Seismic Activity

In ancient Italy, the Latin words for Earth were, "Terra Firma," meaning solid ground or solid earth.

The ancients should have known better. Volcanic activity was heavy in those ancient times. Earthquakes would often precede volcanic eruptions. The city of Pompeii was buried in ash when Mount Vesuvius blew its top.

Empirical evidence was abundant that "Terra" was definitely not "Firma." But perhaps the concept escaped their thinking. Likely, it was too terrifying to even consider the idea that "rock solid" didn't really mean rock solid. That would imply that nothing in reality is truly firm.

Which is true.

Shake this house

There aren't a lot of people who live within 30 feet of a busy U.S. highway. We do, and for the most part, we like it.

We enjoy the continuous, entertaining parade which brings everything from cattle trucks to oversized farm equipment into view through our front window. It's way more fun to watch than television.

Giant loads of oilfield or natural gas pipe go roaring past. Arrogant car-hauler drivers maneuver loads of new Volvos and Audis through confusing vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Tankers deliver hot asphalt mix to construction sites.

Massive tractor-trailers speed by on their way to bigger highways and mysterious distant destinations.

Brand-new highway tractors zoom by, heading for their very first trailer-towing jobs. There's a constant flow of farm chemicals being trucked in and out of the business up the street. Once in a while we'll see a whining front-end loader rocking by in "road gear" on huge tires. Sometimes it's a Skid Loader or even a snowmobile.

A passenger bus from Mexico glides by regularly. Heavily loaded beer trucks speed by on their way to deliver their precious cargo to eastside liquor stores. All of this is fun to watch.

Winter has taken its toll, however.

U.S. Highway 34 Business has a checkered history. There's supposedly a maintenance agreement between the state and the city, but this unholy alliance often results in inattention, which results in serious surface flaws.

A few weeks ago, a giant pothole developed in the eastbound lane just a few yards west of our little house. One could look down in that crater and see the original wagon tracks from when settlers arrived in the Union Colony. It became the Honda-eater of all potholes.

When trucks would go by to the east, they'd hit the blind pothole and the entire house would shake – as if an earthquake was underway. Dishes would rattle in their cupboards and threaten to bounce off the counter. Paintings would slip crooked on the walls. The little house would cry ouch, many times every day and every night.

We were being treated to constant reminders of disasters in Haiti and then Chile.

Somebody must have complained about the chasm. Even though it's definitely not the season for road repair, along came a city crew. The men used one full dump truck load of repair asphalt to fill the crater.

It's still rough. Huge, impromptu repairs are never the best. Rebuilding would be better. But the 18^th Street earthquakes are now only 4 or 5 on the Richter Scale, down from the previous 8's.

What next?

We heard a well-placed rumor (a phrase brazenly recalled from my newspaper days) that the state plans to completely rebuild the highway, perhaps even soon.

This was cause for some glee. Last summer, the city built a curb and gutter system that keeps part of the rain and snow from our properties.

A proper road surface to go with it would work better and look better, an asset to our business and our property values. So we kind of relaxed. Kind of.

My old chair

The first time I remember having seen my old lawn chair, it resided on the front porch of my grandparents' house in Fort Lupton.

The chair was one of those fashionable 50's devices with sturdy, curved steel tubes forming arms, rockers and frame.

When the old folks died, my Dad retrieved the chair and took it to his home, where for many years it was used on the "patio." When the chair began to rust and lots of its forest-green paint peeled off, Dad painted it seafoam green.

(No, seafoam green wasn't his favorite color. It was simply the least expensive paint, in bulk. But that's another story.)

When Laura and I moved to Fort Lupton all those years ago, Dad sent the old green chair with us, and we've had it ever since.

The fate of a chair

Last summer, when we finally succeeded in enclosing our deck, and when the enclosure became the home for our several cats, the chair came inside.

With blankets for padding, I put it into use as the center of my very own reading spot. I'd prop my feet up on a stool, cover up with more blankets, and read. Soon, I would have one or more cats on my lap, enjoying the warmth, while I would read.

Last week, Laura warned me that she had noticed something had gone wrong with the ancestral chair. It had become crooked, twisted, and the seat was somehow closer to the ground than previously.

But you know me. I paid no attention to her warning.

One morning, while I sat comfortably with Alpha Cat Tony on my lap, a particularly heavy train went by – shaking the house in a different way than the highway trucks had been doing.

You're thinking Tony and I went crashing to the floor. Not quite.

The old green chair began slowly sinking, one inch or so at a time. Influenced by occasionally violent percussion from the coal train, it became one of the most gentle personal declines I've ever experienced.

Tony bailed out about two-thirds of the way down. When the chair finally lowered itself to the floor, I was, well, sort of trapped in it. Eventually, Laura came along and helped me roll free. Unhurt.

I immediately began lamenting the loss of my old chair. I had had a pleasant long-time relationship with it. I'm inordinately fond of "things" that have come to me from grandparents and parents. The provenance of it is of value to me.

So off it will go to the "Ferrous Garden" in the front yard, where we will add it to the car springs and brake discs and broken rakes and shovels. What a nice centerpiece it will make.

If that's the worst damage we have to suffer from our localized earthquakes, we'll be getting off easy.

You should have been there. It would have been great fun, watching me and the cat sink slowly to the floor in a dying, 50-year-old lawn chair.

-0-

Word of the week: Mosaic. With a capital M, Mosaic means of Moses himself or writings and laws attributed to him.

Mosaic with a small m is entirely different in provenance. It is from the Latin, "mosaicus," or the Greek, "mouseios," belonging to the muses, or artistic.

It has come to define the process of making pictures or designs by setting pieces of glass, rocks or tile in mortar.

Study the new mosaic of The Last Supper on the floor in front of the sanctuary at St. Peter's Roman Catholic Church in Greeley. It will inspire awe. Mosaic.