I've always been grateful for Chuck and his wife Kindall for our many years of friendship. 

Chuck sent this piece this morning, and I would very much like to share it with you. -- DALLAS REALTOR, BILL CHERRY.

PEACE ON EARTH, GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN.

(Is it just) a greeting card sentiment that seems like a long forgotten remnant of our idyllic youth?  Prototypically Shultzian in a rather arcane sort of way.
 
Since Linus (as one of the Three Wise Men) first uttered these words almost 45 years ago, A Charlie Brown Christmas has left an indelible impression of the true meaning and spirit of the Holidays on several generations world-wide.
 
Linus' line is actually a paraphrase of the last verse in a series found in the King James Bible (1611), long considered by scholars as being the least politically correct of all.
 
The Latin text has it, "et in terra pax hominibus, bonae voluntatis".   So, the phrase properly rendered is: "PEACE ON EARTH TO MEN OF GOOD WILL".
 
In these turbulent times Peace on Earth would be considered nothing short of a miracle.  Yet miracles happen every day. 
 
So, the potentially miraculous promise of this quaint wish ultimately could come down to something as simple as a commitment by each and every one of us to be men and women of good will.
 
Imagine the possibilities!
 
May your life be imbued with the joys, the warmth and the true meaning of this Holiday Season all year-round.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

BILL CHERRY

SLICK THE SHOESHINE MAN, MR. SAM AND CHRISTMAS EVE 1949

By Dallas Realtor Bill Cherry

Normally Slick the shoeshine man carried 78 RPM records of black artists, the ones that Mrs. Evelyn Stein at the Melody Record Shop around the corner didn't.

But for some reason it was Christmas, and he was pushing a new song written and sung by a white cowboy film star, Gene Autry.  It was "Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer." And it was the Christmas season of 1949, and that song was on its way to becoming the first tune to ever reach the platinum benchmark in sales, even bigger than Bing Crosby's "White Christmas."

The tiny shoeshine parlor was just behind Galveston's Interurban Queen Newsstand at the corner of 21^st and Market Street, and it had been in business since the war years.  I have no idea how many black men owned it over time, but they were always known as Slick. 

The 1949 version of Slick the Shoeshine Man had two gold capped teeth in the front, one with a perfect five-point star carved in it, and he had a great head of black hair that was pressed back and held in place with Peach Dressing pomade.  He wore brown and white spectator shoes year around, and a pocket watch on a long, gold chain that rode along on the side of his right leg.  He all but danced when he walked.  He was an impressive sight.  We later became friends.

Slick had a vintage RCA radio-phonograph combination in the back of his shine parlor.  He had taken the big speaker out, put it in a wooden box with loads of holes drilled in it with a nail he had hammered in, and had wired it with red and white doorbell wire so that it could sit in the transom above the parlor's door.  He'd turn up the volume so everyone on the sidewalk could hear.

On both sides of 21^st and Market there were end-of-the-line bus stops, where every bus route on the island began and terminated.  Men waiting for the bus could step into Slick's to get a shine, but mainly to get away from the foul smell that rose from the gutter and sidewalk. 

A spit shine -- Slick's specialty -- was 15 cents plus a dime tip.

It was Christmas Eve, a Saturday, and the stores downtown were finally closing.  The sales ladies from the dime stores had balanced their cash registers, and the men who sold shoes and haberdashery were on their way to the Corner Bar for a Christmas toddy before they caught the bus home.

Slick was still there, catching the stragglers who were planning to eat supper at the Peacock Cafe's counter, even though they knew they would be eating the leftovers from the lunch, play the slots at the Interurban Queen, pull a few tips, and nurse a few highballs before going to St. Mary's Cathedral for midnight Mass.  No sense in going home only to turn around and come back, they reasoned.  Their families would just meet them there.

Father Dan was a kind soul.  He always made certain that he had a doctor and a nurse on duty to rescue those who would pass out and fall off the kneeling benches.  After all, when you mixed a day on your feet selling shoes with a few toddies at the Corner Bar, and combined that with a stuffy, incensed filled cathedral, your chance of making it without a whiff or two of smelling salts was just this side of zero.

This Christmas Even night was cold, damp and foggy.  Slick had eaten a take-out plate of turkey with a cloverleaf roll and banana pudding from the Peacock, and then closed his shine parlor down as the last bus left for the barn at 10:15.

He and his third wife had five children living at home.  They lived in a two-bedroom apartment above a beauty shop on the northwest side of 25^th and Market Street. 

Slick's wife was a housekeeper for an elderly couple who lived in Cedar Lawn.  Slick and his wife's apartment was so small that three of their children slept on pallets on the living room floor.

As Slick was crossing the alley just south of his shine parlor that Christmas Eve, he realized that he had forgotten to turn off old Gene Autry.  That cowboy was still warbling about Rudolph even though there was no one on the sidewalk to hear him. 

