Historic Georgetown Inc.

TRIANGULAR LANDMARK: Built in 1880 at 700 Rose Street, the Buckley ding was operated as a Conoco station by Leroy Buckley until he could no longer pump gasoline because of EPA regulations. The Conoco sign serves as a quaint reminder of the era of full-service gas stations.

No, I don't think so. Gas at Leroy's was much more than just getting gas. Gas at Leroy's was "full service," a tradition of all filling stations years ago. No . . . no, it was even more than that . . . stopping under that red and white triangle Conoco sign and visiting with Leroy connected me to that distant past . . . when there seemed to be a more civil, more peaceful time... I guess that's why we have, and need, good memories.

Leroy's garage is so much more than a fading memory ‹it was a singular tradition and it is deeply missed. It will not be easily, if ever, forgotten.

Perhaps, my yet-to-be grandchildren will ask about Leroy, on Rose Street and Seventh, in old Georgetown, where I used to get gasoline for my car. I will smile, forlornly, remembering that December day back in '98 when I learned that Leroy couldn¹t pump gas anymore. "Did he really pump the gas for you?" they will ask. "Yes he did." "Did he really clean all the car windows?" "Yes, yes he did." "All of them?" "Yes." "Did he really check the air in the tires and the oil in the engine?" "Yes, and he would check the antifreeze in the radiator." "What's a radiator?" "Shush! And read your history!" "How did he have time to do all of that?" "He always found it - and the time to be polite, and talk of the weather and the busy traffic on I-70 and other things that were important to living in those days." "What was I-70?" "Just an old road."

You know, I'll bet that will happen. I'll bet that every December they will ask why we preserved that old red and white triangle sign on Rose Street, in old Georgetown, and the legend of Mr. Buckley, and I'll tell them of that time, a distant moon ago, when there really were gentlepeople and radiators. I'll tell them about the man who would fix your car, and cometo your house on a cold day to start your car because the battery is dead. About the man who would change your oil, put a chain on a kid's bike, and find an old inner tube for the youngster who didn't have a sled.

"There really were people like that?" "A few." "Life was really like that?" "Yes." Then we¹ll smile and hug and talk about other important things like the weather, the busy traffic to the far-away stars, and that Christmas is just a few weeks away.

Yep, the times are a-changin'. But some things never should . . . things like memories of goodness and red and white triangle signs . . . on Rose Street and Seventh . . . in old Georgetown. As Dylan penned, "As the present now will later be the past . . . "

