June 17, 2004

I became a lady because my dad treated me like one…

AND THE BAND PLAYED ON

By Barbara Gerdau Drotar
Special to the Times

My birthday promised to be the best one ever. I was excited but apprehensive about it too. Looking back to that day in 1956, I realize it would have been downright abnormal not to feel that way. Actually my emotions were a compliment to him, since he’d put a lot of effort into making my night a really special surprise. For the last couple of weeks that’s all he could talk about, joking about how I could never guess what he’d planned.

He would have driven the 25 miles from San Francisco to our home in San Mateo to pick me up, and we’d drive all the way back to the city. That didn’t make much sense, considering traffic conditions around 6 p.m. on Friday nights, so we decided I’d take the train, and he’d pick me up at the station.

I got all dressed up in my powder blue long sleeved cotton dress with white collar and cuffs, black patent leather low-heeled shoes, and white gloves. I borrowed my mother’s short black wool cape, in case it got chilly later in the evening. This wasn’t only going to be my first trip on a train, it was also my first date, not just with him, it would be my first date with anybody.

My mother drove me to the train station and after purchasing a non-stop one-way ticket, I joined the long line of passengers waiting outside. I planned to rush ahead of everyone as soon as the train arrived, determined to get a window seat. I didn’t want to miss a thing. After handing the porter my ticket, I scrambled to a window seat near the front of the car. There was really no reason to hurry, people took their time walking down the aisle, choosing any empty seat.

Most of the passengers were men, wearing black pin-stripped or brown suits, ties hung loose from their necks, and many carried rolled up newspapers under their arms. I watched as the passengers filed by me on the way to their seats. Most of the men had frown lines deeply etched between their eyebrows; dark circles underscored their eyes, and most walked with stooped shoulders. Most of them looked sick to me. I made a decision. If anyone either coughed or sneezed during the trip, I’d hold my breath for as long as possible so I wouldn’t catch their germs. In retrospect, I realize these were the tired over-worked men in 1956 America, traveling home for the weekend.

God only knows what each had waiting for him at the end of the line.

The conductor blew the whistle, this time sounding like a whisky throated woman screaming without taking a breath, and the train started to move, slowly at first. After going a few miles, the calming rhythm of the train wheels tap dancing over the tracks began lulling me to sleep. I exhaled hard and my body relaxed limp, feeling like it was folding into itself. I had entered that blissful state, right on the cusp of awake and asleep when I was jerked to alert by a porter asking for my drink order. Yawning, I asked him for a Coke. Leisurely sipping through a flex-straw, I rested my forehead against the window and watched towns blur by.

I was so involved in watching the scenery outside and the passengers inside that I startled when that whistle began blowing again! The screeching brakes dragged the train to a stop, while steam wafted forward outside my window. When I reached the exit, the porter who’d served me the Coke offered me his hand, helping me step down off the train. Tipping his hat he gave me a big grin and said, “You have a nice evening now, little lady.” Walking away, I looked back once, he waved, still smiling.

Quickly turning around, I bumped into my date. He looked especially handsome, as though I’d never, not really ever seen him before. He was wearing a black suit, a white dress shirt and a flashy red tie. With his arm around my shoulder, we walked to his car. Going around to the passenger side, he opened the door for me. I liked that. He still didn’t tell me where we were going; I didn’t ask.

Driving on our way to dinner he talked about his day at work, I talked about my train trip. Quite out of character, I seemed to have lost the ability to carry on any kind of a decent conversation. After parking in another garage, we walked to the top of Nob Hill and stopped in front of the grandest hotel I’d ever seen. He announced, “Well, Barbara, here we are!” The smile on his face was priceless. He opened the door and we walked into the lobby of the Mark Hopkins Hotel. Everything looked enormous and elegant.

Sparkling like thousands of brilliantly faceted diamonds, massive crystal chandeliers hung from tall ceilings everywhere. The lobby had shiny white marble floors and purple and gold leafed velvet dressed the walls. We took an elevator to the Top of the Mark, the fine dining room and were escorted to a window seat over-looking the most beautiful city in the world. He pointed out the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, Angel Island—all around was a panorama of twinkling lights everywhere—like Christmas in May. I felt somewhat uneasy sitting alone with him at the table. It felt like everyone was staring at us. I wasn’t able to eat much.

After dinner we walked across the street to the Fairmont Hotel. We went to the beautiful Venetian Room and were escorted to a table near the dance floor. We ordered dessert and I finally felt relaxed. The band was playing, and some older people were dancing to some Nat King Cole and Glenn Miller music. I remember wishing they’d play some rock-n-roll to liven the place up a bit.

We were sitting quietly but comfortably together, when a waiter returned to our table and asked if we needed anything else.

“This is my daughter Barbara, she’s13 years old today. Would you please ask the band to play, Daddy’s Little Girl?” asked dad. “Dad, this is so embarrassing,” I gasped through clinched teeth. I felt like crawling under the table or running to the ladies room. Dad was at my chair in a flash, and taking my hand in his he asked, “Barbara, may I please have this dance?” I couldn’t answer. We reached the dance floor just as the band began playing Dad’s request. Even though I was embarrassed to tears, I felt special—I was Daddy’s little girl. We were the only ones on the dance floor at that point. All at once the bandleader loudly announced on his microphone that it was my 13th birthday and, “Let’s all give a big hand for Barbara and her father.”

Everyone clapped and whistled. I knew I was going to faint, or something even worse would happen right there in front of the whole world! Dad just smiled down at me as we continued dancing. I couldn’t look up at him much. I had to keep looking down at his feet. I’d never danced before.

Dads of all ages need to realize that they are the mirrors their daughters first see themselves as women through. Sometime during that evening, 47 years ago, I became a lady, because my dad treated me like one.

My father passed away 10 years ago, and I miss him very much. I imagine that when I arrive in heaven someday, the first voice I will hear might be, “Barbara, may I please have this dance?” “Oh yes, Dad, and this time I won’t have to look down at your feet, because now we’re flying.”

Barbara Gerdau Drotar is a Cambrian freelance writer.