Published: February 01, 2008 06:12 pm            

A night at the drive-in

The sun was going down on a Saturday afternoon in Mineral Wells, Texas.

The Hopkins brothers and their buddies loaded into a 1965 Chevy Impala and headed east for Weatherford.

It was getting dark as the Impala passed the rodeo arena and topped the hill at the west end of town. Bob Hopkins’ older brother pulled over and popped the trunk. A carload of soldiers from Fort Wolters flew by on 180.

Reluctantly, Bob and three of the younger boys got out of the car and curled up in the trunk. Just before Bob’s brother sealed them in darkness, they caught a glimpse of the bright neon glow beginning to emanate from Jones Drive-In theatre. Bob’s brothers and the older guys up-front chuckled.

Even in that vault of a trunk, Bob knew it when they passed through the drive-in gates undetected. Now he was worried his prankster brother wasn’t going to let them out. It was definitely the kind of joke Bob’s brother would get a kick out of, but he must have been feeling generous that night.

The lock turned and the trunk opened. The musty smell dissipated and buttered popcorn mixed with coconut oil crept into Bob’s nose.

The Impala was parked near the concession stand. To one side two teenagers from Weatherford, David Parks and Tammera Brown, were parked in an old pickup. The young couple was a little nervous. It was, after all, their first date.

As David and Tammera sat there, half-watching Paul Newman and Robert Redford running cons in “The Sting,” how could they have known they would end up married one day, operating their own sporting goods store not 100 yards from Jones Drive-In Theatre?

A dapper Waymon Hamilton and his pals, Roger Bradly and Edwin Doggett, were parked along the lot’s dimly-lit back fence, embarked on a triple date. From the half-buried concession stand in the middle of the field, summer breezes carried an assortment of Connie Pruitt’s sumptuous cooking to the six high-school kids.

For 25 years, Pruitt prepared delicious hamburgers and barbecue sandwiches at the drive-in snack bar. During the long days of summer, carloads of people eager for the theatre to open would line up along the highway. But nobody minded waiting for the twilight to recede — they knew Connie served her famous food early.

As the movie played on, the girls in Doggett’s station wagon had both eyes on Robert Redford. But there were blankets in the back seat, just in case anybody got cold. Hamilton, Doggett and Brady liked to call themselves the Three Musketeers, even if nobody else did.

Over by the dug-out concession stand, next to yellow, green and red tempered-metal chairs, Carlos H. Jones walked with his back to the movie, gazing out over his operation. He walked with a knowing smile past cars with no speaker in use.

Jones understood kids will be kids, but he also believed his drive-in’s wholesome, safe reputation was of the utmost importance. For Jones, keeping the family atmosphere intact was both the right thing to do and good for business.

As he walked toward the north side of the field, Jones noticed a number of pickups with farm plates were backed-up facing the screen. He decided his promotional efforts were working. Even before he moved from Lawton, Okla. to Weatherford in 1940, Jones was a fan of creative marketing.

In order to drum up business at his walk-in theatres, he hired droves of local boys to walk the streets of Weatherford placing show-time circulars on screen doors. His sound truck, known for its brightly-painted posters and loudspeaker, traveled all over Parker County, letting everyone know about the newest picture show in town.

Promotions were Jones’ way of convincing people to come and see a show, but they also allowed him to stay in touch with the community, and that was even more important. He believed that a movie theatre should contribute to the welfare of a community.

Jones was a member of several Weatherford service clubs, and he enjoyed delivering popcorn to local schools and banks. He offered free and discounted admission to special holiday shows, and let people in for free on his daughter’s and granddaughter’s birthday.

He donated the use of his sound truck and equipment for road-opening ceremonies, the groundbreaking at Lake Weatherford Dam and for dances at Live Oak Country Club. During elections, Jones fixed loudspeakers at the top of the courthouse so people could sit on the lawn and listen to the ballot counting going on inside. At Christmastime, the speakers would play carols over the square.

Just like the limestone bedrock he was forced to blast with dynamite to build his giant movie screen, or the screen itself, which was built to withstand 100-mph winds, Jones was resolute. Guided by time-honed principles, Jones refused to show movies he judged inappropriate for family audiences.

Jones smiled at a group of kids he recognized from a sunrise service at Tin Top last Easter. He turned to walk back toward the concession stand.

As he strolled along the front row of cars, Newman and Redford were executing their big con at the end of “The Sting.” He nodded to a young Clem Smith, manning the drive-in’s projector, and approached his wife Bertha, where she and their daughter Roberta were playing with Carla, Jones’ only granddaughter.

Jones’ family played an integral role in his show business career. A long time ago, an old Weatherford banker named James Doss gave had given him some good advice: “Don’t spend so much money on equipment, and let Mrs. Jones handle the money.”

The Joneses stood there watching as the movie credits rolled and hundreds of post-WWII American big-block engines roared to life. They saw the Impala leave, with all eight passengers crammed up-front this time. Bob Hopkins breathed a sigh of relief as they headed back toward Mineral Wells.

The night was still young for the Three Musketeers. Maybe there was something happening down at the Dairy Queen? Their dates agreed to a tour of South Main.

David and Tammera didn’t know exactly what it was, but they felt something special on their first date. They held hands all the way home.

The lights switched off, and the Jones family stood by the front gate watching the last car drive out of the drive-in.



“One Saturday Night at the Drive-In” is a fictional account based almost entirely on a compilation of memories, as they were recounted to the Weatherford Democrat by people who were there.

Thanks especially to Weatherford resident Bertha Jones, 92, for her insight, and to her daughter, Roberta Hollingsworth.

Additional thanks to Waymon Hamilton, Bob Hopkins, Kurt Harris, David and Tammera Parks, Eric Barksdale and others for sharing their precious memories.

Thanks to Tim Wood, former Weatherford Democrat Managing Editor, for a factual article about Carlos “Picture Show” Jones originally published in 1992.

        

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