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.

Fuzz Bucket 3: The Extreme Makeover

When Sydney arrived,  he was 9.6 pounds of loose skin and bones.  Completely shaved, he had no whiskers, eyelashes, or fur of any kind, other than his scraggly long tail, and the hair that covered his short floppy ears.  (The previous owners shaved rather than bathed him whenever he got dirty.) His bald skin was pink, with grey patches here and there  The epidermis from the end of his nostrils, was a mottled brown/black/pink affair that was denuded and raw all the way from the tip of his nose up his snoot until  it reached the bridge by his eyes.  The eyes themselves, were bulging and brown, protruding  from his head like large marbles in smooth sand.  "Ugly" would  not have been inappropriate to describe him.

I spent the following six months staring at the poor beast from this perspective or that, as I concocted just how he was going to look once there were enough hairs that could be trimmed into something sensible. Clearly, any love I would have for him was conditional; directly proportionate to the amount of fur that hopefully would grow.  Thus began the vigil, not unlike watching grass grow, or paint dry on a wall, measuring at 1/16th inch per day.  I brushed and combed, pulled and stretched, convinced that the beast was actually becoming both lovable and lookable.

Slowly,  it  became obvious that Syd was indeed filling in with fur, and filling out in shape.  He was put on a decent diet, his teeth cleaned and pulled where loose, and given a fortune's worth of pills, shots and tests as demonstrated by all the tags that were attached to his collar.  I only knew for sure that he had miniature poodle in him, but was convinced that he was not a purebred, despite what the previous owner had told me.

One week, I imagined he was part cocker spaniel; another, I knew he had to be a dwarfed golden retriever; no, this time I was certain--Sydney was definitely a Jack Russell terrier mix...  With each surmisal, I read voraciously about this breed or that, comparing breed characteristics with the emerging personality that Sydney had begun to display as he became more comfortable in his new surroundings.  Understanding that he was safe at last had made a tremendous difference (his roommates in the past had been a Rottweiler, German shepherd, pit bull, and a chow).  Observing him discover himself reminded me of the old quiz show, What's My Line?  I even read a book about Chihuahuas, in spite of the fact that since frightening encounters with them as a child, I could not stand that particular breed.   Fervently, I wanted him to be a Lhasa Apso.  However, I was running out of shelf space for dog books, and my curiosity was getting the better of me:  I had him tested genetically.

Eventually, I discovered that he was the offspring of two purebred breeds; he was a first generation mix of miniature poodle (which I had been told), and alas, part...dare I admit this in public?--Chihuahua.   I figure the  father was the smaller of the two breeds; the mother must've been the poodle.

I bathed him every two weeks, with the vet's blessing.  I hoped that as his fur grew, the warm water would stretch out each hair, so that it would grow faster and longer. Whether it did or not, I cannot say.  His collar  fits him, and he is proud of it.   To this day, when I remove his collar for any reason, there is a wistful look about Sydney, as if to say, "Don't you want me?  Did I do something wrong?  Are you going to give me way like all the others did?"  Not a chance.

Then began the Search.  Toys were first--I was told that Sydney did not play, instead, just ate or slept.  I got him a fuzzy squeaky toy: A fox.  Just to see.  Hah!  He and the fox have a wild time of it just about every evening.  I purchased a skunk and  raccoon, too.  There is one on each floor of the house, and at the shop.  It's all he needs, accompanied by pizzle sticks (bull penises) for a hearty gnaw.  He is delighted.

The collar, as mentioned earlier, was a struggle.  I tried about eight different colors on the then pink animal.   This one was too bright, that one blended too well.  This one wasn't good with his fur; the other one was more showy than the hound.  Finally, I settled on a bright, snappy red.  Red leash, harness, collar.  It was perfect.  To be truthful, Sydney bears a distinct resemblance to my grandmother, Elizabeth.  So help me, the expressions and the facial features are similar enough to wonder if earlier in time, the two were related, or if Syd is indeed my Grandmother reincarnated.

