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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Old Tailor: Made to Measure Magazine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five Finger Exercise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Unhemmed Skirt: Fashionable Young Women of the 21st Century

Yesterday, we had a showing re: the sale of the building: The Wesleyans (Methodists, as you no doubt know). A group called Mosaic, which I think is their outreach program for downtrodden urban centers... seem like nice folks.

Toward the end of the showing, one gal is talking with Tom, my broker, in my office, and they're reviewing codes, etc. I'm sitting there, working. The girl is a slender tall, black woman with perfectly matched everything and fun black braided, woven hair. Jewelry, etc. all pinks and wines and puces... Little bowed Pappagallo ballerina flats with bugle beads and sequins. Again, exactingly attired.

Except for one thing: She was wearing a tea-length, tiered, cotton/gauze/muslin dyed skirt (remember those?) in the softest shade of burgundy--how nice. It went beautifully. However, each tier had tons of loose threads hanging from it. Tons. The hem was missing altogether: It simply wasn't. Just raw cloth that looked as though a heel had gotten caught in the stitching, pulled out the entire thing. It was hanging jaggedly, with more threads, all the way around.

Ghastly.

Here was this absolutely lovely girl, dressed to the nine's, with threads hanging everywhere... I couldn't take it. I simply couldn't.

Thus: While she was talking with Tom about the codes, laws, remodeling the bathrooms for the handicapped, etc., regarding moving an outreach church into my building, I quietly took out my shears and clipped the threads on her skirt. Not the tiers because there were too many threads on every layer around the skirt; I worried i might be sued for sexual harassment if I felt my way up from mid-calf to hips. But I did take the wad of muslin that was the large, gathered long skirt hem,, and I continued clipping away. Tons of burgundy shavings fell to the floor.

Interestingly, neither Tom nor the young woman missed a beat in their conversation. I just went on trimming. I can't tell you how happy it made me to see that Mess disappear.

When I was finished, the girl said to me, "You know my mother can't stand this skirt. She doesn't think it should have these threads, either. But this is the way I bought it."

I said to her, "Your mother is right. It's terrible. You're a pretty girl, delightfully dressed, and the skirt looks like it got caught around the center post in the washing machine." I went on, "I bet you paid extra for the manufacturer not to hem the skirt, or finish off the edges."

She confessed it was indeed costly.

I told her that now, she looked 100% better, she still had all the hanging mess on the tiers of the skirt, but that at least the hem wasn't in shreds any more; it was still raw unfinished cloth, so that she could feel as Bohemian as she wished without the stragglers, dripping down. She looked at me.

I said, "You'll thank me later."

Tom, who has been on oxygen since he met me, and has to keep slapping himself to reassure that I'm for real, rather fainted after this. Being raised with the sisters in Ohio Catholic schools, he is not used to my wanton flagrancy...

When he left, he said they would never buy the building...
***

Today, we got an offer from said church, for the highest amount, yet. Higher than any of the previously interested folks. Tom was in a swoon. He said he'd never in 30 years had three simultaneous offers on a single building. He couldn't believe it. Thing is, they want me out in three weeks and I have orders to finish.

Oy.

Tom says I can pay them rent. I said, "Listen, Tom. I'll pay the taxes, the utilities, the bills, for as long as I'm there; I will be out by the 4th of August or sooner. But I have to have time for my customers."

He said, "You'll have to pay rent."

I said, "Tell the gal that instead of rent, I'll finish clipping the threads on the skirt. No charge. That that alone should take care of it."

He said, "No, really. What can you pay in rent?"

I said, "Yes, really. I'll pay all the bills for as long as I'm there, and I'll fix her skirt. Start there. Then, we'll see if we need to negotiate." And that.was.that.

I'll let you know what ensues.
***

That's also why I guess I can't work at Macy's, should I want to go back to retailing. My time has come and gone... If a customer were to come in hideously attired in my opinion, or if new merchandise were to arrive that wasn't right, I would just take a scissor and cut away, or throw away. The store and the customer would be much better off for my assistance. I have no doubt. The thing is, I'm not sure management or the customer would agree. Even though I know they would "thank me later..."

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!

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.

Accommodations: UniformMarketNews.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too Many Choices?: UniformMarketNews.Com

Why is it that uniform sellers today offer so many items in their catalogues or stores?  Is it to corner the market, or is it just to dazzle and overwhelm?   Do we really need all of this?

