Trad-Ivy Tuesday: Red Wing Boots

I bought a pair of  Red Wing boots way before either the manufacturer up in Red Wing Minnesota or their retail suppliers across the country ever thought of their goods as fashion. Red Wing’s lineage is quintessentially American, martial and blue collar. Only recently have they dipped their steel toe into the mosh pit of adjectives that could be anything but true to their heritage.

Red Wings and Trad-Ivy Tuesday? How? Why? Why not? I don't know. Other than the fact that Barrie Ltd. ... neighbor to J. Press in New Haven, sold what surely was a Red Wing made boot at one time.

There was a slaughter in Europe known as World War I and the facts show that virtually one hundred percent of our soldiers, whether they died with their boots on or wore them on their return home, were wearing Red Wing boots.

But I reckon that Red Wing’s most enduring legacy is in spec-precise, steel toed, static dissipative, safety shoes and work boots. Men, mostly I suppose, who over the years had to shod themselves in boots or shoes that passed specific performance rigor, would usually get them from a Red Wing supplier. Think equipment.

Certainly I didn’t in 1989 nor do I now, need a pair of boots that pass all of the industrial or martial rigor that Red Wing so proudly delivers on. But I wanted a pair. I’d been out in Orange, Virginia with my best buddy JTS where his daddy has a farm and just enough land for inside the Beltway frustrated wanna be country boys to piddle around, drink, shoot at shit and shoot the shit before heading back inside the Beltway vortex.

He had on Red Wings and I had on L.L. Bean hunting boots. Bean stuff rarely fails and mine probably weren’t failing on this icy-cold, raw February day. But they seemed to have mildly less stamina than JTS’s Red Wings and my toes were cold. Plus, the easiness of his no-buckles, no brogueing, no-anything Red Wings appealed to me through their silent, puncture-proof, steel-toed simplicity. Fashion and aesthetics weren’t at the time nor had it been during Red Wing’s previous eighty years, part of the Red Wing oeuvre. Matter of fact, methinks that even amidst the Minnesota nice of the Red Wing manufacturing plant, if one uttered thangs like oeuvre and fashion, an ass-whipping mighta been de rigueur. Same with using phrases like de rigueur. Shut up…you non-steel-toed, foppish ersatz-boot wearing p_s_ies.

So when I got back to Old Town I went to Monument Shoes on upper King Street. It’s long gone now. I can’t recall exactly when they relented and sold their little patch to developers who would ultimately turn the pithier and dodgy end of King Street into the posh boutique strewn strip that the lower end of the street had long since become. But Monument Shoes was there for one reason only. To supply men who did work…who did physically demanding and probably dangerous work, with the proper footgear to assure that something as silly as a dropped wrought iron pipe wouldn’t crush a foot and cost the company a man and provide the Unions more fodder for demanding better work conditions.

I can’t find any photos of upper King Street that include an exterior view of Monument Shoes. I wish I could because it would at least give you an outer glimpse of the interior that I’m a try to describe. The fella who approached me from behind the counter looked like the customers he usually served. He just as soon could have come off of shift work at the Potomac Yards railroad facility a couple of miles away. The floor was tiled in those chalky squares of worn out flooring that surely hadn’t been replaced since the 1940’s and there was no reason to. Customers came to Monument, probably with some kind of company spec-sheet in hand and perhaps even a dollar allowance from their company or Union, to buy their work boots or shoes and that’s it.

I might be imagining this but maybe not. Seems like I remember one of those Rigid Wrench girlie calendars on the wall behind the cash register. 

The interior of Monument Shoes looked like an auto parts store from the 1960’s. Practical and utilitarian with not an ounce of pretense. And I remember one of those industrial looking art deco sturdy-ass freestanding ash trays.

And the guy running the place…the only guy in the store, I’d learn in a moment, took over the store from his mom and dad and he had those World War II hula dancer forearm tattoos. Long since faded. Suffice it to say that if he was still in business today and some foppy-ass Belgian shoe wearing flâneur came in seeking a pair of authentic-artisanal-heritage rich Red Wings, the alpha energy in the store alone woulda tossed the little priss pot out on the street.

So sixty something bucks later and I walk out with my Red Wing boots. I opted not to buy the more expensive but identical version with steel toes. Just didn’t figger I’d be needing that feature. And since 1989, my Red Wings have had a precise role in the line-up. My R. M. Williams, above, are lighter in weight and  a bit leaner of line...and I consider them nice looking enough to wear with a suit to client meetings when the weather is gnarly.

