bet you can’t do it … without peeking at some of the good news. You’d be too curious. And curiosity is why good news sells newspapers.

“If someone printed an issue containing only bad news, you probably wouldn’t buy it. You’d have to hold it tightly. Otherwise, you might breathe on the single page and accidentally blow it out of your hands.”

Hank’s logic aligns with recent reports on newspaper readership revealing that despite challenges facing newspapers, emerging trends offer optimism for their future. Studies that say readers weary of digital overload are seeking credible, balanced, in-depth journalism—and finding it in established local newspapers.

Hank was right. And so is Albert.

Every newspaper needs a Hank.

—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.

AI that doesn’t look so … AI-ish

“Alexa told me to take a break. Who’s working for whom here?”
— Ginni Rometty, Former CEO of IBM

– – – – – –

“How’s retirement?” I’m asked that often since that retirement party I never planned.

My ready reply is, “It’ll do ‘til a better gig comes along.”

“Always said I’d never retire,” I told my retired friend. “I can’t do things retired people do. Tried gardening, but all I grew was older and crankier. Tried an RV, but realized camping for me is a 4-star hotel with a view of trees.”

“I was glad to leave the office behind,” my friend said. “Too much change, and now with this AI stuff.”

“C’mon,” I teased. “We had artificial intelligence in the office before computers. Remember that guy we worked with who …”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he laughed. “Office culture. The way we worked.”

I paused to consider his comments. Measuring my career by office changes rather than years gave me a fresh perspective. The very definition of a “day at the office” has been rewritten since I started working.

That was at age 13 in five-and-dime stores, sweeping floors and assembling bikes on Saturdays for 25¢ an hour. A few years and a college degree later, I moved up to insurance claims adjusting at $250 a week. That bought me a starter home and a new car with money left over.

Life was good.

The American workplace back then really was different, though. Even during that first office job in the 1970s, it had been rapidly changing since the 50s. None-the-less, offices still reflected postwar traditions and formality.

Formal hierarchies. Clear distinctions between management and employees. Communication was direct, usually in person, and utilized titles and surnames when addressing colleagues or superiors.

Office dress codes ruled. Coat, tie, and dress shoes for men. Ladies wore skirts, dresses, and heels. 

Today, that rigid, status-driven society has morphed into business models that emphasize teamwork and recognition that good ideas come from all minds. Plus, the concept of “casual Friday” 30 years ago introduced “dress down” offices in many workplaces.

The wise words of one supervisor who mentored me back then still stick in my mind, however. “If you want to be regarded as a professional, you have to dress like a professional.”

Acceptable professional behaviors now and then differ. Practices now considered unprofessional and unhealthy were everyday occurrences then.

Like smoking. My boss at that first job smoked. in the office As did the secretary (now called the “administrative assistant”). But it was a time when almost half of all Americans were smokers. When smoke-filled air and stinky ashtrays at home and in the workplace were common fare. Even after moving into the communication field a few years later, newspaper offices were filled with smokers with up to half the employees smoking at their desks.

Good grief! Even my doctor and dentist smoked back then. While providing care in the exam room. A Surgeon General’s report on smoking was largely ignored for 30 years, until the 1990s when smoking bans first gained support.

Also not that long ago, job security meant long-term company loyalty with a company pension. Today’s landscape is a ‘gig economy.’ A workforce where people have multiple careers. Where employers offer employee-managed 401(k) plans and company investment opportunities.

Then there’s technology: a shift from typewriters and Dictaphones in my first office job to computers, then to voice-to-text capabilities, each transition leading to less paper use—except for the one colleague that is. The one who, despite adapting to email, still printed and filed a copy of every message.

In conclusion, my retired friend and I agreed that the biggest change in modern offices might well be the elimination of offices altogether. The remote position culture: working from home or on the road, always reachable by email and text, working non-standard hours.

“And now it’s AI taking jobs,” my friend shook his head.

“Oh, that doesn’t worry me,” I retorted. “I may be going to work for AI.”

“What the …?” he quizzed.

“Yep,” I said. “Looking at a new part-time retirement gig. Uses all my old skills. Proofreading, clarifying, and fact-checking AI-generated documents for companies wanting to make them look … well, less AI-ish.

“Makes me wonder though,” I smiled. “These days, who really is working for whom?”

