The razing of the former brick service station with the interesting architecture at the corner of Main Street and Central Avenue earlier this month brings back my one and only visit to that building in the summer of 1976.

That spring, with the anticipation of working two summer jobs around two working parents, I bought my first car.

Had I only anticipated this need several months earlier as I should have, I would have requested to buy the 1971 Ford Torino my mother traded in on a new 1976 Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon.

The Torino, red with a black vinyl roof, was the car on which I learned to drive and had my first date. For those reasons alone, it was special.

Instead, my mother and I went shopping along Rossville Boulevard one Saturday morning. Eventually, I selected a yellow 1969 Mercury Monterey station wagon, a totally noncool car but one I thought would be helpful in delivering parcels of all sizes for my father’s office supply business.

It cost $600, had belonged to a prominent doctor and had exactly 100,500 miles on its odometer.

Before graduation, I got to drive it to high school for several days. It was hardly the new Pontiac Trans Am or used Volvo a couple of my friends had, but I felt quite the squire to drive my own car to school.

It wasn’t long before the problems started. It was $20 here and $50 there at my friend’s father’s Exxon station and quite a few days of figuring out what to do about transportation.

One day after delivering office supplies to a place called the Beverage Barn on Rossville Boulevard, the car began smoking from the heating/air-conditioning vents. I don’t remember now if it died completely or I was afraid to drive it, but when I called the office supply business no one could come pick me up.

So I began walking and looking for a garage. I walked from Rossville Boulevard to Central Avenue, then Central Avenue to Main and Central, where I spied a garage.

Did I mention it was about 1,000 degrees that day?

This wasn’t my friend’s father’s station, though. This was a group of burly strangers who looked at me as if I were dust off the floor. They’d go get the car, they said, but it would be a while.

So I sat. In the dirty chairs. Next to the dirty ashtrays.

There was no kindly receptionist with whom to chat. I was alone and never felt so lonely in all my then nearly 18 years.

Was the car done for? Would it need a new engine? Where would I get the money? How much more would towing cost?

Eventually, we went and picked up the car and towed it back to the garage, and, eventually, I got picked up.

The problem was the heater core — I still have no idea what that is — and it was a repair of several hundred dollars.

That wasn’t the end of the problems with “The Yellow Mont,” as it came to be known in our family. It continued to need patching until late that fall when I had been assigned to cover a football game in Dalton, Ga., for the newspaper.

I wasn’t sure the car would even make it to Dalton, but I didn’t dare tell my editor. What kind of guy works for the newspaper, I was sure he’d say, and doesn’t have a car that runs right?

(Turns out, through the years, a lot of us had those kinds of cars.)

As I recall, I spent the trip to Dalton trying to calm my fears while asking God to please allow me to make it.

I also came to a conclusion on that trip. No matter what it cost me — and I knew I would have to borrow the money — I wasn’t going to live in fear of a car breaking down anymore.

Within a couple of weeks, I bought a 1976 Chevrolet Nova from a rental car agency that lasted me several years.

The Monterey languished behind our house until the next summer when it assumed a brief new life as my sister-in-law’s car while she and my brother awaited the arrival of their new one.

When it came back to me, it spent several more months gathering cobwebs before my parents threatened my life if I didn’t get rid of it.

I think I asked $250 for it and ended up getting $200 from a guy who wanted to use it as his fishing car.

If he didn’t end up drowning it, I’d be surprised.

To suggest a faith story, contact Clint Cooper at ccooper@timesfreepress.com.