If you have to have one ...

If you have to have one, this is it. A favorite obituary of one of my friends:

Wilma Katarina Molbert, 74, of Baytown died peacefully in her beloved apartment on Wednesday. Loving family members and devoted friends surrounded her bedside. Wilma's last hours were filled with laughter, sweet stories, prayer and singing.

What a wonderful way to die ... enjoying your final moments sharing in the joy of life with loved ones. I haven't seen Wilma in more than 30 years, but she passed away exactly like I remembered her living it.

What if everlasting life is simply the legacy that we leave behind ... and heaven is composed of the joyous memories and the laughter your descendants share when they tell stories about you. And hell ... well, nothing; everybody just forgets.

At my dad's funeral, everyone had a 'George story' to share, and now I wonder if that's how friends and family help create a heaven for the loved one they've lost. My mother's funeral went the same way, and there were even some stories that portrayed my mother in a gutsy manner that I'd never recognized.

I admire my friend Wilma's family and how they helped her face her passing as a celebration of a wonderful life. And, without words, they told her that her heaven is secure. Sharing moments of joy while facing the loss of a close friend or family member takes courage, faith and selflessness. Tell your loved one that he or she how special they've made your life and how they'll be remembered.

What a wonderful way to die ... except for maybe the 84-year-old softball teammate of a friend who had a heart attack rounding third base ... or, to paraphrase a crusty former co-worker, 'to die at 99, shot by a jealous husband.'

I promise to be a better person (fingers crossed!)

On my honor, I promise to be a better person. Can I stop there? Here are my 2009 resolutions (and since this is the end of January, I guess 'stop procrastinating' should be #1) . . .

1. Blog at least once a week. I've gotten out of the habit (and nothing ever sounds quite right). Current status: it's the end of January, and this is my first blog.

2. Run in the White Rock Half-Marathon. Thank God it's not until December. Daughter #1 and I talked about running it together. Fortunately, she's a worse runner than I am. Current status: I'm thinking about buying a pair of running shoes this weekend.

3. Lose 20 pounds: I started off the year about 206 pounds. Current status: Last week, I weighed in at 210 pounds.

4. Complete at least one home improvement project every weekend: I probably need to add 'finish painting the porch railing (started in 1997)' and 'finish trim on front porch (started in 2004).' Current status: I helped my wife re-decorate the living room by putting up crown molding and replacing the baseboards. Unfortunately, she said, 'while you have your tool belt out . . .' and I ruined my home improvement plans for the next three weekends.

5. Plant a garden. Actually this is my wife's idea, but I do all the grunt work. The evening sun fries our backyard, and our ground is like concrete. Other than that, it should fun. Current status: I bagged some leaves and hope they'll compost themselves.

6. Value time. This one's all encompassing. I can't even begin to estimate the amount of time I waste screwing around on the computer or not doing what I should be doing because I don't think I have time. Current status: See current status on most everything above.

7. Spend more one-on-one time with daughter #2. Daughter #2 is an attention sucker, but most of her earlier life was spent at her sister's soccer games and volleyball games and basketball games. We've been spending more time together on the weekends, and I've been 'forcing her' to practice her French Horn while I 'listen.' Current status: I'm blogging and she's watching TV.

8. Don't worry; be happy. I think I've aged more in the last 3-5 years than during any period in my life. Money, daughter #1, money, daughter #2, money, son and money. Probably need to adhere more to my WWJBD philosophy: What would Jimmy Buffett do? Current status: Just bought daughter #1 a new car. Company bonus is going to build a new fence (hey, see #4). Guess I better work on this one, too.

9. Join a church. Why do they have to meet on Sunday mornings? Or Saturday evenings? My wife and I need this for our own peace of mind, and daughter #2 needs it to build a stronger foundation, spiritually and socially. A friend describes our church life as flavor of the week. I grew up Catholic, my wife Southern Baptist (in Maryland?). We've attended Church of Christ, Methodist, Southern Baptist, Interdenominational, Non-denominational, and a few others. Current status: why do they have to meet on Sunday mornings?

10. Bring joy to others. This is the easiest one and the hardest one. It's simple to smile or say a nice word to someone, but what about someone who really needs it? And being needy, high maintenance and all about me, I love to be told that I'm a nice guy. Current status: I've shopped at the neighborhood WalMart the last two evenings after work. This one's going to have to wait.

Okay, check off #1 (at least until next week).

