"Were you a deb?" my granddaughter asked. I scanned her face to see if being a deb would be a good thing. I knew what she meant: a deb, aka debutante. A young woman introduced to polite society at a lavish cotillion. As a teenager, I had read about wealthy East Coast girls and their fancy coming-out dances. I had been envious.
     Why had the question popped into my granddaughter's head at this particular moment? I wondered. We were having lunch at a downtown restaurant. Had I been waxing effusively about the correct way to hold a knife, or how to delicately blot your mouth with a white linen napkin?
     Whatever the reason, she was waiting for an answer. Would she be disappointed to learn I hadn't been introduced to the upper crust? Hadn't worn a frothy white gown, nor been escorted to the ball by a handsome young man? Maybe she'd be happy her grandmother never participated in a ritual she might deem archaic and non-feminist. I played it safe and told the truth.
     "I wasn't a deb, but I did go to charm school."
     "What's charm school?" she wanted to know.
     I explained my sister and I had spent eight Saturdays in a row at a classy school run by a former model. I rambled on about the charming things I had learned: the importance of hand-washing nylon stockings after each wearing; the correct way to launder tiny white gloves, being careful of the pearled button closure at the back of the wrist. I detected a slight giggle from the opposite side of the table but, still, I proceeded to illustrate Charm School 101.
     I told her we practiced correct posture, walking back and forth along a runway like fashion models; even removing our coat, and folding it over an arm without losing our balance. We spent hours making lady-like exits from an automobile. (Swing your bottom sideways towards the door, keeping your legs tightly together at all times.) We were taught a gentlewoman never crosses one leg over the other at the knee, but curls one foot behind the opposite ankle. (Keeping her legs tightly together at all times.) Did I detect a groan from across the table?
     At that moment, the server set a plate in front of each of us with a crusty round roll on it. "I'm never sure, Grandma; should I cut this, or what?"
     "Oh, no, dear. You never cut bread; you break it, like this," I said, carefully pulling the bun apart.
     "Hmm," she said. "Well, one thing I do know: If you have more than one fork or spoon, you start from the outside and work your way in, towards the plate. It's easy."
     Well put, I thought. Even Madame Charm School Director would have to agree with that one.
     I decided not to tell my granddaughter about the last time I'd seen my former instructor. I'd been sitting on a blanket with my husband and kiddies, waiting for Fourth of July fireworks to begin. Traipsing along the park path, she passed right in front of us.
     She wore a fashionable sleeveless sheath and was barefoot, carrying her strappy white high heels in her right hand. Arm in arm with a good-looking fella, her head rested on his shoulder, and she laughed at something he'd just said. It was a giddy laugh that explained her unsteady gait that evening. Tipsy, my mother would have called her. But, charmingly so.