"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.

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.

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.

Gentleman's Agreement: A Disappearing Trend: UniformMarketNews.com

"So many things have changed," Dave Hindlemann reflects. "It used to be a handshake was a man's word. Now, it's lawyers and contracts – cut and dried. The personal element is missing."  (“Made to Measure Magazine," Spring/Summer, 1997).

If you’ve been talking with your colleagues lately, or even if you’ve been involved personally, you’ve probably noticed that our society has changed when it comes to the way in which it does business.  Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac aside, credit crunch and housing markets, too, the uniform industry has been hit with the same kinds of changes in ethical behavior—not only from customers, but from our own small family of apparel manufacturers and suppliers.

More and more, companies are refusing to lend credit, expecting prompt payments with 50% down and balance prepaid before delivery.  More and more customers find themselves short and not wanting to pay their bills, no matter how loyal they’ve been in the past.  Return authorizations are being required from corporations that heretofore accepted merchandise sent back as a matter of courtesy: Good will is no longer the name of the game.  One or two bad customers can shift more friendly relaxed business policies away from good will, towards harsh, stiff penalties. 

Companies that have previously been referred to as being legitimate have no qualms about writing out contracts or purchase orders, and reneging on them without blinking an eye.   Jobbers who buy and sell goods are paradigm.  They offer rock bottom prices, insist the selling customer wrap and label every bolt of fabric (costing hundreds of dollars in labor), change the terms as much as two or three times, and then feel free drop the contract, altogether, knowing that a lawsuit against them would cost the aggrieved party far more than any sale would be worth.  A legal piece of paper means little.

Leading suppliers in the industry find themselves being “stiffed” over and over and over again as manufacturers drive their businesses into the ground, bankrupting themselves rather than closing up before their accounts can be paid.  It’s not one supplier; it’s not one manufacturer; that’s the tragedy of it.  It’s become a trend.  It’s almost as though one’s fellow human being doesn’t matter any more.  When President Harry Truman said, “The buck stops here, he was referring to responsibility—fiscal and otherwise—not his inside pockets.

Commission sales?  Repeat sales?  Whatever happened to customer loyalty?  Whatever happened to a vendor calling on loyal customers?  Whatever happened to salespeople respecting colleagues’ territories?  Whatever happened to companies who used to sell strictly wholesale, but have decided additionally to sell retail, and also undercut their own sales forces by going direct to the customer with a cheaper price than a salesman could offer?

Whatever happened to identity companies that used to make their money solely on embroidery or screen printing—that now sell garments at cost to retail customers in addition, so that the uniform companies have to struggle to compete with those on whom they once depended for wholesale service?

Sound like a lot of whining?  No.  It’s about business ethics:  Respect for one’s fellow, and genuine love of a game that includes the players as well as the rewards.

Women are treated shamefully.  One woman who owned a contract shop first had to bring in her father to gain respect, and then her husband.  The irony is that her 50+ employees are 99% women.  It’s not only about men, but women themselves don’t respect other women as leaders in our industry.  Another smart, savvy gal with whom I spoke waxed philosophical and said that one must be tolerant, bite the bullet and keep one’s mouth shut, not stooping to the level of those who insult people merely because of their gender.  Sounds stoic and mature.  Not so easy to do. 

There was the company who lifted all the drawings from one website to its own, copyright laws aside.  It wasn’t about a link.  The kicker is that the one company was actually doing business with the other at the time of the thievery.   How sad that in such a small and close group of professionals such as ours, each business—mostly small in size, as we struggle to band together to survive  offshore manufacturing that is biting at our heels—has to sleep with one eye open, so to speak. 

Independent contractors are often of a dubious sort at best:  Deadlines and quality control are mysteries left unsolved until the work is turned in.   One can only hope.  

Still and all, it must be said that there are the good guys, too.  What’s encouraging, it isn’t about age.  One might think would be.  There are younger people and older people who are kind, disciplined, and principled; a part of old school values.  Make no mistake that such is the case.

Vendors pitch in to help one another in a tight spot, all the time.  And it’s swell.   However, it’s not about whole companies or general policies any more.  It’s not common practice, but rather the exception to the rule.  People are nice, people take an interest.  But the reality is our industry is so besieged by offshore pressures and survival tactics, the real people who matter often get lost in the shuffle.  That’s what’s sad.


