As we approached Thrill Hill, we braced our legs against each other and firmly planted our bare feet in the bed of the Chevy. Gripping the side, the truck felt hot against my cramped knuckles.
“Faster, faster!” we giggled.
Although Uncle Woody drove with his windows down, he couldn’t hear through the wind.
There was no reason for such a steep hill to exist in the asphalt. Jutting up in the flat Delta, it was the only hill in a county surrounded by miles of cotton and soybean fields. I was certain it must have been an Indian burial mound. No one ever confirmed my suspicion.
I counted telephone poles stringing along the ditch bank and anticipated the sensation without watching the road ahead.
Uncle Woody’s truck rattled louder the closer we got.
Side by side we perched inside a windstorm of whipping hair and teary eyes.
As the truck soared over the top, we sailed airborne. My stomach flip-flopped with a falling sensation as the truck bounced on the other side.
“Do it again, Uncle Woody!” we begged.
We did it again.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
Blueberry Hill – Fats Domino