It was New Year’s Eve 1965; I was thirteen years old. Mom was in the kitchen slicing the ham, grandma was pushing bits of anchovy into the swollen pizza dough and dad was mixing up a batch of Manhattans. When I heard the opening beats and the clear voice of Frank Sinatra singing Fly Me To The Moon, I knew dad had already served himself the first Manhattan and the party was about to begin.
“Come on, baby! Get out of the kitchen; let’s dance!” he called to my mother, his hand held out, beckoning her for a dance before the guests arrived. As he swung her around in her apron, she threw her head back and let out a laugh and, for a moment, I saw my parents in a different light. Dad was charming; mom was beautiful, and they were lovers.
The playroom off the kitchen became a ballroom for the night; our kitchen table was the bar. I watched as my aunts and uncles were transformed for the evening, from housewives and mechanics, into high society folks. The women dressed up in fancy dresses with high-heels and black stockings, adorned themselves with large hoop earrings and heavy charm bracelets, wore too much make-up and teased up hairdos. The men were clean-shaven, and doused with strong cologne. All traces of dirt and grease had been removed from under their fingernails. They had on their best suits and ties, pinky rings on some, and as the room heated up, they removed their jackets and rolled up their shirtsleeves to reveal large gold watches.
I sat in a chair in the corner of the room watching them, mesmerized by their quick dance steps and graceful movements, as they floated across the floor to songs by Sinatra, Louie Prima, Jerry Vale and others. I yearned for the day when a man would hold me in his arms and move me around the dance floor like that.
My wish was granted when my uncle appeared before me with his hand out, bent over in a bow before me.
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
“I can’t,” I stuttered… “I can’t dance like that.”
“I’ll teach you,” he said, as he pulled me out of my seat and put his strong arm around my waist. “Like this,” he instructed, placing my left hand on his shoulder, grasping my other hand in his, and pulling me in closer. His cologne filled my head and a warm tingle went through me as he began slowly, at first, talking me through each step, guiding me with his firm hand gently pushing and pulling at the small of my back.
“That’s it,” he whispered in my ear, “one-two, step-step... You got it! Now we’re going to speed it up a bit,” he said as we began moving in time with the music.
So this is what it feels like to be in love, I thought as my feet picked up on the rhythm and our bodies moved as one.
On that magical night, where reality and dreams blend together, in that playroom turned ballroom, filled with working class mechanics and housewives playing the part of gentry, I, too, was transformed from a clumsy little girl into a beautiful dancing princess.
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