The Ash Creek Papers

 

I guess we all have favorite articles of clothing.  It’s more than liking the look of the garment itself.  It’s really about feeling good when you wear it.  In small or large ways perhaps, this special piece of clothes has power to transform us… make us more confident.  Sort of like Clark Kent donning tights and a cape (and you thought it was the kryptonite).

I got to thinking about this the other day.  I had just inherited a “hand-me-up” from Zack.  A simple tan cotton broadcloth shirt with short sleeves from Old Navy or the Gap (or a place like one of those places).

What can I say? I like it. 

Perhaps you have heard of “Dressed Down Fridays”? Real popular in Corporate America, I’m told… Well I’m living a “dressed down decade (or two).  I have gone from tailor-made suits and jackets to wearing Docker’s khakis (tan or olive), sweat shirts in winter, t-shirts (or polo shirts) in summer and boat shoes.  Sartorially speaking, my life got real simple.

Because of the near refrigerator quality of our air conditioning at Grapes, in the summer I like to wear an “over shirt” with my assorted Ts.  This over shirt is always worn un-tucked with front and sleeves unbuttoned.  The over shirt can be of denim, or from the stable of shirts from my custom tailoring days.

Zack’s shirt, albeit short sleeve, has been added to the mix & has been elevated to “first violin” status..

But the manner in which these shirts are worn contributes to my reputation of having that “castaway” look.  It has also been advanced that I “need” an over shirt to hide my increasing middle (which, in private, I will admit to).  But it has also been noted that as we age we become more sensitive to the cold, and the over shirt is really a “senior” thing… as if on a July day I will show up at Grapes with a cashmere scarf!  And to this latter notion, let me issue a simple “pah”!  And maybe also a full moon!

I think it must have been on my third or fourth day in a row of wearing this tan shirt when I clearly recognized that this simple accessory was well on its way to a wardrobe favorite.

I happened to be at Ash Creek at the time… Mags had put in an urgent call to me… I was advised that there was an unfortunate surplus of Wild Turkey at my other Office.  I responded to the call directly after work.

I was in the process of reviewing their 101 when a character from the kids show Fraggle Rock came into my mind.  By the by, this is what happens when you sip straight rye whisky.  I don’t even know if the show is aired anymore… it was an old Jim Henson creation. 

Zack would later supply the character’s name (Wembley), and in broad strokes, the basics of the show.  I don’t think I ever saw the show; but I can remember reading the books to the kids (actually, I think it was just one book).

It was Wembley who I was interested in.  There was something about him that must have struck a resonant chord… even the best from Kentucky can’t dredge up a memory from 20 years ago… a memory sourced from a single kids book.

But this is for sure… Wembley wore a colourful Hawaiian shirt (something that set him completely apart from all the other Fraggles), and this shirt became the signature of his appearance.  But there is more… if he misplaced it, say… or perhaps it was in the wash, it would put him on edge… as if some of his persona had been depleted… as if his inherent vulnerability had been laid bare.

And then miraculously, when the shirt was found, slipped on, a sigh heaved… the balance of the universe was restored… at least as far as Wembley was concerned.

Let me quickly say that I am not keen on Hawaiian shirts.  But I am a fan of Wembley… even though I know so little about him, or the world he inhabited.  I like his scruffy appearance, his friendly nature.  I like the pride he put into something that might seem insignificant to others.  I like that he draws comfort and strength from a “special shirt”.

Nope.  Wembley and I don’t need a cape or tights to feel like Superman.

I have been remiss in not acknowledging my recent change in vehicles.

It is with a touch of sadness that I must report that I am sending the mercedes into retirement. After rejecting offers from the Smithsonian, I have decided to put the mercedes out to pasture with a not-for-profit group who will cart her off the Grapes’ Lido deck without charging me… I have reminded them of the rarity of this car, and expect a confirming document to that fact… something that should lead to a huge tax write off (two can play at this game Donald Trump!).

I may even vote Republican in the next general election.

