A recording industry whiz kid and a believer that quality is tantamount to style, Jeremy Kirkland of Start with Typewriters provides us with a few words on his grandfather.
My grandpa was a well-mannered man with average posture. He was polite and kind, and he had impeccable style. Like most Italians from Abruzzi, it was the little things in life that he was amazed by: good coffee, nice ties, and the occasional game of video poker.
My grandpa’s style was his own. There were very few times he wasn’t in a suit and tie. Always had his matching Jordache luggage on visits, tweed of course. Always at least one thing on his outfit that made it pop, an Italian nautical polo, or a striped dress shirt. It’s funny; as I was looking at these photos, I talked to my mom and said, “He never really wore jeans.” She shrieked as if I spoke blasphemy.
“Your grandpa never wore jeans. Ever.”
I guess — why would he? He valued a hard days work, and I assume there was something about workwear and jeans that threw him off. He wasn’t in that class he was a true gentleman. 
- Jeremy Kirkland, Start with Typewriters
Upon reflection, Jon Moy of Getting Beat Like You Stole Something admits that dressing like his father is inevitable.
There are two things that stick out as early memories of my father. First, his hands are always warm, no matter what. We used to walk around a lot, and I’ll never forget how warm his hand would be when he would grab mine to cross the street. Secondly, he always let me help pick out his new briefcases. When he got a new one, he’d let me have his old one. I loved carrying around those hard shell briefcases. I stuffed them full of papers, pencils, and G.I. Joes.
I ended up taking those briefcases on a lot of adventures with my dad. Everywhere from his office, to a dairy farm, to a surprise day off from school. I’d always ask, “Where are we going?” and he’d always reply: “On an adventure….” My dad has always understood the importance of the small, quiet, fleeting moments.
My dad has always been my biggest supporter. He checks the blog every day and always has a comment or a new idea for content. This isn’t really anything new, though. My dad always knew where the coolest comic book stores were, no matter what city we were in at the time. And he always took the time out on Wednesdays (new comic day to us nerds) to take me to my favorite local shop. My dad has taken me to the newest shops and boutiques, dealing with loud, pretentious music and jaded hipster service. He’s helped convince my mom I was ready for a Red Ryder BB Gun and a Swiss Army knife. He let me watch Die Hard and took me to a midnight screening of The Crow. My dad also understood when I told him I wasn’t going to pursue a career in law for the time being.
My dad has always known his son and never asked me to be anything other than his son. He’s never tried to be my friend or my boss – just my dad. I think the greatest lessons I’ve learned so far from him are to cherish those you love, be kind and magnanimous, and keep you wardrobe classic and free of ostentation.
We talk a lot about style icons. We may like to talk about them, but I think we more often dress like our fathers. I carry a Swiss Army knife in my bag like my dad. I wear his Fell Co. pea coat all the time. He rode a motorcycle quite like the one I am working on. I really like gray suits, like the one my dad has. And one day I might be able to fill in his brown leather brogues. After all, they are large shoes to fill.
- Jon Moy, Getting Beat Like You Stole Something
In talking about his father, Ryan Willms, creative director of the h(y)r collective magazine and studio, reflects on one of the most important lessons in developing your personal style: have fun.
Except for a story I’ve heard of him and my mom maxing out their credit cards on a trip to Italy and France while in their early 20s, my father was never much of a fashion plate or a style hound. The one major cue I’ve taken from him, in life, yes, but particularly in clothing, products, and style, is to keep an open mind. He’s never been one to push boundaries, but thanks to h(y)r collective, with a simple, clean look he’s managed to stay on trend. My mom has encouraged me to wear different things and to take a chance, but my dad’s interest has always been in supporting my direction. An Art Director, he has a good eye for detail; I’ve seen him set his mind on something he wants and settle for nothing less. I’ve inherited the trait — whether it’s a product I want or a photo I need. The quiet support and open-minded outlook really opens up a lot of possibilities people close off for no good reason. Also, I am grateful he took our family to Europe a couple times at an early age. This opened my eyes to the global aspect of style and gave me a wider perspective as to how things can mix together. It broke me of my regional aesthetic – something I now try to do on a daily basis. Mixing cultural, regional elements can make getting dressed fun, another life lesson my dad instilled in me: love what you do and have fun.
Ryan Willms, creative director the h(y)r collective magazine and studio.
Walker Lamond, the keeper of the Rules for My Unborn Son, is, himself, the son of a man who proved that when you invest in quality, a short-list wardrobe can go a long way.
