Are Teachers Still Necessary For a Society To Grow

There are problems with this hypothesis. Everyone today is Not taught by a teacher, other than in some sort of metaphorical sense.  Today, many children are home-schooled, taught by parents, and/or computers; they learn on the internet by themselves, either as part of a learning program, or for pleasure; they learn from their peers; they learn just about everywhere; but perhaps less in the classroom.

Our society, and I'm speaking of the United States, does not value the teacher as it used to.  Partly, this is because of the breakdown of the society--today, the children are in charge, and the adults march to their drummers; part of the reason is that many teachers today really don't teach, or know how to teach.

The methodology is trendy rather than proven; the teachers themselves aren't that well educated; the students are there for reasons that are in addition or instead of learning.  The teachers' unions are focused on one thing: Maintaining membership in order to stay in business; this means, giving teachers what they want vs. what education needs.

All one has to do is to look at the scores, both locally, nationally, and internationally, to document how poorly educated our children are today.  We used to be the leaders of the world in virtually everything, particularly education; today, we are 25th, next to last, and scattered here and there across various scales of achievement.  The latest is that the SAT's and ACT's are being abandoned in several colleges and universities, because folks don't feel that tests measure a student's true abilities.  Isn't it interesting: When the United States was at its peak, tests were an instrument of pride and stature, and our students were the best and the brightest.  Mediocrity breeds mediocrity.

There can be only one of two reasons, academically, why our children have not been learning, and are learning less and less: Either the teaching methods & teachers have declined; or the kids are dumber.  Something to ponder...

As to the question, can society grow without a teacher:  Those who are firm believers in technology will say yes, of course!  Put the student in front of the monitor, and away he goes.  Depending on the integrity, the responsibility, the discipline, the curiosity, the maturity, and the intelligence of the student--in addition to the programmed/canned material that is offered-- this may or may not be so.

However, we are human beings. We can do something that machines can't: We can be spontaneous.  The question is, what can other human beings--in this instance, students and teachers--do to both inspire and respond to that spontaneity, that curiosity, that creative question and response?  What can a human being offer in terms of an off-handed observation, or a comment off the cuff?  What kinds of alternate routes can a human being offer that can be supportive as well as knowledgeable, experienced regarding life and application of learning?

Without teachers, how will people know how to create the machines and the programs that allow students to learn by computers as support tools?

Without education, a democracy or democratic republic such as ours used to be, cannot survive.  It is education that grants freedom.  Not anarchy, revolution, war, and rebellion.  Rather, truly educated individuals who are civilized and respect one another as a result of learning.

This is what teachers are for.

Dumb down the teachers, and the society becomes dumbed down, as well.  Without education, provided by genuinely knowledgeable individuals, our country will not survive.

So, are teachers necessary?  For an educated, enlightened society, yes.  Do we have the kind of teachers we need to maintain this kind of society, today?  Fewer and fewer all the time; which is why so many teachers currently can be replaced by machines.  

"Hypers, Nancy!" George ejaculated. Response: Political Incorrectness In Nancy Drew Books

[ The followimg post is a response to an article : Was Nancy Drew Politically Incorrect? ]

In every single thing I do, I am a detective.  Some people call that "doing one's homework."  From the moment I arise until I drop, I am a grade-A busybody; whether it is about medicine, law, education, business, or just trying to survive in today's world.

Nancy Drew's, some in first editions (yes, really), have a place of honor on my bookshelves.  I have them printed on cheaper paper for the sake of saving money to support the Second World War; I have them with R.H. Tandy's marvelous illustrations both in glossy black and whites printed from 1929 through the '30's, in pen and ink's from the late '30's and '40's, in their colored covers.  I also have the later illustrators who cheapened and simplified Nancy's style and persona.  It was R.H. Tandy who gave her her beauty.  Not to mention that of chums, Helen Corning, Bess Marvin, and George Fayne; with loyal housekeeper, Hannah Gruen, and Dad--Carson Drew. Remember???

The books, complete with running boards on automobiles that required blankets for "motoring" as there were yet to be car heaters; a whopping speed limit of 20 miles per hour; rumble seats in roadsters; or "electrical ice-boxes" as the term "refrigerator' was brand new; were also very real. That is to say, the books reflected the times in which they were written, as the author states.

There neither was nor is absolutely nothing wrong with them.  Nothing.

As several of the folks commented below, it wasn't about "racism" or "anti-Semitism'" in those days.  It was about reality: The way things were.  That's called "HISTORY."   The books, with the nom de plume of Carolyn Keene, were well written--for third and fourth graders--full of fun vocabulary, settings, adventures, and new things for young girls who wanted to be grown-up's.  In those days, when a girl like Nancy was 16, she was already running a household and solving mysteries.  As the books progressed, and our society was ever more protective of its children, Nancy's age upped to 18.  She had to be more mature to do all of those things; it wasn't so much about time passing, as it was about our society becoming less mature.

The bigotry and prejudice, if one wants to look for it, is there--"good and plenty."  But you know, it's how things were.  As the author writes, rather than hide reality from children, talk with them about it.  Learn from it.  Be glad that Nancy offers so much in so many dimensions--historically, politically, socially, culturally--in addition to the simple plots that were ever so adventuresome!  I still "blush to the fingertips" when something exciting is upon me. Don't you??

If one wants to address the 'Drew books, rather than frown upon the culture of the times, one might also take a look at Nancy as a top-drawer feminist--in fact, as are all of the women in these books.  Take Mr. Drew's sister: Eloise Drew, unmarried, a career woman, and living quite successfully in New York.  I believe Aunt Lou was a practicing attorney, and helped Nancy on more than one case...  See, it wasn't about deliberate attacks on this group or that; again, it was about society, commentary, the culture; and authors who used--yes--the ideal Girl Scout, as the epitome of the role model for Nancy's character.

This author did a very good job of discussing the slants in Nancy's world.  I have little doubt that those same slants were in far more books and series--e.g.: Mark Twain--than just Nancy Drew.  Hide the truth of the times, and they will re-live themselves.  Expose them for what they were, and they're valuable  lessons.

Nancy Drew is one of The Best aspects of my life.  She is alive and well, and with me every single day.  I am so glad that the author was as generous as she was, and wise.  Sometimes, people aren't so kind.  I have no patience with the politically correct: It's one thing to be courteous, polite, and civil. It's quite another to hide the truth, and live in a world that isn't or wasn't, or will never be: That is not Nancy Drew; it is the Emperor's New Clothes.

The Old Tailor: Made to Measure Magazine

(This article was originally written in the late '80's.)

When I was a child, I used to see him there, sitting in a non-descript corner, hunched over his machine. Acknowledging my father's watchful presence more than my brown-eyed curiosity, he would look up and nod as I would observe him cut the thread between his teeth.

Worn Singers--maybe six of them--and an old Pfaff, were stuffed into that back room like desks in a schoolhouse.  Instead of books, cones of sewing thread, boxes of buttons, rolls of braid, filled the shelves. And, like mollified students, they all sat there, the numbers of Eastern Europe engraved into their faces, their clothing belonging to a different time.

Trousers and vests hung on skinny men like jackets tossed on barbed wire fence posts.  Faded flowered silks (for there were no polyesters in those years) threatened to cover trundling women as though they were skins on bulging sausages.  They were old then--grey, stoop-shouldered, an dreamless--sewn into the linings of their world.   The years eventually took most of them, but the old tailor remained loyal.

I suppose he was only twenty, in those groping times when the world was righting itself from the War.  I think it must have been that I was so young, that he appeared so old. When he died, he was sixty-six; my memories are from many years ago.

His first name had been anglicized and he had a last name infiltrated with Polish phoneticisms--an infinite number of  "z's."  Medium build, medium height, his pride kept his spine as straight as a measuring stick all his life. But from the close work of the stitching, a roundness had grown into his shoulders, softening that very formal European discipline into an almost friendly stoop.

