My car had a warning light that said a tire was low.  That was an understatement.  It had a bolt in the tire.  I never go anywhere--so I am at a loss as to where I could have run over a bolt.  Never felt it.

The only thing I can think of that I ran over was a rail-road track.  Everywhere else I went was on clear concrete streets.  To Brahms or to the church.  I haven't driven a hundred and fifty miles since January.

I miss the good old days when I drove into a filling station and an attendant came out.  He filled the tank, washed the windshield, washed the side mirrors, checked the tires, the pressure, aired up all four tires and anything else that needed to be done.

That's gone forever.  My granddad had a station with a small grocery store in Wilburton, Oklahoma.  The pumps had glass top containers that gurgled when you pumped the gas.  I'm sure they were dangerous.

There was a big chest full of ice.  Packed with Coca-Cola.  Grape soda-Nehi.  Root-beer.  Glass jars at the checkout--full of jaw-breakers.  Cash register with keys that opened the drawer and rang up the sale.

And best of all, my granddad in a work apron covered with grease from checking under someone's car.  Then washing his hands, and slicing bologna and cheese for the customers.