Take a Step Back in Time....

Excuse me....I'm taking a step back in time, just for a minute....wanna go?

It's when I was windblown little wide-eyed kid, long brown hair blown all over in the backseat of the station wagon with seven or eight other siblings, legs stickin' to the vinyl seat, as daddy pulled the old Ford into the filling station.

We lived in the country....but not too far out, because it was only a half-mile to the corner...

Out from the screen door would pop a kind old gentleman in his work overalls, or maybe a young man with his shirt all tucked in; just learning (and earning!) on his first job.

"Howdy! What do you need today?"

Well, that would depend, you see.
If we had just seen payday, and the tank was pretty low, it'd be
"Fill 'er up!"

Other times, if we were further from payday and had to "scrimp" it would be
"Gimme a dollar's worth!"
(Back then it was on sale for nineteen cents a gallon!)
Then...
"Can I check your oil, sir?"
Up would pop the hood, out would come the dipstick, (I was watching the proceedings between the crack) then out came the red rag from his back pocket, and then...
"You're half a quart low!"
hollered from underneath that giant, heavy hood.
(Being low on oil was the way with our old Fords, don't you know!)

Then the squeegee came out, (which I always enjoyed watching, such precision!) and the windshield was scrubbed away of bugs and road debris....all nice and clear once again, with the handy red rag used to wipe the drips if there were any....
The young man might circle the car, to see if any tires were low, (what service!) thus the name SERVICE STATION!

Daddy might (or might not) have to run in for a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread for the morning breakfast and lunch sandwiches for our brown bags the next day before school...we could all hear the little bell ring hung on the door, jingling as he entered the tiny store, where he might (or might not) stay a minute and exchange news with the clerk. And he might (or might not) come back into the car smelling like cigarette smoke, depending on who was working that day.

Pretty soon, the whole procedure was over, and the steel gas cap was screwed back on, tightened up, then the click as the tiny steel door was shut.

Daddy pulled out his "pocketbook" out of his back pocket and he paid.

Sometimes change came back from those neato little silver waistband coin machines.

Click, click.

"Thanks, and have a good day!"

Back down the road we'd go.

I hate to admit it, but I actually loved the smell of gasoline being pumped into the hungry wagon....and I loved to hear the pump click the numbers, and was fascinated as a kid by the turning over of those numbers.

I had to stop and take these pictures for you the other day on my way back home from the mega grocery store (just needed a few things!) and mega "self-serve" gas station, when I passed by this tiny little historical village park....I knew you'd enjoy it too.

The memories are good ones.

Remember the "Fillin' Station"??