Filling the Tanks
I needed to go to town last week to take some pictures of a local business for this blog. Roy asked if I wouldn't mind taking the pick-up and filling the fuel cans in the back. Sure, I said, why not. So I packed up and headed out.
By the time I reached town Melise was fast asleep, so I decided to fill the tanks up quick before she awoke. There are self-serve gas pumps along Hwy 6 on the east side of town - those are my favorites because there aren't any people there. I had an inkling that I was going to make a fool of myself doing this chore, so I pulled into those pumps.
I thought I'd start with filling the pick-up, which is diesel. I pulled up to the first diesel pump and noted the number: 4A. At this station there is only one credit card machine for six pumps. You slide your credit card and then tell it which pump you want to fill. So I went to the machine, slid my card and punched 4. I tried to enter the A also, but it made a horrible noise, so I shrugged and hit enter. I went back to the pump and tried to fuel the pick-up. Nothing. That's when I noticed that there is a pump labeled 4 (without the A) across from me and it's all set to run. Shoot, I say, and jump back in the pick-up.
For those who have never driven diesel, they have some kind of little coils that have to warm up before you start the engine. I didn't know this until I married Roy who drives the pick-up and also a diesel VW Jetta. Anyhow, I jumped into the pick-up, inserted the keys, waited for the little light on the dash to turn off (telling me that the coils are warmed), started the engine, and then drove in a big circle around the pump - all that to get to a spot 5 feet from where I started.
So I started to fill the pick-up and decide I'd get one of the gas cans filled at the same time. I took it out of the bed of the pick-up and set it in front of a gas pump. I ran my credit card, filled it, and thought, "This chore will go faster than I thought!" Then I tried to lower the gate of the pick-up to set the can back in, but it was stuck. I had to lift 5 gallons of gas over the side of the pick-up bed, which wasn't easy. That very moment when the can went over the side - and I was feeling so very satisfied with myself - the lid of the can popped off and gas splashed all over my hair, neck, and shoulder!
Okay, I changed my plan of attack for the gas cans - no more lifting them into the pick-up. I got in the pick-up, put in the key, waited for the little light to turn off, started the engine, and drove in another big circle to get the bed of the pick-up near the gas pumps (I don't have enough patience for this sort of thing!). I arranged the cans along the side of the pick-up with all the lids off and filled them as carefully as possible. No more spills! My confidence was renewed!
Only one more can was left. It was a can for "non-highway" diesel. It's a cheaper diesel used for farm machinery and its dyed a different color so you won't confuse it with the highway stuff. I maneuvered the pick-up once more into place by another pump (key, light, start, circle). The baby was starting to cry loudly. I ran my credit card and readied the can in the bed. I picked up the pump nozzle and noticed it was quite a bit larger than the gas nozzle, which should have been a clue to what would happen soon. I pulled the trigger and waited a minute for the can to fill, trying to say soothing things to my daughter the whole time. I looked at the pump, thinking surely we've gone through 5 gallons by now, but only 0.5 gal were listed. I looked around and found a kink in the hose. I spun the nozzle to unkink it and stuck it back in the can. Actually I couldn't stick it in the can because the nozzle was so big, so I had to carefully center it at the opening. I pulled the trigger and waited anxiously . . . Suddenly, I was thrown back with the force of the fuel coming out of the hose. I screamed while it splattered all over the pick-up and my arms! Now my daughter was really howling because of the ruckus. I gritted my teeth and gained control of the nozzle as best I could to finish filling the can. By the time I was done, the pump read 5.5 gal, but that's okay because I estimate half a gallon was all over the pick-up and me!
To top off that wonderful experience, the business I had gone to town to photograph was not open! Grrrr! I was feeling like crying along with my daughter.
A note to anyone who ever gets diesel and gas on themselves: the smell does not come out with normal soap. My hands were okay after I used some orange-scented pumice stuff Roy had, but my hair smelled for two days. My clothes went through 3 washes with no luck getting rid of the smell (even my pants that had two little drops of diesel on them) until I sprayed some Shout on them.
By the time I reached town Melise was fast asleep, so I decided to fill the tanks up quick before she awoke. There are self-serve gas pumps along Hwy 6 on the east side of town - those are my favorites because there aren't any people there. I had an inkling that I was going to make a fool of myself doing this chore, so I pulled into those pumps.
