President Taft is stuck in the bathtub of his priv
President Taft is stuck in the bathtub of his private quarters. He shouts for help, and Harold Reseigh, his trusted aide, is the first to react. Harold assesses the situation and realizes that Taft is just too big for one person to rescue alone, and he rallies five other staff members. When even their combined strength fails to free Taft, Harold runs to the kitchen, grabs all the butter he can find, runs back to the bathroom, and he and the other men rub the butter on Taft from shoulders to feet. This proves to be the key to rescuing him.
The year is 1910. The air in the White House hung heavy with the scent of pipe tobacco and lemon polish. President William Howard Taft, a man whose girth was as legendary as his presidency, let out a bellow that shook the very foundations of his private quarters. “Harold! Harold, for God’s sake!”
Harold Reseigh, Taft’s ever-loyal aide, was halfway through polishing the President’s already gleaming shoes when the roar erupted. He rushed to the bathroom, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. There, amidst clouds of steam, sat the President, wedged firmly in his enormous porcelain bathtub. His face, normally jovial, was a mask of strained panic.
“Stuck, Harold! Utterly, hopelessly stuck!” Taft groaned, his voice thick with frustration.
Harold circled the tub, assessing the situation. He was a sturdy man, but even he knew that freeing the President single-handedly was an impossibility. “Get some help!” he yelled, his voice echoing through the hallowed halls.
Five more staff members – a nervous footman, a stoic butler, two bewildered maids, and a bewildered Secret Service agent – soon gathered around the bathroom door, their faces a mixture of concern and morbid curiosity. Together, they heaved and pulled, their efforts met with only the groaning protest of porcelain and the increasingly desperate pleas of the President. Sweat beaded on their brows, but the President remained stubbornly immobile.
Harold, known for his quick thinking, had a sudden flash of inspiration. He bolted from the room, a whirlwind of action. He burst into the kitchen, his eyes scanning the counters. He grabbed every stick of butter, every pat, every tub – a veritable mountain of dairy fat. Returning to the bathroom, panting, he thrust the butter at the assembled staff.
“Lather him!” he barked, his voice surprisingly commanding. “From his shoulders to his toes! Quickly!”
Confusion reigned for a moment. Then, understanding dawned on the faces of the assembled staff. They began to smear the butter liberally over the President’s ample frame, their initial bewilderment replaced by a focused determination. They worked with a feverish energy, their hands slick with butter, their faces grim with the seriousness of the task.
Slowly, miraculously, the President began to shift. A low groan, then a small slide, then a more substantial movement. With a final concerted heave, Taft was free. He emerged, slick with butter and relieved beyond measure, a sight that would forever be etched in the memories of those present.
Later, sitting in his dressing gown, a warm towel draped around his substantial frame, Taft chuckled, wiping a smear of butter from his chin. “Well, Harold,” he said, his voice still laced with the residue of his ordeal, “I suppose this will be another story for the grandkids.” And indeed it was, a story whispered for generations in the White House, a testament to the ingenuity of Harold Reseigh and the unexpected power of butter.
