In the 70s, the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club lived on pretense. The management and the members believed they were a cut above the riffraff. They also had a good restaurant that served lunches during the week. The other more humble, more laisse faire yacht clubs only served food out of vending machines.
My father, then president of a telecommunication company, was invited to a lunch at the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club. He was invited by a manager of a competing company. She was one of the only female mangers in the field at that time. She had an old fashion name, Mildred. Yet, she was bigger than life… the puffed-up hair, the dangling clanging jewelry, and always wearing a power suit of glorious colours and large shoulder pads.
My father in contrast enjoyed wearing comfortable pants, a Jack shirt, and sandals. Even in winter.
He was admittedly not looking forward eating at the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club, but he was, after all, Mildred’s guest.
As they arrived, my father noticed the nose of the maître de ruffling. “We do not allow our gentlemen guests to dine here without a jacket”, he said condescendingly. My father looked at him in disbelief. The maître de then used his two fingers to take out a jacket of sorts from a back cupboard to highlight his point. It was obvious at first glance the jacket was far too small for my father’s build.
My father turns to Mildred, a colleague he does not know so well, and asks, “Would you be so kind and lend me your jacket?” Mildred’s eyes sparkle. “Do you want me to remove the butterfly broach?” No no, he insists, that’s fine.
My father, then president of a telecommunication company, was invited to a lunch at the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club. He was invited by a manager of a competing company. She was one of the only female mangers in the field at that time. She had an old fashion name, Mildred. Yet, she was bigger than life… the puffed-up hair, the dangling clanging jewelry, and always wearing a power suit of glorious colours and large shoulder pads.
My father in contrast enjoyed wearing comfortable pants, a Jack shirt, and sandals. Even in winter.
He was admittedly not looking forward eating at the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club, but he was, after all, Mildred’s guest.
As they arrived, my father noticed the nose of the maître de ruffling. “We do not allow our gentlemen guests to dine here without a jacket”, he said condescendingly. My father looked at him in disbelief. The maître de then used his two fingers to take out a jacket of sorts from a back cupboard to highlight his point. It was obvious at first glance the jacket was far too small for my father’s build.
My father turns to Mildred, a colleague he does not know so well, and asks, “Would you be so kind and lend me your jacket?” Mildred’s eyes sparkle. “Do you want me to remove the butterfly broach?” No no, he insists, that’s fine.
(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)
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