I remember that earthquake. I was 11, home alone, doing algebra homework on the kitchen table with the sun setting behind me. It started as a vibration that then turned to seem like gravity went sideways in a paint shaker for several minutes and the family dog went crazy. Bookshelves spilled like avalanches onto the floor. Half of the pool dumped itself into the bushes and onto the grass. The first thing I did after convincing the dog to get outside was shut off the gas to the house and that of some of the neighbors, fearing a gas explosion should any pipes have ruptured. The biggest thing I remembered was there were aftershocks all night, and we debated sleeping outside. That was one of the last earthquakes I remember in the Bay Area, the ones since were rather small and infrequent. Subsequently, all of our appliances and furniture, large and small, were bolted into studs in the wall. Big, TV-style computer monitors were held down by industrial Velcro.

More recently, I assembled for my mom a trauma kit with woundseal, quikclot and a tourniquet with a metal windlass; I always have mine in the car, readily accessible.