Slick went back, opened his door, and turned off the RCA radio-phonograph combination.  Just as he stepped back out of the door and turned to put the padlock through the hasp,  his head was struck hard with a gun wrapped in a handkerchief.  Slick went to the ground.  The guy grabbed Slick's paper bag that had all of his shine and record sales money for the day, and ran to the alleyway, turned east and disappeared among the shadows.

Slick and his wife were planning to take their children for Christmas Day dinner at their church, and then to a movie.  A movie was all that the children ever got for Christmas. 

And without the paper bag of money, that year there'd be no movie.

Before he began the walk home, for some reason Slick walked up 21^st Street to St. Mary's where he heard the bells sounding to let everyone know that Mass was beginning.  When he got to the church, he sat on the steps by the north door.  What was he going to do? he wondered.

The midnight Christmas Eve service at the cathedral never began until Evelyn Malloy and Sam and Sedgie Maceo and the kids got there, and they were always at least fifteen minutes late.  They were big supporters of the cathedral. 

(Sam Maceo, Below)

The front pew on the left side were always reserved for the Maceos.  I don't think I ever heard where Mrs. Malloy sat.

This night Mrs. Malloy was already there.  Everyone was waiting for the Maceos.

About then, Mr. Sam, Miss Sedgie and the kids drove up, got out of the car, and started toward the cathedral.  Mr. Sam spotted Slick sitting on the steps with his head in his hand. 

He walked over to him.  Miss Sedgie and the children followed a few steps behind.

"Slick, is that you?" Mr. Sam asked, bending down.

"Yes sir, Mr. Sam."

"I was hoping I'd find you tonight.  I have something for you," Mr. Sam told him. 

And with that, he gave him the paper sack with all of the money from the shoe shines and records Slick had sold that day.  The bag that had been stolen from Slick by the bandit with the handkerchief covered pistol.

"And here're two ten-spots for your trouble.  Merry Christmas, Slick.  You're a treasured friend.  You and the wife stop by and see Mr. Books at my office after Christmas.  He'll have  good jobs for both of you."

As he started to walk into the church with Miss Sergie and the boys, as an afterthought, Mr. Sam said to Slick, "Ducky Wucky wants you to know he's sorry he got stupid from those hand rolled cigarettes he bought this afternoon from Pee-Wee the newsboy."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Sam, and may God always be with you," said Slick with a big smile.

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

Former Cathouse Madam, Miss Dorothy, Tried Taste of Presbyterianism

Last weekend I got a letter from my friend, the Grace Kelly lookalike. I hadn’t heard from her in nearly 40 years. She’s been married to one of my friends for as long as I’ve known her.

In my mind’s eye we’re all still young. Her boys are playing with cap guns.

The letter was a newsy three pages. The little boys playing with cap guns are now living their own lives. Her husband has had some health problems, but they seem to be stabilized. Meanwhile, she’d resurrected a career she loved, but has now put that to rest for the last time.

What prompted her to write was a recent column I had penned, as well as a story she had read in my book, Bill Cherry’s Galveston Memories. A friend had sent her a copy of the newspaper column. Her oldest son had given her the book.

Oddly, the book’s story, titled At Miss Dorothy’s, Arthur and Summer Saw the Midnight Sun, is, by far, my favorite of the over 650 I have told you during the past fifteen years.

It is an accounting of two college-age boys, Buddy and Arthur, who were home for the Thanksgiving holidays. After a double-date with their girlfriends, they decided to stop by Miss Dorothy’s Market Street cathouse to visit and dance with the girls in the living room.

Galveston boys frequently did that back then, just like they’d stop off at Honey Brown’s for a barbecue sandwich and to listen to the big floor model radio playing George Prader’s blues program, "Harlem Express," while they ate.

If a cathouse could be defined as genteel, that would have described Miss Dorothy’s. As beautifully furnished as any nice home’s living room, with cocktails served to guests from a bar hidden in the back, the music played was primarily cheek-to-cheek danceable jazz.

Sinatra, Mathis, Fitzgerald, Ellington.

And the girls were dressed in beautiful gowns from the couture departments of E.S. Levy’s and Nathan’s and Leopold’s. Jacqueline’s Charlie Killebrew and Bob Ford took care of their hair and nails. That was the finest salon on the island.

When the boys went to Miss Dorothy’s on that night, things were different. That time they recognized one of the girls in the living room as Summer, a popular and beautiful Dallas co-ed from their school, Sam Houston State Teacher’s College. The story is an accounting of that discovery and how they both felt and handled it, and what happened at a chance meeting between Arthur and Summer many years later in the Dallas airport.

According to my friend, when Galveston’s spools of professional sin were removed for the last time in the middle-60s, Miss Dorothy and her man moved into the county. "Did you know that she morphed into a hairdresser, a hairdresser with a new name?" my friend, the Grace Kelly lookalike, asked.

I loved it. Miss Dorothy and her man had married, opened a convenience store, and Miss Dorothy had put in a beauty shop next door. And she had a new name.

"She was my hairdresser for 10 years....She was a character and was actually fun to be around (No sir, I did not run with her)," she further explained, obviously building my interest in this tale.

