Posts Tagged ‘Santa Cruz history’

It’s hard to believe almost 20 years have passed since the Loma Prieta quake, it seemed like only yesterday. To this day I thank the lord that I was too lazy to get up when my alarm rang at 5:00 p.m., otherwise my son and I would have found ourselves under the rubble at Ford’s. I remember feeling a bit queasy, then came the first jolt, roll, and shake. At first I tried to be cool, telling myself it would be over soon, but when it didn’t I remember looking out my second floor bedroom window and seeing the levee roll up and down like a wave, and the bridge connecting to the Boardwalk had a life of its own. Of course, the phones were down, my first thought was of my nieces and nephews who lived on the other side of the bridge on lower Ocean.

After seeing they were okay, and when my sister and brother-in-law arrived, we went on to check on my boss and her husband. Again, all was well, so we went home to try to figure out what to do. My sister’s house was destroyed, so everyone stayed at our place. I remember the National Guard at our doorstep, delivering cases of water (in soda bottles?) and asking if we were all okay. The aftershocks kept us up all night, but at least we were alive, and together.

I applaud Safeway on the west side for stepping up to the occasion, like schoolchildren we were given paper bags, pens and were instructed to put down the prices of the items in our baskets, then the checkers rang up our purchases on hand held calculators. The gas line was unbelievable, but again everyone worked together to get though what will probably be the biggest disaster many of us would live to tell about.

On the third day, my children wanted to go back home (Stockton), so we loaded up the car with all of our valuables, and my brother came to help us navigate our way out of Santa Cruz County. I remember thinking this was not a very good idea, but my children’s safety and state of mind were my biggest concern. Unfortunately, somewhere near Morgan Hill we hit something, the tires blew and the next thing I knew my brother and son were trying to get me out of the car. My daughter was ejected out the back window and broke her arm. Unfortunately, I sustained some very serious physical injuries and spent the next 7 days at the San Jose Trauma Center.

I have lived in California all of my life, but I will always remember the ’89 quake, not only for its magnitude, but for the impact it made on my family’s life. We returned to Santa Cruz and my son still makes it his home today.

By Rose Tafoya

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This earthquake story comes from the Santa Cruz library’s collection of a handful of stories on the impact of Loma Prieta and its aftermath on its various services. The home page for the collection is here. And, the following story by Fred Ulrich, branch manager at the Boulder Creek Library, originally appeared here.

I was sitting at my desk in the Boulder Creek Library talking on the phone with another member of the staff, Gary, who was in the Central Library. It was a phone with an extra long cord, so I stood up and paced away from the desk while still talking. I heard the rumble and soon found myself under the doorway leading to the circulation desk. I have no recollection of this, but Gary tells me that the last thing he heard before the phone line went dead is me saying “Oh no!”

In one of the first tremendous lurches and from my point of “safety” I saw an entire range (15 feet long and 8 feet high) of books and bound National Geographics crash down on my desk–where I had been sitting a few seconds before. It didn’t slump or slide or cascade or tumble. The entire range slammed down in one thunderous motion. I would not have fared well if I hadn’t had that long phone cord. Yet, I distinctly remember observing the event in a calm and open manner, as if the forces were so immense my personal endangerment was somehow inconsequential.

I saw another staff member, Suzette, dive under a protective shelf, I looked through the dust at the groaning ceiling and just held on. After about 10 seconds I knew this was big and wondered if this was IT, the BIG ONE. I seemed likely that the roof would give way at any moment. I also thought that the redwoods on our deck could crash down on us. Still, I remember being more awestruck than fearful. The event was so dramatic that I saw it with fascination and an odd nuance of delight.

When the shaking subsided I called out to ask if anyone was hurt. There was no reply. I called “Suzette, are you there?” Suzette emerged from her sheltered ledge saying she was o.k. I started to walk into the stacks and a strong aftershock made the floor feel like a boat at sea. There were only 2 patrons in the library at the time, both unhurt and relatively unfazed!

