On August 31, 1986 my mother's current boyfriend (or as I like to call him - stepfather from hell) decided to "treat" me to Disneyland. He said we'd be there from opening to closing - and he didn't wake up until the park had been open for 90 minutes.
We finally got on our way around 11:30am, but he forgot his smokes so we pulled off the freeway at Carmenita in Cerritos. He ran into the grocery store, got stuck behind a person writing a check (it really made him angry that it took so long), so he ran out complaining and we were off once more - but he missed the freeway on-ramp. As he was cursing the general existence of freeway planners, the world exploded.
Aeromexico Flight 498 was struck mid-air by a small, private plane. The DC-9 came falling from the sky in a firestorm onto the unsuspecting residential neighborhood, and I was there to witness it happen right before my eyes.
I still have nightmares about the motorcyclist that laid down his bike and immediately began undressing to cover the various body parts that were raining down all around us...the lower arm that landed approximately 10 feet from my backseat window is etched into my psyche forever.
82 people died that day...and he decided to still take me to Disneyland.