When I was ten my father began a tradition of taking me out on a "date" each year on my birthday. First he'd take me to buy a new dress, something you would wear to a nice restaurant. Then we'd go out to eat, and he'd arrange it beforehand that the restaurant he chose would treat me royally, like someone special. Then we would wrap up the evening by going to a movie.

There are not words enough to describe how much I liked this tradition. I did feel special; someone who deserved the best — and incidentally, as no doubt my father intended, I learned how to behave like a "lady" in public.

I remember that first date, in 1960. It was an evening of bliss.

First of all, I was allowed to take the bus from our suburban home to meet my father at the bus station in downtown Seattle — all by myself. My mother had opposed this plan, but my father told her that I was responsible enough to be trusted now — after all, I was ten!

He bought me a pale lemon-colored dress and matching shoes at Frederick and Nelsons. I remember the saleslady fawning over me and flirting with him. I was so pleased when he agreed that I didn't have to wear white anklets, but could wear my new flats without socks, like grown ladies did.

We went to Canlis for dinner, and I remember the candlelight twinkling on silver and the food arranged in an artistic pattern on the plate, not lumped together any old how. It was the first time it occurred to me that there was more to food than eating it, that food could be an art.

Finally, we went to see Ben-Hur even though I was so tired by then I could hardly keep my eyes open. I don't remember much about the movie itself, but I do remember thinking that however heroic Charlton Heston was, he was nothing compared to my dad.