An
Old Coot takes a road trip down memory lane.
By
Merlin Lessler
When
I was growing up on Binghamton’s south side in the 1950’s, there were four gas
stations at the intersection of Vestal and Pennsylvania Avenues:
Richfield&Atlanticwere two;my mind is blank on the others, probably Texaco
and ESSO. They sold gas, fixed cars, provided free air and that’s it. No
groceries, no lottery tickets, no coffee (for public consumption). They had a
shop pot, but no customer in their right mind would drink it,not that black,
oily swill the mechanics consumed after it sat stewing for hours. They
did,however, sell soda, cigarettes and candy from vending machines, though I
think they were their own best customers. Cigarettes were 25 cents a pack,
matches a penny extra.
It
was still that way when I became “married with children” in the 1960’s. We had
three daughters, a used 1958 Volkswagen Beetle and not much money, yet we
traveled around quite a bit. We rarely drove more than an hour at a stretch,
having to stop for one thing or another. If the Bug wasn’t low on gas, then a
diaper needed changing, my wife and I needed coffee or the oldest two, camped
out in the window well behind the back seat, were having an “I hate you” war
with each other and begging for a bag of chips in between volleys. A
multipurpose stop of this sort took over half-an-hour. We’d go to the gas
station first, since we religiously waited until to the very last minute before
conceding that the car couldn’t goany farther on fumes alone. The fill-up task
took a lot longer than it does today. Most places wouldn’t let you pump your
own,so you waited your turn, oftenbehind a young male townie, driving a souped
upChevy with dual, purring “Hollywood” mufflers. We would patiently watch while
an attendant with awell-deserved nickname like “Turtle,” pumped a dollar’s
worth of gas into Billy-Bob’s tank, as Billy-Bob leaned back and lit a “Lucky”
having pulled a pack from the rolled-upsleeve of his T-shirt. After the four
gallons (26 cents a gallon back then) were pumped in,Turtle checked the oil
level, washed the front and back windows, the side view mirror and ended the
ritual on his knees, checking the air pressure in all four tires. Of course,
Billy-Bob never had cash. He’d whip out aTexaco charge card, kicking off a new
routine that sent Turtle ambling to the office and back to process the
transaction. Finally, it would be our turn; we got the works too, except we
paid cash and our threadbare tires were left untouched, lest they spring a leak
from the attendant’s rough hands.
A
block from the station was where our eldest, Wendy, usually announced that she
had to go to the bathroom, “Real bad!” This happened, even though her mother
had grilled her while the tank was being filled as to the status of her
bladder. No matter, we had no choice but to hang a “Ueee” and go back to the
station, get the key to the restroom, that invariably was chained to a wooden
paddle the size of a tennis racquet, and enter the abyss referred to on Texaco
billboards as “clean restrooms.” That distasteful chore accomplished, we moved
on to the next stop, a restaurant, the only place you could get a cup of coffee
in those days. The routine was always the same. I’d walk in and stand by the
cash register at the end of a long counter with spinning red leather stools
occupied by a mismatched collection of locals who turned in unison to eyeball
the “stranger” in town. Turtle’s sister, Pokey, would amble down the counter to
take my order, “What’ll it be Honey?” “Two coffees to go, please.” I always
seemed to get the bottom swill, with a generous helping of grounds.
Finally,
back in the car, I’d sigh, “We’re on our way,” but my reverie was immediately
brought to a halt by an ear-splitting screech from the back, “You forgot our
potato chips”! One more stop, this time at a grocery store. Getting the chips
was the easy part. The hard part was standing in line behind a “long talker” in
pink rollers pushing an overflowing cart while Turtle and Pokey’s sister,
Gabby, searched each item for a price tag and related every minute of last
night’s movie to a surprisingly interested customer. Smart, organized adults
avoided most of this by packing a lunch and snacks in a cooler and filling a
thermos with coffee. We weren’t that smart or that organized, and even the
people who were had to go through the long stop ordeal on their return trip
back home.
That
agonizing, time consuming travel scenario is long gone. It’s now accomplished
in a few short minutes at the one of the thousands of combination mini-mart -
gas station – restaurantsacross the country. A truly marvelous American creation.
Life is good! Except for the traffic. When we took our road trips back then,
there were 54 million cars on the road. Today there are close to 270 million.
Not surprising when you consider the US population has grown from under 200
million to 328 million. Quicker stops for sure, but slower movement on the road
whenever you enter an urban region. Life is trade off, we get the bad with the
good.
Ps,
if someone hopped off Route 17, which went right through the center of the city
back then, and moseyed past the soldier standing on one leg at the Memorial
Circle and across the South Washington bridge to the south side for a travel
stop, they not only had the four gas stations at the intersection of
Pennsylvania and Vestal to choose from, they could get coffee at the Park
Dinner, at the soda fountain in Armand Emma’s drug store kiddy corner from the
Grand Theater or the little restaurant on South Washington across from the Busy
Bee 5 & 10 cent store. The potato chips could be purchased at any number of
mom & pop, neighborhood grocery stores, like the Baby Bear Market, or at
the brand spanking new, Loblaws Super Market on Vestal Ave, just down and
across the street from the Barron’s Fish Market. They’re all gone now, except
for the Park Dinner. It’s eternal. Thankfully. I make sure to stop in there at
least once or twice a year. But, they don’t have “Mule Train” on the jukebox,
which my sister, Madeline, and I played for a nickel when we went there for a Saturday family dinner out.
