You couldn’t miss all the hoopla last week surrounding the 100th anniversary of the “Big One” – the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. I don’t know about you, but on April 18 I treaded lightly, not wishing to initiate a repeat performance.
“Oh, fiddlesticks” you’re probably thinking. “That is sooooo yesterday’s news!”
Ah – but I beg to differ because, as we all know, when the centennial hubbub dies away, it’s back to business as usual. Except that in California our “business” is subject to major alterations at any given moment.
Say you cleverly scooped up the yummiest pair of shoes at the mall, which were, indisputably, the bargain of the century. There you are upstairs in front of your bedroom’s full-length mirror, happily admiring your stunning new footwear. Suddenly – before you can say, “Shake it up, Baby,” you find yourself downstairs sitting in your kitchen sink.
If you lived in Mushroom City during the 1984 or 1989 quakes, you can probably relate to this. For weeks, those bad boys left us feeling vaguely like all the blood had been sucked out of our bodies. Words like “liquefaction,” “plate tectonics” and “seismic slip” rolled off our tongues as we attempted to describe our experiences to those unfamiliar with the feel of a four-bedroom home suddenly bent on knocking you to your knees.
A hefty tremor – say anything above 4.0 on the Richter scale – certainly gets our attention. As well as the attention of folks you’ve not heard from in years. We’ll be 900 miles from a quake’s epicenter, and you can bet money that the next call you get will be Aunt Fern in Iowa checking to see if you’re OK. And once you’ve confirmed that all your vital signs are intact, the obligatory lecture ensues about the folly of living in a state that has earthquakes.
You’ve undoubtedly debated the pros and cons of living in California versus one of the states that gets stomped regularly by hurricanes, tornadoes and floods. For me, it’s pretty much a no-brainer that a serious quake every decade or two is less hazardous to my health than continually being in the pathway of winds whipping along at a bazillion miles an hour. Call me picky, but airborne debris like Federal Express trucks and livestock careening through town several times a year is not my idea of living in a sane world.
A funny thing I’ve noticed about earthquakes, compared to other natural disasters, is that they seem to carry a certain prestige to folks who’ve never experienced one. Apparently the idea of ground that shifts is so outlandish that they view us Californians as courageous champions valiantly standing up against the threat of imminent and terrible death. Either that or they believe we’re a bunch of total nut jobs.
Personally, I think the hardest part about an earthquake is that level-headedness flies right out the window the second a tremor begins. Is it stand under a doorway, crawl beneath the bed, run outside, stay inside – What??? I instantly freeze, failing to recall anything except the Earthquake Word, which, this being a family newspaper, I am unable to disclose to you here.
Therefore, during a quake I stay rooted in place until the shaking subsides. That is probably how they’ll find me should my roof fall down around my head someday. I’ll be hauled away, rigid as a bronze statue, the Earthquake Word reverberating around me, because “scared stiff” just about sums it up for me.
Thus I hope you’ve reviewed your earthquake preparedness so you’ll be ready for the next “Big One,” because we know as sure as the sun comes up in the morning, one day it’ll happen. But between now and then, let’s all walk softly.
Gale Hammond is a 23-year Morgan Hill resident. Reach her at Ga*********@*ol.com.