"As incongruous as you may think it is, after awhile Miss Dorothy started investigating the various church denominations of the small town. When she’d come to one of the Sunday services, she’d always come in the costume one would expect of the hairdresser who was married to the convenience store owner. Cotton dress and flats. You know.

"One Presbyterian lady, who somehow knew for sure that her former name was Miss Dorothy, and that she and the convenience store owner had run Galveston finest cathouse, decided that it was time for Miss Dorothy and her husband to be saved and forgiven of their pasts by the Almighty.

'Why don’t you two join us for the Christmas service at the Presbyterian church? It’s always so beautiful. Flowers everywhere, lovely Christmas caroles sung by the choir, and the pastor does an especially good job with his Baby Jesus in the manger sermon,' she said to Miss Dorothy while Miss Dorothy was blow drying her hair.

"The Christmas service was just about to begin," my friend continued. "We were all in our seats and the minister stood up to make a few announcements. Then from the back of the church, we heard rustling from people squirming in their seats, so we turned around to see what was going on. There making the grandest of entrances was my hairdresser, Miss Dorothy, dressed in couture as she did in her former life.

"Miss Dorothy had on a beautiful red dress, and a huge red picture hat. She had on red spike heals with bag and gloves to match. Her hair was turned in a French twist, her roots carefully doctored, and her make-up was done as though by seasoned Academy Award winning Hollywood make-up artist, Percy Westmore.

"She must have spent hours preparing for her parade, and it certainly paid off," my friend continued.

"Then Miss Dorothy and her husband "glided down the aisle as though they owned the place and took their seats on the front row.

"Gasps followed them."

Most of the women didn’t recognize her, my friend said,  but I’ll assure you that any of the men who had ever visited Miss Dorothy’s cathouse in Galveston knew precisely who she was, and in my imagination I’ll bet they were doing their best to hide their smiles.
 
You see, the Miss Dorothy they knew from their past had always looked and acted just like that:  a beautiful and elegant lady with impeccable manners, and who was a perfect hostess.

Sort of a Washington socialite Pearl Mesta gone wrong, if you know what I mean.

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry
Bill Cherry's Wikipedia Biography

SUNDAY IN THE PARK with Dallas Realtor Bill Cherry

9th Edition

Bluetooth.  For years and years, in fact maybe centuries, men have had a far more chance of developing hearing loss than women.  And for every single one of those years, men have been trying to hide that it has happened to them. 

The only hearing aid that will ever be fully acceptable is one that can be stuffed so far down in the ear canal that only the guy and his doc know he has one.

Isn't it a paradox that it is fashionable to have one of those enormous Bluetooth phone contraptions hanging off of the same guy's ear who needs a hearing aid? 

From the Internet.   "Readers may be interested to know that these wreaths at the Washington National Cemetary -- some 5,000 - are donated by the Worcester Wreath Co. of Harrington, Maine. The owner, Merrill Worcester, not only provides the wreaths, but covers the trucking expense as well. He's done this since 1992.  Groups of Maine school kids combine an educational trip to DC with this event to help out.

"Making this even more remarkable is the fact that Harrington is in one the poorest parts of the state."

Holiday Dinner Tables.  I learned this tradition from my mom and dad.  They always set their holiday dinner table using a mixture of the china, silver and crystal that had been passed down to them from their parents and grandparents.  Of course some of their own patterns were included, too.  It was eclectic, but it looked wonderful.

Now that both sets of our parents are in heaven, Patty and I continue this tradition at our house.  As my mom and dad figured out many years before, it is a wonderful way for our families to be together in spirit.

The Winter Infection.  Attacking North Texas men, women and children by the thousands is the latest rendition of a bad cold-like infection.  Impervious to many of the prescribed and over-the-counter remedies of the past, doctors have found themselves trying new ideas.  One that seems to have a high percentage of results is prescribing for the patient a combination of an antibiotic for bacterial infections and a coticosteriod for severe allergies.

Emelia Cordie Norman.  Our fourth grandchild was born on December 6^th.  Named for Susan and Randy's respective grandmothers, she's a very special addition to our family.

AIDS.  About fifteen years ago, Rotary Clubs International decided to devote the influence of its world-wide membership with its ability to raise money to fund the immediate eradication of polio.  For all practical purposes, it worked.  It took just ten years.

UNICEF. Long the world's children's most prolific advocate, UNICEF is trying an even more ambitious progam than Rotary's, theirs is for the treatment and eradication of AIDS.  Hopefully some of the service clubs, churches and foundations will pump resources into this cause.

Doo Wop.  There is a radio station here in Dallas that has a six hour program of doo wop every Saturday night beginning at 6 PM.  It's hosted by a very knowledgeable fellow who has a remarkable collection of these gems.  He calls himself Crusin' Al.  The station is KAAM-AM and it streams its programs via its web site.  If you like this music, you'll be an instant fan.

