Last
Friday night at a few minutes after nine I was walking toward the glass door to
the foyer of my church, ready to lock up, when the door rattled like someone
was banging on it from the inside. But I could see through the door and there
was nobody there. The rattling was brief, but furious, and I heard neighborhood
dogs start barking. I knew what was happening. I froze in place, but felt
nothing. But 50 miles away a 5.1 earthquake had shaken Orange County and surrounding
Southern California. I went into the building with the plethora of glass all
around and checked all the doors, a little nervous now because this building
creaks and shudders even when the earth doesn’t move. But nothing else
happened, so I went home to Facebook and Twitter.
I
know earthquakes are part of living in Southern California. I enjoy the media’s
depiction of typical Californians casually sitting through the minor temblors
while sipping their half double decaffeinated half-caf, with a twist of lemon.
But I haven’t turned native yet and quakes still make me nervous. I don’t really
care for them.
I
was fascinated with natural disasters as a kid. Tornadoes terrified and
intruded me. I kept magazines with articles about earthquakes. One cover showed
the Golden Gate Bridge buckling and cars spilling off into the bay.
I watched a kid’s
TV show that had adventuring teens dealing with emergencies and natural
disasters. One time, when they experienced a quake, a few of the kids tried to
run for shelter. Another one called to them to stay out in the open. The
shelter the kids had been going for collapsed and they stayed safe in the clear
space. I took this as an important lesson. If and when an earthquake hits,
don’t run for cover, get out from under anything.
Then one evening
when was living in Hawaii, I was about 8 or 9 years old and lying on the living
room floor. Something started. I noticed that it felt like there was a
vibrating machine underneath me. The floor was trembling. My mom saw hanging
plants swinging and declared that we were having an earthquake.
Panic slammed into
me. I jumped to my feet and ran for the door to get outside before the house
came down on me. It was for only a flash, but I had never been more scared in
my life. My mom called to me and I stopped and looked back, suddenly aware that
I was almost crying, but the house was intact and there was no more shaking.
Up until that
evening, I had never known that there was such a thing as a minor earthquake.
Who would have thought
that the same thing that tossed cars of a bridge and turned buildings to rubble
could also do no harm? I don’t blame my parents for never telling me this. I
learned the fact that night, even though I could barely sleep. But before that,
my young mind never grasped that there might not be a worst case scenario in
everything. Quakes happening with no damage. Someone escaping injury hurt in a
car accident. Tornados ripping through empty land without ever sucking kids
into oblivion.
Someone might have
told me that the world is not that inhospitable. Maybe I would have believed
them. But the barrage of disasters in the media might have made me doubt.
At least last
Friday I didn’t panic, I’m grateful for that. And I’m glad that today my kids
know that minor things happen and no-one gets hurt. Real life taught them that.
Maybe it’s too bad the media never reports a perfect day where nature is nice and
everyone ends the day unscathed.