Although no one who didn't have to would ever venture inside Throw up great clouds of smoke, churning out vast pools of cement, cords of lumber, spools of rolled steel, machine parts of every size and description. It is June 1959, and, three shifts a day, they With modest bungalows and named for trees and exotic heroes and local luminaries, interrupted at intervals by high-steepled churches. Imagine you live in a town of twenty, or fifty, or one hundred thousand souls-in Indiana, perhaps, or Illinois, or Missouri, or Tennessee-with a colonnaded red-brick city hall at its center, a Main Street running its breadth, avenues rimmed Barry Goldwater and the Unmaking of the American Consensus
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