A beautiful midsummer night in Manhattan. My favorite restaurant. My favorite brother. I’d just left a terribly unsuccessful job interview at my lifelong favorite company. I remember what I was wearing: a tattered, vintage, gray sharkskin suit and a brand new red paisley tie. And then this striking woman approached our table, and I lost the plot. I was spellbound. I think she was wearing an over-sized blue T-shirt, but beyond that I don’t recall anything else. It was Kate Jones. She’s the oft-photographed style queen of the Lower East Side. A jewelry designer, a blogger, and a baker of olive oil cakes, and a favorite subject of The Sartorialist and Jake Davis, she emanates a freshness, a certain cool, an effortlessness that could only have come from a life gleaning everything she could from as cultured a man as her father. Kate, thanks for sharing your dad’s ten keys to a good life.
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My dad, aka George Jones (yes like the country singer) and aka Dr. Jones (yes like Indiana) is one heck of a guy. He has stitched me up twice, can fix anything on the boat — from the water maker to the fridge — is a best friend, and most recently a cancer survivor… twice! But above all, he is a pursuer of dreams. At the age of 45 he decided to change everything and move from our home in Annapolis to our 44′ sailboat, Ursa Major, waiting for us in the waters of the Caribbean. We spent 18 months in total roaming through the islands, from Antigua to Venezuela. Making for the most incredible childhood I could ever ask for and later making me an anomaly, when as a teen, all I wanted to do on the weekends was hang out with my folks. Oh, and did I mention my dad had the humor of Bill Cosby and Gene Wilder combined? Who can blame me? He taught me to cook — Indian, Szechuan, Greek, and good ol’ southern comfort food from his hometown of Memphis. He taught me about operas and symphonies — taking me whenever he could. About refinement and sophistication. About being kind. About being a lady. And mostly, about living life.
Here, in his daughter’s words, are George Jones’ Keys to a Good Life:
1. Where there’s a will there’s a way – i.e. you can take off and live on a sailboat anytime you want to
2. Be the places, the person, and the change you want to be
3. You can’t lose what you never had
4. You can’t change people
5. Work hard but play harder
6. Humor is good medicine
7. Never be afraid to make an ass of yourself, or cry
8. Always remember to tell the ones you love, that you love them
9. You only live once
And #10: French Polynesia is a beautiful place
Dad, I love you beyond words. Thank you for teaching me to believe that all of my dreams can come true if I try to live them every day.
- Kate Jones
Northeast Style. It brings to mind the perpetual summer. Chalk red pants, repp stripe ties, and navy blue blazers. Lightweight seersucker dresses, classic penny loafers, and classic beauties. The Atlantic Ocean, the Appalachian Mountains, and Christine Mitchell. We have only met once, in passing at an industry event, and we nervously, excitedly shared our enthusiasm for one another’s sites, but I knew I’d found a kindred spirit. Christine is cool, and her blog reflects that. It is filled with the trappings of a life spent seeking out quality in all things, something her father must have instilled in her from an early age.
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My dad is what I like to call a good ol’ New England boy. It’s a term he often endears to younger men he approves of – those who are the good, honest, respectful, and kind Gentlemen of New England. But honestly, he takes the cake on that title. And here are some of the reasons why . . .
He values the important things, like family and the gathering of family. He has an incredible imagination and fed our young minds by reading to us every night before bed and indulging in as many of our childhood fantasies as he could. He can make mean blueberry and apple pies. He knows how to be respectful of others and of himself. He encouraged us to be critical thinkers and have an opinion of our own. He took us out into the outdoors as often as possible. He listened to the best music, from Handel to Earth, Wind, and Fire. He can really cut a rug and is always the first one to the dance floor (a gift I am lucky to say I inherited). He enjoys giving gifts more than receiving them. He taught his children the true entertainment and educational value of classic films, war dramas, and the genre we call “shoot ‘em ups”. He is generous with his heart. He makes sure that we kids know he loves us and is proud of us. He will always remember the last time he said I love you to my brother before he died in an accident at age 19. My brother smiled and said, “I know dad”. He’s a truly stylish guy and never waivers from the classics and what works for him. He looks just as handsome geared up for yard work in Carhartts and a ratty white T as he does dressed up for play in a double-breasted blazer, bow tie, and white bucks. He knows his sports cars, especially British ones, and that cruising in a Jaguar XK 120 or a little MG MGB is the best way to travel. He’s a gentleman in social settings – always the gracious host or guest. He reminds us to remember Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, “No matter where you go, there you are”. He climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro in his 50s. He is passionate about literature and the classics, a passion he taught me when I was very young (we were discussing the works of Tolstoy, Shakespeare, and Dickens by the time I hit double digits). He encourages us to travel and learn as much as we can and to always pursue our dreams. He has limitless faith in god and in the people he loves. And, to put it quite simply, he loves life.