—Leon Aldridge

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

© 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 scary thought of a thumb typers fate

“If you type adeptly with 10 fingers, you’re typing faster than your mind is working.”
— James A. Michener (1907 – 1997) American writer of more than 40 books.

– – – – – –

The doctor’s waiting room was full. People of all ages were sending and receiving messages on cell phones, but never making eye contact with each other.

It looked like a preview of the next horror flick coming soon to a theater near you. “Night of the Living Device Zombies.”

“Hello” I said to the man I sat down next to. He glanced my way and went back to his phone without missing a thumb tap.

The “thumb typers” amuse me, remembering that I, too, once typed with just two digits. It was a well-known hack for those of us who cut typing class in high school. We called it “hunt-and-peck.”  Instead of thumbs, hunt-and-peck utilized two index fingers. The system served me well until I learned to use three fingers, then graduated to four. I’m up to about five fingers now.

I learned on a real typewriter. Few of today’s thumb typers even know what a typewriter is, let alone ever seen one. Seriously. Case in point. A young student, seeing my grandfather’s old manual typewriter in my office recently, asked, “What is that?”

“It’s a very old computer,” I said attempting to keep a straight face.

“Wow,” was his response. “Does it still work?”

“No,’ I said sadly. “It needs a ribbon.”

“A what,” he asked?

My dad’s father, S.V. Aldridge, retired in 1954 from the Cotton Belt Railroad, which today is part of Union Pacific. The railroad was his sole lifetime occupation, one he embarked on in 1901 at the age of 13 as a rail crew laborer. The last 24 years of his 53-year career were spent as a section foreman with an office in the small depot that sat between two crossing lines at the intersection of Quitman and Mill Street in downtown Pittsburg, Texas.

When he retired, the typewriter went home with him, where he showed me how to type my name on it as a youngster. Slowly using one finger at a time.

An added delight, sheer magic to a kid, was pushing the metal tab that changed the type from black to red.

After he died in December of 1967, I became custodian of the old black Underwood with gold lettering and pin striping.

During the almost 60 years I’ve owned it, it has shared space in my home office alongside a parade of computers from a first-generation Apple Mac in the 1980s to the current MacBook Pro laptop I’m typing on as we speak. Sometimes using six fingers.

In its day, however, the old manual typewriter was just as revolutionary as computers are today.

Current keyboards are exactly the same as they have been since 1874, when Remington updated the layout by introducing the “QWERTY” keyboard, so named for the sequence of keys that begins the top row of letters. Therefore, the typing class exercise that is older than I am, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’s back,” employs every letter of the alphabet typed the same way, whether on a 19th-century typewriter or a 2026 digital device.

Come to think of it, the typewriter was one up on the computer. It had its own built-in printer. Multiple copies? No problem. You do remember carbon paper, don’t you? Plus, power outages and dead batteries were never a problem. A typewriter required neither. Software updates? That was a new cushion for your desk chair.

And obsolescence was never an issue. My grandfather’s 90-year-old machine has never required the first software update. In fact, it would produce documents just as well today as it did back then … if it had a new ribbon.

Quaint, but just a relic of the past, you say? Hold on. Just like vinyl records that came back from the dead about the time their obituary appeared in print, brand new manual typewriters began appearing on the market several years ago. Specialty retailer Hammacher Schlemmer rolled out one that honestly made it sound like the “newest thing under the sun.”

And speaking of honesty, I came clean with the young man I teased about the old typewriter being a computer. I did caution him, however, to beware the fearful fate too many thumb typers fall into.

“Never type faster than your mind is working.”

—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.

Resolutions are so overrated

“Tonight’s December thirty-first,
Something is about to burst …
Hark, it’s midnight, children dear.
Duck! Here comes another year!”

—Ogden Nash, (1902 – 1971) American poet declared by The New York Times as the country’s best-known producer of humorous poetry.

– – – – – –

“Well, I’ve completed my New Year’s resolutions,” a buddy bragged last week.

“Resolutions are so overrated,” I reacted. “They just go in one ‘year’ and out the other.”

I laughed. I thought it was funny. Popping off, however, compelled me to start thinking about some sort of, let’s say, focus, for the new year.

Resolving to make it through another year with a smile and being here this time next year for a progress report is a fantastic focus for any year. Iconic comedian Groucho Marx said it best when he was reportedly asked in an interview what he hoped people would say about him a hundred years from now.