About five years ago, I wrote this little remembrance. A few friends suggested it might now be appropriate to print it with the hope we might help preserve a memory and an old sign in downtown Georgetown. The Times They Are A-Changin' (Bob Dylan 1963) As I think back a few months ago, it was a cold, bitter, windy December morning‹an unusually miserable Colorado day - gray sky, shivering cold, windy and forsaken. Just a dismal day. The little Ford struggled and started all right but would soon need gas, so just to be on the safe side, and before morning coffee, I'll stop at Leroy's Conoco for a fill-up. I have been doing that for over thirty years: stopping at Leroy's for gas. Leroy came out from that blond-brick building, as he has for some 50 years, as did his father before him, and said, quietly, he couldn't pump gas anymore. The EPA, or whatever, said that the underground tanks had to be replaced before he would be allowed to pump gas and that would cost a zillion dollars or more - he was sorry, but he just couldn't pump gas anymore. I harrumphed for a second or two, then I got colder than the wind could ever get. Another part of that which keeps my "terra" "firma" - familiar, knowable, predictable, good - was slipping away, right before my eyes. One of my anchors had let loose. There we were, standing in the cold, both of us shuffling our feet and sort of looking at the frozen ground, then at the terrible December sky, then at each other, then back to the ground. That little air of uncertainty... should I say anything else? Nah, just shuffle your feet over the icy gravel. Leroy is there, I am there, the car is there, the gas pumps are there, but the new laws say that Leroy can't pump gas anymore. I said thanks anyway, and we briefly chatted of changing times and the weather and the busy traffic on I-70; then I left, got my coffee, figured out where else I could get gas, harrumphed again, and went on with my day. But that day had changed me. In those few moments by the gas pumps, I felt as if I had stood in the distant past as in an old memory - I shouldn't be able to actually see the past, but I did. I shouldn't be able feel the past, but I did, and the solid ground had trembled. The past is distant, not here, not now. What had happened? It's as if I had just been speaking with George Griffith, or William Hamill, or Mellie Bowman, or Louis Dupuy, or Henry Anderson. Seemingly, one moment they were there and the next they were gone. It was nothing less, or more, than the trauma of change. One of the reasons we love this town is because it seldom changes in substance or character. This place is our rock, our solace from an otherwise different world. Sure, there are small changes, like more people, but they soon learn to like this place as we do. There's the occasional new house, or new business, or new this or new that, and, generally, they soon become fixtures and knowable and a part of the landscape. Changes in substance are rare. But there I was, experiencing change that felt as severe as I-70 in the '60s, or the Hamill House fire in the '70s‹sort of like that funny feeling you get with threats of harsh change like malls on a lake or a bazillion condos on a mountain or another highway through yet another valley. No subtlety - just gut-wrenching abrupt change. Maybe that was it. It happened so fast, so unexpectedly. I'll just have to get my gas elsewhere, and wash my own windshield and do all that other stuff. Gas at Leroy's will be forgotten.	*TRIANGULAR LANDMARK:* Built in 1880 at 700 Rose Street, the Buckley ding was operated as a Conoco station by Leroy Buckley until he could no longer pump gasoline because of EPA regulations. The Conoco sign serves as a quaint reminder of the era of full-service gas stations. No, I don't think so. Gas at Leroy's was much more than just getting gas. Gas at Leroy's was "full service," a tradition of all filling stations years ago. No . . . no, it was even more than that . . . stopping under that red and white triangle Conoco sign and visiting with Leroy connected me to that distant past . . . when there seemed to be a more civil, more peaceful time... I guess that's why we have, and need, good memories. Leroy's garage is so much more than a fading memory ‹it was a singular tradition and it is deeply missed. It will not be easily, if ever, forgotten. Perhaps, my yet-to-be grandchildren will ask about Leroy, on Rose Street and Seventh, in old Georgetown, where I used to get gasoline for my car. I will smile, forlornly, remembering that December day back in '98 when I learned that Leroy couldn¹t pump gas anymore. "Did he really pump the gas for you?" they will ask. "Yes he did." "Did he really clean all the car windows?" "Yes, yes he did." "All of them?" "Yes." "Did he really check the air in the tires and the oil in the engine?" "Yes, and he would check the antifreeze in the radiator." "What's a radiator?" "Shush! And read your history!" "How did he have time to do all of that?" "He always found it - and the time to be polite, and talk of the weather and the busy traffic on I-70 and other things that were important to living in those days." "What was I-70?" "Just an old road." You know, I'll bet that will happen. I'll bet that every December they will ask why we preserved that old red and white triangle sign on Rose Street, in old Georgetown, and the legend of Mr. Buckley, and I'll tell them of that time, a distant moon ago, when there really were gentlepeople and radiators. I'll tell them about the man who would fix your car, and cometo your house on a cold day to start your car because the battery is dead. About the man who would change your oil, put a chain on a kid's bike, and find an old inner tube for the youngster who didn't have a sled. "There really were people like that?" "A few." "Life was really like that?" "Yes." Then we¹ll smile and hug and talk about other important things like the weather, the busy traffic to the far-away stars, and that Christmas is just a few weeks away. Yep, the times are a-changin'. But some things never should . . . things like memories of goodness and red and white triangle signs . . . on Rose Street and Seventh . . . in old Georgetown. As Dylan penned, "As the present now will later be the past . . . "

Buckley's, a place in our hearts