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PITTSBURG —
This column appeared, in slightly different form, on February 19, 2001.
I have this thing for cloth.
It likely dates back to my worldly debut at the old Mt. Carmel Hospital out on Michigan — when I was wiped clean of my birth fluids with cloth, diapered and dressed in cloth, and wrapped tightly in a cloth blanket.
Of course, like most of you reading this, I grew up wearing cotton; cotton underwear, socks, t-shirts and jeans. Savored the smell of them freshly-washed, drying on the clothesline out back of our bungalow in the Republic of Frontenac.
I remember the day I bought my first cloth item — a pair of dark brown, cotton gloves — with a quarter from my paper route money up at DeCastro’s store. How they caressed my hands and made them look bigger because they were a little long in each finger. How their bands hugged my wrists. And how, in a snowball fight later that same day, they soon became useless as they turned soggy and cold and flew off as a snowball was launched.
Back then most women wore cloth coats; my mother, my aunts, my grandmothers; my teachers, the women in church on Sunday. Most all of them wore simple cloth scarves or hats too.
These weren’t fantasy women wearing expensive jewels, fur or leather coats and wild hats I saw on TV or in Look or Life magazine ads. These were real women. Women you could trust. Women in cloth coats whose only accessory might be a simple broach handed down through generations.
Most all of them carried purses too. Big ones. Handbags — some called them — with generous handles through which they hooked their arms to hold their substantial weight as they shopped; the perfect compliment to a cloth coat. (Also a means of self defense as their heft could be used to bludgeon would be mashers senseless.)
If you spy me around town certain days, you might see me wearing a multi-colored, woven cloth cap. “What’s that on your head...a pot holder?” I’ve been playfully asked more than once. “No,” I reply earnestly. “That’s a cheap toupee.”
I do own a very warm winter coat with a genuine Polartec lining (made in part from recycled plastic bottles) for my early morning winter walks, but my favorite is still the three quarter length, J.C. Penny Towncraft cloth coat I got at a re-sale shop here in town twenty years ago.
This column appeared, in slightly different form, on February 19, 2001.
I have this thing for cloth.
It likely dates back to my worldly debut at the old Mt. Carmel Hospital out on Michigan — when I was wiped clean of my birth fluids with cloth, diapered and dressed in cloth, and wrapped tightly in a cloth blanket.
Of course, like most of you reading this, I grew up wearing cotton; cotton underwear, socks, t-shirts and jeans. Savored the smell of them freshly-washed, drying on the clothesline out back of our bungalow in the Republic of Frontenac.
I remember the day I bought my first cloth item — a pair of dark brown, cotton gloves — with a quarter from my paper route money up at DeCastro’s store. How they caressed my hands and made them look bigger because they were a little long in each finger. How their bands hugged my wrists. And how, in a snowball fight later that same day, they soon became useless as they turned soggy and cold and flew off as a snowball was launched.
Back then most women wore cloth coats; my mother, my aunts, my grandmothers; my teachers, the women in church on Sunday. Most all of them wore simple cloth scarves or hats too.
These weren’t fantasy women wearing expensive jewels, fur or leather coats and wild hats I saw on TV or in Look or Life magazine ads. These were real women. Women you could trust. Women in cloth coats whose only accessory might be a simple broach handed down through generations.
Most all of them carried purses too. Big ones. Handbags — some called them — with generous handles through which they hooked their arms to hold their substantial weight as they shopped; the perfect compliment to a cloth coat. (Also a means of self defense as their heft could be used to bludgeon would be mashers senseless.)
If you spy me around town certain days, you might see me wearing a multi-colored, woven cloth cap. “What’s that on your head...a pot holder?” I’ve been playfully asked more than once. “No,” I reply earnestly. “That’s a cheap toupee.”
I do own a very warm winter coat with a genuine Polartec lining (made in part from recycled plastic bottles) for my early morning winter walks, but my favorite is still the three quarter length, J.C. Penny Towncraft cloth coat I got at a re-sale shop here in town twenty years ago.
If you look up the definition of cloth in Webster’s dictionary you’ll find it includes synthetic fabric. Mine doesn’t. Nope. To me, cloth has to be woven from natural materials like cotton or wool or silk. Think about it. When you see words like tablecloth or broadcloth or washcloth or dishcloth do you think of man-made products like Rayon, Dacron and polyester?
As for men — real men wear cotton, pretenders polyester.
Music? Cotton is the blues. Dacron is disco.
What have I got against synthetics? Let me put it this way. Synthetics in direct contact with my skin are to me what Kryptonite is to Superman. On those occasions when I’ve unwittingly donned a 100 percent Rayon shirt, I’ve become short of breath, broken out in an immediate hot, sweaty rash and come dangerously close to falling into a coma before I could rip it off.
And it’s not just cloth clothing that I have a thing for. If given a choice between sitting in a brand new overstuffed chair covered in a vinyl material like Naugahyde or an old, narrow platform rocker covered in tattered cloth ... I’ll choose the tattered platform rocker every time.
Among my most prized family heirlooms are hand-stitched cloth quilts and crocheted afghans. Indeed, given the feeling they bring forth, it’s hard not to think that there’s something sacred woven into them.
It’s with that thought in mind that I’ve decided, that, instead of a new suit, white shirt, and tie, I want to leave this ol’ world with a worn quilt pulled up around my shoulders and a cloth cap on my head.
I have no idea if it will help me as I enter the next life ... but it’s sure to comfort me as I let go of this one.
J.T. Knoll is a writer, speaker and prevention and wellness coordinator at Pittsburg State University. He also operates Knoll Training & Consulting in Pittsburg. He can be reached at 231-0499 or jtknoll@swbell.net