His eyes were quick to note a mistake, observant to follow a line.  I cannot recall their color, for there was no contrast to the shading of his face. Everything was grey.  The hair, straight and combed to one side, covered his baldness.  Occasionally, when he lost himself in his art, a strand or two would slip down over his brows, creating a casualness that might have made him a part of this world.  He had a sharp Aryan nose, and a large brown mole on his cheek that rose up in a rounded dome like a used pencil eraser. He always wore a too-wide tie and a too-tight coat; he always wore a hat--straw in the summer, felt in the winter.

He worked for my father for over forty years.  He did just about everything, because he was trained in the days when "everything" was what one did; when loyalty to the superior mattered; when quality was more than a quick stitch of a union label.  He had apprenticed as a boy, I imagine, in pre-War Poland.  Afterward, he came here, bringing with him a needle and thread, a pair of shears, and his accent. Nothing more.

In the early years, he did the master tailoring.  Hitch it up here; let it out there.  Dart. Pleat. No gusset. Watch the inseam.  This one is a portly--don't confuse him with a stout.  Sleeve lengths to match.  Careful when you cut, now--those lapels are getting narrower.  Single-breasted for him; double-breasted takes too much cloth and he's too broad across the chest.  Not too much padding in the shoulder.  Slimmer leg, please...

Eventually, the tailoring business became more of an eccentricity than a practicality.  As the shop became a factory, and the company grew to a corporation, the old tailor, in order to continue to survive, should have changed, also.  But he never grew or learned any more than his youth had taught him.  His pessimism over a lost world invaded his dulled being.  Now, they used the word "manufacturer" instead of "tailor."  It was longer, maybe. Fancier.  But to him, its real meaning was death.

He tried to leave once, when industrial replaced hand, when one suit became one hundred, when the single name "piecework" replaced the completeness of the whole garment.  He had in mind to buy his own shop--a small corner, downtown.  At last, out from under my father's shadow, he would be his own man.  Butler becoming boss.  His shop would be in the tradition of his world--suiting fabrics, shirt weights.  A small press in back with a good steam iron ought to do it.  Of course, a really good machine or two.  Maybe, if it went well, a helper.  But most of all, he, the old tailor, would celebrate his trade and his skill.  Tape measure around the neck--like a priest before the altar--he would dress the mannequin to approximate size. Clip the threads.  Check the button holes.  Brush the shoulders.  Amen.

He had purchased the shop with his savings.  Received my father's best wishes.  Was ready to own the life for which he had been trained.  But he had a wife--and at the proper moment, her greed coerced her into gambling.

If, for a few months, there actually had been a color to the old tailor's eyes, it was never seen again.  Only grimness and waiting and manufacturing remained.

He needed a job and my father needed a good man to run the shop.  "Shop" didn't mean the whole building, but those rooms confined to the cutting, sewing, and pressing of the garments.  My father never did find that "good man."  But the old tailor was there.  And, he did his best, I suppose.  Mostly pacing between this girl and that, watching how they sewed, wondering what to complain about next.

The flowered dresses were replaced with low-cut blouses and too-tight pants.  The seven machines reproduced themselves into twenty and thirty. The presses became the pressing room.  Electric cutting knives whirred, two and three at a time.  The women had become girls, and the Europeans had been replaced with Spanish, Indian, and Oriental blood.

It wasn't pride anymore.  It was survival and endurance.  Kibbitz with the girls.  Punch in--punch out.  A day's work. Most of all, disdain for modernity. Disgust with the distance between a man and his work; a love affair the old tailor testily missed.  It didn't matter how good the garment was.  To him, it wasn't right--it wasn't done with tenderness, or respect for the beauty of the fit.  The caring, the sighing, the becoming-at-one-with, were not there, any more.

The tailor made a poor foreman.  My father knew it.  The tailor, I imagine, knew it, but didn't care.  I believe for him, it was a simple transfer of professions: From creating, to observing others create.  The world had passed him by.

Almost too late, my father grew tired of the bigness of his work.  He sold the factory, and returned to the smaller shop.  A staff of nothing: Except that he still needed the old tailor.  Only a few days a week. Alterations. Hand stitching. A custom measurement now and then.  It was here that I saw the old gentleman gradually fail, fall apart, and finally die.

The manufacturing of suits had become the making of uniforms--for hotels, restaurants, and specialty groups. He would still take the bus each day to and from his torture, where he would be surrounded by brightly colored cocktail dresses and Mexican waitress skirts, hot-pants, and chambermaid garb.  Once again, rounded over his machine that was lit cautiously with a small refrigerator bulb, he would sit and baste. Snapping the thread between his teeth as he used to do, forty years ago.  He knew the feel of a good wool gab.  He could line up the buttons on a jacket by sight.  He ripped and re-sewed with the steadiness of the years.

I always thought he liked the ripping best, somehow.  When it wasn't his own work, it was a delight to correct.  To remind the others of what real tailoring and genuine workmanship were about.

The months passed. He muttered a lot.  At first to himself.  Then to the cloth.  Finally, to the audience of the presses.

His end was those hot steaming machines.  Mentally, he had grown quite slow, old memories stitching over the cloth of reality.  My father would have retired him, but the tailor's wife still gambled away their money. There was no other means for him to survive, but to work.  All that was available now that his skills were fading, were the presses.

He was as good at them as any other aspect of the trade. He was content to come in, fold his coat carefully on the chair, and place his hat neatly on their top.  He would smoke a cigarette and go to the back, where amidst conversations with himself, he would smooth a pant or two, using all his strength to pull down those big mangles and buck presses.

He worked until his last day.  Dignified, formal, polite.  As gracious to the imagined voices he heard as to the workers behind the cutting tables.  As critical of the twentieth century, as anyone I've known.  Vacant and shyly droll, always the Old World, in a tattered and worn sort of way.  His clothes never changed from those early, ill-fitted years, despite the thousands of hours he spent caressing the seams of others.

I felt sad when he died, not so much for him as for me.  Clearly, he was just too tired.  I wondered if, had I tried, I could have known him better.  I wondered if, had I succeeded, there would have been any greater depth to him than what I had observed.  The old tailor, like a worn suit of clothes, may well have been a disguise for someone very different underneath.

A Rose By Any Other Name: The National Association of the Deaf (NAD) Broadcaster

This article was originally written  for the above paper in June of 1991.  What is interesting is that not much as changed in almost 23 years.  People are still trying to figure out what to call themselves, hoping their labels will forecast how they ought to be judged.  The reality, of course, is that it is the individual who matters; the nomenclature and stereotypes will come and go.  Also, society will judge as it wishes, and all the fancy labels in the world cannot change what the public wants to think, once the public makes up its mind...  

I read, with some interest, Ms. Kailes' February, 1991 article on the use of language.  I don't disagree with the author and her viewpoint, but lately, I find so may people concerned with what to call each other; I wonder if the focus isn't shifting away from how to treat each other.

The American Indian/Redskin is now the docile Native American; the Oriental has morphed to the Asian; the once Colored then Negro then Black has become the African American; the Mexican is now the Hispanic or Latino, depending on specific geography of origin, despite sameness of language.

For awhile, the Deaf were the Hearing Impaired until it was decided that the oral Deaf would remain Hearing Impaired, and the signing Deaf would return to their original name and be just Deaf.  The handicapped want to be the disabled, or the challenged.

I wonder how the cultural anthropologists and sociologists manage to keep up!

The problem with "disabled" is the implication of time and brokenness/non-usable-ness; i.e., once one used to be able, but now because of circumstance, he is dis-abled.  The original meaning of the prefix "dis" (not) implies apart-ness, a whole no longer complete or now in two or more pieces.

A cup with the handle broken off is disabled.  A sink whose faucet has been disconnected is disabled.  A man whose leg has been amputated is disabled. There is a sense of time having passed.  There is an implication that that which was once useful and whole is no longer so; function is non-operable.

