The Law: Of Moose and Men

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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 façade 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.