Readers Remember

I’d only been in Los Angeles for four months in early 1971, as I switched off the bathroom light and stepped naked through the morning darkness of our North Hollywood home. Everyone else was still asleep.

I heard the approaching rumble of the Sylmar quake and then the house began to shake and tumble violently. . . . I thought it was war. My wife awoke screaming, the dog barked, my brother dashed from his room, and our pet gibbon contemplated biting anyone within reach.

Finally realizing it was an earthquake, I ordered everyone back to bed, based on a mental image of the Earth opening up to swallow us, and our having the mattresses as cushioning when we hit bottom.

This failure of leadership haunted me for years.

CAY SEHNERT

South Pasadena

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Charlie and I were asleep on that early morning in 1971, with Jezebel, our Siamese cat, on the bed. Suddenly the rocking started. I sat up with a start and began wailing: “Charlie, make it stop,” pummeling him for emphasis. “I can’t make it stop,” he said in measured tones. Then Jezebel jumped onto Charlie’s chest and hissed. I’ve lived through plenty of earthquakes, but this one really scared me. It also let Charlie know that the two females he lived with expected nothing short of a miracle from him.

GINNIE RYDER

Laguna Niguel

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The editors of The Times thank all the readers who so enriched the “Stories That Shaped the Century” series with their important and meaningful memories. More than 2,000 people submitted personal stories; we were able to publish only a tiny fraction of those.