[RossGN]

My "ELDERLY" cousin posted this on a cimmunity page. "Sunnyside" is a oldevelopment of houses built after WWII Working class neighborhood. The time period he is talking abou t is likely early to mid 60s:

Wait! What was that noise?

Sunnyside – The garage behind the former residence of Wichita Falls’ own Eddie Hill, world famous speed merchant. On any given summer afternoon, you might suddenly stop what you were doing, stand erect, and listen intently. 112 other kids in various locations throughout the neighborhood were doing the very same thing at that very same moment (picture meerkats). Wait! What was that noise? It can’t be thunder. The sky is bright and clear. Listen closely. Then the noise occurred again. Without regard for consequences, you drop whatever you were doing and jump on your bike. That noise was distinct. You knew exactly what it was and where it was coming from. Eddie Hill had pushed his dragster out of his garage and fired it up. You lived over a half mile away but the noise was obvious and undeniable. You rode as fast as your legs could pedal, as throngs of kids simultaneously swarmed into the streets. They too were heading for Eddie’s house. (Remember that scene with flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz?). The lucky kids lived close by and arrived almost instantly. You arrive as quickly as possible. Jump off your bike while it’s still moving. Let it land where it may. It didn’t have a kickstand anyway. You clamored to get close. Eddie didn’t do this very often, out of respect for his neighbors I’m sure. The noise was deafening. But when he did, it was an event. You would gawk with wonder when the mechanical beast thundered and spit out flames from the eight skyward-pointing exhaust pipes. Try not to cover your ears. It’s a sign of weakness. Jostle for position. A few minor skirmishes would break out. When the dust settled, the toughest kids had the best view. Law of the jungle. Survival of the fittest. The view from the back wasn’t really that bad anyway. You made it work. After Eddie had tinkered and tuned and revved, the beast was pushed back into the garage. Everyone lingered as long as possible but eventually jumped on their bikes and headed home. Those who lingered the longest were at a distinct advantage in the next day’s telling of the story – “After you left, he let me drive it!”. At some point throughout those years, Eddie held the title of “fastest man alive”. I beg to differ. On days when he fired up his dragster, I knew at least a half dozen kids who lived a quarter-mile from his garage who could traverse that distance in just over four and a half seconds. On a Schwinn. Everyone knows Eddie’s reputation for being a really nice guy. As the years passed, I have developed a sneaking suspicion that there were times when Eddie pushed his dragster out and fired it up only under the guise of “working on it”. There is no doubt in my mind that some, if not all of those times, “working on it” was simply an excuse by a kind-hearted man to give a neighborhood full of young, excited kids a memory that would come racing back into their minds someday. Long after he had hung up his fire suit and driver’s helmet.