My Wife Passed Gas

By Douglas V. Gibbs
Author, Speaker, Instructor, Radio Host

After my Constitution Class in Temecula on Wednesday Night my wife and I hit the road towards the State of Oregon.  A couple times per year we go up to our place in Brookings.  It's about a 16 hour drive, give or take a few hours depending upon which one of us is driving, and how may times we stop to eat, or nap.

This morning we grabbed breakfast at Christina's in Eureka, which has pretty decent country gravy (she likes the biscuits and gravy, I like the country skillet), and when we left after our tummies were full she noticed the gas was a little on the low side.  Nonetheless, we got on the road and figured we'd get more gasoline somewhere further up the way.

Orick, like Eureka, is a town nestled in northern California's dense forested area along the 101 Federal Highway.  It is actually highlighted as the nearest community to the mansion in the hills in the movie "Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom."  As we were driving through the town, my wife, who had taken over the driving duties after breakfast at Christina's, woke me up and advised me that the low fuel light had been on for half an hour, and she hadn't seen a gas station for longer.  Crescent
City was still a good hour up the road.

"Pull over here," I advised.

She parked in a space near the entrance of a small market, and I went inside to ask about the nearest gas station.

"There's one about three-quarters of a mile south of here along the main road."

South?  Did my wife miss a whole gas station and not notice?

We headed back the way we came from, watching carefully.  At about the half mile mark what looked to be a long defunct gas station sat alone, the stalls where the pumps had once been overtaken by weeds.

"That can't be it," said my wife, now in the passenger seat.

"Naw," I said, "we still have a little ways to go."

As the three-quarters of a mile mark came upon us, we began to search carefully, and we nearly missed it.

Tucked on a lot next to a small general market was a single pump, old style, with spinning reels rather than a digital or computer face.  The tank was also unique.  Rather than being underground, it was on the surface, behind the pump, painted white.

"That's not a gas station," my wife proclaimed.

"It is for Orick," I said.

$40 was more than enough to finish the trip to Brookings.  I teased her the rest of the way about how she had passed gas in Orick.

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