EARTHQUAKE ANNIVERSARY QUIETLY PASSES; NEW MADRID RECALLS ZOO OF 2 YEARS AGO

The town of New Madrid is quite unassuming. Its western boundary is skirted by a cemetery that covets as much history as the ground it stands on.

Because it is the cotton harvesting season, there are white pieces of fluff scattered along the side of the road, dropped by the huge wagons pulled by equally monstrous tractors hauling their bounty to be processed.

The corner deli\convenience store has a large, black, three-ring binder that holds charge accounts for customers - those waiting for the crops or their checks to come in.

Women browsing in the local dress shops gawk and gossip about the daily biz, the ups and downs of everyday life, dragging in the latest daytime drama plot lines to add spice to their conversation.

On the surface, New Madrid is really a typical, small, rural town without fault.

On the surface, that is.

It's what lies beneath that sets that town - the whole region - a world apart.

Two years ago, more than 300 newsmen and about 30 satellite trucks flocked to the area for one of the greatest non-news event in recent memory.

All the madness and mayhem surrounded a prediction by 72-year-old scientist Iben Browning, who predicted a 50-50 chance that a major earthquake would occur along the New Madrid fault line in the 48 hours of Dec. 3-4, 1990.

Browning had neither seismological or climatological training. He based his prediction on tidal forces that were stronger those days than they had been in 60 years.

Scientists, each with longer resumes of degrees and honors than the New Madrid phone registry, discounted, disputed and refused Browning's theory.

But the madness overwhelmed rational thinking.

The mere thought that someone could predict an earthquake - could call Mother Nature's bluff. But it just wasn't an earthquake; it was a major earthquake. One that could tumble buildings in St. Louis, that could be felt in Southern Iowa, that could open a chasm that would swallow the city of New Madrid - an inescapable irony that the land would then be even richer with history.

Two years later, no one came. The town went about its business, sitting on a defective time bomb: Its detonation hour unpredictable; its fury yet unleashed.

Glenn Helmes, owner of the local convenience store/deli, sat front row-center to the media circus of 1990.

"That's when I started serving three meals a day," Helmes said. "Those guys were packing in here because there was no where else to go to eat."

Helmes had to take a row of shelving in the store to allow room for card tables and chairs to handle the influx of reporters who were hungry for other things besides their meals.

"I couldn't tell you how many questions I answered or how many interviews I consented to," Helmes said. "They were all over."

When reminded about the anniversary of the would-be earthquake, Helmes scoffed.

"We don't think about it at all; we can't," Helmes said. "It's there, we all know it is, but we can't allow it to control our lives - we can't live every second like it's going to be our last."

Helmes had plenty of stories, too.

"There were these guys from Tulsa, Okla., who were here for the three weeks before Q-Day and two weeks after," Helmes said. "And they thought that every day was going to be their last on earth. I've never seen people as jumpy as they were."

A news crew from Tokyo, Japan came into his store one day and ordered coffee. "I just gave it to them," Helmes said. "A couple cups of coffee weren't going to break me."

The Japanese news crew bowed at Helmes repeatedly until they backed out of the store. Astonished by the overly-polite nature of their gratitude, Helmes asked them what the big deal was about free coffee.

"They told me that in Tokyo, a cup of coffee costs about $2.50; I told them that their coffee didn't cost me $7.50 - or I wouldn't have just given it away," Helmes mused.

Becky Branum had a different view of the media quake.

She didn't work at the time, but made daily trips to town just to watch the circus.

"It was really funny," Branum said. "There were all the news people taping footage of everyone and everything, and we all had our cam-corders out and were taping them.

"The streets were crammed with trucks," Branum said. "About the time it was supposed to happen, you couldn't drive down the street, and you could just forget trying to find a place to park."

The townspeople had a hard time escaping the eyes of the cameras, mounted everywhere, pointed every direction.

"In our church on the Sunday before it was supposed to happen, there were news guys from the three major networks - like people who worked for Tom Brokaw and Dan Rather," Branum said.

When the news aired that night, the national affiliates said that the people in the church "were praying that disaster not befall them and for the safety of their loved ones."

"I was praying that I'd win the lottery," Branum said.

The attention of the world and the foreboding messages the press was conveying - the constant drilling that the lives of the townspeople hung in the balance - did get to the townsfolk.

"I went home and made up an earthquake emergency kit with bottled water and canned food, bandages and other first aid stuff, blankets and all that other stuff," Branum said. "I drove around with it in my car for about two months; then I just put it in my garage."

"Maybe I shouldn't have put it there, but we chose to live here - it's our home," Branum said. "We can't be afraid that someday that fault is going to slip and all hell's going to break loose. We know that's going to happen, but we don't want to know when."

The town of New Madrid benefited greatly from revenues brought in during the earthquake scare. Stores ordered more goods, additions and renovations were begun in old buildings and a whole new industry cropped up - Fault stuff.

In the town museum at the end of Main Street, visitors can buy T-shirts, mugs, aprons, brochures, pens, hats and just about anything else that the phrase, "It's Our Fault," could be written upon.

The gift shop even sells post cards with a picture of a half dozen television satellite trucks and media personnel. The writing beneath says "The Great New Madrid `Media Quake' of 1990."

"It was definitely the biggest thing to hit this town," said Helmes. "Well, you know what I mean."