Within about two seconds of this morning’s shaking subsiding, there were two children and a dog climbing into bed. Luckily, I was so tired that the adrenalin wore off quickly. I still had two hours of sleep to pack in before the alarm went off.
I was probably 11 years old the last time I was in the midst of an Earthquake. My parents were out of town for the weekend, kicking it 19th-century style in Amish country (presumably before those quaint folks got all tweaked out on methamphetamine. The Amish, not my parents.). I was placed in the charge of my brother and sister (both older, emphasis on the old) and her soon-to-be-husband.
With the cats away, we mice decided to go play at Swensen’s for dinner. It was just up the street from our house, in the space now occupied by the muumuu shop big-n-tall men’s store in Sherwood Plaza. And since there were four of us, we decided to tackle their big-ass sundae. The San Francisco-based Swensen’s called their creation with eight scoops of ice cream and every conceivable topping … wait for it… the Earthquake.
We totally wrecked that shit, too. I think we were fighting over the last traces of the caramel and hot fudge. After waddling home, we played cards. Spoons, to be specific. (Scoring in Spoons is like Horse: Each time you lose a round, you’re given a letter of the word “spoons.”) Us three dudes were beating my sister so badly that she had spelled “SPOONS” within about 10 minutes. We handicapped her by letting her spell out “earthquake” instead.
Good times.