My daughter as born with multiple medical involvements.  No time passed; nothing happened to her that transformed her from a whole into parts.  I don't think of her as "dis," or "not."  Most of her parts work all right; some of her parts operate on a partial basis.  I don't recall abilities once hers, that are no more.  I do think of her as handicapped, as there are clearly tasks with which she needs special help; she always has and will require significant assistance.

Ms. Kailes refers to the term "handicapped" as being a derogatory one; it calls to her mind the individual on the street corner with cap in hand, begging.

(In truth, the hand in the cap--not the other way around--was an aspect of horse racing, many years ago in Great Britain; the jockeys, vying for the most advantageous place on the track, would draw numbers out of a cap; hence, the derivation of the word.  He who drew the best number, had the inside path; he who drew the worst number was stuck with the outside path and a greater likelihood of losing the race.  The good or ill fortune of the horse's position around the track was a result of the jockey's "hand-i-the-cap.")

In sports today, golfers and bowlers have handicaps; horse racing still awards handicaps; there is a handicap in betting. There is no shame in the word, or in the use.  Rather, the condemnation is in peoples' opinions.

Recently, I met a physician who denied both terms.  He liked the idea of the "exceptional body"  instead of either "disabled" or "handicapped." My, I thought, my little girl is only eight, and already, she's up there with Madonna and Marilyn Monroe.

I keep wondering when Jews are going to change their names.  Anti-Semitism increased by 18% this year; it certainly would be a good time to enhance self-image, and the concept of the altered "handle" is very much in vogue.  I was considering the possibility of "American Moses-ite..."
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If changing the name or label of an individual or a group assists with positive group or self-identity, I'm all for it.  If that same change also heightens the awareness and sensitivity levels of the broader society, I'm in favor of that, too.

I just hope people understand the old adage, "Actions speak louder than words."  Terms don't start out with positive or negative connotations, only objective denotations.  The former is imposed by the response from society. Once "queer" meant to be odd, and "gay" meant to be happy.  Now, both connote homosexuality--one negatively, one positively.

If "disabled" is more palatable than "handicapped," then let it be so.  If the larger community is more comfortable in accepting the disabled rather than the handicapped, I guess I think that's fine.  If individuals would rather be identified as "disabled," instead of "handicapped," I support that, too.  Often, it's not what the word means that counts; rather it's what the word implies.

The choice of this term or that is not what is most important, but rather that we are taking the time to care about our places and our acceptance in this world.  We are demanding to be recognized with a sense of pride and integrity.  As long as accomplishments measure up to the demands for verbal dignity, there should be no problem.

Five Finger Exercise

I would like to say that I come from a long line of Fingernails.  Every woman in our family has had Fingernails since I can remember.  Generations of Fingernails.  Manicured, buffed, polished to the nine's.  Deep reds, wines, and burgundies.

It all started with Cherries In The Snow--Charles Revson's, and Revlon's, very first shade of adapted automobile paint--helping women to buck up during the Depression and War effort.

Always, Fingernails.  It was never an issue among us.  Since I was six years old, I had long nails.   I learned to take care of them myself, albeit I didn't start wearing red polish for years and years:  A family tradition. One wasn't human, let alone a female or feminine, without Fingernails.  I was convinced that they possessed some bit of magical power, in order to make a woman complete.  I had to have them.  Inwardly, I knew this.

When I was ten, I made the fatal mistake of taking piano lessons. Who knew? I was the bane of my teacher's existence.  Why?  The long fingernails.  Did you know that in order to play the piano, one has to have Short fingernails?  Yes.  I took lessons year after year, and it was an ongoing battle about the fingernails. Clickety clack, clickety clack, upon the keys.  My teacher, who was petite, tremulous, dressed in flowered silks without a brassiere, and with eminently blue hair, wanted--nay, demanded--my nails be short; to round the hand, curve the fingers, hit the keys with the soft pads of the quiet fingertips.  Power to the upper knuckles and carpals. A fair request.

I, on the other hand, wanted to look utterly gorgeous from the wrists down, even in the fifth grade.  Why not?  Everyone in my family was gorgeous in the very same way.  Long, luscious nails upon even longer, artistic and beautifully sculpted fingers and hands. Do you have any idea how refreshing it is, when doing arithmetic assignments, or a social studies paper, to absentmindedly take a break, and gaze down at such elegant, slender, appendages?  My hands were so lovely that when I injured them, nothing could give me greater pleasure than to dote on the ethereal beauty of their X-rayed poise.  Think of it.

After all, I only "tickled the ivories" a few hours a week; yet, I reasoned, I had to look at my hands, 24/7.  It was obvious.  Materialistic and empirical piano vs. spiritual, eternally beautiful hands.  What's to discuss?

Ultimately, I quit the lessons, and my fingers were at peace.  I quit for other reasons, too--like ongoing migraine headaches every Monday on the spot, about four hours before lesson-time. The nails were a part of the pain.  I assure you.
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Life came, and life has gone by.
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Now, don't drop your drawers, but I'm taking piano lessons, again.  Same piano.  Same practicing only a lot more, same everything.  Different teacher (the old one died years ago). Same Fingernails.  Only, this time, with the red polish: The true family tradition remember, from generation to generation. (L'dor v' dor.)

Wouldn't you know it?  Here we go again.

This time, the nails are eminently shorter--down to the nub.  The style has changed:  Computers, touch-screens, and smart phones are the name of the game.  Short nails are a prerequisite for survival in the information age. However, I would like to say, they are not short enough for my piano teacher, and this one doesn't even have blue hair!

So help me. I clip, I file.  The nails are Below the fingertips!  But, they click. I have tall cuticles; I have long nail beds.  No matter what I do, I still click rather than tickle, the keys.  My own rhythm section.

I've taken to giving myself a manicure the night before the lessons.  I hope this will do the trick. Maybe she won't notice.  I have painted them a neutral color so that the teacher can see how stubby and minuscule these nails are, relative to their potential.  My nails short, are longer than many women's, long!  It's the way God made me.  I'm stuck.

What can you say about a woman who has three pianos--including a baby grand that substitutes as the dining room table under a chandelier-- in a living room/dining room area that's maybe 10'x15'?  There is a heavy, Victorian jacquarded tapestry of a sofa with antique gold fringe hanging all about, two over-stuffed chairs, a disc-player, and two mammoth felines. Definitely, a room out of necessity, that commands absolute order and control; everything must be in its place. Including the Fingernails. Or Else.

There you are.  I am caught.  I love the music, discipline myself to the practicing, thoroughly enjoy the teacher, delight over the charmingly petite house--fringe and all.  What to do, what to do...

Um, maybe I should tell you that my teacher had her cats de-clawed.  Do you think this is in the back of her mind?  Naaaaah, couldn't be.  Or could it?

Am I Retiring, Transitioning, or Re-Inventing?

We've been in business for 77 years.  I sold my building: Offices, showroom with fitting area, the actual factory.  Not a huge place as manufacturing plants go, but figure a big fish in a little pond.  Since 1936, ain't bad.

The garment industry in the United States is all but dead; the custom garment industry is dead.  I have business, I have customers.  But not enough to earn a living.  Labor today is all off-shore for any kind of tailoring expertise and decent pricing; what our custom shop has always been about. As one of the last shops in our line of manufacturing--if not the last--it was time to bail.

I had to move.  I got rid of the overhead (Thank God), and I got rid of all those things I am responsible for but can't control; eg: The Facility, the Equipment, and the Help.  You don't want to own a factory in this day and age, if you can help it.  I'm telling you.  At least 50% of my professional life has been about apologising for this mistake, or that mal-function.  The only honors I got out of the deal were the joys of saying, "I'm sorry," and giving courtesy discounts. Mazel Tov.

But OK.  So, now, I'm moved.  Where?  I don't want to go through the entire process with you, but trust me; it wasn't a charmer.   The cost of renting a new space, buying a new space, adding a new space onto my home, squeezing everything I needed into my house as is; were all possibilities.