My Red Wings are heavy. They’re meant to be. So I wear ‘em when the muck and mire are considerable and I wear them like the man who sold them to me suggested. A half size larger and with thick cotton socks. The self-shot above from a couple of years ago sees me with Red Wings and flannel lined L.L. Bean khakis. Chevy Chase must a been mucky and mired on this day…a day of sojourn to Polo Ralph Lauren.

I suppose it was probably 1996-ish when my then current love of my life and I were out at JTS’s country place and it was bitter cold and snowy in a rural Virginia kinda way and we decided to stay an extra couple of days. I had my Red Wings and since we were gonna stay over because of the snowy-icy, beautiful country weather, we wanted to go out in it. One problem, my gal, later LFG’s mother, didn’t have proper shoddings to frolic. So we all piled in JTS’s old Waggoneer and we head to a farm supply co-op either in Louisa or Orange. I forget. But I do remember that it was one of those classic Feed and Seed places. Nothing fancy--kinda like my great grandfather's general store above.

My uncle David had a local artist capture the Seloc railroad stop and my great grandfather's store in a watercolor years ago. Seloc is Coles spelled backwards--yes--we were an ironic bunch back then. Cole is my mom's maiden name. I'm digressing. Shut up.

But the miracle was that the farm supply place had a pair of Red Wings identical to mine in an equivalent to a woman’s size six. Bam. We are in business. Chances are after that weekend, LFG’s mother never wore them again and certainly, they were out of my sight and mind. Fast forward all of these years and I had completely forgotten the piccolo sized Red Wings and the memories of such a fun snowed-in weekend out with my friends in the country.

Till a few weekends ago. Much to my absolute over-the-top delight, LFG showed up with her mom’s Red Wings on. “Dad, everyone at school wants to know where I got these and now that I’m wearing them, mom wants them back! And Dad, nobody else has a pair.” I took great relish in all of this pre-pubescent who wears what, I wanna be unique but fit in, melange of LFGness all the while enjoying the repopulation of my memory…recollecting my trip to the long gone utilitarian Monument Shoes as well as the snowy-icy weekend that saw a car load of city slickers slink into an Ag store and discover a diminutive pair of Red Wings for a woman who then reluctantly walked the snow dusted cow pasture and bottom land of JTS’s dad’s place.

Last weekend saw LFG concerned about a blemish or two on her Red Wings so she and I saddle soaped mine and hers. Kinda of a mother-daughter in the kitchen making bread thang. But different.

I know personally, a few of you who made snarky comments on my tumblr about my LFG wearing her Red Wings and jeans to the Old Angler’s Inn for Thanksgiving dinner with me and her mom. And because we love each other, you won’t be angry at me for too long as I tell you to kiss my ass. As for the anonymous commenter who suggested that I allow LFG counsel and vetting rights to what I display when it concerns her, here’s my response to you…First, thanks for the comment. If you look at the history of my blog, you’ll see that as LFG has matured over this past year or so, there are fewer photos of her in general and even fewer uncropped shots. I hear what you say and appreciate your comments. And for those who defended me, LFG and the tumblr photo, I love you too.

Red Wing is thriving today and you can still get your government, martial or OSHA compliant shoddings from them. But alas, like the upper end of King Street, they too have given over, ever so slightly, to the posh and trendy. Something tells me though, that their Minnesota sturdy heritage will prevent them from tipping completely over to the derivative.

Onward. Red Winging it.

ADG II

Lumber Jack Noir and Trad Miscellanea

Whew. After such an unintentionally provocative story the other day, it’s time for some superficial randomanalia. And all of that over a straw hat. Don’t get me wrong, I loved observing the back and forth between all of you and wouldn’t want to inhibit that in any way. But every now and then we need some mental floss—a cerebral palette cleansing dose of something. And here it is. Because trust me, I’ve got some heavy duty shitake coming in the next few weeks.

I’m prone to hygiene holidays when I’m alone and now that I’m wracked with what I call the respiratory crud, the no-shave, baseball cap option is even more appealing. But I did clean up the other day for a brief trip to the office and then to dinner—alone—again—naturally.

Winter white moleskins from Cordings. I bought three pairs of moleskins and two pairs of corduroys at Cordings in June of 1995 at about a zillion percent off. And they’ll probably last forever—bulletproof. Yep. So along with a pair of Ralph wool socks I channeled what I call Lumber Jack noir. Shut the ____ up. I don’t feel well and I have no one to play with this week so I don’t want to hear it.

No break. And I mean it. Flat front trousers with narrower legs demand a clean culmination in ankle land. No break. And these 1 5/8 inch cuffs were installed before my two inch epiphany.

