“Get in the car – NOW!” my mother yelled, hurling a suitcase into the trunk. Surprised, but intrigued, my brother and I stopped whatever we were playing in the middle of the driveway, in the middle of a cotton field, in the middle of a hot summer day in 1957. I’d say in the middle of West Texas but, the fact is, we lived as far west as a person could possibly live and still be in Texas. Right on the Mexican border where the only thing between us and a very foreign country was the not particularly grand-looking Rio Grande River.
“Where’re we going, Mommy?” “Where’s Daddy?” “Is Daddy coming?”
“Never mind – just get in the car!”
My brother and I didn’t need much persuading – adventures, real adventures, were hard to come by.
To put this all in perspective, we were farm kids. Three squares a day, at the same time every day, right on schedule. My mom made most of my clothes. Eating out was a rare treat. Heading to town for no particular reason was suspect. With a suitcase? Without dad?
Before we knew what hit us, we were bouncing around in the backseat -this was pre-seatbelts much less NASA-approved carseats. Mom was likely chain-smoking at the wheel – pre-Surgeon General’s warning. A half-hour or so later, we pulled into the Caballero Motel.
Huh? A MOTEL!
Did we move? To a motel? Where’s my stuff? How’s this going to work?
Can we go swimming? I’m hungry.
The memory I’ve created of the Caballero Motel on Montana Street in El Paso includes a small room, curtains drawn to keep out the sun and keep in the cool, Western-themed lampshades and bedspeads. I feel like my mom and brother and I spent the entire night at the Caballero but maybe we didn’t last that long because it would have been very brave and determined on my mother’s part, back in the 1950s. On the other hand, she was brave and determined and stubborn so maybe we did.
At some point, sooner rather than later I’m sure, my dad showed up at the motel bearing gifts. I remember a Mr. Potato Head. I thought that was very cool because we didn’t get toys and gifts on a regular basis. And certainly not purchased by my dad. I have no idea what other gifts of persuasion he brought but, before I knew it, we were back home, business as usual.
Admittedly, I was very young and the adventure aspect of it all was from my childish perspective but I never drove by the Caballero Motel after that without giving it a glance and wondering about the circumstances that had led to our exciting adventure. Periodically, over the years, I brought the subject up to my parents, just to see if one of them would blurt something out, but I never got any response whatsoever. My dad died in 2017 at the age of 91. He and Mom had been married for 69 years. Mom died in 2019. At the end, I told her that I didn’t want her to be afraid. “I’m not,” she whispered. “Dad is waiting for me.”
They took the secret of the Caballero Motel to their graves. After 69 years, I imagine they had many secrets or, more importantly, many stories that were just plain none of my business.
vivinolavita 