A wildfire led to a massive slide in the same general area in 1934, which prompted the construction of debris basins. But, taking no chances, he added a second story before they moved back - to place the bedrooms upstairs. He had built the original house so stoutly that its concrete block walls held against the assault. The four were out of their house for nine months, a period greatly shortened by the fact that Bob Genofile, who died nine years ago, was a contractor. A neighbor finally heard Scott Genofile whistling, and they were dug out by rescuers. Everyone assumed that the four Genofiles were dead - as they would have been had Bob Genofile not kicked out a glass door, giving the debris in the bedroom some release. By the time it stopped, the debris had reached the eaves, solidifying instantly. It took a while to figure out the origins of the red metal wrapped around their own tree it turned out to be someone’s Volkswagen. Also, there were concrete lampposts, metal railings, pieces of homes, trees. Thirteen cars ended up in their yard, many in the pool. The slide that hit the Genofiles was composed not only of silt but of massive boulders.
“Debris flow” is what the experts call it the term “mudslide” grossly underplays reality. Pressure built until the debris exploded out. The debris basin above their home on Markridge Road had clogged, preventing the smaller rocks from making their noisy trek down the narrow flood control channel to a catch basin below the house. The silence, in retrospect, was foreboding. The slide that blasted through the Genofiles’ home came three years after the fire that helped set it in motion. People who live closest to the mountains developed a crick in the neck last week looking up and wondering: When? This year the threat is acute, after the Station fire robbed the hills of the chaparral that serves as their natural glue. For foothill denizens like Jackie, fire and mudslides are added threats. Bob and I were on the bed, and he was trying to hold the kids’ heads up so they wouldn’t.” Even now, almost 32 years later, she doesn’t finish the sentence.Īnd then it stopped, as they neared the ceiling: All four had survived.Įven for those who live in the flatlands and focus their worry on earthquakes, living in California can seem to be one long attempt to thwart the will of nature. But the children never got that far they were pinned by rocks that had slid down the mountain and into the room.
Jackie’s husband, Bob, ordered everyone onto the mattress.
They ran to the master bedroom, chased by the big black thing - a surging mass of water, rock, mud and the refuse of civilization. “And all of a sudden, all hell broke loose - this big black thing.” Kim was in her brother’s room at the front of the house, where they watched as transformers exploded on the hill rising steeply before them. “All of a sudden my daughter said, ‘Come here!’ ” Jackie recalled last week. Maybe, she told herself, it isn’t raining as hard as I’d thought. The rain had come in torrents in February of 1978, and Jackie was accustomed to hearing the resulting clatter of rock and water coursing down the culvert next to her home.