I have a friend who thinks I ought to have had a Plan.  Are you kidding? What plan?  I needed to get out of the building in order to save the overall   company--you know, the proverbial handwriting on the wall:  I needed to stop the financial hemorrhaging, and the mistakes.  This wasn't something that was self-contained and dependent on my decisions, alone; rather it demanded that all the outsiders' chips fell in their own proper order.

One day, a guy makes an offer on the building.  OK.  I figure it all out.  Get it all ready.  Then the sale falls through.  Plan?  So I continue on, in my original operational mode.  Six months later, another offer.  OK. This time, the thing goes through but with closing in four weeks.  An entire--if small--77 year old manufacturing operation--close down, sort, and pack up in 20 days; all the while with orders in work.  

In the meantime, the folks I was going to take with me to a new, littler shop, decided to retire, altogether. Surprise...  

So that's the end of the factory.  In all fairness, one former worker is 80, another is 73; we're not talking Spring Chickens, here.  But between the first and second purported sales of the building, everything changed, including any kind of income projection.  Thus, rentals/purchases of smaller manufacturing facilities, were out the window.  How now, Brown Cow?

The bids to add on a home office came in at $35,000.  For 10'x10'.  No kidding. Small volume pricing. Thus, I rented: An inside storage facility unit. Same size as the home add-on, but for $181/month including insurance.  At this rate, I can keep my new "satellite office" for almost 17 years, before I come close to the $35,000 addition.  

You would love the satellite office.  It's two blocks away, so Sydney--my dog--and I can walk to work.  It's done in used brick with Columbia blue and white trim, and looks like traditional model homes.  (The complex cries out for red geraniums).  The place has all the comforts of home except electricity (other than the bare bulb overhead); and the bathroom that is three buildings away.

It's almost perfect.  I have Kleenex, a chair, a shipping table with a scale, my boxes/tape/wrapping tissue/labels, a broom and dustpan along with a wastebasket, step-stool, 15 file cabinets of payables and receivables, and over 200 aprons that I couldn't bear to part with (let me know if you're interested in purchasing...)   It's the best.  A mezuzah is on the doorpost, along with a Jewish calendar for the year, 5774. The UPS office is down the street; I pack up the uniforms in this petite shipping department, and schlep box after box rather than paying extra for the driver in the big brown truck, to pick up.

My family-room at home in the basement, along with my upstairs study, comprise the rest of my corporate offices. Downstairs are the "accounting and business offices."  Everything I need to run the show, as long as I don't have to cut cloth in my own shop.  I can cut cloth with other folks; I can press; I can sew--all outside. I can screen-print and embroider.  Same thing. But I can't cut in-house.  So far. That's my limit.  I have others who can do the manufacturing in their own shops (aka contractors and sub-contractors), or I can sell ready-to-wear (uniforms from other manufacturers that are made off-shore and merely pulled from shelves, and shipped.)

Upstairs is the "creative/executive" office with all the business machines.  Yes.  I'm writing to you from this office, right now.

I'm continually getting settled, as the days go by.  Still working like mad to squeeze it all in.  Adding new activities, as my hours and time are now my own. No one I have to apologise for or yell at.  No machines to fail or be damaged by well-intentioned "experts."  I'm working every day and so far, longer than I ought. Just to get caught up and get on some kind of schedule. (Sometimes, a customer may get a call from me as late as 1:00 a.m....)

Now, you tell me.  People say, "Ohhhhh, I'm so happy you retired!"   Am I retired?  I have 3 office spaces, separate phone/fax/email /business cards, and UPS bills.  "Well, but no, you're at home, now, so that's not really working." Maybe if I drove around the block every morning before I sat down at my desk so that I could "arrive" at my offices by 8:00, that would help.  

Others write books about "transitioning."  My own "transition" either must be because I've morphed from young to old, and/or because America has given up the ghost where blue-collar skills are concerned.  It's the same business, the same name, the same Stuff.  No in-house factory to be sure, but in every other way, it's the same.  We've always had cottage industry. Even this isn't new.

Tell me, what have I transitioned besides my moving from my factory to my home?  Still feels the same to me.  I answer the phone the same.  I dunno.  I guess the transition is in the loss of overhead and liabilities, and I don't have to apologise so much, any more.

Finally, and best, are those who insist I'm re-inventing myself.  Um, I lost 10 pounds.  Does that mean I'm re-invented?  Trust me: I'm still the same impossible person I have always been, which is why I'm not a team player and work for myself.  I'm in the same business, doing the same thing: Fashion.  Only, I'm more relaxed now because I can focus on selling the clothing, rather than putting out all the fires and rescuing the help.

Reflecting Upon the Assassination of JFK, 50 Years Later: Intermountain Jewish News

Neftali/Shutterstock.com

Then, it was time for the World War II generation to take its place as leader--not only of the free world, but of the entire globe.  He was paradigmatic of the American Dream.  He tried his best, grew as he learned, was gracious and witty, intelligent and cosmopolitan.  His breeding and eloquence never lessened his sense of the people.

No matter his failings, he personified the new and greatest generation.  When the War was over, the old men stood aside; he stepped up to bat.  America was the top of the heap; he was proof that we had arrived.  In the years that proceeded him, his generation remained the best of the best; what this nation was all about.  "Ask not what your country can do for you;" he counseled.  "Ask what you can do for your country."

She, on the other hand, was beyond compare:  Strikingly handsome, bright, at once unafraid to lead and be feminine, she was all that he was and more.  I saw her at the theatre: Radiant--an aura.  Dressed in white in the darkened audience, she was a lovely golden glow.  She savored being a woman, a bon vivant, a certain kind of unspoken ethereal power.

Yet, uppermost were her efforts and joys as a mother, safeguarding her children's wellbeing and independence.  Never mind her reigning duties, her peccadilloes; her children were her focus.  She understood that as her personal legacy, they were her responsibility.  "If you bungle raising your children," she said, "I don't think whatever else you do, matters very much."

In the shadows, an underside of the flourishing Dream was the insistence of entitlement that came with a realization of success.  Signaled by his demise, that darker visage continually expanded itself, extinguishing those ideals of integrity, determination, achievement, gratitude.

It took almost 200 years for him to epitomize whom we were inspired to become.  It took less than a generation for us to implode upon ourselves.  He is dead, his generation almost gone, the United States as it was intended to be, is done.

Of this, I am always aware: He was but a symbol; what might have been.

The United States: First Protestant Nation

What many people today don't realize is that the United States was founded on Protestant values--Christian values--that originally evolved from Judaic values.  To ignore the religious origins of America, or not  to accept  the underlying premise of religion in America, is not to comprehend what it means to be an American.

While the founding fathers were firm about freedom of religion, and separation between church and state, it must be acknowledged that the United States was created by people for whom God and the Old and New Testaments givens.  Belief in God and morality as set down in the Bible, were the guiding principles that supported the entire concept of the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and much of the focus of the Constitution.   Yes, really.

A wholly secular America cannot sustain itself, nor can an America where morality is considered to be originated by man, thereby becoming relative to time, place, and individual need; thus becoming expendable willy-nilly upon necessity.  The foundation of this nation is based upon enlightened Judeo-Christian morality.  "In God We Trust;" "Epluribus Unum (out of many, one)" are two ubiquitous mottoes which represent this land.  Both reveal an absolute recognition of and necessary belief in God--with a clear reference to the Holy Trinity.  Check your coins and paper money if you doubt this.  Each time we make a cash payment, we validate an understood if not a given, belief in God.

One of the primary reasons that individuals immigrated to the New World  was to escape religious persecution.  By coming to a new land, people felt that for the first time, they would be out from under the autocratic demands of various monarchs with their reliance on this church or that, and they would be free to worship as they chose.  Economics and exploration were also motivating factors that influenced the development of America; however, the notion of freedom of religion--by and large Christianity--was paramount.  To lift a country out of its origins and the reasons for its creation, is not to understand how or why that particular country managed to exist in the first place.  Without purpose or thorough knowledge of origin, nothing can continue to exist.  Change is one thing; abandonment of original intent, definition, or essence of an entity, is about its demise.

