As a child of the most southern reaches of Metro Detroit, I have an image burned permanently into my memory. The image results from the one trip that my family made into the actual City of Detroit each year to see my beloved Tigers.
Just south of Detroit's border, my father would grip the steering wheel firmly, gun the engine and race to the top of the Rouge River Bridge. As I looked on with equal measure terror and exhilaration, an amazing scene opened before me.
To the west a massive refinery spilled spherical holding tanks painted with pleasant smiley faces and baseball stitch lines. Vented fuels burned vigorously from the tops of tall stacks and pipes. Acrid smoke spread menacingly to the clouds. My sister and I pinched our noses as the fumes surrounded the family wheels.