But It’s Not My Fault

Confessions of a Virginia Earthquake Survivor

I don’t remember much about 1994, but I do remember the Northridge earthquake. Striking when I was the ripe old age of eight, the quake formed one of my earliest memories of fear. Shattered dishes or broken lamps littered nearly every room of the house. Family friends had their foundations split in two. The king-sized oak headboard that loomed ominously over me whenever I’d jump on my parent’s bed was promptly out the door the next morning (we only waited to find help with moving the beast). And this was …