Not only did my father teach me to adopt these qualities and help me become the woman I am today. He also taught me, his youngest daughter, how important these qualities were in the man I should hope to spend my life with. A man who should by all means be . . . a good ol’ New England boy.
- Christine Mitchell
Laverne and Shirley. Thelma and Louise. Hollister and Porter Hovey. There are few duos more dynamic in my mind than the Hoveys, and that they’re sisters sends them into a stratosphere as yet undiscovered by man. I’m certainly not alone in thinking so. The stylish sisters have been featured in everything from The New York Times to Elle Decoration UK, and most recently they were photographed for Anthropologie’s new tumblr, etymologie.
Yet, when I met them, I was taken by how down-to-earth, how warm and welcoming, how normal they are. Chalk it up to their roots. Like me, much as the years in Brooklyn have affected many of their lifestyle choices, they are Missourians through-and-through. I have to thank them for being so kind to me as I entered the blogger’s fray. They were very gracious with their time and their endless knowledge of the city’s more well-appointed haunts. To know the Hoveys is to love them. Ladies, thank you for sharing thoughts on your father.
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Growing up in suburban Kansas City, we always knew that our father wasn’t really like our friends’ fathers. Before meeting our mom, he’d traveled Europe, lived in South Africa, took boats of cattle across great oceans and ran a gold mine in Bolivia. He read Tintin comics and always begged to rent The Seven Samurai every time we’d go to Blockbuster (we screamed in protest every time. He never won the battle).
As little girls, we both brought him to show and tell and made him teach gold panning techniques to our classmates. He always used this as an opportunity to tell his “monkey stories” from the old mining days. (They had a small pet monkey at the mine. The monkey had a little cup. The monkey would bang said cup on the table until they’d fill it with beer. The monkey would get ridiculously drunk and pass out or fall from its tree. The monkey would forget about the pain – as we all do – and go bang its cup again. The cycle went on and on). He told the monkey story while wearing pink oxfords and Alden tassel loafers (the only shoe he ever wore).
He told other stories, too. He spent hours regaling us with tales of boarding school, numerous step parents (his father married three times and his mom, four) and summers in (somewhat boring, abandoned) South Hampton. “Yeah, I was walking home from the movies one day and this small man pulled up in his big convertible and offered me a ride home. I realized later that it was Truman Capote.”
But he also spent years reading us to sleep at night – Babar, Curious George, Nancy Drew. Stories of mystery and adventure and far off lands.
All of this helped shape our own love of storytelling, travel, and the aesthetics of the colonial era.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy! Hope you’re having another great adventure!
- Hollister and Porter Hovey
When starting a blog, one turns to other blogs for inspiration. I had four blogs in mind when starting All Plaidout: my friends at The Paupered Chef, and then my idols: A Continuous Lean, Secret Forts, and A Cup of Jo.
With each post on APO, I hope to emulate Joanna Goddard’s ability to merge the personal and the professional, to express her level of taste in an intelligent way, and to bring something good into the world. Joanna, thank you for continuing to offer us the tastiest Cup of Jo.
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Make Life an Adventure
We grew up in the suburbs in Michigan, definitely not the world’s most exotic place. But my dad had an uncanny ability to make life feel thrilling. On a typical Saturday or Sunday afternoon, he would ask my brother, sister and me, “Want to go on an adventure?” No matter what our destination — a park, a drive, a frozen yogurt shop, Barnes & Noble — it would feel like anything could happen. Nowadays, I’m still inspired by the way he gets the most out of every day — going on bike rides, canoeing, grilling fish on the deck, reading mountains of books, traveling to Iceland, flirting with waitresses, cracking open a bottle of wine for Sunday lunch. He really knows how to live. I hope I’ve been able to nab a bit of his infectious energy and that I can foster that same joie de vivre in my own son. It’s an amazing trait, and he’s an amazing person.