The wardrobe is mostly for Fall/Winter, other than a Spring rain slicker.  He has multiple outfits--some for holidays, most for seasonal wear.  He's an autumn, color wise: He needs strong, fallish colors but not pale.  He is pale, you know, so we want to contrast, not compare.  No white.  No greens other than olive.  Reds have to be slightly to the more golden tones, rather than blued (burgundies are best because they carry brown).  Not white, grey, orchid or pink.  Augh!  Terrible.

I want you to know that Sydney Hates his wardrobe.  He looks like a million dollars to my way of thinking; to his, it's about looking like a "pussy" in front of the other dogs down the block.  He would rather freeze.  Which he certainly does.  However, he and I have come to an agreement: He only has to wear the outfits when it's less than 45 degrees, and never inside.  We have made a pact, and as these last days have been below zero, he is finding that it's not all bad to sally forth in couture fashions.

The day finally arrived for a haircut.  It took six months for Sydney to begin to be presentable.  The groomer gave him my favorite "full teddy" do.  His ears have grown longer, his tail has filled out, his body, now smartly snipped 1/2", is wavy and strawberry blonde with large patches of white that blend.  The fur is more wavy than curly, more like an alpaca's than a dog's.  It is incredibly soft.  The bulging eyes are now recessed into the thick muzzle of a nose.  Brownish epidermis that once showed up to his eyes, is now covered with soft blonde fur.  The ears and tail are deeper in hue, approaching apricot.

Sydney remains alert and wary of strangers, which I encourage.  However, once he is reassured, he is their friend.  He talks--it doesn't sound at all like a dog's voice--and can sit or dance upon request or desire.  He is the master of his home, and his people.  He is constantly on guard to insure our safety.  We go everywhere together: Inside and outside. Rest assured that he is a gentleman, does not pee or poop indoors, and knows his job is to be silent when I'm working or with others. Best of all, when something is not to his liking, Sydney groans.  I am convinced that he is a Jewish dog; Oy is one of his favorite words.

Fuzz Bucket 2: The Assessment

Having done due diligence, the nurse had finished her day and left the dog with me.  Rid of him, she had deposited his luggage on the floor: A soiled polar bear rug with a roaring stuffed head, and a black throw-away plastic dish with a handful of dry food left over from whatever was on sale.  There was a leash of sorts, and an old collar made of royal blue nylon with heavy chain.   A pit bull could've worn it adequately, it was that big. Finally, there was the creature she had left behind, who hung his head under the metal weight of the collar, as though his neck was a disconnect from the rest of the quivering body.

At once, I resolved to purchase everything new for him, my eyes rolling at the impending expense.  I called for an appointment with Liberty's vet from many years earlier, and as our first afternoon together began to become evening, I started to study this beast in earnest. What at first might have seemed to be a menacing malcontent, became picture of sadness. He lay there, not a friend in the world; his only connection with familiarity, vanished. Precariously parked on top of the chair, watching the door and waiting for an opportunity to go home, he stayed there well into the night.  Watching, waiting, wondering.  What now...

As early evening began to approach, my Prince Charming stopped by for our after-work time together.  Himself, a dog aficionado acquainted with multiple breeds, the Prince entered through the door that was currently being kept under keen observation, slowly circling the dark green chair as he evaluated the beast on its top.  Quietly, steadily, Prince made himself a drink, went to his own chair across the room, and sat down.  He didn't say a word, moving like stealth, so as not to frighten the creature.  The dog, with a growl in his throat yet with no one to defend or protect, was silent.  Prince looked at the beast and watched him watching himself.  The two males were sizing up one another.

Attending to every sound, every move, the animal focused.  Still, he never left his perch on top of the chair, and like a large bleached rat, continued to face the door while he waited for the nurse to return.

Prince was thoughtful.  Then he made his assessment.  "This dog is smart," said he.  "He has excellent hearing, good eyesight, he knows enough to weigh his options, and he's not mean.  In fact, he's kind of a cute little fellow.  Small, looks like a 'roach' back to me--the way he's all humped over.  Fat--stomach hangs.  But not a bad sort.  There's something about him...I think he might be okay...  What's his name?"