It is a known fact that the more choices a person has, the more interested and fascinated one becomes; at the same time, the fewer choices one has, the more likely one is to buy.  What is a seller to do?  Certainly, there are times when a huge variety plays an important part in selection.  However, there are other occasions when less is more--the narrowed selection becomes much easier for a person to handle.  Thus, rather than spending large amounts of energy trying to make choices, one's energy can be better spent making the actual purchase.  

The United States is known to be the world's greatest marketplace for choice.  The good news is that almost anything can be found here; the not so good news is that the multitude of choices makes getting through the morass of pickings quite challenging, and this confusion can eliminate the finality of decision.

Let's take the medical apparel business as an example.   It used to be that hospital personnel wore white, and in surgery it was light blue or a sea green.  These uniforms were symbols of medical professionalism, cleanliness, identity, and a kind of sanctity.  Color and style defined job description, and what to wear was a simple choice.  Then, it was easy.  Now, it becomes more of a fashion show. 

For a business to sell medical uniforms today,  there has to be an enormous investment in inventory:  Labcoats come in white or light blue--long, medium, or short in style; shorter counter/pharmacy coats are in multiple colors; women's, men's, or unisex; belted or not, side vents or closed, knit cuffs or plain, OSHA requirements or standard; rip-stop fabric, polyester, poly-cotton , or 100% cotton; with snaps, zippers, or buttons.

Scrubs come in women's, men's, and unisex, too, with sizes ranging from alpha to numeric.  If one gets past that, then there are sets or separates.  In addition to the fabric offerings mentioned above, these are also made in microfiber.

 

Scrub designs are made in snuggly jackets, short sleeved pullovers for summer, or long sleeved for those who get chilled. There are vests, skirts, the popular pants, and of course, the ubiquitous scrub top.  The top can be in a "v" or jewel neck, has a mandarin or straight bodice, ties or none at all, is empire or plain at the waist. 

There are prints and solids--a myriad of both: Darks, lights, peacefuls and brights.  Some have bias to contrast and accent; some are monochromatic.  Some have pockets, others are without.  The entire pocket concept in a scrub top is worthy of several hours' study: Upper pockets, lower pockets, slit pockets, patch pockets, thermometer pockets, stethoscope pockets and, of course the pockets can range from four to none.

The pants are drawstring, drawstring with elastic, or elastic only.  There are shorter ones and longer ones, flared bell bottoms and straight stovepipes.  There are one or two pockets in the back or not, pockets in the front or not, and cargo pockets on the thighs--or not.  Some have additional multiple pockets on each thigh, and there is a special cell phone pocket that is in high demand, too. 

These uniforms are terrific items for any medical care professional.  They are comfortable, easy to launder, and serve their purpose.  But is it all necessary for garments that are worn at most for a single day's work, and then thrown into a sanitizing laundry--usually with blobs of fluids that are spattered here and there?

   There are catalogues by the dozens and multiple styles.  There are manufacturers galore, and every one has its own set of designs, fabrics, colors, or prints. 

So what is a uniform seller to do?  Does he take the practical approach, pick a few styles of each in a basic colors and hope for the best?  Does he open a big-box store of medical apparel and stock racks and racks of various vendors and offerings?   What is the manufacturer to do in an attempt to satisfy each and every customer, when he makes all this merchandise in the first place?

One customer with whom we spoke, is in charge of a school for medical students.  She recently abandoned the big-box stores in favor of a small, mom-and-pop.  She said quite plainly that that she wanted her students to get a single color, a single style in a particular fabric, with the understanding that medicine was not about fashion, but science.  On the other hand, another customer felt just as strongly that if professionals had multiple choices and could feel good about themselves in their work apparel, then it would make all the difference in their job satisfaction.  So I leave it to you: Choose from a lot or choose from a few; there is room for both.  It's your choice...     

N.A.U.M.D. With Richard Lerman: UniformMarketNews.Com

Bam!  2006 and Richard Lerman hit the ground running, taking over the North-American Association of Uniform Manufacturers & Distributors.  Lerman, a native New Yorker,  who hails from the Bronx and Queens, is quick to discount himself and focus on his organization.  With a background in communications, business, and the advertising arts, he doesn't believe in resting on the accomplishments listed in his resume, but rather on what's happening in the here and now.   A devotee of membership associations, he gets a genuine thrill out of renovating an organization from A to Z, while building its population, as he adds benefits and perks that will enhance the quality of life for so many of its members.