Flipping.  Buying a run down house, doing primarily cosmetic remodeling and then selling it for a grand profit is not a mark of investment talent but an aberration driven by a buyers' market and funded by overly anxious lenders with too much available money.

What concocts this into a dynamic irony is that a huge portion of these houses were flipped and financed by sub-prime loans. 

I remember one of my clients years ago had a friend who bought a lot of real estate, and my client sold him most of it.  The friend died.  My client called me frantically and said, "I bought the Mensing building from you to sell to J.R.  I wasn't expecting him to die.  How quick can you get me out of this investment?"

Now that this market has died, lots of people are stuck with "Mensing buildings" and many will end up in foreclosure.  That's because so few prepared or considered or had in place a viable strategy to initiate if the property couldn't be flipped.

Real estate has never been a proper gambling vehicle, and it never will be.

It's times like these that Realtors with a long history of successfully bringing their clients through good markets and bad markets should be consulted before you make any real estate decision.  In my case, I've been serving clients for forty-three years, and I'm here to serve you.

Enjoy the blessings of the season.  I hope you'll be back with me next Sunday morning for a visit in the park. In the meantime, please remember...

GOD Blesses!

Bill's Web Site

Bill's Wikipedia Bio

Bill's Town Hall/KSKY Blog Postings

Pen and ink drawing of Bill Cherry on Sunday in the Park by Carlotta Barker

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry, Ph.D.

THE KID RADIO ANNOUNCER LEARNED A VALUABLE LESSON

When I was 14-years old, I wanted to be a radio announcer really badly.  I'm short (5'5").  And in those days not only was I short, but I didn't weigh but about 110 pounds.  But I had a deep voice -- I still do -- and I had no regional dialect, and I figured if I got behind a radio mike I would then be whatever the listeners pictured me to be. 

What a deal!

So I had to figure out how to get the station owner to hire me when everyone else there was an adult.  So here's what I did.  I studied the owner.  He liked to wear blue cord coats with white duck pants, a blue oxford shirt with a blue and white polka dot bow tie and white buck shoes.  I had everything but the white buck shoes, and my friend across the street had a pair of them I could borrow.

So I called and made an appointment to see Mr. James W. Bradner, Jr., and I showed up looking like him.  I didn't even audition!

He hired me on the spot, and I worked as a full-time radio personality for him and other stations all the way through college, and until just a few years ago when we moved to Dallas, I was doing on-camera features for a TV station in Houston. 

I still do voice-overs for documentaries, and business and people promotions from time to time, most recently for well-known corporate trainer, Petey Parker (Fite).

What I did in 1954 was to assure I would get Mr. Bradner's approval; flattering him made the sale. 

If I figured it out at 14, I don't understand why this elementary concept is so difficult for many adults who are in sales -- OK, especially Realtors --  to understand and follow.

This very concept is what I have used for all of these years that I've been in the real estate business.  I try to steer things about my client's listing so that it will appeal to the most potential buyers -- from the ads I run, to the people I network looking for buyers, to the way the houses look themselves.

The latest word for a big part of this marketing ball of wax is staging.  Around here I'm the expert at "staging" my marketing. 

But a professional home stager -- someone who knows how to dress a home to appeal to buyers -- is not Bill Cherry.  I know I need to call in a professional to fill in that part of the equation.  I've met two great ones here in Dallas-Ft. Worth Metroplex. 

That your best friend fancies herself as an interior designer, or your listing clients hired someone to totally decorate their home are irrelevant. 

Decorating and designing are both apples and oranges to the art of home staging. 

Home stagers are an important part of what separates the men from the boys in home selling...excuse me for sounding sexist...you know what I mean.

Now that most of the nation is in a real estate "sellers' market", best listen to your Uncle Bill on this one.  I've been around and testing all of these concepts as a Realtor for 43 years.   Bill's Bio

A Primer of the Island’s
Experience with Gambling’s Past

By Dallas Realtor Bill Cherry

Gambling interests and people who are interested in gambling are once again testing the Texas waters.  As usual, the bait is that by allowing a limited number of casinos strategically placed throughout the state, Texans will stop going to Louisiana and Oklahoma's casinos.

The money will stay in Texas as will the taxes that the state can charge the casinos.

I was raised in Galveston, Texas during a part of the time when gambling, although illegal, was open for anyone who wanted to participate.  Perhaps this city's experience would be a worthy one to examine at this time.

The majority of today’s Galvestonians were not here or not old enough at the time to be able to evaluate what effect gambling had on the island’s lifestyle and economy before it left for good in 1957.

In the days when Galveston’s vice was operating wide-open, most homes and businesses throughout the U.S. were not air conditioned. So while tourists came for the beach, they primarily came for the constant gulf breezes that blew through their hotel room windows, and weren’t available anywhere else nearby.

In the ‘40s and early ‘50s, because of World War II, cars were old and unreliable, and tires and batteries and repair parts were scarce. And there were no super highways until the Eisenhower administration. A trip from Houston to Galveston took a couple of hours. A trip from Dallas took forever unless you took the train, and many did. Nevertheless, in the main, it was rare for families to venture too far from home.

