Sweetwater Memories-Darrell in Dairyland
I should probably warn you young whipper snappers that this Solo drinking cup story has nothing to do with how Han consumed beverages on the Millennium Falcon. And the story does not take place in a galaxy far, far away. The Solo drinking cup in this story is from the Dairyland Old Fashioned Burgers located at 210 Hailey Street in Sweetwater, Texas. This Solo drinking cup is fifty-five years old. It’s stamped on the bottom with a Solo manufacture date of 1965. The old cup simply says Dairyland - Supersize Hamburgers. You can still get a supersize hamburger at the Dairyland today, but it’s worth pointing out that in 1965 the burgers were not old fashioned.
For the little bit older crowd that might be reading this, you’ll remember the famous line from “The Graduate” movie. The “just one word” quote about the future. That one word was “plastics.” This Dairyland cup was manufactured two years before “The Graduate” was released. So, this old cup is not made with plastic, or the plastic sister product, Styrofoam. This old Dairyland cup is made of paper and coated inside and out with a fine layer of wax to make the paper resistant to liquids...
The cup still stands up strong but does look a little faded and aged after fifty-five years. You might say that it is past the time for this old paper cup to be in the trash. But consider that the Dairyland today is still located at the same address printed on this paper cup over a half century ago. Hamburgers have been served from that exact same spot on God’s green earth for all these many years. The Dairyland does not serve old fashioned burgers in a modern-day location. The building and carport verandas, from the real days of the drive-in, are original. Dairyland Old Fashioned Burgers are truly authentic. I would say that makes this old Dairyland cup more of a fascinating artifact than a piece of trash. This old cup represents something genuine that endures. And that can be a refreshing thought in our never-ending battle to keep up with a constant changing world. Plus, for me personally, there’s always been a bit of magic in this old, green Dairyland cup.
Apart from Dairyland, I don’t have to tell anyone from Sweetwater, Texas about the oil and agriculture business. In the 1960’s, my dad worked in both. Growing-up in Sweetwater, Dad leased land to raise cattle but also worked full time for Sinclair Oil Company. I lived at 510 Cedar Street until 1966 when at the age of thirteen we moved about a mile and a half down the Oil Mill Road north of town. We moved to a yellow stucco house that sat on a little hill just north of County Road 121. I’d estimate there was about 65 acres on that small farm and ranch property. After living on that property north of town for about eighteen months, my dad got promoted with Sinclair and we moved to Big Spring, Texas. My family has always referred to that last place where we lived in Sweetwater as “the place on the hill.” And that place on the hill is where my old, green Dairyland cup story takes place. On the day of this story, my friend David Brooks spent the night with me. When my friends would spend the night, we would sort of camp out, or just sleep out, in what we called an old concrete barn located at the very back corner of that triangle shaped property. That building was constructed with very thick concrete from top to bottom including the contour shaped roof. It was an unusual, if not mysterious, place. My dad told me that some wheeler dealer had borrowed a large sum of money from local investors to build the concrete endeavor close to the railroad. He built the main structure and a couple of adjacent walls to represent whatever it was supposed to be and then left town with the investor’s money. Regardless of the history, those concrete structures will most likely be there for years to come. Sleeping down in that old concrete building, we would either walk to town or prowl around the railroad tracks or countryside late into the night. And we would sleep late the next morning. My mom could fix a hearty breakfast, but I’m sure by the time we made it back to the house that morning we missed breakfast. Mom and Dad would have already gone to work. My little sister, Lynelle, was not home on that day so she either spent the night in town with my grandparents or with one of her friends. So, in 1966 on what I remember as a summer day, David and I found ourselves on a hill out in the country, all alone and hungry.