- Joanna Goddard
You were the first person to tell me I was good at this. You saw something in my peculiar ability to find that one beautiful needle in the haystack and then dissect in such a way, with a simple turn of phrase; it’s a wonder no one ever saw it as I did. You also taught me about design. About ethic. About setting my sights skybound. About soaking up every ounce of every experience presented me. You have been raised to seek the beauty in all things, and you very graciously passed that onto me.
Sarah Reilly, I owe you big time.
Your father means so much to you. I’m glad you’re able to share something about him here.
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The earthy, sweet, dry smell of sawdust will always remind me of my father. How I adored burying my face in the front of his worn plaid shirt, knowing, as only a little girl can, the feeling of security in her father’s arms. His jokes were always the funniest, his words always the wisest, his hands always the most deft. He could fix anything. He could rock red-rimmed owl spectacles while driving his forest green 1968 Volvo P1800S Coupe. He could make anyone laugh. He made magic out of wood.
Who else could have intuited that all I really wanted as a teenager were European fashion magazines and gold-handled sable makeup brushes? (Such contraband items in a true blue hippy household would miraculously appear in my hands on sweet occasion with a wink and a knowing smile, inspiring worlds of glamorous fantasy and later, creation). Who else could have known that after a particularly excruciating heartbreak, only the steady vibration and lazy hum of a ride on the back of his motorcycle could bring respite? Only a man with an understanding of fine mechanics.
My Father’s appreciation for solid integrity, juxtaposed with a healthy dose of bad boy swagger and a dash of elegant charm, has forever colored my appreciation for a subtle aesthetic, born of the balance between substance and style. When something’s right, whether it be a love, a shoe, a meal, a chair, that sweet spot of balance never fails to ring true. Thank you Dad, for teaching me what’s right. You will always be the most stylish gentleman I know.
Speaking of Mary Randolph, how could I continue this series without the woman who helped create the name “All Plaidout” (she added the All)? Fast were we friends, bonding over everything from our Tony Lama cowboy boots to surprise-let’s-pretend-it’s-your-birthday mint chocolate desserts to too many cups of Stumptown first thing in the morning. Not long after we met, she invited me to her parents’ house for a post-Thanksgiving weekend brunch, which turned into an all day affair. While there, I became John Norton’s biggest fan. We talked about Satchmo and Dr. John and The Cars, and cars, cars, and more cars. When thinking of women who would like to write about their fathers, I was hopeful MR would want to talk about hers, as it is clear, she is her father’s daughter. Thank you, Mary Randolph for sharing your thoughts on your dad today.
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When generously tasked with this contribution, it seemed, though many have done so successfully, impossible to settle on any one thing — or any number of things – my father taught me. He essentially taught me all things. He is an extraordinary man. A man so charming that my Goddess Mother even fell for him. To know my father is to understand that in some way he knows something about everything: historical anecdotes, etymologies, musicians’ birth places, arcane movie trivia. All things. A former employee of The New Yorker and Spy magazines, and a man who’s worked in newspapers for much of his career, my father has a professorial way about him. An industrious way. A temperament suited for intellectual discussion. Simply put: he’s a class act.
So, to look at my father, one might be surprised to learn he knows — above all else – everything about cars. I do not exaggerate when I say he can be shown a car’s headlight and effortlessly respond with its year, make and model. He loves old cars. He loves race cars. He loves rare cars. Though I personally don’t crave the open road, nor a car of my own, I take snapshots of old ones I see on San Francisco streets to send his way in an effort to test his knowledge or plainly enjoy it.
It is not so much an appreciation of cars – which I share – that I’ve learned from my father, but rather how wonderful it is to own a complete knowledge. He knows everything about this one subject. He could teach a class. He could write a book. And though I’m still seeking it, he’s taught me to find something to learn, love, exhaust, and appreciate that might surprise even a close friend.
