"My Fur Lady": Broadway Joe Namath Meets the Sears Catalogue

What a miracle it was that Joe Namath flubbed the coin toss at last week's Super Bowl. Why?  His fabulous fur jacket got even more air time as the referee called for a second throw (guess the former quarterback was out of practice). But I wasn't complaining, as my eyes were glued to Broadway Joe's outrageous 70s flashback fur.

I realize that Joe had worn similar furs throughout his career.  There are any number of vintage shots showing him stalking the sidelines in furs galore. But I was transported to Prince Edward Island, 1970s era, and my Sears catalogue.




Did anyone else grow up on a small island? In the 1970s, there weren't many shopping choices.  My stylish mother would pack my father and me in our car and we'd hop over to the mainland via a ferry boat--Moncton, NB, was close, Halifax, NS, was further, but had more big-city delights. 

And if we were really ready to throw down the fashion gauntlet, my mum and I would board a plane with my grandmother and high tail it to Montreal, where my two elders would set up shop in the fabled Ogilvy's while I satiated my sweet tooth with a box of the generously cut fudge from the shops in the Queen Elizabeth Hotel.

But if none of those possibilities were available, there were two catalogues: the Eaton's Book and the Sears Catalogue.  And it was from Sears, while an elementary-school student, that I ordered my first fake-fur jacket--a Joe Namath-quality gray beauty.  On the Island, people dressed for warmth, not style (I bought my first pair of winter "fashion" boots when I moved to the States), but this fur jacket with complementary pleather insets did the trick.

And since then, I've been drawn to an adventurous fur look. Josephine Peary has long been a style icon in her arctic gear;

Nanook of the North rivals Namath fur best-dressed.

So thanks to Joe Namath for reminding me of that fur-jacket memory, long tucked away, but fresh as my then-schoolgirl attitude.

A Ballroom Upstairs; Those Sea-Blue Eyes

If I were in a punning mood, this post could be called "In Praise of Daryl's Halls," as it's inspired by this week's NYT piece on music stars who renovate their homes.

Daryl Hall is fixing up his 1787 home in CT, and my imagination took flight when I read that the bachelor sea captain who built it installed a ballroom on the top floor, in place of bedrooms.

Having a ballroom on the top floor brings new meaning to the idea of "dancing on the ceiling" and conjures up images of Austen-esque balls, with a handsome, young sea captain hoping to find his first (or only) mate.

If I were to go to a ball today, chez Hall, I might wear something primitively beautiful, to complement Mr. Hall's love of "the handmade world."

Perhaps something from Alabama Chanin might like a spin on the dance floor.

 I have a great-great uncle (maybe even greater) who was a ship's captain, based in Cardigan, PEI, which was a shipbuilding hub.  His captain's clock, his logs, and other artefacts, as well as his photo, are on display at the Cardigan Heritage Center.  I cannot locate my copy of his photo at the moment, but I see that my young son shares his great-great-great (possibly greater) uncle's sea-blue eyes, that hint of distant horizons. Here is one of his ships, the Caspian, built in 1890:

Fifty Shades of Green Gables

Gentle readers will be aware that a most ridiculous book cover has been making the rounds on teh internets, as they're called. 

I've refrained from writing about the complete foolishness that is the new, public-domain edition of L. M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables series because the cover, with its bleached blonde, twenty-first century Elly Mae Clampitt-meets Playboy centerfold while making hay in plaid is so absurd that it defies commentary.

Indeed, the AoGG book cover is as ludicrous as replacing the cover image of this:

with this:

Or this:

with this:

Wonder whether he could make the laughable cover disappear?

This P. E. Islander will take her green in less that fifty shades--the natural greens complementing the iconic green gables and shutters of Anne's house will more than satisfy.

The Queen of Hearts, She Wore Some . . .

Tartan, actually.  Or Black Watch, to be specific.

I wore some tartan myself, during my boarding school years in Canada.  Our school was part of the Black Watch Cadet Corps, so we were automatically enlisted and, when we went on parade, decked ourselves in Full Highland Dress, complete with a heavy, scratchy Black Watch kilt.

Black Watch did not make a stylish statement for me back then, but when I moved to Ottawa for university, I bought a Black Watch winter scarf from Roots and l.o.v.e.d. how it brought a touch of Scottish moor to my Robe di Kappa down jacket (essential for skating to class every day on the Rideau Canal).

I've gone on to buy a Black watch shirt from J Crew, which couldn't be more opposite of my original kilt.  It's made of the thinnest cotton that I'm positive will rip with every move.  So far, so good, though.

I was contemplating a Black Watch purchase just the other week; in fact, I bookmarked the shoe below at Saks, a McQ patent monk-strap with a BW inlay.  There were three sizes left, and mine was one of them. What stopped me? The *sale* price, which seemed excessive.

But I kept going back to visit, thinking I might splurge for a Christmas gift (and I could use a gift right now, as a very expensive and well-loved bag was stolen from me last week).

Then Kate wore her McQueen tartan dress to St. Andrews, bloggers blogged about McQ's other tartan items, and likethat! the shoe disappeared in my size. It's easier to mourn a loss when it wasn't yours to begin with.

Still, the shoe is available in one size up.  One does not want to flop about in sloppy monk-straps, but I wonder whether McQ shoes just might run small. Or maybe I should just eat a tart.

Zita Cobb: She's the g'll

If you grew up in the maritime provinces of Canada, chances are you'd be familiar with "I's the B'y," a Newfoundland sea chanty. 

It's pretty much in my DNA; although I was born in Prince Edward Island, hardly a week went by (it seems) without that song figuring some way in the life of the locals.

Last year I sang it at an international poetry reading, my poetry being the kind that's accompanied by a fiddle, guitar, definitely a beer break, and maybe some step dancing. 

I printed out a copy of the lyrics to refresh my memory (even that double helix might need some retwisting, right? [oops: eh?]) and sang the last line of the chorus: "Fogo, Twillingate, Morton's Harbour; all around the circle." 

But I didn't really know what I was singing until the other month (!) when I read about the marvelous Zita Cobb and her extraordinary work on Newfoundland's Fogo Island.

Cobb, a child of the rock, established herself as a careerwoman in Ottawa, and returned to Newfoundland to found Shorefast, a foundation that is meant to breathe new artistic life into the craggy, beautiful cliffs of Fogo.

Part of her mission is to build artists' studios (see all these photos), where one can enter the Newfoundland landscape and create. 

So in honour of Zita Cobb, I'd like to rewrite the lyrics of "I's the B'y" (I'm the buddy) to reflect her contribution to the arts in Newfoundland and, indeed, in Atlantic Canada. 

Zita Cobb: "She's the g'll."