The important thing is that when you go home, you want to be able to sleep at night.  If your approach and behavior toward your customers and colleagues are quite literally the same as those with which you would want them to treat you, then you know you’re on the right path.  If not, perhaps you need to make some changes.   There’s nothing wrong with being competitive or wanting to win the sale.  But there’s a tragedy if it’s at human expense when the price is good will, trust, respect, integrity, and responsibility. 

Ragtime Cowboy Joe: UniformMarketNews.com

I’d like to say a few words about the cowboy shirt, (or perhaps I could hum a few bars if I were a Country Western singer).  For many, this particular item may be somewhat unfamiliar—either because one grew up in a part of the country that doesn’t have cowboys, or because one is just too young to have been exposed to the culture of the Old West.  But for those who do remember Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, and Gene Autry, they can readily acknowledge that the cowboy shirt is as much a part of our American heritage as those cattle punchers, themselves.

The actual garment, as it is today, was developed by Jack A. Weil, who came to Colorado in 1928, and eventually perfected a shirt that appealed to the modest income of the men who worked the open range.  Certainly, there were men herding cattle long before Weil, and who continued to do so even as the legend of the Wild West was coming to a close—a result of the settlers who came in droves. But Weil is the one credited with giving the official shirt its modern-day appearance.  As he said, the West is a state of mind: It didn’t have a specific place or time; he built on that concept, with the myth being more prominent than the reality.   

It was Weil who put snaps on the garments, for example, instead of buttons:  A snap couldn’t be torn off by barbed wire fences, a cowpoke was not going to sew on a missing button, and a steer couldn’t catch its horn in the button hole.  The broad yoke across the shoulders tended to make a man look larger, stronger; the tighter upper arms gave the appearance of bigger muscles, so that the cowboy tended to look as heroic as the legends that were written about him.  The sawtooth scalloped pockets kept tobacco pouches inside: Whereas a standard pocket was too open, these had flaps that snapped shut. Wide, snug cuffs kept dirt, campfires, and critters at bay.

The garments were worn regularly by presidents such as Johnson and Reagan, movie stars such as Elvis Presley and Robert Redford, and everyday folks just like you and me—cattlemen and city slickers alike.  Certainly, they became a part of the giant entertainment industry, whether it was “Gunsmoke,” “The Rifleman,” or “True Grit”—radio, television, and film.

So what, you ask, does all this have to do with uniforms?  Everything.  The whole purpose of the uniform is to set a person apart by defining his separate and unique role from the surrounding milieu.  It’s about identity.  It’s about sameness within a range of variation: Everyone who wears a uniform dresses alike, but stands for or is doing something different from those who are not wearing that very same clothing. 

The cowboy shirt thrusts an individual into a different culture, a different time period, and a different place from where he would ordinarily and otherwise be.  Yet, every cowboy can easily identify with all of the other cowboys because they have the same cowboy dress and the same cowboy values.  There is a sense of unity that is strongly present.

The everyday cowboy shirt, made of chambray, denim, a cotton flannel, cotton or a poly-cotton, is what is most commonly worn. They come in stripes, plaids, checks, solids, calicoes, and prints.  Referred to as work uniforms, the cowboy styling can be seen on the open range, or the plains behind a tractor.  It can be seen at the gas station, the repair shop, at the grocery store, or in church on a Sunday morning.  Many folks prefer the tighter western cut pants and the western-styled shirts to the standard cuts and looser fits.

Using the cowboy shirt for performances, it becomes a costume, but a uniform, nevertheless.  Everyone matches, basically does the same thing, and is set apart from the greater whole.  The great cowboy shirt designers, such as Turk and Nudie were extraordinary in their day—when legends such as Tom Mix, Rex Allen and the rest were all great idols who represented independent, rough-riding Americans. 

These shirts were and are still made with hand-set rhinestones, custom applied braid and cording, and embroidery discs that are thirty-forty thousand stitches per disc, with as many as six discs per shirt.  They’re made of heavy polyester, poly-wool, or charmeuse and satin fabrics, and cost upward of $500 per garment.  In and of themselves, they are works of art.

