"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 Webmaster

I am old.  Bordering on ancient and senile, in fact. Depends on how old you are, as to how old I am.  You know how it is...  I live in the twentieth century. Trust me, it was a better place, a better time.  Sure, not as many doo-dads and conveniences; certainly, technology was a stick in the mud compared to what it is, today. However, people talked with one another in complete, un-abbreviated, grammatically correct, and meaningful sentences; what's more, they took the time.   Yep, they took the time to care, to listen, to understand, and maybe to offer a few kind words of advice, admonishment, or praise.

Today, a kid who is five years old, is exhausted at the end of the day. Not enough time.  It used to be that when we were young, the days crawled by, and we could hardly wait for them to pass so that we could grow up.  Now, girls in kindergarten are wearing black velvet with leopard collars and high heels. Time flies by with so much to do, people merely pass one another like strangers, albeit they even may live in the same house. Who has a meal together?  Who shares the day's events?  What happened to family, to quiet time alone, or with friends...?

Into this milieu I have been thrust, through no fault of my own: The twenty-first century.  The reality is that either I have to cope and get on with things, or lag behind and find myself even more lost and ostracized than I already am.  The Hallmark Channel can only take a person so far... Thus, in order to save myself, I found a webmaster.
*
My webmaster has been such, since 1997.  He was a senior in college when he started with me.  A wise woman, to whom I am forever indebted, suggested him because she knew his mother.  One of those things. Dumb luck--or God's Will, if you prefer.  It is now 16 years later.  We're still surfing the 'Net. (How awesome do I sound?)

What can you say about a fellow who behaves like Dick Van Dyke, and is built like a dress-zipper with ears?  He is 6'6"+, and maybe weighs 165 pounds.  I come up to his rib cage. Go try to hug him.  He comes with instructions that require a Pogo stick, for any kind of physical familiarity.  I gave up long ago. If I want to give him an endearment, I rest my head just above his belly button, and go from there.

Here's the thing: He's terrific: A mensch.  When he was 21, he was that way; he's the same, now--he's humble and patient, has a sense of humor, is smart as can be, centered, responsible if a little absent-minded or too busy, and he's focused--all prerequisites if you're going to be in my corner.  The only differences are that now, he's got a lovely wife and two kids; he's smarter, wiser, and makes a good living. Otherwise, he's the same familiar old shoe--size 15.

He went through my website with me, back then.  It was like pulling teeth, for all that I needed, and what he had to do while he dragged me along with him: My ideas, his know-how and in-put. He got it done.  His first official website.  Mine, too, come to think of it...  It's still up and running, and attracts its own visitors. It's been through re-decoration and additions; it's just fine, thank you.

Currently, my webmaster has led me through Linked-in, and Facebook (oy...); now, we've pretty much finished this very blog. Can you believe it?  Can you believe I put an entire blog together??? (Well, of course, with the webmaster's huge help).  If I don't do this Stuff constantly, of course, I can't remember half of it. But, we won't go there.  When he and I are done with this project, it's on to Twitter. Oh!  For the record, I can also text--tra-la.

We meet for over an hour, once a month for lunch--usually eggs of some sort; my treat.  He teaches; I scramble--my brains, not the eggs.  Anything in-between our monthly sessions:  I either luck out, learn on my own, or cope.

Sometimes, fairytales do come true.  The webmaster is one of them.

I want to say, that if I had had to do any of this Stuff alone, I think I would have stuck to my Big Chief tablet and #2 Eberhard Faber yellow pencil. Longer to process, yes; but infinitely easier. Really.  I honestly get it, with the technological goodies.  It's incredible.

I also get it that the hours and hours and hours it takes to process all of it; fix it when it crashes or breaks down; call multiple "technical support" people--most of whom can barely speak English or can't think beyond their prepared, scripted instruction manuals; crawl around on the floor while they ask me to re-check what wires and buttons I've already checked; and remember on the side, how to relate to people as human beings rather than as mobs of pixels: All are hazards of the technological age. I don't think it's so hot, just between us.

