When we moved to California, Karen and I were not alarmed
by the occasional rattling of windows and coffee cups and swaying of chandeliers.
We grew up in Washington state, where those frequent interruptions were routinely
dismissed as, “just another earthquake.”
We didn’t feel the recent Ridgecrest earthquake, nor its 7.1
magnitude aftershock. The epicenter was a safe 200 miles north. But they did remind
us of the day Washingtonians stopped scoffing at earth’s faults.
On April 29, 1965 the Puget Sound Earthquake, registering a
magnitude 6.7, caused the deaths of seven people and property damage estimates
ranging from $13 to $28 million. It cracked the dome of the State Capitol Building
in Olympia, near the school where I was doing my student teaching.
It struck at 8:28 AM, while I stood outside a classroom door,
waiting for the teacher to end her lesson, so I could enter the room to begin
mine.
As I peeked through the door’s small window, I felt the
rumbling of what I thought to be heavy trucks passing by. Then, I saw the shock
on the teacher’s face as her students leaped to their feet and raced for the
door.
The classroom was on the second floor of the building, so I
headed for the stairs. By the time I was halfway down, the steps were moving in
a wave. Reaching bottom, I ran to the open courtyard. I looked for someplace to
hide, before realizing there was no escape from the moving pavement beneath my
feet. I looked for cracks.
A shattered window fell from the second story of the library,
landing on a teacher’s bald head. I remember seeing blood running down his face.
At the time, my escape down the stairs to the courtyard
seemed to be playing out in slow motion. But from later reports of the quake’s
duration, I learned it all happened within 15 seconds.
That vivid memory, together with Ridgecrest’s multiple
aftershocks, made me a true believer in preparing for California’s predicted Big
One. Karen and I have been gathering supplies, as recommended, to last for three
days without access to water, food and electricity.
The anxiety of waiting for the arrival of a life-changing event
reminds me of the times our family has had to cope with the Big Ones in our
lives.
During World War II, two of my mother’s brothers, Uncle Al
and Uncle Richard, were held as POW’s, Al by the Japanese, Richard by the
Germans. Al had been captured shortly after Pearl Harbor, when his ship, the USS
Houston, was attacked and sunk. Two years later, Uncle Richard was taken in the
Battle of the Bulge.
I was just a toddler when my two uncles were released at
war’s end. Mom never spoke to me about how she handled the stress of having her
brothers missing in action for three years. I regret never having asked her.
I was a college freshman on October 25, 1962, sitting in
Professor Seidel’s philosophy class, when we learned Russian warships were
approaching Cuba, threatening a confrontation that could erupt into a
full-scale nuclear war. It was a VERY scary 13 days.
On 9-11 our son Dave was in Afghanistan, working for Mercy
Corps, an international aid organization. Time stopped for us on that day, as
we waited to hear from him. To our great relief, within a day after the Twin
Towers fell, Mercy Corps called to let us know our son was unharmed and on his
way home.
Since our move here last year to this Château Lake San
Marcos retirement community, we’ve learned a lot about coping with the anxiety over
the health threats aging brings. Greetings of, “Good morning, how are you?” are
invariably answered, “I’m good, how are you?” regardless of whether the individuals
are walking upright, or using a cane, a walker or a wheelchair.
Last week we were entertained by the legendary local San
Diego folksinger/songwriter, Steve Poltz. He began performing regularly at the
Chateau after his dad and mom, Joe and Wini, moved here. He takes time away
from his packed schedule of performances at folk festivals throughout the US and
Canada.
Steve performed here that day in his usual fashion, racing
around the room, while playing his guitar and singing, making close up eye
contact with his fans.
When Wini passed last year, Steve was at his mother’s bedside.
In her final hour, she asked him to play her favorite of all his songs, “SHINE
ON.” The words express the message Steve personifies in all his shows. Be in
the moment.
“Feel the feel. Taste what’s real. Jump in the ocean and
bark like a seal. And if you’re going to reach, reach for the sky. Smile at a
stranger. Let the tears fly. Celebrate peace. Don’t pick fights. Communicate
love. Turn on your light. Shine on.”
Pretty good advice for coping with the inevitable Big Ones
in our lives.