Walden: foreshadowing the Front Porch

Far out! John Denver was singing 'Rocky Mountain High,' the campus Ecology Club was stacking newspapers, and our English teachers had us reading Thoreau's Walden. We were going to live the simple life, peace would dominate the world (peace dominate?), and the planet would be saved. And the boys among us were ecstatic that the draft was over.

I still have my high-school copy of Henry David Thoreau's Walden and Civil Disobedience. In the early '70s, it was kind of like the bible for . . . well, for all those things I mentioned in the first paragraph.

I buy almost all of my books at Half-Price Books, usually 2-3 at a time; and if I run out before another shopping trip, I scrounge something around the house for something else to read. At least three times, I've resorted to Walden between Half-Price sprees, and I've gotten all the way to page 10 (Chapter 1 begins on page 7).

Thoreau's much more self-absorbed than I remember (my friend Laurie would call him a 'diva,' like she did me in my last blog), and I find the passages that our English teachers didn't have us underline to be much more interesting. Who really cares about most men leading lives of quiet desperation.

In the first LONG paragraph of Chapter 1 -- Economy, Thoreau anticipates blogging (at least my blogs):

I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew so well . . . Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would sned to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must be a distant land to me.

Not sure exactly what he said, but I like the justification for writing about myself, because that's really about the only thing I know. And that's what I love about others' blogs.

Then later in another LONG paragraph about northern overseers being worse than southern overseers (damn yankees!), he wrote:

. . . a prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinions. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.

Then he throws in something about Wilberforce, and I'm still trying to figure out who he is.

I agree with both Laurie and Cath's comments on my last blog (Cath is one of those 'kindred from a distant land'), and I'm impressed at how appropriate Thoreau's comments are to that blog and their comments (I was desperate for another trip to Half-Price Books before I wrote the last blog).

A couple of addenda . . .

#1 -- I really didn't deserve my first true love. She was far more mature than I was and, fortunately, kind enough to not point that out to me. I was crushed when she left but grateful for the time we were together. And I regret some of the stupid, stupid jealousies that were such a waste of time.

She must've borrowed my copy of Walden. On the inside cover -- and I either missed it or didn't understand it at the time -- she wrote: Even love nods occasionally. If I would've noticed that at 17, she and I would be . . . well, probably on opposite ends of the state, carrying on our own lives and never having contact again . . . just like now. But at least I'd be smarter.

#2 -- My last blog, I wrote about wanting to tell old friends, 'You were important to me.' A long-ago friend sent me a note through the TJ Web site and sweetly wrote that she still has a gift -- an Instamatic, light-just-right photo of a Port Arthur landmark -- I gave her in high school.

There's nothing better than hearing, 'You were important to me.'

By the way, I still have the patch at the beginning of the blog . . . the jeans it was sewn on didn't make it. But I do have a T-shirt with it screened on the front.

Is it my breath? Old friends and odd reunions

The night of my high school graduation remains the loneliest time in my life. Picked up my diploma (they didn't trust us enough to pass out diplomas on stage), turned in my robe and went home.

Parents gave me money to go to Bonanza Steakhouse. Went to eat by myself and then back home.

No parties. No friends. Nothing.

Okay, now that I've set the scene for you, this is not about teen angst and whining. So I'm almost sure you're asking, 'What led to an overcooked T-bone and free refills of iced tea (and where am I going with this?)?'

This is a tough blog to write and not sound like a whine. I will anyway, because I have some questions about what happens to relationships.

I've been in contact lately with some high school friends (keeping in mind that I've been out of school for almost 35 years), and the results been . . . confusing? Someone in Port Arthur created a Web site for TJ (Port Arthur Jefferson) alumni -- the school no longer exists -- and it's already attracted more than 3,000 online participants. Amazing!

I've reconnected with some friends through the Web site, and visiting with them has been a real treat. In other venues, I've become good blogging friends with someone who was just an acquaintance in high school, and now she's been a wonderful re-connect with Southeast Texas. Some of these folks seem to be just like me and have picked up like we chatted over coffee just yesterday.

Unfortunately, there have been some 'odd' reunions -- odd as in 'what just happened?' -- with those whose friendships I valued. Any renewal of -- for lack of a better term -- childhood friendships just 'poofed' with an e-door in the face, and nothing was left but some cyber-dust. I've been really surprised . . . and sadly embarrassed . . . with who slammed the door. And, unfortunately, no amount of self-examination has given me an answer.

