The Standard Oil Man (Part Two)

By Bill Butcher

This is part two and truly it’s about life, neighbors, and caring for people because it’s right, even if it means you have to swim against the stream. It’s about how even great American companies like Standard occasionally get it wrong. So grab a coffee and let’s get into it. In the words of Paul Harvey, here is “the rest of the story.”

I have in my adult years tried to live like and up to my Grandpa’s way of living and treating people. It’s not easy. So one day when I was a kid, my Grandpa picked me up to go down to Bellettini’s, the grocery store behind McDonald’s by Wee Sips. As we strolled around the store, Grandpa was saying hi to everyone he passed. He was a very friendly man. He dropped a few items in the ole metal cart with a clang and a squeak and rattle of wobbling wheels, one I swear went east, the other west.

We had arrived at our destination: the meat counter. Grandpa loved the meat counter. Sometimes he would go to Faletti Meats, sometimes the old A&P. I almost think it was as much visiting the butcher as it was the quality of the meat. He leaned over admiring the different cuts of meat. I stood watching him as he did; it was almost like buying a car—you were looking for that just-right model with that spotless body, no blemishes, that you’d later take for a final test drive, if you will, in your frying pan to plate to ah, deliciousness. If all went well, you’d be back to that butcher or dealership, if you will.

So there was Grandpa; he had finally selected and the butcher wrapped it up for him. “Great choice, Herman. See you have the grandson with. Fine lad,” he would say as Grandpa took the meat, smiling. They would make small talk, then we would be off to the checkout. As we turned and he pushed our clanky old buggy onward like an old wobbly steed that had seen better days, I saw this lady staring over at us from the next aisle. She had an odd look on her face. It was a look of recognition with a touch of uncertainty and shyness. A smile began to creep across her face as her mind’s eye had made its decision—one of recognition…

She slowly steered her cart towards ours—a collision course, my mind was thinking. Grandpa was doing some silent calculating before turning towards the register. This would be the kind of calculating I myself now find myself doing, as I now am on a fixed income as he was then. It seems as we age, it becomes less about the spending and more on the amount of month you have and necessity.

The woman, her voice quiet and dry as it crackingly said, “Mr. Reardanz.” The words taking Grandpa from his mental calculator back to the store and the aisle. “Hi. Yes, I’m Herman Reardanz, miss.” Before he could ask her name, she exclaimed, “I’m so happy to meet you, sir!” Grandpa said, “You don’t have to call me sir, just Herman.” “Herman,” she said in a gentle flurry. “You probably don’t remember me as I was such a tiny young thing back then, but sir ,Herman, I will never forget you. Many, many years ago, I remember you were our oil guy, the Standard Oil man. You would come and fill our tank. Mamma really liked you and spoke often of you and your kindness and the great job you did all those years.”

My Grandpa was now doing mental gymnastics trying to remember which of his thousands of customers she was. Then his eyes softened, he tilted his hat, his eyes lit up, and he said, “You’re Such-and-Such!” Unlike my Grandpa, my memory has faded, and her name I have forgotten, sadly along with many of my customers as well. But not Grandpa.

There we were, him in his 70s then, and he lit up like it was yesterday. It was like he was back on his route delivering fuel oil again. “Yes, yes!” he exclaimed, he knew her mom. “How was she?” he asked. She replied sadly, “Mom was gone. Life was not easy for her, you know, Herman, remember that day years ago? It was around Christmas time in the late ’30s, early ’40s. The economy was really struggling.” Grandpa said, “They were some tough times. People were scraping pennies for food and Christmas for their kids.” “Yes, yes. I remember your mom. It was really cold that Christmas. I knew your dad, too.”

She chimed in, “Dad was a good man, but couldn’t shake his love of whiskey and drinking. He and Mom would have such fights about him staying out all night drinking, spending all their money on booze while Mamma scrimped and scraped to give us kids a meal. Mamma never complained in front of us, mind you, but we knew. We saw, we watched her struggle and do without so we had. She would eat morsels so we had enough. Sure, Dad worked hard when he could, but he drank harder.”

“And right before that Christmas, believe it was Christmas Eve if memory serves,” Grandpa said, “it was in the middle of a long, cold night and your dad was not at home, and your mom called… She couldn’t get the furnace going.” “So I said, ‘I will be right out.'” Grandpa got dressed, threw on his overalls, and out the door into the freezing night he went. He was a man of duty, compassion, and very honorable. He made his way to her home—a home he knew well on his route. It was also a home he knew would have most likely an empty tank, as they didn’t have enough money to fill it and their account was delinquent, he was sure… but nonetheless, Grandpa found himself there.