Lisa Congdon came to me through my very soulful friend, Mary Randolph, someone I hold very dear to my heart. Way, way back in The Aughts, Mary Randolph and I would send each other inspirational e-mail with the simple subject heading “Thoughts?” These e-mail were nothing more than a series of links to things we loved. One day, among the things she loved was an illustration from Lisa, and it was then I fell hard for her work. She fast became a hero of mine: someone who did it her way and managed to come out triumphant. May we all take a lesson from Lisa, and in turn from her father. Thank you, Lisa, for your gracious contribution.
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I realized when I sat down to write about what I have learned from my father that I am one of those women who doesn’t know her father well. I think there are many of us out there. I am 43 and my father is 71. My parents are still married after almost 50 years and I visit with my mother and father several times a year. But still, he is a somewhat illusive character in my life. Gender differences, generational differences, and the introverted nature of my entire family all account for my not knowing him well — or him knowing me. Despite all of that, I love him deeply, and he has influenced me in immeasurable ways. Here are just a few.
- Lisa Congdon
I can’t recall how it was we first came to know one another, but Jen Goldszer, director of public relations for America’s leather jacket company, Schott NYC, is one of the nicest people I’ve met in this business of men’s clothing. I’m so happy to share the story and lessons of her father: adventurer, sailor, physician.
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My dad got his first sailing lesson from my mom on the Charles River in Boston. It was one of their first dates; and while they ended up capsizing their sailboat, my dad gained a lifelong partner and hobby that would provide some of my favorite family memories. Our summer weekends were spent sailing in and around Boston Harbor, Cape Cod, and on some overnight trips to Martha’s Vineyard. My dad taught my sister and me about nautical navigation, that good knots can be easily untied and to shift back and forth from port to starboard when tacking. I did not know then that what seemed like lessons in leisure would help me navigate life.
As a young, single man, my dad was quite the adventurer. He rode alone on his Triumph Bonneville motorcycle across Europe in 1970. He then went overland to India via Turkey, Afghanistan and Pakistan; it was there, after witnessing so much illness and disease, that he decided to become a physician. I can only imagine the people he met and the places he saw. The world was a very different, much simpler place. From these experiences, he has taught me to expand my horizons, be open to new ideas and opportunities, and he has always encouraged me to try new things. He believes that no matter what the outcome is, failure or success, I will have at least learned something.
Most people would agree my dad is one of the most diligent, dedicated, inspirational people in his field. I believe he has gained respect and success by always remaining positive and looking for the good in all situations. His “don’t take ‘No’ for an answer” approach to life has helped me many times when applied in the competitive world of New York City. If my dad wants to make something happen, he will present a variety of possible options with all paths somehow ending in his favor. That way there appears to be some semblance of choice, but ultimately very little. While it can often create a wake, I have seen how far determination has taken my dad.
I can relate to my dad now more than ever. Life in New York can be demanding; it makes me yearn to decompress on the water. There are no buildings, cars, phone calls, or e-mail, just sky, sea and solitude. It gives me a feeling of freedom unlike any other. We still spend our time together sailing and fishing on Nantucket. Together, we take in the sun, the waves and the salty sea air, all the while shifting starboard to port and port to starboard when tacking. It is probably the most important thing he has taught me; to shift effortlessly between hard work and adventure, to know which way the wind is blowing and always being in tune to the balance of the boat.
Thank goodness for Simply Breakfast. Each entry is such an inspiration. Many mornings, while I’m busily inhaling my umpteeth bowl of Trader Joe’s Cinnamon Spice instant oatmeal, I’ll scroll through SB thinking, “Fresh fruit… whole grains… eggs. I should eat better.” Its author, photographer Jen Causey, manages to eat the most lovely looking breakfasts in Brooklyn, if not in all of America. In addition to SB, Jen has taken on several awesome photo projects, my factory-visit-loving favorite being The Makers, a photo project documenting the people who put together many of the things we use and love and love to use. Thank goodness for you, Jen. Thanks for your terrific photos and for your terrific tribute to your father.
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I believe I gained a curiosity for learning things and the craving to be creative from my father. Growing up, he could do and make anything. He knew how to sew, fix engines, make homemade banana pudding, and build anything-including my favorite Barbie dream house and an amazing wooden swing set. As I think back on all these things he made, I realize that he inspired my interest in artisan made products and in learning more about the people behind the things I buy and use, ultimately inspiring my Makers Project.