But make no mistake: When you watch the Rose Bowl parade or go to the state fairs; when you attend the National Western Stock Show in Denver, or follow the rodeos around the country; when you go to Nashville, or watch the round-up’s in Wyoming and the Northwest; if you travel to the Southwest or to National Park country; if you encounter a state patrol or the sheriff, you’ll see cowboy shirts.  

It’s a sad passing that the cowboy shirt isn’t as ubiquitous as it used to be, because it stands for a part of the American character and time that is becoming less and less of a presence.  It stands for American values that, like the shirt itself, are unique during all the history of civilization.   Pragmatic, practical, innovative, remarkable, stylish in an uncompromising and non-traditional way: That’s the American cowboy shirt, that’s the West that it represents, and that is the fiber of our nation.

       

Dave Hindlemann, 1916-2006: Obituary for Made To Measure Magazine

We are losing the irreplaceable generation of heroes who helped make our country and our world a better place.  Americans born in the first decades of the last century are largely responsible for one of the most incredible periods in human history. Everyone pitched in and did his/her proud part to enrich the fiber of our nation. People were not afraid of work; success was by the sweat of the brow.  Dave Hindlemann epitomized this irreplaceable World War II generation:  Idealistic, striving--a robust group of men and women--Rosie the Riveter, GI Joe, and Uncle Sam; the remarkable disciplined vigor that made our country the best and the brightest.

In 1916 New York City, where a kid made a living by the seat of his pants, Dave Hindlemann, entrepreneur, began at the age of 10 by juggling 3 paper routes and an elementary school career.  Whether it was his first bicycle, a Model T Ford with a crank which he bought for $50, or his upgrade to a roadster with a gear shift and a rumble seat, Dave always paid his own way.  He grew up in Mount Vernon, NY, where his dad was a contractor in the garment business.  The Wall Street crash with its domino effect destroyed elder Harry’s own career when his clients went bankrupt.

The family headed West.  Dave abandoned his full scholarship in engineering at Syracuse University, apprenticing with his father in a small Denver-based clothing factory, instead.  Working by day, coaching at a rec center and taking business courses at night, six-feet four-inch 20 year-old Dave Hindlemann started his first company in 1936, Pioneer Wholesale Tailors (later Bell Tailors). 

“I’ve never regretted owning my own business,” Dave emphasized.  “I never go to sleep at night worrying that the next morning some executive will tell me my job has been abolished.”  For many years, it was one of the best known local suiting stores, and when the War came, it was requisitioned by the US government to manufacture military uniforms. 

Dave served in Europe under General George S. Patton.  He was an acting major when the War ended, and he distinguished himself by earning two bronze stars, an oak leaf cluster, and letters of commendation for his bravery in battle.

Subsequently, he was commissioned by the Allied Forces to go to Germany, where he was put in charge of the garment factories that made clothing for the newly released concentration camp prisoners.  He joked that the garments were made in 2 sizes:  too big, and too small. 

 

When 1946 came, the soldiers returned home—not to proprietous pinstripe suits, but to open-collar shirts, slacks, and sport-coats: custom tailoring for the masses had become a thing of the past.

Dave adapted the wartime uniforms his company had made to marching bands, parochial schools, and ceremonial groups.  His firm became one of the larger band uniform houses in the country as he converted from the cost-prohibitive woolens to the new technology of synthetics, and as his tailoring shop became a factory of mass-production:  Five or six tailors mushroomed to 50 or 60 sewing professionals. 

For those individuals who couldn’t or didn’t want to come into the shop to work, he set up contract agreements for sewing professionals who worked in their homes—a good 30 years before “outsourcing” and “contractors” were considered viable means of labor.  Bell Tailors became Bell Manufacturing Co.  “Flexibility is everything“ Dave noted.  “If you can’t change with the times, you get left behind.”

In 1981, he turned 65 and he gave up the high overhead and stresses of operating a large factory, downsizing to a smaller shop and staff— Custom Uniform Company—again modifying as budgets for band uniforms got smaller and society changed focus.

 

Today, after 23 years in partnership with his daughter, Deb Webster, Dave’s “smaller” business is more challenging than ever.  All styles of custom-designed garments are manufactured for national distribution as cut & sew, private label, and under the Custom Uniform Co. label.  Inventory also includes ready-to-wear garments when a customer desires a more generic item.

