BILL CHERRY'S GREATEST DALLAS PARK CITIES REAL ESTATE BLOG: July 2007

 <----In the almost total darkness, the cross began to glow

By the time the Korean Conflict was going strong in the early 1950's, Trinity Episcopal Church was 109 years old, and it and its congregation had been through a lot together.

Twice after this Gothic-Revival style church was designed and built by Irish architect and master builder, John De Young, a massive fire broke out a few blocks away, each time destroying more than a hundred buildings and barely missing the church. And then the famous 1900 Storm came along and blew down the whole south wall of the church, and filled the inside with the salty gulf water. Seven thousand people drowned. Many were congregants of this church

Nevertheless, those who survived raised the money to rebuild that wall, brick by brick, and then the entire church was jacked up several feet by hand screw jacks, one inch at a time, and then dredge material from the bay was pumped under it.

And there had been the casualties of three wars - the Civil War, and the two World Wars. Through it all, the members of Trinity Episcopal Church, Galveston kept their faith.

But then only five years after Trinity's losses in World War II, once again it was shipping its young over seas to fight; some being injured, the less fortunate, dying. This one was called the Korean Conflict.

During the Lenten season of 1953, nearly three years after the conflict had begun, the members of this church made a decision. They would hold a vigil 24 hours a day throughout Lent. The church would never close. At least one church member would be in the nave of the church, praying for peace.

People on the streets, at whatever the time, could come in and pray for an end to the Korean Conflict, too.

At 10 PM on the April 4, 1953, the Saturday night before Easter, my daddy, W.W. Cherry, came in there to take over the very last shift before the glorious Easter services were to being on Sunday. Daddy had just turned 44 years old.

About 5 o'clock Easter morning, the brass cross at the altar began to glow, and within mere moments it was shining as brightly as if it were in a spot light. But the only manmade light in the huge church was coming from two candels.

My daddy went to investigate, and found that there was a small BB hole in a stained glass window way up in the peak of the gable at the back of the church.

The rising sun was shining at just the right intensity and the BB hole was providing just the right aperture. The sun's rays were lighting the cross, and only the cross, and it was at least 100 feet away.

Daddy thought it was the perfect end to the Lenten vigil and the beginning of Easter morning.

Daddy said that he knew God had heard the prayers, and that peace would soon be restored. Sure enough, shortly thereafter peace came into sight and then the armistice of the Korean Conflict was signed. It was June 30, 1953, just 86 days after Easter.

                                                  Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

                                              How the Rabbi's Son Learned to Cope with Life's Challenges

By Bill Cherry - Dallas Broker-Realtor

(Stay with this story until the end...you'll be glad you did.)

I had just written a piece for The Daily News about an early Galveston television performing legend, Utah Carl Beach. I had found the researching him odd, really, because everyone seemed to know who he was, but only a few knew anything about him, and they weren't talking. His biography was nowhere to be found.

He had even been inducted into the Rock ‘a Billy Hall of Fame, yet the only thing they knew about him was his name. That Daily News story I was to write is what's used there today.

Anyway, after some fast talking on my part, his wife and daughter-in-law agreed to help me put his story together. But even after all of that, I knew I didn't have it all.

                                                                                                                                                                                                Joe Mirsky=> 

One day many months later, Joe Mirsky called from Houston; he was an assistant U.S. Attorney. We'd gone to high school together, but had had only a casual acquaintance. He said, "Bill, I just saw your story on the Internet about Utah Carl. I want to tell you how I knew him." And so a most unusual story began to unfold.

Joe had been raised in West Hollywood during the ‘40s and early ‘50s. His father, Rabbi Paul Mirsky, was both a rabbi and cantor, so Joe went to school and synagogue with many of the sons and daughters of famous movie stars. People you know.

