One of the towns I lived in while growing up was Prairie City. For a couple of years, we lived in an apartment above the grocery store, overlooking the town square. The town square was my front yard.

There was a bandstand to jump from, trees to climb, and a huge old lilac bush that was hollowed out in the middle. This was my secret hideaway, my clubhouse, a place I could live.

Peering out between the gnarled branches, I could see the town folk going about their business, the hustle and bustle of a 1950s farming community — the feed store, locker, Terlouw’s Ford Garage. In the showroom of Terlouw’s was a brand new red and white, 1957 Ford convertible, with one of those convertible tops that retracted into the trunk — a gem of post-war industrial America.