Countless times I remember pulling up to the gas station near the on-ramp to I-91 with my family in our Pontiac Catalina and my Dad--at the helm, naturally--rolling down the window and saying "Fill it up. High Test."
I remember sitting patiently in the back seat with my sisters (always in the middle since I was the youngest and never got a window seat), while the gasoline fumes mingled with the smell of the vinyl seats and the attendant washed the windows with the squeegee.
"Oil check?" he might ask as the final gallons topped off the tank and my sisters and I scrutinized his work, looking for spots he may have missed.
What I wouldn't have given for that service today. I overheated--my body, not my car--while getting ready to go out and had just gotten my body temperature under the spontaneous combustion mark, with my car's AC cranked on high and the vents all pointed on me, when my gas light came on. Ugh. The skies looked ready to open up, I was on my way to dinner and had just cooled down, and well, linen just doesn't look good wet.
I'd pay ten more cents, twenty more cents per gallon--AND I'd tip the attendant--if I could find a full service station. But I challenge you to find a full service station in these parts.
I guess right around the time we starting ordering martinis and crocktails and kids got too good to work on farms or pump gas I missed my opportunity to roll down my window and say,
"Fill it up, please."