Welcome!
Tell Us Your Gasoline Love Story
What is the most fun you ever had on a tank of gasoline or petrol? Most important trip you ever took? Most dangerous drive? Tell us about it. Where were you? How old? What car? What road? What creative ideas did you use to save on fuel?
Help me write my book, Gasoline, A Love Story, a biography of the fuel from its discovery in 1855 to its 200th anniversary in 2055. I’ll do the research. You write the memories. Your first car, your favorite stretch of highway, your best family adventure. If you ever said, “Are we there yet?” this site is for you.
This site is here to celebrate that wonderful, golden liquid that has shaped our way of life with your stories of how you’ve used it to live your life. You gotta love it!
Celebrate the Romance of Car, Road and Fuel!
Tell us your story or read one already contributed. Add photos if you like and celebrate gasoline with us. If your story is chosen for the book “Gasoline: A Love Story,” you will receive a free copy when it is published.
WRITE YOUR STORY BELOW….SCROLL TO BOTTOM OF THE PAGE
At the bottom of this page is a place to write your story. Tell us who you are, where you traveled, when, what kind of trip. You’ll see the instructions. You are invited to write about any trip anywhere. . Let’s hear your story!
44 Responses to “Welcome!”
Submit Your Gasoline Story
--------------------------------------------------------------------------In Addition to your story, please include:
- Where did your Gasoline Love Story take place?
- What year? How old were you?
- Send any photographs you would like to include with your
name and story title to: DrTwy@gasolinealovestory.com
Dear Dr. Dell:
What a great idea – I love the site and want to follow your stories. I can’t wait to get my free book.
Great work!
Kelly Ellison, Kansas City, MO
Thank you, Kelly! Please tell us a story about the most fun, the most important or most dangerous–maybe all three at once–trip you have ever taken on a tank of gasoline.
Thanks for your good wishes, Kelly. Tell your friends to participate!
When I was ten, we drove one summer from Montgomery AL to Durango, CO, across miles and miles of hot Texas prairie before cars had air-conditioning. I remember the canvas bag of water slung over the radiator cap to keep the engine cool, and the four windows we had to keep open but which only let in more hot air. There were no interstates. We drove on blue-line highways and 300 miles in a day was a looooong day. We stopped at night at mom and pop motels, sometimes with separate pointy-roofed cabins, and they had no air-conditioning either. I don’t remember how many days we traveled, but we were mighty glad to get there.
Thanks, Barbara! I had completely forgotten the canvas bag accessory and never did
know what it was for. That’s a great piece of trivia. I remember those hot rides
myself. That was an era that air-conditioning in cars made obsolete; Holiday Inn’s
arrival in the the 1950s made the moms and pops of the wayside pay attention. Most
of those rows of “pointy-roofed cabins” are gone now. The remaining ones are now
cherished as monuments to an early era of “automobiling.” And they have air conditioned
if they want to attract anyone at all.
MY GASOLINE STORY:
I lived in Batesville, Arkansas, during my teen years. My father was a County Agent, and usually on Sunday afternoons, our family drove to see one of the farmers in the county who had a project of interest.
A special treat was to drive across the White River, view the basket attached to the bridge. The customer would lower the basket and choose fish for supper, haul it to the top, and put money in the return basket. On Sundays fish was not sold, but the dangling basket was in full view.
We sped in our ’40 Ford across the mile-long viaduct whose ground changed wtih the seasons, from the floods of spring, to the ridges of planted corn in early summer, to the full grown crop in fall, and finally the golden seed that was harvested to leave a bare field. Often the field was filled with snow in the winter.
Around the curve and up the hill to the top provided a scenic view of the city of Batesville with its landmark water tower, the dam over White River with surrounding park, and the countryside with hills. Clouds often shaded the valley; it was worth the site to view from the top of the mountain.
Continuing on in our Ford, we drove eleven miles to the end of the pavement. Farm scenes with cattle barns, horses grazing, and a few pigs were familiar sights nestled in pastures along the way. We drove over bridges with creeks running with spring water underneath. Soon the eleven miles were accomplished, the pavement ended. We turned around and headed back to the city with a view of the other side of the road. The trip was even more fun when I had my driver’s license and could take my turn at driving.
Without air conditioning, TV screens or radio in the car, we viewed the landscape, the fields, farms, trees, and forests. Although this would seem a bit trite to youngsters today, it was a thrill to ride the eleven miles of newly constructed pavement. Now the highway to Little Rock is paved, and it is mostly 4-lane.
Thank you, Rowena, for a great story. I love the image of the fish basket, a new one for me.
The most important and most adventurous trip I ever took was in a 1957 Chevy in 1975. My husband and I decided to leave our childhood homes in the St. Louis area, venture south to Austin to visit his younger brother, and then continue on to our true destination, California.
Before we left, my husband and a mechanic friend switched out the original engine in the Chevy to a V-8. We took out the original panel seats inside and installed Volvo leather bucket seats in front (no seat belts back then), and a wooden platform in the back, with storage below and an extra piece of wood and two cushions the same size on top. With the front seats folded forward so they were almost flat, we could slide the extra panel, spread out the cushions, and sleep inside the car.