"Butter," I  managed.  "He had a brother named Peanut.  This one is Butter."  I can't tell you  how really awful it felt to think of owning a dog named Butter.  Aside from the descriptive misnomer, each time I thought of the name, I was reminded that he wasn't an individual--he was merely half of a set.  (Peanut had previously been put down.)

"Humph," mused Prince.  As we spoke, he had all the time continued to watch the creature carefully, while he sipped his drink.  "To me, he looks like a...oh...  Yes, I think a Seymour? No, that's not quite right.  Something, someone...hmmm...  That's it.    He looks like a Syd."

There was indeed something about the dog, about Prince Charming's summing up, about the deeply earnest look in the huge balded eyes with the shaved, pointed muzzle, that really did seem like a Syd.  Hapless and alone, yet with enough panache to insist upon the very top of the chair, the little beast gave the appearance of exactly that name.

I had never changed a dog's given name before--having felt like it belonged to the animal. This time, however, I couldn't deal with "Butter."  It didn't fit the strawberry blonde coloring on the scrawny, angular hound, and it was more of a gimmick than a real identity.  After all, Peanut was long gone.

You know, it came to my mind that there might be some substance to him--more than just a hand-me-down taken in out of pity and resignation.  Perhaps, there was even a...well, a smile inside.  I perked up.  Syd...  Syd...  I was trying it on for size.  Out loud then, "Sydney," I confirmed.  

Nevertheless, not wanting to leave his original handle entirely behind, I gave him a middle initial--B ( for Butter). Then, from the color of his ears and matching tail that held a hint of orange against the pinkish blonde body, came "marmalade." Marmalade?  No.  A "Sydney" had to be Jewish. Marmelstein.

Sydney B. Marmelstein.

The Prince and I looked at one another.  It would be all right.  Sydney had found his name, a  home, and something I suspected he never had before: Attention.   I, on the other hand, had myself a dog.

Fuzz Bucket 1: The Arrival

Sydney B. Marmelstein is my dog.  It's interesting about Syd...

Since Liberty had died 11 years ago, I had been bereft.  If you've ever lost a beloved pet or your dearest friend, you know what I'm talking about.  However, I have a daughter who is severely disabled, and the risk was more for the safety of the dog--sibling rivalry between the two.  So, in spite of my deepest wish, I had refrained from Dogdom and mourned.  Alas...

(My daughter is entitled to nursing care 24/7--she'll be 30 on December 17th, by the way...  Mazel Tov.)  

One day last February--the first, to be exact--her nurse arrived and walked into the house carrying  a small, growling, snarling package with her thumb and forefinger muzzled tightly around its nose.  How reassuring.  She said her family didn't want "this dog" any more, and Here.  "It will be good for you," she resolutely chortled.

The nurse, herself, was gone in six weeks, but that's another story.   In the meantime, she left me with "this dog."  Ostensibly, the beast was supposed to be for my daughter.   Thing is, she detested the last dog, almost to the point of death, and her response to this new creature, half the size of the previous, was exactly the same: Instant jealousy and loathing. Thus, were it to remain, I knew that the beast would become mine--to have and to hold, until death do us part.  Which seemed immanent, just between us...

The creature was pink.  I can't explain it.  But he was indeed pink.  Bald as a billiard, shaved to the skin and pink, with blotches of grey here and there.  The size of a swollen chihuahua, the thing had a "gay" tail that came up and curled around, sporting some wilted long hairs as it curved--kind of like a worn brush that had cleaned too many bottles.  The ears were hanging limply, forlorn, and short.  Everything was chopped to the bone remember, although the existing fur on the ears was longer--sort of wavy and rather spanielesque.  Not an eyelash, not a whisker, save the scraggly tail and leftover ears.  B.a.l.d.  Shaved.  Denuded.  It was ghastly.

He had giant brown eyes that bulged, prompting me to wonder at once about Graves Disease.   His nose, which was sort of a dappled brown and pink--like a dollop of chocolate mousse with raspberry filling--went halfway up his puss.  Snout?  Beak?  Snoot?  Nose?  I call it a puss.  But there it was.  About 2" of leathery dotted skin, climbing up his blonde puss.

