Lifts By Betty H

Lifts terrified me throughout my childhood. It was a crippling fear, and I avoided them for the better part of 10 years. I was good at covering it; I was a competitive runner from a young age, so I made a game of trying to beat my lift-taking family by racing up several flights of stairs instead.

But one summer day in Washington, D.C., my claustrophobic six-year-old self had to face the box-shaped death trap from hell.

My siblings teased me for days – the Washington Monument is nearly 170 meters tall, I was crazy to think I could climb to the top. But no bother, my dad promised me that I could take the stairs – as our forefathers had done in the olden days, before the obelisk was fitted with a lift. I was excited about climbing all 897. I recited the number over and over in my mind.

The fateful day arrived, and after standing in the hours –long queue, we found out the stairs were closed due to graffiti cleaning. My family was going up the lift. I was simply too little to stay behind. I was dragged into it. I scratched. I bit. I kicked. I wailed. And wailed some more. My poor father endured it all as he held me captive in his arms as we lurched our way up. We got to the top, and the stress and fear subsided, mainly as projectile vomit on the rest of the tourists unlucky to be stuck with us. It really was a lovely view of the city.

And my family had the smelly box to ourselves on the way back down.


in Washington, DC

 1,220

At her most convivial discoursing in a pub, a pint of ale and a large gin on the table before her

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