Sartorial Notes On a Man I Knew Once Upon a Time May He Rest in Peace

CANDIDA LAWRENCE

In 1949, he wore World War II Officer pants, tailored to sleek fit, no pleats, of a material close to gabardine, but heavier, of light brown. Above the pants, in cool weather, a turtleneck of soft cotton, usually navy blue, tucked into the pants. 

In warm weather, white Oxford button-down collar shirts, tucked in, long sleeves turned up at the cuff, and over the shirt for classroom duty, a weathered Harris tweed sport jacket. All of his Oxford shirts were tailored to fit, with two tucks radiating from shoulder to below the waist. Socks, knit by his ex-wife, had to be washed by hand in gentle soap. The pants could not be washed. He was constantly taking them to the dry-cleaners or picking them up. The shirts had to be ironed perfectly and hung in the closet. He wore white boxer shorts and those had to be ironed as well. 

He owned only one warm coat. This coat, he said, had been given to him by Henry Miller during a hopeful year-long residence in Big Sur when he was trying to write a novel. The coat was medium gray wool, decorated with moth feeding tracks, and so huge two people could fit inside it. The collar was large, folding back over the shoulders. From the generous yoke in back flowed yards of material down to his ankles. From center back, the gray belt of same material went forth in opposite directions, arrived in front, and after the coat was wrapped around him, could be casually tied. Except for the material, the coat looked like a bathrobe. We both were unrestrained in our admiration of this garment. It smelled of mothballs and tobacco. 

He had, for rainy weather, a beige Burberry with no belt. He liked to carry with him a black umbrella which he often left wherever he’d just been, and had to go back to claim it. He used it like a cane and opened it only to protect his briefcase or books.

This was in California.

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