My wife says that I can carry on a meaningful conversation with a tree, and she becomes proudly frustrated when she hears business associates, hers and mine, say, 'Everybody loves George (her words, not mine).' I throw that in as some kind of evidence that I'm a nice guy and not somebody hanging out in an overcoat and black socks.

I guess it must be strange -- and maybe a little frightening, reason for apprehension -- to hear from someone after 30+ years, especially when I think of all the phases of life I've passed through (you should be happy that you didn't catch me in the admitted asshole phase) and assuming that others have changed just as dramatically during three decades.

So what's up? Is it my breath?

I mention my high school graduation because that seems to be a pivotal point in my life, when I packed my emotional and social bags and left Port Arthur behind (although I lived there another 3 1/2 years). My senior year sucked for a bunch of reasons (too awkward to explain here . . . if you were there, don't feel bad; it wasn't your fault . . . really!). It was a powerful enough experience that I've always warned my own children: never abandon your friends. I do believe all that revolved around those seemingly forever nine months resulted in a 1974 Bonanza-night out and a decades-long relationship void with those from my hometown.

I wrote in my very first blog that my wife must think I'm in the witness protection program because I have so few contacts -- well, really none -- from my childhood in Port Arthur. I've also blogged and asked about what happens to people during their lives that makes them grow from the same environment into 180s on the life-outlook scale.

As I've grown older, I've recognized the need to leave the 'witness protection program.' Now, I'm wondering: how do you say, 'you were important to me' to those who have just 'poofed?'

But to those who re-warmed yesterday's cup of coffee and just enjoyed the chat: THANKS!

Happiness comes in 3s

A near-perfect Sunday lunch . . .

Fajitas and beer in the middle of the after-church crowd

What a great day!

Dorothy . . . Peter Pan . . . The More Things Change . . .

Daughter #1’s more of a Peter Pan than I am. As independent as each of us is, neither one of us really wants to grow up. She was in town a couple of weeks ago, and every day seemed to bring a new ‘Toto-I-don’t-think-we’re-in-Kansas-any-more’ moment (is it okay to bounce metaphorically from Peter Pan to Wizard of Oz in the same paragraph?).

At that time, Daughter #2 talked about being in the sixth-grade band; and Daughter #1 seemed to accept that her sister was in sixth grade and even 'whoo-hooed' her role as the big dog on the intermediate school campus. Then Daughter #1 realized that her sister will 'grown up' and fighting in the jungles of the seventh grade next year.

‘That can’t be right. I was just in the seventh grade.” Well, maybe seven or eight years ago.

A friend, who helped me unpack when I moved to Fort Worth in 1990, has an older daughter who is a life-long friend of Daughter #1; and Daughter #1 regularly trades Facebook messages with her (she attends Stephen F. Austin State University; Daughter #1 is across the state at Texas Tech).

When my wife mentioned that the life-long friend’s baby brother, who Daughter #1’s known since birth, becomes a teenager this year, Daughter #1 challenges with ‘No way. I’m still a . . . ,’ and then backs down with a ‘when did everybody grow up?’

Our neighborhood -- where Daughter #1 grew up or at least where she kept celebrating birthdays -- is fairly transitional. Families have moved with job changes and schools have continued to open – and kids get shuffled around – to accommodate more families moving into our area. Change shouldn’t be new to her, and she always adapted well.

Unfortunately, her class of friends has seen tragic deaths throughout their school careers --parents killed in motorcycle accidents, parents dying unexpectedly from heart attacks and aneurysms, friends taken by cancer and killed in accidents, and classmates taking their own lives -- but I don’t think she was prepared as a newly crowned adult to mourn the slow death from cancer of a long-time friend’s dad.

Fortunately, life is good, and it does change. Daughter #1 loves to open Facebook, when she’s here, to show her mom the latest baby photos posted by some of her friends from high school. Her display is somewhere between the delight of a child with a new Barbie and the disgust of a teenager served liver when she realizes that girls her age – women – have children. Some are married now, some with husbands in Iraq, and some have begun careers, with rent payments, car payments, cell phone payments and insurance payments all their own.
Daughter #1 is slowly recognizing that her Dorothy has no ruby slippers to help return her to Kansas and that her Peter Pan has no Tinkerbell to keep the magic of Neverland (although, like me, she’ll keep clicking her heals together just to be sure).

