The moment I walked into my new office’s Christmas party at the Studebaker Museum on Chapin, I wanted to leave immediately. My coworkers had so often mentioned “Studebaker” that I couldn’t help to be aware that it had once existed, and that its vanishing had left scars on the skin of the city and on the psyches of its inhabitants.

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In the summer of 1969, I was ten years old, and I spent it doing two things: playing marbles and waiting for Sunday. I liked Sundays because of Crimson and Clover and drives to the lake.

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“Doesn’t that place look more like an aquarium than a pumphouse to you?”

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