Memories are lost amid progress
We all seem to be in a big hurry and have no time to help somebody in need
Progress is great. I’m all for it. It makes me think of all the changes that I’ve witnessed, and even come to enjoy as part of everyday life.
And because of progress marching relentlessly on, all too soon we seem to forget what it was like when we were kids. Even what it was like 10 short years ago.
Take my true passion, all things automotive. That includes big rigs, and in fact if it has an engine and transmission, I’m all in. And my, how things have changed.
My teenage years were spent in the Excited States during the Sixties, and most of the stories you have heard about those times are true. One you might not of heard about us baby boomers is how we made do with what we had and were proud of what we achieved with little to nothing.
Case in point — one of my favourite teenager jobs was working in a Richfield gas station on 104th N.E. in Bellevue. I pumped gas — actually physically pumped the gas into the customers’ tank — cleaned car windows, checked the oil and asked every customer if they’d like me to check the tire pressure, too. Back then, no one was in that big a hurry. I met a lot of interesting people in that job, and no customer looked down their nose at the kid wearing glasses who was pumping gas.
The best part was when we weren’t pumping gas we got to change tires, do oil changes, grease jobs, and even adjust the brakes. Self-adjusting brakes had not been invented, and I enjoyed doing the adjustments. If the brake shoes (pads hadn’t been introduced yet either), needed changing, then the gas station owner — a real mechanic and not a technician such as we have today who is little more than a slave to what a computer tells him/her to replace — would do that job, and I would watch, learn and do the next one.
When the owner went home for the day, I would be the one to close up the station, count the cash and lock it in the safe, and turn off the gas pumps. Then, my buddies would show up, and it was back to work for a few more hours. We’d pull in our own cars and adjust our brakes, grease job or two, and even change the oil, but the guys paid for the products. We didn’t rip off my boss, and if one guy didn’t have enough cash, somebody else would chip in. Gas and oil were dirt cheap compared to today’s prices.
We’d tune up our cars too, especially if it was Friday night. Each buddy helping out with what he did best. Then too, we were working with carbs, points, plugs, condensers, distributor caps, rotors, and the fixable stuff that made our cars go faster.
I really enjoyed adjusting the valves. I could quiet them down using a matchbook cover as my feeler gauge. It just seemed to work best for me, but one matchbook cover would only work for one set of valves as it would get too soggy from the oil. We were teenagers. We all smoked. Matchbooks were in all our pockets because none of our cars had cigarette lighters. Caddys had cigarette lighters. We had beaters.
Fun times. Not totally innocent, but fun, honest and down to earth. The boss knew we used his station, but never complained because it was always cleaned up before we left, and locked up tight. Nobody ever broke into that station. Everyone knew there were a lot of teenagers keeping an eye on its well-being.
While it’s true I also made quick friends with those I met once I embarked on an eighteen-wheeler career, and that friendship is still there on the road today, it too is changing all too quickly. We all seem to be in too big a hurry these days. Rushing to make a buck. Too much of a hurry to slow down and help somebody in need. No time to smell the roses. My younger friends tell me, “that’s progress John.”
The Richfield station where I had spent my formative years and had so many experiences is no longer standing. It was replaced by condos. They even renamed the street on which it stood. That’s not progress. That’s damn sad.
I could fill a newspaper with stories about life on the road, but why not share yours? Send them to Driving editor Andrew McCredie at amccredie@postmedia.com