Rhode Island with Roger Williams; Pennsylvania with William Penn:  Two of the earliest Colonies/States that insisted upon religious tolerance for everyone.  This was unheard of in Europe, where religious leaders of one kind or another, dictated what its inhabitants could follow.  The Pilgrims and Puritans, the Jews, the Catholics, in light of the Protestant and Counter Reformations, all came to the United States seeking the right to worship as they chose.  The notions of  "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" as being "inalienable rights," were synonymous with "God given."

The American Constitution essentially was created by men who were Deists or believers in God without a particular church affiliation; Humanists, who were of a similar bent; and Protestants.  All of these men, however, were infused from birth with the Bible, and with the religious values of Judeo-Christian morality.  Atheism, agnosticism, denominations from the East, were not a measurable part of European society during the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries.  In one way or another, virtually everyone who emigrated from other countries to the United States, believed in God.  Not to believe was the same as heresy and treason, all at once.

The Protestant Ethic, which is the idea that one should work for a living and gain by the sweat of his own brow, is not far from the basic tenets of Capitalism.  The Bill of Rights--the first ten amendments to the Constitution--are about basic moral freedoms that allow individuals to become and to be: The Ten Commandments, in a similar vein, were taken from Christianity's Old Testament.

(You will find the original organization of the court system in the Old Testament/Holy Scriptures, Book of Exodus, Chapter: 18/Jethro.  There are many such examples in both the Old and New Testaments.)

Manifest Destiny was another concept that dictated the intentions of a forward looking, and successful  United States.  Not without connection to a Higher Power and a heavenly afterlife, the realization of the American Dream was indeed allied with the religious focus of Kingdom Come here on earth--in America.

Particularly in the North, the value system was very Christian and quite definite about following Scripture to  the letter of its laws.  Interestingly, there was no slavery in the North, while at the same time, there were multitudes of cities, towns, and industry--men coming together in intensely populating regions, working for their families and themselves: Observing what the "Good Book" said.  The South, which was less focused on Protestantism, and more on Humanism or Deism, allowed for less stringent rigor when it came to Biblical rules and regulations: It is not a coincidence that slavery flourished there--an essential difference in the commitment to Judeo-Christian morality.

These same values spread throughout the expanding country as people went West, building churches and schools along the way.  While not everyone necessarily worshipped formally in a particular building, or with a definite sect or denomination, to assume that America was ever secular in its primary focus is to not understand the underlying strengths of American society and how/why it was created.  While worship itself may or may not have been a weekly thing for all, the undertones of belief and faith in God, with God's word dictating an Absolute Morality, were understood as a given part of life, and the way things were.  People followed God's laws; God didn't morph to follow man's convenience and comfort.

A secular United States cannot last; the essential base upon which the country was built, will erode and topple.  To say that times have changed, we don't need God any more now that we have science, morality is relative and not absolute, is to misconstrue the essence of Americana, and the presence of God as an underlying cornerstone of this country.  Such is counter to the original American values that made this nation possible.  As Protestantism broke away from the Catholic Church, so did America break away from European monarchies and oligarchies--the belief in God and the dictates of  Biblical Morality, however, were never questioned.

America was never conceived as a land of the inoperative, the helpless, or the incapable.  Rather it was the notion that every man was created in the image of God, was given those certain inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; and by golly, if he wanted such, within the moral and ethical boundaries  that were handed down to our forefathers--both Biblical and national--then he needed to go after them.  Nothing would be served to him for free.  It is no different in the Bible: The original guide book and rules manual for the United States.

The bottom line is not whether one must support the fundamentals of the Scriptures, but rather that there is a necessary understanding that must take place:  Without certain values and ethics such as community, education, family, economic well being, respect for nature and its creatures; without discipline, responsibility, integrity, and a unified commonality of moral outlook and beliefs; without a firm conviction that we as Americans, and our country America, are committed to a unified focus toward a unified Higher Morality, this nation will not be able to survive:  Its very reason for existence, its essence as a viable nation, will have ceased to exist.

Syndicate: The Mob, Publishers, Columnists, and Me

So here I am on Skype, Twitter, Facebook, Linked-in, with a blog [TheGrownUpsTable.com], a website [CustomUniformCompany.com], and emails. I'm a Syndicate.  I'm told that this is what I have to do in order to "participate."  If I want to write, hobnob, "connect with people;" blow my own horn, introduce myself to the world. Tra la. What ever happened to the "Coming Out Party?"  I thought people were supposed to come to meet me (invitation, only, of course), rather than I having to extend and meet them...  I guess social media is just that.  Only I give my own party and introduce me to you. Hello, out there!  

Once, the Syndicate was about Al Capone and the Mob.  The big boys in the killer "zoot suit with a drape shape and a reep pleat;" fedora pulled down low over the eyes, wide lapels, pinstripes; a machine gun hidden in the violin case, and cement shoes to be worn in the East River if one didn't pay up on time.  Yes.  "Da boyz" who were stationed here and there with their icy fingers reaching across the nation, creeping in to folks' pockets for the murderously desperate payola.  Drugs, booze, prostitution, and dough--bigtime. The Syndicate.

Or, there are the monolithic publishing houses:  Remember Citizen Kane? Great movie.  Yes.  William Randolph Hearst, San Simeon, and the Hearst Corporation: Harper's Bazaar, Seventeen, Esquire, Town & Country, Cosmopolitan + books, TV, newspapers. Conde Nast, and the vast empire of New Yorker, Architectural Digest, Wired, Vogue and more.  Today's world is about technological delivery via APPs instead of a stamp and bulk mail. But syndicated is still syndicated.  In this newsstand, or that grocery store. Fashion, food, computers, news, entertainment; what's posh or smashing, new and different, in this world.    Multiple mags, multiple pages and layouts, appeal to multiple types. Syndicated.

Columnists were published along with their periodicals when the newspaper was king.  Remember Art Buchwald, Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck?  Louella Parsons, Drew Pearson, H.L. Mencken? Syndicated in every paper that was worth reading.  Today, some of the greats include Dennis Prager, Charles Krauthammer, Thomas Friedman, Robert Samuelson. The comics, of course. A ubiquitous name across the country's printed page that means "quality, reliable, familiar and famous."  Syndicated:  Income, fame, speaking engagements, opinions worth discussing at the dinner table.  Can I look forward to this?  Gee...

Yes, at last, I'm my own syndicate.  Only not by choice so much as necessity. Splattered all over the place.  Instead of fame and fortune, however, I'm struggling like mad to keep up with contacts, sites, and responses.   A desperate attempt to appear interesting, clued and tuned in, infinitely wise, witty, and without another thing to do but connect & communicate.  I don't get paid, don't get recognition, don't get someone to do my editing, layout, or P.R.  I can never remember where I put my book of passwords.  The only thing that's "coming out"  is my waistline from sitting so much in front of the computer.  But yes, I'm it.  The new syndication.  Me, myself, and I: The Syndicate. 

Suiting Up For Santa Claus: UniformMarketNews.com

Every year, Santa puts down his pipe, fluffs up his whiskers, and makes sure he has his fabled list that he’s checked twice.  He puts on his Christmas best and gets ready to spread love, good cheer, and goodies to children all over the world. 

It seems that Santa Claus, or Saint Nicholas, evolved with various cultures over time:  The Greeks knew him as Poseidon, god of the sea; the Romans changed his name to Neptune.  Early European Christianity drew on these images of this powerful sea god, the benevolent Christ child, and the notion that children should be good Christians, and called him Hagios Nikolaos (Latin for Saint Nicholas).  There doesn’t seem to be proof that there was an actual person named Nicholas.

Saint Nicholas, protector of sailors and schoolchildren, gradually became a rescuer and benefactor who rewarded children everywhere so long as they were properly behaved, did their studies, and said their catechism. 

The name of Santa Claus came from the Dutch who, when they first came to America and settled in New Amsterdam (New York), pronounced Saint Nicholas “Sinterklass,” aka Santa Claus. 

