I promised readers a ballroom, and I have delivered one. It is in my backyard, it is made of cardboard, it measures 41 feet by 60, and it is larger than my house. I will explain how this happened, and I will ask readers to hold their applause until the end, as the Founders would have wished.
There is much talk this autumn about a ballroom at the White House, announced at a cost of $300 million to $400 million and, after a Supreme Court order in August, allowed to continue. Critics say a ballroom larger than the building it serves is a departure from our traditions. I say they have never been to a ball.
The Founders loved to dance. They held balls for every occasion: births, victories, the weather. A ball was the occasion on which a young republic showed itself to the world that it could stand upright for several hours without a drink. And what does a ball require? A room. A room large enough for everyone who wished to attend, which the Founders understood to be everyone.
Therefore the room must always be larger than the household. A ballroom smaller than the house would be an extension. It would be a kitchen with ambitions. The tradition is plain: the ballroom must exceed the building, so that the building can be a part of it, and the household, in a very real sense, a guest.
I thought this was a complete argument, and I walked to the hardware store.
Having built the ballroom in a single weekend, I stood at its center on Sunday evening and was struck by something the critics have not considered. If the ballroom is larger than the house, then the house is inside the ballroom’s footprint. It follows that my house is not a house. It is a feature of the ballroom, like a chandelier, or a small buffet. And a feature of a ballroom does not live anywhere. It waits to be asked to dance.
I was not troubled by this, because the Founders were not. They left their houses to attend their balls, and they were announced upon entering, because that is the custom of a ball. A guest who is not announced has not arrived.
I therefore walked to my own front door on Sunday, knocked, and waited. My sister-in-law, who had agreed to stand inside, announced me in a clear voice. “Mrs. Constance Merriweather-Dunn, of the ballroom,” she said, and I entered my own home to a small but sincere round of applause from the hall clock.
I now ask to be announced at every door I use, including the garage, the bathroom, and the mailbox, which I regard as a smaller ball. My house has been asked to arrive separately. It is, at the time of this writing, on the other side of the yard, and has not yet been announced. I have offered it the buffet.
A house inside a ballroom is not a house. It is a guest. This is what the Founders knew, and why they built so large, and it is why I now sleep in the ballroom and visit my bedroom on weekends.
Next week: what the Founders would have said about fun-size candy, and why I now answer my own door.