Tuesday, October 17, 1989, was a stunningly gorgeous autumn day in the San Francisco Bay Area. Blue skies, mild temperatures, and not a breath of wind. Sitting at my desk in a Kensington law office and typing Wills and Trusts all day, I watched the clock creep ever closer to 4:30 p.m., when I would be set free from estate-planning. I told my co-worker, “Neal and I are going to have a great evening!” I don’t think my now-husband Neal and I had any specific plans – other than to follow the score of the unprecedented SF Giants vs. Oakland Athletics World Series — but we’d only been boyfriend-girlfriend about a year at that point, and newly-bonded couples can make any night great.

At 4:30 I got in my truck and made the quick trip to Neal’s and my funky Berkeley apartment. Located in a lock-your-doors neighborhood a few blocks west of Martin Luther King Jr. Way, it was a two-storey wood-frame structure. I liked to say it had “character,” carefully omitting what it lacked. Neal’s and my apartment was on the ground floor; the stairs to the second floor were tacked to the outside of the building – whenever anyone went up, the entire staircase rattled and shook our apartment. It was a noise we got used to.

Once home, I got ready to go pick up Neal, who was working downtown at Berkeley Sauna. At 5:04 p.m. I was in our tiny bathroom, brushing my teeth, when I heard someone pounding up the staircase. The apartment shook. But something was different. A very big person was going up the staircase. A monster. What?! Oh my God – it’s an earthquake!

They say the shaking lasted just 15 seconds. In that time, I carefully made my way from bathroom to living room to front door by holding on to each door frame along the way, because walking was difficult. My goal – contrary to all expert advice – was to get the hell out of that building. I did not want to be inside when floor two became floor one.

Outside, people were streaming out of homes. Several blocks over, in downtown Berkeley, I saw columns of black smoke reaching skyward. My sole focus was getting to Neal. I parked and went into the Sauna; he and his co-workers were fine, if unnerved. An out-of-town customer asked him, “So does this happen often around here?” I was to discover in the days to come that there was a curious levity among the survivors – no doubt a manifestation of the great relief that, though bad, it hadn’t been worse.

Still, we emerged from that 15 seconds as changed people amidst an altered landscape. The smoke I had seen was coming from a nearby automotive shop which had erupted into flames during the shaking. At the Sauna, one of the massage therapists, a serene, centered, and gorgeous African-American woman, told me she guessed she’d go get on BART and head home to Oakland and, though I didn’t say anything, I was both horrified at and in awe of this woman who, after the biggest quake of our lifetimes, was voluntarily going down into the bowels of the earth in the face of certain aftershocks. She was unfazed; silently, I swore never to ride BART again. (I did, however, several weeks later. After the freeway collapses, BART became the best transportation option.)

Back at the apartment, Neal and I started assessing damage. Embarrassingly, our worst “damage” was that our cable went out. We still had phone service and shortly after we returned I got a call from my then-16-year-old son, Wayne, who was living with friends in Vallejo. He was alone in the house when the shaking began; it was the first time I’d heard him sounding scared and vulnerable since he’d taken a header off his bike as a preteen and had ended up in the ER. After mutual assurances that we were all okay and checking with other family members and friends around the Bay (every post-quake phone call ended in “I love you!”), I hung up and went outside again.

Our young neighbor, Kirsten, lived in the corner apartment and was freaking out. She was 20; I was 36 – her terror gave me purpose because I could at least play the Poised Adult and calm her down. She still had cable and we gathered in her doorway – no one wanted to be inside a building – to watch in silent disbelief as the first images of the Cypress freeway and Bay Bridge collapse were televised. As we stood there, an aftershock hit – strong, but not damage-inducing.

While I comforted Kirsten, Neal turned off the gas to both our apartment building and to the house belonging to two women next door – only to turn it back on again when PG&E started warning that gas shouldn’t be turned off unless we actually smelled it.

I will never forget the urgent, uncomfortable feeling which was almost a craving – a desire to Do Something. To make things better. As the evening progressed we kept updated as to the Cypress, the Bay Bridge collapse, the Marina fires, and the twin horrors in Santa Cruz and Watsonville. My dear friend Bonita was living in Santa Cruz at the time – I don’t even remember how or when I found out that she was okay. We also followed news of the aborted World Series game – later I heard the difficult story of how a former boss who’d been at Candlestick that day had to make his way home without bridge access. What would have been a 1/2 hour trip expanded into four, five, six hours. As awful as it sounded, it paled in comparison to the story I read of a woman who walked home, barefoot, from the Financial District to Marin County. There were many such stories.

Friends who still had power kept checking in – this predated Internet access and cell phone usage so we were all relying on Ma Bell. Later in the evening, Neal’s buddy John called us and made me smile when he signed off by urging Neal to “keep Ann safely underneath you.” That night I slept – not very soundly – wearing my jeans and boots. I was terrified of aftershocks. In the morning, Neal and I decided to walk around Berkeley because, again – there was a constant sense of needing and wanting to move. A chronic nervous tension prevailed – within self, within cities, all over the Bay Area.