Just before his senior year in high school, Rabbi Paul decided he would accept a call as the cantor at Galveston's Congregation Beth Jacob. So within moments the family was uprooted, moved to the island, and Joe found himself ready to finish high school in a town and a school where he not only knew no one, but felt he had nothing in common.                                                                                  

After sulking for awhile, Joe decided if he had a job, it would occupy his time and make things better, so he got a position at the KGUL-TV Channel 11 studios just down the street from Ball High School. He would get there at 5 in the morning, sign the station on, and then set up the studio for the farm and ranch show, featuring Utah Carl with Herbie and the Boys.

The relationship between Mr. Utah and Joe began to develop as they worked together. Mr. Utah realized that Joe was lonesome, so he began taking him with him when he played golf, and before long Joe was even playing drums in Mr. Utah's band.

One evening Mr. Utah took Joe to meet Mr. Utah's friend, Elvis Presley, who was playing a concert at the old City Auditorium. "It seemed to me that the two of them knew each other quite well," Joe told me. "I can still see Elvis in a lavender sport coat, black pants and white buck shoes," he added.

When Joe graduated from high school, a friend, Norman "Bubba" Miller, who had been working at the Balinese Room, told Joe that he ought to take his job over since Bubba was going away to college. "You'll make more money and there's a good chance for advancement."  Norman Miller, today, is chairman of the board of the famous Interstate Batteries

So Joe worked and understudied the famous gambling night club spot's maitre d', Jimmy Kuykendahl, He learned the suave manners and finesse from Mr. Jimmy and Vic and Anthony Fertitta, who were the managers. That would serve him well for the rest of his life.

One evening about this time of the year in 1957, Mr. Vic and Mr. Anthony asked Joe to step into their office, just to the right of the entrance to the showroom.

"We've gotten word that the Texas Rangers are going to close us down for good very soon. We won't be able to recover from this one. Your dad's a rabbi, and for you to be involved in this would be an embarrassment to him. We're simply not going to have that," Mr. Anthony told him.

Mr. Vic picked it up by adding, "We're going to pay you through the summer, but don't come to work. I've got your check right here.

"Meanwhile, we know you want to go to college, but money's a bit tight. We're going to introduce you to Mr. Lee Kempner of the United States National Bank. He and his family give scholarships away from time to time. I'll bet with our recommendation and that of Utah Carl, they'll give you one." Sure enough, Mr. Lee came through.

As the result of this story, Joe Mirsky graduated from the University of Houston in 1961 and received his law degree in 1966. In 1987, he was appointed as an Assistant United States Attorney by the Reagan Administration. Today he works in the appellate division where he's in charge of the government's responses to post-judgment criminal habeas corpus cases.

But his thoughts about Mr. Utah, Mr. Jimmy, Mr. Anthony, Mr. Vic and Mr. Lee are always with him.

Without them, he may still be the unhappy son of a rabbi.

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

I have come to believe that many real estate agents, title company officials, loan officers and even attorneys have an insufficient understanding of an instrument known as a "quitclaim deed."  And that is dangerous.

In fact, many know so little about it that they don't know that to divide the word into two is incorrect. The word is properly spelled "quitclaim."

A quitclaim deed isn't a deed at all. It's an instrument of estoppal. Its purpose is to get a recordable instrument from a person to keep that person from later claiming an ownership interest in a specific real property.

It is not proper for it to be used for the purpose of transferring ownership from one party to another, although that is frequently the primary intent of those who use it.

The quitclaim deed is the product of English Common Law, upon which most civil law in the U.S. is based. Common law systems place great weight on court decisions. Court decisions are considered "law" just as are statutes.  Louisiana is the one state in the US thats legal system has no Common Law basis but is based on French law instead.  So law in Louisiana cannot be made in the courtroom by judicial opinion.

The problem with attempts to use the quitclaim deed for purposes other than it is intended is that it fails to meet the five traditional tests of a deed. The biggest areas of failure in quitclaim deeds are 1) the grantor makes no claim of ownership 2) the grantor is not required to divulge any outstanding liens or other title clouds or deficiencies against the property.  Grantees want to believe that the quitclaim deed infers that the grantor owns the property outright and with pure title, and that the grantor is transferring it to him, whether as a gift or by purchase.

