I'm trying this new thing about writing a memory of some event in six words. Totally fun! And hopefully gets my creative juices going.
The brief story behind my Six Word Memoir:
Home alone, 16 years old, freak snow storm, slid half-way off cliff overhanging farmer's property below; two tow trucks later, truckers wanted paid, I forged Mom's signature - thus grounded for the rest of my life. Go figure.
Ok, the real story. My parents were gone, along with my siblings, so Dad could write a story about the experience of staying in a mock Fall Out Shelter for the weekend, along with about 60 other people just waiting to sleep on the floor and eat unleavened, unsalted survival crackers.
I got to stay home alone. Woo Hoo!! And Sunday morning I was coming home from church, when we had a freak April snow storm that coated the road just enough to make it slicker than snot – especially to someone who had never driven in snow. I was rounding a curve just yards from my house, when the car slowly, but surely, slid to the cliff edge of the road and ended half hanging at a 45 degree angle over Farmer Bruell’s field. You know Farmer Bruell. Rumor had it that he ATE children who trespassed into his property.
This is Farmer Bruell. One heavy snow winter, my Dad had been obsessing over Mr. Bruell. He hadn’t seen him in days. What could be wrong with him? Maybe he fell and broke his hip, and he’s laying on the floor helpless, starving and freezing to death. Maybe he had a stroke. Maybe he had a heart attack. After all, he’s old, and cranky, and grumpy. So Dad dressed for the weather and hoofed on down to Farmer Bruell’s door. Upon inquiring of his health and not seeing him for several days, Bruell blew pipe smoke in my Dad’s face while bellowing, “What damn fool would be out in THIS weather, I tell ‘ya!” And slammed the door shut.
Back to my cliff. As I sat there, scared out of my mind that I would indeed continue sliding until I fell into his field, car and everything, who should appear below me with, I SWEAR, a pitchfork in his hand, but THE Farmer Bruell, bellowing at me “Don’t you fall into my field!” I wasn’t going no where. I was petrified.
Farmer Bruell climbed up to my car and for once in my entire six months of driving, I did NOT lock myself in from “all kinds of predators” as Mom instructed, and Farmer Bruell was able to reach in through the passenger door and YANK me to safety!
It took two tow trucks to attach lines on either end of the car and very, very carefully slide it back on the road. Then these two beefy drivers walked up to my house to seek payment. Thinking my Mom would be jumping for joy that I was ALIVE, I wrote them out a check and signed her name and sent them on their way.
When the family arrived later that day, my dreams of hero worship were dashed to the ground, when Mom went into her frenzied,-I-don’t-know-what-possessed-me-to-give-birth mode, with an accusatory, high-pitched scream, “You did WHAT??” And I’m thinking I have several choices of interpretation here. 1: she is surprised that I was calm enough in the face of death to get out of the car, mildly bruised, or 2: she was worried that I actually trespassed on Farmer Bruell’s property and something would happen at dawn, like tar and feathering, or 3: she was really ticked that I committed a federal forgery act using her name, for God's sake, or 4: Her home had been invaded by two beefy tow truck drivers knowingly forcing her daughter to forge a check. I think it was all but No. 1.
So there you have my adventure in six little words, like a headline portending doom and gloom.
New driver. Cliff hanging! Grounded Forever!
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