An Elogy for Imbers

The clothes make the man, goes the old saying.  If this is the case, my prospects just got a lot worse. Yesterday I found out that Imber’s Men’s store in Edwardsville is closing up.

It was never much to look at – the wood-panel decor was reminiscent of a classic station wagon, and the suits hanging on the racks were obviously intended for men well past their prime.  Thus it was easy to pass up after a casual glance, especially for someone accustomed to rummaging through sales racks to find the odd sizes that my frame supports.

While I was killing time during one of April’s frequent and lengthy shopping excursions, I wandered in to Imber’s with an interest in finding a suit coat, as well as avoiding the antique store that had drawn April in.  An impeccably dressed man greeted me and introduced himself as Alan Legow, owner of Imber’s.  I didn’t know it until later, but this much more than a polite gesture- it was an opportunity for him to size me up.  I mentioned the suit jacket, and he whipped three coats out without asking me my size or preference.

It’s a bit of an affront to a shopper with modern sensibilities – I was a bit unnerved by such close attention, and itching to slink off to a sales rack.  Alan found me a coat that was good-looking, but a bit wide around the middle.  Part of the problem was the t-shirt I was wearing – it didn’t really fit like a button shirt would.  After a cursory glance at the shirt stock, Alan said he really didn’t have any shirts I could try on that would fit me properly.  Had I ever had a custom tailored shirt?, he inquired.

I haven’t ever really had a custom anything – all my suits and shirts were from the glorious sales rack, and fit me like a garbage bag.

That’s when I was hooked – he pitched, and I swung hard.  I didn’t have time that day for a full detail of measurements, but I promised to come back.

A few weeks later, I was ready.  For 45 minutes, Alan measured every dimension of my torso, asked me what style of cuffs I liked, how long the shirt should taper, what style back, whether or not to have breast pockets, monogram style, etc.  It turns out my right shoulder is a full inch lower than the left – I think it must be a casualty of playing tuba in the marching band for so many years.

While he was writing down my measurements, I was instructed to look through an enormous book of cloth samples.  Each was only about 2″ square, but there were hundreds of them, each with a letter after the name of the cloth.  I started with the A’s and B’s – simple prints, solid colors, smooth fabrics.  C’s and D’s were more intricate pattern, finer cloth, richer colors.  I found a J that was stunning – like no fabric I’d ever seen before.  He asked if I’d made a decision about the cloth, and I didn’t hesitate to whip out the sample of J that caught my eye.  He just smiled, and handed me another sheet of paper- the prices.  A’s and B’s cost about $90 for a whole shirt, C’s and D’s between $100-$200, and so on.  J fabrics were a cool $400 per shirt.

I found a great D fabric that fit the bill.  It would be about a month before the shirt was finished, and when the day came, it was like getting my first car.  The shirt was amazing – nothing has ever fit me so well.  The real magic was the feeling of power it gave me – I felt like a prince, ready to order my servants to bring the car around and grab me a cold beer while I wait.  Compared to retail, the shirts also cost a princely sum, but I tend to think of them as long-term investments. I have several now, I was married in one of Alan’s shirts, and God willing, I’ll be buried in one.

The whole experience is unorthodox, and it leaves me with the distinct impression that if this was the way clothes used to be purchased, then we are considerably worse off than our ancestors.  Maybe not everyone is or was like Alan – a man who was clearly educated and could have chosen any field, and tailored clothes because it is his passion.  Seeing someone derive true pleasure from their work makes you wonder why everyone can’t figure it out.

Imber’s was another one of those surprises that makes life more fun, and I would do well to be as happy and successful in my work as Alan was with his.

 

The Big Goodbye

It took me awhile to figure out what funerals are all about.  In this case, it didn’t take me this long because I’m slow, it’s just that at my age, funerals are a relatively rare occurrence.  Anyway, funerals are not about the dead – they could care less what happens, as far as I can tell.  Rather, funerals take place to reassure the living that a similar ceremony awaits them.

The realization hit me at my Great-Grandma’s funeral this summer.  First hand accounts of her parenting skills left a lot to be desired – as a mother, she was indifferent and negligent.  I only knew her as an elderly woman, but the stories I heard seemed accurate based on her actions at family gatherings.  She died this summer at a ripe old age, which led me to the catholic church in Athens once again.  To hear people talk about her at her funeral, the scope of her benevolence and tenderness meant we could expect her to be beatified any day.

If one went to a funeral every funeral in town for a few days, you might get the impression everyone who recently passed was a modern day saint.  Most eulogies read like hyperbolic Madlibs – all you really need to do is change the names.  So-and-so loved their kids more than anything, worked hard, had a wonderful life, saw the lighter side, cared for the poor, smelled like fresh roses, and damn near wiped out world hunger.

Obviously, not every dead person could really live up to such standards.

My theory is that those who speak of the dead invent fabulous stories about them to reassure the gathered family and friends that when they pass, a similar degree of polish will be applied to their lives.   You’d be hard up to find someone who pronounces the deceased as dishonest, unkind, or douchebaggy, even if that were truly the case.  And who can blame them?  If I told the truth about someone I knew well, and said they were a normal person, that they made mistakes, weren’t a perfect friend/parent/Christian, etc, I would get run out of the church and probably disowned.

And that’s if  I told the truth – not trying to stir up shit like the cretins at Westboro baptist (may they live long enough to die regretting what they’ve done).