But it’s two inch cuffs from here on out. Don’t argue this with me. Two inchers in all their Polo Ralph flat front beltless glory Surprise...I had them made in orange. You saw it here first. Right here.

So I left the office and headed over to my little French greasy spoon around the corner. What you see as you walk the quarter of a block is Christ Church. The Anglican installment best known for being George Washington’s church when he “came to town.” Young Bobby Lee worshiped there as well…after his mama, Ann Carter Lee had to decamp Albemarle County and Stratford because Light Horse Harry Lee pissed away all of the family dough. And Roosevelt accompanied Churchill to Christ Church during one of Winnie's visits. Seems logical. New Amsterdam WASP shuttles the uber Anglican Winnie over to the local Anglican house of (poised/restrained) worship.

I'm gonna do a story about Winston Churchill in caricature someday. But for now, here is a snap of two Winnie caricatures that live in my little hallway...awash in retail red.

So I took my usual place in the dining alone corner and began my comfort food journey. Painfully cold weather calls for Cassoulet but the Dover sole was whispering… “Order me again…order me again you lonely, yet intriguingly, in an impish sort of way, sexy man.”

Well damn, how do you deny such a siren call? Against my better judgement, I did. But not before I had a slice of middle of the road pâté. Good ole country pâté would worry me if it was anything but average. This stuff kinda appeals to a southern boy in a Boudin, liver pudding, hogshead cheese kind of a way.

I’ve never had a bad Cassoulet even though this one was a little bit dry and as always, too much.

 And I now offer this from a perspective of morphological admiration…not lust. The waitress must have been doing a ton of yoga. Stellar derrière…sublime. And I bet it would be just the same if I hadn't had two of those magical concoctions I so love. That would be ice-water.

Peach Melba, Café au lait and I’m done.

Till I get home. It’s a holiday week and I generally don’t drink hard spirits alone but I needed one of these see-throughs to see me through till bedtime. I was out of NyQuil. Shut up. 

 So let’s shift gears and revisit my Bobby from Boston gets. I’ve pretty much sorted out with you the two covert twill coats that I snagged. But looky at the perfecto navy blazer. Whether you bespeak something from Savile Row or buy sixty five dollar jackets from Bobby; there’s an immutable issue regarding fit that must be reconciled before pondering any other adjustment. Sleeves can be shortened, sides can be tapered. But the true index for whether or not a garment is for you is the way it fits the neck and shoulders. 

There’s very little that can be done to lower a collar or adjust shoulders. That’s where most of the handwork is manifest and where most of the customization has already occurred for the original owner. If the fit sucks in neck/shoulder land, the garment’s always gonna look kinda sucky. I’ve had enough clothes made for me over the last twenty years to know when something fits. And I’ll tell you that the shoulder/neck fit on this little Bobby from Boston ditty is as good as I’ve ever had.

Griffon amongst retail red. (sorry...I'm stuck on the retail red thing...it remains funny to me but I'm sure it will subside in another post or two) Now the Griffon escutcheon could mean a hundred things. The original owner could have been a member of “The Griffin/Griffon Club” or they could have been a veteran of one of the British Ranger battalions that use the Griffon as part of their iconographic manifestation. But I’ve debunked this one. It’s the logo for Elmer and Lurlene Griffin’s Auto Body. Elmer and Lurlene opened a bondo slathering, chicken wire and hay baling twine car put-back-together emporium years ago. In Pamplico South Carolina. Shut up.

My other rare foray from home so far this week saw me, even with the respiratory crud; manifest cabin fever so I drove out to the country and grabbed my usual supply of Crane Crest secret salad cologne.

And my hygiene holiday manifested in jeans, Red Wings and my LFG Patagonia thing. Red Wings. A real work boot and made in America. At least they were when I bought these in 1996 on King Street in Old Town. Back when a family owned work shoe—boot store remained in business. It’d been there for fifty years when I bought these. And of course they are long gone. Most everything now on King Street is a frou frou boutique of some sort butcept two wig shops. I want the wig shops to always be in Old Town. It reminds me of how dodgy upper King Street was in 1989. Canaries in the coal mine of gentrification…when the wig shops go; we’ll be 100% uppity. Upper King Street 1989…the antithesis of Lower Sloane Street in any decade.

 Someone emailed me and axked if the Patagonia top was as shockingly green in real life or had I enhanced the photo. Nope. It’s green. Fuzzy green.

My Restoration Hardware chair remains in Georgetown. I stopped by to check on it the other day.

Right after I bought pediatric Blunnies for my little buddy who I’ll see next week.