The island’s casinos and gaming devices were primarily owned by one family, the Maceos. There were no stockholders living throughout the United States. The Maceos lived on the island, their children went to the island’s schools, and the family’s money was banked and spent here. All but Sam Maceo owned their own homes. Expansion of their businesses was limited to their com-bined personal wealth and credit.

Gambling was illegal. There was no license, there was no contract. Every day was a new day. Should the citizens of the island one day feel it was time for the Maceos to close up, all they had to do was put in motion that their illegal businesses were no longer welcome here, and ask that the laws be enforced. But why would anyone want to do that? It would mean no more enormous profits to spend in the city, no more big bank deposits, and no more clothes bought at Nathan’s, Levy’s, Robert I. Cohen’s and Eiband’s by their now out of work employees.

Often overlooked is that the majority of the ancillary businesses that gambling supported was seasonal. As soon as Labor Day hit, they closed down until the next Splash Day, which was traditionally the first weekend in May.

Consequently the major portion of those who were employed by the casinos, the restaurants and the beach amusements were itinerants as was the clientele. For eight months out of the year, those workers weren’t here to earn pay checks and spend them in the local stores. The customers weren’t here to contribute to the economy either.

The reason the concept worked well for Galveston is an irony. The Maceos knew they had to be here day in and day out to protect their interests. They had to worry about public opinion. They had to do their best to be considered an asset to the city. And they had to be benevolent, almost to a fault.

But then came the advent of air conditioning in every home, office and store, and the addition of the super highway system. Profits began to fall, and whether those who like to tell the stories of Will Wilson and the Texas Rangers want to believe it or not, controlled vices would have soon left Galveston without them.

Local stores like E.S. Levy’s, Eiband’s, Robert I. Cohen’s and Nathan’s had been very profitable, not because gamblers brought them exceptional business, but because it was inconvenient and costly for Galvestonians to drive to downtown Houston to shop. As soon as the Gulf Freeway and Gulfgate Mall opened, everyday islanders left for Houston by the hundreds to shop.

Frantically, merchants put up "Shop Galveston" billboards everywhere. If that helped at all, it was marginal. The island’s tourist and retail economies were hemorrhaging. The shopping district of downtown breathed its last breath.

Comparing Galveston with Lake Charles, Louisiana is interesting. Lake Charles is half again the size of Galveston. It has a river boat casino that’s nearly 70,000 square feet and is owned by a publicly traded corporation. Inside there are 1,400 slot machines and 58 gaming tables. There’s an adjacent hotel with 262 rooms. The median family income in Lake Charles is a paltry $37,774.

Why would one think it would be otherwise? The majority of the money generated by the Lake Charles river boat and companion hotel is immediately siphoned out of the city to the location of the parent corporation.

For the most part, the high wage earners don’t live or spend their money in Lake Charles. And to add insult to injury, the majority of the profits the corporation earns there are thrown into the pot to be divvied up among the shareholders who live worldwide.

If Texas wants to try licensing gambling casinos, the formula that worked before in Galveston should be considered.

To reiterate, the casinos and gaming equipment should be owned by individuals or a privately-held corporation or partnership where all of the owners have their primary homes and offices in the Texas location of their casinos. The licenses to operate should be issued by that city and it should be able to be yanked if a public vote declares the city wants them closed.

A fair share of the gross income from the casinos should go for maintenance and improvements of the city’s and public schools’ infra-structures.

However, a better investment of time might be to accept as fact that Friendswood, Pearland, League City and the Clear Lake part of Houston have experienced phenomenal growth since Galveston’s casinos breathed their last breath. They did it without gambling as a part of their equations, and they aren’t asking to be able to stick it in now.

Throughout that same period, Galveston’s population and economy declined. It, too, did that without casinos. Perhaps it’s time to compare and contrast.

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

CHURCHES HAVE BEEN DOING THEIR BEST TO MASK FINANCIAL TROUBLES

While there’s reason to question whether it’s academically theological, one rather consistent message Western religions infer in their teachings boils down to this: Don’t worry about It. As long as we pray about It, we can leave It in God’s hands, and everything will be alright.

Many find it troubling to drive by their city’s old churches, some ornate and opulent, others designed and built to be clean, pristine and sturdy, and to realize that for years those buildings have been decaying. Each one began as a congruent vision by a handful of people who somehow were able to take that vision and persuade others to support it. With only a wishful concept to sell, they raised the money to eventually construct those enormously expensive buildings.

Many have been on their corners for more than 100 years.

The founders were sure that the churches and ancillary buildings would forever live on to spiritually nourish the community. They felt certain that the generations that followed would keep them up and add to them.

Membership and financial support would surely increase exponentially. Those peaceful resolves had to have been the spirit behind each church and synagogue, lest services would have remained in homes, public auditoriums, on street corners and in tents full of folding chairs and cardboard funeral home fans.