We evacuated the building but then I remembered that my keys were on my desk under the formidable rubble of the collapsed shelving. I gingerly returned to the building and, laying on the exposed side of the shelf which was at a 45 degree angle and resting on my desk, I reached through the shelving and began clearing away the debris to get to my keys. Of course, along came another strong aftershock and this time I did feel fear. Scurrying to the protective doorway until the aftershock subsided, I returned to my digging and found my keys.

Before leaving I took a quick tour of the library to make sure no one else was there. There wasn’t but I noticed something amazing. The goldfish bowl on top of the young people’s desk was still sitting there with goldfish swimming merrily about!

After returning to our parking lot where Suzette sat cross-legged on the asphalt, I noticed the restaurant chimney across the way had collapsed on to a car breaking its windshield. Two teenage girls had been on their way to the library and joined us in the parking lot. We all sat in there with aftershocks coming every few minutes. It’s a strange sensation when the wave travels right out of the ground and into one’s body.

After delivering the young people to their home, I drove cautiously down Highway 9 which was strewn with boulders large and small. Coming into Santa Cruz, I saw the fire and dust from downtown but headed to my home which was partially off its foundation. My family slept that night and the next few in our VW camper.

The following day the maintenance man and I climbed atop the Boulder Creek Library’s very pitched roof to reattach the woodstove chimney which had broken loose. As we crawled slowing along the topmost ridge we defused the tension with dark humor about our prospects up there. But all went well and we’re both still here today.

By Fred Ulrich

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It was time. Obediently, Marketing assembled in front of Human Resources and counted noses, then filed out through the vast, slick-floored maroon-and-silver lobby. Job-seekers, huddled like troglodytes in cavernous velour armchairs, glanced up from incomprehensible computer journals as the troupe passed.

“Hasta la Vista!” called out blonde Annabelle Hopf from the reception desk, waving gaily.

Nobody waved back. Silently, Marketing crowded through the front door into the parking lot to distribute itself—grunting, squeezing, joints popping-among three cars. The dutiful caravan wended a short, cramped distance to downtown, parking on River Street to avoid the noon traffic jam.

Then they shuffled—like so many ducklings or kindergartners, Sue thought irritably, behind Al Cooke, their Director, all the way down Pacific Avenue to the Palomar Restaurant. Sue noticed that she was dragging her feet, just as she had on field trips back in elementary school. And she felt an insistent, annoying urge to hold Bill Pinkney’s hand as he trudged along at her side.

A full year after the earthquake, Pacific Avenue still lay strewn about in raw asphalt chunks, as if ripped by an angry behemoth: post-Godzilla Santa Cruz. Deep, refuse-littered canyons that were the graves of buildings yawned on either side. Sue felt vaguely ashamed peeping down into them, their broken rusty girders and moldy blockite foundations helplessly exposed like the underwear of dead old ladies.

Overdressed and overemployed, Marketing edged self-consciously along cyclone fencing and across broken pavement, past irreverent youth of all styles and commitments, past blowsy older shoppers and Gabby Hayes homeless. The sun glared down unobstructed on the ruined street, startlingly hot. The March of the Toy Soldiers. No, The Procession of the Damned, Sue continued bitterly. And guiltily too. Because it was really very nice of the company to buy them all Mexican lunch every other Thursday, just Marketing, a chummy little claque, no interlopers from Admin or MIS. Our Tradition, Al termed it.

Of course, the cold steel of corporate coercion glinted out from the velvet glove dealing enchiladas. And for some, fear was the “especiale” on the menu, since Al often chose this occasion to call someone aside and mention in his offhand way that someone was “under evaluation”—that gut-piercing, margarita-negating corrida, the guacamole curdling beneath a stinging salsa reflux, the beans hitting the stomach floor like a jai a’lai serve. Poor Mac Morgan had gone positively verde on hearing his summons. Or was it only the restaurant’s green-tinted skylight that made them all look as if they were lunching in the Gulag? Sue caught her own reflection in one of the few storefront windows left unboarded: limp, she thought. Her hair drooped from its center part, too dismayed to curl. The mouth was petulant, impotent. Even her large brown eyes retreated, peering back at her accusingly like those of a war orphan.