Right before Christmas, with a Norfolk pine in the back window, we hit the road and meandered toward Texas, visiting friends along the way. Right when we reached the “Austin City Limits” sign (this was even before the public television series of the same name), the generator light came on. We counted our money and now had only $75. We had no choice but to stay put in Austin until the car was repaired. Thirty-six years, nine vehicles, and many great opportunities and travels later, Austin is still our home.
What a great adventure, Susan, and Austin gained your citizenship way back then. It has been a great exchange, I’m sure. Thanks for your road story and insight into your destiny!
My favorite gasoline story is that of my former father-in-law, who lived during much of his childhood on the Kansas Potawatomi Indian Reservation, home of the Prairie Band Potawatomi, of which his mother was a tribal member.
When he was a desperately poor and penniless teen prior to World War II, he and a friend drove a broken-down pickup to California. The truck was so powerless, they backed up – yes, in reverse – over the Rockie Mountains. Gas was about 10 cents a gallon, if I recall correctly. i have always wondered how they scraped up enough money for both gas and food for the many days it would have taken them to reach the Golden State in such a rig!
Best to you, Twyla, and your exciting new venture! Connie
Hi, Connie! I finally found the reply button here! Only took me two months. A great story and memory from the previous generation. How someone can back over the Rockie Mountains is a miracle. Obviously, the police were asleep on that one! Thanks for your good wishes. My goal is 50,000 entries over the next three years, so if you would like to appeal to your friends to participate, I would appreciate it.
We moved to Colorado in 1964 when we were 26 years old. After our children came to us in 1968 and 1970, we would journey back to Albia, Iowa, our hometown, each year for the Christmas Holidays. It was a thirteen hour trip which, of course, we had to drive in one day. We had a new LTD Ford station wagon, a behemoth of a traveling machine. The second seat came down flat, and we had a mattress that fit in that space so Kristin and Andrew could sleep, read, play, and look at the map to see how far we had to go. As an aside, they both have a great sense of direction now so maybe the map reading was a good learning tool. The highlight of the trip would be the “car present”. As soon as the sun came up in the morning, it was time to open the “car present” which was usually a book, puzzle, Mad Libs, something to keep them entertained. We would arrive in Albia after dark that evening, and the town square would be decorated for Christmas. The court house would be full of lights, Santa’s house in place on the lawn, nativity scene, and lights adorned the antique lamps on the sidewalks. It was such an event for us to return to our home town, friends and family, Christmas Eve services where we could belt out the carols in harmony, and Chrstmas at both grandmas’ houses. This is a happy memory that we continue to talk about.
At the gas pump the other xday, I paid $3.17 for gas, and I was reminded that the station wagon on a good run averaged 12 miles to the gallon. I wonder what we paid for gasoline in the early 70s. Whatever it was the memory is worth it.
In the summer of 1955 my parents loaded their five children into our 1949 Ford “Woody” station wagon and headed north out of southern California on old Highway 99. We were going to Oregon!
Traveling with five children was not something my father enjoyed. But, what made the trip memorable for my siblings and me was the presence of most of our family pets. Zero the dog, my brother’s white Angora rabbit, Pinky, and our cat, Monotony, were along for the trip. And it was hotter that Hades. Monotony was not at all happy. I can see her now, prostrate on her back, her little pink tongue hanging out of her mouth, her eyes glazed. My sister lamented her poor kitty’s
condition the entire trip. Stopping for gas was, of course, one of the highlights of our big adventure. We got to get out of the car and go to the toilet! And, of course, the pets got to get out and stretch, too. And, Monotony, Pinky, and Zero all got a refreshing hosing down.
Our homeward-bound trip was even more memorable. My father decided to drive all night–so as not to have to spring for $8.00 for a motel room for 7 people. About 2 a.m. we stopped near Stockton, California for gasoline. We kids were, of course, asleep when Dad pulled into the station. Mother roused us, letting us know that this was a good place to go to the toilet. Most of us got out.
Fifteen minutes later were were headed south toward Los Angeles. We had gone about 20 miles when Mother, for some reason, decided it was prudent to count noses. We all responded when
our name was called…except for my brother, Steve–we had left him at the gas station in Stockton.
So, in the middle of nowhere, my father turned the car around and we headed north again. We spied Steve the first thing we pulled into the station–he was sitting at a counter eating a doughnut.
It was the last time our father ever took the family on a long car trip.
Thanks, Tom. A great story! I laughed out loud at your punch line. Your menagerie of pets, kids and a mental picture of the roiling mass in the back seat reminds me of my own good ol’ days!
This is my present day fun gasoline story. Last month in Davis, California, it was sunny and bright so thought it would be a great weekend to get away in our airstream trailer. Gas, being $3.98 here prevented us from going far, so we headed up to Amador County with our two dogs.
We parked our trailer at an RV Park in Plymouth, overlooking a pasture with cattle grazing, and headed out to enjoy the scenery. The rolling hills were dusted with mustard flowers and all the trees were just beginning to bud. We visited a lovely flower farm, enjoying all the blooming daffodils, tulips and forsythia. We bought some spring flowers to take home and headed to the wineries. We had lunch at the first winery which with a lovely park like setting rolling down to a delightful lake. We had BBQ pork and tri-tip sandwiches which we shared with our dogs. Then we hiked around the property with our dogs and headed to the next winery. We tasted wine at three wineries, bought three bottles of wine and headed back to our campsite.