How did Santa’s appearance evolve?  The answer is an American one:  In 1809, New York writer Washington Irving (“The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”) wrote a series of satirical works referred to as “The Knickerbocker Tales.”  In these “‘Tales,” St. Nicholas is promoted as the patron saint of New York society.  Riding over tops of trees and bringing presents to children, Irving refers to him as small, elfish, with a pipe, and capable of sliding down chimneys.

By 1821, New York printer William Gilley put forth a poem about “Santeclaus” who dressed all in fur and drove a sleigh pulled by one reindeer.   Clement Clark Moore—New York, 1823, wrote the classic poem, “Twas The Night Before Christmas” a defining image for Santa and his swift team of reindeer, now totaling eight. 

According to Snopes.com, Santa remained elfin until about 1841, when J.W. Parkinson of Philadelphia hired a man to dress as Santa for his mercantile, and climb down a chimney outside his shop—the first time Santa is recorded as a full-sized person, and connected with retailing.

In 1863, the cartoons of Thomas Nast were presented in “Harper’s Weekly.”  Santa got a beard, fur from head to foot, and his first red suit; George P. Webster, who wrote copy for Nast’s drawings, gave Saint Nicholas the North Pole as his home. 

By 1885, when Louis Prang of Boston, an illustrator of Christmas cards, chose red over all the other Santa suit colors (green, white, purple, brown, blue), Saint Nicholas took on the style and appearance that he has today. 

There are those who think that Santa Claus, in his famous red suit with white fur, was a figment of Coca Cola’s corporately colored imagination.  Nope.  During the 1930’s, the era of the Great Depression, an illustrator named Haddon Sundblom did a drawing of Santa holding a bottle of Coca Cola as a marketing idea.  It was an instant success, galvanizing the notion of Santa’s already red suit, and also reaping excellent rewards for Coke.  But the colorful image of Santa Claus was cemented long before the 1930’s.

What about the Santa suit today?  For one jolly old soul, this multi-million dollar business sells hundreds of thousands of garments per year.   There are over 25,000 Santa suit purchasing sites online, alone.  It’s mostly seasonal, but with sales occurring year round.  Volume wise, Santa suits are second only to Halloween in the costume/uniform business.

Halco is one of the 2 largest Santa suit manufacturers in the U.S.  “We’ve been in business since 1945,” says principal, Terri Greenberg.  “We produce 52,000 suits per year.  We used to have 72 fulltime stateside sewing operators.  Now, we have ten.”   What used to be an American business is going more and more offshore because American manufacturers can’t compete with the pricing.  Terry, herself, lives in the Far East part time, in order to maintain quality control at her plants both here and abroad. 

Shari McConahay, co-owner of retail SantaSuits.com, purchases from wholesale manufacturers like Terri.  Shari is adamant about buying American and feels strongly that American suits are better made; with offshore garments, quality control is a mixed bag.   Her business has been selling the Santa uniform since the early ’70’s.  Shari dedicates 20% of her company’s 18,000 sq. ft. warehouse space for the Santa suits, alone. 

A Santa suit can be purchased retail anywhere from $27.95, for a one-size-fits-all stretch, to a plush satin-lined fully trimmed out custom garment at $700.00.  With accoutrements, such as padding, beards, eyebrows, glasses, boots, belts, gloves, etc, that’s about $1,000 for the complete suit.  Depending on the vendor, profits can be plus or minus 100% above cost.

The costumes can come in red, burgundy, white, green and even blue.  But red is by far and away the best seller.  There are variations of style and quality with coats, hoods, brocade, and period pieces—in polyester, flannel, felt, vinyl, leather, satin, velvet, velour, or plush fur fabrics. 

“There are those who purchase for parties, office gatherings, and family scenes.  Then, there are the ‘professionals,’ who work the malls, hospitals and charitable organizations, photography displays, parades, and street corners,” according to retailer, Larry Meidberg, at Clicket.com. 

There’s something special about a uniform that commands both kindness and respect.  Like true elves, all three companies are working 15 hour days to get everyone suited up in time for the Christmas season.  “For many Santas it’s like a calling,” said Shari.  “Every year they will spruce up their accessories or their uniforms, so that they are perfect.  Children are the first to tell you if something is wrong.” 

Accommodations: UniformMarketNews.com

Originally, uniforms were meant to be worn by a single class of people:  Healthy, youthful-to-middle-aged men.  They were homogeneous, built pretty much the same, and lived about 46 years.    

Depending on the service required, a uniform was designed for a particular duty and rank.  A sailor wore a different outfit than an infantry man; a seaman wore a different outfit than the captain.  Basically however, things were pretty much the same.  The old joke is that uniforms used to be made in two sizes: Too big and too small.  There were stock sizes, little custom tailoring or adjustability, and no stretch fabrics as everything was made from natural fibers, and standard designs.

The word uniform meant "one shape," as it does today.  Uniform apparel was about identity of task and duty.  It also served as a protection.  Nothing more.  It was not a fashion statement; nor was it meant for comfort.  It was utilitarian, and it was worn with great pride.  It was one of the aspects of the profession that a man valued most--the apparel that went with the job.

It didn't matter whether a uniform was meant for land or sea, town or country.  Many of the uniforms were made by kinfolk, the local seamstresses, tailors, undertakers, or the leather tanner.  For the military, there were groups of people who labored for this purpose. 

It wasn't until later that women had uniforms, and they were different.  First of all, women were built differently; also, they did different things.  Usually classified as domestics, working women generally wore uniforms to indicate a kitchen, hospital, restaurant, or chores done in the inside of a home. 

Because women didn't go off to war, didn't march in parades or drive plows on a regular basis, their uniforms were primarily self-made to suit their individual needs; either that, or there would be a local seamstress that would fashion an upstairs maid's outfit, or cook's apron.

The twentieth century brought more and more women into the forefront.  Accommodations and compromises had to be made.  Wars, transportation and communication brought countries, societies, cultures and classes, closer and closer together.  Uniforms changed. 

Yesterday's cook's aprons are today's unisex chefs' coats.  They even come in pink, with button-reversal for girls.  What a woman wore to serve is no longer the dress with an apron and little cap, but a golf shirt and slacks.  Today, those who work inside the home are in T-shirts or cobbler aprons; the black dress with lace collar and cuffs is no more.  

The biggest change is that women work right beside the men--in the military, in agriculture, within industry, in hospitality, or corporate.  You name it, and women are there.  They are estheticians, welders, and everything in between.  Not infrequently, they are pregnant and that necessitates maternity uniforms.

Women  require similar designs, fabrics, attractiveness, and the same protection as men.  How much femininity is added and how much remains masculine.  How close do women's price points compare with men's?  If men's  industrial pants sell five or six times more pairs than women's, does the price point remain the same for the lower volume of women's pants?  Does it go up?  They are not any more difficult to make, but what about cost, per size and per pattern?  Is this discrimination even if styles for them sell one-fifth the quantity?

If it weren't enough to have women outfitted, the next accommodation was the larger and taller sizes.  Better nutrition, a more affluent economy, improved technology, all seem pointed to bigger bodies.  The first step was oversize for men--fuller sizes.  The 2x, and gradual increase to 5 or 6x, and more...  When it became clear that men grew up as well as out, long body garments and arm lengths evolved: Plus two inches, plus four inches plus six inches...  No more high-water- pants, or skimpy sleeves.  Just big and tall.

Women?   There are women's  plus sizes, and of course petites on the other end of the spectrum.  Societies all over the world have become so diverse, that every uniform has to be made for him and her, for tall and short, for fat and thin, and unisex if possible. 

Some uniform manufacturers choose to add multiple stylings and sizes in order to accommodate this huge variety of demographic diversification.   Some have slashed their lines tremendously, salvaging only their most popular colors and best-selling styles.  Then, they offer multiple choices but within fewer items, overall.  Some have decided not to buy into diversification and just continue doing what they do best with the size patterns they have, in styles that work.

