After Bob Amundson, both boyhood friend and mentor, joined the U. S. Navy, I was no longer the kid at the Standard gas station on the corner of Eighth and Baker Streets; I became the employee whom customers sought out.
As my boss, Maury, increased his drinking episodes, his wife would phone me early mornings and demand that I "Open the station." Maury would relieve me before classes started.
Because of work, I opted to miss out on Assumption High School's morning mass, offered to students prior to class time. Attending that function was supposed to be optional, but that was not the case—in practice. My lack of attendance did not sit well with Principal Fr. James O'Connell, "The Duke." (More about that in a future blog).
Customers began scheduling work on their cars, requesting I perform the job, "not your boss." I got a big head, not realizing a sober kid working on your expensive vehicle would almost always be preferable to a drunken adult working on it. Naturally, it was poor strategy for Maury to rely on a teenager to run his small business. At the time, I believed I was essential to the station's successful operation. I had a lot to learn.
All gas stations in those days offered full service. If a customer asked me to check air in the tires, even though he did not make a purchase, I did so without complaint, and if one or more tires needed air, I added the necessary psi's in order to make the tires fit for the road.
One patron was so finicky about getting his windshield cleaned that he remained in the car and with index finger, pointed out tiny flecks still there. I felt they were caused by mosquito farts that had remained on the glass after I washed, squeegeed, and performed a wipe over with a clean, white towel. Each time his car would run over the rubber hose that prompted the "customer needs attention" warning bell to go off, I'd literally shudder. Cleaning his windshield was at least a five minute job. I looked forward to meeting and chatting with most other customers. After a couple of sessions cleaning Mr. Finicky's windshield, I never said another word to that man.
As I neared my sixteenth birthday, two things became foremost: I looked forward to be able to drive legally after I passed my written and actual on-the-road driver's tests. Most of all, I wanted my own car.
Both driver's tests were easy for boys of that era to pass. We had been talking about them for years. I took the written multiple-choice exam at the sheriff's office. I received one wrong and still recall that error to this very day. The question regarded what I would do if I was driving at night and an approaching car had its bright lights on. I chose the answer I thought was correct. Give the other driver a heads up by switching on my bright lights but only temporarily, letting the dummy know he needed to use his left shoe to hit the dimmer switch.
"Wrong," said the sheriff.
"Everybody I know does it," I said.
"It's against the law, son. You could blind the other driver and cause an accident."
To this very day, if I'm driving at night and an approaching vehicle has its bright lights on, I toggle between bright and dim until the other driver wakes up and chooses dim. If the needed change isn't made, I leave my bright lights on. Yes, it's wrong, but . . .
Next, a deputy who knew my mother—she worked at the courthouse—gave me the on-the-road test, such as it was. He asked me to drive the car around the block, put on the turn signals properly, and brake the red and black '53 Oldsmobile Super 88 to a stop where it was originally parked, and that was that.
A gas station client from Biron (Maury lived on Biron's outskirts) had a 1931 5-window Ford Model A coupe that I lusted after. Everything about it was original, with its four-banger engine, 19-inch wire wheels, gas tank as part of the front cowl, ah-oogah horn, two levers in the center of the steering wheel, the left, spark advance, the right, throttle control. There was a little chrome knob on the end of a long shaft located all the way on the passenger side of the car and below the dash. If pulled out, it activated the choke. If I turned the knob either right or left, that act adjusted the necessary amount of fuel intake into the carburetor in order for the engine to run as smoothly as a Singer sewing machine. Old Bessie had a forty five mile per hour top speed. I continued to ask the owner if the car was for sale. He continually said no, but after the seasons changed, he surprised me one day by asking, "You still interested in that coupe of mine?"
My grin must've been a mile wide. "You bet I am. Is it for sale?"
"It is."
"How much do you want for it?"
"Fifteen bucks."
I reached into my wallet. It had one five dollar bill. "Will you take five down and then two more five dollar payments in the next couple weeks?"
"I will," he said. He then shook my hand and said, "Congratulations."
It didn't work out the way I promised. I didn't have five dollars the next week. So, I gave him a dollar, which he smilingly accepted. I think it took me about a month to give him the full fifteen dollars, but the payments worked out perfectly because after I passed my driver's test, I made my final payment. The car was mine.
Gasoline cost twenty-eight cents a gallon at the time, and although I wasn't interested in that fact, the car was really easy on gas. Each night I worked at the station, I'd also work on my car.
If I ran into any mechanical problems which I couldn't resolve, I'd talk over the problem with Jimmy and Bobby Kell's dad, Alfred, who knew more about mechanics than anyone I knew. His motto, "If it's broke, you can't break it any more than it is." I told him I doubted his philosophy, and he'd laugh. He realized that car and I were inseparable—"probably for life," he observed one day. Unfortunately, as much as I planned that car would be mine as long as I lived, that did not happen.
