Whenever we needed gasoline or car repair, my Dad and I would head for the neighborhood “full service” station. The uniformed attendants would come out to take gasoline requests, then provide all sorts of extra services while the tank filled. They’d wash your windows, check your oil levels, and check your tire pressure.
Later, when I got my own car, I drove right to the same place. I was just a kid, but they treated me like a king.
“Check the tires?” the attendant would ask as he filled the tank, followed by “How’s the family?” or “How’s your Dad’s car running?”
I was just there for fuel. But if the engine knocked, a tire felt low, or a belt came off, I’d come back there in an instant.
What happened to that wonderful place?