  Catalogues have become thinner as manufacturers draw their lines in the sand, defining what their specialties are; others have sprung up to fill the gaps where some fall short.  When one contemplates all that the history of uniforms tells us, how we as a species are evolving, it's amazing!  The paradox is that the more we realize how different we are, the more accommodations we make remain the same. 

Measure Twice, Cut Once: UniformMarketNews.com

It used to be that no matter what we did, we had to do it better:  "Good, better, best; never let it rest--until your good is better, and your better best."  A manufacturer would smile contentedly as he finished an order and quip, "Perfect is good enough."  But, today, the stressed salesman snaps at his impatient customers, "We can give you cheap, quick, or good: Pick two.  You can't have all three!"  In today's world, guess which two most people pick.

Over the last few weeks, I have spoken with several companies:  One was doing ceremonial coats for a specialty group.  Five men with five unique measurements all fitting into size 5xl, one way or another.  Each was more specially shaped than the one before.  Directions were impeccable, fabric was magnificent, embroidery was superb, the pattern perfect. Cutters and sewing operators with years of experience were lined up to present these gentlemen with five perfect coats.  It was to be a collective work of uniform magnificence.  What happened?  Despite explicit instructions, their wives took the measurements, instead of the fellows going to skilled tailors.  Guess what? 

One guy had sleeves that came up to his elbows, because the back was too narrow by five inches.  One forgot that the abdomen doesn't disappear when the coat goes on, and his 59 inch stomach acted as a "front porch," left hanging between  his two 64 inch "side verandas."  Another gentleman's spouse didn't know where her husband's waist was, buried somewhere in his rotund figure; thus, the top of the coat looked like it had an empire waist, also about three inches too short at the hem.  The best is that the guys got the coats, didn't try them on, had them ornately embroidered for an unmentionable amount of money, and only afterward realized that the coats had to be trashed!

Then, there was the police department.  The secretary took down the specifics on this one, claiming she was an alteration lady on the side.  From our military uniform source, I surmise that her skills were very "on the side."  The coats were standard Marine Corps design, braided by hand with edge cord, all around.  In 100% wool elastique, they cost a pretty penny, as first class military coats do.  It turned out the gal had measured one fellow's coat three inches too long, and the entire coat had to be ripped out, cut down, re-lined, re-braided.  The pants for a different officer were criticized as being made far too small for his large, muscular thighs.  The salesman was told that his customer couldn't get the pants on.  When the officer was re-measured for new pants, his thighs were actually an inch narrower than originally thought; it was his seat that was two inches too small.  On it went...

A restaurateur complained that his 3xl gal was wearing a jumper and pinafore apron that were too short regarding the waist length, and asked the manufacturer if it would mind re-designing the pattern  to accommodate this woman's rather large bosom.  The manufacturer explained that an entirely new pattern had to be drafted, graded, etc., and that a custom pattern  for one uniquely built size 3xl would cost a fortune, suggesting an alteration lady, instead.  But no mind.  The gal was taken with a seizure of modesty, refused to get measured and as a result, the owner of the eatery sent the lady's old uniform to the manufacturer, with instructions to make her new uniforms just the same as the old but with a longer bodice.  How much longer, he couldn't say.  No one knows to this day.

Finally, there is the theatrical producer who needed Johnny-on-the-spot costumes for his dancers: Two weeks' notice, four different fabrications, three different garments per uniform to outfit the entire cast.  All were ritz and glitz, goods that were more slippery and clingy than skin on a snake, and so thin the garments couldn't be made up without fusing, lining, and heaven knows what.  Okay.  For skilled manufacturers of theme park attire, no worries, right?   But oop, when the stage manager gave the sewing operators their instructions, he forgot to reveal that there were two different styles of jackets rather than one; the wrong color fabric had been listed on the purchase order for one entire group of dancers (there were three groups); the fabric (which was really meant for flimsy bowties,  not coats and pants ) was 20 inches too narrow; he had forgotten to order one fabric, while short on the other three; and the fellow didn't include the custom-designed patterns.  Oh, yes, pant hem lengths were left out of the measurements, too.

So there you are.  Why accuracy matters.  Which reminds me, a well-known tailor recently came across a new tape measure that started at three inches, rather than at zero.  Have you ever taken a measurement that was three inches larger than the person's actual size?  Try it in your own business, sometime.  But    remember to measure twice, and cut only once. 

Ralph's: UniformMarketNews.Com

You can drive by the two single-story 1950's buildings and never know they are there: Non-descript blonde brick office types separated by a driveway, each small enough to take in both at a single glance.  A curved awning over one of the entrances, with a threaded needle laminated in place, separates the importance of the one building from the other.  To the right is sales and parts; to the left is the machine shop and service.  The driveway allows for deliveries. 

Inside, it is an entirely different story.  The machine shop is full of technical wheels and honing tools that mold and manufacture various precision parts for this and that.  Its gloomy concrete interior has men in goggles bent over their work.  Except for bald florescent lights and flying sparks--everything is grey.  Beyond the machines is service for the sewing department.  There are older men and younger, who are cleaning, re-wiring, adding new parts to damaged irons, pressing equipment, sewing machines, cutting knives, or whatever.

Across the way is the front office: People drive in from all over, to consult, order, gossip, schmooze and network, just like at the general store in a small town.  Behind the office is the parts department--grey metal shelving with bin after bin of needles, folders, sizes of machine foots, bobbins, scissors, multiple types of colored  thread, all kinds of grease, oil, and even cans of air.  You name it, and Ralph's has it; if it doesn't have it, it will be ordered.  Customers saunter in and lean on the antiquated glass counter tops that separate them from the clerks, while they check over the bulletin board where folks either advertise themselves or pick up an advertisement from others for jobs, skills, and equipment.  

Beyond the parts department is the machinery that is for sale--both new and re-furbished.  The wooden floors creak, all of it is old, cramped, and ever so homey.  It's a place where blue collar folks congregate to talk about their trades and common interests:  They're all of a same mind, knowledgeable, and proud.

Ralph Badillo, now in his late 70's, still comes in every day.  Irma, his wife, does the books; daughter Peggy runs the shipping and special orders; son Joe is in parts; and younger son Paul invents equipment and has obtained 17 different patents for his inventions that keep the machine shop busy. 

Besides the family, there are the machinists, of course, and then, there is Jack--Mr. Customer Service.  Jack, who sports a handlebar moustache that he waxes once a day, and a gold watch fob with a knife, scissors, and screw driver for adjusting machinery, has degrees in industrial and mechanical engineering with minors in design,  physics, and management.  Before he came to work at Ralph's in 1991,  he spent 20 years traveling around the world setting up different shops and factories, and that is his strength--that, and his ability to win the trust of every customer he meets. 

He not only understands equipment, but he knows where it goes and how to use it; he can set up an entire shop, figuring how many machines to use, which one a customer needs to buy, and how many employees are needed to run the place.  He has become the showman of the company-- he is Mr. Personality, and he definitely knows his stuff.  Jack said it best when he remarked, "I love working at Ralph's because it's a small family business without the corporate nonsense.  If I go on a sales call, I never have to worry.  Everybody here supports each other.  What makes us special to our customers is our advice and our knowledge."

In 1927, Singer Sewing Company had its machine shop for retail and wholesale trade located in Denver, Colorado, a centralized hub for the Rocky Mountain region of the United States.  It did well in the largely open and non-competitive West, but as the years wore on and more shops opened up, Singer's management realized that it needed an expert mechanic who understood machines in more than a basic way; there were too many different kinds of machinery, too many different kinds of things being made. 

