Tag: writing

The Lone Ranger and other digital discoveries

“Who was that masked man?”
— AI

– – – – – – –

One long-ago sweltering summer night in Seymour, Texas, a salesman sat in our living room. He wasn’t just selling books; he was peddling the concentrated wisdom of humanity, bound in majestic, burgundy volumes, gold-lettered with “Encyclopedia Britannica.”

For his closing pitch, the door-to-door entrepreneur leaned in with the confidence of a magician who possessed every secret of the universe. “Ask me a question, son,” he said, looking at nine-year-old me while holding up his book of knowledge for all to see. “Any question at all, I have the answer right here.”

My dad nodded, hinting that he favored the treasure trove of unlocked mysteries to grace our living room. So, I took a breath and fired the ultimate 1950s curveball kid question: “What was the Lone Ranger’s real name?”

The poor guy didn’t just stumble; he went into a full-scale intellectual tailspin. He stammered, as his fingers frantically rummaged through the “L” and “R” volumes … even the “K” hoping for some clue under “Kimosabe.” Grasping for a lifeline that just wasn’t there. My father, possibly pitying the man who had been defeated by a fictional masked man and a grade school kid, bought the books anyway.

The Lone Ranger’s identity remained a mystery that night. But hey, we now owned twenty-something volumes of heavy-duty paperweights to show for it.

Fast forward fifty-three years to 2010. Britannica printed its final physical volumes, ending a 244-year run as the “go-to” source for people who had lots of shelf space and very strong lower backs. It still exists today, but only as an online source.

My own transition to the digital age has been equally dramatic. Back in the early 80s, I famously declared, “I’ll never need to know how to operate a computer; just bring me the printouts to read.” Those words have since aged worse than yesterday’s Mexican restaurant leftovers. Now a card-carrying citizen of Cyberspace, my dependance on devices is frankly somewhat humbling.

Giving up precious paper, my income is a digital ghost that graces my bank account via direct deposit. My bills are paid by invisible imps on the internet. And cash has been replaced by that small piece of plastic I lose every time I turn around.

I shop for things I can’t find locally and expect them to arrive on my porch before I’ve even finished the checkout process. I can “visit” more friends and family in a single afternoon on social media than I used to see in a year of Sunday drives.

My entire life now travels in my pocket. Even to the doctor’s waiting room, where it saves me from having to read a 2017 issue of People Magazine for the third time. Speaking of doctors, my medical records are a heartbeat away on a patient portal. I can find more information about my health in sixty seconds than a stressed physician could provide in a ten-minute consultation—plus, I get answers to all the questions I was too intimidated to ask wearing only a hospital gown.

However, having the world at my fingertips has been a double-edged sword at times. When “the good old ways” failed, it was a minor inconvenience. Missed a call? They’ll call back. If a check got lost in the mail, I just wrote another one. But today, if my device so much as blinks, I develop a tension headache that would make an Excedrin commercial feel like a spa retreat.

Yet, some people complain about “wasting too much time on devices,” and I agree. We’ve abandoned face-to-face visits for impersonal non-stop thumbing on screens. There is, however, a certain magical value in the speed. A wealth of information that once required a salesman and twenty-four volumes to access is now available in seconds.

And the best part? The new age of cyber searching finally gave me closure. In the blink of an eye, AI told me the adventures of the Lone Ranger were based on a real person named John Reid.

Bless you, encyclopedia salesman. If only you could see me now. Struggling to seize the answers to the many other secrets AI holds.

—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.’

Learning to ‘give a hoot’

“I must say I find television very educational. The minute somebody turns it on, I go into the library and read a good book.”
— Groucho Marx, (1890–1977) American comedian, actor, writer and avid reader; author of several books despite quitting school at 12 to support his family.

– – – – – –

I read a lot of books. Magazines and newspapers, too. I even read owner’s manuals. At least I used to.

A friend was watching me investigate the cargo area of his hatchback recently to replace a backup light bulb when he spotted a small switch.

“What’s that for?”

“Looks like a light switch,” I said. I pushed it and a small light came on.

“Yep, that’s what it is. I never knew that was back here. How’d you know that,” he asked?

“Just a hunch,” I laughed. “Your owner’s manual will explain everything. I read the owner’s manual with every new car just to become better acquainted with it before driving it.

“Sad part of that is,” I continued, “owners’ manuals have become the latest victim of the shifting paradigms in reading. Manufacturers abandoning printed copies for online alternatives.”

Reading anything is best enjoyed, “in my book,” with the mental and tactile grounding sensations of feeling the book. Measuring my progress by turning the pages.

I love libraries, but some of us miss things progress has pushed aside. Massive wooden cabinets housing Dewey Decimal System cards. Sacred institutions of silence. Where a twenty-pound volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica contained the answer to our every question. Where many of us garnered all the knowledge we needed to run the world using research tools too soon replaced with touch-screen kiosks and “asking the Google.”

Libraries today feel, to me, less like halls of wisdom and more like Silicon Valley startups. Where we once left the library carrying arm loads of books and notes but depart today with everything we need on our phone.

Aging in the digital age isn’t always an overnight process. Much of what we learned scant years ago is regarded today, as my grandmother used to say, “not worth a hoot in a hailstorm.” I never knew what she meant by that, but it wasn’t good. She usually uttered it to express her lack of appreciation for something.

