A whole lot of shakin' has been going on lately

Jun. 18—To borrow a lyric from rock 'n' roller Jerry Lee Lewis, there's been a whole lot of shaking going on recently as a rash of small earthquakes has rattled windows — and nerves — across Haywood County.

Seven tiny terrestrial tremors have emanated from deep below the surface near Canton since May 23. The quakes have ranged from 1.8 to 3.2 in magnitude on the Richter scale.

For those who don't remember their geology studies, the Richter scale is a measure of the strength of earthquakes that was developed by scientist Charles Richter in the 1930s. It is not to be confused with the Sphincter scale, a measure of the strength of contractions of the interior muscles of the human rear-end during times of stress.

Certainly, the unexpected shaking of our mountains, not exactly known as an epicenter of seismic activity, can be stressful, resulting in higher-than-normal readings on the Sphincter scale (also known as "the pucker factor") for those in the vicinity.

The tremblers also are causing abnormal readings on the Apocalyptic Predictor scale, an unscientific measure of the increase in folks who see certain current events as a sign of the end of days.

That, too, is understandable. Before losing their religion, the prophets known as R.E.M. predicted that the end of the world as we know it "...starts with an earthquake." Make no mistake — the folks in eastern Haywood have dealt with more than their share of traumatic events.

First came the devastating flooding of the Pigeon River spawned by remnants of Tropical Storm Fred in 2021. Then, in March came the shocking news that Canton's paper mill was closing, putting some 1,000 employees out of work, with economic aftershocks that will ripple for years. Now, after seven earthquakes in a two-week span, it's enough to send folks thumbing through the book of Revelation.

Following the first quake, Canton Mayor Zeb Smathers quipped on social media whether locusts were next.

The reality is we are not immune to earthquakes. For those of us who don't believe Earth is flat, the very formation of the Appalachians is the result of seismic activity hundreds of millions of years ago. In fact, the instability of our mountain geology actually helped keep a corner of Haywood, Buncombe and Madison counties off a list of potential sites for a nuclear waste dump in 1986, a story covered by yours truly as a cub reporter.

Margaret and I felt the first recent shaking back on May 23. We were startled that evening at a loud thump and the clattering of windows at our home near Lake Junaluska, wondering if another neighborhood tree had fallen or perhaps that kid down the street was driving by again with the thumping bass at 11 on the Tufnel scale.

That was nothing compared to our first earthquake experience. Back in 1992, I accompanied Margaret on a work trip to San Diego. After surviving our first transcontinental flight, we were rudely awakened by a 7.3 magnitude earthquake that hit at about 4:57 a.m.

The violent banging of the bed's headboard against the wall of our hotel room caused Margaret to sit upright and yell at me: "What. Are. You. Doing. Over. There?!" It took only seconds to realize it was an earthquake...in Southern California...on an upper floor of a high-rise hotel. Toto, we're not in Canton anymore.

Later, unlike with that day's earlier tremor, we were wide awake watching the San Diego news reports about the quake when what we thought was an aftershock hit. The 6.5 magnitude shock turned out to be a separate, but related, event.

Remembering our limited earthquake training, we huddled beneath the metal doorway of the hotel room door, hugging and saying "I love you," as we truly thought it would be the end of the world as we knew it.

Seeing as I'm here sharing these thoughts, it wasn't the end of the world. Nor is the whole lot of shaking that's been going on lately here in Haywood. Sometimes Mother Earth just needs to stretch, regardless of her impact on Richter, Sphincter or Apocalyptic Predictor scales.

Bill Studenc, who began his career in journalism and communications at The Mountaineer in 1983, retired in January 2021 as chief communications officer at Western Carolina University. He now writes about life in the mountains of Western North Carolina.