It was Oct. 20, 1991, less than one year since I moved to California, settling in to the flatlands of Oakland's Temescal district. A friend from New York had recently purchased a house there. With warm climate and a yard, I decided to try an old hand at gardening. My roommate and I decided to take a trip to the local nursery on 52nd Street, not far from home. I exited the back door and gasped at the sight of a big, black almost tornado-like plume. I couldn't tell its exact location. It appeared to be awfully close. I had a very ominous feeling. We went forward with our plans.
Shortly after we returned home, my roommate had a class to attend. I didn't own a car in those days. Eventually, the severity of the situation was broadcast. Just how far it would go, was beyond the imagination. Those were the days before cellphones. Getting in touch with my roommate wasn't possible. I paid close attention to the news. They said that my way out, BART, would be shutting down. I watched neighbors pack up belongings and head out. I was conflicted about what to do. I decided to stay.
