Gem of the Day
The Institute of American Studies is touting the findings of a “groundbreaking” new study entitled “The Consequences of Marriage for African Americans.” Among its conclusions: Marriage typically brings a host of important benefits to black men, women and children; when African-American boys live with their father in the home, they typically get more parental support; marriage is profoundly important to the economic well-being of black families; and marriage appears to inhibit crime. It seems the study authors have finally caught up to the Rev. Howard E. Dantzler Sr., now retired sociology professor at Penn State Fayette Campus, who was preaching those same tenets – as a colorblind prescription for what ails black and white families – three decades ago.
It looked – from the outside, at least – like an ordinary mansion. An
ordinary mansion in the heart of the city, surrounded by gardens and protected
by high metal gates. It had grand columns, and sweeping porticos, and great
long driveways where important people stepped from great long cars to talk about
important things.
An impressive building, to be sure. But as mansions go, no better, no
worse than dozens of others within the city and beyond.
An ordinary mansion, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Or so it seemed from the outside.
But to those few brave souls who ventured within and survived to tell the
tale – this was long ago, back in the year 2005, or so the story goes –
this was no ordinary mansion at all. They called it: The Haunted House. The
Haunted (italic)White(italic) House.
For it was deep in the year 2005 – or so the story goes – that the dark
cloud settled over 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Settled, and simply refused to
leave.
It arrived one late-summer’s day on a fierce wind from the south, from
the Gulf of Mexico, and the rain was harder than anyone could remember, and
the waters rose, and then rose some more. The waves slapped against the walls of
the mansion, and oozed through the cracks and climbed the great staircase.
The water filled important rooms and decorative rooms alike; it tore pictures
from their moorings, and reputations. Reputations years in the making.
Then – at last – the rain stopped, and the waters receded, but it was
too late. The damage had been done. Some great disintegrating force had been
let loose.
And the dark cloud? The dark cloud stayed precisely where it was. No
new wind could dislodge it, no rays of sunshine soften its menacing aspect. It
was a sign, people said. From that day forth, nothing in the mansion was ever
quite the same. Was ever quite normal.
Misstep followed misstep, and calamity hovered at every turn. Where
once the mansion’s residents had gone jauntily about their business, supremely
confident of their success, now there was uncertainty. Where once the mood was
warm, and comradely, now there were whispers, and dark rumblings of discord.
From the outside, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue looked as it had always
looked. But on the inside, how different things had become!
If you close your eyes, you can almost see it, even now, though so many
years have passed: the floors, no longer straight and true and polished to a
perfect shine. The walls, perched at awkward angles, buckling under the
accumulated stresses. The entire right wing tearing apart from the rest of the
structure. And signs of rot everywhere.
If you listen carefully, you can almost (italic)hear(italic) it: the
whirring of helicopter blades, and the roar of bulldozers. A mad chorus of gas
pumps going “ping-ping-ping.” A distant explosion, and a mother’s sobs, and
another, and another. The tread of lawyers’ footsteps clomping through the halls.
A lonely voice crying out, “Harriet! Harriet!”
All this – but not only this.
For when the nights are at their longest, they say, and the moon is
full, you can still hear the screams – the awful, blood-curdling screams – of
one very…lame…duck.
# # #
Rick Horowitz is a syndicated columnist. You can write to him at
a href=”mailto:.
ago.
It looked – from the outside, at least – like an ordinary mansion. An
ordinary mansion in the heart of the city, surrounded by gardens and protected
by high metal gates. It had grand columns, and sweeping porticos, and great
long driveways where important people stepped from great long cars to talk about
important things.
An impressive building, to be sure. But as mansions go, no better, no
worse than dozens of others within the city and beyond.
An ordinary mansion, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Or so it seemed from the outside.
But to those few brave souls who ventured within and survived to tell the
tale – this was long ago, back in the year 2005, or so the story goes –
this was no ordinary mansion at all. They called it: The Haunted House. The
Haunted (italic)White(italic) House.
For it was deep in the year 2005 – or so the story goes – that the dark
cloud settled over 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Settled, and simply refused to
leave.
It arrived one late-summer’s day on a fierce wind from the south, from
the Gulf of Mexico, and the rain was harder than anyone could remember, and
the waters rose, and then rose some more. The waves slapped against the walls of
the mansion, and oozed through the cracks and climbed the great staircase.
The water filled important rooms and decorative rooms alike; it tore pictures
from their moorings, and reputations. Reputations years in the making.
Then – at last – the rain stopped, and the waters receded, but it was
too late. The damage had been done. Some great disintegrating force had been
let loose.
And the dark cloud? The dark cloud stayed precisely where it was. No
new wind could dislodge it, no rays of sunshine soften its menacing aspect. It
was a sign, people said. From that day forth, nothing in the mansion was ever
quite the same. Was ever quite normal.
Misstep followed misstep, and calamity hovered at every turn. Where
once the mansion’s residents had gone jauntily about their business, supremely
confident of their success, now there was uncertainty. Where once the mood was
warm, and comradely, now there were whispers, and dark rumblings of discord.
From the outside, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue looked as it had always
looked. But on the inside, how different things had become!
If you close your eyes, you can almost see it, even now, though so many
years have passed: the floors, no longer straight and true and polished to a
perfect shine. The walls, perched at awkward angles, buckling under the
accumulated stresses. The entire right wing tearing apart from the rest of the
structure. And signs of rot everywhere.
If you listen carefully, you can almost (italic)hear(italic) it: the
whirring of helicopter blades, and the roar of bulldozers. A mad chorus of gas
pumps going “ping-ping-ping.” A distant explosion, and a mother’s sobs, and
another, and another. The tread of lawyers’ footsteps clomping through the halls.
A lonely voice crying out, “Harriet! Harriet!”
All this – but not only this.
For when the nights are at their longest, they say, and the moon is
full, you can still hear the screams – the awful, blood-curdling screams – of
one very…lame…duck.
# # #
Rick Horowitz is a syndicated columnist. You can write to him at
a href=”mailto:.