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One of the last full-service gas stations closes in Weatherford

Donnie Carney pulled down the bay doors one last time Tuesday at Don's Chevron in Weatherford.   

WEATHERFORD — Donnie Carney pulled down the bay doors one last time Tuesday at Don's Chevron in Weatherford.

For 44 years, he always raised them again the next morning and then greeted each customer.

"I never thought anything about self service,” he said. “I enjoyed meeting people."

So he pumped the gas, washed windows, and checked the tires and oil. A gift, especially for older customers.

On the last day at one of the last full-service filling stations in North Texas, a few regulars stopped by. An elderly woman surprised Carney with cookies and a card as he sat in the now empty service bay.

Donnie Carney reminisces about the full-service station in Weatherford. 

"Just a little thank you for all the many things you did,” she told him.

"Well, thank you sweetheart,” he said with a smile.

Donnie and Betty Carney are retiring. He’s been pumping gas and fixing cars since he was 22. He hits 70 this summer.

Donnie bought the station in 1978 and he needed Betty’s help.

"She pumped gas," he said. "She changed oil. She fixed flats."

Betty said Donnie woke each morning at 4:30 a.m. to open the station. They’ve never had time for a week off together. Still, she says communities lose a little something when one more person-to-person business vanishes.

“Lose heart,” she says. “I know that sounds silly coming from a service station, but it's service that we gave to people. But we got a lot back in return from our customers.”

Their kids and grandkids worked at the station located a few blocks south of the old Parker County courthouse, where there’s no slot to shove a credit card into the mechanical pumps. At the station, filling up often meant catching up with a neighbor.

"I'd come up and say, 'Sir, what can I do for you today?'” Donnie said.

Donnie gave himself a 10-second rule. When a customer drove over the bell hose, he gave himself 10 seconds to respond. The bell is gone now. Countless dusty hooks reach out from walls and ceiling where belts and hoses once dangled like moss. The big orange 1957 air compressor sits in a corner, silent as the memories of customers long dead.

“That I just loved,” he said, eyes reddening. “And they’re gone now, but I still remember them.”

And he can still hear the bell that dinged each time a car pulled in. And he always will. Betty took it home to put on their driveway.

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