And the chair also remains in the Old Town location as well. And no I’m not gonna buy it. Six months from now, a half dozen of these will find their way to the Restoration Hardware Outlet in Leesburg. They’ll have a ding or two on them and they’ll have an adjusted MSRP of around nine hundred bucks. Just watch.

And so I’ll close this installment of superficialia with a couple of things. Is it just me or is Jennifer Beals looking more and more like the late Dixie Carter? I’d say that’s a compliment for either of them.

 Continued Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. This time from the junk man in Old Town.

Onward. En route to replenish my DayQuil/NyQuil cache.

ADG II

Viagra-Wet Beach Towels-R.M. Williams

Man-I’ve never been happier to be back at Casa Minimus. I’m not a nervous flyer but the weather yesterday was dodgy and the air was thick. I had a bumpy ride all the way back to DC and I’m not a nervous flyer in the least. I crossed the moat and into the house a bit after one in the morning. I remain tucked into bed with strong coffee and three Chips Ahoy cookies to prime the pump before ambling over to the office. No need to rush this morning and the grip of my down featherbed has me nicely swaddled.

Toad insisted early on that I drop the code word verification thing on the comments page and I readily saw the merit in doing so. I don’t mind too much having to type in said code when commenting on posts but it is nice when one doesn’t have to do it. However, I’ve been getting scores of junk comments over the last few weeks-all of them offer great deals on Viagra. This my friends, makes me paranoid. I remember getting junk emails before spam filters and firewalls were so effective and they were all the same things-erectile solutions-credit score improvements and lower interest rate refi offers. I used to think….”damn…they must be mind readers”!

So here’s my deal. I’m not going to implement the code word thingy. I’ll just keep deleting the comments when the spammers send them. As for Viagra-The day I can no longer pass the wet beach towel test, I’ll gladly line up for the amazing interventions that the pharmaceutical industry offers mankind.

I think it was about ten years ago. Walking in Gotham I spotted a great pair of boots in the window of some shop that specializes in Australian goods. The boots are obviously made for all types of weather but the thing that caught my eye was that they looked streamlined enough to wear with dress clothes in bad weather. I’d been searching for something like that. My closet at that time housed Red Wing boots and various versions of our Trad standard-the L.L. Bean blucher. To me though, these really didn’t fit the bill for a foul weather “dressier boot”.

So I’m talking to the guy that runs the shop and he’s spreading Crocodile Dundee lore thick. “You can’t get these boots anywhere else mate. Made by R. M. Williams-single piece of leather-unique to the antipodean realm. As a matter of fact, I don’t even think I’m gonna sell you a pair. And if I do decide to allow procurement-they are four hundred dollars”. This guy was good.

Now I wanted the boots. And in this rare instance, I could almost rationalize needing them. Four hundred bucks is a lot of dough today and was certainly a fair amount a decade ago. My appetite for the boots waned in a nanosecond. E-commerce was evolving at a fair pace ten years ago-even pre Google I was able to find a place called the Stitching Horse Bootery in Australia that sells R.M. Williams boots. The dollar was really strong at the time and long story short-I was able to get the boots for less than two hundred bucks. 

I also picked up a d-ring kangaroo belt at the same time. When I wear it I’m jumpy as hell.

I’d say that the R.M. Williams boots have been one of my all time best purchases. Still holding up well albeit with a few character building nicks here and there. They saw me off to Indianapolis this week-accompanying my J. Press crewneck Fair Isle sweater vest and moleskin trousers. I probably couldn’t have picked better togs for the dodgy weather manifest this week. I snapped this pic at five thirty the other morning before heading to the airport. Not sure what you look like at five thirty so be gentle in your observations. Shut up.

Meg over at Pigtown asked me if mine were Blundstones. Indeed they are not. Now I’m not knocking Blunnies but the R. M. Williams boot is less clunky-a bit more streamlined and it’s the little details that usually sway me. See the difference?

I had some time when I landed at the airport in Indy-which by the way sports a nice new terminal that was almost like a ghost town. Indy-very beige city. It’s a Camry. Ok, I know you are starting to drift a bit-my Adderall hasn’t quite kicked in yet. My R.M. shoddings were in need of a shine so I had one of the Indy airport shinemeisters work a number on ‘em. I wear suede shoes 99% of the time so the proverbial shine stand doesn’t see too much of me.

Guess the airport carpet and you win ten bucks. The Flusser three-two…notch lapel…open pleated patch pockets is a winter time fave. As LFG would say-“It’s cuddly”. Sounds a bit twee but it really is sort of like a blanket. I think every trad wardrobe should include hair of the camel.

Ok…I’ve gotta end this sleep-in sartorial drivel and head to the shower.

Onward-with antipodean kicks.

ADG