To me, a hoot was always a noise an owl made, but I never heard one in a hailstorm. Or a library. Until last week when it appears that was sort of what really happened at the library in Kilgore, Texas, with the return of a wooden owl stolen from there more than half a century ago.

I lived at the Leigh Apartments across the street from the Kilgore Public Library while attending Kilgore College, long before asking the Google was ever a thing. Many hours I spent there because frequenting that storehouse of wisdom was more accessible and less crowded than going to the KJC library on campus.

According to the recent owl story, a Kilgore family felt compelled to right a 50-year-old wrong by returning the long-gone owl to the library that was mounted on the roof of the building when it was constructed in 1939. No one quoted in the news item by Jamey Boyum at KLTV in Tyler could say exactly why an owl was chosen to adorn the library building, but speculation was that the wise old owl symbolized the wisdom found within the library’s walls.

The owl disappeared in 1975, the story continued, surfacing just recently when Library Director Stacey Cole was contacted by someone saying that a family member who had taken the owl years ago requested before they passed away that it be returned to the library.

Cole was also quoted as saying that the historic figure would from now on be displayed inside, adding with a smile that, “… there would be no late fee charged on the owl’s return.”

I must confess now, that I found that story … on a computer screen. So, yes, I’m working on the transition.

In the meantime, just consider me a “printed paper” soul learning to give a hoot about adapting to a society where the world’s knowledge and news reports follow us around in our pockets.

—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.’

One of many who oiled the hinges

“There’s only one thing you have to know.“

— Dr. Heber Taylor, former Department of Communication Chair at Stephen F. Austin State University.

– – – – – –

“Alfred Heber Taylor,” his obituary read. “A retired journalism professor and veteran of the Battle of the Bulge answered the Call of Taps on Feb. 28, 2022.”

Dr. Taylor’s good advice one morning was but one small part of his helping me attain one of my goals in life. I count him among the many who oiled the hinges when doors of opportunity opened for me.

After the communication business picked me for a career, the resulting roadmap included practicing journalism and sharing it with those aspiring for the same journey. It took an extra step to bridge those two, however. That happened when a group of Shelby County citizens convinced me to run for the Texas House of Representatives.

Although finishing a few votes short of an address in Austin, I’ve always looked back on the experience favorably. I consider the campaign trail one the best “educations about people” available. One not found in a classroom. Throw your hat in the ring sometime. It’s a unique learning opportunity.

The best part of the process for me turned out to be meeting educators at Stephen F. Austin State University. Parking on campus was a challenge, but worth the effort when one of the doors I knocked on was Dr. Taylor’s office. After getting acquainted over shared viewpoints regarding education, he asked a question I never saw coming.

“I wish you the best, but what are your plans if you’re not elected?”

“Well,” I hesitated. “I’ve harbored aspirations of teaching journalism someday.”

With his ever-present smile, he responded, “If it turns out that politics is not part of what life has in store for you, come back and see me. We have a department full of journalism degrees, but none with experience. It would be nice to have someone who could bring real-life journalism to the classroom.”

After Super Tuesday primary votes were all in, I remembered Dr. Taylor’s offer, and was back in his office the very next week. “Leveling classes” and an assistant’s position in the summer and fall aligned my previous experience and non-related degree with university requirements. By the start of the spring semester, I was added to the full-time staff.

And with the best perk of all—a faculty parking permit.

I had given up my comfortable existence as a practicing journalist, editing copy and meeting deadlines, and gained a classroom of aspiring news writers. I had studied the assigned text. I had crafted a simple syllabus promising a passing grade in exchange for grasping the fundamentals of news gathering and breathing life into a story utilizing AP style and inverted pyramid format.

There was one thing I had not anticipated. An unexplained fear of facing news writing 101 students.

It wasn’t fear of public speaking. I was coming off a five-month trail of impromptu campaign speeches, candidate forums, pie suppers, church gatherings, civic clubs, media interviews, and more. It wasn’t lack of knowledge. I had 15 years of newsroom time in the trenches and a wall of press association editorial excellence awards.

It was more like, “what if I fumbled, sounding like the hard-nosed editor I had once been, but coming off sounding more like a nervous substitute teacher.” What if I stumbled teaching difficult situations like avoiding the pitfalls of relying on unnamed sources?

Before I could finish stressing over my fears, it was time. The hour to face my first class was here. I left my office and walked down the communication hallway in the Boynton Building. At the classroom door, I glanced in to see a couple dozen waiting students—then kept walking. At the other end of the hallway, I whispered, “You got this.”

Walking past the classroom a second time, I saw Dr. Taylor exiting his office. Same ever-present relaxed smile. Looking in my direction.

“Nervous,” he asked.

“A little,” I lied.

That’s when he offered advice that has served me well many times in the years since.

“All you have to know,” he said, “is just a little more than they do.”

“Good morning,” I announced to the class as I walked in . “My name is Leon Aldridge, and we are here to learn from each other.”

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

(Photo above: The Boynton Building on the campus of Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas. — Wikipedia Commons photo by Michael Barera.)

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 credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

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

– – – – – – –

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

– – – – – – –

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.

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“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.”

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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.

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“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.