All in all, it was a fun weekend with only going 57 miles from home. Not like our usual long trips but maybe the new normal for now.
Janet! Thanks for bringing back memories of the wine country for me.
Made me homesick just to read it. And a current experience is always welcome.
May you go on many more 57-mile journeys around Davis and enjoy them all.
Try drawing a circle on a map around Davis and pick out some spots
to visit. Keep making me homesick!
This isn’t a gasoline love story…it’s a miracle! I once saw two old men with very long beards siphoning gas to fill up an empty tank. After they were done, one of them lit a cigarette… and didn’t blow up…now that’s a miracle!
This story took place sometime in the summer in the mid- 1960′s. It was somewhere in Connecticut. I was about 15.
Robert, i thought this would be a 1970s fuel shortage story when you described it. You must have
been fascinated to see if they would catch on fire. Great story. Thanks!
This is the story of my most frightening road trip. In Dec., 2008, my wife and I decided to move from Salt Lake City, Utah to Merida, Mexico for a year or two while we finished writing a book. We wanted to live someplace that was inexpensive and we also wanted a cultural experience. We sold everything we owned except what we could fit into our 2007 Toyota, Corolla. The trunk, back seat, back window space, even little spaces under the hood were crammed with the items we simply could not part with. Everything was going quite smoothly until we hit the border crossing into Mexico at Brownsville/Matamoros. I recall talking to a Mexican while still in Texas about our plans. He solemnly stated that we would be back sooner that we have planned. The way he said it unnerved me a bit as it was spoken with such clarity and conviction as if he knew something we did not.
I later realized he did now something we did not and that was; how dangerous the roads are in Mexico. Most of the roads are not well engineered or designed. There is rarely a safety lane on either side of the road. If you go out of your lane, you are in the rough which can be very rough. The base under the highway is not strong enough to withstand the traffic, especially the heavy semis and buses. The highway swells and dips like it was made out of chocolate and had melted in the Sun. There are huge unmarked potholes as well. When coming to a town or a crossing, instead of a sign, there are what are called “topes” which is a bump in the road high enough to scrape the undercarriage off your car if you do not slow to a crawl. These are usually not marked ahead of the tope but more often right at the tope. I had to stop my car and gently ease over them and still I scraped front and back. I don’t know what kind of damage I could have done had I hit them at highway speed, which I think happens often by the gouges in the topes and the spare car parts strewn about. Usually at these topes are vendors of all kinds. They know you have to stop and they swarm your car selling anything they think is of value, including alcoholic beverages and prostitutes. I don’t know if I saw one cop during my 2000 mile trip to Cancun. However, I did see lots of military. There is a war going on between the drug cartels of Mexico and the Mexican army. About every 60 miles or so there would be a military bunker built on the side of the road. Automatic rifles would be aimed at me as I approached in my car. I would be signaled to stop and an officer would come out and and ask to see my passport and would have me open the trunk and then ask me the nature of my business. All the time, I and my wife had rifles pointed at us from the bunkers. It was very scary. But not as scary as the drivers of other vehicles on the highways. Because there was no Highway Patrol of anyone to enforce the rules of the road, all rules were universally ignored. Out here, might makes right and machismo rules. I saw large semis pass other semis on narrow two lane roads heading into a blind curve. I can only assume that they felt that if anyone was coming they would drive off the road to save their lives rather than risk hitting a semi head on. Bus drivers were the same way, using their size and weight to rule the road. There is no safety inspection requirements on vehicles in Mexico. They belch fumes to the point that we were covered with soot by the end of each day and smelled like diesel fuel and we were inside our car with the AC on. The lack of an inspection process is more obvious at night because not many lights work on some of these rigs. Buses and diesel trucks run of parking lights because their headlamps don’t work. Turn signals don’t work and brake lights don’t work. They all have their favorite saints lined up on their dash because they understand that if they survive the trip they will need divine intervention.
Other hazards on the road are animals. They are not penned in. Goats, cows, horses, donkeys, chickens, mangy dogs, etc are lurking everywhere. Night is the worst time because you cannot see them until it is too late. I even saw a man sleeping on the side of the road, I think he was trying to warm himself on the asphalt. I hope he survived the night.
Mexican machismo is alive and well on the highways as it seems to be a test of a man’s courage and cajones (testicles) to drive his vehicle without fear more so than to drive it safely. Mexican’s play chicken for real on their highways. I would never engage and was probably viewed as a prissy mama’s boy.
Half way to Cancun, we stopped to explore an Olmec Museum in Ciudad Victoria. When we returned to the car we noticed broken glass by the rear door. They had broken the glass and taken most everything. Unfortunately, the full coverage Mexican auto insurance which I was told covered theft, only covered theft of the car but not theft of what was in the car. They got jewelry, computers, cameras, cell phones and ipods to name a few. Well our load was lightened so that made travel easier. And we learned that we could get by without those things we did not want to part with.