"When I first came to NAUMD," recalls Richard, "the association was healthy enough, but it wasn't functioning in the 20th century."  Lerman assessed the situation, and embarked upon an innovative plan to advance the group's direction.  First,  there was the website: The NAUMD newsletter was put online, and then completely overhauled twice since he arrived.   Next, a host of benefits was added to draw the uniform industry into participating in greater numbers: The Dun &  Bradstreet program; Hartford Merchant Services; sales training & sales hiring testing programs; healthcare support benefits; direct discounts for the members; and more.

The awards programs were significantly improved.  When various competitive categories of uniform  excellence were held at the NAUMD gatherings, members had previously been judging themselves.  Lerman brought in professional outside judges who had no vested interests in the contestants, and people could truly congratulate themselves on their worthiness as recipients of the awards.  He also expanded  recognition for the winners and put everything online for all to see.  Enhanced with top-notch stars, banquets, and praise for nominees and winners, the "Image of the Year" award has become a coveted title.  Because of such a thrust, proper respect has been given to various uniform packages that heretofore would not have been acknowledged, let alone given top honors at a convention.  Who would think of public safety uniforms being voted "Best Dressed?"

Lerman expanded the NAUMD committee base and saw to it that four to five new committees were added, drawing more members into participating roles.  He worked on locating programs, products, and sources for imagewear programs.  He can barely stop to take a breath as he reveals all that's happened and all that's going on, directing the uniform industry toward the future.  500 new company memberships have come on board since he took the helm! 

In part because of his background and because he is who he is, Richard Lerman dedicates himself to the members of NAUMD as his first priority.  Membership, legislative & regulatory rules, and exhibitors, are just a few of the committees that are a part of the association.  Its fingers are on the pulse of the industry in the United States, and the world.  It used to be that NAUMD was all about the American industry.  Now, with so many items being made offshore,  the demography has morphed to include Canada and Mexico, as well as inviting other uniform sellers, dealers,  manufacturers, and distributors to join.  "It wasn't an arbitrary decision to invite others ," informs Richard.  "Over 75% of the membership voted to have these countries participate with us.  In addition, because of their enormous involvement in sales and production, if we hadn't included them,  they would've excluded us."  The door is open to all countries, from China and Africa to European nations and Australia. 

The response has been resoundingly positive,  and the results have been to promote trade, respect, familiarity, and support in all aspects of the uniform field.  This is a good thing because as Lerman reminds us,  "'Made in America' is just fine, but on Capitol Hill, many people don't know what that means; if they do, they don't care.  There are now several laws that get around this issue, as offshore manufacturing is so much cheaper than American goods.  As long as there is a trade agreement, anything can be made anywhere."

Politics,  lobbying,  economics and trade are all a part of what NAUMD knows and does.

Richard Lerman is adamant, as is NAUMD, that prison uniform manufacturing be dispensed with.  For example, he chafes at the notion that prisoners should sew their own garments, given who they are and why they're in prison, wearing that particular apparel in the first place.  Second, as an association that advocates for the uniform business, the question of competition arises:  Why should government (through federal prison-made garments) compete with private industry?  It's the very antithesis of the American enterprise--capitalism.

Believe it or not, Lerman is only on the first leg of his entrepreneurial endeavor.  His plans include a new logo, new tagline,  better benefits and an even better image of NAUMD.  He wants to offer ongoing analyses of the industry and let the members know.  "As the epi-center of the uniform industry and imagewear," says Lerman, "we are working toward an agency where members can design, create, manufacture, and sell to the end users--dealers and distributors."

Richard Lerman responded to several questions about issues from "green" technology, illegal immigrants, unions, and US manufacturing capabilities; his strong energy came through as he focused on what is best for good business.  He waxed philosophically but pragmatically: "The real question is how we as a country are going to stay competitive for business.  We cannot manufacture here anymore because we have no raw materials.   There was a time in our history when the role of the association was about being made in America.  Now, everything is outsourced if we are to remain profitable.