Mac was history now, Sue thought bitterly. No more Gary Larson cartoons on her chair in the mornings, no more Star-Trek festival fliers. “Morgan’s problem was, he thought like an engineer, not a marketing pro,” had eulogized Al, Mac’s unrepentant executioner, punctuating his remark with an analytical pursing of the lips that lifted his jowls a good inch and caused him to resemble something that lurks in a coral reef.

Only an hour, Sue told herself. This will soon be over. The hardhats, rulers of the rubble, bestrode their ‘dozers like cowboys, lazy-hipped, their proud torsos gleaming with honest sweat. Beneath them, the marketing group, children yet again, gaped at serrated iron shovels and mighty saurian pincers groaning and roaring as they gnashed at massive slabs of concrete and masonry. Sue became disoriented, as she always did now when downtown, all illusions demolished forever that afternoon. No stability. No shelter. No safety. Not on this deceptive, faulted earth that could suddenly lurch into animistic life and sway like a hula dancer’s hips. Not in the treacherous ocean either, with its hidden riptide pythons. Not in the universe itself, only a big balloon after all, heedlessly inflating toward some cosmic pop. Or worse, dribbling back over the eons to a flaccid little virtual particle, all grandeur mummified.

Certainly not in love. The sudden indoor cool, and the remote vaulted ceiling of the Palomar made Sue want to kneel and pray, as she had done once before in Notre Dame (and during the earthquake too), her atheism expediently discarded in the face of God’s indisputable hegemony. Kneeling beside her in the church had been a Sorbonne student nicknamed Du-Du. On the wall of his Rue de L’Harpe garret had hung a Roy Orbison poster. He had serenaded her in fractured English with “Running Scared.”

Scared. Some fifteen years later, the earthquake had caught Sue and her ex-husband Tod bickering over the Visa bill. He didn’t give a damn what her lawyer said, why should he have to pay for half of her psychotherapy (that his own infidelity had made necessary)?

“You punished me by seeing the most expensive shrink in the county.” Tod’s blue eyes were as cold as freon. She would not give him the satisfaction of admitting that he had broken her heart, that on learning of his perfidy she had dashed to the telephone directory and dialed the only therapist whose ad was big enough to read through her tears.

“And what about these charges for that cozy little hideaway in Calistoga?” She counterattacked, waving the bill. “You took her to our honeymoon resort? I’m supposed to pay half of that?”

And suddenly, as if fed up to here, the earth had shrugged, shuddered with disgust. The house groaned, rocking back and forth; massive cracks clove the walls. Sue and Tod froze, stupefied: What manner of divine retribution had their squabbling called down? Sue suddenly recalled reading of a woman during World War II convinced that her own turds were torpedoes sinking allied ships. Had they been?

Desperately, Sue and Tod grabbed for each other, swaying, praying aloud as the house danced like a Max Fleischer cartoon. With a cry, they toppled together and rolled across the floor, sheltering one another’s heads. So must Sodom have collapsed, amid wails of terror and remorse. I didn’t mean it, Sue prayed desperately, that seventh grade cussing contest, that high school debate, Resolved: God is Dead.

And then it was over. The earth convulsed one last time and lay still, as if spent, handing them back their lives, a miracle. Sue and Tod wept with relief. Bursting with gratitude, they apologized, gushed concessions. How selfish they had been, how misguided. Everything was so clear now. Life was too precious, too uncertain to squander in trivial conflict. Yes, yes, cherish the moment, the priceless gift. Chastened and a little smug, they swept up glass, nipping from a bottle of brandy, tsking in sympathy as news poured from the radio.

