Once I dropped into the lush green valley, the road across that fertile, agricultural valley and the Bear River became obvious. A highway information sign even directed me across the valley to Logan. Nineteen miles away. Unexpectedly, that gas station carried me back into the 1940's and early 1950's. Back into hot, humid summer days in rural Florida. My dad and I had a ritual during my pre-adolescent years. Dad took me with him to the filling station, as service stations were called then, to fill the family car for business trips. I'd stand beside him while the owner pumped gas. And I'd watch Dad closely through the entire ritual so that I wouldn't make any mistakes.
Dad bought two Coca-Colas and two cellophane bag of peanuts. Each of us clutched our fingers around the neck of a green glass bottle of Coca-Cola. Through that funnel we poured a cellophane bag of peanuts. We'd watch the Coke fizz as the salty peanuts trickled into the cold, dark, carbonated liquid. Dad and I talked about the important things that a child and a parent talk about when they're alone. Dad caught up on the local filling station gossip of the day. And we'd try to filter out deep breaths of gasoline from the stale, oily smell of the greasy mechanic's garbage bays. Hands in our pockets, we'd stand drawing circles in the sand with our feet.
We'd drink our Coke and peanuts, swirling the peanuts in the bottles in the wooden case. They'd make a thudding sound as they wobbled back and for the before they rested in their wooden cradle. < previous - next >