He responded, “I hope they say, ‘Boy, doesn’t he look good for his age?’”

It was also Groucho who said in possibly one of the very few serious quotes he was credited with, “I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.”

Honestly, who does not want to live a long and happy life? Probably no one … except maybe for one of my relatives that comes to mind. Just ask him how he is doing, and he will likely growl, “Well, I was in a good mood this morning, but I am about to get over it.”

Some say he’s not grumpy, just being funny. Really? You should meet him.

A few years ago, I sent said relative a book I enjoyed. Written by UCLA postdoctoral researcher Alex Korb, “The Upward Spiral” validates my thoughts on the rewards of happiness. Korb says that listening to music from the happiest times of our past becomes our happiness in the present because we embrace music associated with intense emotional life experiences.

A happiness seeker as long as I can remember, my happiest memories have always been moments in music. Listening to it, studying it, making it, thinking about it. I can’t be involved with music and be unhappy.

My Uncle Bill, my mom’s baby brother, personified that musical theory long before Kolb’s book appeared in print. And, no, Uncle Bill is not the grumpy relative. He’s the life and humor of every family reunion. He’s also the one who taught me a fun music game many years ago.

Get a bunch of people together and start playing music from your younger years. Encourage every person to share the memories each song evokes. The city where they first heard the tune. The car they were driving at the time. The girl or guy they were dating. Smiles and laughter will be spontaneous.

Uncle Bill’s music game supports another of Korb’s happiness theories. Smile. Smile when you are happy. Smile when you’re not happy. Smile all the time.

“Why would I want to do that,” my aforementioned grumpy relative once asked.

Mom had the answer for that. “Smile! It makes everyone wonder what you’ve been up to.”

According to Korb,“ The brain isn’t always very smart.” The author contends that it responds to the world around us, sorting through random information and looking for clues on how to react. Therefore, when you smile, even when you aren’t happy, smiling fools the brain into thinking you must, in fact, be happy after all. Causing it to send happy signals, even though you really feel otherwise.

So, for 2026, I resolve to keep on enjoying my favorite music, beckoning to those intense emotional memories that keep me smiling, convincing my brain that I’m happy all the time, and keeping everyone wondering … “What is he up to.”

Then what remains, to quote Groucho one last time, “Getting older is no problem. You just have to live long enough.”

So, “Duck, here comes another year!” With it comes my wish for us all. For a happy, blessed, and prosperous year.

Especially for my aforementioned crabby relative.

—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.

Graceful, sophisticated script we all learned

Here is a golden Rule …. Write legibly. The average temper of the human race would be perceptibly sweetened, if everybody obeyed this Rule!
— Lewis Carroll, writer most noted for “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.”

– – – – – – –

September 1954. First day of first grade. Crockett, Texas.

Scanning new surroundings from my desk in the old brick school building’s basement, my six-year-old brain registers everything it can comprehend.

Small horizontal windows near the ceiling, open for ventilation, allowing sunlight, sounds, and the smell of burning leaves. Inside, like classrooms all across America, the ubiquitous unfinished portrait of George Washington hangs above the blackboard, flanked by the American flag on one side and a framed copy of the Pledge of Allegiance on the other.

Stretched across the top of the blackboard was one of the basic foundations of education. The universal green chart illustrating the ABCs in block letters in elegant, flowing examples of cursive penmanship.

Cursive: that graceful, sophisticated script we all learned to create words for handwritten homework, secret notes exchanged in class, and cherished letters to friends and family.

Who could have guessed that September day, way back when, that cursive handwriting would someday become an overlooked and dismissed skill? Like an empty beverage can, thoughtlessly pitched from a speeding car window toward a “Don’t Mess With Texas” anti-littering sign.

“Holy John Hancock,” I sometimes want to cry in disbelief. How in the name of common sense could we be abandoning the highest esteem for penmanship? Skillfully crafted communication representing education, character, and refinement. It was, after all, one of the three Rs of learning: Reading, ‘Riting, and “Rithmetic.

Some blame the educational system’s Common Core requirements, forcing cursive writing out years ago. Others blame the emphasis on typing skills (excuuuuussse me — “keyboarding skills”), paving the way for educators to quietly take cursive instruction and toss it to the curb.

Trying to heal the painful void of loss over that lapse in judgment, I decided to immerse myself in research. Surprisingly, what I discovered were recent findings suggesting that cursive, once seen as purely decorative, in its absence is now being scientifically linked to intelligence.

