Working at the Beaver Station

To this day, I am very efficient at washing windshields, checking oil and pumping gas. That’s because, for three years at the end of high school and the beginning of college, I worked at the Beaver Gas Station on Dougal Ave. at Norfolk in Windsor.

I got that job after I had moved to the suburbs. I needed money to pay for my car, a 1966 MGB. I needed a car because I wanted to be able to go see my friends who were all downtown. As it worked out, I had little time left to see my friends since I spent 24 hours (three shifts) on weekends getting $1.25 an hour to pay $60 a month for the car loan.

Nowadays, a service station like those locally-owned Beaver stations doesn’t exist. The owner of these stations, Don Plumb, was a visionary in his time.

Most other gas stations had licenced mechanics plus a couple of guys who helped in the bays. There were no self-serve gas stations also selling cigarettes and snacks in the 60s. When customers pulled up to pumps at a regular gas station, somebody in the bay would put down what they were doing and walk out to pump the gas and maybe clean the windshield. That was not what happened at a Beaver station. 

At Beaver, as a customer pulled in, three guys ran out to the car. One greeted the customer, pumped the gas and handled the money. Another checked under the hood: oil, battery and radiator. The third did all the windows with a squeegee and paper towel, leaving no streaks and getting all the bugs off with a special sponge if necessary. If they wanted the transmission fluid checked, we had them start the engine and checked that too. If the customer asked, we checked the pressure in the tires with the gauge in our breast pocket, and if a tire was low, we followed the car to the air pump and filled the tire.

Imagine today pulling into a gas station and getting that kind of service! In driving rain, humidity and heat or ripping cold snow – Beaver service never varied.

A weekend shift had eight or 10 guys working 7 in the morning to 3 p.m. and a similar group working 3 to 11. Most shifts, we were all moving most of the time. The Dougal station had nine pumps, three to an island. The middle pumps were high test, the outside pumps were regular. Some days, cars were waiting because each pump lane was busy. When it was that busy, one person did all three jobs on a car.

There were no chairs for staff to rest. For lunch or dinner, we would grab a bite of a burger or sandwich between cars, not having time to wash our hands after handling money, dirty rags, squeegees, sponges, oil cans and everything else.

We carried rags in our back pockets so we did not burn our hands on radiator caps. We learned from practice how to ease a cap off a hot rad to let out pressure and not let hot fluid explode in our faces.

Our Beaver uniforms were dark blue pants and a light blue shirt with a Beaver emblem over the left pocket. For spring and fall, we had a jacket that matched the pants, and for winter, a heavy parka that also had the Beaver emblem.

Plumb, the visionary, was the first to build automatic car washes at his stations. That meant more guys on the shift. If you bought enough gas, you got a free wash. Beaver also gave stamps to fill little books that could be redeemed for gifts. Regular customers demanded extra stamps.

The Beaver station had two bays for oil changes and tire repairs. I learned how to put a car on a hoist, take a tire off, find a leak and repair it with a plug. I also learned how to remove a tire from a rim, and let the owner examine the hole from the inside. I could apply a patch to the inside or put a tube in the tire. In those days, tubeless tires were an innovation.

After working there a few months, I could get the nod to take the station’s pick-up truck on service calls to change a flat or boost a dead battery. Most of the guys working at Beaver including myself learned how to drive a manual transmission on the Beaver service pick-up.

The summer of 1967 and again in 1968, regular was 49 cents an imperial gallon. That’s about 10 cents a liter. I worked the midnight shift, 11 to 7. This gave me more hours and the manager, Ron Treleven, paid me $1.50 an hour. For six shifts, that was $72 a week. It doesn’t seem like much now, but I saved enough money to pay my college tuition and keep up my car payments.

Ron was always fair and rewarded hard work and capability with shift requests and responsibility. Nonetheless, he had only one response for anyone who did not call in with a reason before missing a shift. If you missed a shift, there was no discussion. Ron just said, “Hand in your uniform.”

More next week about the dog that lived at the Beaver station.