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Red pants, white oxford, blue blazer, suntan. That’s the look my dad’s wearing in just about every snapshot I have found from his salad days living single and preppy in Georgetown. When pressed about it, he used to make vague references to a suspicious dry cleaning fire that left him with quite literally the clothes on his back. We should all be so lucky! Whether his slim wardrobe was a result of said fire or just a slim wallet, his ability to make do with nothing but a few high quality essentials has been a superb lesson in sartorial discipline. And it’s not a bad way to pass as a swell even when your bank account disagrees.
The keys to pulling off the micro-wardrobe are familiar to any preppy, trad, or boarding school survivor. Natural fibers. High quality brands that eschew trends in favor of bachelor-resistant craftsmanship. And most importantly, the acknowledgment that clothes need not be so specialized. For my dad, oxford button-downs did double duty in the office and on the beach. Tossing the football did not require a change into a tracksuit (usually just the loosening of the tie). A day at the ballpark did not require an authentic home team jersey and high-tech marathoner’s shoes, just a tweed jacket and a pair of thick wale cords, which conveniently also suited a day at the races or an afternoon cocktail party. The old man frequently mowed the lawn in loafers. He did not own jeans or tee shirts or athletic shoes (unless golf cleats count).
Because his uniform changed so little over the years, his clothes seemed to never have been bought, they seemed to just have always been. Over ten years since his death and I can accurately recall the entirety of his wardrobe for as along as I knew him.
- One navy blazer
- One Harris Tweed sport coat
- One Brooks Brothers pin-striped suit
- A handful of button down oxford shirts–white, blue, banker stripe.
- A short stack of cotton polo shirts
- One pair, khaki pants
- One pair, gray flannels
- One pair, GTH pants (at different times red, green, or Lilly)
- One pair, thick wale corduroys (embroidered with pheasants)
- One pair, Gucci loafers
- One pair, Alden wingtips
- One pair, Sebago Docksiders
- One pair, tux slippers
- One pair, Birdwell Beach Britches
- Tuxedo
- An endless supply of birthday, Christmas, and Father’s Day ties
This kind of spartan preppiness is certainly not for everyone, especially those with a weakness for technical gear or eBay. But as I have gotten older, I find myself aspiring to assemble the kind of wardrobe that could last me the rest of my life, not to mention be packed in a single suitcase, or as my dad called it, his Getaway Bag. If I decide to climb Everest or move to Florida, I may decide to spring for something more appropriate, but for now, my dad’s closet will do.
Walker Lamond is the author of the blog, Rules for My Unborn Son and upcoming book of the same title from St. Martin’s Press.
Justin Saunders of JJJJound offered the following:
He took the pics throughout his life
these are some of his favorites
enjoy
Shaun Barnevald of Trimmed with Gold Above takes time to reflect on the importance of honesty.
Ask the writers of most lifestyle blogs out there, “who influences your style?” and the answer will almost always be their father. Most will go into a detailed description of the clothing they wear or the items they own. That is not the case with me.
While this is a Father’s Day article, and yes, my father is one of my major inspirations, it isn’t because he is stylish or has a great collection of personal items (though he possesses great potential). I know his likes and dislikes and I’ve seen the way he dressed before he met my mother (she just needs to stop getting him Ed Hardy shirts and clothing of the like; she did work for Ed Hardy at one time, so it is quite understandable). Nevertheless, my father is my major influence because of who he is not what he wears which in my eyes is how it should be.
There are few lessons I have learned in life more valuable than those my Father taught me. They’re basic but hard to come by in today’s world. I commend my father for not only teaching but also living these lessons. I see a lot of lying, cheating and stealing, and I find it appalling. My father told me time and time again to tell the truth at any cost. I’ll be honest, when I was young I would lie. I did it in order to avoid getting in trouble, but it never worked. I always got caught, and while I was never grounded, my parents disappointment was too much to bear. I wound up punishing myself. My father would tell me that he and my mother could not get mad if I told the truth but if I lied and got caught, I would get in bigger trouble than I could have for any actions I could have made. And he stuck to his word. When the truth was told I would not get in trouble, I would just get the talk.
Like he stuck to his word, he always told me to stick to mine. To not make promises I could no uphold, and to fulfill my promises no matter what it took to do so. And if a favor was done for you repayment of any sort was a must. What I have always gotten from this is that Karma is not something that arbitrarily happens, you have to make it happen. It all starts with your attitude and ends with your actions. “Do unto other what you would want done unto you.” And so, I have.