He used to say, “I like being a big fish in a small pond.  We can make small quantities, lots of different things.  It’s fun.  Having fun is more important than making the most money.  If you don’t enjoy coming to work every day, you’ll never be a success at what you do.”

Married for over 59 years, Dave and his wife, Phyllis, had 3 children and 4 grandchildren.  Without hesitation he stated, “Family has always been first.  Even in the early years I always tried to make time for my family.” 

Proud that his business would succeed him, Dave felt that his greatest impact had been the production of a quality product.  “We’ve always had very conscientious quality control.  Delivering a good product to the customer, learning as much as I can about things as I go: that matters to me.  I like to learn from people, ideas, and products.”

He had an engineer’s mind, and he used it to manufacture garments for over 70 years by drafting patterns and creating high quality garments.  He helped to set the standards for men’s suiting, for the military, and for band uniforms that are still maintained today.  As one colleague said of him when he was in his 80’s, “Dave has forgotten more than most people knew in the first place.” 

“So many things have changed,” Dave would reflect.  “It used to be a handshake was a man’s word.  Now, it’s about contracts and money—cut and dried.  The personal element is missing.  I’m fascinated by all the technological developments, but I sometimes question our priorities and our values—that objects have become more important than people.”

Dave Hindlemann worked 5.5 days a week and he stayed present in the shop until age 90 when he passed away in November, 2006.  “When a wise man dies, a library burns to the ground.”

Profiles of Entrepeneurs/Corsair Neckwear: Made To Measure Magazine

Bob Martin & Robby Martin

Born in 1921 New Orleans, Bob Martin began his career with neckties at age 18. His dream had been to be an airplane pilot (fulfilled during World War II); by the time he graduated from high school, however, Bob decided a steady income on the ground offered a more secure future. He needed a job.

In 1939, he took a position with Wembley—the largest in the world of over 400 tie manufacturers. For 9 years, Martin learned the business from the ground up. Eventually, he headed the cutting department. He was so proficient, the general manager/vice-president of Wembley left that factory with the intent of starting his own shop, asking Bob to run the new plant for him.

Corsair Neckwear began in 1948. At no time has the Martin family owned Corsair; yet, Bob and his son, Robby, have dedicated their lives to its on-going success.

The original owner, deceased in 1971, left the business to his 3 sons who continue to be the sole partners. Management of the plant remains under Martin’s supervision. “When I left Wembley, I knew how to manufacture and sell ties. When I took over Corsair, I also became a mechanic and an engineer,” reflects the soft-spoken Southern gentleman.

The first home for Corsair was above a bar in New Orleans’ French Quarter. Martin and 10 employees kept the business afloat. When the bar unexpectedly caught fire, Corsair burned along with it. Hanging on by a thread, Bob and his crew started again, this time at the old Magazine Street address, sequestered between the French Quarter and the Mississippi River. Stabilized, the company began to grow.

Now, with over 30 employees, Corsair has spent the last several years in its newer 9,000 sq. ft. building on Elysian Fields Avenue. “We’ve never been a giant, but we’ve held on,” says Bob. Thinking over his 58 years in the business—50 with his wife, 4 children and their families—he recalls surviving society’s radical changes effecting the neckwear industry: Nehru jackets, golf, and stand-collar shirts.

“Sometimes, my wife only saw me once a week. It was a different world, then. I had to be a workaholic to survive. If I did a task myself, it held expenses down. A job was for a lifetime, part of a person’s identity.” Bob still goes to work every day. “When I can’t get out of bed any more, I’ll know it’s time to retire,” he chuckles. “Now, I spend more time with my family, and I enjoy the Blackjack tables at the casinos.”

What Martin contributed to Corsair is its survival. While he contentedly leaves the future to Robby, Bob knows that the presently existing success of the business is due to his own initial efforts and commitment. What was once a flourishing industry has dwindled to 75-80 manufacturers of neckwear in the world market. By selling through catalogues rather than expensive commissioned sales-reps., continual communication with customers, staying within a fairly conservative, unchanging market—uniform and career ties—Corsair has held its own.

