Suddenly, it's gone

Suddenly, it's gone.

I haven't reflected much the past few months on the eradication of the old E-E office.

Perhaps it's still too surreal. A place I called home -- a place where for decades I spent more time than in than my own apartment -- seemed to vanish overnight into a memory-laced oblivion.

For more than 25 years -- regardless of occasional times of illness, severe physical pain, blizzards, floods, a crippling virus shutdown and even ripping heartbreak I spent every day except Sundays, and almost 90 percent of Saturdays seated in my messy nook.

About 18 months ago, or so, I began working mostly at home. But, I always knew the office was there and my worn desk waiting for me.

However, with more of our operation outsourced, our press shutting down and our staff shrinking, a huge office section that had once been a literal beehive of activity with dozens of employees buzzing in happy tones, became only a cavernous reminder of a nostalgic era.

Change seemed justified and inevitable.

But, that doesn't make the disappearance of our workplace any easier to digest.

It was in 1993 when publisher Joe Edwards and the E-E staff moved into the new building, constructed on the site of a former drive-in theater. This year marked the 30th Anniversary of that move.

I arrived in mid-1996. After three or four years I switched desks into the work area I would call home the next 23 or so years.

My many shelves were stuffed with books and magazines, going back to the 1990s. They remained there undisturbed for decades until the final clean-out.

I remember that for many years I heard the office door open behind me and watched business office worker Brenda walk in my direction and we exchanged morning greetings. I enjoyed seeing her smiling face every day.

But, she left a few years ago and has since passed away.

I remember hearing the lively and pleasant chatter among the ladies in the advertising department, stationed several feet to my right. I recall Vivian's happy greetings to customers coming in the front door. I knew if I had some kind of pay or vacation question I could always walk a few feet to talk with Cody or Tammy and get it resolved.

It's been more than two decades since David Austin and I formed the sports department and also teamed up on a cable TV segment to interview Bartlesville football coach Lee Brower. Dave met his wife Summer in the E-E office.

I remember them all, dozens and dozens of faces during the years who I considered more than co-workers, but friends or co-travelers on the same journey.

I remember going in the office on the Friday morning after my sister passed away on Thursday. My editor Doug told me I didn't have to be there, and I knew that. But, I wanted to finish that day's paper before flying out the next morning. There was something soothing and solidifying about being at that desk.

My sister used to call me every Saturday afternoon, for decades, while I worked at that desk to put out Sunday papers. What I would give to be back at the desk and have her call now!

On the night I went into the Bartlesville Athletic Hall of Fame, my visiting sister came back with me to the office while I finished Sunday's paper.

Faces, names, funny moments, angry moments, sad moments, inspiring moments, frustrating moments, fulfilling moments -- they're all blended together in my thoughts of that office area, which probably measured 10,000 square feet, including the private offices off the outer walls.

There was the time I dropped an open can of root beer, which I had balanced on the back of my hand, and it splattered on Cody's wall near his electrical outlets. Fortunately it didn't do any damage, but the incident inspired the title for my next poetry book, "Spilled Root Beer."

Back many years ago, when I finished up around midnight Saturdays with my portion of the paper, I would walk for a half hour or 45 minutes around the building or a couple of blocks down Nowata road. When I got back to my car, everyone usually would be gone. I hated to be the last one to drive out of the empty, dark parking lot.

There's too many reporters and editorial assistants to list and talk about, but I remember each one of them. I remember their faces, their voices, the funny things they said, our (sometimes deep or heated) political discussions, the jokes and the overall goodwill.

I recall the September morning we all gathered around the TV located on the ledge above my desk to watch the unfolding drama of 9/11. When I worked alone for a good portion of Saturdays I used to turn on that TV to old movies to break up the silence as I typed my articles or formatted my photos.

The numbers of employees shrunk during the years. Even then, the spirit of camaraderie and purpose remained vibrant and strong. We probably did more with higher quality than any other group our size or even bigger could have accomplished.

But, the slap of the virus lockdown and its impact on business, accompanied with the closing of the press, helped accelerate the office's impending destiny.

Toward the end, it had become just a shell of past glory and empty desks, except for wonderful Jennifer and occasionally others, a haunting reminder of a wonderful time for those who had been there. But a time never to be repeated, a repository of unfiled memories.

It had served its purpose -- and served it perfectly -- for as long as fate allowed.

Suddenly, it's gone.

This article originally appeared on Bartlesville Examiner-Enterprise: Suddenly, it's gone