But what doesn’t change? I crossed a small bridge during a recent walk – after Daughter #1’s ‘OMG-I’m-growing-up’ visit – and saw a teenage boy sitting on a large rock, not doing much of anything but throwing rocks in the water. His posture and his careless-but-sometimes-intense throws were mine about 35 years ago, when I sat on the Port Arthur seawall and threw rock after rock into the Intercoastal Canal.

If I would’ve asked the boy was he was doing, I’m sure he would’ve replied, ‘nuthin.’ But I almost guarantee that every rock – just like each rock I tossed – was labeled: girlfriend, school, college, car, parents, job, money, boredom, sex, drugs, drinking or – another apparently un-changeable – going to war.

When I crossed the bridge again, he’d moved, now to a nearby picnic table, where he stared at clouds while kids played on the toys of a nearby playground. He was sitting on the bench seat, leaning back with his elbows on the table, head tossed back and his face turned toward the sun. My picnic table – whether I walked from my rock on the seawall to Rose Hill Park or drove to Port Neches Park – was – like this young man’s – one more spot that wasn’t home. And every cloud that passed over had a rock namesake: girlfriend, school, college, car, parents, job, money, boredom, sex, drugs, drinking or going to war.

While I was weighing Daughter #1’s ‘life’s-coming-too-fast’ against my recognition that teen angst is eternal, I thought about the soul searching, life choices, missed opportunities, twists of fate, stupid comments, smart moves and the sheer luck of living. And then my IPod pulled up Jimmy Buffett’s ‘He Went to Paris.’

He went to Paris looking for answers
To questions that bothered him so
He was impressive, young and aggressive
Saving the world on his own

But the warm Summer breezes
The French wines and cheeses
Put his ambitions at bay
Summers and Winters
Scattered like splinters
And four or five years slipped away

Then he went to England, played the piano
And married an actress named Kim
They had a fine life, she was a good wife
Bore him a young son named Jim
And all of the answers and all of the questions
He locked in his attic one day‘
Cause he liked the quiet clean country living
And twenty more years slipped away

Well the war took his baby, bombs killed his lady
And left him with only on eye
His body was battered, his world was shattered
And all he could do was just cry
While the tears were falling, he was recalling
The answers he never found
So he hopped on a freighter, skidded the ocean
And left England without a sound

Now he lives in the islands, fishes the pilin’s
And drinks his green label each day
He’s writing his memoirs and losing his hearing
But he don’t care what most people say
Through eighty-six years of perpetual motion
If he likes you he’ll smile then he’ll say
Jimmy, some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic
But I had a good life all the way

And he went to Paris looking for answers
To questions that bother him so

The Roller Coaster Wait: mad as hell and the big to-do

I hate haircuts. Fortunately, I wasn’t waiting for my own haircut but was sitting in the waiting area of Great Clips reading the July issue of Texas Monthly while my wife and the stylist discussed baseball, cars or whatever women talk about when they get their hair cut. And the read proved to be quite a roller coaster ride.

Publisher William Broyles is madder ‘n hell . . . and justifiably so. In his magazine column, he outlines his family’s four consecutive generations of military service – WW I, WW II, Vietnam and now Afghanistan/Iraq – and describes his son’s eroding idealism as a result of the U.S.’ botched involvement in Iraq.

Broyles’ son is an Air Force pararescueman, which Broyles likens to a Navy Seal, and he writes of his admiration for the professionalism and commitment of his son and his team members.

Since leaving the military, Broyles’ son and a friend have established a foundation to assist wounded veterans; and after describing the horrible losses that many of these veterans face – Broyles writes about losses of benefits, homes, jobs, families, arms, legs, faces and that about 1,000 a month attempt suicide. He dedicates the remainder of his column to blasting the U.S. government’s mismanagement of the war in Iraq (did you know we’ve been fighting in Iraq longer than we fought in World War I and World War II combined?).

He never slights the performance of the men and women in the military, but he attributes billions of dollars lost to mismanagement and corruption and attempts to estimate the total cost of the war at somewhere around $3-4 TRILLION. Like the rest of us, he wonders what we could do with that money. Suddenly, I’m Peter Finch in the movie Network, shouting "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

Then I turn the page.