Everyone gives credit to my mother for the way I am, and as much as she has been an influence on me, it was as a child that I would watch my Father and learn from his example. I love him more than life itself and know he is reading this. He supports me in all my ventures and is probably the most loyal fan of my site. He reads it everyday. That is what I call a Father.
Shaun Barnevald, Trimmed with Gold Above
On my trip to Chicago, I met Clint Nohavec of The Constants Kept. He’s now back in the Pacific Northwest knockin’ it down time and again on his site. He disproves the adage “nice guys finish last.” Clint’s a winner a hundred times over. Must be the spiral toss. See what he has to say about his father.
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I can remember raiding my dad’s dresser drawer as a kid in the late 1980s, digging out his faded Nike and Adidas t-shirts that had become accidentally trendy. I’d lay the shirts out on my bed and meticulously plan my outfit for the day which, at that time, typically included tight-rolled jeans and Oakley Frogskin sunglasses. To me, the vintage t-shirts demonstrated to the world my refined 10 year-old tastes. To my dad, they were simply shirts that he kept because they worked well tucked into sweatpants, and there was no need to buy new ones. I still smile when I visit my parents and see my dad in his signature look: sneakers, sweatpants, and one of those old tees.
I have a sense of style, I suppose, but it’s certainly not like my dad’s. Mine is manufactured, but disciplined – sticking to rules like showing a half inch of cuff, and never wearing navy blue with black. His style is idiosyncratic, inflexible, and permanent – the result of 57 years of discovering what works, and sticking with it. As Oliver Wendell Holmes said, “the young man knows the rules, but the old man knows the exceptions.”
Nonetheless, I’ve gone to great lengths over the years to impart my sense of style (and my rules) on my dad. I can recall many Father’s Day gifts – J.Crew shirts, Brooks Brothers coats, Esquire’s “Handbook of Style” – that were well-received but quickly found their way to the back of my dad’s perfectly-organized closet, not to be seen again. His wardrobe is never going to change much and, though it’s taken me a while, I now realize that that’s okay. And while there’s not much I can borrow from my dad’s style, that’s okay too. Because his lessons are less about style, and more about substance.
My dad played football growing up, which is surprising given his small size. What he lacked in stature, he made up for with savvy and a damn tight spiral. Learning to throw a spiral, as it turns out, is not easy. It takes balance, patience, and attention to detail – qualities that my dad has en masse. By high school, he was an All-American Quarterback. He’s fifty seven years old, and still throws the most perfect spiral I have ever seen.
Those same qualities that made my dad a great quarterback stuck with him throughout his life. He found success as a businessman, rising up to become a senior officer of a Fortune 100 company. His professional ascent was never about prestige or accumulation, but about the silent pride that came with creating opportunities for his family. A few months ago, after thirty three years on the job, he retired.
Looking back, my dad’s greatest style lessons come not from his wardrobe, grooming advice, or fashion maxims, but from the steady, workmanlike way that he has lived his life. And those lessons will stick with me: do things right, learn to throw a spiral, and hang on to your old t-shirts.
Clint Nohavec, The Constants Kept
A major source of inspiration for all plaidout, Valet Magazine offers a daily dose of all things Man. I can think of no one better suited to reflect on their father than Editor-in-Chief, Cory Ohlendorf, whose father taught him this important lesson: stick with what works for you and maintain it.
I grew up in rural Illinois and my father was not what you’d describe as dapper. A casual jeans-and-a-polo kind of guy, he’s not concerned with getting dressed up, has no need for high-end European labels or four different navy blazers. I, on the other hand, was spending my allowance, not on comic books, but on Japanese fashion magazines by the time I was in middle school. Years later, however, I realized something. Maybe my dad didn’t want anything new because he takes such good care of those few pieces he loves. His favorite leather boots are nearly four decades old and he still shines them up every fall. I’ve pilfered many slim-cut silk ties from his closet—all of which, in perfect condition. And just recently, after recognizing the revamped briefcases Thom Browne did for Samsonite, I called my father. It was one of the first things he splurged on after becoming an MP in the Air Force back in 1969. Did he still have his? Of course he did. So now I’m using it to lug my laptop (and a few Japanese magazines) … and it’s as good as new.
- Cory Ohlendorf
Editor-in-Chief, Valet.
This week, all plaidout is devoted to Dad. I’ve invited some of my more stylish friends and my favorite writers to share a few words on their father’s style.
