that is the main lesson I have learned in the last hundred years—it can all go to hell in a single breath.
I’d just woke up and was laying in bed, wishing I didn’t have chores, when the earthquake struck. The house shook like a dog shaking a rag doll—side to side, up and down. This wasn’t no rolling wave like I’ve heard earthquakes described since. It was a thorough shake. I held the bed with both hands to keep from being flung out, and listened to the dishes and knickknacks break. Pictures jumped off the walls. Plaster fell from the ceiling, making it quite a problem to breathe.
As soon as it stopped, I ran into Dad and Mama’s room. Dad was somewhat composed, considering, but Mama was pale and could not catch her breath. I went to find her a cup of water, but all the cups was broke, so I filled a Ball jar and took it in. I didn’t tell her the cups was broke. When she got her breath she took to crying and could not stop.
There was enough gas left in the pipes to make a pot of coffee, which Dad and me drank from jars, then we went out to see the street. Our block wasn’t so bad except for windows and a chimney or two had fallen. But when we looked away downtown to see where City Hall was you could see right through it. The sun was bright red, red as fresh blood from all the dust and smoke in the air. A big fire was blazing downtown, and our neighbor said Alameda had fell into the ocean. I don’t know how he knew that, but it turned out not true.
The fire grew, even as we stood in the street watching. All those gas light fixtures in the hotels had broke loose in the earthquake and then blew up. People were coming in a steady stream, leaving the fire district with trunks and blankets and what food they could find, making for the hills. Even the smallest of children carried bundles.
Little quakes kept up as the morning passed, so no one wanted to stay indoors. Dad and me took Mama to a park and found some women she knew. We left her there wrapped in a blanket. Dad wanted to see to the barbershop, and I wanted to see the fire, though I didn’t say so out loud. The streetcars hadn’t run, and it took a long while to walk to the business district, on account of waves of people coming at us. A number of the flee-ers was carrying talking machines. Phonographs. That seemed the possession they chose to save first, except some women who had ironing boards and irons.
The closer we came to downtown, the more glass was broke. Whole buildings lay on their sides, and some had fell into their own basements. Mission Street was in flames. We passed the Oddfellow Building, and it was all gone. I found out later some Oddfellows had been asleep in the rooms upstairs and they all expired. I wasn’t sorry about that.
When we reached the barbershop, the fire was almost to Kearny Street. The keyhole was too hot to put the key into, and Dad and me were so worked up over the flames that at first we didn’t notice the glass window was gone, so we needn’t use the door, anyway. We went in to save what we could. Dad got his clippers. There was no time to move the cash register or barber chair. I grabbed one bottle of hair tonic, and we ran.
Later, we went up on a hill and watched the barbershop burn.
***
The fires went two days. They stopped three blocks short of our yellow house, so we were spared much of the pain that befell others. If we had lived up by the Oddfellow Building, I guess I would have died when I was twelve, and the rest of my life would have been somebody else’s dream.
***
After the earthquake, Mom wouldn’t stay in California. She wouldn’t go in a building or stand at the bottom of a slope. She didn’t sleep at all. We were on our way back to Delaware, where Dad was supposed to stop the barber life and go into furniture, but in Billings, Montana, life changed—once more in a single breath. We got off the train to overnight in the Shamrock Hotel, and Mama was killed by a boiler blew up in the middle
I’d just woke up and was laying in bed, wishing I didn’t have chores, when the earthquake struck. The house shook like a dog shaking a rag doll—side to side, up and down. This wasn’t no rolling wave like I’ve heard earthquakes described since. It was a thorough shake. I held the bed with both hands to keep from being flung out, and listened to the dishes and knickknacks break. Pictures jumped off the walls. Plaster fell from the ceiling, making it quite a problem to breathe.
As soon as it stopped, I ran into Dad and Mama’s room. Dad was somewhat composed, considering, but Mama was pale and could not catch her breath. I went to find her a cup of water, but all the cups was broke, so I filled a Ball jar and took it in. I didn’t tell her the cups was broke. When she got her breath she took to crying and could not stop.
There was enough gas left in the pipes to make a pot of coffee, which Dad and me drank from jars, then we went out to see the street. Our block wasn’t so bad except for windows and a chimney or two had fallen. But when we looked away downtown to see where City Hall was you could see right through it. The sun was bright red, red as fresh blood from all the dust and smoke in the air. A big fire was blazing downtown, and our neighbor said Alameda had fell into the ocean. I don’t know how he knew that, but it turned out not true.
The fire grew, even as we stood in the street watching. All those gas light fixtures in the hotels had broke loose in the earthquake and then blew up. People were coming in a steady stream, leaving the fire district with trunks and blankets and what food they could find, making for the hills. Even the smallest of children carried bundles.
Little quakes kept up as the morning passed, so no one wanted to stay indoors. Dad and me took Mama to a park and found some women she knew. We left her there wrapped in a blanket. Dad wanted to see to the barbershop, and I wanted to see the fire, though I didn’t say so out loud. The streetcars hadn’t run, and it took a long while to walk to the business district, on account of waves of people coming at us. A number of the flee-ers was carrying talking machines. Phonographs. That seemed the possession they chose to save first, except some women who had ironing boards and irons.
The closer we came to downtown, the more glass was broke. Whole buildings lay on their sides, and some had fell into their own basements. Mission Street was in flames. We passed the Oddfellow Building, and it was all gone. I found out later some Oddfellows had been asleep in the rooms upstairs and they all expired. I wasn’t sorry about that.
When we reached the barbershop, the fire was almost to Kearny Street. The keyhole was too hot to put the key into, and Dad and me were so worked up over the flames that at first we didn’t notice the glass window was gone, so we needn’t use the door, anyway. We went in to save what we could. Dad got his clippers. There was no time to move the cash register or barber chair. I grabbed one bottle of hair tonic, and we ran.
Later, we went up on a hill and watched the barbershop burn.
***
The fires went two days. They stopped three blocks short of our yellow house, so we were spared much of the pain that befell others. If we had lived up by the Oddfellow Building, I guess I would have died when I was twelve, and the rest of my life would have been somebody else’s dream.
***
After the earthquake, Mom wouldn’t stay in California. She wouldn’t go in a building or stand at the bottom of a slope. She didn’t sleep at all. We were on our way back to Delaware, where Dad was supposed to stop the barber life and go into furniture, but in Billings, Montana, life changed—once more in a single breath. We got off the train to overnight in the Shamrock Hotel, and Mama was killed by a boiler blew up in the middle
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