Gene's Texaco

As a young man, I patronized Gene's Texaco. Depending upon the area of the country and the time frame, it was either a filling station, a gas station, or a service station. Gene was an affable young man who seemed to care that one's car ran well. He sold gasoline, other automotive fluids, batteries, belts, windshield wiper blades, and, by special order, tires. (It was a small building and he had limited storage space.) He did oil changes, tuneups and minor mechanical repairs. One day Uncle Sam called, and invited me serve in the Army in France. When I returned, I lived elsewhere, and never had the occasion to visit Gene's again.

In my absence, gas stations had begun to change. Seeing the potential for greater profits, they started to pander to some of the most destructive human weaknesses, and began to sell, first tobacco, then alcohol, and finally, lottery tickets. So, it appears that the filling/gas/service station has been a major contributor to the downfall of civilization. Ya gotta blame somebody.

So, today you can go in for a fill-up, waste some of the kids' clothing allotment on lottery tickets, jump into the environmentally friendly Prius, light up a tasteless filtered cigarette (polluting the kids' lungs with the dreaded second-hand smoke), and pop open a frosty Bud for the drive home. It's America, man!