On Jan. 20, 1965, some women of my acquaintance put on their prom dresses, threw their winter coats over their shoulders, loaded themselves into a car, drove to the National Guard Armory and waltzed right into Lyndon Johnson's inaugural ball. They had neither invitations, tickets, credentials, political connections nor piles of cash. But political fundraising and security details were not then what they are today.
Those chiffon-clad gate-crashers are the first and last people I know to attend an inaugural ball, to leap across the chasm that divides those of us who were born here, grew up here and simply live here from those who get elected to serve here, who arrive here and preside here. If Washington is your permanent home, you are a witness to history. But you are not a guest.
(The Motorcade Opening George W. Bush's First Inaugural Parade. )
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It is a trade-off I can live with. In 1957, from an office window on Pennsylvania Avenue, I watched my first inaugural parade and Dwight Eisenhower's second. The little I remember is of a straightforward affair, lines of cars slowly snaking down the street outside the office window. Inside, my family -- grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins -- ate sandwiches, and some of the men drank bourbon in neat shots in the middle of the day. Looking back, it was a nice twist: Warm, comfortable and well-fed, we looked down on them -- the heads of state and their retinue, stuck outside on the cold streets.
We lost our indoor perch by the time John Kennedy was inaugurated and took to the streets in 1961, and for the inaugurations that followed. Motivated and often chauffeured by a mother who is a fifth-generation Washingtonian, we came to learn that, for residents, having access to events of historic importance is part obligation and part perquisite. Though I'm not sure if she ever articulated it exactly this way, she still makes it clear to us that being a Washingtonian requires you to keep your subscription updated. If you can't get yourself downtown to an inauguration, you might as well live in Upstate New York.
And so the more inaugurations we witnessed, the more we were compelled to witness, to keep the record intact. So much so that in the midst of one unseasonably warm but very busy day at work in January 1981 I had to bolt from my desk without time for explanation and run coatless to Pennsylvania Avenue just in time to wedge myself into a crowd in front of the Willard Hotel as Ronald Reagan's car went by.
Many of us have found that it's a nice life here if you are impervious to the changes wrought by an electorate. Parents keep their jobs regardless of who's in power. Children don't vanish from the classroom at the start of second semester, sent back to their home state with their vanquished mother or father. The breathtakingly beautiful monuments that people travel miles to see are the backdrop for our daily commute or jog. But increasingly the benefits that make life here so exceptional and often enjoyable are diminished by concrete barriers and stringent security, and this first inauguration since Sept. 11, 2001, will screen pedestrians and stop cars as never before.
We've always led parallel lives with those in power. But it's getting increasingly difficult to even run alongside them. I can live with the knowledge that I'm never going to be on the Capitol steps in a significant hat, braced against the wind, with a view of the swearing-in ceremony. I humbly accept the fact that I'm not invited to the ball. But can I just find a small empty spot to watch a parade?
The writer is an editor on leave from The Post.
