When the wife and I took over management of our youth group, it met in the same place it had met for years before that.

In a bar.

Really.

Literally.

A private bar, yes, and all the alcohol was locked in the safe whenever the fraternal group that sponsors us was not having a special affair.

But a bar, nonetheless.

A peninsular bar, with counter on three sides, lined with fake leather. And high, comfortable barstools. Complete with soda tap hose, sinks, credit card machine (a fascination to young males, for some reason), and a cash register.

And yes, the obligatory bowl of bar mints, which we constantly had to keep an eye on.

But a wonderful place for meetings. Sort of a "Round Table" effect. Only the elected head of the group allowed to enter the bar to run the meetings. All others, including the adults, were to remain outside the counters. Gave strong incentive for being elected the leader of the group. Their smiles upon first entering that sacred domain were quite enjoyable to see.

But no real room to roughhouse. Rest of the room was filled with dining tables, always set with silverware and glassware.

We played Capture the Flag in that dining hall. In the dark. For years. And never broke a glass.

The more rigorous games were played outside on the nearby Court House/Jail lawn.

But some (a vocal few) new parents objected to this unfit environment for young men. And when the town's National Guard Armory became available, we were evicted from the bar, and became its first new residents. Becoming quite comfortable in the former offices, with a gymnasium nearby.

But ownership of the building was in limbo. And finally the County accepted responsibility for the structure.

And promptly kicked us out of the offices to make room for the Red Cross.

Okay, that's a higher priority, I agree.

So we moved into the old classroom.

And were quite soon kicked out to make room for the county's emergency communications center.

So we moved to the barracks. Horrible acoustics in the concrete room, but it had windows, and easy access to the latrines.

Then the Red Cross decided they needed that for the emergency shelter. They took over the kitchen, too, which makes sense if you're going to run a shelter.

Meantime, the Sheriff's Office laid claim to the garage, to store emergency vehicles, and impounded vehicles awaiting disposition.

That left the vault.

Which is, quite literally, a vault. Where the Guard used to secure ammo and weapons. Airtight, concrete room with a foot thick steel, locking vault door.

No, I don't think so.

Now by this time, the wife had become well known within the community. And through her formal complaints (we had, after all, been the first to volunteer to use the building) and some effective backroom dealing by one of the other leaders (one of the ones responsible for us losing our wonderful bar), a compromise was reached.

We would build another room in the garage. Took literally over a year for plans to be drawn and approved, and even then it would be a long, skinny, dark enclosure, with poor access, and poorer lights and acoustics. This all designed and built by the rabble-rouser that got us kicked out of the bar, who happens to do this sort of construction work for a living.

And then nothing happened. And more nothing. With us still meeting in the gym or the barracks, amidst all the emergency bedding, and taking all our gear home with us every week.

This went on for more than another year. With promises of the new room being built falling one date after another. Latest to pass without a new room was the first week of January.

But in the past few weeks, all of that has changed.

Thanks to President Bush. (Can you believe I'm saying that?)

Bush, and his "Homeland Security."

Particularly, that phase of his security program which calls for smallpox inoculations across the country, in the event of terrorist attack with the disease.

You see, you need a cool, secure place to store all that vaccine.

Like the empty corner of the Sheriff's garage that we were going to build our room in.

And since they had literally boxed us into a corner, and were now needing to take even that corner away from us, the county folks had to find a new place to put our group.

We get the barracks back.

Been moving in for two weeks, just so they understand we expect this to be permanent. And moving them out.

So, when Dubya's reign is over, I'm afraid that I will have to grudgingly admit that he accomplished at least one positive thing.

That's a hard pill to swallow.

But it feels good to have a home again.

Even if it doesn't have a bar.