  "We've become a service economy," says Lerman, "and if we are going to survive, we must not put our heads in the sand.  We have to compete, stay ahead of the technological curve, and succeed as we remain in the forefront of development regarding imagewear and uniform programs.  We have to meet the needs of the customer while making a profit for ourselves."

Re-stating his committed enthusiasm for his job, and his dedication to the welfare of NAUMD members, Richard Lerman reminds us that the uniform is a tool.  It projects the entire focus of a business or an industry, and that both staff and customers are influenced by the presence of uniforms in the workplace.  As trivial or as taken-for-granted as one might assume they are,  change them or eliminate them,  and the whole  perception of a company becomes different.  "Our business might not be as robust as it used to be, but don't tell me that every company doesn't need a uniform program," retorts Lerman.  "Listen carefully to the voice of our membership, as I do, and this is exactly what you will hear."

Costumes Or Uniforms?: UniformMarketNews.Com

Recently, I saw the 2009 Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil—a yearly event that is presented to the public.  In just two days, over 120,000 performers filled the streets for this fabulous presentation.  There were huge varieties of apparel, but with hundreds of individuals at a time wearing the exact same thing—legions of people moving to the rhythm of the music.  They adorned floats, the streets, and the city, in an unprecedented salute to the samba.  Yet, aside from the bright colors and the incredibly varied fabrications, it was no different than a military parade.  I thought to myself, are these uniforms or costumes?  What’s the difference between the two?  Is it the material, the quantity, the purpose, the design?  Is it that one is worn by choice and another by assignment?  Perhaps it is the length of time that an outfit is worn.  What makes one a costume and the other a uniform?

At Disneyland—the closest the Americans could come to the Brazilian pageant—there are both costumes and uniforms.  The special characters such as the Goofies or the Snow Whites (yes, there are many of each, as it’s a big park and different people wear the ensembles on various days at rotating times and in different sizes) are made in the Costume Shop—marvelous creations with or without giant feathers (Big Birds) or shapes (the Seven Dwarfs) and masks (Captain Hooks).  The colorful and uniquely designed shirts and pants for the waiters and waitresses of Tomorrow Land, or Epcot, or the dresses worn by the Dance Hall girls in the saloon at Frontier Land, are kept in the Costume Warehouse—decorative items by the bushel, especially designed with fabrics solely woven and dyed for Disney.  But these are referred to as uniforms, not costumes.  Is it the quantity?  Is it that costumes are saved for the proper nouns, such as the Prince Charmings or Belles, but uniforms are reserved for this usher or that waitress, worn by the hundreds?

The Rose Bowl Parade: What about the fabulous western wear that is sported by the equestrian groups, and the ornately attired marching bands?  Today’s band uniform is as much about Spandex and Star Trek as it is about trumpets and John Philip Sousa: slick 21^st century abstract multi-colored designs, metallics, winged shoulders, and gauntlets.  Are these not costumes?  Are the cowboy shirts uniforms and not costumes—hand made, hand braided with cording, embroidered with magnificent all-over designs, and hundreds of hand set rhinestones per shirt?  Is it about fancy vs. plain or ultimate purpose?   Regarding complexity of creation, one ornate cowboy shirt can easily out-cost and out challenge the manufacture of any band uniform by as much as two or three to one. 

Does the military only have to be about uniforms?  There’s nothing like a man in uniform, they always say.  Is it that a uniform is more masculine and a costume has more of a frou-frou aspect to it?  No, there are scores and scores of women in the military.  Is it that a uniform is more tailored than a costume?  Straight lines rather than ruffles or curves or colors?  The French and many other countries have had wonderful uniforms.  Laces, gold buttons, fold-back reveres, velvets, even braid made of 24 karat gold bullion.   Did you ever see a Cossack?  Czar Nicholas?  George Washington?  General Patton or the Marine Corps Honor Guard?  How about the Chinese warriors or the Samurai?  Uniforms or costumes?

Religion is a funny thing.  You have the Amish, the Pennsylvania Dutch, Mennonites, and the Chasidic Jews, who all look alike.  Black hats, long beards, black suit or frock coats, and pants.  The ladies wear somber head coverings and long skirts or dresses in very neutral, dark colors.  Go figure.  Costumes or uniforms?

