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“Gray hair is hereditary. We get it from our children.”
— heard from my mother
“I told my children once they were grown, if you’ve done dumb things you never told me about, don’t tell me now. I don’t need to know,” my friend said with a laugh last week.
During the chat, we compared stunts our kids pulled that gave us gray hair … in other words, the shenanigans we knew about.
These are incredible examples of “what were you thinking,” praying we never found out.
It happens in every generation. At this point, I’m prone to believe in guardian angels. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be sitting here pounding out this keyboard confession about one temporary lapse in judgment many years ago.
Let’s call it the “Mexican Joy Ride.” That might sound like a questionable appetizer on a South Texas bar menu, but it’s the best name for what happened in the summer of 1965 in Monclova, Coahuila, Mexico.
Long-time friend David Neeley and I spent a lot of time at each other’s houses growing up. His mom, Doris Neeley, was like a second mother to me. She was always so gracious to invite me on many of their trips, including one excursion driving into Mexico.
As a kid from Mount Pleasant, Mexico was total culture shock.
I still have vivid memories of Mrs. Neeley’s big Bonneville sharing the blacktop with ancient, sputtering trucks and mule-powered carts. We witnessed living conditions that were a study in stark contrasts—opulent homes just a stone’s throw from dirt-floor huts.
We stayed at the Hotel Chulavista, perched like a fortress on an elevated hill on Monclova’s north side, offering a sweeping view of the city below. Billed as “the place to stay” back in 1965, it was the backdrop for our big adventure one siesta-worthy afternoon.
The hotel driveway was a steep asphalt ribbon that climbed the hill, skirted the pool and dropped back down toward the city. David’s mom was relaxing in her room while he and I checked out the pool, then decided to explore the hotel grounds. That’s where we crossed paths with a local boy about our age — wheeling a sunfaded, battered Volkswagen Beetle.
How we actually struck up a conversation remains a mystery. We spoke zero Spanish, and our new friend spoke no English. Yet, through the universal “smiles and frantic handspeak language,” we comprehended his offer of a joy ride.
With the bulletproof confidence of teenage boys, we climbed right in.
Down the hill we went, dropping like a roller coaster into the city. I don’t think speed limits existed in Mexico then—but if they did, our driver treated them as a suggestion. It was a sightseeing tour in fast-forward. Our guide shouted enthusiastic, nonstop commentary in Spanish, talking just as fast as he drove, while the Beetle buzzed through the streets like a caffeinated hornet.
In 1965, Monclova was home to about 70,000 people—a fraction of its current population of 250,000. But to two small-town Texas boys, it felt like New York City. For 30 frantic minutes, we blurred past bustling business districts and historic neighborhoods.
The grand finale was a dizzying spin around the famous Glorieta Juárez, a massive traffic circle featuring a towering monument to Mexican President Benito Juárez.
Before we knew it, the Bug chugged back up the hotel hill and, with a flurry of laughter and waving, our newly befriended driver sped away.
Not for a single second did it ever cross our minds that getting into a car with a total stranger in a foreign country was a terrible idea.
We did, however, have better survival instincts at dinner that evening when David’s mom asked, “What have you boys been up to this afternoon?”
“Oh,” I replied with a shrug. “Hanging out around the pool.”
David’s mom and mine are both gone now. Neither ever learned of the “Mexican Joy Ride.”
Recalling that clandestine excursion so many years ago, I completely understood my friend’s request to her children last week. That’s because we earned our gray hair just like every other parent.
We remember our dumb stunts and remain perfectly content knowing only what our kids confessed to growing up.
