MEMORIES OF MANCHESTER

For Whom the Bell Tolls and Tolls

Guy Bailey of Bailey’s Garage on Summer Street in Manchester, posing in front of the newly renovated gas station with new, state of the art pumps, in 1984.

The original Bailey’s Garage, which opened early in the 20th Century.

In this 1954 image, Charles Mulcahey, then 17, poses in front of the Bailey’s Garage Manchester 4th of July Parade float. According to his son, Charlie, who submitted the photo, Mr. Mulcahey worked at Bailey’s Garage throughout high school. He joined the US Army not soon after this photograph was taken.

(Photo Courtesy: Charlie Mulcahey)

Baileys_Vintage Mobiloil sign with Pegasus

Guy Bailey (left) receiving the Manchester Boston Post Cane as the eldest living resident by the Elder Brethren’s Tom Kehoe (right) in 2012.

Courtesy Image

Posted Monday, February 2, 2026 1:20 pm

I remember many kids by the cars they drove. Moose Morse rolled in late one night with a brand-new green ’68 Plymouth Road Runner, complete with a “beep-beep” horn. … And Bruce Burbine—polio survivor and Epping drag racer—piloted a souped-up Nova with quarter-mile times still chalked on the window. Rubber streaks around town often meant Bruce had been there.”

by Don Kimball

Ding, ding. Ding, ding went the darn bell.

That sound meant another customer had pulled up to the pumps at Bailey’s Service Station on Summer Street. It might have been music to the ears of Guy Bailey, but for us high school kids who worked there, it often meant heading outside—without overhead cover—into pouring rain, blinding snow, or sweltering heat to provide full service.

The bell had an uncanny habit of ringing at the worst possible moments. It would chime just as a hot Surf pizza arrived from Magnolia, or when one of us was down in the pit changing oil. Sometimes it was a customer who wanted windshield wipers replaced—usually while it was raining. By the time you got back to that pizza with wet, cold, oily hands, it just wasn’t the same.

Wearing the Pegasus

Bailey’s, with its huge Pegasus logo on the roof, was one of only a handful of gas stations in what was then just plain old Manchester—and the only one open until 9 p.m. In 1967, when I was a freshman at Manchester Jr.–Sr. High School, it became my first real part-time job. Not yet old enough to drive, it was an easy after-school commute.

Guy Bailey, a WWII veteran and Manchester High booster extraordinaire, ran the station with his wife, Laura. Guy balanced the tires while Laura balanced the books. This mom-and-pop operation gave many kids like me a chance to learn a trade—or at least earn some spending money for a comic book or a corsage.

I was proud to serve the public in my blue Mobil uniform. The shirt had a Pegasus patch on one sleeve, with your name sewn above the front pocket. Even though I went by Don, Guy had “Donald” stitched on mine. When I asked why, he deadpanned, “Well, that’s your name, isn’t it?”

Sometimes you’d grab a clean shirt off the rack with someone else’s name on it. George, Bruce, Dave, Patrick, Ed, Mike—take your pick. If a customer called you by the borrowed name, it took a second to realize you were someone else that shift.

Those were the days of full service. You pumped the gas, washed the windows, and checked the oil. One night, Bruce, George, and I decided to pull a prank inspired by a Three Stooges routine. We ran out shouting, “Super service!” and swarmed the car—one pumping gas, one washing the windshield, one under the hood. The bewildered customer sped off. Guy just shook his head.

Handling money was new to most of us, and mistakes were common. Laura would sometimes play Columbo, tracking down missing credit card slips or stray bills stuffed into uniform pockets. She’d announce she was twenty gallons short, then reappear from the back room triumphant. “I found it!”

Guy usually knocked off around 5 p.m., and then the station became teenage territory. In a town that rolled up the sidewalks after 7, Bailey’s was the place to hang out. This was the era of the muscle car, and kids constantly zoomed in and out in their big V8s, much to the neighbors’ dismay.

Big Engines, Cheap Gas

Some came for a soda or cigarettes from the vending machine. Others tinkered with engines, trying to squeeze out more horsepower. There were deals made—tires, hubcaps, even cars. In my three years there, I owned three cars, each faster than the last. A blue ’63 Mercury Comet convertible. Then a blue ’55 Chevy with baby moons and a Hurst shifter. Finally, a blue Oldsmobile 442 convertible with a four-speed and tri-power that could really fly.

Spinning the beach in summer, Beach Boys or Beatles blasting, top down—life was good. It’s a miracle none of us got killed racing each other while sitting on our seat belts. Empty cans and bottles were sometimes tossed onto the flat roof in case the cops came by. On windy days they rolled back and forth. Guy would look up, shake his head, and eventually we filled a couple of trash barrels clearing them out.

Every so often, in the days before GPS, a tourist heading from Logan to the other Manchester would stop for directions. When told they still had an hour to go to New Hampshire, they weren’t pleased.

There were unforgettable regulars. One sweet little old lady came in for snow tires. I did the job and waved as she drove off. Later that day she returned—furious. Her tires had fallen off a few miles down the road. The air compressor hadn’t been working properly, and the lug nuts weren’t tight. Thankfully no one was hurt, and eventually all was forgiven.

Then there was the guy with the Camaro Z28 who wanted to “test drive” new tires. After installation, he jumped in and tore around the pumps, tires squealing. From then on, he was known as “Joe Balls Racing Driver.”

I remember many kids by the cars they drove. Moose Morse rolled in late one night with a brand-new green ’68 Plymouth Road Runner, complete with a “beep-beep” horn. His brother Chuck had a maroon ’67 Corvette. Twins Dennis and Daniel Gannett shared a Hi-Po Mustang convertible. Pat Scully drove a red GTO. And Bruce Burbine—polio survivor and Epping drag racer—piloted a souped-up Nova with quarter-mile times still chalked on the window. A victim of polio, Bruce wasn’t the fastest runner, but “Hutch the Clutch”, made up for it with his driving. Rubber streaks around town often meant Bruce had been there!

The 100-Hour Storm

In February 1969, my final year at Bailey’s, the “100-Hour Storm” hit. Snow piled high, power went out, and drifts reached the high school roofline. Offered extra hours, I worked alongside Guy responding to stranded motorists. He had one of the few four-wheel-drive Jeeps around, complete with plow and chains. We dug out buried cars, jump-started frozen engines, and sometimes towed vehicles back to thaw overnight.

Working those long days together, I think Guy may have thought of me as the son he never had—though he never said it. He was stoic, part of what Tom Brokaw later called The Greatest Generation—men who went to war, came home, raised families, and rarely spoke of what they endured.

After graduation, I moved away from Manchester. Our 1970 yearbook predicted I’d become an Indy 500 mechanic. (Not quite.) But looking back, I feel lucky to have grown up in what Gran Collins of Eaglehead referred to as “the village” and to have been one of the “Bail’s Boys.”

“Tanks” (get it?) for the memories.

Don Kimball grew up in Manchester and was inspired to write this after reading Peter Willwerth’s award-winning essay recounting his teenage days working at a Manchester fish market. Today, Don lives in California and the host of the radio show, “Friendly Fire A Voice FOR Veterans” on KNSJ-FM, social justice radio for San Diego.