As my boss, Maury, increased his drinking episodes, his wife would phone me early mornings and demand that I "Open the station." Maury would relieve me before classes started.
Because of work, I opted to miss out on Assumption High School's morning mass, offered to students prior to class time. Attending that function was supposed to be optional, but that was not the case—in practice. My lack of attendance did not sit well with Principal Fr. James O'Connell, "The Duke." (More about that in a future blog).
Customers began scheduling work on their cars, requesting I perform the job, "not your boss." I got a big head, not realizing a sober kid working on your expensive vehicle would almost always be preferable to a drunken adult working on it. Naturally, it was poor strategy for Maury to rely on a teenager to run his small business. At the time, I believed I was essential to the station's successful operation. I had a lot to learn.
All gas stations in those days offered full service. If a customer asked me to check air in the tires, even though he did not make a purchase, I did so without complaint, and if one or more tires needed air, I added the necessary psi's in order to make the tires fit for the road.
One patron was so finicky about getting his windshield cleaned that he remained in the car and with index finger, pointed out tiny flecks still there. I felt they were caused by mosquito farts that had remained on the glass after I washed, squeegeed, and performed a wipe over with a clean, white towel. Each time his car would run over the rubber hose that prompted the "customer needs attention" warning bell to go off, I'd literally shudder. Cleaning his windshield was at least a five minute job. I looked forward to meeting and chatting with most other customers. After a couple of sessions cleaning Mr. Finicky's windshield, I never said another word to that man.
As I neared my sixteenth birthday, two things became foremost: I looked forward to be able to drive legally after I passed my written and actual on-the-road driver's tests. Most of all, I wanted my own car.
Both driver's tests were easy for boys of that era to pass. We had been talking about them for years. I took the written multiple-choice exam at the sheriff's office. I received one wrong and still recall that error to this very day. The question regarded what I would do if I was driving at night and an approaching car had its bright lights on. I chose the answer I thought was correct. Give the other driver a heads up by switching on my bright lights but only temporarily, letting the dummy know he needed to use his left shoe to hit the dimmer switch.
"Wrong," said the sheriff.
"Everybody I know does it," I said.
"It's against the law, son. You could blind the other driver and cause an accident."
To this very day, if I'm driving at night and an approaching vehicle has its bright lights on, I toggle between bright and dim until the other driver wakes up and chooses dim. If the needed change isn't made, I leave my bright lights on. Yes, it's wrong, but . . .
Next, a deputy who knew my mother—she worked at the courthouse—gave me the on-the-road test, such as it was. He asked me to drive the car around the block, put on the turn signals properly, and brake the red and black '53 Oldsmobile Super 88 to a stop where it was originally parked, and that was that.
A gas station client from Biron (Maury lived on Biron's outskirts) had a 1931 5-window Ford Model A coupe that I lusted after. Everything about it was original, with its four-banger engine, 19-inch wire wheels, gas tank as part of the front cowl, ah-oogah horn, two levers in the center of the steering wheel, the left, spark advance, the right, throttle control. There was a little chrome knob on the end of a long shaft located all the way on the passenger side of the car and below the dash. If pulled out, it activated the choke. If I turned the knob either right or left, that act adjusted the necessary amount of fuel intake into the carburetor in order for the engine to run as smoothly as a Singer sewing machine. Old Bessie had a forty five mile per hour top speed. I continued to ask the owner if the car was for sale. He continually said no, but after the seasons changed, he surprised me one day by asking, "You still interested in that coupe of mine?"
My grin must've been a mile wide. "You bet I am. Is it for sale?"
"It is."
"How much do you want for it?"
"Fifteen bucks."
I reached into my wallet. It had one five dollar bill. "Will you take five down and then two more five dollar payments in the next couple weeks?"
"I will," he said. He then shook my hand and said, "Congratulations."
It didn't work out the way I promised. I didn't have five dollars the next week. So, I gave him a dollar, which he smilingly accepted. I think it took me about a month to give him the full fifteen dollars, but the payments worked out perfectly because after I passed my driver's test, I made my final payment. The car was mine.
Gasoline cost twenty-eight cents a gallon at the time, and although I wasn't interested in that fact, the car was really easy on gas. Each night I worked at the station, I'd also work on my car.
If I ran into any mechanical problems which I couldn't resolve, I'd talk over the problem with Jimmy and Bobby Kell's dad, Alfred, who knew more about mechanics than anyone I knew. His motto, "If it's broke, you can't break it any more than it is." I told him I doubted his philosophy, and he'd laugh. He realized that car and I were inseparable—"probably for life," he observed one day. Unfortunately, as much as I planned that car would be mine as long as I lived, that did not happen.
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