The founders would be disappointed if they were here today. As time has passed, the memberships have become lethargic, devotion has declined, and church-family financial support has lost a great deal of its wind. Without the strong membership resolve that the churches had when they were founded, the current congregants find themselves defaulting to that false hope, "We’ll leave It in God’s hands and everything will be alright."

So while they’ve been waiting on God to take care of things; rightfully God’s been waiting for them to do it. During this standoff, they have masked the structural problems with spackle, caulk, putty and paint. They’ve hoped that the rats that are eating away at the electrical wiring’s insulation won’t be electrocuted, thus sending the fire-causing sparks that will destroy the entire campus. And what about the termites and beetles that are digesting the wall framing and roof trusses? Will a wall eventually fall into the yard, they secretly wonder?

For awhile masking the truth has bought time. At least people driving by or going to an occasional wedding or the funeral of a friend haven’t noticed that the church was just squeaking by; that year after year there had been no room in the finances to budget for major repairs and improvements; and that church involvement had seriously declined.

But the committed members left behind have known all along, deep in their souls, that the solution would require families to stop just borrowing the facilities when they needed them for weddings and funerals and day school, or every now and then on Sunday, Christmas, Easter, or on Hanukkah and Passover, and to accept their responsibility as owners and members of their church’s business partnership.

With this comes an irony that began in Old Testament days. People won’t live in or support a community that doesn’t have good churches and synagogues. In fact, one of the first questions Realtors have to address when a family is considering moving to a new town is, "Where’s my church?" Not necessarily that the family plans to join or attend much less to send a regular contribution or to tithe, but they see it as a good sign that the town isn’t morally corrupt.

Like public parks and government buildings and streets, churches pay no property taxes. It was never meant to be a benevolent financial break for the faithful. Instead, it’s a subtle encouragement for churches to exist so that the town has perceived value.

One church, Galveston, Texas’ rinity Episcopal, started in the early 1800s when twelve people raised $4,000 to buy a tract of land and to construct a small frame building. Within a year, a hurricane had come through and blown it off of its foundation. They righted it.

More hurricanes followed, plus a Civil War battle that left a cannon ball buried in its south wall, then the big fire that burned most of downtown, the yellow fever epidemic, the births, marriages and deaths of generations, and the Great Depression, but the members continued building it, adding one brick at a time.

Today, the buildings encompasses an entire city block. The church is loaded with irreplaceable stained glass windows, a full set of chimes in its belfry, and an organ with more than 4,000 pipes. While there used to be a lot more members, still a couple of hundred worship there each Sunday. And throughout the week more than 250 children attend its school.

Nevertheless this church finds itself in need of $2 million if it is to save its buildings and do no more than continue the visionary mission of its founders of 150 years ago.

While the amount needed for restoration and program continuance surely differs from church to church, the questions are the same and as perplexing. Why does the church need so much? Where will it come from? It is so much because for years the church was unable to save for a rainy day. The congregants, in the main, took out more than they put back in.

Many simply took a free ride. And where it will come from is from those who know it’s important for the churches to continue their places in the community. Everyone of them prays their collective financial strength will be enough for their church to endure.

A town without good, viable churches and that are without supportive and enthusiastic members is empirically a town in a state of overall decline. That condition is severely costly to the spirit, moral and financial viability of the community.

Some say that’s where many are today.

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

.

I MISS MEL TORME 

By Dallas Realtor Bill Cherry

I'm never sure exactly when it's going to happen, but every year at this time I realize how much I miss jazz singer Mel Torme.

Torme knew more about the mixing of cord harmonies than anyone did before or has since.

He was the one who taught that art to bandleaders Les Baxter and Artie Shaw, and singers Ginny O'Connor (Henry Mancini's wife), the Hi-Los and the Manhattan Transfer.

He's the one who wrote the arrangements for Chico Marx's band when he was but a teenager.

He's also the one my former business colleague of twenty-plus years, Carol Todreas, and I tromped on many bitter-cold snowy nights from our Central Park South hotel to a small jazz club on Manhattan's east side called Marty's to hear him along with George Shearing. It was always a packed house, a packed house that held no more than 70.

Marty's was carved out of the corner of a multi-story parking garage. It was New York's best kept secret. No way did the owner make any money, and it's for sure Torme and Shearing were working for not much more than a free meal. But for them it was the perfect gig. For the audience it was the venue of succes d'estime.

Mel Torme wrote the tune and most of the words to the Christmas song that goes, "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at your nose." And he did it when he was just 22-years old.

One of our local Dallas symphonies did its annual Christmas Pops concert tonight.  The house was packed. Looking around one would have thought every senior citizen within a 50-mile radius was in the audience, while Dallas' young people were somewhere else. 

That part made me sad.

The orchestra played arrangements of many of the favorites - "Adeste Fideles," "Little Drummer Boy," "Deck the Halls," "O Come All Ye Faithful" and so on. The vote on my row was that the Davis/Custer arrangement of "Silent Night" was the best.

It may have been.  But that's not how I voted.

You see, before that they had played my old friend Mel's song. And I sung along in my head, "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at your nose. Yule time carols...."