Up first is the man who inspired this collection, Mr. Joe Gannon.
My dad and I couldn’t be any farther apart on the style scale. I could fill an entire page with our differences, while our similarities would barely fill a footnote. We both strongly embrace jeans as the primary foundation of our day to day, however, I always find myself suggesting that he may want to put on a different shirt for a meeting. He has never been a slave to fashion, though in a way, he is always seemingly fashionable. When he goes the extra mile to bring it home, he always looks great.
As long as I can remember, my dad has anchored his “look” with a single element – his handlebar mustache. He jokingly refers to it as older than both his boys. Started sometime during his days as an undergraduate Environmental Science major in Salt Lake City, the stache saw its share of near-beer and Wasatch Mountain powder over his two year stint. After returning home he stayed the course with the upper lip, extending a simple mustache into what would become his trademark-the handlebar. It’s unclear to me if he had outside inspiration to start the handlebar, or rather, like most things he does, the whim just struck him one day. Either way, the mustache has endured. Thrived, no less, in the harsh environment of cigar smoke that constantly encircles its reaches. Most people that sport the handlebar style use a bit of wax to hold the curl on the tips. Dad’s whiskers, however, seem to know where to be just as an old hunting dog knows the score when he hears the slam of the pickup tailgate. I’ve tried several times to follow his path and introduce the mustache to my quiver. I am always turned away as I fail to reach even the doorstep of a curl at the tip.
Fashion comes and goes, while true personal style remains constant. Likewise, quality will top quantity … always. My dad emulates both basic principles and in his own laid back way, has passed them both onto me. His mustache is a good example of staying the course, finding that style and sticking with it through thick and thin. I admire that. I strive to live that.
As much as I would like to see my dad in a bow tie or Seersucker this spring, I know that won’t be happening. I find myself pulling from his bag more and more, avoiding trends and staying with something more classic, simple, and understated. I’m trying to add items that get better with time while mixing in some that have seen their share of time. These quality pieces are the ones I’m willing to pry the wallet open a little more for. So as I mix a pair of old jeans with an oxford, seersucker blazer and boat shoes, Dad will always rely on his trusty Levis, his button up, his boots (even in the summer), and of course that handlebar mustache.
Happy Fathers Day, Dad.
Written by Joe Gannon
As is the case on most American college campuses, much of the University of Wisconsin-Madison’s is under construction. The barber shop and dairy bar sit next to what is going to be “one of them fancy European hotels,” our barber informed us.
On the way from Chicago to Russell Moccasin, alongside my friend MP, an alumnus of the University of Wisconsin, I stopped in Madison for breakfast and an impromptu haircut, as MP’s rock ‘n roller shag had grown, well, too shaggy.
Mickies uses a bike rack for a banana tree.
Mickies Dairy Bar, the quintessential Wisconsin diner, offering ten milkshake flavors and several varieties of processed cheese, is situated just across the street from Camp Randall Stadium, Badger country. Football fans have been coming here for years for a warm scrambler plate to fill their stomach’s before the big game.
According to The Capital Times, the typical scrambler weighs just over two pounds. It is chock full of egg, milk, gravy, sausage, bacon, potato, and as you can see a slice or two of American cheese. How I finished this monstrosity, I will never know, but I can tell you the rest of the day was awash. I was seeing the world through the fog of a dairy coma.
Growing up, I loved to go to the barber shop. I liked getting my haircut, I was fascinated by all the strange equipment, colorful tonics, and rank potions, but I also really enjoyed the small talk. It was a brand of small talk pregnant with the possibility of careening into big talk at any second, but one that always managed to know its place was safe thanks to all the sharp objects and strange creams.
Any time I get my haircut these days, the conversation ranges from talk of human dismemberment in rural Germany to images of the Papal visit to the ruins in L’Aquila, Italy, from vision quests in South America to someone’s war stories from their life as a roadie for Ratt. 
Granted, mine is one wild barber shop, the conversation at Stadium Barbers in Madison, Wisconsin shared the topical breadth, as we discussed the how the town’s changed since MP’s departure in 2003, the caloric breakdown of our breakfast, and the outlandish prices New Yorkers will pay for boots.
Stadium Barbers is a classic, and I wouldn’t be surprised if, with the fancy European-style hotel going in next door, the proprietors feel some pressure to relocate. I hope they stick to their guns – or their scissors – and continue to give great haircuts and better service.
For more of my trip to Mickies Dairy Bar & Stadium Barbers see Flickr.