[Part I, Part III]
Part II: Soften My Heart
In my attempts to crowbar how my father felt on the day of his blind day, he’s bashful with the details - he also reminds me this was over 40 years ago, so his memory is a bit fuzzy. It’s mid-December, hours before the holiday party, and he remembers he was a bit nervous. He tells me as much as he would have loved to have “played it cool”, it just wasn’t his style. From what my father recalls, he was just trying to put his best foot forward.
My father threw on his recently dry-cleaned, perfectly fit, “dapper dan” suit, and took off in his 1971 Volvo 122 wagon, white in color, and in “cherry” condition - or pristine, when asked for an explanation of the term. Growing up, we were typically a Mercedes family, mostly diesels, driving anything from the 80’s to 90s. I distinctly remember my dad cursing the German automaker when the Mercedes broke down, mostly due to their expensive upkeep, and lack of ease when it came to DIY auto repair. During his frustration, my father would relish in the Volvo’s of his youth, and how easy they were to work on. Maybe this is the same Volvo he drove when meeting my mother for the first time.
Everyone was to convene at Bruce & Nancy’s on the outskirts of Multnomah Village, before taking off to the Nike holiday party. My father asks if I remember the auto shop, “Handy Andy’s”, as Bruce & Nancy’s place was just up the street. In that moment, a core memory from my youth launches me into a nostalgic land. The shop was a routine fixture on our drive to and from Catholic school up near Council Crest, in the west hills of Portland, when we were young. The name always made me chuckle, as I would repeat it out loud whenever we passed. I had a propensity, or bad habit (depending on who you ask), for unconsciously calling out signs while in a car. I’m told it apparently drove a lot of people to the brink of insanity when I was growing up. Regardless, in my recent visit to Portland this past December, I drove past the staple of my youth, only to find the auto shop closed, and the building in need of desperate repair (or demolition). Oh, the signature passing of time.
When my father arrived at Bruce & Nancy’s, my mother had already beaten him there, deduced by the blue 1980s Mazda station wagon parked outside. She had driven in from the city of Hillsboro, where she was living at the time; the city was both in proximity to Nike, and her younger brother, Paul, who would often be the babysitter of her daughter during situations like these. When I lovingly rag on my father for not being a “chivalrous gentleman” and picking my mother up, he gets embarrassed and reminds me “It was a blind date!”, and that Hillsboro was a good 30 minutes plus from their rendezvous point at Bruce & Nancy’s. Fair enough.
They say first impressions are important, and when my father met his future wife, it was just that - he was impressed! He described my mother, Yvonne, as “very quiet, yet very positive” and that she “had a really nice smile”. If I’m anything like my father, it would be easy to calculate he was over the moon nervous when it came to meeting someone new, but was (attempting) to keep a cool demeanor. As my father describes it, he wasn’t looking for flaws.
Their “meet & greet” at Bruce & Nancy’s was rather short and transient, as the rest of the gang was waiting for my father to arrive. The four of them quickly packed into Bruce’s Audi and headed to the Marriott hotel in downtown Portland. The hotel itself was practically brand new, having only opened a few years prior; even to this day, the Marriott’s white, sleek brutal minimalist facade, is a beacon along the waterfront of the Willamette River. In the car, my father felt the anticipation for the party was palpable, and I would have to assume my mother’s presence heightened his mood.
By the time they arrived around 7:30, my father told me the party was going “full blast”, and in my favorite descriptor, says “the party was definitely a party”. True to fashion, Nike had apparently gone all out, with a “Casino Night” theme, including a full sit down dinner, and a completely open bar. Gin & tonics were consumed amongst my father and mother, and he felt enamored by her choice in drink. By the height of the party, around 200 people were amassed in the Marriott ballroom, everyone waiting and ready for the main spectacle.
What’s a holiday party without some live music? Hailing from Portland themselves, Quarterflash officially kicked the true party off. While I would consider myself on the pulse when it comes to the Portland music scene, I had never heard of Quarterflash until my father excitedly mentioned them playing at the holiday party. Formerly known as “Seafood Mama”, the band rose to fame in 1980 with their chart topping single “Harden My Heart”, as well as various appearances in movies such as the infamously coming of age film “Fast Time At Ridgemont High”. As their name would inspire, Quarterflash’s popularity and success was fleeting, and the band broke up a few years later in 1985 - or as my father put it, “They were a Quarterflash in the pan”. Besides meeting my mother, knowing my father’s profound love for music, I have a hunch he was secretly attending just to see Quarterflash play.
And for those wondering, the blind date couple did dance together, though my father was reluctant in telling me “I was not a good dancer”. Now I know it runs in the family.
They decided to stick around “until about 10:30/11:00”, which I immediately laughed at and ribbed him a little for leaving a holiday party so early; especially one hosted by Nike, featuring an open bar. Even so, the four of them hopped back into Bruce’s Audi, and drove towards the beacon of the then Handy Andy’s auto shop. Back at Bruce & Nancy’s place, they hung around for a little bit, shooting the breeze, before my father offered to walk his date to her car.
I would like to imagine my parents standing outside their separate vehicles in the brisk cold of a mid-December Portland night (surprisingly, it wasn’t raining, I checked the records), staring down at their nervous shuffling feet, waiting for someone to make the next move. As much as I poked and prodded my father on the details of their goodbye, he didn’t impart many specifics of the scene (nor could his memory). While this goodbye doesn’t feature a passionate kiss with a romantic backing soundtrack, or even a long, wistful hug, nervous heart beating against nervous heart, my father did break the silence with an adorable, yet casual, “Hey, can I get your number?” The question became a cute catalyst for how I ended up here in the present day.
After exchanging numbers, my father said he would call my mother after the New Year, around the 2nd or 3rd of January. As he was halfway through recounting a visit to his parents in the Bay Area for Christmas, I immediately interrupted - “Wait, you didn’t call her for 2 or 3 weeks?!” He sheepishly replied “Well, I don’t know… It was a different time!”. I told him if you attempted something like that now, you would lose your chance at another date. Different times, with different forms of communication, I suppose. Hearing this, there’s a part of me that longs for this bygone era, where I only existed on the fringes, where everyone was less connected and available.
My mother casually joked that if my father lost her number somehow between now and January, “you would have to look for me under a different name”. She mentioned her daughter’s biological father was looking for them, and my mother was using an “alias” to throw him off the trail. This newfound knowledge of my mother’s “mysterious” backstory conjured up spy thrillers and secret agents in my head. My father shared the same sentiment at the time, though he took it all in stride like a gentleman. Regardless, he tells me “I was definitely gonna call her.”
My mother and father said their fateful goodbyes, parting ways and shutting car doors onto a quiet winter evening. Their respective faces were splashed with the red glow of each other’s tail lights, reflected off the rear view mirrors, and sped away towards home.
Tune in next week for Part III.