At 3:48 (on my clock-- which is never set to exactly the right time), the house shuddered and I leapt out of bed. In the dark, I removed the glass frame above our bed. And I paced for a couple minutes, waiting for the longer shaking I was anticipating. It never came.
The next morning I told the kids we'd had an earthquake.
Casey looked at me in earnest and said, "Mom, are we gonna have a salami?"
I sat there a bit stunned, wondering (1) why Casey would be thinking about lunch meat at 7:00 in the morning and (2) what lunch meat has to do with earthquakes.
And then it hit me. TSUNAMI.
Wasn't life easier when we called them tidal waves?