In 1954 the traveling Butlers struck out for the west. The Butler’s never needed an excuse to travel, but Buddy and wife, Pat were stationed at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. That served as reason-enough and the summer of ‘54 seemed a good time to go west and south of the border into Mexico.
These were the days before interstate highways, and the main road west was US Highway 70 which ran past Carthage along the river bluff. It was just a matter of crossing the Cumberland River Bridge and we were on our way.
We arose at four in the morning, gulped down a cup of instant coffee and commenced our southwest adventure. We stopped briefly for bathroom breaks, but meals that mom had prepared, fried chicken, biscuits, apples, and bananas were consumed on the go.
I was fourteen and did not yet have the overpowering urge to drive, and dad would not ride while Anna drove. So, we “made time” with dad at the wheel.
Highway 70 was and still mostly is a two lane paved road that sometimes had a shoulder but more often did not. Being a main thoroughfare there was always oncoming traffic. Granted, it wasn’t traffic like we see today with huge rigs speeding coast to coast, but the driver had to be ever alert. We drove and drove for fourteen hours in our fifty-one Chevy until finally darkness fell and dad’s fingers refused to bend. We found ourselves in Texarkana, Texas looking for a tourist court.
In 1954, motels had not been invented. I suspect that Howard Johnson and pretty soon Holiday Inns came on the scene. Travelers stayed in tourist courts that usually consisted of an office-restaurant combination with several small bungalows. They usually had a bed or maybe two, or a couch that made a bed, a bathroom, usually with a door but sometimes just a curtain hanging from a rod. Some would advertise the type of heat, either steam or electric, and the cleanliness of the rooms. Television, in-room phones, and air conditioning were nonexistent.
I loved going into the restaurant for breakfast and getting anything I wanted to eat. After all, “We were on vacation!” This was my first experience with the small, tourist court soap, the extremely thin wash cloths and towels, and ice machines.
Wherever we stayed, dad would send me to get a bucket of ice. Nothing tasted better after a long day on the highway than several glasses of ice water. It was all new and wonderful to me. That little bar of “French Milled” soap that refuses to lather is still available on the road.
About noon on the second day of our journey we “made” San Antonio. When the ‘Butler’s’ travelled we would “hit” St. Louis on one trip and we “Made” Jacksonville on another. We visited for a day or two and saw the army base and ate at a Chinese restaurant. On the third day we all set out for Old Mexico crossing the border at Laredo. The Mexican customs agents were polite and asked a few questions. An agent placed a decal on our window indicating that we were “Touristas” and bid us Adios. We crossed the Rio Grande and were immediately aware that the whole world had changed!
The Butlers entered a world of Desert Indians and old school busses careening down the narrow road with people and baggage hanging all over. Where we would have erected wire fences, the Mexican farmers’ fences were one or two strands of barbed wire strung on scraggly tree limbs stuck in the dry earth. We stopped at a house that had crafts for sale and were immediately surrounded by little dark skinned children. They knew one English word, almost: They asked for “nikk-ees” meaning nickels. We distributed coins all around and went on south.
Monterey is one hundred-fifty miles into Mexico. We were about halfway there when we spotted a young man in the right lane in front of us driving a cart full of fire wood pulled by a Burro. We pulled alongside to make his picture. Evidently he did not want it made and attempted to use his donkey whip on my face. I took his picture anyway in the midst of his angry swing. He missed.
We arrived in Monterey and were immediately lost and no idea where to go for lodging and site seeing. While stopped at one of the few traffic lights in Monterey, a Mexican approached my dad and asked if we needed a guide. He had a cap to distinguish himself from other persons on the street, and he had on a clean white shirt. Well, we did need a guide: Dad shifted over, and we were in the hands of a local guide, Carlos.
We had been taking it easy looking at the unusual buildings and carefully crossing intersections. Carlos took off like a dragster and careened around Monterey’s streets. When approaching an intersection he just blew the horn and sped on through. The theory was that “he who blew first had the right of way!”
We visited shops that had impressive silver jewelry and beautifully tooled leather bags, saddles and belts. We visited large jewelry production factory, and our guide with the Butlers in tow were welcomed inside. While there I met a young Mexican about 18 years old who was learning the silver engraving trade. I had a signet ring with the initial missing. This young Mexican craftsman-in-training took my plain ring and expertly carved my initials on the flat surface. I gave him a fifty-cent coin, and he could not stop thanking me for my generosity. That fifty cents, American, was many Pesos in Mexico.
Our guide took us to the best hotel in all of Monterey. It was very nice with a beautiful pool. However, I was advised not to go swimming there. We were totally unaware of the problems with the Mexican water: Montezuma’s Revenge.
That night we went to a high class supper club with a small stage band and a lady singer. All professional musicians who worked hard for a very small audience. My older brother, Bud asked the band to play The Anniversary Waltz because mom and dad’s wedding anniversary was eminent. That was the first and last time I ever saw my parents dance.
Everyone got the Mexican Sampler except me: I ordered the hamburger steak with fried potatoes. The other Butlers hungrily eyed my supper because the hot peppers, cumin, and coriander on the sampler were just too much spice. Growing up in Middle Tennessee for the first half of the century they had never come close to any of those tastes, and they did not like them! We did not starve in Mexico, but we ordered carefully.
There were vendors on every corner selling slices of water melon and other tropical melons and fruits. Some sold flavored ice drinks. There were open air markets with stalls selling things that we had no idea what they might have been. None of this was appetizing to us, and we were not tempted to eat anything from the street vendors.
I wore white buck shoes on this trip, and there were boys my age who were constantly after us to let them shine our shoes. The only colors they had were brown and black, so there was no way I was going to get a shoe shine. Dad and Bud dutifully got their shoes shined: a ‘Photo opportunity.’ Just as we were getting loaded into the car for our return trip a particularly persistent youngster raced up to me waving a jar of white shoe polish. I got my shoes “shine” after all, and he got a fifty cent piece and we both went away happy.
The car was loaded and we were saying goodbyes to the hotel staff who had befriended us and watched over us. Even Carlos came by to wish us a happy trip home. He seemed pleased with his twenty dollar reward for services rendered.
Bud got in to drive with Pat in the middle and I took shotgun. Dad got in back and we pulled out. We had to go down the street to make a “U” turn and pass back by the motel on our way north. It seemed longer, but about forty-five seconds after we passed the hotel dad asked, “Aren’t you going to pick up your mother?” She was standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel with a concerned look on her face when we came back for her. She was too glad to be reunited with the other Butlers to be angry. We laughed about that for years. I have often thought how I would have felt in that situation.
We altered our return somewhat and drove up the Gulf Coast to Corpus Christi. We played in the surf on a barrier island one late afternoon until ink-black, jelly fish showed up in the rolling surf. A local resident surf fisherman told us that they were dangerous and that the poison in the tentacles would make one very sick and sore. We whacked a few helpless jelly fish that were stranded on the shore out of curiosity rather than anger.
I have been fortunate to have traveled with my parents and during my college summers. Since becoming more or less gainfully employed I have had the opportunity to travel over most of the country and in every nook and cranny of Tennessee. There are places here where the tourist courts are refurbished and the signs along the roadside proclaim such amenities as “D D PHONES” which means ‘direct - dial’ phones. I always look for a place with “D D PHONES!”
