My French class on April 29th began as usual, with readings from our homework: sentences about la porte (door) and les fenêtres (windows). The view out the large “fenêtres” on that day at Ingraham High School was lovely damp spring green—a perfect daydreaming view. Then, the next thing I knew—someone was making my desk jump up and down. I turned a scowl at the boy behind me—who had been known to joggle the bar below my seat with his feet. To my shock, his face was drained of all blood and his feet were on the floor, which was dancing like a shaken bed sheet. It lasted a brief eternity, then, our Miss Isaacs, our elderly teacher, was impressively rapid getting us out of the building, but school was not canceled. When I went to my next class; however, I was stunned by the giant rift in the concrete Orchestra pit floor. At this point, we were all sent home. When I got there, the TV reports said that some people had been killed. Mom taught at Garfield High, Dad was at the UW, and my sister attended Whitman Junior High. It was scary until everyone showed up. Our Greenwood house had been well shaken—things all over the floor. The worst loss: a large collection of my mother’s handmade ceramics on narrow shelves. Most were smashed. But our house and chimney were in tact, and we didn’t know any of the fatalities. We felt lucky.