For those who have tried to unearth the true identity of this auto… let me make it easy. It is in fact a 1988 Red Chevy Sprint.

I acquired it from Lynn and Alan some nine years ago. It had been Lisa’s… Alan got it second hand, and I think this is true, from some little old lady in Greenwich who only drove it to and from Stop & Shop (oh, maybe she took it to the Beauty Parlor, too).

I was getting the car for Zack’s use. He was 17 at the time… and he has to be the only kid I know who got his license at 16 and then showed no interest in actually driving a car. But I think it was when he was a Senior at Norwalk that he finally relented and consented to driving himself to the “before sunrise swim workouts”.

One small obstacle. The Sprint (or the “Spit”, as it was called in those days) was a stick shift and while Zack knew how to drive, he had not passed shifting skills 101 yet. But that was moot. Ellen was reluctant to let Zack drive a car that was antiquated in safety technology (I think if she had her druthers, Zack would have gone to swim practice in a Tiger Tank).

Zack got my Saturn and I inherited the Sprint.

And when Zack headed into the fleshpots of New York City, it was time for Shaina to get her license. And while she would eventually learn to drive a stick shift, she, too, would take the Saturn to High School.

Silly me. I should have installed air bags, ABS brakes, a drogue shoot and a flotation collar on the Sprint.

Well… Soon Shaina would be off to Keene & for a brief sojourn I would regain the Saturn.

In the interim two events worthy of note. Zack would finally be admitted to the sacred company of citizens who can drive a manual stick shift… and he would in fact use the car briefly to drive to his first “real job” in Stamford. I don’t think Ellen was too thrilled with this… and I think that Zack had to plan driving routes that would not put him at stop lights on hills.

Secondly, the “Spit” had morphed into the mercedes. When I started at Grapes, this car became the subject of some amusement. It’s small, square of look, of indeterminate vintage and was a source of inquiry… “where did you get that heap?”

“Heap?”…. and without skipping a beat, “are you gentlemen referring to my mercedes?”

“Mercedes? You must be kidding!!”

“No, I am in earnest. My Brother-in-Law sold it to me for $10 (I had to talk him up from $5… pride you know). I got a good price on it because it didn’t have that hood ornament”.

My concession to my Father’s memory was using a lower case “m” in referencing the car. You see, my Father was of a generation that thought anything of German manufacture was made by I.G. Farben and/or in some way was connected to the crematoria at Birkenau.

OK… so it wasn’t the best looking car on the Lido. Big Deal. It drove well in the snow… granted I roasted in the summer with no AC… and the radio received only one station (as long as I was within two miles, as the crow flies, from its main transmitter); but I could park the car anywhere. This latter detail proved invaluable when I hopped into the City to catch Sunday football with Zack & crew at Josie Woods’… street parking in and around the Village being somewhat at a premium. I could park that car in a shoebox if I had to.

And why do you think folks gave me wide berth in a parking lot? Did they fear that I might open my door in an enthusiastic manner and perhaps nick their BMW?

There has been a certain comfort tooling around in the mercedes. I never thought much about it.

It took me by surprise that two of my Grapes’ colleagues, Barbara and Donna, thought that I actually had a Mercedes. Talk of the mercedes with Holtie, Mikey Bordeaux or Wally was no big thing. Everyone knew the gag… or so I thought. Everyone save Barb and Donna. They both thought that the Mercedes was kept in Stamford for use, presumably, on special occasions like “Sunday-going-to-Meeting”.

I guess I should be flattered. Hey… I have that Mercedes type of pedigree… you know, Prep School, Skull & Bones at Yale, Debutante Escort, Wharton School of Business, restricted Country Clubs, summer in the Hamptons… or maybe it was summer in Woodmont.

Oh well… you have the idea.

Barb and Donna just figured me for “Class”. Was I going to disappoint them?

But eventually we find out that there is no Santa Claus (a discovery that I made when I was 24), and eventually Donna found out about the mercedes from Sandy… and I was the one who told Barb…

What can I say… I love the off-beat nature of driving a car that is a bit “down at the heel” as the English are wont to say.