And then while the orchestra and the rest of the audience moved on in the program, they left me behind, as they always do, to think of Christmases of the past when Mel was still singing his songs, Carol and I were tromping through the Manhattan snow to hear him at Marty's, and all of the members of the Cherry family were still alive and together awaiting the wonderful celebration of Christmas.

Those are all of the reasons in the world for me to miss Mel Torme.

BILL CHERRY'S WIKIPEDIA BIOGRAPHY

 

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

READ THIS: ALTERNATIVE SUGGESTIONS FOR GIFTS

From time to time, like you, I come across marvelous ideas...ideas that help me to help others.  Every morning before I officially get my day started, I read the on-line edition of my hometown paper, the Galveston County Daily News.  I'm especially fond of the Letters to the Editor.

Here's one from a Galveston resident, Margaret Barno.  I think it is worthy of spreading for others to read.

Alternative suggestions for gifts

Published December 5, 2007

Many treasured gifts I've been given I've never received. My older brother began giving "alternative gifts" years ago. He chose gifts with care to pay tribute to those for whom they were given.

My mother, a retired reading specialist, has had expenses paid for teachers in rural communities throughout the world. For me, who worked with children having medical needs, he selected wheelchairs made from bicycle parts ($25 per wheelchair). Now people in India, Afghanistan and Africa, to name a few, are able to live more independent lives because of his compassion.

If you are looking for a different kind of gift for someone special or for a memorable birthday gift, consider contacting www.altgifts.org.

The founder of this concept researched projects from around the globe where funds are used for items donated, not for administrative costs. There are now more than 200 selections from which to choose.

Religious organizations and civic groups also have projects from which you may select. The amazing thing is that costs for many items begin at or below $10. There are options at every gift level.

Don't forget local community agencies, providing services to those in the immediate area. United Way as well as your local religious communities can provide additional ideas for you to consider.

Selecting an agency or project for your family to give is a good way for children to share in how giving can help change lives.

There are opportunities to send items such as the book, "Strength for Service to God and Country," a revised edition similar to one given to troops during World War II and the Korean conflict. The goal is to make these books available to troops deployed in Iraq and surrounding regions.

For further information on some gift options I've found:

· Alternative Gifts International at 800-842-2243 (for brochure and to speak with someone); www.altgifts.org;
· www.NothingButNets.com;

· www.StrengthForService.org;

· www.HeiferProject.org; and

· United Way

BILL CHERRY'S WIKIPEDIA BIOGRAPHY

                

A LESSON IN MARKETING FROM TEXAS' FIRST JEWELER, MICHAEL B. SHAW

                                                                        Texas First Jeweler Michael W. Shaw

         by Dallas Realtor Bill Cherry


When the streets Galveston island were originally platted in the 1830s, they didn't use names like Oak Street or Water Street or Bayou View.

The founding fathers of Galveston thought that street names needed to be simple and easy to find. So streets running north and south got numbers for names. Those running east and west got alphabetical letters.

And let me tell you right now, old time Galvestonians are purists. They still cling to those original designations.

But the way Galveston streets were named back then became a problem for Texas' first jeweler, Michael W. Shaw. He was a 22-year old Prussian Jew who arrived in the Port of Galveston in 1855 to open his new store.

Shaw wanted his store to be the Tiffany's of all of Texas. To do that required building a first class image.

When Michael Shaw went to have his new venture's stationery printed, he knew that 23rd and Avenue B, where his store would be located, didn't connote a first class address.

So he told the printer that his store's stationery was going to have to have a different address printed on it. He had heard that one of the definitions of the word "strand" was a street bordering the sea.

Galveston's Avenue B does that, he thought. And he had also heard that one of the best streets in London was named "the Strand."

That's perfect! So he ordered the stationery to say, M.W. Shaw Jewelry Company, the corner of 23rd and the Strand, Galveston, Texas, United States of America.

Soon he convinced other merchants on Avenue B to change their addresses from Avenue B to the Strand.

So it was Michael W. Shaw, who at 22, first called this street The Strand, and that's what it's known as today.

Now Michael Shaw's Strand building was destroyed in the great Galveston fire of 1869.  So he rebuilt, and he continued to be flamboyant.  And he carried the best lines of Paris and New York.

In fact, Michael Shaw's the one who designed and made the engraved silver-studded walking cane that was Gen. Sam Houston's trademark.

A few years after Michael Shaw's heirs closed the business in 1938, another craftsman with an eye for flamboyancy opened a shop in this building. He was a young tailor, and his name was Frank Ortiz.

Ortiz made custom suits for many wealthy businessmen and entertainers.

But he made his name designing and making the bizarre stage clothes for eccentric Las Vegas entertainers, Liberace and Wayne Newton. 

In fact, Ortiz and his wife Blanche had the living room of their home designed and furnished like the lounge at the Sands Hotel.  When Liberace and Newton would come for a visit, they felt at home.