But the facts that are indisputable are that the grantee in a quitclaim deed receives no better title than what the grantor possessed, and the grantor doesn't claim or warrant to the grantee and the world that he possesses any ownership.   That is the very ominous reason this form of conveyance should be limited to estoppal purposes.

Let me give you an example of a situation that is the perfect use of the quitclaim deed. As your college graduation present, your mom and dad gave you a small office building that is leased to an orthodontist. Five years later, you marry. Now we have a posing question. Does your husband now or will he have any ownership interest in the building solely as a result of marrying you? 

This problem can be resolved by his executing a quitclaim deed whereby he disclaims any interest in the property that you own.  It is recorded for public record, and that solves that issue in perpetuity.

For purposes other than estoppal, a grant deed or warranty deed are the only proper methods of transferring part or total ownership.

A recent question was posed by a young man whose grandmother was planning to give him a few acres of her land as a wedding present, so that he and his new wife would be able to build their home there.

He asked the Active Rain community what she needed to do. He said her property was free and clear of any loans. I took exception to her doing this by quitclaim deed. Here is my answer for you to ponder.

The most dangerous things in real estate are lose ends. If the real estate world learns nothing else, that is the major lesson. Always try to anticipate what lose ends could crop up, and fix them before they can.

In this case, I feel the quitclaim deed is improper. There are three things he's got to consider. First and foremost, he's got to be sure his grandmother owns the property outright and that there are no liens against it. She says there aren't, but what if Aunt Joan somehow ended up with a 5% interest and everyone's forgotten about it? That would be a title cloud.

The only way he's going to find that out is to get a title search done by a title company or have it abstracted by a title attorney.

Secondly, he's got to be sure that when she deeds him that certain piece of her property that it is properly defined/described. The only way to close that barn door is to have a registered surveyor map and describe it.

And thirdly, he's got to be sure that the instrument she uses to deed him that interest is a) forever and b) unbreakable and c) has her solemn swear (warranty) that she has clear title to the land that's she's deeding to him. That's the main reason a Quitclaim Deed is inappropriate, in my opinion. It does none of that. It doesn't even infer any of that.

If this isn't properly handled, when he gets ready to build on that tract, and he goes to a lender to borrow the money, if the transfer from his grandmother to him has title problems, he isn't going to be able to get the loan until they are cleared up.

Now let's project further. What if he doesn't get around to building something on the tract until after his grandmother has passed away or maybe by then she's mentally incompetent? How is anyone going to straighten out a mess then without spending untold bucks at the courthouse?  All of that could have been addressed and cured at the time the gift was being made to him by deed.

This transaction, like most, needs to be handled in the conventional way for conveyance. First and foremost, the title needs to be abstracted, and there is no better place for that to happen, in my opinion, than with a state licensed title insurance company.

Once any exceptions are cleared that can be, a general warranty deed needs to be prepared, and it needs to recite any and all easements, restrictions, mineral right leases, recorded liens, and the like, in the deed that are following the ownership interest to the grandson.

Now when Grandma deeds that property to her grandson, it will be done in a tidy package, as it should be.

So in conclusion, circumventing the use of a real estate attorney and an abstract attorney or title company to convey property is a very dangerous approach.  One that should be avoided.  A good place to start is to never buy legal instrument forms from stationery stores, and never try to buy stationery store products from a law office.

OK, wanna know what makes me crazy?  Stay tuned.  

Used to be the dial phone rang and everyone ran to answer it.  Adults and kids all but fought to beat the others to the phone to see who was on the other end.

Then the answering machine was invented, so everybody programmed a message that said they couldn't come to the phone right now --- of course that inferred they were spending every waking moment in the bathroom.  No one wanted to answer the phone anymore. No one cared who was calling.  And no one was really in the bathroom.

Then came not returning calls left on the answering machine, so the recipient blamed it on the machine.  ("Darned machine!  It didn't record your call.  I'm so sorry, blah, blah, blah.")

