Natural Disasters

By Sally Franz

Most places I have lived also came with natural disasters of one level or the other. Tulsa had tornados to dodge. (There is nothing like taking an early autumn walk with your baby in a stroller and noticing the birds have stopped singing. Then you look over your shoulder and see pea-green foaming clouds form into a funnel within minutes.) In Santa Barbara there were nights where the earthquakes would thrash you out of bed, the dishes out of the cupboards, and slosh the water out of the pool. I have run from fires, mudslides, and tsunami warning sirens. I grew up with ice storms knocking out power for a week or more. I’ve faced the possibility of a watery grave once on a ferry from Nantucket when a Nor’easter raised its ugly head mid-crossing. In New York City I was mugged at knife point. (You’ll be pleased to know I punched the attacker in the face, which he did not expect from a lady in heels). In Portland I lived in the shadow (albeit plateaued) of Mount Saint Helen and now in Sequim, Washington I am being told in global media that it is not if there will be a massive quake and subsequent tsunami…but when.

Can I tell you something? I don’t care. I am not freaked out. I go with the flow. Yes, I keep extra gallons of water, candles, and matches around. I keep slippers under the bed because lacerations to the feet via shattered glass is the number one ER incident during a natural disaster. But all in all, I am of the mind that if it happens, it happens. Another good reason not to have too many keepsakes. The way I see it, if you don’t give them to Goodwill, the good will of nature might take them from you anyway. (Better you should have the tax deduction.)

I guess after you have survived surgeries, chronic illnesses, and near misses with death, you toughen up. Life’s bogeyman has no more threats to wing at me that I cannot either dismiss or squelch. Living in places that can liquefy, slide or combust is the price of admission to living in interesting terrain. Pestilence, plagues, typhoons, fire, floods and famine…whatever, talk to the hand. Threats of looming doom just don’t keep me up at night.

Frankly the scariest place to live, for me, was to grow up in the same house for twenty years, in the suburbs of New Jersey. Nothing much happened to me the first twenty years of life. It was truly anti-climactic. Needless to say, I understand why a TV show like “New Jersey Housewives” displays a room full of neurotics screaming and clawing at each other. They are bored silly. And that kind of boredom is a natural disaster that can kill.

Sally Franz and her third husband live on the Olympic Peninsula. She has two daughters, a stepson, and three grandchildren. Sally is the author of several humor books including Scrambled Leggs: A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey and The Baby Boomer’s Guide to Menopause. She hosts a local radio humor segment, “Baby Boomer Humor with Sassy Sally”.