Passing a news stand, we saw the paper which the San Francisco Chronicle managed to eke out, despite that there was no power at their Fifth and Mission offices and they had to print off-site. The top of the paper, in all-capitals, read “EXRA EXTRA EXTRA,” and the headline was grim: “HUNDREDS DEAD IN HUGE QUAKE.”

We bought the paper and it’s currently stashed in a box in our closet. This morning I discovered that the entire 16-page edition of that Chronicle can now be purchased on eBay for $4.99. Since “only” 67 people died in the Loma Prieta quake, the headline is right up there with “Dewey Defeats Truman.”

Slowly, routine found its way back to our lives. I stopped sleeping in my clothes. The World Series went forward and nobody cared. In the days following Loma Prieta, many of us wanted to classify it as the “Big One” that we’d been awaiting for decades, wanting to believe that, finally, it was over, and we could relax. But experts almost immediately dispelled us of that notion, reminding us that it was only a taste. The legendary Herb Caen perfectly captured their prediction by calling Loma Prieta “The Pretty Big One.”

I’d hate to see bigger. On October 27, 1989, the Chronicle ran this headline: “WE ARE THE NEW SURVIVORS,” which underscores the truth that San Francisco Bay Area residents – echoing the spirit of the Wild West – are a sturdy lot. We know our future may hold another day of rising smoke and falling bridges. And we know that, meanwhile, life goes on.
—
Dedicated to the 67 men, women and children who lost their lives in the Loma Prieta Earthquake. May their memories be for a blessing.

Think of all the times in your life when you’ve sat on a folding chair. Under what circumstances. And what it felt like. They creak. They pinch and poke. As we get older, they’re never big enough. Some of us hang off the side. There are no arms, and so we don’t know what to do with ours — unless we’re holding fruit punch in one hand and a slice of white sheet cake with raspberry filling in the other. And where are we when we’re sitting in those chairs? Wedding receptions. School recitals. Living room baby showers. Church basements. Meeting halls. Synagogue classrooms. Thanksgiving with family.

These are the chairs in which we heard our child’s first school concert; the chairs we were warned by nervous mothers not to lean back in; the chairs we hauled out when company was coming; the chairs we were always borrowing and loaning. They fold up in a trunk, they stack, they rack, and they fit perfectly one under each arm. Sometimes they’re ugly greyish-brown metal, and sometimes they’re wooden with slats. Sometimes they’re a shiny basic black, and sometimes they’re painted white and decorated with bows. Often they sag in the middle from too many PTA luncheons. We can move them around from table to table, push them back, scoot them closer to our loved ones, turn them around and straddle them sitting backwards, and rearrange rows to our liking. There’s a familiarity about them which lends itself to such casual ownership.

Every day across the country, folding chairs are being set up and it always means the same thing: People gathering with a common interest. Each unfolding is an act of hope: let the attendance be good. (Those involved in community work, from fund-raising fashion shows to the annual spring chorale have no doubt heard the proud next-day report: “We had to set out more chairs!”)

Where there are folding chairs, there is togetherness and, usually, laughter. Children singing. People eating. Dancing, meeting, listening, talking, learning, marrying, unwrapping gifts. Community building and community mingling. All in circles or rows of metal chairs. We curse them when we should honor them. Archie Bunker’s chair in the Smithsonian? Nonsense. Instead there should be one perfect, squeaky, uncomfortable rubber-tipped, scarred ugly beige folding chair.

I usually like a sweet after dinner. Yes, I know that dessert is a bad habit, but I do try to be mindful of calorie intake and often choose a low-fat ice cream sandwich or something similar.

So one night a few months back after we finished dinner, I strolled out to the kitchen to get dessert. Because Neal and I like to watch “Frasier” re-runs during our meal, he had it “paused” while I left the room. Fretful that I was taking too long I called out, “I’ll be right there, honey!” to which he replied, “Take your time!” I cannot believe the effect it had on me. After a day of rushing from here to there, always hurrying, and always trying to do something more quickly, having his loving permission to take as long as I needed was a true gift.

When I came back into the room, I told him so. And, a few nights later when the tables were turned – he was out in the kitchen and I was waiting for him – before he even said anything to me I called out, “Honey, take your time!” He came back out to the living room smiling and said, “You know what? That really works – I felt better when you said that!”

Since then, not only have Neal and I developed the habit of saying “take your time” to each other often, but I’ve practiced giving this precious gift to supermarket clerks, waiters, and other retail workers who are accustomed to being rushed. When I’m at the store and the clerk apologizes because she’s had to ring something up twice, I say, “That’s okay, I’m not in any hurry” – even if I am.

We are a hurry-up culture. Fast food, faster Internet connections, and everybody wants everything done yesterday. We’ve been well-informed about the effects of this lifestyle on our own health, and many of us have taken steps to combat the stress of a rushed existence, with deep breathing, yoga, and meditation. But while we’re busy taking care of ourselves, it can be good to remember that we have the power to extend that care to others.

Just remember the three little words that everyone is longing to hear: Take your time! Say them, and watch the transformation – it’s magical.

