On the Eve of the Great Earthquake

images, courtesy of CA Department of Conservation

Every April 18th I ponder the fateful events my great-great, and great grandparents endured that very early morning, and for months to follow. With toddler in tow, and possibly pregnant, my great grandparents fled their South of Market flat to cross the Bay to join family in Larkspur, Marin County in the north. Their home in San Francisco and entire neighborhood would burn to the ground.

Just getting out of The City was a chaotic and prolonged process involving camping out, somehow staying warm and fed, and waiting up to weeks for a spot on a boat heading in the right direction. None of the details of this stressful journey or of the frightful predawn earthquake, which they were lucky to survive, have been retained by the family other than my dad remembering his grandmother spookily describing how the armoire “walked across the room.”

Thirty some odd years later her unborn son would become a San Francisco firefighter, followed by his son, my father. Like many native San Franciscans I exist because of that earthquake, and the sharp turn in the road of life’s journey it took my ancestors down.

My grandfather was a tireless explorer and true California geographer. He knew and loved the varied landscapes and far flung human geography of our State. Since I was a kid I felt obligated to follow this heritage, and compelled (obsessed) to truly understand every corner, every place name, every geologic intricacy, every geomorphic oddity, every texture of landscape, and every wonder of nature’s mosaic, of California.