We felt that our very lives were at risk on most every mile of this 2000 mile journey. We almost died so many times. If I would have known how dangerous it was, I never would have risked our lives this way. I know, you never know when your number is up, but driving the highways of Mexico is like playing Russian roulette with a loaded gun. I don’t recommend it to anyone and I would never do it again. I did not drive out. I put my car on a barge and had it shipped from Cancun to Florida and bought an airline ticket….challis
What an outstanding adventure and a warning to the rest of us. You were fortunate,
indeed, to have escaped with your lives and some of your personal property. That is an insight into
life in Mexico and why so many want to live in the U.S. instead. Great story. Thanks, Challis.
MY GPS IS DRIVING ME… Crazy!
It was a proud day when I became the owner of Brand X GPS- that’s a little black box that plugs into your car, and wham! It starts talking to you. It tells you where to find the most obscure address you can enter, as long as it is a real address. In my job I have to find places I’ve never heard of. My GPS has never failed me.
So it was with confidence recently I packed my GPS in my carryon luggage and flew with my companion to Gettysburg, PA. Our first stop was to be a Baltimore, MD airport motel. The motel gave us directions to get there from the airport. The car rental place gave us directions also- but not the same ones. The map we printed out on the computer at home gave us a third choice. What to do? I turned to my faithful GPS Lady. She won’t let me down.
Well, to make a long trip short, here is how our 2 1/1 mile jaunt turned into a two hour nightmare. We could have walked there faster. My companion, who shall be known as Mr. C. also bears the name Mr. Gabby G. Gabby. He tried to make the situation better by talking, usually at the same time My Lady was instructing me, “Turn left, Turn left” she intoned. I asked Mr. C was that one “turn left” or “two”? He said , “Two,” so I made a u-turn. The street was dark with no cars in sight. I turned. “Recalculating, RECALCULATING” came the voice of My Lady.
It began to rain. It always rains in these circumstances. I decided to turn around again and head in the direction I had started. That worked! We drove to Baltimore Pike, to Westminster, then Westminster Pike, then Littlestown (try saying that when you are nervous), then Littlestown Pike. Elk Ridge became Elk Ridge Road, then Elk Ridge Pike. Don’t they have plain old street names in Maryland? You known, the Presidents, the developer’s daughters, or even the alphabet?
Still raining, we passed under what appeared to be a Civil War era bridge, which I knew with the deluge coming down, it would soon collapse. “Turn right, turn right” came the insistsent voice of My Lady. “200 yards ahead, turn right, then turn left,” she commanded. As I started the turn, TURN LEFT, TURN LEFT. Recalculating,” she admitted. Mr. C. was saying, “You’re almost out of gas! Get some gas, GET SOME GAS.” He’s started to imitate My Lady.
Bewildered, I asked , “Was that a Turn Left, or Get Gas?” Mr. C. made no reply. He had stuffed a big handkerchief into his mouth. He could take on one of us, but not My Lady and me both. Finally, Nursery Road appeared. I wondered, “What kind of a nursery did they have 250 years ago? Flowers or day care?”
RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING”, shrieked My Lady. Mr. C. condescendingly said, “I knew you took the wrong turn.” I resisted the urge to open his door from my side and push him out.
Then, “Turn Left. FINAL DESTINATION. FINAL DESTINATION.” Did I hear a sigh of relief from My Lady. No matter, for in big bright letters, “XYZ Motel” beamed through the rain. “Thank you, My Lady,” I thought gratefully. “You’re welcome.”
So Nancy, you and your tank of gasoline needed more help than just a foot on a pedal, huh?
Cute story. How nice we have GPS for all those trip details we somehow used to figure out
on our own. I don’t have GPS so will take your word for it, but I see it has a learning curve
like all other new technology of this era.
Better luck on future trips. Thanks for sharing.
My husband, in his late 60′s at the time, and I were driving from Kansas City to Scottsdale via Las Cruces, New Mexico. My brother and his wife live there. After dinner we decided to head on down the road. It was January and very cold. Half way to Tucson, Bill started doing strange things. He was shaking and shimmying along the road. I asked him what he was doing and he said he was out of gas and trying to stretch what little was left. Eventually we came to a halt, but at least Bill could get to the side of the road. We tried to call AAA, but it the closest driver was two hours away. We called 911 and a police man came to rescue us. The first thing he did was to look at Bill and say, “Usually running out of gas like this happens with younger people. Most have learned by the time they reach your age!” I, of course, cracked up! He took us to his police station to get a tank of gas. Our car with the dogs in it was left at the side of the road. Remember, is is very cold. He went to get back in the police car, only to discover he had a flat tire. He had run over a cactus when crossing over the medium to get us.
The story does not end here. The officer took us back to our car and guided us to the closest gas station; then he went on his way. Five minutes later, back he comes. Bill had left his cell phone in the police car. Never a dull moment with the Lauterbach’s!
In the spring of 1972 my husband decided it would be fun to take an extended weekend and drive to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Money was tight, so to save on motel expenses he wanted to camp out at night. We had a small pop up tent and sleeping bags. He suggested we could eat at restaurants and not have to worry about packing cooking utensils. That was an excellent idea considering we would be traveling in our VW Beetle so space would be limited.
