30
January 17, 1994, is a day I will never forget. I had moved to Calabasas in 1992, and we had been renovating our new house. At 4:30 a.m., Marlene and I were woken up by an enormous jolt. It honestly felt like a plane had just landed on the roof! I knew immediately that we’d been through a very strong earthquake. I had been in several smaller quakes, and sometimes it feels like a gentle roll or maybe like a sledgehammer’s banging. This one was very sharp and intense. Marlene and I gathered the kids and made our way to a safe area in the house. We were pretty disoriented but glad to be alive.
I’ve talked to some native Angelinos who aren’t fazed by earthquakes, no matter how big. Because I am from Florida, it’s a whole other story. In the back of my mind, I’m always wondering when the “Big One” is going to hit.
Earthquakes are usually followed by aftershocks, and this one was no exception. After a few more sporadic jolts, the shaking subsided. We all looked at each other, and the first thing I said was, “At least we are okay.” Marlene definitely was shaken up, but my kids (those native Angelinos) were just psyched for the adventure. They wanted more!
There was some damage around the house, and we quickly went from room to room to see how badly we were hit. We turned on the TV to find out where the epicenter was. The newsman said Northridge. My store at the time was in Reseda, which is the next adjacent suburb. In other words, we were really close, and it certainly felt like it. I told Marlene to watch the kids while I jumped in the car and headed toward the store.
Norman’s Rare Guitars, 1992 earthquake, at 6753 Tampa Avenue, Reseda, California. (Photo by Marlene Harris)
It was still dark outside, and as I made my way closer and closer to the store, it was surreal. The devastation became more and more obvious. It looked like a war zone. Houses were heavily damaged. Brick walls had come down, and there were bricks and debris all over the place. I had to drive very slowly to avoid some huge potholes that had opened up. With every block, the damage seemed more severe. What was strange was that on some sides of the streets the damage was horrible, while the other side looked totally unmarred.
When I arrived at the store, I braced myself for the worst. Everything in the area looked torn apart. My store sat at the corner of Tampa and Vanowen. The Tampa side was a disaster, but the Vanowen side did not look that bad at all. I could see through the window on the Vanowen side that a lot of guitars had fallen out of the hooks on the wall. We had a raised area almost like a stage that displayed some guitars. Most had fallen out of their stands. We sustained quite a bit of damage, but to my surprise many of our instruments that had fallen over only sustained minimum damage.
Norman’s Rare Guitars, 1992 earthquake, at 6753 Tampa Avenue, Reseda, California. (Photo by Marlene Harris)
There was a young man who used to come by and wash our cars named Todd Lee. He was a good guy but had a very serious drug problem. We liked him, but we were very aware of his problem and couldn’t trust him completely. So, it was really cool that he noticed one of our windows was broken and pulled up a chair to guard our store against any looters. Sometimes even though a man has serious problems, his true character still shines through. He loved the store, and to my amazement offered us protection until I arrived. Whenever a situation like a natural disaster happens, some opportunists try to take advantage of the chaos.
Most of our high-end guitars were in cases in the back, and none of these guitars sustained any damage at all. I tried to take care of our most immediate problems, including boarding up our doors and windows. When I finally recovered most of my senses, another thought dawned on me. What about my warehouse? I had quite a large personal collection housed in Beverly Hills Moving and Storage in Sherman Oaks, about five miles east of the store.
I immediately jumped in the car to get to the warehouse and assess whatever damage may have occurred. When I got there, numerous police and fire trucks were already at the location. My heart sank. Yellow tape had been posted around the entire warehouse. I asked the police if I could go inside and check to see if my instruments, which were in large wooden containers, were okay. I was told nobody was allowed to enter.
I asked when I would be able to go in and check. The police said, “Possibly at a later date, or possibly never!” It was too dangerous to go inside, they said.
Later date! I called every day for three months, and each time I never received a positive answer.
Those three months were agony. Whatever insurance I had wouldn’t cover the actual value of many of my priceless, irreplaceable guitars. I figured I could be completely wiped out. Finally, I received a call saying that the warehouse was now safe to enter. I still was nervous thinking that I was about to see something really bad. Miraculously, when I went in, all my storage bins were intact, and there was no damage to any of the guitars. They had been packed that well, in the bins.
I must be one of the luckiest guys alive! Because all of the instruments were in hard cases, and the cases were in wooden storage pallets, everything was well protected.
So, I dodged a bullet. I’m pretty prepared for the next one. Please let it not be the “Big One.”