Reports released that state, “cursive handwriting can reveal a lot about an individual’s personality. People who write in cursive tend to be creative, artistic, and have a strong sense of imagination. They are also often seen as being more emotional, sensitive, and in touch with their feelings.”

Also found were warnings of current generations losing a link to their past in historical documents. Literally. The Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and millions of letters like those my father wrote home to my mother from Europe in World War II, a plethora of historical documents, all handwritten in cursive.

“Reaching a point where those who cannot read or write cursive would lose direct access to these documents,” one researcher wrote. “Locking generations out of their own history.”

If there were any doubts before, research also revealed employment websites already advertising for qualified individuals to “read and interpret cursive written documents” … including the Library of Congress.

My first fountain pen was a link to cursive writing. I’m talking about “stick your pen in the ink bottle and pull the lever to fill the instrument” fountain pens. “Stain your shirt pocket when it leaked” fountain pens.

Real ink pen writing was not only fun, but it was also fulfilling. More than communication; it was art. Look alike digital documents vanish into cyberspace. But ink handwritten on paper in stylish script remains with the uniqueness of each individual writer.

Signing my name with my favorite ballpoint on any day is a feeling of creative expression. I have signatures for varied occasions and moods. And my ballpoint is always blue ink — never, ever black. I want my signature to rise above a printed page.

So, I’m happy to report that cursive writing’s future holds hope after all. Some 25 of the 40 states that initially adopted Common Core now require some form of cursive instruction. The reasoning? That neuroscience research indicates “writing in cursive activates brain pathways supporting learning and language development.”

October 2025. Center, Texas.

Sitting in front of my computer ready to craft another column, I grab a yellow tablet. Then a cheap ballpoint pen — a blue one. My blood pressure goes down and stress levels diminish with a sigh as I commit thoughts to paper.

In cursive.

—Leon Aldridge

About the photo: The beginning of a letter my father wrote to my mother during the time he was serving in the U.S. Army 276th Combat Engineers stationed in Belgium.

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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.

It all boils down to one thing

“I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you actually left them.”
— Edward Parker Helms, actor, comedian, writer, and producer.

– – – – – – –

“I miss the good ol’ days,” someone said to kick off the coffee klatch last week.

“Yeah? What do you miss the most,” another queried?

Answers from those who had gathered to solve the world’s problems over strong, hot coffee were many. “Drivers who actually understand the concept of turn signals and stop signs.“ “How about people who let you finish a sentence without interrupting?” “Manners. Where did the good old day’s of being a decent person go?” “Courtesy — I remember my mother telling me that if you can’t say something nice about someone, just smile and don’t say anything at all.” “I miss how people could talk about their differences without calling each other names.”

“Yeah,” one of the problem solving coffee sippers agreed, ‘”My grandaddy said when slinging slurs and vulgar names start, be kind and understand that it’s folks who can’t help it. They just never learned an educated vocabulary to have a civil discussion with.”

Thoughts and opinions bounced around before silence fell on my side of the table. Just as I had a story to share.

Imagine that.

“It all boils down to one thing,” I began my two cents and change. “Respect. Years ago, as a young editor, I wrote what I believed was a balanced editorial. Carefully presenting both sides of a controversial local issue before supporting my position with facts. After committing my points to posterity, I sent the piece to press for the next edition.”

In those days, I arrived at the office by 6 a.m. at the latest to get a head start in the morning’s quietness before unlocking the door right before 8. The next morning, a visitor walked up as I was turning the key in the lock. A local attorney, a well-known and respected community leader. He was twice my age, tall and broad-shouldered, and his deep wisdom was matched by his deeper voice.

In his hand was a rolled-up copy of that day’s edition. The one bearing my carefully crafted editorial opinion.

“You got a minute for me,” he asked politely.

I returned his civility with a smile and, “Yes sir — always. Come in. The coffee is on.”

We sat down in my office, and he began, “I’ve read your editorial in today’s paper, and I disagree with your opinion. I think your argument is flawed.”

“OK,” I replied politely. “I did my research, and feel confident in having published it. But that said, with your experience and wisdom, I am eager to hear your viewpoints.”

I listened to him with respect and without interrupting. Respect for my elders, respect for authority, and courtesy in hearing out the opinions of others were virtues my parents instilled in me at an early age. My father summed it up by reminding me that a wise man learns more by listening than he does by talking.

