…"Got to give the engine more revs," Dad scolded.

I figured that it was already pretty loud in Manhattan, and some more noise couldn’t hurt, so I stomped on the gas pedal. I had never heard the Ranger’s engine sound like a ticked -off bumblebee in my five months of driving it.

"That’s it! Roar with the engine! Let it roar!"

Hearing my father compare a puny four-cylander runt of an engine to the king of the jungle was making my sides shudder. For all of it to be happening on 42nd street made it seem more bizarre than it already was.

"To do a high-speed launch, you’ve got to give it plenty of revs. Let’s see you pass this guy here when the light changes," he challenged.

I put all my focus on the accelerator, the clutch, and the traffic signal at the corner of my view. The light changed; my right foot mashed the gas pedal while my left expertly engaged the clutch. The Ranger flew through the intersection, and I merged in front of the drowsy driver next to me.

The mystery that held my freedom hostage was gone. The third pedal was no longer an enigma; it was an accomplishment.

While we waited. I took a look around. It was a small house. The windows were dirty and many screens were ripped. Some of the shingles were coming loose, too. It made me realize how many people were less fortunate than I was. The knowledge that I was helping a family in need filled me with pride.

It wasn’t long before Doc had come back down the hill with a stunned, yet calm expression on his face.

"You’ll never guess what they’re doing up there."

"What!" We asked.

"They’re digging a grave for Annie."

My mouth dropped open. We decided to handle this situation quietly and sensitively. As we approached the top of the hill, I noticed that no one seemed to be discouraged with the situation. The fact was, many of the relatives and neighbors had been through this several times before. There were about ten other graves, if not more, on the hill.

Within the next half hour, the dirt became heavier and heavier, and the sun beat down upon the back of my neck. The sweat poured down my face, but I was determined to keep working.

"Hi! Working hard?"

I turned around to find an elderly man sitting on a grave stone, smoking a cigarette.

"Hi. It sure is hot out here." I wiped the sweat from my brow.

"Oh yeah. You need to stay in the shade or you’ll roast like a turkey! My name’s Joe; what’s yours?"

"Kelly."

Joe and I talked for a while. He told me about the history and heritage of all the other graves. I told him about my family and where I was from. After talking with Joe and the other men, I realized that their lifestyle was extremely different from anything I had ever known. In the Appalachian Mountains, people know everyone around them personally, and they aren’t afraid to talk about death. Everyone I had talked to was very open about the situation.

"How long does it usually take to dig a grave?" I asked
.
Joe explained. "Oh, well since there’s a lot of rocks in our way, it’s going to take more time. I’d say about two days."…