The Sauce Diaries: Author's Deep-cut Fashion Backstory

Why do you dress the way you do? I like chatting with people about this topic, so please comment. Okay, on with today's piece:

I have yet to receive so much derision for my vanity that I bury my entire closet in the back yard, so here is another installment of the Sauce Diaries. Why am I doing this? I hope to address the at-first-insufferable phenomenon of documenting one's outfits more thoroughly in a livestream, but here it is in a nutshell.

When I was very small, perhaps six or seven, my grandmother took me to buy a nice shirt. I think it was a Polo shirt. Typically my siblings and I were clad in hand-me-downs or unremarkable items from The Thrift Station — a creaky little secondhand store known as much for its rack of one-off, obsolete golf clubs as it was for one-off, obsolete fashion. But the arrival of this shirt on my scene, thanks to the compartmentalized ritual of its purchase, and the special place it came from, was something I sat and pondered deeply and often over my young years.

McCaulou's department store — pronounced muh'-CULL-uh's — was and is a clothing-only standalone in Danville, California. (Although, in that charming organic way of small-town shops, it included the counter where the local scouts bought their uniforms and badges.) It was the kind of place that Cost Money, but my beloved grandmother, Marva, who had grown up in an unplumbed farm shack, took quite gracefully to the trickle and then moderate flow of income that my hard-working grandfather began to generate as they grew old. So, with some gentle but assured means in place, she loved to reward us with a treat from McCaulou's on an unknown schedule that kept the thrill fresh. As the years tallied ho, and she noticed how much our little excursions meant to me, shopping trips for nice clothing increased in frequency — well into my high school career, until her arthritis became too debilitating. I suspect she knew that cowering young me needed the sort of supplemental assurance that good clothing provided.

I had a wealthy cousin for whom a trip to McCaulou's would have scarcely elicited a puff from the nose, but for me, each instance of light that reflected off the racks — matching racks! — and mirrors — mirrors! — was an instant to be savored; it held the promise of a fuller life, soon to be yanked away. Even the mannequins were so much better than I would ever be, but they didn't mind me examining their casually assured scarves and curiously delicate cardigans. I was mystified by clothing for pleasure, rather than utility.

After I had tried the shirt on in the dressing room, making sure the sleeveheads fell correctly at the edge of the shoulder and the belly draped comfortably but not excessively, the saleslady would fold it, wrap it in that crinkly tissue, and place it in a flat-bottomed McCaulou's handle bag for us. Back at home, I would sit with the shirt on the couch a while, holding its still-folded form, examining the texture of the pique, marveling at the tiny stitches that drew the horse, thrilling in my powerful knowledge of the not just grown-up but secret word "placket." (Incidentally, it was at my grandfolks' house where I first encountered a thesaurus.)  

I've run on too long with this, and want to have something to share in a livestream, so I'll end it here. But that's one of the bedrock reasons I find myself interested in clothing.

Clothing notes in photo captions.