The Ride Home

The Ride Home

Did you ever have to give someone bad news and you just keep putting it off?  That's not a good procedure because it often blows up.

When I was in high school, I was away from home.  My cousin was in the group with me.  My mom called me the morning we were preparing to leave and said that my cousin's family had had a major fire the night before.  She asked me to tell my cousin so that she was prepared for the disaster when she got home.

I tried to tell her.  I didn't know the words.  I couldn't find the moment.  I was scared.  The ride home seemed so long because I had this horrible secret.  It seemed so short because I knew she was soon going to find out.

As we pulled into her driveway, she remarked, "I wonder why there are so many cars here?"

"Well," I said taking a deep breath, "There was a fire in your house last night and they are here to help clean up."

It wasn't pretty.  She looked at me with horror and disbelief.  As we walked into her burned out kitchen and living room, she burst into tears.

I knew she wasn't mad at me and was upset because of the fire, but for a long time I felt very guilty.  Maybe by telling her earlier, I could have alleviated her pain.  Probably not, but it has helped me think about how to prepare and tell people bad news when I have to.

Fear

The blog assignment due Friday, September 12, 2014 is to describe a fear.  Make the reader feel your fear in your description.

My Sample:

Amusement parks are not my idea of a good time.  When I do find myself in one, I know there are particular rides that I will not be on.  Anything that puts me on a skinny rail, in a car from which I can easily plummet, takes me 2 miles in the air and the gleefully hurtles me to the ground, otherwise known as roller coasters, will not be on my to-do list that day.

I am always adamant that I WILL NOT ride a roller coaster, and just as often I find myself talked into going, just one time.  My interior monologue goes like this:  "This is a perfectly safe ride.  It is inspected.  It has never lost anyone.  I will be fine.  I should be adventuresome, brave and do this."

Then, when I'm on the roller coaster, secured in my seat, and it gives a lurch forward to begin, my interior monologue goes like this:  "Are you crazy?  Why did I think I should be adventuresome?  It's way over-rated!  There is no merit in being dead.  I will be dead by the end of this ride either because this monster will have its first collapse in history or I will die of a heart attack!"

And so it creeps out of the station and begins the painfully slow ascent to the top.  Is my stomach lurching?  I don't think I have a stomach at this point.  Is my heart racing?  Not sure I have one of those either.  Basically, I'm brain dead.  And we haven't even reached the top of the hill!

Of course when I see the first cars begin to drop over the edge, I'm not coherent, I can no longer breathe, I cannot even scream.  Even now as I write this in the safe environment of my home with no roller coaster in sight, my stomach is cringing, my heart is pounding as I imagine that terrifying moment when I free fall to the bottom.  Just as quickly, I'm being yanked back to the top of another hill and dropped again.  Of course there are the requisite loops and twists and spirals in which I become completely disoriented.  These are intermittently scattered throughout so that I have no sense if I'm falling or spinning.  The wind is rushing by my head, my eyes are squeezed shut and I can only moan.

We roll to a final stop.  Around me there are excited voices about how absolutely awesome the ride was.  I can only babble, "Don't make me do that again!"