Copyright 2007 - William S. Cherry

All Rights Reserved

BILL CHERRY'S WIKIPEDIA BIOGRAPHY

 

                   NEED TO SELL? WHAT TO DO - Advice from Dallas Broker Bill Cherry view link


If this pause in an aggressive real estate market is anything like those I have experienced in my long career, more and more sellers will try to go it alone. Go it without the assistance of knowledgeable, seasoned real estate professionals, that is.

And many of those who do consider using a real estate company as their representative will want them to cut their normal commission schedule for them. Do it cheaper.

The rational in both instances, of course, is the fear that the house will not bring the price that the owner is confident it would have brought in the recent past. So, they want to recover some of that perceived net loss through commission savings.

On the other side, with business falling off, many real estate companies and sales people find it hard to continue to fund their marketing and advertising budgets, so they cut back.

They must especially cut back their marketing if they have agreed to work for less commission bucks.

On top of this, many brokers, rather than recognize the inevitable, will keep unseasoned, untrained agents in the stables, and watch them blow one potential listing and sale after another, further deteriorating their agency's bottom line, but more importantly, not providing clients with their best.

Those youngsters could sell and close when all they were responsible for was taking orders, but often they are totally unprepared to succeed in this environment that's new to them.

Every one of these scenarios, individually or working in concert with one or two of the others, dramatically injures sales opportunities. I find it interesting that many sellers and many brokers voluntarily put themselves in these traps.

Those who plan to sell their own homes as well as agents who are listing homes must be totally committed to asking and looking for the answer to this question everyday: "What must I do today to come closer to finding a buyer for this property?" And then they have to be willing to do it.

At Bill Cherry, Realtors, we continue to remain focused, and we pull out all stops when it comes to listing, finding buyers, and getting sales closed. It's times like these, after all, when all of us are put to the test. We'll pass it as we have every other time during our 43 years representing Texas.

GOD Blesses!

BILL CHERRY view link
BILL CHERRY'S WIKIPEDIA BIOGRAPHY

SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH BILL CHERRY - 8th Edition

Community Coffee.  There are huge numbers who prefer one flavor or another of the Starbucks coffees.  Community coffee has been made in Baton Rouge by the Saurage family for more than seventy-five years.  And I've been drinking their New Orleans Blend since I was a college student in New Orleans almost fifty years ago.  In stores or by the web. Community Coffee.

Santa Claus.  The image we have of Santa Claus was created by the Coca Cola Company, and it proves the importance of reinforcement advertising. 

For the very first time ever, I have seen the God created image of the Coca Cola Santa.  He is in his home just out of the second floor mall entrance of Neiman Marcus at North Park.

Every last piece of this Santa is real - bald head; white fringe, moustache, beard and eyebrows, and sixty inch girth.  He's seeing children daily.

The Salvation Army. This fellow, who was too busy dancing and singing to stop and tell me his name, is the Dallas Salvation Army's highest dollar bell ringer, and he has been for years.  Dapper but teeny, he dances and sings the time away all the while ringing his chimes to the music he hears in his head.  By the way, Patty and I simply don't shop at stores that have refused the Christmas appearances of the Salvation Army bell ringers. 

Store Fronts.  Store windows like the front of your real estate office play an important part in telling the public what you do and suggesting the quality at which you do it.  In the old days, Woolworth, Kress and McCrory's used to fill their storefront windows with at least one each of every product they sold.  Their message?  They sold a lot of stuff and they sold it cheap.

Neiman-Marcus, on the other hand, would put one of their courtier pieces in a window.  Their message?  We have just one of these, and it's for you.  Both approaches worked well for these merchandisers.

 <<===Neiman-Marcus Window

Today, Barney's, formerly an up-scale New York men's store, is trying to compete as a high fashion, high quality family clothier.  Here's their major window for the Christmas Season.  Exactly what does it say is inside of the store?  As suspected, inside the store there are very few shoppers.

<<===Barney's Window

Ann Taylor. For the next few days, Ann Taylor stores are featuring nice cashmere wool women's sweaters in a swell array of colors and shades, and they are marked down fifty percent.

Plato and the Platypus.  Authors Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klein have written a "hilarious yet profound tour de farce through Western philosophy" book titled Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar.  Using jokes, they give the cursory views of the famous philosophers.  It's very clever.

Shrimp.  Our friends Victor and Judy Damiani come up from the Texas coast to visit us a few times each year, and they always bring us fresh shrimp from the dock.  They put about twenty in each plastic container, fill it with water and freeze it.  What a treat!

Last evening we made a nice green salad, adding some black olives, artichoke hearts and strips of grilled chicken and some sautéed shrimp.  Patty said I should share with you how to sauté shrimp.  Here goes.  First peel and devain the shrimp.  In a skillet, melt on stick of butter (more if needed) and add a few shakes of Worcestershire sauce, the juice of a lemon, some freshly ground black pepper and a teaspoon or so of minced garlic.  Then add the shrimp and cook until pink on each side.  Then please immediately remove them from the pan.  (By the way, t