So Which Is Better--Shaking With Cold or With Terror?

I was in Buffalo, N.Y., and I should have stayed there. (Has anybody ever said this before?)

It was snowing. The temperature was subzero. The city of Buffalo was like Siberia, except with restaurants that serve hot chicken wings. It was Fargo without the glitz.

Nobody knew if Buffalo’s airport would close. Planes were grounded all across America. My connection was in Chicago, but I wasn’t sure O’Hare would be open if I could get that far.

“Spend the night in Buffalo,” suggested a friend.

“I thought you were my friend,” I said.

“It beats flying in a blizzard.”

“Not necessarily,” I said.

“What’s your hurry to get back to L.A.?”

“It’s not Buffalo,” I said.

He gave up, appreciating what a good argument I’d made. It was a Sunday. My work was done. I wanted to go home. My nose was frozen. My toes were frozen. Niagara Falls was frozen. The falls weren’t even falling. Honeymooners kept their pajamas on. It was so cold, a snowman would have built a fire.

I chanced it. I checked out of my hotel, took a taxi to the Buffalo airport, made my plane just in time.

It was Jan. 16, 1994.

*

How lucky, I kept telling myself. I was so sure that my flight wouldn’t leave. It looked so bleak outside. Even on the runway, I kept waiting for the pilot to come on the intercom and say: “Ladies and gentlemen . . . who are we kidding?”

But no, he took off. And then the flight attendant brought each of the passengers a nice, toasty snack to help keep us warm . . . a bag of almonds.

“Would you care for coffee?” she asked, and I said sure, because who wouldn’t want a nice cup of coffee with their almonds?

Life was good, though. I was going home. If my jet in Chicago could get its engine started without jumper cables, I’d be fine. I’d be sleeping tonight in my own bed. I’d be back in beautiful, balmy, safe Southern California.

I made it home at midnight.

Unpacked my bags. Opened a window. Let in some fresh air. Poor Buffalo, nobody there had opened a window since, oh, August. I turned on my TV, just to see if I could find any weather news from the East Coast. I couldn’t. I presumed that Buffalo had disappeared from all radar. Buffalo was dead. Buffalo was extinct.

I had escaped.

Around 1:30, I went to bed. My body clock said 4:30. I was jet-lagged, frostbitten and exhausted. It would take me a while to fall asleep because I was wired from the long trip. But once I did, I’d be out like a light.

My poor friend, I thought. Stuck there in Buffalo. I should wake him up, tell him I’m in California, rub it in.

Instead, I dozed off.

When the nuclear blast shook my house, I figured it was a dream. No, not a nuke. A meteor had hit my house. No, not a meteor. A truck had smashed into my front door. No, not a truck. A tree had fallen onto my roof. No, it must be 10 or 12 fat burglars.

All this took about 10 or 12 seconds. I sat up. The whole room was bucking like a bronco. I didn’t get out of bed--bed got out of me. That’s when I knew it was an earthquake. It was 4:31 a.m. and I was about to be--let’s see, what’s the best way to put it?--dead.

I stood in a doorway.

Here were my next three thoughts: (1) “Will the ceiling fall over me?” (2) “Will the floor crumble under me?” (3) “You know, Buffalo is a really underrated town!”

The rumbling stopped.

I considered what to do. I thought about turning on Channel 4, but I knew its anchorman would be hiding under his desk. I thought about looking for my flashlight, but it was so dark, I would have needed a flashlight to find my flashlight.

I wondered what the quake’s magnitude was and where its epicenter was. My guesses were: (1) Definitely somewhere between 6.0 and 99.9, and (2) Next door.

Turned out to be Northridge.

Or what was left of it.

*

I was so scared. I hadn’t been this frightened since my last blind date.

An aftershock began. It felt much milder than the last tremor, probably no worse than a 99.8. I went to the kitchen and found broken plates, broken glasses and broken Ming vases and Rolex wristwatches. (Well, that’s what I told my insurance guy.)

I’m nervous just thinking about that morning--five years ago today.

I just looked at a weather map. The forecast for Buffalo calls for snow, with a high temperature of 8 and a low of 1. I’m afraid to go to bed tonight.

Mike Downey’s column appears Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Write to him at Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles 90053. E-mail: mike.downey@latimes.com