Of Moose and Men

Moose Lodge 107 in Harrisburg, Pa., which does not allow blacks into its sanctuary, has become the center of some high-powered legal controversies. In June the Supreme Court considered whether the lodge's state liquor license amounted to unconstitutional governmental action in support of discrimination. The Justices concluded that it did not, and that the Moose could continue discriminating as a private club. Two weeks ago, the Pennsylvania Supreme Court, considering a different claim, ruled that since the lodge allowed guests and rented its facilities to other organizations, it was a public accommodation under state law and so must stop discriminating after all. To inspect the arena of this battle, TIME Correspondent James Willwerth visited Lodge 107 last week. His report:

Marked by a row of plastic shrubs and a golden moose head that juts over the street like a ship's prow, the lodge presents an austere fac,ade of concrete, without windows. A sign on the closed front door says MEMBERS ONLY. Anyone who wants to enter must press a button and wait to be inspected by the bartender via closed-circuit TV.

Moose officials don't much like to answer questions these days. Over the telephone from national headquarters, the organization's general counsel, Clarence Ruddy, said: "I'm afraid you can't talk to these fellows. It might be dangerous. They might go off loose ends." After the buzzer sounds, however, the door opens. Lodge Secretary Milton Barkheimer is willing to offer a short tour, adding: "I must say no comment to all questions."

The center of activity is the clubroom at the end of the hallway. It is decorated with red and white bunting (for upcoming Labor Day festivities) and American flags. It also has a new remote-controlled dart game. For a quarter a game, members can sit at the bar and operate little black boxes that aim electronic darts at a bull's-eye. Between dart games and watching the closed-circuit television to see who is coming through the front door (a favorite sport), there is dancing--last week to a teenage combo called the Patriots.

It seems a benign sort of place to be involved in bitter racial controversy. On a cold Sunday night in December 1968, six ranking members of the state house of representatives, just half a block down State Street, had dropped by for something to eat. The group included Jewish, Irish, Italian and Russian-American legislators and one black. House Majority Leader K. Leroy Irvis. "We were a real United Nations group," recalls Representative Harry A. Englehart Jr., a Moose from western Pennsylvania, who had suggested that they dine at the lodge since most restaurants in town were closed.

The men were barely inside the red-carpeted hall when a gray-haired member manning the reception desk challenged them. Englehart was told that the lodge did not serve meals. After he protested that this was not true, he was told that the lodge had run out of food. "Finally it dawned on me," he recalls. "I looked at Representative Irvis, and of course he already knew." A local lawyer volunteered to bring a suit in federal court, and Irvis, himself a lawyer, took his case to the state human rights commission. Lodge 107 made no effort to conceal its policy. "Refusal of service," the lodge admitted before the commission, "was because K. Leroy Irvis is a Negro."

A largely blue-collar fraternal organization boasting some 900,000 members, the Loyal Order of Moose was founded in 1888 in Kentucky and now has its headquarters, called the Supreme Lodge of the World, at Mooseheart, Ill., 38 miles west of Chicago. The Moose pay between $15 and $25 a year for the right to congregate at local lodges and for an unusual brand of social security: their families are eligible, in case of need, for an orphanage and school complex in Mooseheart, and upon retirement they can go to a Florida rest home called Moosehaven.

Not all the Moose are happy over the battle. Representative Englehart says that the discrimination policy is "a bit ridiculous," and membership in the Harrisburg lodge has dropped from 2,500 to about 1,200. But one member sitting at the lodge bar professed helplessness. "No one in a local can say we'll do this or that. The bylaws are controlled at the Supreme level." Indeed, Mooseheart has overseen Lodge 107's defense, and it has paid most of the substantial legal fees. The organization's whites-only policy has also involved other lodges in local lawsuits, but no change in the policy is planned.

So Lodge 107 is righting on. Last week it asked the Pennsylvania Supreme Court for a rehearing. In the meantime, since the court had indicated that the lodge could continue discriminating if it restricted the club to its own members, a spokesman said: "Our policy on guests will change. There will be no guests."

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