“Gray hair is hereditary. We get it from our children.”
— Author unknown; I heard it from my mother
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“I told my children once they were grown,” my friend laughed last week, “If you’ve done dumb things you never told me about, don’t tell me now. I don’t need to know.”
During that chat, we compared stunts our kids pulled that account for our gray hair … the shenanigans we knew about. 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 just one of my temporary lapses in judgment many years ago.
Let’s call it the “Mexican Joy Ride.” While that might sound like a questionable appetizer on a South Texas bar menu, it’s the best name I know 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. Always so gracious to invite me on many of their fascinating trips, including one excursion driving into old Mexico.
As a kid from Mount Pleasant, Texas, Mexico was total culture shock. I still have vivid memories of Mrs. Neeley’s big Bonneville sharing the narrow blacktop with ancient, sputtering trucks and mule-powered carts. Seeing 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 before deciding to explore the hotel grounds. That’s where we crossed paths with a local boy about our age—wheeling a sun-faded, 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 hand-speak language,” we comprehended his offer of a joy ride. And with the “ten feet tall and 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 newfound friend treated them as a suggestion. It was a sightseeing tour in fast-forward. Our young driver and guide shouted enthusiastic, non-stop 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 then-famous Glorieta Juárez, a massive traffic circle featuring a towering monument to Mexican President Benito Juárez.
Before we knew it, the tired 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 by dinner time that evening when David’s mom asked, “What have you boys been up to this afternoon?”
“Oh,” we shrugged. “Just hanging out around the pool.”
David’s mom and mine are both gone now. Neither ever knew about the “Mexican Joy Ride.”
Recalling that clandestine excursion so many years ago, I completely understand my friend’s request to her children last week. Because we earned our gray hair just like every other parent.
Remembering our dumb stunts and remaining perfectly content knowing only what our kids confessed to growing up.
—Leon Aldridge
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Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting the 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.’
