`Dustbury' blogging pioneer Charles Hill completes final tour

Prepare to read the sort of column that absolutely would not have any approval from Charles Hill.

The beloved, quirky and sometimes grumpy writer was not just a blogger, but was the original Oklahoma City blogger for almost a quarter century before he

died Sunday after being injured in a car accident.

Hill, who was a software guy in his day job, should have been a newspaper columnist. And indeed, he had hundreds if not thousands of loyal readers across the country who early on were tasked with understanding that his blog, Dustbury, was named after a place that does not exist — and yet did within the world created by Hill.

“There's no point in asking Rand McNally or AAA for the actual location of Dustbury, Oklahoma, and if you're one of those gadget-happy folks with a Global Positioning System, you'll find very quickly that you can't get here from there,” Charles explained in 1997, shortly after starting his blog.

“Then again, people on the coasts too often have no idea where Oklahoma is, let alone some mythical townlet therein,” Charles wrote. “All they know about the 46th state is that it's somewhere in that big flat area between California and New York and that these days it elects to public office people who, in other states, would find their speechmaking limited to `You want fries with that?'”

A picture of a finch was the one constant resident of Dustbury as Hill every few years or so upgraded either the software or design. He loved his adult kids and had a self-effacing sense of humor and appreciation for the ex-wife that he concluded was far more accepting of his existence post-divorce.

So how did this prematurely old soul build an audience in the earliest years of the World Wide Web without any real selfpromotion? He didn't really have a theme for his blog. He liked writing about obscure

old music and entertainers. Whether in jest or for real, he really had thing for Rebecca Black and her song “Friday.”

I came to know Charles through his writings of the Skirvin when its mere survival was still in question 20 years ago. His thoughts and observations gave me pause. His writing captured me forever.

Charles loved his world tours, as he called them, and when they took place it was a treat for readers. His “tours” of his hometown, Oklahoma City, were equally as entertaining.

He introduced readers to bloggers from across the country, and when they were ridiculed by Baltimore Sun writer Christopher Hanson, Charles created a special page for the bloggers he followed, including being singled out by Hanson. He labeled the page “The Annoy Christopher Hanson Campaign.”

Charles, being a guy, had his weaknesses. He wasn't shy about featuring posts about beautiful women he admired. But his posts even then had a classy tone, one that delved into who these women are or were instead of just focusing on their looks. But don't get me wrong

— he really appreciated a woman who had good taste in shoes.

The world tours, the tours of our city, came to an end a few years ago as Charles' health declined. He was in pain, and when he once let slip that the hospital bills were starting to crush him, the community rallied to his aid with a Go Fund Me campaign.

It was the least everyone could do for years of his writings he shared for free. From time to time before that time I thrilled at chance encounters with Charles. And as depression over his plight set in, I set about scheduling a day for us to hang out, enjoy breakfast at a trendy new downtown spot, Scratch, and drove around sharing memories of our city.

It was a city tour, and I enjoyed every minute of it. No one but Charles could make discovering an overlooked old school street sign from decades ago as fun as he did. But even then, the pain he was experiencing was heartbreaking. Never again could I even think about trying to coax him back into a car after seeing him grimace as he climbed in and out of my Hyundai.

Charles wouldn't approve of this column. Surely, he'd reason, such a waste of newsprint is now why we cut down trees. He loved to share stories about others or even about his experiences, but there was little to be gained by singing his own praises.

The pain was so bad in recent years that Charles made no secret of his desire to end this story. At times his depression was such some worried about his overall mental health. But in private, he did reach out for help. He desperately wanted to live. He kept making the journey to work, and never went long without entertaining us in Dustbury.

Dustbury exists. And in the hearts and souls of Charles' readers, it's a wonderful place that won't disappear for a very long time.