This sense of “charm” was lost on Suzy. Even though there was a time that I had no competition for the Saturn’s use, I had to put my better car away because I was out of lease miles. So on school days I would pick Suzy up in the morning and welcome her to the cozy confines of the mercedes. She would observe that the heater was deficient.

“Pah! It’s warm as toast in here!”

Then there was some question about how it looked to emerge from the mercedes in front of school friends and acquaintances. Not particularly fashionable… I grant you.

Well, I love Suzy and, in my manner, I would make light of the situation, “Suzy you are lucky… do you realize that there are more Dusenbergs on the road than this car!!”

Yes, it is rare. When was the last time you saw another one?

But I took a call recently from Dani in Pocatello, Idaho. In her travels hither and yon, what does she espy? Not one; but two Chevy Sprints, same colour and of similar age and state of repair.

I didn’t want to say anything; but I felt for sure that the back of those mercedes were stocked with sacks of uncooked rice, a small quantity of concertina wire, and two dozen rounds of 60mm mortar shells.

The back of my mercedes has a picnic blanket, a colourful beach towel, a sand chair, a bottle of suntan lotion that makes you smell like a pina colada, John Iriving’s Son of Circus and one of those “things” that can jump start your car by itself.

Two different concepts of survival, I suppose…

But the days of the mercedes were numbered. Vinnie, the proprietor and mechanic extraordinaire of the garage next to Grapes had kept the mercedes running on “baling wire and glue”.

In truth, I had put far too much money into it. New alternator, new clutch, new battery, countless tires. Always a little “poison” at a time. The mercedes had become an annuity for Vinnie. “Here Vinnie, take my pay check… buy me lunch later.”

Last year my transmission surrendered its first gear. This I attributed, by the by, to my attempt to teach Suzy how to drive a stick. What she did to first gear would be considered a war crime in the Hague.

Vinnie poo-pooed it… “What do you need first gear for anyway? You can drive without it for years.”

I loved the “for years” part. I had no inclination to replace a car of such character and appeal. But trying to hold the hill in second gear on the approach to Stew Leonard’s from the West was nigh impossible. I had to rev the engine’s RPM to a level that you only hear on the tarmac of Laguardia.

And then there was the issue of oil. I began going thru three quarts of 10-40 very ten days or so. I knew it was bad when I got a birthday card from the Secretariat of OPEC thanking me and wishing me continued driving success.

So, as I say, the mercedes’ days were numbered, the writing was clearly on the wall. But as in other things, we do live in denial.

The death blow was struck from an unexpected quarter. As previously noted, I could squeeze the mercedes anywhere. And not too long ago, anywhere happened to be on Washington St. in SONO. I lucked into a sparkling spot on the drag near the Black Bear. Ascher and Rachel thought a change in venue was in order… Ash Creek could survive without my patronage for one night… and besides there was a live band at the Bear that I wanted to catch. Good.

Ascher split early. I think he wanted to catch the opening of the Hang Seng in Hong Kong. When Rachel and I leave, the street is empty, I bid her good night and stroll to my sweet “VIP” parking spot.

The mercedes was gone!

It was one of two possibilities. The mercedes had been stolen (probably by an astute and eccentric automotive collector), or the gendarmes had it towed.

Aye, there is the rub. A “sweet parking spot” like I had found was too good to be true. And the local constabulary, rather than pay attention to the drug dealers operating 100 yards from their station house, decided to impound the mercedes…

So I forgot to renew the registration… I was still within the same calendar year. And big deal about the emissions sticker that hadn’t been updated since 1997. Picky, Picky.

Once I paid the various government agencies and AAA Towing… I reclaimed the mercedes; but the time to cross the Rubicon had arrived.

It really got ’round to the damn emissions thing. I would have to pay for that. And Ladies and Gentlemen, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell that the mercedes would pass the test. That would mean taking it to Vinnie who would have to do his utmost to get the mercedes up to standard… and I had run out of scholarship money…. then another test. Then a waiver…

I had temporary sticker that was good for 60 days.