I thought I'd start with filling the pick-up, which is diesel. I pulled up to the first diesel pump and noted the number: 4A. At this station there is only one credit card machine for six pumps. You slide your credit card and then tell it which pump you want to fill. So I went to the machine, slid my card and punched 4. I tried to enter the A also, but it made a horrible noise, so I shrugged and hit enter. I went back to the pump and tried to fuel the pick-up. Nothing. That's when I noticed that there is a pump labeled 4 (without the A) across from me and it's all set to run. Shoot, I say, and jump back in the pick-up.
For those who have never driven diesel, they have some kind of little coils that have to warm up before you start the engine. I didn't know this until I married Roy who drives the pick-up and also a diesel VW Jetta. Anyhow, I jumped into the pick-up, inserted the keys, waited for the little light on the dash to turn off (telling me that the coils are warmed), started the engine, and then drove in a big circle around the pump - all that to get to a spot 5 feet from where I started.
So I started to fill the pick-up and decide I'd get one of the gas cans filled at the same time. I took it out of the bed of the pick-up and set it in front of a gas pump. I ran my credit card, filled it, and thought, "This chore will go faster than I thought!" Then I tried to lower the gate of the pick-up to set the can back in, but it was stuck. I had to lift 5 gallons of gas over the side of the pick-up bed, which wasn't easy. That very moment when the can went over the side - and I was feeling so very satisfied with myself - the lid of the can popped off and gas splashed all over my hair, neck, and shoulder!
Okay, I changed my plan of attack for the gas cans - no more lifting them into the pick-up. I got in the pick-up, put in the key, waited for the little light to turn off, started the engine, and drove in another big circle to get the bed of the pick-up near the gas pumps (I don't have enough patience for this sort of thing!). I arranged the cans along the side of the pick-up with all the lids off and filled them as carefully as possible. No more spills! My confidence was renewed!
Only one more can was left. It was a can for "non-highway" diesel. It's a cheaper diesel used for farm machinery and its dyed a different color so you won't confuse it with the highway stuff. I maneuvered the pick-up once more into place by another pump (key, light, start, circle). The baby was starting to cry loudly. I ran my credit card and readied the can in the bed. I picked up the pump nozzle and noticed it was quite a bit larger than the gas nozzle, which should have been a clue to what would happen soon. I pulled the trigger and waited a minute for the can to fill, trying to say soothing things to my daughter the whole time. I looked at the pump, thinking surely we've gone through 5 gallons by now, but only 0.5 gal were listed. I looked around and found a kink in the hose. I spun the nozzle to unkink it and stuck it back in the can. Actually I couldn't stick it in the can because the nozzle was so big, so I had to carefully center it at the opening. I pulled the trigger and waited anxiously . . . Suddenly, I was thrown back with the force of the fuel coming out of the hose. I screamed while it splattered all over the pick-up and my arms! Now my daughter was really howling because of the ruckus. I gritted my teeth and gained control of the nozzle as best I could to finish filling the can. By the time I was done, the pump read 5.5 gal, but that's okay because I estimate half a gallon was all over the pick-up and me!
To top off that wonderful experience, the business I had gone to town to photograph was not open! Grrrr! I was feeling like crying along with my daughter.
A note to anyone who ever gets diesel and gas on themselves: the smell does not come out with normal soap. My hands were okay after I used some orange-scented pumice stuff Roy had, but my hair smelled for two days. My clothes went through 3 washes with no luck getting rid of the smell (even my pants that had two little drops of diesel on them) until I sprayed some Shout on them.
Posted by Susan at June 8, 2009 
Categories: Rural Living
Tags: fuel gas self-serve gas pumps diesel pick-up
Categories: Rural Living
Tags: fuel gas self-serve gas pumps diesel pick-up
Oh my goodness! Only you Susan! Thanks for another humorous story! Your fish filter and "ringing phone" on the place are two of my favorites!
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Hi Susan,
I had a thought about your gas adventure. It reminded me of my own clumsiness on the farm. I have many fond memories of the farm, but also remember a lot of mistakes that a farm raised person would not have made. The reason was everyone around me already knew stuff that I had to learn for the first time. Something similar would happen when I was with a group of people from the farm community. They would talk about things that everyone else was familar with while I was pretty shut down because I did not know who or what they were talking about. It is not so much that the group was trying to keep me out, but more that I just did not have the years of association that they did. I imagine you are having the same type of experience. The only way to get past it (I think) is to keep involving yourself with the people until you really do share things. That is (of course) not an easy process, specially since you grew up in our family (the Adams family of Gilroy).
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