SUMMER SCHOOL (#65): UF Law School offered a summer program at La Escuela Libre de Derecho in Mexico City. I had never considered going, but my friend, Frank D. Upchurch III (Frank), was signed up and was driving his blue Volvo station wagon. One of the students going with him had to drop out, was going to lose his deposit, and offered to transfer it to me.
I was able to rent my room in the Student Ghetto apartment to Matt Thomas. Was that the same summer you stayed there, Joe Pritchard? Is it true that Matt entertained a future blond movie star at our place? Any way, we were off in Frank’s Volvo to drink tequila and study law in Mexico.
We arrived in Mexico City without mishap. Most of the students we knew stayed in a high rise hotel in the Zone Rosa, one of the hot spots for shopping and entertainment in Mexico City. Three of us had a second floor apartment. Frank and I shared a room. Our other roommate had his own room. He was a pretty boy (PB) with perfect long hair and mustache, who was in someway related to someone high up in the NY Yankee organization.
Classes were easy, and grades were good. This gave us plenty of time to party. We found a bar that offered free whole small fried fish with drinks at happy hour. We often overdid the tequila, and after that summer I never drank tequila again until our move to San Miguel de Allende.
PB, who had the single room, often entertained a red head who was the best looking (and one of the only) woman in our class. From the sound of things, she enjoyed herself. Over and over, which left Frank and I feeling slightly lonely. One night PB went into the kitchen to begin to cook dinner for his date, who would be coming over shortly. Frank and I were getting ready to leave to seek our own companionship in La Zona Rosa, which I found, and I hope Frank did also.
Suddenly, there was a loud boom and scream from the kitchen, followed by the smell of burnt hair. PB staggered out of the kitchen, his perfect hair and mustache singed. His face was pink, but not burned. Stunned, he said, “I was just trying to light the fucking oven!” The next day, after I trip to the barber, he looked as good as ever. Damn, we didn’t want him to be hurt, just have more of his hair and mustache trimmed.
I remember early one morning, after a late night of too much tequila, heading to the kitchen for a cold drink of water and then laying on the couch. The room started to spin, which scared me a little because I didn’t really think I had that much to drink. Then I noticed the chandelier was spinning, and items on the shelves and tables were moving.
EARTHQUAKE! A 6.8 earthquake in Oaxaca was felt strongly in Mexico City, although no damage was done in Mexico City. It did scare some of the students staying on the eighth floor of our hotel. They said the building swayed back and forth as they dove for cover. Since classes were nearly finished, a few flew home the next day. We didn’t feel the earthquake nearly as much on the second floor, and all of the nights of loud music from the night club below us suddenly seemed worth while.
The most disturbing thing we heard that summer were rumors of a massacre five years earlier. At the time, it was only a rumor. Mexican officials wanted to stop student protests before the 1968 Olympics and had opened fire on the protestors in a large Plaza not far away. Over the years more details came out and a mass grave of bodies was found.
On October 2nd, 1968, 10 days before the Opening Ceremony for the Olympics there was a large protest in the Plaza de las Tres Culturas. The Mexican Army opened fire with 50 caliber machine guns. It was a slaughter and 400 students were murdered. It happened right where Mexican students told us. We had visited the Plaza, a wide open elevated plaza with no place to hide. Sprayed with machine gun bullets, killing 400, and nothing was said or done about it!
Despite the earth quake and rumors of a massacre, we had a great summer. The highlight was long weekend trip to Acapulco. A group of us piled into Frank’s Volvo and drove to the coast.
Acapulco was magnificent back then and we had a wonderful time. My girlfriend from St. Petersburg flew down and we spent a lot of time on the beaches and in the waters of the Pacific. We stayed at a hotel in the Zona Dorada, over looking Acapulco Bay, but explored much of the area around the Bay. Today tourists are advised to stay in the Zona Dorada because of Cartel turf wars.