I know, I told you he was pink.  That's true.  But he had a sort of um, golden glow.  I guess you'd call him a strawberry blonde.  Pink with blonde tinges.  And feet.  Buckets of feet.

The hound was built funny.  It's as if originally, the back and the front housing weren't for the same critter.  The front was about two sizes smaller than the rump, which was about one length too long.  So, when he sat, the little fellow had his tail and all four feet dangling right up front, as though all told, he probably had about eight or ten of them, and only the four front ones were showing.  Augh.   In my best fantasy of wishing with all my heart for the day when I could once again have a dog, it never occurred to me to get a bald strawberry blonde, with a minimum of eight paws and a dark snoot that went half way up his puss.   Depending on your psychological bent, he was either ridiculous or hideous.  Between us, I chose the latter.

The thing shook, I might add.  Nerves?  Cold?  Who knows.  He just sat there, on my plum-colored corduroy sofa, and shivered.   However, as he did, I noted that he was carefully casing the joint.   Clearly, the front door was his biggest priority--as in OUT.   He eyed that, eyed the deep spruce green velvet chair nearer the door than the couch, measured his distances, and took a leap from couch to chair.  Better.  Much better.  There, on top of the chair, the creature perched.  Like a lemur on a leafy limb, high up in the deep jungle.  Bulbous eyes searching, darting, watching.  Every single thing.

I approached him, looked him in the eyes (about 3.5 feet lower than my own), and said, "Listen, Bub, here's the way it is:  In this house, we don't bite, lunge, or snap.  Nor do we pee or poop inside.  The yard is yours; the house is mine.  That's the way it is around here.  Like it or lump it.  You want to stay?  Those are the rules.  No?  Then pack yourself a lunch, and head for the Dog Pound--it's that way."   (The nurse swallowed hard, shifted from one foot to the other, then meekly disappeared into the kitchen.)

I pointed toward the East, the beast glanced his head and looked out the window.  He turned back around and gave me a good going-over, as I towered over all those feet stuffed into his mighty 9.6 pounds of baggy skin.   He considered for a moment, then lowered himself so that his nose fit between his paws.  It appeared that he had decided to abide by the House rules, and make himself at home.  

                                           

Finger Food--Delicious Nails

Lately, I'm into nail polish. It's fabulous. You wouldn't believe the colors, unless you've checked. Because I'm a color person, I've become imbued. Or imhued as you prefer. I'm only using Revlon products for a few reasons: Reliable label, been around forever, terrific colors, inexpensive, my choices are automatically limited by brand. Whew.

It started with an ad in a fashion magazine. Purple. Well, I thought, who knows... I can try. (You have to understand that at this juncture, I hadn't worn polish in say, 30 years or so.) Nevertheless, I went for it--Impulsive, they called it. EEEEEEEEK!!!!! That was the first response. It gradually softened to Yikes!, mellowed to a Hmmmmmm..., and settled with a Gee! Try it. You'll like it.

The first trick is to buy stock in cotton balls and polish remover. Because you use more of those than anything. Trust me. That and practicing to be ambidextrous in order to do both hands with minimal mess, are the trickiest parts.

From there, it's just plain fun. Most of all, because I'm using my nails to outfit myself! Instead of jeans and turtleneck in whatever is clean, suddenly it's the polish of the week, with a palette of colors that I have to match. It is absolutely Cool. I have gotten out Mother's and Gram's jewelry from the 30's and the '40's--the big brooches especially--and I'm going for marvelous color. I'm In! I'm 35 again!

So, I started with Impulsive, as I say. From there, I went to Foxy, which is a classy housepaint brown. Mischievous, a sort of greyed violette and elegant, came next. (Impulsive and Foxy are more for sport). I was off and painting. Bewitching, Vixen, Raven Red, Valentine, Plum Seduction... I'm on my 13th color. This week is Revlon Red. Miss Scarlet. Flash and Dash. I've tried reds, deep magentas, and I've tried purples. All are scrumptious.  

Beware however: Some hues are just not good with everyone's skin tones. Skin is first in all things, remember, if you're doing fashion; your own coloring comes before that of what you choose to wear.

