A recent article in The Day dealt with the demise of full-service gas stations in this area. An online reader posed the question; what is a full-service station? While I suspect the poster was being facetious, for many younger readers that is a legitimate question.

In a nutshell, at a full-service station, the pump jockey fills the tank, washes the windshield and offers to check the oil and water. Checking oil is not a challenge, as dipsticks are generally easy to access. The process is to remove the dipstick, wipe off the oil, reinsert it, remove it and check. There are lines to indicate full or below full. If the oil does not even show on the dipstick, then the owner would be wise to invest in a quart or two.

Checking water is more complicated. In the sixties, most cars did not have overflow reservoirs. Checking the water meant removing the radiator cap. That can be tricky, especially if the car has been driven for a while and is hot. The trick is to grasp the radiator cap with a rag, press down and turn it a one notch counter-clockwise to let off the steam. Keep your face away from the radiator! After that, it can be removed. If coolant is visible, then the radiator has enough. If not, then the wise driver will let the engine cool off before adding more coolant, be it water or anti-freeze, to avoid cracking the block. That can be very expensive!

During the summer that I worked at Santin Chevrolet on Holmes Street, we had gas pumps in front. As I recall, we sold Texaco. Since the lube room, where I spent most of my working hours, faced the pumps, I pumped gas for the occasional customer who came simply for fuel. I performed all the services mentioned above; if the customer was Mrs. Lamb, whose son Horace Lamb was the assistant manager and Joe Santin’s son-in-law, I did an extra special job, cleaning all the windows and checking the tire pressure. However, since Santin’s was primarily a dealership and not simply a gas station, we didn’t get a lot of gas customers.

The next summer, I worked for a short time at the Phillips 66 station on Route 27. My job there was to pump gas, check the oil and water and wash windows. One day, as I was filling a customer’s tank, the driver lit a cigarette and threw the match out the window. I let go of the nozzle and took off! When the car didn’t explode, I returned. The driver couldn’t understand my concern. I told her that if she planned to blow herself up, I didn’t want to go with her.

A gentleman from New York drove in one day in a brand new Cadillac and asked for a fill-up. Older readers may recall that in that era the gas cap on many cars was behind the rear license plate, which was hinged to allow access to the filler. When I tried to pull down the plate, a fraternal organization plaque that was bolted to the bumper blocked it. I asked the owner how the last guy had managed to fill his tank. He sort of laughed and explained that the car was brand new that morning and came with a full tank of gas. The salesman had removed the plaque from his old car and mounted it on the new one before he drove it off the lot.

Eventually I finally found the right sized wrench and moved the plaque to the right about four inches. Then I could fill his tank.

At one point, all the attendants were urged to suggest customers buy anti-freeze. When a lady came in driving a VW Beetle, I jokingly asked her if she wanted some anti-freeze. Much to my surprise, instead of laughing at me, she agreed. I tried to explain that I was only kidding; that her car was air-cooled and didn’t require any coolant. She told me in no uncertain terms that her husband, who was an engineer, told her cars needed anti-freeze, and that he certainly knew more about cars than I did!

I knew I wasn’t going to win that argument, so I sold her a gallon of anti-freeze and put it in the back seat.

Later that afternoon the same VW came into the station and a rather irate male driver got out demanding to know who sold his wife anti-freeze for a VW. I admitted that it was I and offered to buy it from him (though I’m not sure what I would do with it as I drove a Corvair). I explained to him what I had said, but that his wife insisted on making the purchase. He rolled his eyes and said, “OK, I’ll use it in my Chevy.”

There are worse jobs than being a gas station attendant. Believe me, I’ve had them!

Robert F. Welt of Mystic is a retired Groton Public Schools teacher.