When I was a child in Deerfield in the early ‘50s, the “Boca Raton Resort & Club” was the main source of economic activity, next to farming, in this area. Other than the hotel, most of the land in Boca Raton was largely owned by the Butts family (See Essay No. 13) or the Japanese farmers (See Essay No. 14). Thus, Deerfield, with its approximately 1,000 residents, was actually much larger in population than Boca Raton at the time. And, it provided much of the small business support for both communities — like two grocery stores, two clothing stores, a drug store, two gas stations and one welding/machine shop, which my Dad, Marlin Eller, owned. It was located on Dixie Highway, where the tennis courts are today. We lived next door to the shop in a wood house painted white with red storm shutters and a white picket fence all around.
Dad would get up early every morning and sit at the dining room table drinking coffee and reading the Bible before going next door to open “the shop” about 7 a.m. We were one of the only machine and welding shops between Ft. Lauderdale and West Palm Beach at the time. Local farmers were our main customers, but we also provided service to the State Road Department, Vrchota Trucking, Deerfield Rock Industries and the Boca Raton Hotel.
One night over supper, Dad told us about an incident he’d had that day with a gentleman wearing a hat who had come in to get some welding done on some sort of golf ball handling device. It had gotten broken and needed to be welded. We had a minimum charge at the time of $3. When the job was complete, Dad made out an invoice to “Cash” for $3 and handed it to the gentleman. The man looked astonished and said to my Father, “You’re not going to charge me, are you? Don’t you know who I am? I’m the pro at the Boca Raton Hotel and my name is Sam Snead!” Dad, who did not play golf, was a bit taken back and responded with, “I don’t care if your name is George Washington …or Abraham Lincoln. You owe me $3!” Sam, reluctantly, reached for his wallet, paid up and left muttering to himself. Dad later found out that Sam Snead was the most famous golfer in America, but had a reputation for trying to avoid paying for anything. He didn’t “get” Dad, but I sure wish Dad had gotten his signature. It probably would have been worth a lot more than the $3!
