Earthquake ! ! ! !

Earthquakes make the news far more often in other parts of the country than they do in their home state of California. The earthquake that occurred in Maryland a few years ago received a light comedic treatment in California. It was so small; the magnitude of which barely stirred the denizens’ coffee in Los Angeles. 

Californians are much more casual about earthquakes, then again, they freak out when it rains two days in a row. What’s ordinary in one part of the country, is extraordinary in another. One sunny summer afternoon in Los Angeles some years ago, our little party had enjoyed a delightful picnic lunch; various pates and crackers, fresh fruits, light whites, and now were “grogging” peacefully while laying flat on our blankets atop the grass at Griffith Park. The Symphony in the Glen concert was in full swing. The fifty piece orchestra was playing Debussy. As the dulcet tones wafted through the fresh air, I looked up at the clear pale blue sky, through the gently swaying, long thin branches of the overhead eucalyptus tree, listening to the music harmonizing with the sound the breeze evoked as it moved gently through the leaves. The afternoon sun warmed our bodies, cooled our minds and the world was indeed a wonderful place. I was appreciating that perfectly happy moment that fleetingly comes our way on such rare occasions, until the earthquake rumbled though the ground; not a jarring jolt, but a gentle roll. Nothing that would cause anything as extreme as jumping up and yelling “earthquake”, only enough to cause another slow moving head to turn and ask “did the earth move for you too?” 

The last big earthquake to come to the Los Angeles area was centered in Northridge, back in the ’80’s, and to this day is referred to as the Northridge quake. On that particular morning I was sleeping blissfully in my bed when the quake so rudely interrupted my revelries. I jumped into my hard soled slippers, all Californians keep a pair under their bed for just such emergencies, and ran downstairs to the front door, where I stood; the door frame being of Honduran mahogany, I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. And then the jolts stopped. And then an aftershock came by, followed by another aftershock. Then peace, but for all the neighbors on the street yelling back and forth “are you okay?” “we’re okay”. I prudently decided to spend the rest of the night on the sofa, downstairs, just in case. Morning arrived and all was quiet. Of course it was quiet. There was no electricity or water. I picked up the phone, only to hear the infernal buzzing that comes with out of order lines. Nothing to do but go back to sleep. Off I shuffled, back to bed, figuring it would be a few days before I learned anything constructive about the quake, but I was wrong. The phone rang, which caused me to levitate off the sheets. My friend Jackie was calling from Switzerland to ask if I was alive. She imparted all the details while simultaneously watching CNN. The irony of hearing reports of an earthquake taking place “up the street” from someone on the other side of the planet was not lost on me. It was then I learned that telephones, land lines, have separate trunks for state, country and international calls, ergo the call from Switzerland was viable, while the call to the neighbors was not. Shake, rattle and roll.