Imagine my surprise when I was told my father-in-law was going along with us! We were packed in pretty tight. The lucky person riding in the back seat got to share the space with three sleeping bags, pillows and the small pop up tent. The tent comfortably accommodated two people. Dad was looking forward to sleeping “under the stars”.
We had a great time traveling together on that road trip. I’ll never forget the night we just got the tent set up and it started to rain. We found out three people could sleep in a two-man tent!
Dad passed away this year. He was one week away from his 96th birthday. When my husband was going through Dad’s personal belongings, he found a plastic coin Dad had saved. It was stamped Mardi Gras 1972.
Touching story, Sharon. Thanks for the colorful details. I’ve camped out myself and sworn I would never do it again. You remind me why though your togetherness was worth experiencing.
Best regards, Twyla Dell
Christmas Dinner, A Snow Bank, & The Old Corvair
One of my fondest Christmas memories happened when I was very young. It was the late 1960s and my dad had accepted the pastorship of a small church in Eastern Montana a few months before.
If I recall the church attendance at the time was less than 25 people. Since we were fairly new to the area we were invited by a family in the church to come to their house and spend Christmas day with them.
Grandpa & Grandma Glaser as they were affectionately known had a farm a small distance from our little town in a place called Pompey’s Pillar. They were always very faithful to church, and Grandma Glaser was my favorite Sunday School teacher. She was very good at telling stories and would always bring in references to her life growing up in Germany before escaping to America in the early days of World War II. I learned a lot about God from her, and I believe to this day my life was shaped by having her as my teacher.
Christmas morning we got up a bit early to open our presents at home before heading out the forty or so miles to the Glaser Farm for Christmas Dinner. We were excited to be going there because most of our relatives lived back in Idaho or Oregon where we had moved from. It was simply too far to drive for a holiday weekend. Our family was very small then, my parents, and one younger brother and my baby brother. I was small enough that when we would travel a bit, that I could grab my pillow and climb up in the back window of the old Corvair and go to sleep if I was tired.
The trunk of the Corvair was in the front, but my dad had also welded a makeshift luggage rack on the back over the engine. I don’t recall ever asking why he did that.
Shortly after we left home, the snow began to fall. I had seen snow previously, but never as much as seemed to be falling. I remember being excited at the prospect of making a snowman, and we already knew there was a little bit of snow at the farm, so the plan was to have Christmas dinner, and go sledding on an old wooden toboggan.
After about twenty minutes we had to take a side road that was not paved. Actually, there weren’t a lot of paved roads in that part of Montana back in those days. The snow had continued to fall, and my dad started to think he should have put the tire chains before we headed out, but we seemed to be going okay so we plugged on.
We knew it couldn’t be too much farther when over the next hill; we ended up in a big snow bank. Well it was big to me at the time.
Corvairs did not have much ground clearance and we were stuck in the snow. I remember dad getting out and trying to see what he could do. He had my mom, who did not drive at all, get in the driver’s seat and try to get going while he tried to push. It was no use, we were stuck.
Looking back on this event and some others, I think my dad could have been an inspiration for the MacGyver TV show. He took out his pocket knife, undid the license plate from the car, and began to use it to dig out of the snow bank around the tires. The snow was still coming down, but he figured if he could get down to where he could put chains on we could get going. We probably wouldn’t make it as planned to the dinner though.
After about forty-five minutes of digging and trying to get the chains on, around the corner came a farmer with two horses and a wagon on sled runners. He took a look at the situation, helped my dad get the chains on, and hooked up a rope underneath the car somewhere and began to urge his horses to pull. The horses had us out of the snow and back on the road in just a few minutes and they pulled us far enough down the road where the snow wasn’t as heavy.
They unhooked the rope, and we drove on to the farm and were only about an hour late. Dinner was still warm, and Grandpa & Grandma Glaser were excited to see us.
Through dinner the snow continued to fall, and the sky darkened and the adults decided we should at least spend the night. It was too dark to go sledding and they knew how much we had been looking forward to that. They made us beds near the fireplace, and Grandma Glaser took out her Bible and read the Christmas story. We sang a few Christmas songs and I fell asleep to the sounds of Silent Night.
The next morning, the sun was shining but we still had plenty of snow for sledding. I was excited. I was awake early, so I went with Grandpa Glaser to check on the animals and get fresh eggs.
That morning we had fresh eggs I helped gather and pancakes, and then we got bundled up to go sledding. The hill we climbed up seemed so high and so steep and racing down it felt like we were in a rocket, but thinking back it probably wasn’t as big as I recall as I was so small. I just recall the joy I felt getting to slide on that old wooden toboggan.
That afternoon after a lunch of leftovers from the night before, we set out back toward home. The snow had stopped falling. I still recall the smiles on Grandpa & Grandma Glaser as I looked out the back window waving good-bye. It has been forty-three years but I never will forget that day, or many other experiences we had in that old Corvair.
