CALM <i> DURING</i> THE STORM : Compared to Other Fates in Earthquake Country, Natural Disasters Are No Great Shakes

I jump up from bed and listen, alert. I hear the hisses and yowls of terrified cats. Fierce sun shimmers in a cloudless morning sky. A continuous rumble deepens to a churning. As the house pitches and yaws, I rush out back to the patio. The concrete has buckled in some places, shattered into jagged fragments in others. I stumble back to the bedroom, grope for my street clothes, rouse my snoring husband.

“Sweetheart, quick! It’s an earthquake!� I’ve said these words before but this time I add, “It’s been going on for two minutes. This must be The Big One!� He grabs his slacks, dressing hastily. I go to my son’s room and shake him into consciousness. “Earthquake!� He scrambles into his clothes as books bounce from shelves.

Oddly, I hear sitcom theme music. I wake up. It’s late afternoon. Succumbing to the 90-degree heat, I’ve fallen asleep in front of the TV. As it happens, my guys are out walking, discussing the day’s school lesson on quake preparedness. When they return, I amuse them with my daymare.

Eagerly, my son shares his survival savvy: We need an emergency kit, dehydrated food, flashlights, several 20-gallon containers of water, portable toilet, battery-operated radio and/or TV, 20-year-shelf-life battery pack, etc. He instructs us to secure the water heater, not to burn matches--in case of a gas leak--and to eat the stuff in the freezer.

Whenever calamity looms, my priority is family. The idea of spending my last moments with loved ones is comforting. I don’t mind dying, but I’m choosy about whom I die with. The thought of going to eternity in the company of strangers unsettles me. I’d much rather face brimstone with friends.

I had similar thoughts when I went AWOL on July 13, 1986. I arrived on the job at 6:30 a.m. and had barely put my purse away, made the coffee and warmed up the computer when the Oceanside temblor hit at 6:47, notching 5.3 on the Richter scale. My Hollywood office is on the third floor. Tons of steel and concrete suddenly turned to jelly. Semi-dark hallways were pierced by screams and shouts. The floor supervisor vanished. I resumed my duties.

When the second jolt struck, I got my purse and, dead calm, headed for the stairs. As I exited to the streets, others ahead of and behind me fled the building, structured on rollers and purportedly one of the most quake-proof in L.A. I spent the next 48 hours at home, watching local coverage of the damage and aftershocks, hubby and son cozily nearby. I managed to break through the overloaded phone circuits to make sure other family members were safe.

Two years later, I was forced to take the employees’ course in quake preparedness. I spoke privately to the fireman lecturer--a downright frightened man who complained the public was being deceived. He believed The Big One was imminent. He planned to leave California ASAP, family in tow. No amount of preparation could help him sleep nights.

I respected but couldn’t share his fear. Perhaps the disaster you know is better than the one you don’t. My Oklahoma kin seemed similarly blase one recent tornado season. Fascinated, I watched a dozen twisters cross the horizon. Unperturbed, Uncle Leslie and Cousin Ossie battened down farm equipment and sealed off the barn, while I gawked at a good-sized bird forced into backward flight by the wind. Inside the sprawling ranch, we helped Aunt Kathryn close specially designed storm shutters, then enjoyed lunch while the weather raged outside.

Or perhaps you become unfazed by Mother Earth--whose most destructive tantrums still manage to leave the bulk of humanity intact--when you grow up under the ever-present threat of man-made doomsday.

“Drop!� our high school chemistry teacher yelled.

Instantly bodies scrambled under desks for cover. I sat motionless, drolly watching the spectacle as the campus was transformed into the make-believe epicenter of atomic Armageddon. The teacher rolled his eyes at me and smirked.

“Class, I’m sorry to report we have one casualty.�

Everyone laughed--even me.