Still, I want you to know that my webmaster is just the Best--no doubt.  He has even managed to make all this learning sort of interesting and fun.  I feel like I'm about six years old, in terms of know-how and capability; in truth, I'm older than his mother! Understand that I'm not hardwired for anything other than my bra.  So for this guy to hang in with me: I am so lucky.

Twentieth century lifestyle and values, absolutely.  Still, I cruise in the twenty-first, with the webmaster as captain of my technological ship.

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..."

Irish Dessert: A Reflection of the Irish People

I'm standing here, or rather sitting at this moment, in a bib apron and my house shoes. Nothing else. It's too hot.

I just rouued my first lade.  I hope it works.

I think for desserts, it's called a roll.  Meat is for the other.

In an Irish cookbook, whipped cream, raspberries, and chocolate in a powder sugared towel is a roulade.

It's cooling as we speak.

We'll hope for the best.

I hope I don't have a bent broken brownie.

I have no idea how this works.

I went to Joy of Cooking which has pictures and instructions, thank Heaven.

The Irish cookbook assumes that if one is Irish, one already knows how to cook.

It reminds me of the time it said to put noodles in a casserole dish with tuna and mushroom soup, and bake. Never said a thing about boiling the noodles in water, first.

Or the time it said to put two tomatoes in a pan of water and heat, for sauce.  Never said a thing about cutting them up, first.

Or the time it said to put a chicken in the oven at 425 for 2 hours until brown.   Never said to turn on the oven, first.  I even put it in the oven at 4:15.

Soon, I'll go and whip the whipping cream.  Boing.  Peaks.  What I'm supposed to look like in this apron. but don't, and never did.

Probably, I could have used Cool Whip and gotten the same effect.

I mean, Ready Whip.  In the can.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

I figure it will either be charming, or a small heap of stuff.

It should taste the same either way.

I wonder if they're hiring in the kitchen at the School For The Blind...

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.

Lisa Stewart: Superior Design & Merchandising: UniformMarketNews.Com

Lisa Stewart is the kind of woman they make movies about:  Single, a veteran career executive, born in Atlanta, moved to New York at 23, and now the Vice President of Design and Merchandising with Superior Uniform Group in Florida.  Interested in the apparel business since childhood, Lisa worked 18 years for Hart-Marx before switching to Superior.  A marathon runner, golfer, skier, Lisa has always been a type A+ personality; on the go, yet sensible and measured every step of the way.  "One of the things I've learned about when participating in sports, is the incredible fabric variances and all that they can withstand," says the excited and highly motivated young woman.

"I'm always thinking of the big picture," Lisa emphasizes.  She is at once working on both internal and external design projects;  what's new and best for Superior's offerings to its customers, as well as designing directly for Superior accounts.  Not only is she dedicated to customer support, but she focuses a savvy eye toward growing the business aspect of her company.   While she was with retail-based Hart-Marx, she was head of design in the women's division of the primarily men's tailored clothing corporation.  Working with Superior on several projects, she gradually moved over from one company to the other. 

Now,  Lisa brings a new perspective to Superior Uniform Group--the wholesale/retail apparel trade.  "I've worked with designers for Ever," Lisa remarks in her Southern drawl.  "I see things from a business point of view, and I'm very fussy about fabrics, fittings, and style.  I know what's right.  Uniforms can be attractive for street wear, as well as for identity."

Superior had had several exciting projects in place before Lisa came on board:  Tailored products, eco-friendly recycled fabrics, and 100% polyesters  that are machine washable and dryable.   "There are great merits in these new fabrics for the consumers and the economy--and the technology is out there!" 

Lisa insists, "It's all about marketing-generated awareness.   We've got tailored apparel that is good for 30 washings.  You don't wash suiting every time you wear it, or it would destroy the tailored product.  If you clean it once for each of the four seasons, it is good for seven years!  We are tailoring in recycled polyester, poly and Lycra, and poly wool.  It's unbeatable."