I don’t remember our activities that morning but I’m certain my dad had lined up a couple of chores for us to complete. There was at least enough early activity around the place that when lunch time rolled around David and I had worked up a good appetite. I’m sure one of us said something earlier about being hungry and we just blew off the notion thinking we’d round up some grub in a few more minutes. I remember around lunch time we were sitting in the shade on the front porch of that yellow stucco house on the hill. David and I were talking about what adventure we were going to do next and watching the trains. From our front porch on that hill, you could see the main railroad line and at least six switching tracks. In 1966, locomotives were constantly switching all types of railroad cars in that area. Our front porch was about the length of two football fields away from those tracks and trains. Exploring the tracks that afternoon was an option for us. The headwaters of Kildoogan Creek ran through the southwest corner of the property and into Santa Fe Lake north of town. We liked to kick around on the banks of the creek and that was an option for the afternoon. But we sat on the porch until it got to be well past lunch time and we became less focused on what we were going to do next and much more focused on what was going to be on the menu.
David and I were not at the stage of life where we were good at meal planning. And at thirteen years old we didn’t think much about “preparing” anything to eat, either. I’m sure we made some quick perusal of the refrigerator and cabinets and found nothing of interest. And I’m sure that looking for something to eat just made us hungrier. To be clear, I don’t know what it’s like to really be hungry. I heard my father-in-law, Neil Rudd, talk about being held up in an abandoned farm house in Europe as an army soldier during WWII. He was there for days without food waiting to be rescued. He understood what it was like to really be hungry. So, it’s hard for me to emphasize how hungry I was that day sitting on that shady porch in 1966. Let’s just say that I was as hungry as I could remember being at any other time in my previous thirteen years.
Mom was the credit manager at Sears, Roebuck & Company and drove the family car to town that day. Dad drove his Sinclair winch truck to work. Parked right in front of David and I, just feet from the front porch, was my dad’s 1962 Chevrolet pickup. That pickup was a short bed stepside with the optional 283 V8 engine. I remember the four-speed transmission in that pickup had a first gear called a granny gear. In that gear, the pickup apparently could pull the Devil himself out of the ground, or anything else you could get a chain around. I’m not sure what was being sold in those days for aftermarket pickup accessories but Dad knew a metal worker in Sweetwater. With my dad’s assistance, they custom built the back bumper, grille guard, fender guards, and headache with sideboards for that pickup. Men and boys across America had a new automobile obsession in 1966. The firstgeneration Mustang and Camaro sports cars were new to the market. But make no mistake, that 1962 Chevrolet pickup was my dad’s muscle car.
Needless to say, I was not an expert behind the wheel at thirteen years old. I did possess a small degree of confidence in my driving ability. I was okay with driving a standard transmission. My papaw had taught me to drive his column shift Ford pickup when I visited him in the summertime. Papaw would get out of his pickup to open the pasture gates and he would let me drive through the gates and continue a short distance down the back roads of Hill County. A time or two, with some close supervision, Papaw let me drive his Oliver tractors in the fields. In my young experience, when it came to those lessons in life, papaws seemed much more forgiving and patient than dads. At some point, my dad had given me at least one lesson in driving his pickup. But he never seemed really excited about putting me behind the wheel. My dad’s pickup was a four-speed stick shift. I was not above average in size at my age. It was a big stretch for my small frame to get the clutch down with my left foot, reach the knob on top of the four in the floor stick shift to change gears with my right hand, and keep control of the steering wheel with my left hand, all at the same time. And that contortion would happen while I was trying to see over the top of a steering wheel that was directly in my line of sight.
On a few cold mornings, Mom talked Dad into letting me drive his pickup the seven tenths of a mile down County Road 121 to the intersection of the Oil Mill Road where my sister and I caught the school bus. On one of those cold mornings, I had just driven over the old rickety wooden bridge across Kildoogan Creek and looked down in the seat to get a piece of Dentyne chewing gum. By the time I looked up I was driving in the ditch next to the road with dirt and weeds flying high into the sky. I drove back into the road without incident but Mom was watching out the kitchen window on the hill and saw the mishap. I’m not sure why I did not figure a way to blame that distraction on my little sister but when Dad asked me about it, I fessed up. I already knew how Dad felt about his show truck being driven into a ditch and I felt fortunate not being disciplined for that incident. But Dad’s tone was clear telling me if, and when, I ever drove that pickup again it better stay on the road and out of any situation that even resembled an accident. He didn’t tell me I could not drive the pickup anymore but I do not remember driving to the bus stop after that incident.