That is how long I had to find a new mercedes.

Lucky for me Providence was as close as the Exxon Station next door. As it turns out, Maheesh the Maitre D’ of the Station and the Mini-Mart, was looking to sell his Red 1991 Honda.

Yes, it looked like my life was heading for an up-grade. We settled on a price… that was then adjusted in my favour when it was apparent that the car wouldn’t start due to bad wiring from the battery, secondly the primary hood latch was not operational and lastly, I had no interior lights on the dash.

But I loved the look… just the right number of dents, nicks and rust spots that would make me a threat when I park next to a new Lexus. And it was red… even more of a threat to that tan Lexus.

Still, I was having separation anxiety. But that was thru when I came into work one morning and barely made it over the hills on the Merritt Parkway… and then the mercedes “coughed and wheezed” its way on the city streets ’til it limped on to Grapes’ Lido.

Sayonara.

Vinnie gave the Honda the once over… made a barucha and to borrow an Naval term, I transferred my flag to the new mercedes.

I think the contemporary idiom is… I be stylin’.

I guess there was only one matter that had to be attended to. I mean… referring to the Honda as a mercedes devalued the concept of its original use. There could be no sequel to the mercedes.

It was last Friday, Rachel and Wally were in the bullpen at the time… I was kicking some thoughts around in my head.

“I think I should be driving a Porsche… what do you think?”

It was agreed. “Hey, Wally… what about the colour? Do Porsches come in red?”

“Sure they do! And you don’t see too many Porsche sedans on the road.”

I am starting to love this… every since Gary had the 912 in Hamden Hall, I’ve loved Porsches. I’ve made it! I’m driving a porsche!

And don’t worry Dad, I will be sure use a lower case “p”.

I grew up in the “rag trade”… you have to forgive me. Clothing terms have meaning and inflection to me that probably are unimportant to the general population.

Many of these terms were put before my feet by my Father. For example, “Tuxedo” as a term for gentlemen’s Evening Dress attire was strictly verboten in our house. My Father would intone, “Gentlemen wear Dinner Suits… waiters wear Tuxedos.”

To this day, I wince when I hear someone say “Tuxedo”… or even worse, its abbreviated form: “Tux”.

I maybe no gentleman; but I have never worn a Tuxedo in my life… just a Dinner Suit (and if I do say so.. I look good in one). Dad, you don’t have to worry, our reputation is intact.

OK, on to a further examination of “dress” clothing. How lucky we men are. Women have to fuss and fret over what to wear on those special evenings… what is the colour, texture, hemline, neckline… all sorts of stuff… which is why they have to expend so much energy shopping (and it’s not for nothing; but have you ever heard a woman who admitted in public to actually liking what she was wearing on a fancy night out?).

Yeah, men are lucky. We get to pee anywhere we want and on the very night that the Ladies in our life have to struggle mightily with colour, texture, hemline, neckline… men have it easy!

EASY… big time. Keep it simple. Black. Shawl or Peak lapel (sorry, I don’t abide by notch). Satin or Gros Grain facings. White pleated dress shirt. Butterfly or Bat Wing bow tie. Voila! Even a male “bowling ball” like Lou Costello would look good!

 

And then there are those guys who lend extra elegance and grace to Black Tie. Cary Grant has to be numero uno. Sean Connery as James Bond is a top five… so is Fred Astaire, the Prince of Wales and Jack Kennedy.

I also have a soft spot for Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. In Rick’s Cafe he wore a White Dinner Jacket. That was OK. But I am thinking of him in Paris (you remember Paris? “You wore blue, the Germans wore grey”… I love that line… easily one of the ten best lines in film). He was dressed in Black Tie… he danced with Ingrid Bergman, eyes closed as he pressed her cheek to his as they slowly turned on the dance floor.

Oh yes, Black Tie.

I am years removed from the “trade”. But make no mistake, I still have an eye for folks turned out in “fancy”, classically designed clothes.