Ever been to the country club where all the mavens are dolled up in sequins with red nails, or Stepford wives with matching haute couture Chanel suits; a school where all the kids look alike depending on geography and demographics for the neighborhood; an area where folks do similar kinds of work?  It could be a law office, a hospital, an auto garage, a restaurant.  What makes a dress shirt and pair of pleated pants more uniform than multiples of young men who run around with their pants hanging below their hips, and t-shirts that ride well above them?  Costumes or uniforms?  Is it numbers?  Is it fashion?  Can a uniform be fashionable, or once it’s a part of street wear, does it lose its separateness as a uniform?  Does uniform mean separate from everybody else?   Or does it mean being the same? 

Actually, uniform means “one shape.”  Uni = one; form = shape. It’s an adjective that morphed into a noun and ultimately became identifiable with clothing.  But if that’s the case, does this mean that everyone who is dressed in white tie and tails is wearing a uniform?  Are ballet and ballroom dancers in uniform?  What about ice-skaters, and skiers?  Uniforms?  Or costumes?  What if it’s a team?  Does a football team have uniforms because there are several of them, but golfers wear costumes because each is one at a time?

It’s all very strange.

The dictionary really does define them separately.  It refers to costumes as native folk dress, for instance, implying longevity and tradition—the hula skirt and lei from Hawaii, the Scottish kilt in Tartan plaid, the sari from India, and so on.  It also defines costume as dress—Mrs. Obama’s choice of outfit for this occasion or that.  And, from a designer’s point of view, costume becomes a verb; one is costumed.  But one is never uniformed.   

Interestingly, costume is derived from the word custom.  Here’s the trick:   Custom can mean unique as in specially designed and customized; or it can mean quite the opposite as in being accustomed to, a habit, or that which is quite ordinary.  Costumes have a wide berth when it comes to definition.  This includes Halloween, Thanksgiving Pilgrims, and Santa Claus suits, as well as cobbler aprons for the cleaning crew, polo shirts for the tennis team, and etons for the caterers:  Costumes for the customs.

I think the difference between a costume and a uniform is about assignment.  If a person gets to choose what to wear, and it further defines him, I say it’s a costume.  There’s an innovation to it—self-expression and a furthering of the inner being.  It’s a statement of individual definition, and he comes first.  I think if someone is told what to wear, then it becomes a uniform.  Here, it’s an assignment from without, and one becomes secondary to the garment filled.  Yes, that would imply that the exact same garment could be worn by one and be a costume, and by another and be thought of as a uniform. 

Dressed To The Nines: UniformMarketNews.Com

Do you ever wonder what certain phrases mean?  Do you ever use certain words or terms without having a clue regarding origin or meaning?  Here’s one for you: “Dressed to the nines.”  We use it more with the upper crust than the lower, and maybe more with women than men.  But the term itself has been around for a few hundred years; perhaps longer than that.  It’s been used with the height of couture fashion covering designs for daytime and evening wear; it’s been used to describe the average Joe who is one step above; and it’s been used with top-notch uniforms.

“Dressed to the nines” simply means that one’s fashion statement is tip-top.  For the uniform industry, we are talking about an identity that puts our best feet forward, that advertises us as par excellence, that outwardly displays the kinds of qualities that we apply to our companies inwardly, with our entire collective focus as a team.  

In truth, no one knows where “dressed to the nines” comes from, but there are numerous possible origins:  Some say that it refers to the “whole nine yards,” which at one time was the amount of fabric used to make up a suit for an elegant gentleman or, imagine a single elegant shirt!  (Figure narrow, 36” wide goods, or even the most foppish 18^th century dandy would drown in ruffles and lace at this quantity). 

Some say it has to do with the nine muses from Greek mythology and the arts—the best that aesthetics has to offer in every genre: Some say it refers to the nine worthies, who are outstanding heroes from both literature and history—King Arthur, David, Joshua, and the like. 

Being dressed to the nines is born out by women who attended the opera, paying $9.00 for a splendid box seat, and who used to wear long white gloves with finger openings at the wrist, closed with nine pearl buttons.

In baseball, where the team is comprised of nine players, there is a ritual in putting together a uniform so that not only is the particular outfit of special quality and design with shoes, sox, knickers, shirt, and cap, but also that the entire team of nine wears the ensemble, together—all at one time, as in dressed to the nine players.

