Sewn In
When John Rich immigrated from England to Pennsylvania and started his woolen mill in Plum Run, PA in 1830, he probably didn’t think his Woolrich goods would become part of American culture.
He must have been good, because soon he was furnishing the Union Army with woolen blankets and selling sturdy wool shirts to the lumbermen who cleared the East. Railroad workers favored his vests’ four pockets for holding watches, whistles, and whatever else railroad men carried. In 1850, Woolrich introduced its “buffalo check” wool shirt — you’d immediately recognize the big black and red checkerboard pattern. That design has become an icon such that when I googled it, even competitors L.L. Bean and J. Crew call theirs by that name. Sort of the American version of naming a Scottish tartan.
Woolrich created some of the earliest garments for the nascent trend toward outdoor recreation. By the early twentieth century, the working class began to accrue a little time (emphasis on “little”) for leisure activities. Naturally, this included hunting, and the company didn’t miss that opportunity. In 1925, they introduced their Classic Hunt Coat. It was cheeky to dub a new product as a “classic,” but clothing marketers have never been known for humility. Their confidence was well placed: this ensemble became so ubiquitous in the northeast that it was given the nickname “The Pennsylvania Tuxedo.”
I’ve spent plenty of time in that state’s urban east and rural west, so I can assure you that “Pennsylvania Tuxedo” would be high praise in that state of dedicated hunters.
Yesterday, I retired my own 37-year-old Woolrich down jacket. Coincidentally, I purchased it in Pennsylvania, which seems fitting. Well, it was fitting at the time, but in recent years it seems oddly to have shrunk... I bought it somewhat impulsively within days of arriving in Philadelphia for college freshman orientation. It was late August, still steaming hot, but as a transplanted Louisianian, I was convinced the Northern winters were barely survivable. I bought the warmest coat I could find, and it didn’t disappoint: Over the decades, I can honestly say I was never cold in it.
Glancing at the tag yesterday before casting off this durable piece, my eye went right to “Est. 1830” and then to that curious 1970s-stylized image of a sheep. This is an interesting tension: a very old consumer company struggling — as they always do — to stay current and relevant. Some do, like Carhartt, Dickies, and Filson. Most don’t.
During yesterday’s closet cleanout, I pulled out a second down jacket sporting quite a different label. Vivid blue with a shiny exterior and crooked seams, it had exaggerated (uneven) pillows of down. Somewhere along the way, it gained a large, mismatched patch on the left arm with Frankenstein stitching.
Its history reached back to the mid-1970s, a period when our mom made a lot of clothes and everyone was trying to conserve energy. She made this particular piece for our dad who was perpetually cold; I even remember him wearing it indoors if Louisiana temps fell — heaven forbid — into the upper forties. This puffy piece came from a kit offering the kind of frugality and practicality she couldn’t resist. You can imagine the ad: “Keep your man warm. Cheap!” This was during our mom’s golden era of knitting, sewing, and crocheting. With most of her children launched, she finally had time to pursue new hobbies.
Each of us seven children still has an Afghan, cap, scarf or something bearing her trademark, personalized tag. For most of her creations, she’d sew the tag into an inconspicuous corner. But, for our dad’s coat, she proudly stitched it exactly where the label on a store-bought coat would appear. Oh, and where our dad would see it every time he donned this coat: “Made Especially For You By Toni.”
Our mom probably didn’t specify that exact phrase when she ordered custom labels for her own creations, but she might as well have. She delighted in choosing yarn and pattern and working on her projects furtively, timing her crocheting to when the giftee wouldn’t be around. She would laugh at having to stash away a project in a panic when the recipient walked in unexpectedly, and that just added to the story as she presented the gift. She loved to let others in on the surprise as her pieces were coming together. Her gifts truly were “especially” for the recipient.
No question our dad’s bright blue coat was a labor of love stitched together with practicality, surprise, and personal triumph over a new challenge. With it, our mom sowed as she sewed. After all, the object of her gift and affection was to her the most “especial” of all.