“If a person wants to succeed in business, he or she needs to work hard, and be competitive. Try everything you can,” emphasizes Bob. “Remember that most ladies and gentlemen are fine people. Don’t compromise their trust or your values.”

Bob Martin, easy-going and comfortable with the standards he has set for himself over the years, continues to “look in all directions, take my time, hold down my costs, expand my sales. And have a lot of faith in people.”

Robby Martin shares many of his father’s characteristics. He readily admits that his dad is his hero. 38 years old, a high school graduate who prefers working with his hands to reading a textbook, Rob has grown up in New Orleans with the same warm, people-oriented values.

Conversant, open, self-appraising in contrast to Bob’s more formal, objective approach, Robby gushes about his wife, Jill, and their 2 children. “Family is my priority. I have to enjoy myself,” he says in the slow drawl which reveals the gentleness of the Old South. “My thoughts are always going in so many directions. My mind is like a circus.”

Robby is definite about not being a workaholic—lists golf, fishing, close friends as valuable parts of his life. “I have good common sense, I do a good job to the degree it has to be done. But I love to punch out—mentally and physically.”

In the business for the last 10 years, Rob has learned a lot from his dad. Even though Rob now manages the company, he admits his dad is the bottom-line expert; yet, it doesn’t intimidate Robby. Rather, Bob taught Robby to think for himself. “I never forget that I can be wrong, that it’s my responsibility either way.”

What Rob has added to Corsair is his personal relationship with employees and customers. “We are discarding some things, adding others,” deliberates Rob, “in order to get the business closer to its possibilities, achieve its ceiling. Computers and the Internet are very important. We are expanding 1 step at a time. Is it good or bad? I don’t know. I don’t have big goals.”

Robby supports off-shore manufacturing, as long as labor conditions are ethical. “America is not superior—countries should work together as one; export/import laws must be respected, fair.”

He admits stiff competition makes it harder and harder to survive. He is not a supporter of Affirmative Action. “People should compete on the basis of what they do, not what they are. Equal rights go both ways—no discrimination against or for.”

The biggest changes Rob Martin has seen at Corsair Neckwear have been in the area of marketing; both with technology and public relations. “Whatever it takes, I need to change with the times if I want to compete. My customers are my most important product. I always try to be genuine; just tell it like it is. I never try to take advantage of anyone.”

Profiles of The Twentieth Century: Made To Measure Magazine

Americans born in the first decades of this century are largely responsible for one of the most incredible periods in human history. Everyone pitched in, did his/her proud part to enrich the fiber of our nation. People were not afraid of work; success was by sweat of the brow.

We are losing that generation of heroes who helped make our country and our world a better place. Beginning with this issue, Made to Measure would like to honor those individuals still with us who built the uniform industry into what it is today.

David Cahn: M.J. Cahn Co., Inc.

In the late 1800’s, David Cahn, prominent New York synagogue cantor, decided that his 13 year old son, Moses Jacob, would never go into music—it was an unsteady profession. He apprenticed the boy to an uncle in woolens. Despite his love for music and a degree in musicology, Moses Cahn took his father’s advice: After partnership, his own firm, the stock market crash of 1929 and a tough comeback, he founded M.J. Cahn Co., Inc. in 1933. He sold woolen suiting ends.

David Cahn, born in 1917, graduated from City College of New York with Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in accounting and business administration at the age of 19.

Like his father and grandfather, he loved the arts and humanities most. “Being a history professor would have been my first choice,” mused David, “but times were very hard then, and who could make a living off of knowing the things I knew? Today, I watch Jeopardy. I’m good at it.”

Moses Cahn wanted young David to go with Standard Oil—a large, prestigious firm—anything but the “shmatah” business. But David took his first job with Macy’s. A couple of weeks before he was to start, however, he offered to give “Pop” some extra help. That was the end of Standard Oil, and R.H. Macy.

What the elder Cahn had begun, David refined, organized, expanded. From the modest start in a rented office on old 4th Avenue, piece goods were added, the ends done away with; more employees were hired, and 2 moves later M.J. Cahn now resides in its own 50,000 sq. ft. building--warehouse and offices combined.