Sitting on that porch on the hill, David and I became desperate for ideas to quiet the growling monsters in our stomachs. None of the tasty treats we could think of were anywhere to be found. Somehow, we decided that a hamburger and fries were the order of the day. The thought of a juicy hamburger and fries got so branded into our brains that nothing else on earth we could possibly eat was going to satisfy our hunger. And we could not ignore my dad’s pickup parked right there in front of us. And that pickup always had the keys in the ignition in those days. Unbelievable. I can remember thinking how unbelievable it was that I would even consider driving my dad’s pickup to town to buy a hamburger. I was old enough to have learned that this was one of those ideas with such risk you just moved on past it before you got yourself in a lot of trouble. My dad did not have a history of sparing the rod when I made bad decisions. But David and I were hungry enough that the capital idea of the day was for me to drive my dad’s pickup to town so we could buy those hamburgers and fries.
David and I both knew that I was not going to call one of my parents at work and ask if I could drive the pickup to town to get a hamburger. So, if I followed through on this mind-boggling idea, it was definitely going to take my juvenile misbehavior to a whole new level. You have to be careful asking to borrow a man’s pickup because that can test any relationship. But taking another man’s pickup without asking, that is another thing altogether. Oh, my goodness, I might not get arrested for grand theft auto, but there was no question my dad would consider that stealing. Plus, I had never driven in any town before. I clearly remember the agony of my dilemma that afternoon. On one side, there was the thought of that juicy hamburger to satisfy an appetite like none I had ever experienced. On the other side, there was the pain and suffering I would face if I got caught driving my dad’s pickup to town. I did not think, or did not want to think, that I might kill myself or someone else in an accident. My fear of dying was from what my dad would do to me if anything at all went wrong and I got caught driving his pickup without asking. Seriously, one reason I still remember many of the details of that afternoon is because of the anguish I experienced trying to decide if I should drive that pickup to town. And my friend David was acting just like a good friend should in those difficult situations. He kept egging me on like it was no big deal. This would be a joyride for him. Much more fun and adventurous than walking the railroad tracks or the banks of Kildoogan Creek. David was hungry and had little to risk if I decided to steal my dad’s pickup and drive him to hamburger heaven.
Despite his eagerness to hit the road, David was engaged in helping me work through concerns over what to do. First, if we did follow through on this unbelievable idea, we needed money to buy hamburgers or driving to town was not even an issue. We pooled what little money we had in our pockets, searched every corner of the house for extra change, and scraped together what we thought would cover the cost of two hamburgers and fries. And second, if we did try to pull this off, we needed to know where we planned to buy those hamburgers. We decided the Dairyland was probably the closest and safest destination to satisfy our craving.
With the money and location nailed down, we started asking some difficult questions. What if someone saw us that knew who we were and word got back to either of our parents? What if someone recognized my dad’s pickup and asked him about who was driving? In Sweetwater, in those days, it was almost like “everyone knows your name.” What if we drove past a policeman and he stopped us? And worst of all, what if we did have a wreck? I soon realized there were no comforting answers of assurance to any of those questions. So, still trying to get my mind around this hamburger excursion and make a decision, I moved into mapping out in my head exactly how to navigate to the Dairyland. I wasn’t going to be able to just hop in the pickup and blast off like David was ready to do. I needed to get there as inconspicuously as possible.
The Sinclair field office was on the McIntyre place just a couple more miles north on the Oil Mill Road. I did not want to chance passing my dad or one of dad’s coworkers on that road. And there were other neighbors along that route that would recognize my dad’s pickup. The only other route to get to town off that hill was along the railroad tracks on the Santa Fe Road. The Santa Fe Road was a private paved road and there were signs saying the road was not for public access. My parents had only used that private road one or two times to keep from getting stuck in the mud. County Road 121 was not paved in those days and in a heavy rain it got awfully muddy around the creek bottom. We had easy access to the private road but we knew to stay off of it except in emergencies. I figured if I did decide to go through with this hamburger excursion, I was going to have to risk trespassing on the private road as my secret access to town. In 1966, that Santa Fe Road came out in town on 17th Street right beside the sixth green in the far southwest corner of the Sweetwater Country Club Golf Course. I had been there on foot many times. That private road still comes out at the same place on 17th Street today but for some reason, unknown to me, they have changed that golf course green from the sixth hole to the fifteenth hole.
