I had one of those strange flashbacks triggered by an unusual source. I was making my world-famous macaroni salad one fine afternoon. Ordinarily I would make it in a metal bowl or directly in a Tupperware container, as it would probably end up there anyway. This being a semi-formal occasion, I made it in a fine glass bowl. I scooped out a spoonful of mayonnaise and tapped the spoon on the side of the bowl.
Then there was a sound that jolted me. A trigger, if you will. It was the exact same ringing sound a bell at a gas station once made. Sometimes senses other than sight can bring back much more dramatic and specific memories, and this was one of those times. While I am sure they still exist, I haven’t seen or heard a gas station bell in a long time. For those of you under 40, the bells were used to alert employees at a gas station that a car had arrived at the pump.
A black hose would be laid out a few feet from the pumps, and each time a car drove over it, air in the hose would cause the bell to ring. Usually two dings, one for each axle. Either the mechanic would crawl out from under a car or an attendant would be awakened from his catnap. This was in the day gas stations were called “service stations,” and when I heard that faux bell on the macaroni salad bowl, I immediately thought of the service station near where I grew up.
It was an old-school Esso station, which went through many incarnations including Exxon, Citgo, Gulf, Ed’s, and most recently a Lukoil station, which last time I saw was as dead as the Russian Lukoil executives who seem to keep “falling” out of hotel windows in Moscow.
The building was replaced by a 1970s style station, but that idled monument to Happy Motoring had nothing on the building that I remember. It dated back at least to the 1930s, and probably earlier, when motoring by the masses was in its infancy. It had four repair bays and a rack outside. The right side of the building housed the office and had an apartment upstairs. Not the place to live if you worked nights.
We’d ride our bikes there to use the soda machine or put air in our tires. If you had gotten a flat, you didn’t take it to the bike store. You patched it yourself and filled it at the gas station. And it was free. It was almost a requirement that you rode over the hoses to make the bell ring. The station owner was usually tolerant for a ring or two, but we didn’t want to push our luck.
Besides, he was a good friend to have. Once my brother cracked the frame of his bike. We didn’t drag our parents to Target to burn another hole in the credit card. We brought it to the station and Gus—they were always named Gus—welded the crack for him. These kinds of places are still around, but more service stations have become 50-pump convenience stores, especially now that most cars come with service plans.
I think I’ll go on e-Bay and look for a bell and a hose to put in my own driveway, but I’m sure the neighbors would prefer that I just make more macaroni salad.
Joe brings decades of journalism experience to the Ridge View Echo, covering everything from local school boards to the U.S. Supreme Court. A former National Law Journal editor and Columbia Law School press officer, he now enjoys telling community stories in Blairstown, where he lives with his wife, Rose, and their two dachshunds.
- Joe Phalon, Contributing Writerhttps://ridgeviewecho.com/author/joe-phalon-contributing-writer/
- Joe Phalon, Contributing Writerhttps://ridgeviewecho.com/author/joe-phalon-contributing-writer/
- Joe Phalon, Contributing Writerhttps://ridgeviewecho.com/author/joe-phalon-contributing-writer/
- Joe Phalon, Contributing Writerhttps://ridgeviewecho.com/author/joe-phalon-contributing-writer/