There is 18^th century poetry from Scotland, with Robert Byrnes waxing over nature as being painted beautifully to the nines.  There is the possibility of the medieval phrase, “dressed to thine eyne,” referring to one’s eyes being the loveliest ever—with the words gradually evolving to “the nines.”   In 18^th century England, poet William Hamilton refers to the nines—how they contented him.  In 14^th century France, John de Mandeville journaled that war without peace would always be to the ninth degree if his king were not to reform.

Military uniforms abound with the nine button design: Civil War uniforms, European uniforms, military school uniforms, were all made with a nine button closure, and many still are.   The Duke of Edinburgh’s 99^th Regiment of Foot during the 19^th century refers to the British army—legendary for its elegance and precision.  The whole concept of the uniform speaks to dedication and discipline, exemplary senses of order and honor of the highest rank, and yes, smart looking fashion.  This particular reference comes the closest in time frame to when the actual phrase “dressed to the nines” came into vogue. 

The number nine can be used in any number of important references, whether with regard to garment manufacturing, or design.  Often, it’s nine stitches per inch that makes a good seam—decorative or plain.   

When we talk about being dressed to the nines, we are truly vaulting an individual into the top drawer of impeccable presentation.   There is none better.  No matter what one’s reference, or choice of focus, the outfit that ranks as nine is the best.  Many companies have even named themselves “House of Nine,” or “Dressed to the Nines.”

For the uniform industry, this adage connotes the finest look that any group can have.  Whether it is corporate or casual, formal or industrial, or costume, the best is the nines.  One of the most easy and winning ways to achieve the “nines look” is to accessorize.   Think tie, think scarf, think vest or cummerbund. Think braid, think customized shoulder straps, interesting buttons, or contrasting sleeve application.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a busboy or a housekeeping uniform; it isn’t always about a power suit in poly wool.  It’s not only about customer satisfaction; it’s about the inner sense of pride that is radiated by an employee who wears the garment, too.  If the employee feels attractive and proud of his appearance, imagine how others will view him, and how he projects delight when he’s on the job.

When different publications award a company for its uniforms, it’s about being “dressed to the nines.”  When companies show off their personnel, when we want to identify with a particular group, when various industries use a particular garment that catches on in the private sector, that’s dressing to the nines. More than any other group, it’s fair to say that the U.S. Navy has had the most admired and sought after uniforms: Not only have they been impeccable on their seamen and officers, but as a fashion statement for the private sector as well—who hasn’t owned a midi blouse, a stunning navy double breasted blazer with brass buttons, or a pea coat at one time or another?

The next time you put an outfit together, remember that form (style, color, design, fabric) is as important as function.  It’s absolutely necessary to be practical, but one’s on-the-job attractiveness matters, too.  Suddenly, it isn’t solely about work but rather, it’s about a pleasurable experience, as well.  If you see a group whose garments blend with its surroundings, whose theme matches the focus of the workplace, and yet whose appearance is one step above, you know that this is what’s called being “dressed to the nines.”  Whether in public or in private, it’s difficult to imagine that any individual would want to look any other way. 

Button, Button, Who's Got The Button?: UniformMarketNews.Com

In the late 19^th century, a fellow from Vienna, Austria—John Frederick Boepple—who was as bright, inventive, and dedicated as they come, came to the United States in search of what was known as “fresh water pearls.”  Because of European tariffs and difficulties overseas, his craft of making buttons out of multiple materials, such as horn, wood, lead, and “salt water pearls” had become an outrageous expense, and he was looking for a material less expensive.  He found an abundance of it along the Mississippi River, in Muscatine, Iowa; what was to become the button capital of the world.

Boepple, who was really the founder of the button industry, is well documented in books, articles, and even museums; his is indeed a remarkable story.  But also from Vienna, arrived around the same time, came another young and hardworking man in the button business—John Weber.  Weber, too, arrived in Muscatine, and it is more than likely—although the two men went their separate ways—that they knew one another. 

This is about John Weber, his family, “fresh water pearls” that are also known as clams, and the manufacture of buttons.  There was an enormous abundance of clams along the river—literally mountains of shells—and that part of gathering raw materials for the buttons was called “clamming.”  Fresh water clams or “pearls” were 1/100^th the cost of European salt water clams; hence, a fortune was to be made in the American button industry as a result. While many other firms came and went, Weber & Sons Button Company, Inc. not only still exists, but is one of the original manufacturers of buttons in this country. 