I spent a lot of time growing up either walking or riding my bicycle freely around town. I knew these neighborhoods well. Once I got off the private Santa Fe Road, I knew it was just a couple of blocks down 17th Street to Santa Fe Avenue. And from there I knew I could get on McCauley Street. I could not have told you the name of 17th Street or Santa Fe Avenue in those days. But in my head, I knew exactly where they were and where they went. I could have definitely told you the name of McCauley Street. I once had a girlfriend at the Hillcrest Apartments facing McCauley. I practiced Little League baseball with the Apaches for three seasons directly across McCauley from the First Presbyterian Church. That was a vacant lot behind the Simmons Memorial Hospital in 1966. My strategy would be to stay in the neighborhoods and stay off the main streets like 12th Street and Hailey Street. I knew Hailey was Highway 70. But there was a problem with driving too far down McCauley. My grandparents lived on 12th Street just next to where it intersected with McCauley. If my little sister or grandparents were somehow outside when we crossed 12 Street, my sister would have the thrill of her lifetime telling my parents she saw me driving Dad’s pickup in town. I figured I could turn off McCauley just before 12th Street on that corner where I practiced baseball. I could go over a block and still stay in the neighborhoods. I did not know the name of that street one block over but I knew where it would take me. It was Beall Street and it was the street that ran right beside Philip Nolan Elementary where I went to grade school. The school was on the corner of Beall and 3rd Street in those days. And the Dairyland was just one block away from the school on the corner of 3rd and Hailey. I remember being concerned about crossing 12th Street at the stop sign. But my biggest fear in all this mind mapping detail was the intersection at 3rd and Hailey. There was a traffic signal at that intersection in 1966. I was not excited about being lined up with other vehicles waiting for a red light. I simply had no experience relying on a traffic signal to dictate when I needed to stop and go. But the Dairyland was on the opposite corner of that intersection and there was just no way to plan around that traffic signal...
Never before had I analyzed anything to the detail as I did in trying to make that decision to drive my dad’s pickup to town for those hamburgers. It began to feel like I almost had a complete mental picture of how this excursion to the Dairyland was supposed to work out. Years after this, when I was twenty-two years old, I heard a professor say that one characteristic of an educated person was being spatially related. Meaning a person has a good knowledge of how locations are laid out. The person knows where things are geographically and how their place in the world relates to other locations. I am sure that professor’s reference was on a much broader scale than the thirteenyear-old mental map I had of my world in 1966. But I do not ever remember lacking confidence in where I was and where I was going after the planning I did in my head on that day.
I remember looking down and staring at a small, dark spot on the shaded concrete of my front porch. That’s when my hunger pains won the day and I told David I was ready to drive to town. We called the Dairyland and placed an order to go so we could be in and out quickly and reduce the chance of being seen by someone who might recognize us. I remember thinking I was a little nervous calling in the order and I wanted to keep it very simple. There wasn’t going to be any substitutions of mayonnaise for mustard or the cutting of any tomatoes, onions, or pickles. I told the lady on the phone that I just wanted two hamburgers and two orders of fries to go. I wish I could remember how much she told me those burgers and fries were going to cost in 1966. Whatever the amount, we had enough money left over to buy two drinks. I added two Cokes to the order and settled on a final cost. Two hamburgers, two fries, two Cokes. Most likely that lady detected an anxious and uncertain boyish tone that caused her pause. My voice had not yet grown up with puberty. The lady did not casually say she needed a name on the order. In what I imagined as a suspicious attitude on her part she asked me directly, “What is your name?” And that is when I told a lie to that kind lady on the phone. I may have stammered for just a second or two but I managed to tell her my name was John Fink. John was another friend of ours and was the first fake name that came to mind. I gave her John’s name because I did not want the Dairyland having my name if I chickened out somewhere along the route and did not make it to our destination. What a day! Trespassing on private property in a stolen vehicle, and now, a liar. If my dad didn’t get me for this caper, God surely would. I must have really been hungry.
