Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, January 23, 1994 TAG: 9401230028
SECTION: NATIONAL/INTERNATIONAL PAGE: A-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: SHARON COHEN ASSOCIATED PRESS
DATELINE: LOS ANGELES LENGTH: Long
Like a tremendous beast below, the earthquake shook the last house on Petit Street.
Ellen Celaya was hurled from bed to floor like a rag doll. Her dresser toppled across her arms. Her husband, Tom, screamed, "Hold on! Hold on!" as a wooden panel crashed onto his head. Their two sons were trapped in their rooms.
At 4:31 a.m. Monday, the kitchen clock stopped.
So did the world the Celayas had taken for granted.
At 4:32 a.m. Monday, the uncertainty began.
Everyday amenities - hot water, lights, a flushing toilet - became the stuff of fantasy. Emotions rose and fell like a seismograph; tears one moment, laughter the next. Plans for the future became a thing of the past.
"I don't look too far ahead," Ellen Celaya said. "I just take a little bit at a time . . . But I think this will change all of us."
The Celayas and their sons, Mark, 15, and Ryan, 12, clad in pajamas, crawled out windows to escape their stucco house in Granada Hills, about 2 miles from the quake's epicenter. The front door was impassable, wedged in its jamb.
Their only illumination was the glow from a tiny light on Mark's Game Boy computer.
The family paused to say a Hail Mary before leaving but gave it up when the rumbling resumed.
It was time to go.
Outside with neighbors, they witnessed a fireball in the sky from a ruptured gas main a block away. Ellen Celaya's knees started shaking. She hugged her husband. He apologized for not having earthquake insurance.
"I'm not going to divorce you. It's OK," his wife assured him.
He returned inside, bringing out beer, the boys' eyeglasses, mismatched shoes for Ryan, and Mark's electric-green iguana, Indy.
It was time to give thanks.
"We all put our arms around each other," Ellen Celaya said, "and thanked God for being alive."
Then came dawn. And harsh reality.
A 6-foot wall of cement blocks had toppled onto the patio. The garage door was twisted in its tracks, and the quake had slammed their truck and van together.
Inside, the brick chimney had collapsed into the dining room. Ceilings, walls and windows were cracked. Strewn incongruously through the house were spaghetti sauce, crushed crystal, clothes, the boy's swimming and Little League trophies.
"I picked something up, but I had nowhere to put it," Ellen Celaya said. "It's too overwhelming. I didn't know where to start."
Even without gas, electricity or tap water, they decided to stay.
When friends came by, they found an unbroken bottle of champagne that had tumbled from the refrigerator; their glasses were smashed, so they took turns swigging from the green bottle.
Monday night, the family and their mutt, Cubby, huddled in sleeping bags, shoes on feet, keys in pockets, a path cleared for quick exit.
Ellen Celaya put a radio under her pillow and a flashlight in her hand.
"Every 15 minutes, I'd shine it on their faces," she said. "I just wanted to make sure they were OK."
Tuesday
It's called the Day After.
For the Celayas, it was A.D., after disaster.
Ellen Celaya worked a Donald Duck puzzle with Ryan. Start. Finish. Good therapy.
With a disposable camera, they documented the damage, room by room, crack by crack.
Tom Celaya, a 40-year-old gas company worker, did his own survey. "This is something I can fix," he said, jabbing at the caved-in dining room ceiling.
He called the Federal Emergency Management Agency; an inspector will come out within a week.
They cleaned some more, using water from the hot tub, and drove to a friend's house for their first showers - by flashlight.
They returned to a small blessing, a working street light.
Everyone smiled. This was progress.
Wednesday
Inventory time.
"We have water. We have canned food," Ellen Celaya said. "We can last a week."
Tom Celaya's brother, Andy, boarded up the fireplace wall and installed new door locks.
"I just want to make my home safe," Celaya said, his face shaded by a Dodgers cap.
"Daytime is a commodity. We're hurrying to get done before it gets dark," added his wife, squinting at a helicopter tracking President Clinton's tour of the stricken region.
The boys were bored.
"Our whole life is being turned upside down," Celaya said.
He umpires Little League. She teaches catechism class. But everything is canceled. And the church is closed.
Thursday
At 6 a.m., Tom Celaya donned his blue Southern California Gas Co. uniform and headed back to work.
His wife cried.
"Just having his presence made me feel better," she said.
She was a bit envious, too, seeing her husband resume a routine. She doesn't know when she'll return to her tour guide job at the Van Nuys Airport.
In the still of the night, she had compiled a list of things to ask Tom to bring home. They were low on matches. Low on D batteries. They ration TV time, but they're down to four hours.
At midday, a friend took the boys to lunch. As they were leaving, Mark ran back up the path, yelling: "I love you, Mom."
"That was nice," she said, smiling.
Friday
Ellen Celaya turned again to cleaning. But there was an abrupt disruption.
One aftershock. The ground shook.
Then another. More shaking.
And two more.
Ellen ran out in the street with the boys, not bothering to take off her work gloves.
"I slept pretty good last night," she said. "I thought maybe it was coming to an end. Then it started all over again."
But the family is adjusting.
"I guess it's sort of routine," she said, "to be not in the routine."
Saturday
At 7:42 a.m., electric power was restored. They recorded the milestone on a slip of paper.
Ellen Celaya cried. Her sons teased her.
Mark won't return to classes at his damaged school for three weeks. Ryan may go back Tuesday.
Celaya left for a 12-hour shift turning the gas back on in homes and restaurants. He'll do it again today.
This morning, Ellen will be in church to celebrate the first stage in Mark's Confirmation. It will be a special time to give thanks.
"Life is going on," Celaya said. "We'll definitely get back to normal. A little bit at a time."
by CNB