He’s not from around these parts
A 5.6. No way. I was sure it was smaller. I sat on the couch,
surfing the net, next to The Husband, while he caught New England
Patriots football highlights on TV.
He’s not from around these parts
A 5.6. No way. I was sure it was smaller. I sat on the couch, surfing the net, next to The Husband, while he caught New England Patriots football highlights on TV.
The first rumblings made me think that the guy who parks his semi across the street was back. The couch lurched and candlesticks on the mantle jumped to life. The chandelier in the entryway was swaying wildly and I wondered how solidly it was bolted into place up there. I wondered also where I could find the exact same one should this one crash to the tiled entry floor.
Our eyes locked. Is this what The Clash meant when they sang, “Should I Stay or Should I Go”?
The next jolt sent The Husband springing from his relaxed feet-on-the-coffee-table position to a Wyle E. Coyote freeze-frame sprint shot. He yelled up the stairs for The Kids to come down. That was the last I saw of him. He was out the door, and The Kids were close behind. I imagined the lit candles falling to the floor and quickly blew them out on my way out.
Once we were all assembled together outside, The Husband said, “That was a big one.”
“No, it wasn’t. That couldn’t have been much more than a 5,” I replied as the ground swayed beneath us. Typical Californian; giving a Richter reading before the ground even stopped moving. I felt dizzy and asked if it was just me.
Back inside, he looked at me sheepishly. “Wow, I guess I was outta there, huh?”
I laughed. Hey, yeah! Where was he when there was a near catastrophe? I teased him about it for the remainder of the evening, until we went to bed at 11:30. He had to endure three hours and 26 minutes of, “Oh, I forgot to get milk at the store today. Darn, I wish I would have remembered that at 8:04, because you were already down the street.”
He felt terrible, and I began to feel terrible for him. Even worse when it occurred to me the next day that of course he was “outta there.” He’s not from around here. He’s a Yankee. He could feed us and keep us warm during a blizzard, no problem. Connecticut sees ice storms and white-outs, hurricanes and mass black outs.
The Husband’s first encounter with California’s temperamental side was Loma Prieta in ’89. He was in the passenger side of the car, while I was driving us to Morgan Hill on the Monterey Highway. It shook the car so violently, that I thought all four tires popped at once.
“That was so cool,” He declared. That was before we knew how bad it was.
He was now an honorary Californian. Sometimes, I forget that he’s not from here until he says things like “pocketbook” for purse, “grinder” for a sandwich from Togo’s, or “package store” for liquor store – all very charming terminology which made him interesting and quirky.
It just reminds me that it’s a good thing not to marry someone who grew up in your own backyard. You’re exposed to different culture and besides, he can get the milk next time there’s an earthquake a lot faster.