My dad had two or three magazines about guns and the old west in the seat of his pickup. I remember folding those magazines together and sitting on them to give me a little extra height. I cranked up the pickup and off we went. That drive to the Dairyland unfolded just as planned. I can remember driving that route like it was yesterday. I remember sitting at that traffic signal when we got to Hailey Street. I remember my eyes were glued to that red light hanging high in the middle of that intersection. I remember watching it turn green. I remember driving across the highway and pulling into the north side of the Dairyland. There were carhops in those days and when she came out, we told her we had an order to go for John Fink. David and I were convinced she went back in to call the cops and report two boys at the Dairyland in someone’s stolen pickup. But just before we had to speed away like real criminals, the carhop came out with our order and we handed over our change for payment. If I knew who that carhop was today, I’d give her the tip of her lifetime! I cranked up the pickup again, put it in reverse, backed out just as I had planned in my head, and we took off the same way we came.
Back on the hill we sat down on the porch with our prized provisions. The dastardly deed of the day had been done and no one was hurt, no property was damaged, and I had no aspirations of continuing a life of lies and deceit. All seemed right with the world. For me, that burger and fries and Coke from the Dairyland was a celebration feast.
A year or so earlier, I had gotten a cork bulletin board for either Christmas or my birthday. Mom told me I could pin keepsakes to it. I was not exactly sure I understood keepsakes and I had a hard time trying to figure out what to stick on that bulletin board. When we moved on the hill that bulletin board still had a lot of empty space. That day I drove my dad’s pickup to town and drank all the Coke in that green Dairyland paper Solo cup, I had a complete understanding of keepsake. Shucks, that cup was not just my keepsake, that cup was my trophy. I took that green Dairyland cup and immediately pinned it prominently to the top center of that bulletin board above my bed. That bulletin board stuck around until after I got out of high school. Mom and Dad never asked me about that Dairyland cup so I did not have to tell another lie. It was fun telling them about the adventure years later. I’ve always kept up with that cup except for about five years after one of my moves when I thought it had been lost. In recent years it has held an equal spot on my bookshelf with a few other modest laurels of my life.
I consider that trek to town in 1966 a very risky undertaking in my young life. If any little thing had not gone as planned that day, my decision would have been one of life’s mistakes. Not all of my risky ideas, and my plans to carry them out, have gone as smoothly as that trip to the Dairyland when I was thirteen years old. I have made mistakes and some of those mistakes have caused great pain for me or for someone else. When that happens, our sense of adventure can become a little worn and frayed. We may begin to shy away from ideas that seem a little risky. We may avoid breaking some of those rules we put in our head that could otherwise bring so much joy to our lives. That Dairyland cup has always reminded me to be on the lookout for my next adventure. Over the years, that old cup has always caused me to ask, “What am I hungry for today?” And it has always reminded me not to brush aside a wild and crazy idea just because my first thoughts about it are unbelievable. Maybe that is the magic I feel from that old Dairyland cup.
My mom and I drove through Sweetwater earlier this year and I made a point to stop and eat a hamburger, fries, and Coke. I met today’s owner of Dairyland Old Fashioned Burgers, Irene Martinez. She was an inspiration for me to write this little story and I recently mailed Irene my old, green Dairyland paper Solo cup. You might want to stop by the Dairyland and ask Irene if you can get a quick glance at that old cup. It may have something magic to say to you about your next adventure. Be careful and have fun!
If you would like to give Darrell feedback on this article, you can reach him through his email: hornshh@att.net
If you have memories of Sweetwater that you’d like to share, we’d love to hear from you! Please submit to: editor@sweetwaterreporter.com