The reason behind all this seems clear enough – we are mortally afraid of death.  That it is the end, the very end, and that our lives may not have lived up to our own or others expectations.

This should be the real message a funeral sends – that life is short and precious, and because its conclusion may come at any time, we should live in happiness and excitement, not fear.

Instead, I strap on rose-tinted glasses whilst listening to speechifying about my Great Grandma, and wonder what they’ll say I meet my maker from old age  falling into a volcano.

Drinking Like A Man

At this point in my life, I’m married, own a house, have a job, speak 3 languages decently, and can tie a bow tie.  The only thing that I’ve missed in the quest to become a gentleman is being a Scotch drinker.  Now, I’m resolved to take this final step into manhood.

My first encounter with Scotch wasn’t pretty.  I was probably 20, and my Dad offered me a swiggle of his Glenfiddich.  It struck me as unnervingly similar in smell to the polyurethane I use to seal my wood floors, and the taste wasn’t much better.  The impression it left me with was overwhelmingly negative – I didn’t intend to get to know it better.

Some years later, I met Scotch again at a Christmas eve family gathering.  My uncle Rick got a bottle of 15 yr old Scotch that he insisted I try.  I held my nose and took a tiny sip.  It burned,  but I managed to get the whole thing down.

Fast forward to last week- I got to try a 20 yr old Scotch, and it was delicious.  Tradition dictates that Scotch should be enjoyed slowly and carefully, but I was the first one to finish my glass and would have asked for more, if it weren’t so damn expensive.

Yesterday, I picked up a bottle of 12 yr old single malt Glenlivet from the good people at Sam’s Club, and this evening I’m trying it out.

So far, so good.

It still burns, but I find that a little water in the glass helps ease the burn and lets you taste a bit more of the flavor.  The flavor itself is very difficult to define – slightly sweet, and a little fruity.  The predominant tastes are almond and honey, maybe some smoke.  There are other tastes too, but they’re too subtle for me to grasp.

Like so many things life, knowing a bit about Scotch helps to enhance my enjoyment of it, and, I hoped, would help me figure out what I was tasting.

The Scotch I’m enjoying is a single malt, meaning it comes exclusively from barley, a grain seemingly capable of anything.  The early stages of Scotch production are almost identical to beer – the barley is sprouted, which ramps up sugar production, then dried and ground into coarse bits.  These bits are then steeped so the sugars are released into water, and becomes malt.  From there, the path diverges from beer a bit, and I don’t quite follow all the ins and outs of fermenting and distilling.  Eventually, the unfinished Scotch is put in barrels, and must be aged a minimum of three years.

If you’re thinking that honey and almond don’t quite follow from boiled and dried barley, you’re quite correct.  My hypothesis is that yeast is a major player.  In the brewing world, the choice of yeast can have more influence over a beer’s final flavor than all the other ingredients put together.  Those little critters can somehow impart flavors of fruit, bread, flowers, you name it.

A little more research shed some light on how the drying of the barley takes place.  Instead of using plain old hot air or convection to dry the sprouted barley, some Scotch distillers burn peat in kilns and use the smoke to dry the barley.  The centuries of cumulative biomass in the peat introduce all sorts of interesting flavors, which I guess collectively comprise all those unnameables I mentioned earlier..  It’s just the sort of wacky behavior you’d expect from the folks who invented golf.

As I finish this glass, everything that went into it seems so clearly connected.  The land, the crop, the bottle, and the ceremony all belong together.  It’s humbling to think that this particular Scotch was made when I was 16, thinking about who I was going to hang out with this weekend.  Now, my thoughts turn to the men in my family who drank Scotch, and what their lives were like at 28.

Mostly wondering what they would think of me now.

 

 

Crap Translations: Episode 1

A few days ago I was thinking about a piece I sang with the SIUE concert choir called ‘The Enemy’.  It was part of a suite of songs based on the text of Charles Baudelaire’s Flowers of Evil.  It’s pretty obscure, so I was having a hard time finding a the original French text.  After a bit, I tracked it down, only to discover that the English translations I’d found online were mostly garbage.  They mistook the meaning of words, left things out or added non-existent phrases and ideas to the original.  This is not acceptable.

In that spirit, I present the first attempt to correct a litany of terrible translations with one that is faithful to the spirit and letter of the original text.  Here’s the original text:

L’Ennemi

Ma jeunesse ne fut qu’un ténébreux orage,
Traversé çà et là par de brillants soleils;
Le tonnerre et la pluie ont fait un tel ravage,
Qu’il reste en mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.

Voilà que j’ai touché l’automne des idées,
Et qu’il faut employer la pelle et les râteaux
Pour rassembler à neuf les terres inondées,
Où l’eau creuse des trous grands comme des tombeaux.

Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve
Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève
Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?

— Ô douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,
Et l’obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur
Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!

 

My youth was one raging storm

crossed by brilliant shafts of sunlight;

so devastated by thunder and rain,

that few ripe fruits remain in my garden.

Now, in the autumn of my mind,

I must employ the shovel and rake

to repair the flooded terrain,

where water cuts trenches as deep as tombs.

And who knows if the tender flowers of my dreams

will find in soil washed away like the shore

the mystical nourishment that gives them strength?

-Oh pain! Oh pain!  Time devours life,

and the misty enemy who gnaws at our hearts

grows strong on the blood we lose!