Next came CB radios so everyone could talk their heads off in a code and with code names that no one knew.  Guess that meant everyone still wanted to talk, they just didn't want to talk to their friends.  While they were on the CB radios, the answering machine was catching the calls at home...the ones they had no intention of returning.  ("Darned Machine!  It didn't record you call.  I'm so sorry, blah, blah, blah.")

Next people realized that they could use the answering machine to screen their calls.  So while the thing was inferring they were in the bathroom, they were really standing there waiting to hear who was going to leave a message.  Then if they wanted to speak with the person, they'd picked it up and give some excuse about hearing the phone ringing, being out in the backyard, and running in to catch it just in time.

Next came Caller ID.  No need for the answering machine any more.  Just look and see who's calling and either answer or don't.  Perfect solution.  Now callers can only suspect you're avoiding them. 

Next came cell phones so we wouldn't have to miss a call...stay in constant touch.  But then we figured out that we could look at the caller ID on them, and decide whether or not to answer the call.  Back to screening calls again. 

But this time, the caller KNOWS you have your phone with you and that you just don't want to speak with him.

Some say they always answer their cell phones unless they are busy with a client. 

Interestingly, the state lottery commission says they've never been told by a machine, "We can't come to the phone right now."  Everyone with Caller ID is always available to take their calls.

That the rest of us ever make that call again shows that Americans are either tolerant to a fault or totally impervious to blunt rudeness.

SET 'EM UP, BASCIGALLUPI

By Bill Cherry, Dallas Realtor

972 380-7347   cherrysells@aol.com

www.billcherrybroker.com

By the time 1937 had rolled around, the W.L. Moody, Jr.,  family had its fingers in many business ventures.  The was the American National Insurance Company, a dry goods store, a chain of hotels throughout the US, a couple of banks, a printing company and a cotton compress. There was even a big commercial laundry.

I figure that back then about one-fifth of one city's workers were Moody employees.  So employee esprit de corps was important.

Mr. Moody's favorite business partner was his son Shearn.  Mr. Shearn decided to build esprit de corps of the many Moody businesses by encourage team sports for the employees.  And he named it the Moody Club. 

He built a big gym and some tennis courts and even a four lane bowling alley.  Mr. Shearn hired renowned bowling professional, Edward Bacigallupi to design and operate it.

The bowling alley made its debut around Christmas in 1937, and by the following Christmas, an incredible 48,000 games had been played there by Moody employees.

And you know, back then there were no automatic pin setters.  Teenage boys, called pin boys, put the pins in place.  And it was a pretty dangerous job. Sometimes a wise guy would throw a ball before the pin boy could get back on his perch.  If the ball didn't get him, flying pins would.

When the war broke out in 1941, our government decided to help finance it by issuing war bonds.  But with the economy tight, a lot of people had to buy their bonds on the installment plan.  They'd buy savings stamps at the post office or the bank.  When they had accumulated enough stamps, they'd trade them in for a bond.

The Moody Club bowlers came up with their own unique way to raise money to buy war bonds.  Here's how it went.

As soon as a bowler rolled the last ball of a frame, but before the pin boy was off his perch to reset the pins for the next frame, the next man up had to yell at the top of his lungs, "Set 'em up, Bascigallupi!"  If the pin boy got off of his perch before the shout, the bowler lost, and he had to buy another war stamp.

What a challenge.  And wouldn't you know, it raised a lot of money.

Soon "Set 'em up, Bascigallupi," became the greeting that one bowler would yell to another when he saw him in a crowd or across the street. It was no longer reserved for just the bowling alley.  That tradition continued long after the bowling alley had been torn down and Edward Bascigallupi had passed away. 

That exclamation was like a fraternity hand shake or the secret code to gain entrance to the club house.

You know, it's been a long time since I've heard someone yell, "Set 'em up, Bascigallupi!" But I remember the smile on the face and the glee in the voice of the man when he was able to beat the pin boy.  And it was all in the name of that city's own way of expressing and sacrificing for patriotism.

                                            Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

A.J. Rasmussen found his way to the U.S from Horsens, Denmark in 1890. He settled in Texas three years later when he and John Christensen opened a bicycle repair business. After five years, they added sporting goods. Then in1903, they opened one of the first Ford automobile agencies.