When my morning visitor concluded, I expressed my gratitude to him for taking the time to share his thoughts and views with me. I also told him that I fully respected his opinions and would research them further, but for the moment, I still felt strongly that I was on the right track with mine.

He was quiet for a moment. I likewise sat silently. I had no idea what he might say next. That’s when he smiled and said, “Well, I thank you for hearing me out. I wish I could have persuaded you otherwise about your views, but I respect your right to your opinions, and I support your right to express them. Even if we can’t agree.”

Then he said something that I have come to understand more fully as the years have passed. “If we ever fail to respect each other’s freedom to express an opinion, I fear, we will have lost our country.”

With a hearty handshake and a smile, he rolled up the newspaper, put it under his arm and said, “Feel free to stop my office anytime for coffee.” Then he walked out the door.

“I recall that conversation often,” I started to wrap up my story. “Usually when I consider lifelong friends who might hold views on topics ranging from ‘politics to pole cats,’ as my grandmother used to say, very different from mine. And I value them knowing that our mutual respect exemplifies our belief that true friendship outweighs our differences in opinion. That hate and differences of opinion do not have to travel the same path.

I ended last week’s coffee shop commentary saying, “I had good parenting examples. My dad was a lifelong Democrat. My mother was an unrelenting Republican. Each voted their convictions, effectively canceling the other’s vote in every election. Yet, they were happily married for 63 years. Through love, they respected each other’s opinions, even when they disagreed.

“It worked then,” I said with a shoulder shrug. “And I believe it would work today. If more people just realized that with love and respect, we can salvage some of those good old days.

“Before they are completely gone.”

—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.

Write so that memories live on

“Tell me facts, and I’ll learn. Tell me truth, and I’ll believe you. But tell me a story and it will live in my heart forever”
— Native American Proverb”

– – – – – – –

We became gas pump neighbors one afternoon a few days ago.

You know, people we meet while watching numbers on the gas pump climb higher than an August afternoon heat index. Exchanging smiles with strangers at the pump while we’re trying to remember where we needed to be ten minutes ago … before remembering that we forgot to gas up last night.

That’s what we do because we were raised to be kind; to be friendly. “Don’t be stuck up,” Mom instructed. Friendliness mission accomplished, I returned to watching pump numbers escalate.

That’s when my new gas pump neighbor engaged me. “I enjoy your stories in the paper.” I did the next thing we were raised to do. Be polite … and don’t let on like you don’t know who they are. “Hey,” I said, buying time. “How’s it going. And thank you, I appreciate you reading my weekly ramblings.”

You have more stories than a book has pages,” he laughed. “I love ‘em. Are those all of those stories real?”

“Sure,” I scoffed. “You can’t make up stuff like that. “Mostly memories,” I added. “Things that happened growing up. Something I remember from a few years ago; a few days ago.”

“Well, I enjoy reading them,” he smiled. “Keep it up.”  

“Thank you,” I said again. “We all share many of the same basic memories. Only the people and the places change. All stories just waiting to be told. I’ll bet you have a story.”

He laughed, and we parted ways going in different directions. The exchange was another reminder of the importance of memories and the value of capturing them. Documenting them. Sharing them as often as possible. Something that didn’t dawn on me until a long time after I had been getting paid to write them.

I probably owe the credit for that to one of my journalism students at Stephen F. Austin State University, a generation of young writers ago.

Charged with imparting writing skills, tools and techniques to aspiring journalists, I enjoyed challenging young minds to find and write their first story. “Everybody has a story,” I offered one day to end a lecture period. “They may not know they do, but that is your first challenge. Strike up a conversation and just listen.”

“That’s easy for you to do,” countered one student. “You have age and experience, and you know a lot of people. It’s not that easy for someone our age.”

“Listening and understanding have no age requirements,” I replied. “Ask questions about what they remember from growing up. About their proudest moments. What they hope to achieve in the years to come. Talk about dreams. Then, be quiet and listen with appreciation. You’ll hear more stories than you can write.”

Long time newspaper mentor and friend Jim Chionsini executed the storytelling technique to a fine art. For instance, when asked for suggestions on the best way to tackle a tough situation at work, he often replied with a story rather than an explanation. “Well, let me tell you how Les Daughtry down at the Galveston News handled issues like that.”

