For Thursday, September 30, 1999 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 729 words

My fair gentleman (part 2)

Last week I was speaking of an encounter my wife and I had with a refined old Benicia woman who still actively dates, gentlemen only. We met her at the Union Hotel, and she told us her qualifications of a well-trained man. He must have shined shoes, fine manners, and a civil tongue. That triggered recollections of my childhood.

I was reflecting on who I was before I met my first serious girlfriend, the first woman who took the time to train me. I grew up an ingénue, a hick, a yokel, a hayseed bumpkin, a rustic dweller. I wore t-shirts and jeans through most of my childhood, and wore out one pair of shoes at a time. I spent my time catching snakes and bees and salamanders and frogs and nightcrawlers and fish and lightning bugs. All but the nightcrawlers and the fish were eventually let go.

We crawled on rocks and made houses in the trees. I had slingshots, fishing poles, B-B guns, bow and arrow, 22, good whippin' apple sticks, things that required great distance and plenty of public property. My neighborhood friends and I grew up mostly in the woods.

I never went to a formal dinner party. I never saw a live stage performance. I never wore a suit outside of church. I never double-dated with Jimmy and Pammi at the drive-in and then gone home for cupcakes.

I burst into puberty with a huge hole in my socialization skills and eventually my social calendar. Of course, I didn't realize it at the time. I just thought everyone else was showing off. On I went through life and college as a bohemian. I eventually bought a suit, attended some dinner parties, and watched a few live performances, but I felt like a secret agent.

When I moved to Modesto, California, I met a girl. Her name was Janet. Her father was a newspaper editor. Janet and I were both telephone operators for AT&T. We fell in love for three years. However, it didn't take three days for her to find out what she'd ventured into.

It was our first dinner out. I didn't put the napkin on my lap. I ate with my fingers. I ate too fast. I reached for things. I chewed with my mouth open. That was the one that made her snap. It was only our second date, but she kicked me, hard, under the table.

"What's the matter with you? Why are you eating with your mouth open? It's revolting."

I knew she wasn't just showing off. She was most certainly revolted. I shrugged and said, "I didn't notice. Was I doing that?"

She kicked me again. "Yes, and now you're talking with your mouth full." I tried to laugh off my embarrassment by making goofy faces and sticking my tongue out with food on it. Not funny.

I confessed, as time went by, to my social ignorance. Actually, I revealed my ignorance, and then copped to it. Janet was more than willing to help me change. It was the start of a beautiful relationship.

She took me to San Francisco to the opera and musicals. We toured the museums. We ate brunch at the Sheraton Palace and had cocktails at the Mark Hopkins. I learned my forks; that was a great night, and we celebrated.

Janet also helped me pick out clothes, including ties. She took particular interest in my shoes. The sneakers had to go. She helped me buy my first pair of brown leather Rockports. We learned to waltz. She liked it when I opened car doors for her and pulled out her chairs.

I grew tremendously over those three years. We both transferred into marketing and moved to Berkeley, where we took separate apartments. I wore a suit to work. We had spending money, so we gadded around the Bay Area eating out and seeing shows. We celebrated New Year's 1981 at the top of the Hyatt on Union Square.

I had made it. I was a gentleman. The rain in Spain was mainly on the plain.

O.K., I confess, maybe I've got a ways to go. My wife, Susan, is my proofreader and my current trainer. She is also good friends with Janet. Susan would not let this column pass without my full confession. She even threatened to take away my slingshot.