Rasmussen bought out Christensen in1930, and changed the name to A.J. Rasmussen & Sons. It operated that way until the early 1960s. And while it's now called Bob Pagan's Sand Dollar Autoplex, that it's been consistently in business for over 100 years probably makes it Texas' oldest Ford dealership.

One time after Bob bought it, he and I were kibitzing when I asked, "So how's business?" He told me he loved car selling, but operating the repair shop was a worse nightmare than he'd ever believed it could be.

"Can't keep good help. Constantly have to redo bad work. Takes forever to get a car back when a customer brings it in. Look at all of those cars out there on the back lot waiting for parts and repairs. Customers aren't happy, I'm not happy, and to make matters worse, the shop isn't making any money."

Bob called a few months later  to ask me what I thought of Ross Perot's entering the presidential race. I evaded answering by responding, "That's not as important as whether or not you ever solved your repair shop problems."

"Stop by and I'll tell you a story you'll never forget," he said. I did that afternoon after my last appointment.

He had gotten a call from some fellow who had promised that he could organize and program any repair shop so that it would have lots of satisfied customers, would make big bucks, and mechanics would love working there so much they wouldn't leave. The fellow was going to give a seminar on Friday in the Beaumont area. It was free. Bob decided to go.

So the hotel conference room was full of car dealers, and each one of them had put his business card in a fish bowl. The guy leading the seminar reached in and randomly picked one. Ironically, it was a Ford dealer's.

"I'm going to call this shop. I've got the phone set up so that you can hear both sides of the conversation over the loud speakers." Then he made the tendentious call. The dealer's receptionist answered.

"May I have your service manager, please?" he asked.

"Those lines are busy, please hold," she said. And then they all listened to the inane music for what seemed to be a lifetime. Everyone in the room started chuckling nervously. Finally the service manager answered.

"I'm out here on the highway, and the clamp that holds my tailpipe under the car has broken. The tailpipe's dragging on the road. It's making lots of noise. Sparks are flying everywhere."

"What's the year and model of your car?" the service manager asked.

"It's a 1989 Fairlane."

"Let me transfer you to the parts department so you can see if they have that clamp in stock. I suspect we'll have to order it. Since it's already four o'clock, we can't get to your Fairlane today, so call a wrecker and get it towed in. We'll get it Monday."

"My family and I are on our vacation, and we're just passing through. That'll mean we'll have to spend the weekend here, and I don't know any wrecker companies anyway. Do you have any other suggestions?" the seminar fellow continued.

"Talk to the parts department manager. Let me put you on hold. After you find out if he has the clamp or not, he'll recommend a wrecker. How ‘bout you rent a car, finish your vacation, then come back through here and pick up your Fairlane on your way home? It'll probably be ready by then." Before the seminar guy was able to respond, the hold button clicked and the inane music resumed. Another several minutes passed, then the parts department answered.

"I've been talking to the service manager. Do you have a tailpipe clamp in stock for a 1989 Fairlane?"

"I'll see. Think we just used the last one." The inane music resumed for the third time. Several minutes passed. More nervous audience chuckles. The music stopped. The phone line opened up. Now everyone could hear the parts manager frantically thumbing through the gigantic parts catalog. "Nope, don't have one. Go ahead and get your car towed in. I'd suggest Acme Wrecking." Then he gave the seminar fellow the phone number. He didn't offer to call the wrecker for him.

"Thanks, I'll get back with you," the seminar fellow said, then hung up.

 {=====THE MIDAS MAN

Then he dialed another number. "Midas Mufflers. Earl the Pearl speaking," was the answer. The seminar man repeated his dilemma.

Earl the Pearl said, "You've got a coat hanger in your suitcase. Use it to tie the tailpipe up to your bumper."

"I can do that," the seminar man said.

"Great! Then tell you what you do. Drive to the first traffic light, hook a right, then go down about two-thirds of a mile. You'll see the Midas sign on your left. We're getting ready to close, but I'll wait for you. I've got a universal clamp that will fit your Fairlane just fine. You'll be back on the road in less than 30 minutes. It'll be eight bucks plus about four bits or so in tax."

