Moving home, sort of
Let’s count each of my moves.
To college, in San Antonio, but that’s not really moving is it?
No beds, no couches, no desk. A full car, but that’s about it.
To Austin, not long after graduating from Trinity University, where I slept on my friend Jay Wells’ floor until Karyn Urner, another start-to-finish college friend, set me up with a futon I could place upon Jay’s floor.
Then to Burnett, Texas, after getting my first newspaper job at the weekly paper in Marble Falls down the road. If only somebody’d told me anything about networking and how to get jobs in the real world, I might not have started there, but perhaps the San Antonio Express News, which might have set me up for a very different career, who knows.
I only think about it when I think about it.
From there to back home when The Highlander cut half its staff, to a house in Norman where I lived with two roommates, my parents having kicked me out in the middle of my short career as a private investigator, process server, pizza delivery guy and failed waiter, most of it simultaneous.
Then to Woodward to begin at The Woodward News on my 25th birthday, Sept. 2, 1993; then, now married, to Ardmore, to begin at The Daily Ardmoreite, on my 27th birthday, Sept. 2, 1995; then to Norman, now a parent, to begin at The Norman Transcript on March 7, 1997.
The marriage ended in 2009 — my daughter, Harper, remains fantastic — initiating a series of moves over the next 12 years, mostly into and out of apartments and a condo, until the one that landed me here, with the fabulous and great Gwenda in The Springs at Greenleaf Trails, off Tecumseh and (barely) in Norman, the one the movers arrive at Wednesday morning, though we’re nowhere near ready, or at least feel like we’re nowhere near ready — to be clear, we’re nowhere near ready — from which they’ll take our furniture and assorted stuff to, basically, Hefner and May in northwest Oklahoma City.
I grew up on NW 18th St., also in OKC, between Drexel and I-44, on the other side of which was Windsor Hills, in the Linwood neighborhood. We had a northwest address but we were not northwest. We were a mile from the fairgrounds and close enough to downtown Oklahoma City that, if I hustled, I could get to The Myriad for Sunday afternoon pro wrestling in less than 20 minutes on my bike.
Where we’re headed?
That’s northwest.
Here’s the deal on OKC.
North of 63rd, between Western and May, maybe Western and Portland, that’s northwest. West of Portland, to Meridian, MacArthur, Rockwell, Council, Morgan Road, I don’t care how far north you are, you’re not north, just west.
The “southside” is everything south of downtown that isn’t Mid-Del, that’s east of I-44 and north of 89th, the dividing line between Oklahoma and Cleveland counties. Though Oklahoma City claims addresses as far south as 149th, I don’t care. Once south of 89th, you’re in Moore.
Also, oddly, there is no “east” in Oklahoma City.
There’s Midwest City, Del City, Tinker Air Force Base, Choctaw and Harrah, which are not Oklahoma City, just as Yukon and Mustang are not Oklahoma City to the west, just as Newcastle and Tuttle are not Oklahoma City to the southwest … though Bethany, The Village and Nichols Hills are Oklahoma City, and Edmond might be too, but Deer Creek, though Edmond claims it, is not.
Deer Creek might as well be Guthrie.
Glad we have that clear.
Moving “northwest” is strange.
I went to Linwood Elementary through the third grade, an Oklahoma City Public School three blocks from our house, but moved to Westminster in fourth and Bishop McGuinness for high school, and even though Westminster is on 44th and McGuinness on 50th, which is to say both are not quite “northwest,” I still associate about three-fourths of my classmates from both as being “northwest.”
It was certainly less, but that’s what it felt like, and so it was always a matter of pride I resided smack dab in the middle of Oklahoma City, that had never, ever, been considered “suburban” in a neighborhood whose inhabitants had never run from integration, who were happy right where they were.
Though I lived in a large-ish home, and my dad made a great living as an attorney, and attended private school, and college out of state without taking on debt … I was not privileged.
“Northwest” was privileged.
The things you tell yourself that may or may not be true, that may make no sense at all, that then inform your whole life.
Crazy.
I’ll be in The Village, which I did not know had its own mayor, town council and city manager until last weekend.
But not Nichols Hills. Not Quail Creek. Not in the beautiful and large homes of Crown Heights, which, though south of 63rd, is still an honorary northwest neighborhood.
Hey, I don’t make the rules.
Anyway, we’re moving.
Gwenda’s commute will now be five minutes in no traffic or 10 in the worst traffic, rather than a half hour in no traffic and an hour-fifteen in the worst traffic. Also, Tulsa, where her family live, will be just an hour-plus rather than the 90 minutes we tell ourselves it’s been when it’s really been much closer to two hours. And we’ll be two miles from my mom and though Harper and Carson, her husband, aren’t super close, they’ll be closer, too, also in Oklahoma City.
There’s a pool, which we tell ourselves we’ll use for fitness.
Never thought I’d be a pool guy. Not that I’m upset about it.
And we’ll be, say it isn’t so, NORTHWEST.
I bet I rekindle at least two friendships.
I’m fairly certain I’ll run into people I know more often, which will mostly be cool, but might sometimes be awkward.
As a Thunder fan, I’ll feel more authentic.
As a sportswriter still making regular trips to Norman, I’ll feel like I’m leaving home to come home, which isn’t bad but for the time spent in traffic getting to Lloyd Noble Center tips and Sooner football kicks.
The two high schools I’ll root for the most will still be Norman High and Norman North, then Noble and, though it’s so not me, Community Christian.
Work amongst anybody and you develop relationships.
I’ll appreciate being nearer McGuinness, a high school experience I quite enjoyed, though I’m no longer a Fighting Irish fan.
If the mean (and I’m pretty sure drunk) fans that paid to watch from the press box for a back-in-the-day soccer game didn’t do it — but they really did do it: I loved seeing Sister Stephanie when I walked in the gate, but those parents made me embarrassed to have gone there — the fact the Oklahoma City Archdiocese is doing all it can, alongside Ryan Walters, to end separation of church and state in Oklahoma does my old high school fandom no favors.
What the $%&# is the church thinking?
So, again, we’re moving.
This was supposed to be a funny column about moving.
Not about destination.
Funny where the words take you.
We’re so not ready.