Men’s and women’s suiting declined, woolen mills dried up and gave way to synthetics and cottons, the Woolen Jobbers Assn. dropped from 125 to less than 10: Cahn adapted with the changes. He brought in different fabrics, and diversified his clientele.

When he returned from his 5 years in Europe during World War II, demands of the clothing business had changed. “Seasonable,” and “stylish” were replacing terms like “continuity,” “steadiness,” “always-in-demand.” The latter had a secure and familiar ring; the shift from street-wear to uniforms was made.

David states, “The greatest impact I have had on my business is to hire the right people. I pay them very well, and I make certain they are people on their way up. We grow and climb the ladder of success together.” His 2 partners, Tom Leahy (formerly of JP Stevens), and David’s son, Dan, complete the corporate structure. A small, culturally diverse staff works closely together for quick service and same-day delivery.

David Cahn and his second wife, Jean, boast 2 children and 5 grandchildren. He speaks 5 languages, which have been of great assistance in his trade of goods. “I’m not a bad salesman,” he adds, “and I have a nice way with people.”

He’s a player of chess and bridge, enjoys wood-working, and music. If he’s not listening to classical, he’s pumping out showtunes himself on his piano.

“The business will survive me because we’ve changed with the times, and because I’ve chosen the right people to succeed me. I have no intention of retiring, says the 79 year-old Cahn. Why should I? I enjoy what I do, and it gives me great pleasure to watch and help other people on the way up.” Leahy remarked, “David’s been wonderful—he’s like my own father.”

When asked how he had changed over the years, David smiled, “I’m a modest person. It’s important to be modest. People who are successful should always be modest. As the years have gone by, I’ve become more modest. And more confident.”

Dave Hindlemann: Bell Mfg. Co. & Custom Uniform Co.

1916 New York City, where a kid made a living by the seat of his pants. Dave Hindlemann, entrepreneur, began at the age of 10, juggling 3 paper routes and an elementary school career. Whether it was his first bicycle, his Model T Ford with a crank which he bought for $50, or his upgrade to a roadster with a gear shift and a rumble seat, Dave always paid his own way. He grew up in Mount Vernon, NY where his dad was a contractor in the garment business. The Wall Street crash, with its domino effect, destroyed elder Harry’s own career when his clients went bankrupt.

The family headed West. Dave abandoned his hopes for a future in engineering or law, apprenticing with his father in a small Denver-based clothing factory. He earned his Bachelor’s degree in accounting from the University of Denver. Working by day and learning at night, 20 year-old Dave Hindlemann started his first company, Bell Tailors, in 1936. “I’ve never regretted owning my own business,” Dave states. “I never go to sleep at night worrying that the next morning some executive will tell me my job has been abolished.”

Dave’s success allowed him to bring his parents, sister and brother into his own business. He saw to it while he was in Europe for 3.5 years during the War, that the company continued by converting its skills to the manufacture of military uniforms.

1945 came; the boys returned home—not to proprietous pinstripe suits, but to open-collar shirts, slacks, and sport-coats. Custom tailoring for the masses had become a thing of the past.

Dave adapted the military uniforms made during the War, this time for marching bands, parochial schools, and ceremonial groups. He converted from the cost-prohibitive wools to the new technology of synthetics. His tailoring shop became a factory of mass-production: Five or six tailors mushroomed to 50 or 60 sewers. Bell Tailors became Bell Manufacturing Co.

In 1981, he was offered a buy-out, readily gave up the high overhead and the stresses of operating a large factory, went back to a smaller staff and shop, again modifying as the baby-boomers graduated from school, and budgets for band uniforms got smaller. “Flexibility is everything in the manufacturing business,“ he notes. “If you can’t change with the times, you get left behind.”

Today, after 15 years in partnership with his daughter, Deb, Dave’s “smaller” business, Custom Uniform Co., Inc. is bigger, more challenging than ever. All types of custom-designed garments are manufactured for national distribution under private label and under the Custom Uniform label; he complements his inventory with ready-made uniforms when a customer desires a more generic style and fabric.

“I like being a big fish in a small pond. We can make small quantities, lots of different things. It’s fun. Having fun is more important than making the most money. If you don’t enjoy coming to work every day, you’ll never be a success at what you do.”