Bob said that whole thing brought lambent tears to the eyes of everyone in the room. While they were cheering and clapping and giving a standing ovation for Earl the Pearl the Midas man, it was plain to them that they needed the seminar man's program, all umpteen thousands of dollars worth of it.

In fact Bob engaged him that evening. After rearranging the repair shop personnel and issuing new and more efficient job descriptions, plus installing a new computer program that keeps track of the service history of every vehicle that comes in, Bob's customers started wearing smiles. Even the mechanics began saying they loved working there.

Just before Bob moved his big General Motors dealership across the street next to his Ford store, he and I were standing there in the showroom doorway drinking a Coke. There were hundreds of new cars on his lot. I said, "Bob, how in the world do you sleep at night knowing the enormous investment you have in all of those units? Must be five, maybe six million dollars worth."

"Bill, I sleep like a baby. Stand here and watch what comes and goes past my store. We do the authorized warranty and service work on almost every one of those brands. Oh, I must not have told you. I love my service departments, and I love Earl the Pearl the Midas man."

Bob then gave me his best toothy satisfied grin.

Copyright 2007-William S. Cherry

Foreclosures are beginning to be a problem as housing sales slump, both in new homes and resale homes.

The foreclosure problem will undoubtedly exacerbate as hybrid mortgage loans -- interest only, ARMs, etc. -- begin to change to more conventional terms, as provided in the loan contracts.

Many of those borrowers will find that they are unable to comfortably meet the new payment amounts.  After all, the reason most of them chose the hybrid product was because their income wouldn't substantiate the payment requirements of a conventional loan.

It seems to me that hybrid lenders would be wise to adopt a one year moratorium before changing the payment terms.  They should notify the borrowers that they have a year to refinance the loan or sell the property.  That should provide order to the market, and help keep real estate values from domino depression. 

Here are the latest figures as reported by CNN's Money, regarding the top ten foreclosure zip codes:

                There's a Little Known Story at Haak's Vineyard and Winery in Santa Fe, Texas

                                                                  By Bill Cherry

                                                             Dallas Broker-Realtor

                                                           www.billcherrybroker.com

It is totally incongruous that you can weave down the back roads of Santa Fe, Texas, passing fields with abandoned cars and tractors perched on this and that and left to rot, see a nice handful of homes among house trailers and repair shops, and almost at the end of the last street, rising like the Phoenix, find a beautiful mission-style building with tightly mowed fields around it.

That fancy building is the cornerstone of the Haak Vineyard and Winery, and that whole idea continues to promote incredulity among those who have never seen it, much less those who have never been there for one of its free Sunday afternoon wine tastings and jazz concerts.

. 

WINE MAKERS RAYMOND AND GLADYS HAAK 

            THEIR HIGH SCHOOL PROM

I've known Raymond and Gladys Haak for years. Raymond is the creator. He's the one who follows his dreams, and Gladys is the one who's his business manager; the one who makes sure he is able to accomplish his dreams.

This team of two has made Raymond a band guitarist, a degreed electrical engineer, the developer of mini-warehouses all over the area, and the owner of a very profitable convenience store. The vineyard and the winery are the latest Raymond and Gladys Haak adventure, and it's that total incongruity that convinced me to go see for myself.

Raymond, Gladys and I were sitting on stools at a table. My recorder was going, and I was looking for the story that I would write about them. Superficially I figured it would be some angle about why an electrical engineer and his wife, a former public school district accountant, both in their sixties, decided to roll the dice that a winery would bring them their pot of gold at the end of a rainbow and that it would be down an eclectic road in Santa Fe.

The door to the room was behind me. I felt the spirit of something supernatural rising in the room. I promise I did. And then a small dark-haired young woman with a genuine smile of straight teeth came from behind me and into my vision, and Raymond said, "This is our daughter Bridget."

I don't know how old she is, maybe she's in her thirties, but she looks younger.