Did you know there’s a couple in Frankston, Texas, who have been married for 80 years? They’re 100 and 101 years old; and back in 1927, when a traveling carnival came through town paying $25 to any couple who would get married on stage, they stepped up on the stage and took the money. The $25 paid for a bedroom suite, dishes and a kitchen cabinet; and since the couple has lived in the same house for 79 years -- which they built for $1,000 (oops! had to pay another $50 for the lot) -- they still use those dishes and the kitchen cabinet.

The couple eats bacon, eggs and biscuits for breakfast nearly every morning and has outlived four doctors. And as they explain, ‘Every occasion, every birthday, is a big to-do these days. It’s rare for two people to live this long together.’

What a ride! I’m not a magazine salesman, but find a copy of the July issue of Texas Monthly or go online. There is something worth being as ‘mad as hell’ about. And there’s something that gives you hope and assures you that life is worth making a ‘big to-do’ about.

Lose your flamingo? Don't tell anybody your age.

I have to pay more attention. Last week, I read a newspaper article about pink flamingos being stolen out of a yard here in Fort Worth. I also read an article about a home burglary where the report quoted the '52-year-old homeowner.' These could be the same article and for the sake of this post, I'm going to believe they are.

When I read about the 52-year-old homeowner, I felt so bad. Someone's ripped some poor old guy. Then it occurred to me . . . I'm 52!!!

About the same time, I received an e-mail from my friend TJ in Austin that included George Carlin's Views on Aging. Snopes says that George Carlin actually isn't the source of these views, although the Internet has attributed them to him since November 2002; but I like 'em, especially after I forgot my age and felt sorry for the 'old guy' whose pink flamingos were stolen.

TJ's e-mail -- and somebody other than George Carlin's views on aging -- wrapped up with the following (and I like it!):

HOW TO STAY YOUNG

1. Throw out nonessential numbers. This includes age, weight and height. Let the doctor worry about them. That is why you pay him/her.
2. Keep only cheerful friends. The grouches pull you down.
3. Keep learning. Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever. Never let the brain idle. " An idle mind is the devil's workshop." And the devil's name is Alzheimer's.
4. Enjoy the simple things.
5. Laugh often, long and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.
6. The tears happen. Endure, grieve, and move on. The only person who is with us our entire life, is ourselves. Be ALIVE while you are alive.
7. Surround yourself with what you love, whether it's family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever. Your home is your refuge.
8. Cherish your health: If it is good, preserve it. If it is unstable, improve it. If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.
9. Don't take guilt trips. Take a trip to the mall, to the next county, to a foreign country, but NOT to where the guilt is.
10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.

AND ALWAYS REMEMBER:
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

BUT . . . if the 52-year-old homeowner is anything like me, he may have just forgotten where he left his pink flamingos. I'm sure his wife knows. She's just fed up with him losing things and refuses to tell him.

Always Trust Your Cape

May sucked. Maybe even March and April, too. Gasoline was skyrocketing to a formerly-never-in-my-lifetime high and everything else was going right along with it. People were losing their jobs and their homes. The news was painful to watch, almost as painful as my checkbook balance.

And I couldn’t help but wonder: if I love life and my outlook is usually brighter than most, what’s happening now to those folks who scowl and snarl and moan because they’re still trying to figure out how they always end up with the winning ticket in the crap-on-me lottery? Even worse: how’s all this impacting that poor soul who’s teeter righting on the edge of sanity, struggling to stay away from the suicide note with his name at the bottom?

The world had beaten me up. Bad. I wasn’t sure how to get back up and, me being me, worried that those who stayed on the mat waiting for the count might never get up. Not even a blog entry for me . . . I figured no one wanted to hear my cyber-whining. I semi-desperately whispered/apologized to a friend at work, ‘This is not a good time for me.’

So I’m at work last month, plunking away at my keyboard, bitching to myself about all the things I’d always swore I’d never bitch about . . . those things I couldn’t control. My IPod shuffles to Guy Clark and ‘The Cape.’

Eight years old with flour sack cape
Tied all around his neck
He climbed up on the garage
Figurin’ what the heck
He screwed his courage up so tight
The whole thing come unwound
He got a runnin’ start and bless his heart
He headed for the ground

He’s one of those who knows that life
Is just a leap of faith
Spread your arms and hold you breath
Always trust your cape

I never jumped off the roof, but I clothes-pinned many a bath towel across my super-hero shoulders as a kid. Although I could never get the towel to blow in the wind like Superman’s cape or mimic the intimidating shadow of Batman’s, I was courageous and always managed, no matter how badly Kryptonited, to spring back up for ‘Truth, Justice and the American Way (I may have been considered a little odd in my neighborhood).’

