: Henry Fennell
: Blind Hill
: BookBaby
: 9781543916218
: 1
: CHF 3.10
:
: Ratgeber
: English
: 182
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
It the late spring of 1968 and 13 year-old Coy is looking forward to the 7th grade dance, to the end of the school year, and to a summer of baseball and fishing. His plans are shaken when a civil rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King is murdered 50 miles away in Memphis, Tennessee.The people in the town of Harpeth Junction are on edge and unsure about the possible effects from the racial unrest nearby. For Coy, the is he dance goes badly and and two boys, one from Chicago and other from St. Louis, enter Coy's life most unexpectedly. Follow these three boys through a summer of discovery and drama - a summer that will change their lives in ways that could not have imagined in 'Blind Hill'.

Chapter 3

We all suffered through the final few days of school. Summer was coming; baseball was coming. There was no use for any of us or the teachers to pretend that school could go on as it had. No one could focus. Homework ended and we spent our time on little projects designed to kill the time remaining in the school year.

Our English teacher asked us to write about our plans for the summer. Easy enough, I was going to play baseball. I was sure of that. Then she said list more than one thing. The other thing for me would be staying with my granddaddy. No one in the world welcomed me like he did and staying with him was a great joy. My grandmother died when I was ten and he had drawn me even closer to him since then. He would have little jobs on his farm for me and there was good fishing at the large pond on the place.

“At my two favorites places, “I wrote, “a baseball field and my granddaddy’s farm, that is where I will spend this summer.”

Momma drove me out to the country the day after school ended. I would get to spend a couple of days with Granddaddy, then come back in town for the start of baseball. His farm was located about seven miles out from town near a little crossroads community called Blind Hill. There was a small general store, a cotton gin, and a schoolhouse at the center of the community. Everyone knew everyone, of course, and there were few secrets among the people there. I was not a local, not exactly one of them. I was connected to Blind Hill through my mother, my grandparents, and an aunt and uncle who lived there. I was a town boy, but I did love the place.

Granddaddy was stooped over in his strawberry patch when we got there. He smiled big and waved, calling out to us right away as Momma drove down the lane to his house.

“Come help me get some strawberries,” he shouted to us.

“I’ll be right there,” she answered with an even bigger smile.

My mother cherished the time she could spend with her father and she knew he was out there in the strawberry patch that morning because of her. We would gather several quarts of berries for her to take back home and freeze for the winter. I would pick a little bit and eat a little bit. Nothing tasted better than a big, ripe, juicy strawberry from Granddaddy’s patch, nothing I could think of.

A short time before all the berries for the day were g