So many fixtures of my youth have faded away with little notice. Still, there’s not a week that goes by I don’t long for full-service gas stations. I really, really miss ‘em!
No, I’ve not lots of disposable income, nor do I consider myself a germ-a-phobe. Since the Camry’s good about visiting its mother-ship for scheduled maintenance, I’ve little reason to worry about what might be happening “below.”
But, I’ve a Level-5 Phobia about tires! Before finally replacing all four last week, said auto had a wicked inclination to pick up drywall screws and other miscellany. Only once did I suffer a blowout – thankfully not far from home – but it’s become habit I regularly circle the wagon, scrutinizing tread. (Ya, and like I’d actually know what I was looking for?)
Haven’t I been taught to use the air-pressure thing-a-ma-jig? Yes, but …… I’ve recurring visions of a giant ka-POW, resulting in ugly black tread marks across my face. Changing a flat? Let’s not even go there.
One of my fondest memories: ca.1980’s, a f/s station in St. Petersburg operated by two elderly gents. You know, the sort who’d automatically begin checking vitals and washing the windshield sqeaky-clean … inquiring after the family, then asking, "How are you?” in a way you knew they meant it. A safe, warm feeling. In those days I was significantly poorer ~ both in finances and spirit ~ but I wouldn’t have ever considered trading that weekly ritual for saving 5 or 10-cents a gallon.
Somethings are just Priceless.