All grown up with a flour sack cape
Tied all around his dream
He’s full of piss and vinegar
He’s bustin’ at the seams
He licked his finger and checked the wind
It’s gonna be do or die
He wasn’t scared of nothin’, Boys
He was pretty sure he could fly

I listened to Guy Clark, and I thought about my own cape. I’d never let life drag me down like it had recently. Where’d I lose my cape?

Old and grey with a flour sack cape
Tied all around his head
He’s still jumpin’ off the garage
And will be till he’s dead
All these years the people said He’s actin’ like a kid
He did not know he could not fly So he did

I guess that’s the problem super-heroes have with secret identities. You have to remember where you hid your costume. I may not be back to leaping buildings with a single bound or stopping speeding bullets, but I remembered where I put my cap, and I try to wear it more often when I’m out on the town. Or buying groceries. Or pumping gas. And I loved it earlier in June when, once again, someone asked . . . no, not who was that Masked Man . . . ‘Why are you in such a good mood?’

Vacationed in Red River, New Mexico, a couple of weeks ago. I feel much better now. Take a look.

Them's Fightin' Words, or Who You Callin' Perky?

Earlier this evening, I participated in a City of Fort Worth Town Hall Meeting, where the topics included the collaboration between the City and the YMCA to build a $5-million facility in our area. Each side is pitching in $2.5 million: the Y from a bank loan and the City from a 2004 bond.

I'm on the board of the local Y and my mission was to lend moral support if disgruntled residents lit their torches, grabbed up their pitchforks and attempted to chase the monster Y director out of the village. Fortunately, the issue quickly turned away from the Y and toward the trustworthiness of the City Council.

But me being me, I felt compelled to defend the Y early on when its value to the community was questioned. After a few hostile misstatements were fired across the bow, I stood and explained that I had lived in Summerfields (the hostile group) from 1990 to 1997 then moved to my current, nearby neighborhood -- Park Glen -- in 1997.

All was going well as I explained my role as a volunteer with the Y and how I'd even raised money to provide scholarships for kids who couldn't afford Y programs. I talked briefly about my daughters and how they've grown up with the Y, and when questioned whether I voted for a YMCA in the bond package, I responded that I voted for the bond package and that I was happy that the City was doubling its investment by collaborating with the Y.

I heard a few minutes ago that I even made the Channel 11 news.

After the meeting adjourned, I was talking with a group of friends near the stage, when I turned to ask our local City Councilman a question about the bond package. The Councilman is in a wheelchair, so when I turned, I was facing a hostile mother who looked at me and said, 'Yes, Mr. Perky-I-live-in-Park-Glen . . . '

I must've looked less-than-perky when I pulled out my six-gun-of-a-finger and -- probably spitting perky all over her -- told her that I'm a cancer survivor and that I love life. I'm not going to apologize for being 'perky.' Before I could get out the words 'bitter old bitch,' her friend grabbed her and dragged her to the door.

She's just lucky that she didn't call me handsome and charming. I would've been all over her like white on rice.

I talked with Lance Griggs, the long-time president of the Summerfields Neighborhood Association, and he explained to me that the 2004 bond program specifically identified a community center in District 4, which is our area. The YMCA/City of Fort Worth facility will be slightly north of the area, out of District 4; and that location has become the real issue behind the protests.

His neighborhood, Summerfields, has become one of the lower-income neighborhoods in our North Fort Worth community; and, unfortunately, many of its residents feel betrayed that the new community center is not located in their neighborhood as they feel was promised in the bond program.

When I asked Lance what he wanted to happen, he said that he'd like to see the City of Fort Worth pay its portion of the YMCA/City of Fort Worth facility with windfall monies from the Barnett Shale (natural gas drilling) and use the $2.5 million in bond money for a community center in District 4.

I just checked the City of Fort Worth's Web site; and after some digging, I found a list of 2004 bond projects, including the allocation of $7.5 million for three community centers that included the Far Northeast Community Center in District 2, which is where our new Y will be located.

I know Lance Griggs to be a caring, trustworthy and concerned citizen, and I'm looking forward to talking with him again, especially to clarify the promised location of the community center.

But just don't let anybody call me 'perky' again!