When I was a lad there were service stations where men in hats and ties would scurry around dad's car, spraying and wiping glass, popping the hood, wiping the dip stick, and pumping gas. If it was a fill-up we would often be offered a free drinking glass or dinner plate to add to a set. Those long ago memories came flooding back when I stopped for gas in Bend, Or.
Sometimes things "retro" can be improved upon.
I remember this place, over fifty years back. Dad bought a cut and polished thunder-egg here and proudly shared it with Uncle Loyd, chief of police in Burns. Loyd laughed at dad's paying five bucks for a rock and said he could take us to where they could be dug up like spuds. The next day we spent a couple hours bouncing along and eating dust in a Willys Overland. We brought back a half filled ash can of golf to soft ball sized geodes. When we got home to Cal., dad bought a rock saw and started cutting. When he found some with agate or amethyst inside he was hooked, became a rock-hound. It was great. He bought a jeep. Every other weekend we would grind out onto the Mojave following a hand drawn map picked up at a rock-swap-meet or printed in a rock-hound publication and hunt treasure. As he wasted away in bed out at the VA hospital years later, he was still working stone, chipping bits of the fire from precious opals and dropping them into little glass bulbs filled with glycerin, making earrings.
Mom married a jerk afterwards. We moved to Florida, but before we left I had all dads rocks, that were to be left behind, hauled over to my best friend's house; 1/4 ton of childhood treasures. We spread them through his pop's well manicured flowerbeds and around his fish pond. I kept all the petrified sharks's teeth and arrowheads.