It's not my fault

It's actually (the photo, I mean) the San Andreas fault. My fault, the one that runs right through my back yard, the one that caused our house to leap and shake last night like Richard Nixon doing the twist, is the Rodgers Creek fault – an extension of the North Hayward fault, which runs more or less parallel to the San Andreas.

Earthquakes are never exciting until after they're over. During the shaking, I mostly just freeze in place and try to decide whether to get in a doorway or run outside. By the time I settle on a plan, the crisis is over.

The biggest earthquake I've experienced was the Loma Prieta, in 1989, during which I stood next to a freight elevator in the Kaiser hospital in San Francisco trying to act casual – I had made a big deal over little temblors before, and been scoffed at by "real" Californians who always liked to say things like, "You think THAT was an earthquake? That was NUTHIN!" When the Loma Prieta started shaking I at first thought it was the freight elevator. I was on the phone, trying to navigate the automated appointment system, and it took a few seconds to register what was going on. Eventually I noticed papers sliding off the shelves in an office across the hall, and the sound of a frantic male nurse's voice shouting, "Get in the doorway! Get in the doorway!"

Later that week I found out a friend had died that morning, the first real friend I'd ever known to actually die of a heroin overdose. It still feels outrageous, bewildering and surreal that that happened, and that I didn't know about it until after the funeral was over. When the power came back on my friends got the message on their answering machine in Oakland.

I feel like I've told this story a million times. Every time I hear about an earthquake I think of him.

Anyway. Last night's events were much less dramatic. We were watching Ranch House, that PBS series about the people who go to Texas to see if they can handle the lifestyle of an 1860s cattle ranch. Suddenly, the living room jumped straight up into the air and landed hard. We looked at each other. There was rumbling, and then everything sort of jerked from side to side. We heard things falling in the other room. I jumped up off the couch and spilled a full glass of water that had been sitting in my lap. The dogs ran out the dog door.

"Should we go outside?" I asked Mr. A.

"Wait," he said. So we waited, and when nothing else happened we did go outside. We looked around. Nothing. Back in the kitchen, a ten-pound box of Milkbones had fallen off the top of the fridge. The coat rack in my room had fallen over, sending hats and jackets flying (it looked worse than it really was), and a stack of CDs had slid off the top of an armoire and spread itself out over the floor.

The most serious damage was to Tater's fragile psyche. I'd seen him dash outside, and I knew he couldn't get out of the yard, but it took me several minutes to find him. He was hiding under this enormous pink rose bush that's climbing all over the fence in a back corner of the yard. I tried to lure him out but he didn't want to come, so I figured – whatever, he feels safe there and in fact he is safe there – and since I couldn't get in under all the brambles to sit with him I decided to just leave him where he was. An hour later, when he still hadn't come in, Mr. A went out and coaxed him out with soft words and a handful of chopped steak.