The 'Quake of 2010

The snowplow crashed through the fence in the backyard and rammed into the back of our house. 4 a.m. February 10. Ka-bam! Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter! Out-of-balance washing machine. The whole house. All of seven seconds. Maybe. We awoke with “What the devil was that?!” and leapt from our bed, peering through the windows, to the patio door, then the front door. Nothing. Winter winds ripping vinyl siding off the house? Bison stampede? Other neighbors' houses were hit by snowplows, too, and thieves trying to break in, and airplanes crashing, and--someone said--terrorist attacks. What a morning in Sycamore, Illinois.

Of course, it was none of these.

But, never in 20 years would I have guessed what it was, here in northern Illinois.

Our neighbor, Joe--the science teacher and newly minted meteorologist--he guessed it, however, and guessed it right. He sat up thermometer-straight in bed at 4 am, according to his wife, Caroline, and exclaimed, "Earthquake! 4.3!" And then, by her report, he dropped back into a satisfied slumber.

Not me.

My brother texted me soon after: "Are you guys OK?" We were at the epicenter of the news. The Today Show. CNN. Facebook. Calls from friends. Aftershocks of sympathy and attention.

“I think we’re going to be OK,” I said. And we would be, since nary a picture frame had fallen over in the natural disaster. Never mind that the 7.0 earthquake in Haiti, just weeks before, had wiped out about 100,000 people. This would be the topic of conversation for all in Sycamore for the next week: So, did you survive the ’quake? Did you feel it? What did you think it was? Where were you when it happened? It was something to call our own. Something unique. Something to talk about finally, after a long winter. We were important. Apparently we sit on a fault line here in northern Illinois. Who knew?

Yes, we were at the center. That is, until the ‘quake got downgraded to a 3.8 and the epicenter got moved 3 miles east. One Chicago comedian commented that they don’t even cancel circumcisions during a 3.8 earthquake.

I felt robbed.

Oh well. It was a good Midwestern earthquake, wasn’t it? Good while it lasted. A minor rumbling predicated by decades of uncomfortable silence. Hidden faults brewing just beneath the surface. Aunts and uncles talking in whispers.

Apparently—and this was not reported in the Daily Chronicle—the earthquake apologized afterwards: "I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean it. I was just tired."

“It’s OK,” we said. “It’s no big deal.”

And then we drank some coffee and had some zucchini bread. We made circles with the toes of our shoes in the imaginary dust of the linoleum, until someone asked, “So, is there supposed to be snow this week?”

No hard feelings, Earthquake. It’s OK. Don’t be a stranger.