Where to begin...I had this Hemingwayesque post all written out, but alas the night called darkly and I hit my head on the PRINTER TABLE I'm using as a desk again...needless to say I omitted the draft button, and off I ricocheted to "The Bed".
Next morning, all I saw was that little "no signal" image glaring at me from across the cabana.
Bullocks! (that's my new word) You see I'm bitch-backing the cable from the main house...a 75ft. coil of indigo blue 1/4 inch coax my umbilicus at the moment...but I'm getting ahead of myself here. Let's start with where HERE is, shall we?
I'm staying in a section of Oklahoma City called Heritage Hills. Not to be confused with Nichols Hills, Surrey Hills, or Valley Brook, eh hem...Heritage Hills is rich with early Oklahoma oil history, phenomenal European architecture, and of course, transient homeless people such as myself.
My dear friends who have opened their cabana to the Mer and I, are in a word...eccentric. He teaches at the University of Phoenix, and Oklahoma University...Environmental Science and Basic Ecology. Years ago, I used to see Fenton riding his bike around the area...thought he was a crazy person on a bicycle I did. Then I met him at church, his wife said "There's my husband Fenton" and I thought "She's married to the crazy bicycle guy".
She, Tempie, the crazy bicycle guys wife is the Manager of a psych assessment referral team, working obnoxious hours with a broken foot - Tempie is the type of friend who has never tried to talk me out of my tree, but rather climbed up the tree, smoked a cigarette with me, then we've come down together.
They have one daughter, Shanti, for which an entire post could be written about. Shanti was adopted, it was an open adoption, she's always known she was adopted, there are no secrets here. Shanti is as wild and passionate as the horses she rides daily. She is an amazing human being, and I'm proud to call her my friend.
Two ELS students live in the main house also. Kevin is from Korea...or Japan...shit, he's Asian, and has been here three years. Talal is Muslim, and I slept so little last night I can't remember where he's from, but he wears the most delicious cologne I've ever smelled on a man. Their palatial Estate is massive.
The first impression is the huge original ornate wrought iron gate, like two giant arms welcoming wide.
The main house, a white Spanish Mission giant on the Oklahoma praire of 1927, changed only by tree lines and blue coax cables...
The cabana we're staying in has the same square footage as the house I'm trying to close on, as the house I'm buying. It's charm surpasses any cinder block cottage, with it's claw-footed bath tub and live greenery.
I've hardly left the safety of this stable old cabana, trying to get my bearings I suppose. Overwhelmed with the peace and freedom I feel, not sure exactly what to do with it, with myself. Still waiting, waiting, waiting, to find out just what our future holds. An FHA Underwriter holds the key. In an email to friends I wrote "Had it not been for 4 Missionaries and one crazy old Biker, we might be sitting on a curb somewhere trying to keep the fish out of direct sunlight. I had no idea how much stress I was under until we were in rush hour traffic on Broadway Extension last night coming down here. Al in the front, a very unhappy Nutz the Cat in back, and Alphie The Beta somewhere in between. The Pathfinder packed full of our necessary lives...I realized for the first time in I don't know how long...I was free.
Over the last year I've been yelled at, called stupid, referred to as "you people", and all in the name of wanting my kid to have a decent neighborhood to live in. So grateful I'm out of there. No place is worth the stress I've been under for the last two years. NO HOUSE.
























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