Soapweed
Well-known member
Wisdom from the Gas Station acquired by Steve Moreland, March 30, 2016
In our little one horse town, there is one gas station and it only has one table. This place seems to be the hub of most of the local social life. On the entrance door, there is a small sign which has been in place for many years. The letters are quite faded anymore, but the words hold just as true now as they ever did. The sign reads: "There is not much to see in a small town, but what you hear more than makes up for it."
This morning, knowing my feed pickup was getting quite low on gas, I decided to fill up in town rather than from our ranch supply tank. While driving in that direction, my eyes were upon the computerized information on the pickup dash. As I stopped in front of the gas pump, the last reading was "4 miles until Empty." This pickup is capable of hauling and feeding two large round hay bales with its hydraulic arms, and it also has a 1500 pound caker with which protein cubes are dispensed to the cattle. The pickup does a lot of work, but it only gets about four miles per gallon. The other problem is that it only has a 25 gallon gas tank. This morning, I put in 24.6 gallons, so it was close to needing to run on fumes alone. Having pushed the mileage button at the last filling, it had gone only 88 miles since then. This actually computes to only 3.6 miles per gallon, but consideration needs to be given that there was virtually no travel on good roads, and quite a little idling took place while net wrap was being cut.
The pumps at this station don't register inside the building, so the amount of fuel and the total price needed to be submitted to the proprietor. I stepped inside to report my $49.00, 24.6 gallon purchase. The usual early morning crowd of four was hunkered around the single table, mesmerized by a cut-throat cribbage game. I casually mentioned to the owner of this establishment that everyone seemed very intent upon the business at hand. Randy grinned and said, "They are just barely getting started. I haven't heard any cuss words yet." He then went on to divulge the results of a comprehensive study he had conducted a couple days previous. He sat at his desk while a few Cribbage games were in progress, and made a mark each time a word of profanity was uttered. His scientific conclusion was that quite consistently, seven cuss words per hand seemed to be the norm.
It does seem to be a point to ponder.
In our little one horse town, there is one gas station and it only has one table. This place seems to be the hub of most of the local social life. On the entrance door, there is a small sign which has been in place for many years. The letters are quite faded anymore, but the words hold just as true now as they ever did. The sign reads: "There is not much to see in a small town, but what you hear more than makes up for it."
This morning, knowing my feed pickup was getting quite low on gas, I decided to fill up in town rather than from our ranch supply tank. While driving in that direction, my eyes were upon the computerized information on the pickup dash. As I stopped in front of the gas pump, the last reading was "4 miles until Empty." This pickup is capable of hauling and feeding two large round hay bales with its hydraulic arms, and it also has a 1500 pound caker with which protein cubes are dispensed to the cattle. The pickup does a lot of work, but it only gets about four miles per gallon. The other problem is that it only has a 25 gallon gas tank. This morning, I put in 24.6 gallons, so it was close to needing to run on fumes alone. Having pushed the mileage button at the last filling, it had gone only 88 miles since then. This actually computes to only 3.6 miles per gallon, but consideration needs to be given that there was virtually no travel on good roads, and quite a little idling took place while net wrap was being cut.
The pumps at this station don't register inside the building, so the amount of fuel and the total price needed to be submitted to the proprietor. I stepped inside to report my $49.00, 24.6 gallon purchase. The usual early morning crowd of four was hunkered around the single table, mesmerized by a cut-throat cribbage game. I casually mentioned to the owner of this establishment that everyone seemed very intent upon the business at hand. Randy grinned and said, "They are just barely getting started. I haven't heard any cuss words yet." He then went on to divulge the results of a comprehensive study he had conducted a couple days previous. He sat at his desk while a few Cribbage games were in progress, and made a mark each time a word of profanity was uttered. His scientific conclusion was that quite consistently, seven cuss words per hand seemed to be the norm.
It does seem to be a point to ponder.
