When I was little, my mom and her mom owned a gas and service station. It was originally run by my grandfather, but he had passed away suddenly the year I was born. That’s when my grandmother and mom took things over. They ran the station until I was about 5 or 6 years old. I used to hang out in the office, or the service bays. Sometimes I would play in the piles of tires they had in the front windows. What I remember is the smells. The smell of tire rubber, oil, grease, exhaust.
My dad started out as a mechanic and after my family’s gas station was sold, he started his own excavation business. So then I was with him in his shop while he worked on his machinery. I was with him when he was digging. Again, it’s the smells. The smell of fresh dirt. The smell of rubber, oil, grease and exhaust.
I’m thinking about that today for some reason. My mom has been going through old photos and posting them in local Facebook groups, groups that reminisce about how things used to be. When I see the photos, I only remember how it smelled. It’s funny what we remember. Or don’t remember.
Pam Moore Gainer 