In all categories, Lisa Stewart is infusing her own background, as she combines with the Superior focus: Eco-friendly fabrics are emerging in polos, wovens, trousers, and more.  "People are committed to doing something about the environment at our corporate level.  Knowing that Superior will lose customers if it doesn't,  has made a huge difference," Lisa smiles.  "Caps, aprons, cotton garments--we're doing so many things for both the retail trade, and for branded companies."

The general trend is for tailored garments to make a re-emergence, but in reality, it may not happen.  As it is now, Superior is very big on sportswear.  What's fabulous is that so many other companies, such as Under Armour, Nike, etc., are presenting with whole new fabric technologies.  Superior is taking advantage of that technology in a big way.   "Things like wicking, stain release, Teflon coating-- these are all processes that used to be new; now, they're just taken for granted.  People who are active expect SPF protection, anti-bacterial coverage and more, as part of the garment," Lisa reveals.

Aesthetics?  Lisa focuses the tailored garments in charcoal, black, navy, and brown's.   The accessories may vary with the customer.  Superior is very careful not to date itself.   "It's a challenge," Lisa reminds, "to be fresh and maintain longevity at the same time.  We're doing color-blocking with two and three different areas of bold different hues, contrast stitching, brighter colors--more creativity with fewer price points.  We're doing branding with logos at every level of the customer's needs: The front and back of the house.  We do stores and private customer accounts; small independent boutique hotels to huge corporations."  Superior's catalogues are being completely re-designed to focus on these changing times.

"Superior has often been portrayed as being very plain--a brass tacks organization.  I wouldn't have joined if that were so.  Marketing has everything to do with reality and how we're portrayed," Lisa comments.  "We have a great marketing team, a tremendous design team, and we're all moving forward together!"   

  

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.

           

More Can Be Better: UniformMarketNews.Com

I have been struggling for some months with baggy triceps, a ballooning bosom, burgeoning waistline, bulbous buttocks, and blossoming thighs.  What to do, what to do…  At last, I have unwillingly joined the millions in our society who classify themselves as “plus.”  It’s a whole new world: A kind of confirming nod we give to one another in passing that not unlike pregnancy or having grey hair, reveals a secret society. We’re all part of a certain bunch:  Big beautiful women…   Yes, men, too (although it doesn’t seem to phase them as much, if at all).

Anyone who is in the custom uniform business, tailoring, or alterations, is used to the steady trickle of folks who require a special fit—not infrequently because of oversize.  Once in a while, my father would jokingly say that he would need to get a pattern from Omar the Tentmaker. 

Lately, however, it’s been one plus size after another, and sometimes entire orders.  Recently, a group of Midwesterners ordered 60 polo shirts—half 2XL and half 4XL—all with 8” added to the length to cover the fronts and rears of strong, hearty farmhands who wear size 58 pants.

Men are weighing in like cattle, and the women are right there with them.   This spring, alone, we had two different orders for military and fire personnel, where the gals had 67” waists.  Waists!  Imagine the chests and the seats… 

We had a call for a size 72 coat from a Shriner.  Another gent requested that we come to his house to measure and fit some jumpsuits, because he couldn’t squeeze his way out the door to come to us.  There’s a cavalry order going out where the average frock coat for the battalion is a 48Long. 

I’m not trying to make fun or ridicule.  Rather, I’m pointing out where a significant portion of our population’s sizing is headed.  Just as so many of our manufacturers for ready-to-wear have, of late, instituted petites and very small sizes to suit a particular frame, they’ve also gone to bigger and bigger sizing in order to accommodate both men and women in the workplace. 

Look at Edwards: It has two different fits of slacks for women.  It overhauled styling, and broadened its patterns.  There was a reason for it, in addition to staying current with the times.  A woman’s size is for a different figure than a misses—it’s rounder and fuller in all the important spots.  As baby boomers expand into midlife and younger women reap the rewards of the voluminous junk food culture, who wants to deal with the reality that she’s grown two sizes larger? 

Edwards has also re-sized its blazers.  It used to be that as the sizes grew, a pattern design that was lean to begin with, just got wider and longer all around like a set of nested boxes.  Now redesigned and re-proportioned, the larger sizes fit as well as the smaller.  Bravo!  In tandem, its blouses are mushrooming to sizes 28 and 30, and yes, made with Spandex in the fabrics for just a bit of easy stretch.  Sweaters for men and women are going up and up and up to a 5XL.

