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Uncle Rick’s Chrysler Imperial had fins like a rocket ship and a push-button transmission. My brother Joe and I were racing down Twin House Road south of Cottonwood, Idaho, on a dark rainy Halloween night in 1969. I was Superman. Joe a pirate. We were on our way to our Uncle Willie’s, Ted’s, and Johnny’s to trick-or-treat.
Rock chips sprayed against the wheel wells and the headlights lit up the wet gravel as the Chrysler raced into the darkness. Uncle Rick steered with one hand and flicked the ash of his Lucky Strike cigarette out the wing window. Weed-filled ditches bordering stubble-covered wheat fields flashed past. A giant bird swooped through the headlights. Joe and I jumped. The car slowed.
I leaned forward in the Imperial’s sofa-sized back seat. “What was that?”
