I was 14 during the 1957 earthquake. My aunt stayed in the family house on Lobos Street, while my father and mother and I had moved to Healdsburg ten years earlier. Auntie El, as we called her, told a terrifying story of her experience that day. When her house began to tremble and sway, she headed for the nearest doorway and hung on. After the shaking subsided, she released her grip on the door frame and looked around for her cat, Pinky, who had bolted at the first shiver. She searched up and down stairs, even in the basement. Back in the kitchen, she heard a faint mew coming from the cupboard. Upon opening the cupboard door, the cat jumped out, covered in sticky red. A single woman, Auntie El loved her cats. When she saw Pinky, she was afraid he was mortally wounded. Frantically, she scooped him up in her arms, prepared to rush him to the vet. Holding him close to her, searching for a terrible wound, she smelled something familiar, not blood, but ketchup! During its mad dash for safety, or perhaps because of the violent shaking, a bottle of ketchup had broken inside the cupboard, the door slammed shut and trapped the cat with the broken bottle of ketchup.