But late that night, Tod had left again after all, dressed silently in the dark and let himself out. Sue had awakened alone at five a.m. to the wail of sirens, sitting glumly amid the aftershocks, indifferent to doom. Let it all end in rubble then. Let the whole rotten world come down on her.

“Hey Sue, what’s your pleasure?” Bill nudged her arm

“Ondalay, ondalay,” prompted Al from the head of the table.

“I’ll have the chile verde burrito,” Sue responded, her appetite gone.

“To your left,” whispered plump Aimee Landsman, “don’t look now, is the man who broke my old boss Sally’s heart.” The heartbreaker was battling for control of an elongating cheese string. Maddeningly elastic, it resisted his efforts, dangling stubbornly from his lips across his fork, stretching toward his tie. He looked up, and his eyes met Sue’s. She made a scissors motion with her fingers. He grinned and winked.

“Watch out,” said Aimee.

“When the worst has already occurred,” answered Sue lightly, “one has nothing left to fear. Or to put it another way, you can’t fall off the floor.”

“I fell off the floor,” said Aimee. “During the earthquake my house broke into four pieces, and I fell off the kitchen floor.”

“Onto what?”

“The kitchen floor. But it was five feet lower.”

“I’m sure there’s some fundamental insight to be gained from that.” Sue grinned and tossed her hair, a coquette, fearless.

“So we figured that pricing was the key.” Bill hoisted a chip trembling with salsa.

“No way, Jose,” shouted Al. “You’re off base as usual. Think about the margins, sonny. Where have you been for the past six months?” Salsa dropped like tears onto Bill’s menu. “No way, Jose,” Al said again, this time to the waiter. “I’ve got the wrong burrito filling.” He pouted. “Where’s the beef?”

“Speaking of the worst, I saw Tod yesterday,” said Aimee. “He pulled a sad face, said he’ll always love you.” Sue rolled her eyes.

“A talent for deception.” But he had loved her once, hadn’t he, rhapsodizing over her dark eyes, her mouth, the way the stem of her back curved beneath his hands. In bed, their contours had fitted perfectly, notched in all the right places, a solid marital foundation if ever there was one. Yet, even then she had been preparing for the cataclysm (not if, but when), bolting her love firmly, warily to the (unreliable) earth, holding herself apart. Needing him the more for that.

The beige flanks of Sue’s burrito split and eroded under her indifferent fork. Entrails of green rice and pork spilled out. The meal was ending, she noted with relief, those about her rising with conspicuous grunts and groans of satiety. Sue tossed her napkin gratefully onto the table

“I miss Mac,” she said. “Nothing’s the same.”

“That’s for sure,” said Bill. “The Mac’s working in Sunnyvale now. He hates the commute, but he’s holding up.” And what else could one wish for after all, Sue decided, but to hold up? To hold up was enough. It was everything.

Like a bad dream, Al Cooke materialized at her side and Bill melted away. “Sue,” said Al, “Would you step into the bar with me please? I’m afraid we’re due for a chat.” His face was so close that she could easily distinguish the graphite-colored bristles on his jaw, the frijole smear beside his mouth. His eyes were a colorless glaze. Such must be the last human image afforded a condemned man: a close-up of his own executioner, all details in place for one final, eternal impression. Al took Sue’s elbow and steered her toward the bar, away from the others.

No reliable way to predict: Deep in Sue’s molten core, a cauldron of magma heaved and lurched. A plate shifted and suddenly gave way, rupturing swiftly along the fault. Fissures wrenched open like rosy gashes. Her mantle shuddered as seismic waves, amplified by loose upper sediment, made their way toward the unsuspecting crust. Her legs began to tremble, her head swayed as the inner momentum grew. Tremors reverberated along her skin. Al ordered two coffees from the bartender, and Sue took her seat beside him. In her ears was a roaring, and a tinkling not unlike that of breaking glass.

by Linda Boroff

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