Nate! Great story. Tells me so much about you. I also owned a Corvair back in the day. Reminds me of a story I’ll have to tell here later. There’s nothing like a team of horses in a pinch! Happy holidays and thanks!
My own Corvair story: My grandmother gave me her 1950 teardrop body style Buick when I graduated from grad school. For the price of $4 to change the registration to my own name, I owned my first car, a big moment. This was 1961. The Buick ran like the wind, but I didn’t think it fit my image as a young teacher. So I bought a Corvair with the engine in the back, white, four-door. At the time I could put everything I owned in the back seat and the front luggage compartment, a rather lumpy, convex-shaped space.
Leaving Stockton where I had attended U of Pacific to drive to L.A. for Thanksgiving, I drove over the Grapevine, which was still quite the dangerous bit of road. It is now Interstate 5. But I was young and danger didn’t phase me, so I roared over the grade at about 80 mph, as fast as my little Corvair would take me. The car began missing and I stopped in at a service station carved out of the side of the mountain.
I told the attendant it was making a funny noise and left for the restroom. When I came back, he held up a very drippy, dirty piece, maybe an oil filter, as proof of the problem. He said he had replaced this piece in my car with a new one while I was in the restroom. I jumped in and away I flew again. I’m pretty sure looking back that he never replaced a thing and just fleeced me for $10. I should be glad it was that little. Eventually the noise faded away. He had “fixed it” after all, hadn’t he?
I drove the Corvair for all it was worth and was shocked when Unsafe at Any Speed by Ralph Nader came out in 1965 proclaiming it a death machine. I had courted disaster all that time and never realized it. Though I had driven many roads on it, the Grapevine between Bakersfield and Los Angeles was the most fun, especially at 80-90 mph.
They’re still driving the road that fast though it has been redone a number of times to reduce the dangers of that stretch of highway. The Corvair by Chevrolet lasted until 1969. I got rid of mine in 1966. Nader built his muckraking reputation on that piece of expose and went on to excoriate one cultural idol after another including running for president whenever he thought the country needed him.
It still does.
Both cars and gasoline have come a long way since the Corvair. We’re still seeking class, style, speed and independence powered by gasoline in a metal capsule designed to suit our egos.
THE LEAK
There I was, in the middle of isolated desert, 75 miles from the nearest
possible car repairs, sitting on the ground and holding my finger over a
leak in the gas tank.
The story probably begins in an Idaho Springs, Colorado jewelry
store, the first place I saw a piece of turquoise Indian jewelry. I was
completely entranced with its color workmanship and beauty. This beauty
morphed into an interest in the people who made it, their history, culture
and the beautiful country in which they live. Beginning with Mesa Verde,
Fred and I took the time to explore ancient ruins wherever we went and were
delighted that our two oldest children to go to College at UC Boulder.
Geoff finished his first year at Boulde. I camped my way out
from IL to pick him up. I had a sightseeing plan, Taos, NM to explore the
Taos Pueblo then on to pick up Geoff. The car loaded, we drove to Sand
dunes National Monument, camped in this beautiful place for a night then on
to visit Pueblo Bonito. This is perhaps the largest set of well preserved
Anasazi ruins in the Southwest and not visited often due to its isolation.
Pueblo Bonito National Monument is in the center of many square miles of
sparsely populated desert. We traded the highway for 18 miles of graded
gravel road. Spying the first marked historic location with car parking and
interpretive signs, we turned in and stopped to explore. I was reading the
history when I heard Geoff say, “Hey Mom, the gas tank is leaking.
My first thought was that we must not to lose anymore gas. Now we’re back
to where I began this story, sitting on the ground holding my finger over
the leak while we cast around for a plan. Now, living with Fred has affected
the whole family’s reaction to adversity, namely, if something goes wrong,
fix it. The was little traveled road and before cell phones. We were on
our own. First came an inventory of our assets. I said “Geoff, look in the
glove compartment and see what’s there.” “Here’s a piece of chewing gum.”
“Good! Chew it and we’ll stick it in the hole.” Shifting my position to
relieve the pressure spots, I waited and Geoff chewed. “Okay, let’s give it
a try. “ I pushed the gum into the hole and let go. SPLAT, it dropped to the
ground. Back at the glove compartment Geoff said, “Here’s a pencil! We
could break off a smaller piece and try to screw it into the hole.” It
worked!
Driving very slowly over the last 5 miles to the park Visitors Center, we
arrived about 1/2 hour before closing. Now comes the part that makes me
love our Park Service employees as well as the parks and monuments.
The lady ranger explained there was a Park Service and Repair place a few
miles down the road (paved, thank goodness). The pencil held and we arrived
just as they were about to close up for the day. Seeing our predicament, I
still can’t believe they did this. These splendid park employees siphoned
the gas out of our tank into a barrel, put the car up on a lift, welded the
hole shut, put the gas back in the tank and wouldn’t take any money for it.
I’ve never in my life been more grateful for kindness and skill. The car
made it all the way back to Illinois on the patched up tank.
I love this story, Joyanne. Really says alot about the Park Service folks. Thanks for
sharing.
There is no bad tank of gasoline. There are only good tanks of gasoline.
