Since I can't visit every porch (James Ragland's first column from July 2000)

If I had my way, I'd come over to your place and introduce myself

Maybe drink a cold lemonade and reminisce about the good ol' days
when a tank of gas was cheaper than a month's rent.

But I wouldn't want to impose.

And besides, it would take quite a while to reach all the porches
that this newspaper lands on each day.

So I've got another idea.

Starting today, why don't we agree to meet here in this corner of
the paper twice a week and talk about what's on your mind: The
good. The bad. The ugly. The potholes. The school system. City

And whatever else you want to discuss.

First, though, let me tell you a little about myself.

From a small town

I grew up 160 miles east of Dallas in a rural hamlet with a regal
name, Elysian Fields. If it sounds familiar, it's probably not
because you've been there. You're more likely to find it in a
dictionary or an encyclopedia than on a road map.

The town got its name from its founder, Capt. Edward Smith, who
likened the lush green pastures he stumbled upon to the Elysian
fields of Greek lore, the place where virtuous people went after
they died.

That can't be good for tourism: Come See All Our Virtuous Dead

Maybe that's why the town remains so small. Capt. Smith settled
there in 1837, two decades after he discovered the area. And we got
a post office in 1848.

We took a lesson from Dallas and tore down any buildings that may
have historical significance, such as the original bank and the
general store, which served as a low-tech chat room.

The Elysian Fields of my youth was a lot like other small towns.

There was petty bickering, religious discord, class warfare — and
that was just in my family.

There also were a lot of good people, mostly farmers and cattle
ranchers, who worked hard, paid their bills and kept an eye out for
each other. You can't ask for more than that.

I am still amused each summer when I see big-city parents packing
trunks and loading up SUVs to haul their kids off to summer camps
in East Texas. My childhood experience was just the opposite.

Dallas was my summer oasis, the place I visited to escape the
routines of small-town life: milking cows, fishing in small ponds,
riding horses, hauling hay.

Back to the big city

I came to Dallas each summer so I could skin my knees on concrete
sidewalks, play ball in overcrowded recreational centers, marvel at
the traffic jams and skyscrapers. I also liked the fact that I
could watch more than three channels on the TV.

I learned much more about the city and its people when I moved here
15 years ago to start my career. It has been one heck of a

I have reported on car wrecks and plane crashes, hostage situations
and hostile politicians, broken promises and broken hearts.

I covered the administrations of the first woman elected mayor of
Dallas, the late Annette Strauss, and the first female mayor of
Washington, Sharon Pratt Kelly.

I left Dallas for about three years in 1991 for a chance to live in
another region, northern Virginia, and to work for another paper,
The Washington Post.

When I came back, it was to a region that is rapidly changing.

It seems like all the streets are being worked on at once.

There's a housing boom in downtown Dallas, where a new sports arena
is being built.

The minorities who were fighting for a larger stake at City Hall
when I left now hold the reins.

I could go on, but you get the picture.

There is plenty for us to talk about.