The sizes are getting larger for in-stock items, everywhere.  Red Kap carries up to a size 68 in a man’s jean.  Think about it.  While size 54 is standard bill o’fare for most pant styles, the larger sizes are available. Shirts go all the way to a 6XL with available lengths in extra plus 4,” 6” or 8” for oversize and non-stock.   For a guy to wear a shirt with a plus 8” tail is either to say he’s very very big, or it’s almost like putting him into a dress—the shirt is that long at 40.”

Dickies, Carhardt, Cabella—wow!  They’re out to capture the retail trade in uniform design, and make no bones about carrying the larger sizes.  One can find their brands with many uniform retailers, as well as in catalogues and online—they sell direct to the consumer as well as wholesale.    

Big Top Tees has been around for 20 years.  Who would’ve thought this little company that custom-manufactures knit garments for big and tall would last?  The truth is, business—and sizing—are booming.  Because oversize is all Big Top makes, it can manufacture for fewer dollars what bigger companies have to charge significantly more for—and, in far less time.  From T’s, they’ve diversified to fleece, polos, Henley’s, and other knit tops.

Broder and San Mar—two of the larger wholesale sportswear distributors—are carrying T-shirts in tall’s as the bigger manufacturers, such as Gildan, are catching on.  The larger sizes are becoming commonplace.  What used to be a range of S-XL went to 2XL, 3XL, and 4XL.  Now, many of the alpha sized companies go up to 5XL and 6XL without missing a beat.  Yes, the jacket trade is going in the same direction, too.

Scrubs and labcoats are made in 4XL, 5XL, and larger.  Pants and tops in solids and cute itty-bitty prints that fold around mammoth bodies—Fashion Seal, Medgear, Landau, Cherokee—all of them.  Aprons in bib and cobbler styles come in XL’s; there are even styles that are designed for fuller chests and hips, having added fabric to the tops and waists.  Fame makes three or four aprons that come from a tuxedo pattern and look terrific, while at the same time don’t fold into a woman’s fuller cleavage.

Our country as a whole has become a nation of wider and taller individuals: Whether it’s that some men are exercising and have athletic builds requiring looser sleeves and broader shoulders; or other guys who are portly’s or stout’s; whether it’s larger young women, or older gals who are experiencing “let-go” in every direction—the manufacturers are increasing their size ranges, and paying more attention to comfort and attractiveness, there’s no question. 

Nothing is worse than a heavier person who is wearing apparel that is too small and too tight with bulges, and buttons that are popped open, or that is too short and rides up.  “Sleek and Chic” is the motto, and no matter the build or the girth, with easy-fit, flattering designs that accommodate all sizes, and experienced sales reps, more really can be better.

Hamburger Woolen Company, Inc.: UniformMarketNews.com

In seven months, Hamburger will celebrate its 70^th anniversary.  There are over 600 Internet sites that refer to it.  Multiple articles have been written, and numerous websites mention its capacity, capabilities, and far-reaching influence in the garment industry—not only in the United States, but throughout the world.   Not bad when one stops to think about these precarious economic times!  Not only is it still in business, but with the strength and determination of its owners and loyal co-workers, Hamburger remains a revered name.  “We’re a wonderful company.”  Ilene Hamburger Rosen says confidently.  “We advocate for each and every one of our buyers, and we bend over backward for them.” 

In addition to its primary focus, which is fabric distribution, Hamburger also maintains its division of police equipment—HWC Police Equipment Company—which has been in existence for 30+ years.  Between the two areas, a strong and healthy future is the clear forecast.

Ilene is the president of the family-owned firm.  “These are not the best of times, but they’re not the worst of times.   You can’t look back,” she insists pragmatically.  “Sure, I liked it better when it was easy and fun.  But now, everything has changed.  You just go forward and do your best.”

