Scariest Moment of My Life
In the 5th grade, my Grandma Latimore, my 4th grade sister, Bridgette, and I took a ride with my Grandpop Latimore from Virginia to Pennsylvania. It was the scariest ride of my life. Grandpop was an alcoholic who hid his drunkenness well. We were 29 miles into our trip when it became evident that he was in no shape to drive 300 miles. Grandma, begging him to turn around while he cursed her and the other cars that blared their horns at his 1965 Chevy station wagon. Grandma did not know how to drive and neither did I. Eventually, Grandpop agreed to turn around and head home, but not before making a U-turn in the middle of the two-lane highway that brought traffic to a screeching halt in both directions. If I thought the first 29 miles were bad, it paled in comparison to what was about to come. It was the most frightening night of my life. The following weekend at 11 years old, I convinced my Dad to teach me how to drive. I never wanted to be in that situation again and not be able to do something about it.