Moorpark's Quiet Charms

When I announced to friends and family two decades ago that I was moving to Moorpark, they were less than enthusiastic. They were not familiar with the area and they figured it was very far away from Los Angeles.

"Isn't that way out in Ventura County?" Well, sort of but not really. It seems that Moorpark has been flying under the radar of Los Angeles and even other portions of Ventura County.

Over the years, I have heard some odd comments about Moorpark. They were offhand remarks that, in my mind, displayed awesome ignorance and more than a touch of condescension.

Some years ago, I had a casual exchange with another woman at an upscale health club in Thousand Oaks. She asked where I lived and I replied Moorpark. Her first remark was, "Moorpark? Isn't it kind of provincial?" I inquired what she meant by that. She explained, "I mean, where do you go shopping?"

A few years later, another comment came from a Ventura-centric person who was not really clear on the local geography.

"Moorpark is in the Valley, isn't it?" And those who live in Los Angeles County often assume that I am referring to Sherman Oaks. No, I live in Moorpark, not on Moorpark Street, which is usually met with a blank stare, "Oh."

I would have thought that some of the events of the past 20 years might have put Moorpark on the map. Things like the Moorpark Fire, the doomed liger on the loose, the high school winning the Academic Decathalon national championship several times, and other occasional newsworthy happenings.

After all, I'm pretty familiar with a good portion of Southern California's five-county area and I have a passing idea of which county holds which cities. Why is Moorpark such a mystery?

When I moved here, I hailed from the Valley. My husband and I had a house in Northridge and we both worked in Hollywood. I wanted to get as far away as possible from the Los Angeles crime, smog and year-round schools but still remain within a reasonable commute to work.

Because the 118 Freeway had been recently extended out to the edge of Moorpark, we decided to look in the eastern end of Ventura County.  Each time we traversed the Santa Susana pass in search of a new home, the smog would lift and the temperature would drop a good 20 degrees. I was sold.

A few days after moving early that summer, we were startled when we heard deafening booms coming from somewhere quite close. Like cannons or artillery. As we stepped outside into the backyard, we saw spectacular fireworks exploding directly over our house. We exchanged looks and said, "What day is it? I thought the Fourth of July was tomorrow. Did we lose a day?"

No, we were learning about one of the quirks of living in Moorpark, where Independence Day is celebrated with fireworks on July 3. Apparently, you get more bang for your buck on the third.

The fireworks were being launched from across the street, where the new high school, still being built in phases, had just opened. For several years, we hosted parties on July 3, as we seemed to have a private viewing of the display.

This was a lot more fun than fighting the crowds for a good spot to view fireworks in the Valley. Plus, I provided comfortable seating, plenty of parking, good food and clean bathrooms. All this, and my guests could still spend the Fourth with their families.

A few weeks after making the move, early on a Saturday morning, we awoke to a strange noise. A loud hissing that sounded like a gas leak about to explode. Alarmed, we ran to the windows and spied an even stranger sight.

A hot air balloon had blown slightly off-course and was landing in our neighborhood after glancing off the roof of a nearby house. For the first few years, Saturday mornings began with the sound of hot air balloons floating just above our home.

I was  charmed by this little hamlet. However, a few months later, in 1989, five teens standing outside a pizza joint following a football game were hit by a shotgun blast in a drive-by shooting. All survived but it was the clarion call to those who had believed that big city violence could not enter Moorpark, despite some obvious signs of increasing gang activity.

The law enforcement response, the school response, and the involvement of parents turned the tide. Moorpark has been one of the safest small cities in the country ever since. 

Some of this success has been attributed to the citizens. From very early in morning until late at night, you can see people out walking. They are walking their dogs, walking in pairs and walking alone. This ownership of the neighborhoods makes it more difficult for people to commit crimes without being spotted.

Neighbors know each other and they know which children live in the area. We watch the families grow up together. We know when a neighbor gets a new car and grieve together when their dog dies. Older kids babysit the younger ones and now, some of the adult children are returning home until they get their sea legs and can fully support themselves.

I was lucky enough to grow up in an area where I had the security of living in the same house from infancy until leaving the nest. I never thought that I would be able to provide that same stability to my own family because Los Angeles is far more fluid. But Moorpark has become my daughter's touchstone and will forever be her hometown, no matter how far she eventually flies.