It was also Jim who distinguished between memories that made good stories for publication from the few that are often better left unpublished. “Just because something we did was a bad idea doesn’t mean it isn’t a good memory,” he would laugh. “Just keep those kind among friends.”

Our stories, whether published or simply shared with friends and family, need to be told. And that’s where the value of memories takes root. We all should be writing. Preserving snapshots of our past, moments in our minds, tidbits of history that go untold and lost to time unless we write about them.

That, in my estimation, is the most significant challenge that has no limitations in terms of experience or age for writers. Everyone has a story. Most of us have many. I write as many as I can for weekly columns. And I write some of those just for my personal files, too. But I write so that memories will live on. For family and friends after I’m no longer able to write them.

We all have stories. Even my new gas pump neighbor had one. I’ll be writing his, too.

—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.

Why careful career planning is crucial

“What you get by achieving your goals is not as important as what you become by achieving your goals.”

— Zig Ziglar (1926 – 2012) world-renowned motivational author and speaker

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“So,” friends ask, “How is retirement going?”

“Great,” is my go-to answer. “I get just enough of it … between calls from people who need my expertise for a while.”

I’ve always advocated that careful planning of one’s career, even through retirement, is a crucial step in life. Having survived my attempts to chart a course from a very early age, I offer my thoughts on successes and failures while adding the best advice all. Advice is worth what you pay for it..

Before entering junior high, scrutinizing Popular Mechanics magazine classified pages at the barber shop was my source for career possibilities. Rare opportunities for unique businesses. Things like making authentic Bowie knives to marketing assembly plans for constructing scale models of the U.S.S. Constitution. In a bottle.

One I liked a lot seemed like a lucrative field. Army surplus dealers. “Return the postage free card for details,” the ad beckoned. “High demand, big profits.”

Exploring these and other rare opportunities kept both me and the Mount Pleasant, Texas, postmaster busy. My requests for information in outgoing mail and loads of informational literature coming in.

My concern was about which one of these money makers would be the best choice. The postmaster’s concern was which one of them I might be harboring plans to enter.

“You’re not thinking about anything like mail-order pot­bellied stove kits are you,” he quizzed me one day as I handed him another stack of postcards.

My search was going well when one Saturday afternoon while pondering empty pockets in front of the old Martin Theater in downtown Mount Pleasant, Texas, I heard voices. Mystic musings offering new concepts on career choice. “You see, son,” Dad said as he put his arm around me. “Think about this. No work … no money.”

I think he sensed I was broke and had missed the sci-fi flick matinee “I Married a Man From Outer Space.”

From that day forward, my life became a testbed for various after-school careers. I.E. Paying jobs. Sweeping floors at Perry Brothers five-and-dime store after school. Working Saturdays in the men’s department at Beall’s. Pumping gas and washing driveways at the Fina Station at night.

Efforts that dropped postage-free postcards going out in exchange for spending money coming in. Plus, providing valuable experience. Experience that led to seeking college advice on careers that didn’t involve manual labor. ” Well, Leon, looking at your grades,” I remember MPHS counselor Mrs. Sanders telling me, “It’s tough to tell … um, exactly what your field of expertise might be.”

“I’ve been thinking,” I replied. “I was trying to decide between truck driving and funeral director. But I really enjoyed Mr. Murray’s mechanical drawing class, so i’m leaning now toward being an architect.”

So, with a high school diploma plus extracurricular credits in fast cars, loud music, and late-nights, I was off to college to study building design. It was the beginning of five years spent trying to circumvent the evil conspiracy among college professors to prevent me from passing math courses and working when not in classes. To stay in school. Auto body shops, wrecker driving, and oil roustabout to name a few.

Then one day to everyone’s surprise, when the registrar’s office wasn’t looking, I slipped out the back door of East Texas State University with a degree in psychology and art.

“Tell me,” my understanding father asked after graduation, “what is it you plan to do with this varied preparation for your future.”

“It’s really very simple, Dad,” I assured him with my best college graduate look. “Unless I change my mind before Monday, I think I’ll teach school.”

Not long after that, by pure luck, I was afforded the opportunity to get the best career advice ever from motivational speaker and author Zig Ziglar. All right, so we just happen to get on the same hotel elevator together. I was still the only one in the room with him. For 12 whole floors.

“If you can’t control the events that happen to you, you can control the way you choose to respond to them,” he offered with a smile and a handshake.

