Earthquake

July 11, 2019 | Three Lakes, Washington | Magnitude 4.6 

February 28, 2001 | Puget Sound, Washington | Magnitude 6.8

July 3, 1999 | Satsop, Washington | Magnitude 5.8

Here is a shot of my front yard when it is not bucking with waves of seismic activity.

Sitting at my desk at ten minutes to three early this morning, I heard a noise.

Squeak. Squeak squeak squeak. Squeaksqueaksqueaksqueaksqueak.

As my brain struggled to make sense of the odd sounds emanating from what could only be the pocket door in my dining room, I became vaguely aware of a low, distant rumble.

I felt a wave pass under my feet, rolling fluidly from my left to my right, the whole house quietly shuddering in its wake.

Earthquake.

My brain finally fed me an explanation for these stimuli, and the surge of knowing fed me a tiny shiver of panic.

Because at the beginning of an earthquake, there is no way of knowing if this is the Big One, or just a small tremor. Unlike most other potential disasters, with an earthquake, here's nothing to see - no funnel in the sky, no flames leaping in the distance, no torrential rains or gale force winds to gauge the strength of nature's attack. With an earthquake, it's best to just assume the worst, and the smart response is to immediately take cover - in a doorway, under a table - and hold on until the shaking stops.

But my brain didn't get that far. Instead, I commanded myself to sit perfectly still in my chair, as if somehow my motionlessness would impel the earth to be still as well.

My strategy seemed to work. Within five seconds tops, the waves ceased, the rumbling ended, and the earthquake was over.

This is the story of my third earthquake.

* * * * *

My very first happened on July 3, 1999. My second- and third-born were already tucked into their bunk beds next door and my youngest snoozing nearby while I lay with my first-born on her bed. Our faithful dog, Casey, was curled up at our feet and my husband sat on the floor, leaning against the bed as he read a big girl bedtime story.

Suddenly, I felt the end of the bed pitch and sway. Goodness, that dog is really going after a bad itch, I thought to myself as I jerked up to see what he was doing.

But Casey lay perfectly still. The bed pitched on.

"I think it's an earthquake," I remember my husband saying. The first one for us Midwestern transplants, the first one for all four of our girls.

That quake didn't last long either. Within a few seconds, I dashed across to the other bedroom to find two flush-faced little girls, wide awake and cheerfully chattering about their wild ride.

My baby, as I recall, slept though it all.

* * * * *

February 28, 2001. A busy morning at our school for homeschoolers. I'd left the older three girls, ages 13, 11, and 9, under the care of a fellow mom back at the school, and run my youngest up to her Kindermusik class closer to home. While she was busy singing and playing xylophones with other seven-year-olds, I zoomed home for a quick pit stop. I was out on the driveway, about to step back into my Mazda MPV, when I felt the first wave.

As I stood on the rolling pavement, I watched as waves of energy bucked across the drive, the grass of my yard, the neighbors' yard, and disappeared down the hill below.

What an astonishing sight. I was mesmerized and horrified, all at the same time.

The next hour was a whirlwind as I scooped up my youngest from music class, where her teacher had playfully gathered the children in the middle of the room, safe from falling books and instruments, and kept up her gay chatter throughout the ordeal. The older girls were fine too, breathless with excitement as they described the flute lesson and science class interrupted by the tectonic plates shifting far below us in the center of the earth.

* * * * *

I have mixed feelings about earthquakes. In some ways, I hope I never experience another but then again, I would love to feel that spine-tingling, mind-blowing sensation right this very moment.

All I know for sure is that when the earth moves under my feet, I feel fully and terrifyingly alive.