The Fredösphere
The music and musings of Fred

Gasoline, The Ultimate Vulgarity

Have you ever thought about the process by which a barrel of crude oil from the ground ends up as gasoline in your car?  Really thought about it?

Its journey starts with a giant, impersonal corporation greedy for obscene profits.  Said corporation cuts a deal with a sufficiently pliant kleptocracy with some proven oil reserves within its domain. Then a crew of filthy, foul-mouthed out-of-work mercenaries build a well and draw the black goo to the surface, taking care to spill a good deal of it as they do.  The goo is loaded onto ships the size of Haiti, and those that don't sink deliver it to a nation that is so filthy rich, its "poor" people are in danger of dying from overeating.  From there, the oil is sent to a refinery.  For those of you too sheltered to understand, a refinery is a plant as big as a mid-size city devoted to converting crude oil into carcinogenic smoke.  Small amounts of gasoline are produced as a by-product of this activity, and the gasoline is loaded onto tanker trucks driven by road-hogging, chain-smoking narcoleptics to a gas station whose location was strategically selected to make your neighborhood even uglier than it already was. The final step in the process is reserved for you, so that your conscience may be stained with the collective guilt of this obscene enterprise: you inject the shameful liquid into your car with a rubber hose that looks like it would fit neatly in the hand of an officer of a police state.

Imagine a Better Way

Now imagine a barrel of oil taking a very different kind of journey.  Imagine a journey that starts in the shade of a maple tree next to a dirt road in the rolling hills of rural Pennsylvania. Under the tree stands an oil well. This well is unusual; it is one that has been hand-pumped by members of the O'Sphere family for five generations.

Now imagine dedicated laborers carefully hauling buckets of crude to the refinery nearby. This small-time but proud operation fits inside a single large barn. Imagine the crude is poured into stainless steel tanks with care, lest a single drop be wasted. Imagine the oil refined in small batches, each tended by hand by a craftsman who has may not have a degree in chemical engineering from some fancy college in a faraway city, but who instead is steeped in the the wisdom that comes only with years of patient apprenticeship. He may not be able to pronounce big words like distillate or catalyst, but he can rub the day's batch of crude between his fingers and give it a sniff and instantly know, just know, what temperature, what pressure, and what time will be needed to extract its essense to the fullest advantage. Imagine all this work achieved without fouling the air, ground or water of this pristine countryside.

Imagine the result of this work is a gasoline of rare clarity and delicacy. Imagine this gasoline treated to further stages of improvement, stages undreamt of by the big-shot executives of global oil companies. Imagine the gasoline aged in oak barrels. Imagine some batches infused with the essential oils of herbs and exotic spices. Imagine the finished gasoline sealed in glass bottles of crystal clarity which are delivered to your doorstep, as it was in your father's time.

Making Imagination A Reality

Part of this beautiful image exists right now. The O'Sphere family is operating their one-of-a-kind business even as you read these words right now. But the final step of delivery-that which would make the O'Sphere line of gasolines available to you-is impossible for now. Unless you are one of the lucky few who live within walking distance of the O'Sphere County general store (the only retail outlet for O'Sphere Gasoline), you cannot now buy this product.

There is something you can do. Drop the O'Sphere family a line. Let them know you would like to receive home delivery.  If enough people write, perhaps this new mail order venture will save the company for another generation. Place an order, and help keep a beatiful tradition alive. For the children.