Let us now join hands, brothers and sisters, and pray for the poor, unfortunate people of Oregon.
No, Mount St. Helens has not blown its stack again and Bigfoot did not go on a punching spree socking all the self-important hipsters in downtown Portland.
Alas, the persecuted and oppressed Oregonians now must pump their own gasoline when they pull up to the tanks at filling stations in rural counties. Until Jan. 1, 2018, gas stations in Oregon were required by state law to have attendants on duty. You know, just like Gomer Pyle and Goober in Mayberry, RFD. That’s not so any longer.
Social media jumped all over the gas pump-stumped folks in the Beaver State as they unknowingly filled up their non-diesel cars with diesel fuel or tried to shoot streams of petrol from nozzles into the tanks from several inches away. So much for efficient self-service and welcome to the wonderful world of credit-card skimming at the pump.
At first, I chuckled at the miffed motorists who were choking on gas fumes - not recreational pot fumes - way up yonder in the Pacific Northwest. Then I suddenly remembered my childhood days in Marianna when every gas station in my tiny hometown always had attendants and, sometimes, mechanics on duty. They were part of the everyday routine and our social lives. Maybe the folks in Oregon are merely sad and hurt because they are going to miss their friends at the pump.
During my childhood, here were my Top Three favorite filling stations:
Ted’s
Ted Sims was a gruff, cigar-chomping bear of a man who ran the gas station and mom-and-pop grocery we called, simply, Ted’s. It was a short bicycle ride down from my family’s farm. During the ‘70s, the neighborhood surrounding Ted’s was crawling with kids and teenagers. It was the place to be during hot summer afternoons if you were in the mood for a Nutty Buddy ice cream cone or a bottle of RC Cola crammed to the top with salty peanuts. My mom did not allow Cokes and candy bars in our house, so I had to sneak away to get my sugar fix. I was at Ted’s a lot.
The Sims’ home was attached to the shop and station, so Ted was always around to pump gas, share philosophy and bark at his son, Frankie. The curly mop-haired Frankie, who later died in an accident on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, was always badgering me because I was such a big fan of The Beatles. Frankie preferred Grand Funk Railroad to The Fab Four.
“Man, Mark Farner and Grand Funk could kick The Beatles’ butts if they ever got into a fight,” Frankie said.
“I don’t know, I bet John Lennon fights pretty dirty,” I countered.
Frankie was probably fixated on fighting because his father was not afraid to mix things up during home football games at Marianna High School. Ted worked the chains on the sidelines and wore a sporty little derby. Fans in the bleachers, who had driven over from Chipley or Port St. Joe, made great sport of Ted’s jaunty headgear. When the fourth quarter was over, Ted dropped the chains, jumped the fence and settled the score with the North Florida fashion critics in the stands. The message around the neighborhood was pretty clear: Don’t mess with Ted.
My older brother, Robert, forgot that rule one day when he decided to try out one of his homemade M-80 firecrackers in Ted’s goldfish pond, which was just a few feet away from the pumps. Robert lit the little piece of dynamite and tossed it into the water. The explosion could be heard from a great distance as all the goldfish became fish sticks. Why Ted did not pound my brother into pudding and bury him in the suddenly empty pond is one of the miracles of Marianna.
A few days later, everyone in the neighbor watched as Robert slowly pedaled up the highway on his bicycle. It was a wobbly ride as he tried hard to maintain balance while holding two gigantic plastic bags filled with water and goldfish. The brightly colored swimmers added a touch of festive class to the ride of shame.
The terrorist attack on the goldfish pond may have been the real reason Frankie later heated up a Zippo lighter and stuck the hot metal top against my right ear during the bus ride home from school one day. I screamed and yelled as my red earlobe puffed up. Poor Frankie had to go home to Ted and confess what he had done. I probably got the better end of the deal.
Andrews
The affable Robert Andrews owned the gas station closer to town. It had two garage bays and a small grocery store, complete with a butcher’s case. When I was in kindergarten, I helped myself to the miniature Tootsie Rolls on display in the candy cabinet. When my mother discovered what I had done, she turned the car around and made me confess the crime directly to Mr. Andrews. It remains one of the most shameful moments of my life. Strangely, Mr. Andrews and I formed a friendly, strong bond from that day forward.
Later on, when a nest full of angry hormones attacked me during my 16th year on Earth, my father ordered me into his Ford Bronco. We drove to Andrews on a blistering hot September day. We parked across the road and watched as four young men fixed brakes, changed tires and yanked transmissions beneath the grimy lift racks. This went on for a while. And then a little longer. My old man turned off the AC so I could really get an appreciation for the temperature.
"Does that look like fun?" the old man asked as he fired up his fourth or fifth Filter King Kool.
"Uh, not really," I said.
"If you get some girl pregnant, that's right where you will be after I kick you out of house," he said.
I learned a lot about life, theft and sex down at Andrews.
McCoy’s
It’s now known as McCoy’s Outdoors and is practically a shopping mall that sells everything from ammo to camo to compound bows. I will always think of it as The Gas Station Between The Tracks because it is literally built between two train tracks. McCoy’s has always been a bustling and busy place, just down the hill from the Jackson County Courthouse.
As a kid, I once watched a driver who was pulling a trailer behind his car stall on the L&N tracks beside McCoy’s. The slow-moving locomotive gave the driver time to jump out from behind the steering wheel but the train slowly dragged the car down the tracks when the trailer hitch did not instantly snap. Talk about the art of noise.
I can still clearly remember the day in the ‘70s when my lily-white grandmother, who was born in dinky Cottondale during the late 1800s, decided to air her opinions on Afro hairstyles while a black employee gassed up her Skylark. I tried my hardest to roll up the windows and disappear into the back seat of that Buick.
The real reason to stop at McCoy’s, though, was to visit the ice house. The brick building stored large blocks of ice the size of microwave ovens. There was a belt-driven, ice-crushing contraption that looked like it came out of a torture chamber in one of those old Hammer horror flicks. The attendant used sharp tongs to shove the ice brick down the gullet of the dangerous machine while I steadied the Igloo chest on the other end. There was something dangerously joyous about being sprayed in the face with ice chips on the hottest day of the year.
Now that’s a gas station with full service.
Contact Mark Hinson at mhinson@tallahassee.com