Turns out that the earthquake that left the greatest impression on my life actually occurred in 1987, not 1986 like I recall. Furthermore, it was a 5.9 magnitude quake, and I could have sworn it was a 6.1. AND, the quakes epicenter was in Rosemead, California, not Whittier, as I always thought.
So, when I tell you that I remember the quake like it was yesterday, if I were you, I’d be a bit skeptical.
Suddenly I’m a bit skeptical, and it’s my memory.
Now, when I tell you that I was loading the dishwasher before school when the quake hit, I’m pretty sure I’m telling you the truth. I recall that the window over the kitchen sink where I was standing was a garden window with a bunch of figurines on it (hey, I didn’t decorate the house). Those figurines did the dance of their lifetime. Some of them even lived to tell the tale.
It was the first big quake of my lifetime and was something we (and by “we” I mean others that felt the earthquake too) talked about for years. We still do, actually. When it comes up.
Everyone had/has a story to tell. Where they were. How they felt. What was damaged.
Except my brother.
My brother was riding his bike to school and didn’t feel a thing.
I’m pretty sure he feels ripped off.
I mean, I would.
This memory was prompted by the illustrious Mama Kat.