That Bad Good Friday

It was stronger than the infamous San Francisco earthquake of 1906, but Americans proved even stronger

- TAY THOMAS

It began as such a happy day, Good Friday one year ago. The snow which had been coming down for two days let up, which meant that my husband, Lowell, could fly to Fairbanks and get back to Anchorage in time for us to have all of Easter weekend together.

The children and I waved goodbye as he drove off to the airport, then shut the door quickly because it was still below freezing outside. About five o’clock, feeling lonesome for him, Anne, eight, David, six, and I went upstairs to watch TV. Anne and David were wearing blue jeans and cotton Tshirts; I had on a wool dress and nylon stockings. We took off our shoes so we could sit on the bed.

It was half an hour later that I heard a rumbling sound. Although we frequently hear a similar roaring—the firing of guns at a nearby Army base—I knew instantly that this was the sound of an impending earthquake.

I leaped up, called to the children to follow and raced for the stairs. By the time we reached the front hall, the whole house was beginning to shake. We ran outside into the snow, David crying, “Mommy, I’m in bare feet!”

We were about 10 feet beyond the door when the world around us fell apart. We were flung violently to the ground, which was jolting back and forth with unbelievable force.

The hallway through which we had just run split in two. We heard the crashing of glass, the ear-rending sound of splintering wood. In front of us, a great tree crashed full length onto the ground. Our garage collapsed with a sharp report.