Experiencing Neighborhood

With the passage of time, memories of the terror, the breakage and time-consuming cleanup of material things have become muted. The memory of the warmth of the neighborhood that cared (black, white and Hispanic) remains and has been been even enhanced by time.

Elsa Raven

North Hollywood

*

As the ceiling crumbled down onto my face, I could taste the blood trickling from my mouth and nose. My right leg was in pain. There was a shard of glass poking out of it. I was too numb to respond.

Several hours later there was a banging on what remained of the interior hallway of the apartment. A man’s voice shouted through the door, “Anybody alive in there?” “Can anybody hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here--whoever you are don’t leave me!” I said.

Coming from New York, I was trained in the ways of the Big City. Never talk to strangers, much less ever go with a strange man to parts unknown!

Well, angels must come in both sexes. Here he was in the flesh. All I knew then was I would have married this guy and had his 15 children and a cranky, ol’ mother-in-law come live with us for the rest of my life. I owed this man my very existence.

I never knew his name nor saw him again as he deposited me in the streets and disappeared back into the collapsed apartment building to help more victims.

God bless him, wherever he is.

Diane Bates

Studio City

*

[After the earthquake] we began talking to lots of our neighbors. We were sharing water with some since our side of the street had water and the opposite side didn’t.

In the past five years, many houses have been repaired. Some are still under construction. In the old quiet Sherman Oaks we would be annoyed at the sound of hammers; now it’s a way of life.

We moved back into our old/new house a year ago after being in a rental house around the corner during construction. Every time we walked in the neighborhood we would notice different things, depending on where we were in our construction: stucco finishes, molding details, roofing materials. And we stopped to talk to lots of people about how their, and our, construction was going.

Now we know just about everyone in the neighborhood.

Laura Zucker

Sherman Oaks

*

[Late in the afternoon on Jan. 17] we began to hear the lilting sound of ranchera music as it drifted into our open window. We were accustomed to listening to it on weekends in our mostly Hispanic neighborhood. But it was usually accompanied by happy chatter and the appetizing smells of Sunday morning meals.

We walked out of our gated development to the public park across the street. As we approached, the source of the music was apparent. There, in the park was an assembly of automobiles with their doors open. The music was playing on the car radios.

Interspersed between them were hibachis and barbecues laden with all varieties of meats, corn on the cob, tortillas and kettles of beans.

Some men were strumming guitars, the women attended to the meals and the children were enjoying a spontaneous soccer game.

In short, a fiesta was taking place in the park. We had been cowering in our homes waiting for the looters and our precious batteries to wear out while our neighbors were appreciating the blessings of life and family.

It was a good lesson.

Linda Berg

Burbank

*

Life seemed terribly unfair, especially when, inexplicably, the power returned after two days to the houses on the other side of our street.

As I brooded huddled in my blanket, listening to the transistor radio by flashlight, my neighbors knocked on the door carrying the most beautiful thing--the end of an extension cord, dragged across the street!

It was the most generous thing I had ever seen--20 cords in the street like so many speed bumps, bringing power from unselfish neighbors to people they may not have ever met before!

Amy C. Lawrence

Woodland Hills

*

We, across the country [in St. Joseph, Mo.], felt completely helpless to assist you in Southern California, while glued to the TV.

Finally, about eight hours after the quake, my daughter [in Santa Clarita] was able to get through to me, while she continued to try to clean up the house, monitor her children and stay outdoors as much as possible.

Meanwhile, her husband, in Wisconsin on business, could not get through to the Los Angeles area (neither could I), and my daughter was unable to reach him. Our phone in St. Joseph became a switchboard.

Carol H. Gilpin

St. Joseph, Mo.

*

Nature’s bucking bronco stopped for a moment. We headed for the front door. We felt free of the house. It had protected us, but we felt betrayed by it, too.

Neighbors were standing in little clumps. Mike laid my grandmother’s quilt over our sticky straw grass. . . .

Mike found a chaise lounge for a neighbor. She was recovering from a fresh surgery. We knew her house, but we didn’t know her. This is the first time in 23 years we had spoken.

Mike broke out the earthquake supplies. We munched rubbery trail mix with an expiration date of June 1980. We sipped tepid water. I looked around at all our neighbors retelling their earthquake stories.

This neighboring experience, like the starry sky, was a once in a lifetime occurrence in Los Angeles. It only took a 6.7 jolt of nature to knock folks out of their homes, back in time, into togetherness.

I felt lucky.

Marti Olsen Laney

Calabasas

*

ON THE WEB

More letters from readers sharing earthquake memories can be found on the Times Web site at https://www.latimes.com/valleyquake.