GATHER ’ROUND THE FIRE, FOLKS, AND LET UNCLE CAR AND DRIVER TELL YOU A LITTLE STORY. Some people might call it a fable or a fairy tale, but there ain’t fairies in this tale or brownies or sprites, not even a wisecracking woodland gnome. Where were we? Right, way back in the mists of time known as the 1920s, before interstate highways and chairs that give massages, there was a land known as the Irish Hills.
Now, that name is what fancier folks might call a misnomer, because these hills weren’t in Ireland and, truth be told, the hills really weren’t much in the way of hills, either. No, those hills were in Michigan, where any old lump is called a hill. Along U.S. Route 12, once the trail that…