I read an interesting write up about Gerald Ford that I thought I’d pass on. I guess an old house he actually had built. With the kitchen he had enjoyed being in, and the lap pool in the backyard that he had done laps in. And the writer of the article, Brian Krebs at the Wall Street Journal, had lived in the house during his college days. And the house had become what he had called a Frat House. It sounded more like a looser place in which they rented rooms. He was very descriptive on the history he knew.
I am looking at an old photograph of former president Gerald Ford cheerfully scrubbing the evening dishes. It is taped to the window above the very same sink Ford stood at a quarter century ago, when the picture was taken. I am standing there now. I am munching a microwave pizza pocket and drooling crusty flakes down into the disposal. My eyes are drawn to the man smiling at me from the window. I smile a sort of cheesy smile back at him, and for a moment we bond.
See, I live in his house. A president’s house! My room is the second one off the third-floor stairwell. At a little under $500 a month, it’s not a bad deal, considering who used to live here and all. “Just mind the minefield,” I tell my guests who dare to tread the darkened, fetid hallways. Zeus, my housemates’ 18-month-old Rottweiler, is imperfectly housebroken.[...]
[...] This summer, on President Ford’s 83rd birthday, my roommate and I sent him a letter, observing how much the current occupants were enjoying his old home. We did not mention that the Fords probably wouldn’t recognize the house but for the street address. Which is just as well. The man is 83. How much could the old ticker take?A few weeks later we got a nice response. The Fords said how much they had liked the house, how much it had meant to them, how delighted they were it was being put to good use by people who cared about it. It made me feel bad, and I felt worse later that night when I sat in the hellish living room, avoiding the sofa which reeks of Zeus’s errors, and watched my new pen pal on the big-screen TV. He was giving a speech at the Republican National Convention. He sounded so . . . hopeful.
From that day on, nothing seemed the same. And finally, just a few days ago, I moved out. Part of it is that I seldom stay any place very long; but part of it was I got spooked. [...]
[Blog at WSJ Security Fix]
Tags: History, Interesting, Irony, Stories
