It took 50 years, but this New Year’s Day a childhood dream and mother’s fantasy is about to come true.
I was born on Jan. 1, 1953. Dwight D. Eisenhower prepared to assume the presidency, American troops remained in Korea and newspapers heralded mine as Los Angeles County’s first recorded birth. In glad recognition of this event, producers of the popular TV tearjerker "Queen for a Day" presented my mother with a miniature silver tea set.
But throughout my childhood, thanks to my mother’s unwavering love and her gift for the fanciful, I dreamed of a far greater notoriety than gifts of precious metal, or being the first to enter the world at an interesting moment, could provide.
I dreamed of being the Rose Parade queen.
While this dream may seem especially whimsical for a Jewish girl growing up then in Los Angeles’ Fairfax district, it made perfect sense to my mother and me. After all, every year my birthday fell on New Year’s Day. And on every birthday, a lavish parade with rose-covered floats was held in my honor. Or so my mother told me.
From the time I was born, my mother told me that mine was the most special birthday. When my father died suddenly of a heart attack when I was only 5 years old, her proclamation took on a deep — and healing — meaning.
To be the child of a single mother was something of a stigma in the 1950s — when television portrayed only intact families with strong father figures. The sting of every schoolmate’s inquiry as to, "What does your father do?" was greatly lessened by my mother’s assurance that the most magical, wonderful parade around was held every year for me. It also guaranteed my status as a continuing treasure in her life — born 11 years after my parents married, and long after they had accepted that they could not have children.
So every Jan. 1, surrounded by friends and family, we did not celebrate New Year’s Day, but honored Phyllis’ birthday. I donned the new red velvet dress that my aunt sent me annually from her home in Canada, styled my hair to perfection and waved, queen-like, to the television while we all relished the floats.
As a teenager, I pleaded that we move to Pasadena so I could compete to be the real Rose Queen. Although my mother never included living in Pasadena as part of the fantasy, I continued to dream. Every year I visited the floats with my mother, then my husband, Mark, and, eventually, my daughters, Lauren and Julia. The one year my daughters didn’t join, I wept.
Last year, as I enjoyed the parade with them and my husband on the occasion of my 49th birthday, I determined that the next year I had to actually be in the parade.
So I wrote a letter to some of the Tournament of Roses officials. Touched by my story, they shared it with Larry Crain, president of Charisma Floats, and designer Raul Rodriguez of the coveted Queen’s Float.
Every year, tournament officials are deluged with requests from aspiring parade participants; apparently, Crain was moved by my request — maybe it was the power of family traditions and teaching children that, through the kindness and efforts of others, dreams can come true. For while my mother understood the value of traditions that are handed down through the generations, she also understood the beauty of creating your own.
So Crain arranged a "Queen for a Day" opportunity. In a red velvet dress and bejeweled tiara with my daughters as princesses and the media in attendance, I was photographed on the Queen’s Float. I held a scepter covered with just the right number of deep-red roses, answered reporter’s questions and waved royally to the cameras.
One writer noted that the float on that day was a "far cry from the many-splendored creation it will become." But I was unfazed by the absence of thousands of fragrant roses or the fact that the unadorned float was parked in a stark, white tent. Being photographed was a dream come true — viable proof that the parade was my personal birthday present.
How fitting that the theme of this year’s 114th Tournament of Roses parade is "Children’s Dreams, Wishes and Imagination." I was instilled with confidence by a mother who raised me on a department store clerk’s salary, but who provided me with a life rich in love and imagination.
That evening, my mother — in very frail health at age 86 — chuckled while she watched the local TV news coverage. And, like a child unwilling for a magical day to end, I reluctantly removed my tiara.
On Jan. 1, 2003 — my 50th birthday –that photograph will be placed on the float for the ride down Colorado Boulevard that I’ve always wanted to take. Millions of parade-watchers will see a beautiful young queen waving to the crowd, but my mother and I will know it’s really me.
Phyllis Folb is principal of The Phylmar Group Media Relations, a firm that specializes in the arts, education and nonprofit organizations.