Bridget works at the winery. She's got an impressive education - a master's degree from Texas A & M in a computer science field. But it turns out she also has a major problem. She has trouble making decisions, decisions of any magnitude. There was even a time when she couldn't decide whether or not to chew her food or to swallow it, for goodness sakes.

While she was in college, she met and married, and they had a little girl, but the little girl was afflicted with a rare congenital defect that had nothing more than a scientific name. No way to manage it. No way to cure it.

So even with all of the care and the medical treatment, it would eventually take her life. She didn't even make it to kindergarten.

And all of that put such a strain on Bridget's marriage that there was no solution but to divorce, and that's not a decision Roman Catholics make lightly.

Bridget had sung with her sister. She had sung with the various bands.  Singing is one of her tools of self-expression. And even though it was around her from time to time, she never took up smoking or drinking or even experimenting with illegal drugs. Bridget was there to sing, not to adopt a wild life.

One time when she was trying to get her life back in order after she had lost her daughter and then her husband, she went to Austin to see some girlfriends and to hear Austin music.

They were all sitting together in one of the nightclubs when Bridget asked where the restroom was. She got up and headed toward the wall where there were three doors. Like the most vicious and graphic scene of a horror movie, she picked the wrong door. It was an abandoned elevator shaft. She stepped in and fell three floors.

And the most tragic of the results of that fall was a great deal of brain damage. And accompanying that was psychological damage. That came from her own wonderment as to why she had made the wrong choice of doors, a wrong choice that followed what she and her family thought had been a wrong choice of husbands. Both tragic.

Months of rehabilitation followed. She had to have someone with her night and day. And she had to have someone with her night and day primarily because, for an example, she couldn't make the decision to chew her food, she had to be told to. And she'd store it in her cheek until she was told to swallow it.

Fortunately Bridget has responded to the mixture of good therapy plus the passage of time. Now she can make most day to day decisions on her own, but she still has trouble with anything more than that.

So when Bridget Haak comes into the room, a great deal more is added to the gathering's context than just that of the addition of another person.

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

All Rights Reserved

.

                                                                  By Bill Cherry

                                                             Dallas Broker-Realtor

                                                           www.billcherrybroker.com

It's been about 20 years ago now, but it happened during the time that I had a large residential brokerage firm with offices in Galveston and Houston,Texas. The phone rang and it was a call from Ubenisky.

He told me that he had been born in Germany, and had traveled his entire life. Now that he was ready to retire, he and his wife wanted to settle down and to own their first home ever.

They had never been to Galveston, but they knew that a major portion of the early settlers had been from Germany. They figured the Germans had influenced the architecture and fabric of the island, so it was likely to feel like home to them.

We set an appointment to meet the following Saturday at my Galveston office. I'd show them around. I was very proud of the East End Historical District's early but on going and vibrant revitalization, and I knew in my heart that the Ubeniskys would fall in love with it.

Instead that Saturday morning the phone rang, and it was Ubenisky. He said, "Bill, we've just driven into Galveston, but we're going to turn around and go back to Houston." I asked why.

He continued, "Well, when you can call and tell us why the main entrance to Galveston looks as bad as it does, we'll try to re-evaluate. But for now, we're not interested in living there because we think Broadway's look is indicative of the city's overall attitude. And that attitude is intolerable."

I immediately got in my car, drove across the causeway, turned around, and made the trip back into town, this time trying to see it through the eyes of the Ubeniskys. I learned a great deal about my hometown that day.

Perhaps it's time for each of you to make that same drive into your hometown.  And then if you don't like what you see, hold those responsible for how it looks to change it, and to change it now. And don't give them a moment's rest until they do.

Here's what I saw in mine.  Trash everywhere. Unpainted buildings. Property code violations by the hundreds. Cockeyed, peeling signs, grass growing on to sidewalks and over the curbs. So many tall weeds one could wonder if they are the city's designated plant rather than the oleander. 

Obviously I had been seeing that landscape for so long that I had no longer noticed it. 