Good observation, Bruce. It is what we make of it. The resource itself is beautiful.
I agree, without a doubt. What we do with it is what makes it a tool for good or ill.
The summer that I turned 7, my father decided that it would be a great family vacation if we drove to Mexico. The country Mexico. From Quincy, Illinois. In preparation, he built a kind of shelf that turned the back seat into one solid padded surface for my two younger sisters and me. My parents reasoned that we would have more space to spread out our toys, and a better sleeping surface, assuming they could convince us that sleeping should be one of our activities. I’m sure it would be illegal now, but I remember that a lot of people thought my dad was pretty darn smart for coming up with it.
So on our comfy homemade perch, loaded up with new comic books, we hit the road. The plan was to stop in Dallas, TX en route to Mexico, to meet up with another family who would be caravanning with us the rest of the way. I now know that it was my father’s cousin whose family joined us. At the time, we kids knew him simply as “Uncle Daddy Doctor Dick”. From Dallas, our two vehicles holding four parents and six total children, headed to San Padre Island on the Gulf of Mexico for what was planned to be a long weekend camped on the beach before we made our way south of the border. When we got to the ocean-front camp site, it was after sundown, which would normally not have been a big deal. It was though, because a horrific sand storm kicked up at the same time. I say horrific, but for all I know it could have been a baby sand storm. I certainly hadn’t encountered one before, and I haven’t since. I do know that the visibility was non-existent and that the two big strong dad-types were not having much luck getting tents erected. At all. After what seemed like hours, with our gang of now cranky and hungry kids waiting inside the vehicles with the not much happier moms, they succeeded in getting one of the two tents up. A tent that could only generously be described as a six-man model. By the time the sandwiches were unpacked and eaten, the adults were not finding us kids’ oh-so-clever SAND wich references humorous any more. Ha, ha, get it? Sand. Ha! Bed time was early.
But we woke up to a sparkly blue ocean under clear blue skies, and the frolicking ensued. The kids splashed and shoveled and built and surfed and played. The grown-ups floated and giggled and sipped beers. The men folk were pretty tuckered out from fighting the sand wind demons the night before, and both ended up napping in the sun. After my dad caught a little snooze floating on his inner tube, he woke up and realized that there was no land in sight. By the time he prayerfully made it back to shore he was about two miles from the camp site. And by the time he made it back to the camp site and woke Uncle Daddy Doctor Dick up from his nap, the tide had come in enough that one of the vehicles (Uncle Daddy’s station wagon) was no longer on dry land. And the wheels were sunk into the sand far enough that traction could not be had.. More than one local came by in a dune buggy and offered to pull the vehicle out for us. For fifty dollars. Right. My dad and Uncle Doctor were as likely to pay fifty bucks for a tow as they were to use valet parking. At a campground. In retrospect, the rest of that ordeal would have been a riveting reality TV show segment. I don’t really recall how they finally got that vehicle onto dry ground and moving under gas power again. There was driftwood, more beer and cursing involved, that I do know.
We knew that it had taken a lot out of the dads, because of what happened next. We left the campsite, checked into a motel with air conditioning and got to order room service. The rest of the trip was fun too!
You can only appreciate a trip like that in your memories. I’ve had a few of those myself, but the good news is we got to have them. Gasoline gave us a way to experience places and conditions we would never otherwise know. Thanks for that memory, Sally!
I just learned about what you are up to from the my daughter. About a trip I just completed, a two months drive. Part of the fum was driving my new mini cooper. My mission was to explore small villages so as to understand their history, food and culture. I covered some 6k miles Starting in Camden Me. Highlights were WashDC to St louis. then over to Mississippi River where I followed via back roads down to new orleans For sure this is the only way to really get close to learn so much about Our country Without gas and oil there’s no way any one could have had this experience this Adventure. My story is too long to cover But I did then drove parts of Flordia SC Caraliona ro the Niiagra Falls to Boston And back to Camden Me Without my Mini ,gasoline and oil it would never have been such a great experience.
Great to hear your story, Robert, especially as your daughter tells me your age, 90 something. You go, Guy!
I particularly appreciate your appreciation of the fuel that has taken you so many miles. Could you
tell me about one of your earliest driving adventures? Way back when? Thanks!
There is no bad gasoline, only good gasoline.
Seems that when I think of gasoline, I think of NOT having enough gas. An unrequited live, of sorts. The sudden realization of a lack of enough gas leaves behind memories of both embarrassment and frustration. One of these memories was of the gas shortage during the 1970s. For several months it was necessary to leave two or three hours early for work in order to secure a place in the line waiting for gasoline at the gas station. Lives came to a standstill, plans for travel were put on hold, as the supply of gas was completely disrupted. The second memory comes from taking a small power boat out for a quick trip in Penobscot Bay in Maine. The small boat seemed to run forever on a tank of gas and so it never occurred to me to check the supply before heading out. The boat ran out of gas, sputtering to a halt, about fifty feet from the dock of a famous, very snooty yacht club where the ladies and gentlemen where enjoying early evening cocktails and watching me desperately paddle my small boat to shore. It seemed to take forever, just like the wait in the gas line during the ’70s. Funny how the lack of gas creates the memories, not the sheer joy of transport, the celebration of the freedom of travel and adventure that gas enables.