As far as fashion goes, my father definitely inspired my love of stripes. Looking back at photos from my childhood, he was always wearing stripes!
Most importantly, I thank my father for always letting me be me. He taught me to strive to be the best I could be, but to ultimately be myself. To this day, he stands
by me with silent encouragement, letting me make my own decisions and my own mistakes. He is always there to help out when needed, but easily steps back when he is not.
- Jen Causey
Before I worked around and talked about clothes, I tried to be a writer. I worked hard to live the artist’s life. While I was busy divining inspiration from Indiana’s natural surroundings: sleeping on the rock bed of the quarry just off-campus, hiking Hoosier Hill by moonlight, and whittling wood on smoke breaks in poetry class, Micah Ling quietly and effectively wrote some of the best stuff I’ve ever read. Her persona poetry project involving Amelia Earhart which she began while we were in school, is still something I pick up from time to time, marveling at her abilities with words. She is, hands down, my favorite writer from our graduating class, and that makes her one of my all-time favorite writers. Thank you, Micah, for sharing your words with my audience. To read a real writer, buy Micah’s books or read her reviews at Book Punch Reviews.
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I was born on a seasonally cold January day in Ohio to loving parents—classic hippies. I was born just ahead of my twin brother, a fact that he’ll never really live down—being second. I was complicated, but my brother was easy. In the delivery room, the doctor said, “That second one was a piece of cake!” And to that, my father said, “Then the first one was pie.” He seemed to have his eye on me from the start.
And I seemed to be born competitive, but mostly with myself: I wanted so badly to be the best—to do great things. I was born to a line of quiet nobility—something I’d not really learn until I was well into my twenties. My father entered the seminary—an option presented to him by his father, instead of moving to Canada with his wife—to avoid fighting in Vietnam. Sending a son to fight in that war was something my grandfather could not condone—it was something my father would not tell his children about. This makes me proud—nearly brings me to tears—especially now, after so many years of not understanding the church.
But even before I knew this, I wanted to be like my father. He ran, nearly every day. Through the brutal cold of January and the inescapable heat of July. This automatically made a hero—different from everyone else. When I was small, four or five years old, I started riding my bike next to his pace. Very few words were spoken—he’d note the deer on the path, or tell me about the people we’d see who would say hello to him. Everyone seemed to know and like my father. Just being with him was teaching me a great deal. When I turned ten or eleven, I could keep up a bit—I could run with him. I did this because I understood that it was making me better—like him. I did other things—played soccer, swam, rowed crew, but running was something that he gave me. He trained for marathons and kept a discipline. Somehow I knew that it was part of his character—much more about repetition and meditation than simply exercising the body.
I went off to college and when the cross-country couch saw me running at sunrise every day, he asked me if I’d run for the school. I agreed. I ran well—I was never the top runner, not even close—but my father drove hours to watch. Racing wasn’t the same, though—it wasn’t a meditation—it was fast and rushed and in spikes. The running culture is odd: people wear tiny shorts and tight synthetic shirts; they buy salves and put Band-aids over everything. I just wanted to clear my mind—feel strong, and count deer. I broke my foot my junior year, and was confined to a plastic boot for six weeks. I finished college and kept running—much more than my father ever had.
Everyone who knows me now, knows that I run; and most know that my father gave that to me—or, that I noticed to take it. So many times, when talking to my father about life—decisions and complications—we both return to running. He reminds me that I run, every day. That I’ve run thousands of miles in hundreds of cities across the country, and around the world. I’ve hop-scotched stone streets in Rome, made loop after loop around the only safe streets in Palestine, and carried a flashlight through the wee hours of the day in Mexico. He reminds me that there’s something to that obedience—something to the observation and the breathing and the release.
As a teenager, every time I’d leave the house, my father would say, “Remember who you are.” At the time, it seemed patronizing, or threatening: a version of, “Don’t you dare embarrass me.” And maybe it was all of that. But when I run, I remember who I am—energized and wanting to do great things. My father refused to fight in a war he didn’t believe in—he took care of his family, treated complicated things like pie. My father gave me patience and determination—he gave me pride, in the quietest way.
- Micah Ling