                                                                        THE MAGNIFICENT MONTAGUE

In the early ‘50s, white people were listening to an NBC radio weekly comedy called, "The Magnificent Montague," that stared Monty Wooley. But the Magnificent Montague I want to talk about isn't fictional, and he's not white, he's black, and he's probably one of the most important contributors to American black culture that has ever lived. Someone you should know about.

His real name is Nathaniel Montague, but probably less than a handful of people know his given name. To the public, he's always been known as The Magnificent Montague. He was born in New Jersey, left there before he graduated from a black military school to travel the seas as a merchant marine. And he got off of his ship in Galveston because he heard there was a disc jockey position open at a Beaumont radio station. He wanted to play music. It was 1954.

Montague got the job, and like all of the other black disc jockeys, he played rhythm and blues records - B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Bobby Bland and Little Junior Parker, but he added a new twist. Montague used poetry, sometimes that of a great poet, sometimes that he had written himself, to connect the music together. And he did it with a low and mellow voice, and sometimes a piercing, rapid falsetto one. Even though I've had fifty years to think about it, to me his style remains indescribable.

He learned when the Ku Klux Klan showed up at that Beaumont station to run him out of town, that more white housewives were listening to him every day than black. The Klan thought he was causing that on purpose. Fortunately, another disc jockey at the station, a well-respected white fellow named J.P. Richardson, was there, and he convinced the Klan members it wasn't Montague's purpose at all. J.P. Richardson, by the way, later became known as the Big Bopper ("Chantilly Lace").

Somewhere along the way, Montague married one of his Beaumont station's listeners, a Louisiana girl who was white. Her name is Rose, and they've been married for nearly 60 years.

Montague moved from the Beaumont station to Houston's KCOH, and that's where I heard him for the first time. I was 14, and every boy I knew was listening after school to the Magnificent Montague. Magnificent Montague in the afternoon followed by Rascal McCaskill at night. It was impossible for there to be a music diet of too much rhythm and blues. For me, there still isn't.

And then one day a friend and I left Carl's Drive-in in his black ‘47 Ford with the fender skirts and the mellow rumbling of the Smitty mufflers, and turned down 53^rd Street from Broadway. There was a new brick building on the east side of the street that had just popped up, and on the front was a big poster with Montague's picture, letting all who passed by know that he would be the opening personality for the new tavern. We had to see him, and we did.

The Magnificent Montague was a skinny, short man, impeccably dressed. And we watched and listened as he entertained - just like he did on KCOH - a packed house of black men and women and two underage white boys.

Shortly thereafter, Montague moved from Houston to Texas City's KTLW, and then almost as quickly, he vanished from Texas, going from radio station to radio station across the United States, following the chain letter that would take him to and through the big time - Chicago, New York, Los Angeles. And he made big money because his influence on what rhythm and blues tunes became hits was phenomenal.

But what makes this story a story and what really makes Montague legitimately magnificent is that he came on this earth with a big brain. He began reading and studying everything he could about American black heritage.

But what he did that was the most unique was that he began searching every garage and estate sale, every used bookstore and every art gallery, and bought every first edition book, original art piece, and historical artifact that told and validated the history of black America.

Most of the vendors didn't know their worth. Those that did, Montague raised the money and paid their price. Why weren't museums doing that? Where was the Smithsonian? Would there have ever been a substantive collection of the works of black authors, musicians, scholars and artists had there not been a Magnificent Montague?

Today, at 79, the Magnificent Montague has some 6,000 pieces in his collection, all catalogued, and its value is now reported to be some $5 million. The Magnificent Montague and Rose live in Las Vegas.

His autobiography, "Burn Baby, Burn," was written with the help of famed Los Angeles Times reporter, my friend Bob Baker. It was published by the University of Illinois Press in 2003.

It is an extremely well-written chronicle of that culture, as seen and experienced by Montague. I believe it to be among the top five books on the American Black Culture ever written.

And it offers empirical evidence to those who are unfamiliar with Nathaniel Montague as to why the name Magnificent rightly belongs only to him.

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

All Rights Reserved