And I guess this brings me to someone who I just saw dressed “to the 9s”. Permit me a big smile.

It’s like this… I don’t know about you; but I have never been particularly comfortable viewing the recently departed prior to the funeral. My first experience with this was seeing V.I. Lenin in 1969… although he wasn’t recently departed, and there were those of us who thought he looked like an exhibit raided from Madam Tussaud’s.

But viewing the body, is certainly a tradition and it is a way that we show our final repsect. I guess folks get used to it. It’s just foreign to me. And yet, there is certainly something compelling about it.

Yesterday was a day to honor Ben Stone & I was late arriving for the “viewing”. No matter. Bernie brought me into the room. Just Bernie and me (the “technicians” respectifully moved to the side).

There was Ben at rest… looking serene, dressed in a Satin Shawl Lapel Dinner Suit (with a boutoniere if I recall)… and my did he look sharp… a bon vivant… a gentleman. Bernie said that he wished he could put a drink in his hand!

Here’s to you Ben Stone! You’ve had a grand life!

And Ben… if you’re listening, I want to share a story with you…

I am too lazy to figure out the year; but Kathleen was pregnant with your first Grandson… Jeffrey. And for New Year’s Eve in Stamford we decided that rather than go out, the Stones and the Winstons would have a “progressive evening” at 96 Mayflower Ave. Cocktails in our first floor flat, dinner upstairs in the Stone’s flat, New Year’s Toast back downstairs (and New Year’s breakfast, the next day, back upstairs).

Just the four of us. Why not get dressed up?

Ellen and Kathleen put on fancy dresses (and as previously noted, Kathleen was tres enceinte)… and Bernie and I put on Black Tie (we both owned… not common in our peer group).

I don’t think I have ever enjoyed wearing a Dinner Suit more. The snow was swirling outside, we had log fires going on both floors, and there was nobody better looking than we were.

Sorry Ladies… it’s just too easy for us to look good. Bernie, me… Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, Fred Astaire in Top Hat… or Ben Stone in his rest.

 

We looked good… we look good… we will look good.

So, first let me don my Dinner Jacket one more time, next let me lift a glass to toast your honor, Ben Stone… and next, let’s turn our attention to the beautiful ladies in our lives…

“You look wonderful tonight… can I have this dance?”

I guess it’s part of aging. We are lucky enough to live long enough, we are unlucky enough to mark the passing of those who have contributed to our lives. And of recent, these thoughts are happening far too much to suit me.

Tonight I prepare to bid farewell to the Father of a dear, dear friend of mine.

I think I met Bernie’s Dad, Ben Stone some 30 years ago, or so. I can not pin point the year of the first introduction… but let’s put a “key” time as “summer”. We were down for our first, maybe second visit to the beach house in Avalon, NJ.

Of course we were visiting with Bernie & Kathleen, and at some point Bernie’s parents (accompanied by their friend, Mr. Wassum) dropped in for a “hello”. These were happy folks, and their talk was of dancing and partying (although their dancing was of a different stripe than ours), and Ben Stone was dressed in shorts, neat polo shirt, white hair combed straight back and sporting a grand smile that matched the sun and air that can only be reached at the beach.

Over the years, my visits with Ben were rare. But when we met, I was greeted with a firm handshake, a huge smile, a pat on the back, a big “how are ya?”… It was like we had gone to High School together.

And yes, that smile and a pat on my back added to my life… made me feel 10 feet tall. And for a short guy, that says something.

Did I know him well? No, not really. But I do know his son.

And tomorrow I will honor both.

I count myself lucky to have met Ben… to have seen the pride in his eyes… to feel his expansive grasp at life.

You know, we all grow old… our time here is but a “blink of an eye” to the Supreme. And we can spend a lot of time fretting and worrying about it. Or we can stay out on the dance floor until the last set is thru.

So, I look down the road a piece. I think I know where Bernie Stone will be. It’s on the dance floor… and I can feel Ben Stone’s smile.