One of the finest quips in the history of the U.S. Senate, said to be the “world’s greatest deliberative body,’’ was delivered by Thomas R. Marshall, our 28th vice president and a pretty funny guy.
He was responding to a long litany of the nation’s needs during a Senate floor debate. Perhaps the list was overlong — need after need after need.
“What this country needs,’’ Marshall coolly said in response, “is a really good five-cent cigar.”
The Senate was amused: ha, ha, harumph.
Nickels and cigars aren’t very relevant anymore, but the phrase came back to me recently because there’s a whole lot of needing going on.
If you said “What this country needs …” contemporary answers would be all over the place:
– A fair tax system.
– No infringements on personal liberties.
– Affordable health care, homes and food.
– Justice for minorities.
– Nothing woke, no way, no how.
– A zillion-dollar cyber coin.
There are thousands of possible responses, but a recent one stands out. A citizen, first among equals, not a king but our president, came up with this:
What this country needs is one big beautiful ballroom.
Really big. With gold leaf glittering from sea to shining sea. And columns, with majesty out the ying-yang. Put the Caesars to shame! Make Louis XIV, “the Sun King,” roll over in his grave! The ghost of Liberace shall weep!
It all happened in a flash.
So long, East Wing of the White House. As Admiral David Farragut said in the Civil War Battle of Mobile Bay and during later home reconstruction projects, “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead.”
Careful readers of this column might surmise that I am not pleased with the coming White House Dinner and Dance Hall. This is not a partisan position. I am in favor of little or no change in the people’s house. I opposed Joe Biden’s decision to remove the Andrew Jackson Moonshine Cabinet and demanded a House investigation into the loss of Zachary Taylor’s Spittoon. What Middle East sultan now holds that prize, and what favors were exchanged?
As great as President Donald J. Trump might be, his taste in decor need not go unquestioned. I once spent an eventful half hour in the Trump Casino in Atlantic City before all that glittered went broke. The men’s room was spectacularly shiny and, I’m sorry to say, ridiculous.
You may respect his political agenda, rushing ahead as it does with threats, tariffs, insults on land and violence by sea, but when it comes to remodeling … I say, God save us all.
On the other hand, maybe the greatest projection of American power is that the president could actually get a contractor to show up. Hail to the chief!
We can only watch with concern from the Upper Valley, but current affairs made me think of our own status vis-à-vis ballrooms. My house sits back from the street on its lot in West Lebanon, so we could situate a ballroom of sorts. But I don’t own a tux and they don’t have any in stock at L.L. Bean. (Red flannel, perhaps?)
Also, I am not much of a host and I don’t like to have too many people over, especially waltzing dictators.
Dartmouth College might have a Ballroom Siting Committee working quietly out of the public eye even now, perhaps focusing on former golf course land. But that is of no great interest to me, since I’ve all but given up hope that they will ever grant me an honorary degree — or even a discount for on-campus parking. Too much politics in academia, I say.
I suppose the unofficial ballroom of the Upper Valley might be the plain but utilitarian Tracy Hall in Norwich, which over the years has hosted not grand events for elites, but contra dances for the common man — and woman, and nonbinary, etc.
They are democratic so even the weak and the lame have their turn. In that I refer to myself, who once attended and had to sit out after a time because of colossal incompetence. You swing, do-si-do, go up the hall, down the hall, turn once, twice, thrice, circle left, circle right, with amazing grace or not. One advanced contra dancer actually hissed at me as I meandered in the wrong direction. It was a miracle I didn’t end up on Main Street.
We took dance lessons once, but it turns out I move with all the subtle grace of an NFL lineman. Wearing roller skates. On ice. With the laces on fire.
If I were somehow someday invited to the USA’s greatest ballroom, I would have to decline. I am a patriotic American, but I am no dancer. I like America as it is — or was.
Give me liberty, but give me no promenades.