This weekend, I attempted a lovely shade: Spanish Moss. I want to tell you, it was more than charming in the bottle; the color, I swear, spoke with a Southern accent, it was such a deliciously mellow and creamy green. Yes, indeed. Thing is, alas, I am not a Southern Belle. My olive-with-yellow-undertones skin, surrounding what was actually more like "General MacArthur Olive Drab," was less than I had hoped. As a salesclerk said, when I went to Macy's, "Honey, I'm from Looziana, so I know about Spanish moss. And this ain't it. Not on you, Girl. It just ain't workin' for ya." And that.was.that.

My Prince Charming said that the Spanish Moss made my hands look old and gnarled, like a withering tree, with dying green buds at the end of each twig. Sigh... Would that I were a lovely blonde or redhead, instead of a sallowed old broad...

That was the end of the Spanish Moss. But take heart! Every shade but that, has been a giggle and an inspiration for great outfits. You can't believe what ensembles I've dug out of drawers and closets to make this stuff work! What is happening is that the polish is not only decorating my nails, but is re-designing my entire attitude!  A new wardrobe without the purchase of a single new garment.  I'm telling you, again: Try it.  

Go with any brand or color you like. Makes no difference to me. Just give yourself a lift, and dare to be daring. It's amazing how few people have a sense of humor when it comes to themselves. What about You? What about Me? Break out of the mold.  It's more fun than a barrel of monkeys--no kidding!

We're going into holiday. So the Revlon Red is perfect. As is the silver glittered Stunning. Next week, however, just between us, I'm going to try Rain Forest. Yes. Another green. But this time it's like a group of tall, dark trees on a chilly, dewy morning, deep into the Amazon's undergrowth... Doesn't it sound exciting???

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, try it yourself!

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. 

The Old Bags

The other day I went to the grocery store, fully prepared to get some vacuum cleaner bags for my uprights at home and work.

Much to my surprise, I was told that vacuum cleaner bags are no longer sold.  Yes.  I was flummoxed.  It's bad enough that clothes lines are for the most part, long gone; it's awful when underwear that fits or lipsticks that flatter, are discontinued without a "by your leave, or a kiss my rear."  The extinction of "dumb phones" and PCs is expensive and dreadful, so OK.  But vacuum cleaner bags?

I went down every possible aisle three times.  To no avail.  Not a receptacle to behold.  Finally, in complete disarray, I located the head clerk.  With a rueful smile she shook her head, plainly disturbed by the situation. "No more vacuum cleaner bags. People don't buy them any more, so we stopped selling them." 

"You don't sell vacuum cleaner bags any more?!"  I was almost at a shriek.  It may seem like a simple thing to you but, to me it was a rite of passage.  Did I pass the age of civilization when people vacuum their rugs?  It appeared that vacuum cleaners had gone the way of rectal thermometers. 

The clerk explained that people now use "bagless" vacuums; it wasn't the store's fault at all she went on, but rather that times had changed.  I couldn't stand it.  I really couldn't stand it.  I stuttered, stammered; with arms akimbo, I huffed and puffed. "I know just how you feel," she nodded.  "Why, when I heard about the store discontinuing vacuum cleaner bags, I thought to myself, that's just Un-American. Un-American!"  Visions of  Norman Rockwell paintings, Hoover or Kirby magazine advertisements, and my mother, came to mind...

But there you are.  Upon hearing the terrible news, I immediately drove to the small vacuum cleaner store down the street.  The tattooed balding ex-Marine, none too pleased to hear what I had to say roared, "Who the hell do they think they are, saying that???!! I've been in business for 30 years, plan to be here for 20 more.  All I sell is used and re-furbished vacuum cleaners.  With Bags.  Here! See these?  Thousands of 'em.  THOUSANDS of 'em!" His open arms spread behind him as if in song, across long layered shelves that spanned his shop.  

I took the bags he sold me and left.  It was nothing, really.  Still, there was something about it: Vacuum cleaner bags.  Something so simple, so necessary, seemingly around forever.  All at once rendered useless, outmoded, and unprofitable.  Just like that: Gone.

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 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.”