It was late, and most of the homes were nothing but dark outlines amongst the black. It was Christmas Eve; most folks were long into sleep with great expectations for tomorrow morn and to celebrate the Savior’s birth. Grandpa eased the truck into the short gravel drive, the porch light and living room light giving a dim glow into the night. Grandpa knocked quietly, and she opened the door and invited him in from the building cold. She was so glad he came out and kept apologizing for having him come in the middle of the night on what was now Christmas. She explained the furnace went out, and she didn’t know how to light it. Her young kids were standing there by their mom as she tried to usher them back to bed. Grandpa wished the girls a Merry Christmas and said they should get to bed for Santa.

He then checked the furnace, then the tank… it was as he thought: empty… So Grandpa, going against the rules Standard and his truck terminal had set in this economy—and especially now that it was Christmas, it was cash on the proverbial barrelhead, accounts caught up, or no oil. Many customers were struggling… Grandpa made a moral decision that night. A decision that framed and formed my future work ethic: do what’s right. It’s an argument that still gets a lot of debate even today… heavily noted that the product is not yours, but do you let folks freeze?

Grandpa never hesitated, as his moral compass pointed north: What would Jesus do? before it became the moral and commercial statement it is today. He unwound his heavy petro hose, and he filled their tank—not just for the night, but to get them through till the next cycle. Grandpa told her not to worry: “You can settle it when you can.” He carefully primed and lit their furnace. It was a kindness they never forgot, even today in that grocery store standing cart-to-cart a few feet from the butcher counter.

She, with a tear forming in her eye, hugged Grandpa and thanked him, for she was one of those little girls huddled with their mom on that cold night when others were snuggled in bed awaiting Santa Claus… she was shivering, standing with her mom. And that night, as Grandpa got the furnace going, he placed the bill in his pocket, “PAID IN FULL” penciled across the front, stenciled on top of the column marked gallons and price per gallon.

That lady, now hugging Grandpa tighter, tears coming down her cheeks, and Grandpa joining in… mouthed the words, “Thank you, Herman…” For on that night, Santa came dressed in oil-stained overalls. On one pocket was the sewn word “Herman”; on the back, it said “Standard Oil”.

Grandpa never asked for the money. His boss nearly fired him for breaking the rules, but Grandpa kept the biggest rule of all: the rule of doing unto others. And that night and many after that, Mom and those kids were warm… Their mom would pass many years later, never forgetting that kindness of the Standard Oil man named Herman… Whenever the air chilled, she would think back to that night and smile to the man that was blind to the stigma of being poor, unlike today, and just saw other people and helped where he could.

In the grocery store, this woman who long ago was a freezing child was now a woman with a family of her own, who all knew Herman and his story. That day I think I grew a bit, too, as I didn’t just see an old man calculating the cost of beef, but a hero… called Herman, Grandpa Herman. The lady offered to repay the kindness by buying Grandpa’s groceries; he kindly told her it was unnecessary; it had been paid in full just seeing her healthy with a family of her own. He would gladly do it again. I stepped a little humbler that day, but proud as well.

And there I was, many years later, working for Amoco, and now I too was a Standard Oil man. And it was more than a job now… it was an honor to follow in Grandpa’s footsteps and my dad’s… Standard Oil man. As I would listen to Grandpa tell stories of his Standard Oil days, he would talk with pride and honor, not just for the company, but for the customers he was lucky and proud to serve. He loved driving his oil truck. It’s funny, today the things we’re proud of are boats, cars, big houses, toys, but back then it was your job. I remember seeing the photo of my grandpa and the family posing with the truck—it was awesome… it told a whole story right there.

Grandpa worked hard for Standard. He survived breaking the rules and paying out of his pocket towards customers’ bills… he survived and was in line to take over the terminal, a job he earned through hard work and was promised and told was his. Only when it came time for his boss to retire, he passed up my grandpa and gave it to his son, who was young and new to the company. He had not earned his stripes.

Then it was further an insult when Grandpa—a man that worked hard, knew all his customers and their families, even their dogs’ names, a man that wanted to retire from Standard—had a small heart attack close upon his approaching retirement. And much like me when I got cancer… the company you loved and worked unselfishly for all those years cuts you loose. Standard fired Grandpa, as they said a man with a bad heart couldn’t drive a fuel truck.

So Grandpa was forced out, and he took his work ethic to Will County to finish out his last few working years—another job he loved and gave 110% to maintain the roads of Will County and Wilmington. He became a plow driver and made it a goal to keep drivers, families, and kids safe and able to get back and forth to work, school, and the grocery store. My hero, my Grandpa Herman: a man who maybe lacked wealth of money but had a wealth of friends.