By Beverly Roitman, October 6, 2016 — I flew to the Los Angeles area—LAX Airport, to be exact—for my sister-in-law’s granddaughter’s wedding in Malibu. I had great anxiety about taking this trip. Automatically, I am sure you are thinking, “Oh, Bev is afraid of flying.” My answer emphatically is, “No, no, no. I do not have a fear of flying. I am afraid of EARTHQUAKES!’
A week or so before leaving for this happy occasion, there was a terrible earthquake in Italy. So now, perhaps, you will understand what I was recalling of the few years I lived in southern California after World War II.
When my husband was discharged from the service and proposed marriage to me, he was up front: “Bev, if you accept my marriage proposal, it will mean living in Los Angeles.” Our first apartment as a newly married couple was in a studio apartment with a Murphy bed, a little—very little—chandelier over a tiny table for two, and a small—very small—kitchen with two swinging doors. This apartment was right next to the elevator. When the elevator was going up or down with passengers, the chandelier would sway, along with the doors to the kitchen and the Murphy bed.
One day my husband left for work and my sister-in-law called. She and her husband had a liquor store in Santa Monica. I remember her saying, “Good morning,” and then, “Oh, my God! There’s an earthquake and the bottles are falling off the shelves!!!! Good bye!”
My response was, “Oh, no. It feels like the elevator is going up or down again.” A short time later, my husband returned. “Are you all right, honey?” he asked. It was then that I realized it had been an earthquake.
We never went through any big, big ones, but the few mild ones convinced me that I’d rather deal with the worst Chicago winters than any more earthquakes. Sooo, we moved back to terrible winters.
However, another footnote. Each time we went to visit family in California, there was another mild earthquake, as if the state was saying to us, “Welcome back!”