My mother strikes up conversations with absolutely anybody, anywhere, about anything. When I was a teenager I was mortified by this – “Mom, that’s so embarrassing!” However, about 20 years ago I realized I had caught her affliction: compulsive connectivity. This includes saying “hi” to everyone, issuing genuine compliments, and sometimes engaging in lengthy conversations with strangers. All her life, my mom has been reaching out, creating connections where previously none existed and, I think, making the world a bit better for it.

Because my mom is a shopper, most of her impromptu conversations take place in stores. And because I’m a walker – racking up 20 to 30 miles a week – most of mine take place right here in my neighborhood. Today while walking I decided that there are three levels to compulsive connectivity: The first is just saying “hi” when you see or pass someone. Many if not most of us do that; it’s common in a town like Sonoma. (In fact, have you ever tried walking the Sebastiani path with a friend? As it is customary to greet all passersby, your conversations tend to go something like this: “So I was telling — hi! — him that we have to — hey, how are ya? — get our tax information — good afternoon! — together and send it to — nice day!” Cheerful but wearying.)

The second level of connectivity is adding a comment: “Good morning – I love your garden!” And the third and most risky level would be actually asking a question of a stranger. “Ooh nice hat, where’d you get it?” Over time I’ve graduated to Level 3, and I have to warn you, it doesn’t always turn out well. Yesterday while walking I saw a man in his 30s with a long black cord tied to the back of his truck. It looked like he was trying to pull his truck backwards with the cord. Curious, I piped up, “Hi, whatcha doin’?” He glared at me and I know he wanted to tell me to mind my own business, or worse, but he replied brusquely, “Stripping. Wire.” Sensing the negativity vibe, I said, “Ah, very clever,” and skedaddled.

Which brings us to demographics. You might ask, Is there any particular gender or age group that is most likely to greet me back? Yes – men in their 60s and 70s are most friendly; people in their 20s seem to be least friendly. Long ago I decided I would always say “hi” to children, because I thought that to walk by without greeting them would give them a picture of a hostile, sullen world. So I still greet kids, even though sometimes I get no reply. (Of course, they’ve been taught not to talk to strangers, right?)

This week as the weather is nicer and we’re out and about more, I suggest you try some compulsive connectivity of your own — and stretch yourself a bit. If you’re at Level 1, try adding a comment to your greeting; if at Level 2, add a question. (We’ll start a movement and call it “Say It Forward.”) Remember it may not work out; on the other hand, you may be rewarded quite richly. After all, Californians are a witty bunch. When Neal and I were vacationing at Morro Bay we walked down to the pier and, spying a guy with rod and reel we cheerfully greeted him and, Level 3 style, called out, “How’s the fishing?” He flashed a big smile and replied, “Fishin’s great!” As we started to walk away, he totally cracked us up by adding “But the catchin’s terrible!”

Times are tough, and these moments of happy connection are free – but then Mom knew that all along.

Most of us wander anonymously about the planet for most of our time here, living for the things we live for — our children, our friends, our passions, our secret and not-so-secret delights and indulgences, and the larger Moments of Glory — the job is ours, we got the scholarship, our co-workers threw us a surprise party!

And then there are those instances which can’t accurately be characterized as moments we live for; if those larger moments are the sustenance, this is the spice: You’re going about your day, focused on the Now Thing and the Next Thing, and suddenly your boss says, “I don’t know what I’d do without you!” Or a friend tells you that out of all her friends, you’re the one she feels safest with. Or a stranger in the market compliments you on how well-behaved your children are. Your heart area gets all glowy, and everything feels lighter and you feel the unnameable thrill of knowing that, just for now, it’s all working — you’ve somehow triumphed over the mysteries.

We are always in possession of this power — the power to bring someone’s world to a happy halt in just that fashion. “Abracadabra” is from the Hebrew and it means “I create as I speak.” For when you choose words with which to express your appreciation to another human, you do indeed create: connection, deep satisfaction, perhaps even the momentary lifting of a burden. With your breath, you usher into existence joy, wonder and gratitude. It’s true magic.

When we are the recipient of these word-embraces, we usually don’t know how to respond and so, at a loss for the just the right words, we speak a smaller truth, acknowledging the power that our benefactor possesses: “Wow, thanks — you just made my day!”

Go ahead, make someone’s day.

The other morning I was stopped at a traffic light heading out of town. It was a breezy day; as I watched, a gust of wind blew from its frame a large, handwritten advertising posterboard which a local merchant had placed in front of his shop. The posterboard landed in the right lane of Highway 12. I thought to myself, “In a little bit the owner will come out, see the ad, figure out that the wind dislodged it, and set it to rights.” However, just as a pickup truck approached from the other direction, another large gust of wind picked up the posterboard and plastered it against the large grille of the truck — just as the light turned green and the truck sped through the intersection and away into the distance.

This time I thought, “The poor shopkeeper is going to be convinced that someone made off with his carefully hand-lettered sign. That, after all, would be the simplest explanation: vandalism.” I almost wanted to park my car, find the poor guy, and explain what happened just so he could retain his faith in humankind. But my light was green: I had things to do. I could only hope that it didn’t ruin his day. Or that maybe the trucker would discover the sign and return it. As a friend of mine says, You never can tell.