John Weber and his wife had 9 children, enough to run an entire factory at that time.  What began as a two-story 20,000 square feet building erected in 1860, grew and grew, and is now 45,000 square feet spanning two separate dwellings with 25 employees, many of whom remain family.  Muscatine is a blue-collar factory town, population 34,000, polka-dotted with churches, shopping centers, and monuments to a simpler way of life.  “It’s two degrees of separation,” says Lynne Weber, fourth generation office manager.  “If you don’t know someone, the person sitting next to you does.”  There are still multiple factories in existence, and they are operating despite the recession.  Farm country surrounds the area, but Muscatine, itself, is pure industry: Yes, in complete compliance with the Environmental Protection Agency.

Boepple was an old-world craftsman who could never adapt to modern industrialization, and it ultimately proved to be his downfall.  He always insisted on making buttons one at a time with a foot-pedal lathe.  Weber, on the other hand, had different ideas and went to automation as quickly as he could.  His firm was well underway when he died in 1934, and his son, Edward W. Weber took over.  The younger Weber, with brothers who were superb machinists much like their uncles, was in charge of the company until 1963, when he died at the age of 57. 

Edward W.’s contribution as a second generation owner was to introduce synthetics to the button industry.  From clams that ultimately became too expensive to manufacture, he went into newly developed acrylics and, with his sons and brothers, adapted the original clam shell machinery to appropriately fit the new material.  What didn’t adapt or couldn’t be made by Barry Manufacturing that created their original machines, they invented and built, themselves.  Remarkably, in one form or another, the original pearl machinery lasted until 1985, with one of them currently residing in the Smithsonian Institution. 

The only problem was that early acrylic buttons melted with heat.  If they survived the finishing process, they then melted when a homemaker ironed a garment.  Yet another source had to be found, which was up to third generation Edward Walter Weber to find.   

At 74, it is he (otherwise known as “Ed” or “Buster”) who is currently in charge of Weber, and it is he who transitioned from acrylic buttons to polyester plastic, which is what is used today.  Originally, the polyester pigment had a lead base.  By the 1980’s, however, lead was outlawed, and the trick became how to make a button without lead.  “I can remember him bringing home buttons and putting them on a cookie sheet to bake them, or he would iron them to try them out.  They smelled awful!” says daughter, Lynne.

There are two basic ways to make buttons, but Weber primarily uses one over the other due to too great a volume and too little for employees to do on the one, vs. constant production at a slower but steadier pace on the other.   There are also two ways to dye a button, with one being through and through (colorfast), while the other is topical, in which case the color can fade onto lighter shades of fabrics.  Interestingly, volume in part determines which way a customer has to go in the dyeing process, because colorfastness demands a minimum of 260 gross or 37,440 buttons.

Weber sells a great many buttons, and has huge diversity.  It used to make its own metal buttons by using the plastic base and then electro-plating the outsides.  Now, these buttons are outsourced, as well as those with rhinestones, cloth, and other combinations; in-house manufacturing itself is limited to the plastic material.

Lynne and her sister, Susan, will eventually take the helm, although Lynne insists that Buster is simply not retiring—Ever.  Having worked his way up from the bottom, Buster has the entire business and all of its processes in his head.  Even as Lynne was being interviewed, not a question went by without the echo of an answer from Buster in the background.

To make buttons, it takes about two weeks from the time an order is placed until the buttons come off a conveyor belt from inspection, and are placed into boxes.  The buttons are made from a paste that is dyed to a specific color, a thick Karo Syrup-like goo or pigment, and plastic, all mixed in a 25 pound bucket.  This is then poured into an open-ended sideways rolling solid drum that is much like a hamster wheel. The drum is spun centrifugally and the material inside is heated, hardened, then peeled off, put on a belt where it is cut into blanks, and dropped in hot water to solidify further.  The pattern and holes follow, plus three days of tumbling with 3/8” tiny wooden cubes to polish the material if a shiny finish is desired.  Inspection follows on the conveyor belt, and it’s done.  Presto!  Hundreds of buttons.

“Weber is strictly wholesale.  We don’t even have a website,” emphasizes Lynne.  Do they have actual button cards and pictures of their buttons?  Yes.  For 105 years Weber & Sons has been a company deeply committed to customer satisfaction.  It has no plans to change that arrangement.