oklahoma city's urban cowboys

Robert and Sullivan peek inside a renovated gas station in OKC

Everytime a new shop opens on Oklahoma City's urban frontier we get pretty excited.

The other day, I read a tweet from a writer who had just jumped rope at the base of a mountain in Thailand. I immediately imagined myself living a far more exotic life. Then, I remembered something a former hairdresser said to me. She was from Scotland, but had lived in Oklahoma for two decades. “Everyone wants to live someplace else,” she said. “And, I get to.”

Ever since, I’ve tried to imagine that Oklahoma, where I have lived for more than 25 years, was “someplace else.” Sometimes, I pretend it is my first day here and that I have not driven down the same streets and passed the same houses and buildings a kabillion times.

Trying to maintain this fresh perspective has deepened my appreciation for Oklahoma City. I live in an old, tree-lined neighborhood that is highly urban. The Asian District and Mid Town are not destinations for me. They’re part of my small universe. And, far from the ranches and farms that have helped define Oklahoma’s pioneer spirit, one would be surprised at the hospitality and cooperative nature of Oklahoma City’s urban dwellers. These beaten paths are not unlike the tight-knit Jewish and Catholic neighborhoods that dot life in northern towns. I’m so lucky to be a part of it all.

My favorite urban restaurant.

I pretty much revolve in a small circle for much of any given week. At Homeland, a grocery store, the manager can tell when I’m puzzled by the absence of something in the produce aisle. She asks me what I’m looking for and I tell her cranberries. We exchange a few brief words about how the crop was lost last year and she disappears to the back to see if she can find me a bag or two. Today, I am lucky. She appears with four bags of cranberries, all for me.

On another day, when I am looking for buttermilk for bran muffins, the box boy knows. Even before I ask he says, “We didn’t get any in.” We never even say buttermilk.

At Walgreens, they know me in the photo lab. They know I can never remember which last name I use on my Snapfish account. They know to check the Js and the Ms. The woman who works the cosmetic counter knows that occasionally, the drug store provides me a 30-minute breather from 24/7 parenting. I dash out to buy a gallon of milk and diapers, and spend 20 minutes lurking at beauty products. One evening, I ask her if any of the hundred anti-aging products on the shelf really work. She tells me that the Merlot Grape Seed and the Yes to Carrots stuff sell really well. Who knew? And, when I show her my winter hands she tells me about Bag Balm. I leave, but not before spending $7.99 on the ointment. It really works.

The Vietnamese pharmacist at the CVS is on my speed dial. He is the best consultant, and even though he doesn’t know it, he’s kind of my alternative to unreachable doctors who refuse to answer questions over the phone. I’ve received some of the best advice from him, which has included little-known products like Humco's sweet oil and an ear syringe for little ear aches.

This house is close to one of the busiest streets on the urban frontier.
These dogs don't seem to mind the traffic, foot or otherwise.

The urban frontier is not nearly as mysterious or complicated or dangerous as it is sometimes made out to be. But, if you live here long enough, you’ll start to forget that there are places you can go where people don’t wait for the bus or walk up and down busy streets carrying groceries. There are no hole-in-the-walls where you can buy a hand-knitted scarf, a tacky, mini shrine or Chickory. There are no weird and struggling art galleries that have weekend garage sales on tiny stoops or cafes next to bombed-out vacant garages. There are no Vietnamese New Year dragon dances next to the Dunkin Donuts shop or homemade, illegally posted signs publicizing “Soul food for sale: greens with neck bones, sweet potatoes and strawberry cake.”

I like this shop when the neon lights are lit up at night.

Every time I leave my neighborhood, for an hour, a day, a week, I’m always so glad to get back to it, even if there are more apparent weirdoes running around. I duck into the greasy spoon, just to make sure my favorite waitress is still pouring coffee. I loiter at the drug store. Really, I should get out more often. Everyone wants to live someplace else, and I do.

My favorite coffee shop, as you well know.