This is for you Archie (46 Texaco)… from a Facebook post.
"We called them "service stations"; no other name seemed to fit. And although they were gas stations, the service was exemplary. At the pump island the hose stretched to our car's gas tank. I acquaint the smell of gasoline with those blue paper towels the attendants used. At a young age I developed a fascination for those towels, somehow believing that that exotic scent of gasoline came from them. I loved everything about the gas station; I loved how the attendants squee-geed the windows to wash away summer dust and bugs while gas was pumped into our car. It was at the service stations where an ice cold dripping wet bottle of pop waited for me inside the cooler. For ten cents I retrieved my favorite bottle of pop. It never tasted better than it did from a wet bottle on a hot day. In the back seat my view was momentarily blocked as the attendant raised the hood to check the oil. On the fresh and sunny days I heard the flapping sound of plastic multi-colored streamers dancing in the wind. During the wait I sometimes leaned my arm out the window and let my elbow embrace the side of the door. It felt hot from the scorching heat of the sun. A ding hose sounded whenever cars pulled in. The service stations were places where I rode my bike to fill the tires with air. Our old bike pump in our garage did the trick just fine, but never left me with such a feeling of importance as when I rode in to the station. Free air, free road maps and free advice on when to get something under the hood looked at were all splendid particles of a galaxy of memories gone by. Those were the days."
