Tag Archives: Long Beach Earthquake

“The Big One”

Cold rain drizzles down outside my living room window but I’m snug and warm, curled up on the sofa with my dog Kieran. Outside, the garbage trucks rumble down the street. Most of the houses on my block are small cottages with proud brick chimneys built in the 1920s. They are cozy, sturdy, safe havens that have sheltered people for almost 90 years. It has been a stormy March and everyone wonders when the next dry day will be, but we’re used to rain and it’s quiet and peaceful on my street. Bansuri flute music flows out of the stereo in serene waves. I have hot water, tea in the cupboard, and food in the fridge. The furnace is working. Water comes out when I turn on the faucet.

Just now, I appreciate these things. A lot. Today I don’t take a single one of them for granted.

Five thousand miles away in Japan, other people’s houses were destroyed in a catastrophic earthquake and tsunami. The news on TV shows heaps of splintered wood instead of buildings. The devastation goes on for miles. Whole towns have been wiped out. Countless numbers of people are dead, missing, or homeless. People farther inland whose homes are still standing are without electricity, heat, or water. It’s snowing.

Here in Portland, the local news stations bring geologists in to warn that the Cascadia fault off our coast is identical to the fault in Japan. They say we could be next.

I lived my whole childhood in fear of the atomic bomb. We had air raid drills at school, as if crouching under our desks would save us! I grew up in the time when people built bomb shelters in their yards. Whenever an airplane flew overhead, I was afraid it would be the one that would drop the bomb. The cold war threat stayed constant during my high school years. I played Bob Dylan’s song “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” over and over. I wrote down the words. I memorized them.

I’m not sure when the nuclear bomb threat gave over to “The Big One–” the earthquake that would separate California from the North American continent and plunge the whole state to the bottom of the ocean. Quakes happen all the time in California. Some of them come with a rumble as loud as thunder. After people started talking about The Big One, I expected to die every time the earth shook. But the constant scares make you go numb after awhile, and now people say “Oh, was that an earthquake?” and go on with their lives.

My mother experienced the Long Beach earthquake in 1933. It was a 6.4 and was devastating. The schools were destroyed, but the quake happened at dinnertime when all the kids were at home. At least there was that one good thing.

The biggest earthquake I’ve experienced was the Loma Prieta earthquake of 1989. That was a 7.1. I lived in the remote rural area of Cachagua and worked in Monterey, about an hour’s drive away. That day, I stayed in “town” late and went to my sister’s house in Pacific Grove to watch a movie she had rented. We were sitting on her bed watching, propped up on pillows when the earthquake hit. It lasted for what felt like a long time. The bed swayed back and forth and we rode it out like an amusement park ride. The TV went black. There would be no more electricity for days, but as far south as we were from the epicenter, we had very little damage.

The drive home that night was eerie–there were no lights at all. I felt lost. I hadn’t realized how much light and sense of orientation come from the windows of distant houses until it all disappeared. I got home and my daughter Eithne and her boyfriend Mike had kerosene lamps lit. It looked so welcoming and cozy after the long, dark drive home. And then we were stuck. Gas stations were all shut down, as the pumps depend on electricity. I had been planning to get gas before I went home from work. Now I didn’t have enough gas left to drive back into town, and when some of the gas stations opened up, Mike gave me the gas out of his motorcycle to go and fill up.

Our water was on a well with an electric pump. We had no electricity and no water. I kept a bunch of gallon jugs of water in the kitchen because every so often the pump failed. We used those up, mostly to flush the toilet. We had a mountain of dirty dishes!

We were cut off from any news other than battery-powered radio. There was just one station on the air that night–the canned muzak radio station everybody hated, but they had a generator and broadcasted live at a radio tower on top of some hill. They weren’t canned that night. They were real and they took phone calls all night. For people who were alone in their pitch-black apartments, they were a friend in the dark.

I can’t remember how many days it lasted. We had thought that living so far from town, we’d be last to get power, but amazingly, PG&E restored electricity to the remote areas first because everybody was on wells and had no water.

As far away from the epicenter as we were, a lot of inconvenience was the only thing we suffered.

For me, the most hideous thing about the earthquake was the double-decked Cypress Street viaduct on the Nimitz Freeway in Oakland, where the top layer collapsed. The people on the lower level were trapped in crushed cars sandwiched in between the two layers. I can’t stand enclosed spaces–just thinking about that even today gives me the chills.

When I see how much devastation lesser-magnitude earthquakes have caused, I can’t imagine what a 9.0 quake would be like–and Japan has a nuclear crisis on top of all the other damage! I pray for the Japanese people. Jennifer and I are still reciting the heart sutra mantra for them, and lately my prayers have been going especially to the 50 heroic workers who are still in that nuclear facility. And I take time often to be in the moment and appreciate all that I have.

Advertisements

Long Beach Earthquake

I’m multitasking again, eating a quick supper of hummus and crackers while I fill out the United States Government’s endless online job application. Papers and file folders cover the dining room table. I’ve been at it for hours and when Mother calls, I’m so glad to be interrupted! She’s 89 now and asks the same questions over and over again in between stories about her childhood in Long Beach, California. Her family was Canadian and moved to California from Toronto when she was little.

Her father, my grandpa, was a doctor. His office was on the corner of Seventh and Elm streets, Mother says, and they lived in a house right next door. She laughs about the way Grandpa would take a urine specimen and leave the patient waiting while he popped over to the house for a cup of tea. She says it only took a few seconds to check the urine, but he’d let the patient wait for a good long time while he had his tea.

Mother was eleven years old at the time of the Long Beach earthquake. She, her parents, and two brothers had just sat down around the dining room table to eat supper when it happened. There was a loud rumbling. The house shook and swayed. The table slid. China and vases crashed to the floor and shattered into a million pieces. Mother doesn’t remember what they were eating. Everyone leaped up and ran in different directions. Mother ran for the back door.

The family car had dents and shattered windows from fallen debris, and the driveway was a rubble of bricks. Grandpa couldn’t get the car out of the driveway so they stayed outside and waited. Houses had shifted off their foundations and chimneys collapsed through roofs. Nobody dared to go back inside for fear of being crushed.

A bus from their church came and took Mother’s family to stay at another home. That family had two girls. Everyone slept outdoors on the ground. They felt safer there. Aftershocks shook the ground all night and kept coming for days.

The three girls all got their periods at the same time. It was Mother’s very first period. She isn’t sure whether the earthquake brought it on, but I’m certain! No one could buy sanitary napkins. The stores were destroyed and boarded up. Police patrolled the streets to prevent looting. The girls had to make do with rags and safety pins. It was awful, she says.

The earthquake demolished the school buildings, and the kids had to finish out the year in tent classrooms.

For months, maybe years afterwards, Mother slept right at the edge of her bed so she’d be ready to leap up and run.

“People wonder why God allows terrible things like this to happen,” Mother says. “I think earthquakes happen to awaken people–make them realize. They don’t think about how they could be killed all of a sudden, just like that. God uses earthquakes to warn unbelievers. Wake them up.”  Yep. Mother always manages to slip in a bit of hellfire. Sometimes I think she spends her whole day thinking up little nuggets of brimstone to slip into her conversations.

After we talk, I finish the job application and go online to find out what I can about the earthquake. It happened on March 10, 1933 just before 6 p.m. It was a 6.4, and 115 people died.