All that said, I’m hoping to finish my long-awaited book by the end of the year. And I will include in the forward how all of this careful planning was crucial in leading me to a successful career … in communication and journalism.

I still get Army surplus brochures, though. And I’ve got a couple of canteens and a folding field shovel.

If anyone’s searching for a career path.

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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.

History not found in books

“Count your age by friends, not years. Count your life by smiles, not tears.”
— John Lennon

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Nothing defines the perspective of time for a writer better than aging manuscripts in a life’s collection of work. Less than subtle reminders of lives chronicled half a century or more ago; people who were witness to history not available in books.

May 1 will mark 50 years since I penned a piece printed in the Naples Monitor on Thursday, May 1, 1975. An interview with a gentleman born when Ulysses S. Grant, commanding general of the Union Army in the Civil War, was serving as the 18th president of a United States with only 38 states.

Burgess Peter Jacobs, aka “Papa Jake,” had just celebrated his 99th birthday when we talked. “Came here the 15th day of January 1907,” he said with a big smile. “I stepped off the train at the Naples depot with a wife and five kids. Came from North Carolina where I worked in a sawmill and raised a little patch of cotton.

“There were no brick buildings,” he reminisced, recalling dirt streets and wood sidewalks as if it were only yesterday. “Charlie Pope built the first one in 1908 or ’09. You know where the Lee Davis’ store is? He put his name in the brick on that building. Course, when Lee moved in, he covered up Charlie’s name.”

“We call these “Mama’s blooms.”

His crystal-clear mind revealed knowledge like someone reading from a history book. “The big business here was the sawmill, but it shut down a few years after.”

When questioned about occupations through the years, he called on quick wit and humor. “Like everyone else — as little as I could. Two years in Bowie County and a year in West Texas before settling down near Naples.

“I farmed mostly. Until about 17 or 18 years ago,” Jacobs continued. “My house was in Morris County, but I farmed in Cass County. About as far as from here to the street,” he said, looking out the window.

“Tax collector came one day. Spent the whole day measuring,’ lookin’ and askin.’ When he discovered I lived in Morris County, he tore up the papers and Ieft. I could have told him if he had asked,” he chuckled.

Laughter and a zest for life filled his stories. “This fellow was runnin’ for sheriff in Cass County once and came by to ask me to vote for him. I told him that no one was coming that far to get me, and no one there was going to bother me. So I didn’t need a sheriff.”

Shifting to birthday cards, he showed me one from President Gerald Ford. “Seen a lot of presidents come and go,” Jacobs said, proudly displaying the greeting. “But sure was surprised to get a letter from one.”

According to Jacobs, family has commemorated his birthday since the early 1920s by staging the family reunion on the Sunday falling nearest his birthday. And family came large for Papa Jake.

Looking fondly at a picture of him and his wife, Quincey Adalee, he added, “I was married to her for 69 years, five months and a few days. I liked a little being 20; she was a little over 16 when we married.” After a noticeable hesitation, he said softly, “She’s been gone about ten years now.”

The couple had nine children and 42 grandchildren. Asked about great and great-great-grandchildren, Jacobs shook his head and laughed. “I don’t know. I can’t count ’em all. I just call ’em my dirty dozen.”

Papa Jake reported his daily activities included “watching a right smart of television. Like to watch the wrestling. Listen to the news on radio. I walk to the mailbox every day. Used to get the mail for the ladies around here ’till I got to where I couldn’t see too well.”

Jacobs expressed pride in seeing roses growing around his house. Especially the white roses. “We call them “Mama’s blooms,” he said, holding his wife’s picture.

I attended his birthday party Saturday night at the Naples Community Center and the family reunion Sunday. “He did not miss a minute of the activity while spreading  humor and warm smiles,” I wrote. “Posing for pictures with family that came from as far as California to attend.”

You can read history books all day long. But none will touch your soul the same as talking to someone who has lived it.

Papa Jake was a living example of the old saying that you are only as old as you feel. Smiles on a weathered face and laughter in an aged voice recalling family, friends, and a century of living left me thinking I was the old timer in that conversation.

Fifty years ago, come May 1.

—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.’

Adventures meant to be

“Blessed are the curious, for they shall have adventures.”
— Lovelle Drachman, author

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Adventure was not on my mind after another day at the newspaper office almost 40 years ago. I was simply cruising the day’s mail that included the newest issue of Hemmings Motor News (aka “the car nut’s bible). And the best place to satisfy anyone’s curiosity about any car for sale.