On the way back to Mexico City from Acapulco we stopped to explore Mayan ruins. On the way back to Gainesville after our summer program in Mexico City, we spent two nights in New Orleans. My girlfriend from Ft. Walton Beach joined us and we all had a great time in the French Quarter. My favorite spot, as always was the traditional jazz at Preservation Hall.
Sally was an artist and painted a picture of the banjo player at Preservation Hall as a gift. That is a photo of it in the game room of our home in North Carolina. Sally and her husband lived in Raleigh, where Cathy and I visited the Mexican Consulate to get our Tourist Visas. Cathy and I had to downsize greatly for our move and I had emailed Sally to see if she would like the painting. She wanted to give it to one of her children, so the morning before our appointment at the Consulate, she and her husband stopped by the hotel. It was good to see her after all the years, and she was lovely as always. But to me, there is no one as lovely as Cathy.
Frank Upchurch was one of those characters you never forget. He was great traveling companion, thoughtful and dependable. But, he had his quirks. He always wore a slightly wrinkled white button-down Oxford shirt, khaki pants, a tan Corduroy sport coat, and top siders without socks.
For our last quarter of law school, Frank joined Steve and me as a roommate. Since I had found our apartment, I had dibs on the room with the queen size bed. Steve’s room had twin beds, so Frank bunked there. Steve made space in the closet and emptied two dresser drawers for Frank’s clothes.
Frank just walked in the room with a plastic laundry basket and dumped his clothes in the corner. He always pulled his clean clothes for the day from the bottom of the pile, and dropped his dirty clothes on top. When there were no more clean clothes, he just filled the laundry basket and when to the coin laundry. Then he would come back and dump the clothes in the corner. Steve said he never saw any sign of sox or underwear!
Frank’s helped us keep our apartment fairly clean, but his last apartment had been legendary. It was said that he never threw away a beer can, just drained it and sat it down. The apartment was stacked with walls of beer cans. We heard from friends who had been over for a poker game that Frank had leaned back in a chair, and broke it. Frank just grabbed another chair and kept on playing. When the guys came back for a poker game a month later, they had to walk around the broken chair, still lying where it had fallen.
Frank was our roommate during our last football season. My parents and my Aunt and Uncle drove up for the day. When they came in and sat down, my Uncle Bill noticed dust bunnies on the crepe soles of his white bucks. Frank notice my Uncle looking at them, and said politely, “Mr Wing, I wish you would wipe your feet before you come in. Scott really likes to keep the apartment clean.”
When we were all leaving for the game, Frank, Steve, and I were discussing how to sneak a bottle of rum in to the student seating section. My girlfriend from St. Petersburg, who had come up for the weekend, was wearing slacks and a low cut blouse. In front of everyone Frank suggested, “We could hide it in Nancy’s cleavage!”
Frank came from a family of lawyers. His grandfather had also been a state representative, and his father was a Circuit Court of Appeals Judge. I think Frank wanted a chance to be a little different before he went back and became part of high society in St. Augustine, Florida.
My parents and Aunt and Uncle sat with Frank’s parents at the football game. My Mom asked Frank’s Mother if they were going to come back to the apartment after the game for the cookout. Frank’s Mother answered, very seriously, “Oh no. We never go to Frank’s apartment.”
I researched Frank before I wrote this. As I always assumed, he is a very successful lawyer in St. Augustine. He is the senior partner of Upchurch, Bailey, and Upchurch. His father died in 2012. Frank married a beautiful attorney, thirteen years his junior, and they had three children.
Sadly, Katherine passed away in 2019. They had been married 23 years. I am so sorry Frank. I wish Cathy and I had the opportunity to have dinner with you and Katherine earlier this century. I am toasting to both of you with a shot of tequila tonight. It is hard to make new old friends.
Editor’s Note: I have attempted to tell the story to the best of my ability, but due to the copious amount of tequila consumed that summer, I may have some of the facts wrong and may have omitted some stories.
