We were in high day-before-the-move-gear on Tuesday. I was in the Rodgers Forge house where my sister moved on Wednesday, when I felt a heavy thud. I thought the two men who had come to clean the rug had turned on the nozzle from their truck full throttle and the vibration was the jolt I felt.
The rug cleaners thought the painters had dropped something heavy or broken through a wall.
“It’s an earthquake,” I heard one of them say. “I saw the bushes move.”
Within seconds, several of the men had received cell phone calls from their spouses.
My spouse had driven to the hardware store. When he arrived with new switch plates, he said he hadn’t felt a thing.
When we returned to Roland Park, one of his paintings had fallen off his easel, two photos had fallen over on my desk, and a Wayne Thiebaud print that pictures a hillside in San Francisco (land o’ earthquakes) was crooked.
Outside, the stucco wall we’ve just had redone had hairline cracks, but that was all. Some old structures in other parts of town had far more damage. In Charlottesville, where my niece attends college, some buildings were damaged or evacuated.
That no one was hurt was the best news of the August earthquake we’ll remember as the preamble to my sister’s move.