I braked to a stop in the Chevrolet ads when I saw, “For sale by original owner, 1965 Malibu SS, factory L-79 engine. Stored in Iowa.”

Cars collectors are known for many strange behaviors. Including, but not limited to, buying long lost siblings to something they had back in the day and “shoulda kept it.” Or wanted to have but couldn’t afford it then. And just about anything hidden away in storage for some time. Better known today as a “barn find.”

My story is no different. While still a student at East Texas State University, I became the third owner of a 1965 Chevy Malibu SS factory born with that same L-79 high horsepower motor as the car in the ad. I parted with the vehicle too soon, vowing quickly to replace it … if I ever found another one.

It was way after dark the night I saw the ad some 15 years after taking that vow. But I dialed the number anyway, apologizing profusely for the late hour when a lady’s voice said, “Hello.” My inquiry was met with, “My husband is working the night shift, all I can do is read the window sticker for you.”

That’s when I sensed my first adventure that was meant to be.

Combing the huge auto Pate Swap Meet near Fort Worth the next day, the car in the ad still weighed heavily on my mind. Near dawn the next morning, DFW airport was fading from view at my American Airlines window seat. Before lunch, I was shaking hands with the man who had special ordered the car as a high school student. Drooling over all the paperwork he had on the car and loving his stories.

“Because I wasn’t 18 yet,” he laughed. “The dealership required my mother to sign for the car because of the high-horsepower engine. And the car took five months to get, not because of the motor, but because I ordered a vinyl top. Figure that one out!”

Just days before my arrival, He had brought the car to his home in the northern Chicago suburb of Northbrook, Illinois, from his father’s home in Iowa, where it was stored. “They don’t salt the roads in the winter like they do here,” the car’s owner said, “Salted roads are the best way I know of to get the rust worm in your car.”

Technically speaking, a barn is not required for an old car to gain the status of barn find. When the rescue story is told, any neglected shelter leaving a coat of dust on a desirable relic will elevate that hidden ride to “barn find” status at the next storytelling night.

“Barn finds” are on the opposite end of the spectrum from beautifully restored cars bought at televised auctions for stratospheric prices. Often a little more revered in some circles. And almost always, the beginning of an automotive adventure.

The first decision with a barn find is whether to drive it home or trailer it. The owner had already changed the oil, filled the tank with fresh fuel, and washed away the “barn” dust. I checked fluids, tires, hoses, belts, and electrical.

My curiosity satisfied after a short test drive, I opted for the adventure … “Let’s drive ‘er home.” By 5 a.m. the next day, I was beating rush hour traffic out of the city. On board were some basic tools, an extra fan belt, a fire extinguisher, and a spare quart of oil. All acquired from an auto parts store the previous evening.

And a hand full of fast food joint coupons pulled from the newspaper.

Now, if you’re considering something similar at home, let me be transparent on this one point. Taking time to thoroughly assess a stored vehicle before driving it any distance is critical. Looking back, I could have been — should have been — much more thorough in this, my first rodeo, before putting Chicago in my rear-view mirror and a smile on my face.

Another point of perspective is that was back when gas station road maps were the only form of navigation, interstate highways were not as connected as they are today, and the only decent coffee was at truck stops.

GPS says in 2025 the nearly 1,000-mile trip will require 13 hours of driving time with good traffic. I made the same trip non-stop again in 2016, attending the Muscle Car and Corvette Nationals, using only Waze and hot, black coffee. Took me fourteen hours in a rental car.

The mid-1980s adventure in an aged muscle car that hadn’t seen daylight in a long time consumed 21 hours. On tires that “looked pretty good” but were manufactured before date coding where the rubber meets the road was a thing. I was easy on her, too. Monitoring gauges, listening for noises, and stopping regularly for visual inspections.

Granny always joked that “God takes care of old folks and fools.” Whatever the case, He was with me on that trip right up the time I turned into my driveway at 1 a.m. Without incident. Four tanks of gas, one quart of oil, and a myriad of tasteless fast food later.

Other trips would follow. The value of the treasure rescued aside; the adventure has always been the best part. Because even when the journey is without incident, there is always an interesting story to tell.

Like this one. One I’ve shared countless times in almost 40 years.

Every time with a smile.

—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.”