Married for 50 years, Dave and his wife, Phyllis, have 3 children and 3 grand-children. He states without hesitation, “Family has always been first. Even in the early years I always tried to make time for my family.”

Dave insists that he is retired. “Retirement means doing what you want to do. I love to work, travel, read, enjoy my family. I’m doing all of those things, so I guess I’m retired.” At the age of 80, he still works 6 days a week.

Proud that his business will succeed him, Dave feels that his greatest impact has been the production of a quality product. “We’ve always had a very conscientious quality control. Delivering a good product to the customer, learning as much as I can about things as I go, that matters to me. I like to learn from people, ideas, and products.” “Dave knows so much, he has forgotten more than most people know,” chuckles Evelyn Hart, his foreman for 27 years.

“So many things have changed,” Dave Hindlemann reflects. “It used to be a handshake was a man’s word. Now, it’s lawyers and contracts—cut and dried. The personal element is missing. I’m fascinated by all the technological developments, but I sometimes question our priorities and our values—if objects have become more important than people.”

Lloyd Hamburger: Hamburger Woolen Co. / HWC Police

Tough, caring, pragmatic Lloyd Hamburger was born in 1928 Brooklyn. He, his brother and sister, went through the public school system in New York. Lloyd’s father started his own business after working for a cap manufacturer. He realized that people enjoyed “one-stop-shopping:” If a man bought a cap, he generally needed the uniform to go with it; the same goods which could make a cap could make a uniform, too.

Hamburger Woolen Co. sells and distributes fabric for the uniform and career apparel trade. When Lloyd was a kid, his only desire was to go to work with his dad. Every holiday, every vacation, the boy was working for his father—from the shipping department up. He was not allowed to join the firm, however, until he had a college education; hence, a degree in business administration from the University of Florida. Still, Lloyd is adamant. “There’s nothing like experience. Schooling is OK, but experience is worth its weight in gold.”

Hamburger got out of school in 1950, and was sent to the Korean Conflict where he served for 2 years. “It was the most valuable experience of my life,” emphasizes Lloyd. “My experience in the Army made me who I am today. My ghetto upbringing didn’t prepare me for the real world. In the Army, I had to learn to get along with all types.”

Finally, with school and the service behind him, he was ready to do what he wanted most: Enter the family business. His father suddenly died 3 months later; Lloyd was more on his own than he had anticipated. “My father left me his customers and his support. But I had the desire,” said Lloyd. “I took it from there.”

With the same concept that his father used to sell goods to accompany caps, Lloyd Hamburger began to sell police equipment to accompany the goods for law enforcement uniforms. “We now sell all over the world,” he admits proudly.

“Timing and ‘mazel’ are everything. You can be the best, the brightest, the most interesting, but if you’re not in the right place at the right time—if you don’t have good luck on your side, forget it.”

Married for over 46 years, Hamburger and his wife, Judy, have raised 3 daughters, and now have 7 “delicious” grandchildren. “I absolutely adore my family,” he insists. Daughter, Ilene agrees. “What we missed with him, he has more than made up with his grandchildren.”

He does not consider himself a workaholic, but admits than when he was younger, he spent a tremendous amount of time with the business. “It wasn’t that I couldn’t stop working,” Lloyd emphasized. “I just did what I had to do, and in those days, it took a lot of time and travel.”

Ilene has joined Hamburger Woolen Co. which now has a large warehouse / office facility on Long Island, moving out of the City after 55 years. The company prides itself on same-day delivery and service, shipping within 48 hours. Continuity and durability are the criteria for the fabric which it sells. “My father taught me the importance of personal service. I maintain that with our customers,” said Lloyd.

Insisting that retirement is what other people do, 69 year-old Hamburger spends one day a week with his grandchildren. His most recent commitment was a second-grade poetry recital with his grand-daughter. “I love fresh-water fishing, tennis, travel. Most of all, I love to watch the faces of my grand-children,” he says with as much vigor as he describes the success of his business.

Asked what he has contributed most to the business, Lloyd says without hesitation that it’s his sincerity and his personality. “When a customer comes to me, he knows exactly what he’s going to get. I don’t disappoint him and that makes me feel very good. I never forget that without the customer, I wouldn’t be here.”