I must have been eight years old the first time I saw it. Our family was taking a day trip to visit my grandfather, who had a summer home a few hours away. To get there, we had to travel a series of back roads through different towns to get to the Interstate.
We'd stopped off for some breakfast that Sunday morning and were getting underway again, when I noticed it on my right as we drove past. It was an old Studebaker dealership. Long since closed, but it looked almost as if it were preserved in amber. The neon sign was still up outside, the sales banners were hanging up along the back of the showroom...and, inside, there were a couple of Studebakers on the showroom floor. I couldn't believe it. That scene haunted me for days after.
Sometimes we'd take a different route to the Interstate, but other times we'd take this route through this town, and each time, there it was. My dad would sometimes slow up as we drove past so I could get a good look.
On one trip, he actually made a stop there so I could get out and look through the showroom windows. Things were covered in dust, and the windows had this sort of grimy film, and some of the stuff along the back wall was sagging and sun-bleached, but through those windows it almost looked like time had stopped in 1966, like a phone call from South Bend had confirmed the inevitable, and the salesmen had just turned out the lights and locked the doors.
For whatever reason, I wanted to cry. I couldn't put my finger on why, not even a decade into my life, that scene got to me. I don't know if it was because it was like looking through the window directly into a past I felt some kinship with, or if the eerie stillness of it all got to me, or if I was upset because I worried those poor cars were trapped, or what it was. All I know was, I was just short of inconsolable.
It became a minor obsession. My brother had a stereo system with a recordable tape deck and a microphone, and I used to make tapes on which I'd try to do funny things or attempt to create my own radio shows, and on one of them I went on a little monologue about this poor, defunct Studebaker dealership in a hushed, somber tone. Sometimes my parents would get me a piece of poster board on which to draw, and one of them became a canvas for a heartfelt, trying-too-hard drawing of the building, complete with all the objects in the showroom, trying to depict what it might have been like just before time froze in there.
Time passed and we found different routes to get to my grandfather's home, and over time I put the old Studebaker dealership into the back of my mind. We passed by a few years later, and the cars were gone, presumably taken elsewhere for safekeeping. Every once in a while I'd think about it, but I went on to other things and other interests.
About five years ago, hubby and I were coming back from a day trip, and our route home took us through this town once again. It was the first time I'd been through this town in perhaps two decades. As we drove along, I saw some things I remembered from back then. And I began to wonder: Is it still there?
I recognized the building. It's still there. But it's different now. It's been repainted. The cars are gone. The big plate glass windows have given way to bricks. And the sign is gone. It's now a grocery store. You'd never know what it used to be.
All these years later, for the life of me, I still can't figure out why it made me want to start crying that morning all those decades ago. How can I explain it to others when I can't explain it to myself?
We'd stopped off for some breakfast that Sunday morning and were getting underway again, when I noticed it on my right as we drove past. It was an old Studebaker dealership. Long since closed, but it looked almost as if it were preserved in amber. The neon sign was still up outside, the sales banners were hanging up along the back of the showroom...and, inside, there were a couple of Studebakers on the showroom floor. I couldn't believe it. That scene haunted me for days after.
Sometimes we'd take a different route to the Interstate, but other times we'd take this route through this town, and each time, there it was. My dad would sometimes slow up as we drove past so I could get a good look.
On one trip, he actually made a stop there so I could get out and look through the showroom windows. Things were covered in dust, and the windows had this sort of grimy film, and some of the stuff along the back wall was sagging and sun-bleached, but through those windows it almost looked like time had stopped in 1966, like a phone call from South Bend had confirmed the inevitable, and the salesmen had just turned out the lights and locked the doors.
For whatever reason, I wanted to cry. I couldn't put my finger on why, not even a decade into my life, that scene got to me. I don't know if it was because it was like looking through the window directly into a past I felt some kinship with, or if the eerie stillness of it all got to me, or if I was upset because I worried those poor cars were trapped, or what it was. All I know was, I was just short of inconsolable.
It became a minor obsession. My brother had a stereo system with a recordable tape deck and a microphone, and I used to make tapes on which I'd try to do funny things or attempt to create my own radio shows, and on one of them I went on a little monologue about this poor, defunct Studebaker dealership in a hushed, somber tone. Sometimes my parents would get me a piece of poster board on which to draw, and one of them became a canvas for a heartfelt, trying-too-hard drawing of the building, complete with all the objects in the showroom, trying to depict what it might have been like just before time froze in there.
Time passed and we found different routes to get to my grandfather's home, and over time I put the old Studebaker dealership into the back of my mind. We passed by a few years later, and the cars were gone, presumably taken elsewhere for safekeeping. Every once in a while I'd think about it, but I went on to other things and other interests.
About five years ago, hubby and I were coming back from a day trip, and our route home took us through this town once again. It was the first time I'd been through this town in perhaps two decades. As we drove along, I saw some things I remembered from back then. And I began to wonder: Is it still there?
I recognized the building. It's still there. But it's different now. It's been repainted. The cars are gone. The big plate glass windows have given way to bricks. And the sign is gone. It's now a grocery store. You'd never know what it used to be.
All these years later, for the life of me, I still can't figure out why it made me want to start crying that morning all those decades ago. How can I explain it to others when I can't explain it to myself?
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