My parents moved to 1234 Main Street when I was, perhaps, four years old. My sister, Louise, was born on Crane Street, in an apartment that only had two bedrooms. Needing the extra bedroom, Mom and Dad bought their first home at 1234 Main Street. We stayed there for a few years, and then, Mom and Dad purchased a finer home at 1260 Main Street, just four houses South, on the same side of the street.
I was about 12 years old when WWII started. It was Sunday afternoon, December 7th, and I was in the backyard at 1260 Main Street and a newspaper boy was going down the street hawking the newspaper, shouting about the war. But, back to this garage story. Like all boys during that era, when I became about 14 years old, I got seriously interested in automobiles even though WWII had halted automobile manufacturing. Daddy had purchased a 1941 Buick Century auto, the car I learned to drive. In New York at that time, don’t know what it is now, one could get a Learner’s Permit at age 16. At age 15, Daddy had taught me to drive. Because he had a plan in mind. My father worked at the General Electric plan just about the whole time since arriving in Schenectady as an Italian Immigrant. My Mother didn’t know how to drive, and never cared to learn. The plan was that he would trust me at age 15 to drive the Buick up to “the garage” and back, for fuel or service work. Mom never liked the idea, but I did. It was then that the owner of “the garage” less than a block away from our home became familiar with me.
Some time in the early 1900’s, an automotive service station was built at the corner of Chrisler Avenue and Ostrander Place. The garage building was simple in construction, and followed the usual style of the times. It had two service bays, with the one on the right with a “pit.” As might be obvious to you, the pit was where repairs were made beneath the car. The garage had a basement that was accessed by going down into the pit to the balance of the building. On the left of the building, looking at it, was the very modest office. Outside, at the corner of the lot was a “lift” for servicing cars.
Immediately behind the garage building, on Ostrander Place, was the home of a dear childhood friend, Arnold Daddario. Arnold had been hired to “close” the station in the evenings, pumping gas until the garage closed. I used to go down in the evenings and keep him company. Arnold didn’t like the job, didn’t like cars. So, he asked me if I would like to take over his job. I jumped at it.
One question always asked about this phase of my life is, “Do you remember how much gas cost a gallon?” Oh yes, 5 gallons for a dollar. 25 cents a gallon is one bought less than a dollar’s worth. I would report to the garage after school and stay until 7:30 p.m. in the winter, and 9:00 p.m. in the summer months. I worked a full day on Saturdays and only Sundays, Noon to 3:00 p.m. during the summer months. Noon to 3:00 p.m. was also the schedule for openings for grocery stores. Life in town was “Mayberry” to say the least.
All three of the Gelsleichter boys were good to me. My mentor was Francis. He was a college educated person and loved fine things. He would invite me to his home often to listen to classical music. Sometimes, Dad would invite him over to our house for a glass (or two?) of Dad’s fine home-made wine.
I will close on this story with one short illustration of my training by the Gelsleichter. When WWII ended, the garage was expanded to a larger facility, adding on four more service bays. One of the bays was a very modern “oil and grease change” bay. And it was kept immaculate. When that bay was constructed, the equipment was new and we needed to learn how to operate the equipment. So, one day a factory representative came to the garage and gave us all our instruction, in a tuxedo. The object was, that even with grease and oil, we could do our job without getting ourselves dirty. The messiest jobs can be done with little mess. I never forgot that lesson.