Ralph Badillo, already employed by Singer in New York, took the job, and he brought his young family with him, remaining with the firm for several more years.  It was Ralph who, while still with Singer, made all the contacts with the customers, did all the repairs, and knew all the machinery.  He left Singer in 1975, taking his large clientele with him.  He started Ralph's Power Industrial Sewing Machine Company, and went into direct competition with Singer (which was exclusive and would not allow itself to be sold with other sewing machine brands at that time).  Ralph took on machines made by Juki, Brother, Pfaff, and Adler--all fine competitors to Singer.  The Singer shop, realizing it was not able to compete, ultimately gave him the right to sell the Singer machines, too, under the name of Power Sewing of Denver.  It remains that way, today:  Singer is sold under its own company name, but it's all at Ralph's.

Unimaginably enterprising, Ralph sold equipment for every aspect of sewing:  Dressmaking, uniforms, saddlery, interior design, draperies,  upholstery, mattresses, police and fire garments.  There were no limits to what he could do.  He offered on-the-job service with his trucks and mechanics, he offered parts and repairs.  He was unique in his concept of customer service, and he worked the entire western portion of the country.  He also picked up the prisons in multiple states when they began to contract sewing work; wherever there was a machine to be purchased, or one to be repaired, Ralph's was there.

Ralph captured the entire market from California to east of the Mississippi, where he still controls the area.  As time went on, other shops like his either went out of business, or became so specialized that they extinguished themselves.  Ralph's, by diversifying, has remained steady and continues to grow. 

The machine shop was a result of son Paul's genius.  He is basically an inventor with a keen mind and the ability to come up with a solution for just about anything.  Patent after patent, Paul has created attachments for various machines that manufacture such things as soft eyelets for hats, fabric grommets without metal for police and fire shirts, non-metal mattress handles and borders, airbags, automobile covers, collars for dogs and belts for people.   Whatever a company needs, Paul has come up with, and Ralph's machinists create it along with the patent.  "In-house product development is the secret to our success," says Ralph.  "Our solutions require deep technological thought."

 
    Ultimately, Ralph's  has become a contractor and converter of parts for such plants as General Motors, General Electric, Ball Aerospace, Hartz Mountain Pet Supplies,  O'Cedar mops,  the Fuller Brush Company, and Samsonite Luggage.  The best invention is a forever sharp glass blade, co-manufactured with Coors Ceramics, to be used for cutting through thick fabrics such as jeans and mattresses.  What was originally meant for making sewing machine parts, additionally now sells tiny precision items made specifically for satellites, automobiles, university research, and more.

 All of this goes on in the little building across the driveway.  It has also allowed the company to survive during economic downfall and recession.  Interestingly, the apparel business, including uniforms, has become a relatively small part of Ralph's, now.  Says Jack, "Apparel in America basically went out during the '70's and early '80's." 

Today, Ralph's ships all over the world.  It does work in Africa, Canada, Honduras, Argentina, Brazil, England, France, and Germany.   Ralph's has become an institution in American machinery and sewing needs, and sees only a bright future ahead as it continues to diversify and reach out to new customers and trends.

The Finishing Touch: UniformMarketNews.Com

Boilers, presses, and irons in the apparel business are ubiquitous; yet, few people ever think about them or realize how necessary they are.  To press a new garment is an entirely different skill than pressing one that has already had its creases set, its lapels put back, its seams busted, its kick pleat folded in, or its shoulder pads and lining properly aligned with the outside shell.

The Chinese were purportedly the first to use a hot iron to smooth cloth.  Between their putting  metal in pans filled with hot coals, and the Europeans using stones, glass, and wood for smoothing, women around the civilized  world utilized various methods of "ironing."  There were "slickers," "sleekstones," and other shapes such as inverted mushrooms, that would be used to smooth a fabric when the idea of using burning heavy metal (usually iron), wasn't available or desirable.

There were presses for laying out cloth, and stretchers where damp fabrics were held between rollers or "calendars."  But ultimately, during the 19th century, with such inventions as the gas iron (white gasoline was put inside a metal canister with a smooth, flat base, and lit to heat up the metal), and the electric flatiron that was patented in 1882 by Henry W. Seely, the regular practice of smoothing garments professionally, was born.

There are all kinds of irons.  As fashions changed and developed over hundreds and hundreds of years, the irons, themselves, changed to accommodate the types of fabrics, and the need to deal with a particular articles of clothing, or special styles.

The sadiron, or flatiron with 2 pointed ends and a removable handle, is one of the most familiar.  Fluting irons were designed to crimp and press ruffles.  They were also used for collars and cuffs.  Slug irons carried a "slug" of metal inside them, and revolved around the handle so that the part of the iron that touched the fabric was always hot.  These were used for polishing, glossing, or embossing designs onto a fabric.  From these came the tailor's iron, with a heavy top that was forced down upon a bottom--what we call a "buck press," today.

Domestically, housewives and maids were using smaller irons for years, and in truth,  homemakers' needs continue to send a strong message to technology.  General Electric was among the first to produce an electric  iron for household use.  In the 1920's, however, when the boys came home from World War I, technology began to change more rapidly.  America was quickly becoming a world power, and had multiple inventions and patents at its fingertips.  Fulton had invented the steam engine in the 1800's and pairing that with the electric iron, the steam iron was created in the early 1900's.

Initially, fabrics were wet down, then ironed with hot metal irons.  With a steam iron, the hot moisture allowed wrinkles to be pressed out of a garment in one step, also dampening it so that pressed-in creases and perfected finishes without scorching were possible.  It wasn't until the 1950's that pressing equipment became both steam and electric, so that one or the other could be used.   Now, it is computer driven as well. 

Within the manufacturing industry, the steam iron-- and subsequently steam presses--made ready-to-wear clothing possible.  With the changing world of technology, with ever-increasing ready-to-wear garments, with the advent of dry-cleaning and laundering facilities,  presses allowed men and women to have their garments neatly made, purchased, and worn so that they kept their appearance for years.

There are all kinds of presses: Collar, shoulder, shirting, cuff, hat, buck presses in all sizes for coats and larger garments, the Suzy-Q presses for dresses, and more.  These presses are either run manually or by computer. 

The more powerful and multiple the presses, the larger the boiler has to be to run them.  Compressors are used, but ultimately, the steam boilers are there to drive the equipment with anywhere from 10-300 horsepower, or with multiple boilers of smaller power, such as three 50 horsepower boilers.  They are enormously powerful, and a large manufacturing plant can spend up to $100,000 on its boiler system.  In the past, any boiler over 30 horsepower had to have a fulltime person on staff to supervise the machinery, it was that dangerous.  Today, the equipment is built with multiple safeguards, so that most boilers can be maintained by the owners, themselves.

The majority of presses and boilers are made in Italy or in Asia.  American made items are all but gone.  It used to be that American machinery was built out of steel and cast iron and made to last 50-100 years.  Hoffman, Ajax, and Sisal were such companies.  Now, all that remain of them are parts and service replacement dealers.  Old machines are still better than any new items on the market that are only built to last 10-15 years.  These are less expensive, easier to maintain, largely computerized and electronic, but they're quickly outdated with no replaceable parts.  Make no mistake:  A modern press can cost $7,000 - $40,000, and that doesn't count installation, parts, service, or building the room to put it in.

It used to be that fabrics were made from all natural fibers, and the presses accommodated them.  Everything was about precision and quality.  Today, quality is not the primary goal; economy is.  If a company can purchase a throw-away press that can do the job cheaper and faster so that more garments can be pressed at a time, there is less overhead; hence, more profit.  The shops that have the old manual presses--the steam presses without multiple garment capacity-- will ultimately be outshone by companies who press more rapidly, if not quite as well or expertly.

Dennis Trotter of D&R Enterprises, who has been in the business for almost 40 years says, "The primary change in the pressing industry is that fabrics have changed so much.  With technology, there are permanent press, wrinkle free finishes.  There are many fabrics that don't need to be dry-cleaned; people can do their clothes at home, throwing them in the dryer or hanging them up to dry.  Items don't even need to be pressed upon being manufactured."  It will be interesting to see where the future of the pressing industry will go--forward with newer and more highly developed, expendable equipment, or increasingly discontinued as more advanced technology develops fabrics that have no need of presses, at all.