Seven years ago, on another Labor Day weekend, we Napans woke up to a roaring sound out of hell, a shaking and the sound of glass seemingly breaking everywhere in the house. And our outlook on life in a safe haven would never again be the same.

Thanks to the Napa Library’s media room, with its microfilm archives, and my own jotter book notes, which I’ve kept for over 40 years, this story can be told.

At the library, I homed in on Napa Valley Register pages from early September 2000, specifically the Labor Day weekend pages of Friday, Sept. 1, to Monday, Sept. 4.

On Sept. 1, the Register’s front page blared forth the news with a “Bush on Bush” and informed one and all that George W.’s little brother had just stumped for his big brother right here in Napa County. Of course, that was all about the 2000 Presidential election just months away.

Who will ever forget that election in which the guy with the popular vote lost and the guy with the electoral vote margin won? An election that hung by a “pregnant chad” and five weeks of nonsense was settled by the U.S. Supreme Court, whose members said “Enough already!”

That Friday Vallerga’s was gearing up for family cookouts. Corona beer was going at $10 a pop, Lay’s potato chips at a deuce a bag and charcoal briquets at “only” $3.29.

The Cinedome was featuring forgettable films such as “Highlander End Game” and “Space Cowboys” (Ugh!). The Napa Valley Unified School District teachers had gotten a nearly 10 percent raise, so even teachers could afford some Corona and a few briquets.

Even this scribe got into the act with a column titled “The Emporer’s New Clothes.” In it I contrasted wine tasting hosts in the valley who demanded that you taste the nutty or fruity flavor of a strain of wine, which I never did, with the serfs who were ordered to admire the king’s new raiments as the poor old king strutted through the streets stark naked.

So to prevent ourselves from being labeled dunces, we feigned tasting and seeing things that just weren’t there.

On Sept. 2, a planned celebration for the following day at the First Street bridge was noted, and Marty James — a great guy and sports guru in the valley — advised all golfers that hereafter, the Yountville golf course would change its name to the Vintner’s Golf Club, bringing Napa golfers up to speed.

However, the presses that ran on a late Saturday night for the Sunday, Sept. 3 edition of the Register ran without the biggest Napa news story in many a year. No fault of the Register. Who knew what was about to happen?

However, the Sunday issue that did hit the streets ironically included an ominous warning; A photo caption that ran with a story about a single car accident read, “Morning Wake-Up Call.”

We Napans got our wake-up call alright, and it came at 1:16 a.m. in the form of a 5.2 magnitude earthquake, which was later named the Mt. Veeder quake, from a fault line no one knew existed.

Seven years have passed, but Napans who lived through the longest 18 seconds of our lives will never forget it.

Jeanette and I had moved to Napa three years before, having left a town where the summer heat and humidity were brutal and the snows, blizzards and hurricanes sweeping up from the Carolinas were no picnics. But all of them came with warnings attached. Earthquakes, though, send no warnings!

In the fall of 1997, when we first arrived, we asked about earthquakes in these parts and were always cheered by some comforting words such as, “Oh, once in awhile you might feel a slight push, or a gentle roll, but this isn’t San Francisco — so there’s nothing to worry about!”

But in the early morning hours of Sept. 3, 2000, at precisely 1:16 a.m., all bets were off. If we were dreaming at all it was about our young grandsons, Robbie, not yet 4, and Phil, all of 2 months old, who we’d spent some time with on Saturday.

Jeanette’s scream woke me up and I heard the dreaded words, “We’re having an earthquake!” Our beds were shaking, as was the large mirror affixed to our bureau dresser. Sounds of falling objects and shattered glass seemed everywhere and worst of all there was this roaring sound like an IRT subway train heading for Broadway and 42nd Street right through our bedroom.

The quakes duration was only 18 seconds, but you could have fooled me. It seemed like an eternity.

The watchwords on our street and all over Napa were, “Are you OK?” and “Can I give you a hand?” Following the sweeping and the clean-ups, it was a morale booster to see colorful hot air balloons floating over Napa town, and visitors on the Wine Train waved and cheered us with thumbs-up signs, which we returned. The rumble of the old train sounded to me like, “You can’t beat us, you can’t beat us.”

By afternoon, stores on Trancas Street with boarded-up front windows were doing business as usual, and on Monday Napa garbage trucks removed the debris that we citizens had swept up and bundled up. Best of all, there was no looting. Some town! Some people!

A Federal Emergency Management guy tossed off the quake as a trifle, nothing more than a chimney shake.

As for me, I know what guys in old Nuu Yawwk would say to that FEMA guy. Something like “Yuh shudda bin here, pal. Yuh shudda hoid it, felt it and seen what it dun.”

Parker can be reached at evjenpar@mailbug.com or 224-9956.