When I was a little kid the long, narrow building beside Suburban Soul and across Cole Street from the senior center used to be a garage and Goodrich tire shop that my uncle, Joe Semanski, owned and managed. I’ve discussed this business in previous columns and have no desire to describe it again. Suffice to say, it was the noisiest place I’d ever been in and the loud clang of sledgehammers against iron wheels actually hurt my young ears and may have caused nerve damage – a condition that, years later, was further aggravated by several rock concerts. (At this stage of my life, it’s a wonder I’m not stone deaf.) But mostly there was the irritating odor of burnt rubber. Indeed, that terrible smell is permanently etched into the deeper recesses of my reptilian mind.
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