Irving Hamburger founded the company January 1, 1940.   Originally, he worked for the American Woolen Company; there were no synthetics or polyesters in those days.  Uniforms were made of 100% wool.   He saw that while large manufacturers could purchase hundreds to thousands of yards, there was no way that the little guy could manage to either afford or warehouse the huge quantities that were mandated by such mills as American Woolen, J.P. Stevens, and many others. Astutely, Irving decided to become a distributor of these goods, by buying up large 600-800 yard pieces.  He warehoused them himself, cut them up, and re-sold them to smaller manufacturers on an “on demand” basis.  “We bought, sold, cut, and shipped,” says Ilene.  “Our fast 24 hour delivery service is what really got us going.  We earned a reputation for prompt shipping and superb customer service, continuing that same practice for both divisions, today.”

Irving initially had two backers, then bought them out as the company quickly took off.  It became a family affair, with cousins, brothers-in-law, brothers, and eventually his sons.  “He supported everyone,” marvels Ilene. 

“In fact,” she continues in her matter-of-fact New Yorkese, “the reason that the police division was created is because Uncle Stewart was always fighting with Uncle Nat; so to give Uncle Stewart something to do and keep the two of them separate, Dad started the police equipment business.  Who could imagine that Uncle Stewart’s one-page hand-out would become our 90-page catalogue and that we are now warehousing over 1900 items for wholesale distribution?”

Lloyd Hamburger, Irving’s eldest son, was always groomed to go into the business.  When Irving passed away unexpectedly, Lloyd came home immediately after completing his military service in the early ‘50’s, and took his place as president of the company, where he remained until 2004.   What Irving founded, Lloyd capitalized upon, and the business mushroomed.  Polyesters were in existence by then—by themselves and blended with woolens.  Hamburger Woolen Company catered to schools, the airline business, hotels, restaurants, casinos, and bands—wherever uniform manufacturers had a use or a need; it still does. 

Hamburger sold to everyone, and it became a well known name in the uniform industry, which at that time was located in New York—the hub of world apparel manufacturing.  “When I got married, the entire garment industry came to my wedding, because they were all right here,” reminisces Ilene.  “My parents’ social friends were also their business colleagues.

Married with two grown children, and a husband who is a physician, Ilene Rosen is one smart cookie.  She is a graduate of Tulane University, both in the liberal arts, and with a law degree.   She keeps her law license current, and can practice in New York, should she choose to.  “I did it for a while,” Ilene moans, “but I hated it.  I just hated it.”

When she and her two younger sisters were growing up, Lloyd would take his three daughters on a ritual outing every Saturday morning: Breakfast at the Dairy Famous Restaurant, and a day at the office.   They loved it.  As the sisters grew and went their separate ways, however, the memories stuck with Ilene.  After her experience in the legal world, and some work in the insurance industry, Ilene joined her father when Lloyd needed help at the office; the timing was perfect. 

As they expanded over the years, the firm moved from one building to the next, with their most recent quarters in a 15,000 square foot one-story building on Long Island.   “Our staff has been with us for at least 20 years, we’re settled, and we’re staying right here,” Ilene mentions. 

 “We have kept going through some rough times,” she says.  More currently, Hamburger has also gone into theme parks, and medical uniforms with its fabrics.  It sells specialty fabrications with highly specialized treatments and coatings, and virtually anything that a customer requests as long as it is in solids rather than prints.  “We also do stretch fabrics and organics,” Ilene adds.

“We are not a mill; we are a distributor, and that’s an important difference—and we are extremely competitive as a distributor.  We are strictly wholesale, and we work with dealers, distributors, and manufacturers.”  Hamburger’s longtime commitment to the North-American Association of Uniform Manufacturers & Distributors (NAUMD) is well known.

Asked about being a woman-owned business, Ilene is frank.  “I have never had a problem being a woman in business; however, the process of becoming certified as woman-owned business is a lot of work for little or no reward.  When this issue came up, I decided to become president of the firm, although Lloyd was older.  But it’s just a title.  What difference does it make?  I never found it a problem to be Lloyd’s daughter.  If people can say the kinds of things about me that they say about him, then I am very lucky.”