What we don’t realize about cars and boats is that they become artifacts as soon as they run out of gas! Thanks, Robyn. Please encourage your colleagues to participate in this archive.
This story took place in 1937 and I was seven years old.
Evert summer I was invited and allowed to go the home of my grandparents for a visit. This was exciting since I was for that time an “only” child. Grandpa had a 1931 Buick Coupe, quite new and shiny, that he kept in the garage. It was dark green with little lines of decoration, and the seat was plush and comfy. There was only room for the three of us, and I would sit between my tall grandfather and my soft grandmother. I loved the fact that I was squeezed in the middle, and that the gear shift came back in my lap. The knob on the shift had a little celluloid window where I was picture. This car purred. It did not wheeze and rattle like the car I was used to. It seemed to always work like it was supposed to, and sometimes we took a ride in it not to go some “place,” but just to take a ride. It had wheels with wooden spokes, and there was an emblem when you opened the door that showed a picture of a fancy horse carriage and the words, “Body By Fisher.” The exposed radiator with an ornamental cap had a chrome frame, and the windows were square with a flat rectangular windshield. And, there was a rumble seat! There were small metal steps that went up the back fender. On rare occasions, Grandpa opened the lid which brought up the back of a leather seat. It was absolutely exhilarating to ride in the open air going down the country road at a fantastic twenty miles an hour with the smell of new mown hay in our nostrilsl. Grandpa loved this special car so I did too. Sometimes as we rods along he would sing, “In the
Sweet Bye and Bye.” As his song came to an end, he would say with enthusiasm, “When Better Cars are Built, Buick Will Build Them!” This was the Buick slogan of the time, and I was a believer.
Hi, Ray! You sure know how to capture the details of that car ride. I love your description. I, too, remember stepping over the black carriage with “Body by Fisher.” I realize now that meant I knew how to read at an earlier age than I had I remembered. Thanks for a great memory! Please encourage your friends to send me stories. Best regards, Twyla Dell
MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH A GASOLINE DREAM
I was in no hurry to own a car. In fact, I had graduated from University and Teachers’ College and taught for three years before I decided to have my own transportation. Toronto’s streetcars and busses got me where I wanted to go. To get to Mom and Dad’s for holidays, there was the train.
Finally in 1954, with a loan of $1000.00 from my parents and a little more in my chequeing account, I decided it was time. My choice was a VW Beetle. So, late in August, Mother and I drove the 60 miles to Toronto, to Ontario’s only VW dealership.
There were two cars on the showroom floor and they were the same color, a nondescript blue. Soon I wrote a cheque for $1,000.00 and Mother gave the salesman her cheque. The salesman drove my car to the shop for a final inspection and soon Mother and I drove back to Paris, Ontario, in our own cars. Prior, I had been given a brief course on the idiosyncrasies of the car.
VW’s were sent from Germany to Canada about four years before the United States imported them. The Beetles in Canada met the European standards, while the Americans insisted on other specifications.
I got a kick of my bug’s turn signals. There was an amber colored pointer about five inches long tucked into the door posts on each side. When I pushed on the lever on the steering column, the finger on the right side popped out and a tiny light inside came on. Push the lever down and the same thing happened to indicate a left turn. You had to roll down the windows in the doors. There were small triangular windows as well which opened or latched shut. The windows surrounding the back seat were stationary.
Another oddity concerned the gas tank. There was no gauge on the dash board to indicate the amount of fuel you had. When there was only about a gallon left, the engine sputtered, and you had to turn a small lever above the gas pedal with your foot and miraculously, you could drive about 35 miles more. This was fine, as long as you remembered to turn the level back when you filled the tank.
Oh yes, the trunk was in the front and the engine in the back.
Canadian mechanics had problems when the Beetles were first imported. You really had to go the the VW garage for oil changes and other maintenance. Lug nuts and other things that had threads went the opposite way from usual. You had to screw them counterclockwise direction.
We found this out when we drove off after our wedding. Someone had put gravel in our hub caps. With a Canadian car this was no problem. However, the Bug allowed the gravel to get to the brakes. We drove about five minutes with a gosh awful squeal. We pulled into a large service station. While lthe mechanics had to get the wheels off, we saw most of our guests drive by. Since it was late on Saturday afaternoon, the dealership in Toronto was closed, so the guys had to figure it out by themselves. After about two hours we were on our way for a honeymoon.
Our bug served us well for several years. In all, we had four VWs, a Volvo, then Toyotas. Only two American cars we bought, one a Ford pickup truck and the other, a gas guzzler Olds 98 if there ever was one!
Mary, great story. I remember those little amber directional signals. Didn’t know that
Canada had VWs before the U.S. My husband and I bought a Beetle in 1967 and in
1968 when our first child was born we put him in a car bed in the back seat. When
he could stand, we put him in the little well in back. Thank God we never had to
apply our brakes in a hurry or he would have rocketed through the windshiield!
How naive we were!
I remember those reverse threads, too. And, of course, the reverse trunk.
Thanks for the memories.
Best regards, Twyla Dell