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Oh Captain! My Captain!

The Source

Oh Captain! My Captain! It was one of the saddest sights I’d ever seen in Jacksonville. Dick Sweeney totaled up my bill at Jack Lukeman’s Captain’s Quarters with his handheld calculator, filled out the sales slip with his pencil, poked in my credit card number by hand, then gave me the hand-written receipt. I thought to myself, when was the last time I saw that happen? More importantly, when will I see it happen again? I’d just purchased three pairs of pants, had them each measured for altering, waited upon by a clerk who knew his business inside out, could tell me what he had coming in, what was selling this year, and gave me an honest opinion of how they looked. Where would I ever get that sort of service again? In 1910 Clarence and George Lukeman snuck away from Meyers Brothers Clothing and took their experience with them. The result was Lukeman’s Clothing Store on the east side of the Jacksonville Square. Now, three generations later, Jack Lukeman has retired and told us that if we want clothed, he’s closed. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose. Jack deserves a comfortable retirement after having served our community so well, but it does keep those of us with memories to mourn the passing of not only a fine retail store, but a standard of business that’s quickly disappearing from the American scene. I once walked into Lukeman’s to buy a suit and was greeted by the smiling and slightly party-worn face of Bill Costello. I pointed to a brown suit that I liked. He grinned and told me, “Well, I wouldn’t advise brown if you live in Arenzville. I sell nothing but black suits to those Germans out there. They like dark colors.” He later explained that the main reason an Arenzville farmer wore a suit was to bury someone. I told him that it was for a wedding, but he still insisted that only a black suit would do. We compromised with tiny pin stripes and I went for black. Shopping at Lukeman’s was a social occasion. If they didn’t know you when you walked in, you were good friends when you walked out. The guys in the men’s section were well dressed themselves and when you walked out of the changing room there’d be at least two in attendance to tell you how the outfit looked. And the smells…..new leather, pressed fabric, expensive cologne, a hint of cigar . . . manly odors that would imbue a high school junior prepping for his first prom with a real sense that he’d just stepped into the adult world, perhaps even a world where his mother wouldn’t have to approve of everything he wore. I walk the aisles of retail clothing stores and only bump into a clerk if she’s not watching where she’s going. The poor gal has no idea of what’s coming in, what’s selling, when they might get something in my size, and any trying on of the clothing is a purely solo flight on the part of the customer. There’ll be no salesperson waiting outside the dressing room to tell you that you’ll need four inches taken off the sleeves. In fact, in most cases they’ll be clueless as to who could even alter a piece of clothing. Okay, lest Jacksonville’s ladies’ clothing stores feel their hackles start to raise let me say that I’m only speaking of the places selling men’s clothing. Perhaps you gals still have someone locally who’ll give personal attention. Since you dress better than I do I suspect this is true. But ‘tis a shame because face it, we men need more help. Oh, some of us take our wives along to help buy clothing, but there’s something just a bit. . . how do I say it . . . demeaning. . . un-masculine about having your wife pass judgment on the amount of bagginess in the seat of your pants. When Jack Lukeman says, “Your crotch is drooping,” I don’t take that as a personal affront. If it was my wife or someone else’s, well . . . And of course this is something we’ll never get back. The fellow who buys suits by the truckload will always smother the fellow down on the corner who cares enough to make a sports jacket fit perfectly. I once had Jack ask his seamstress to sew on leather elbow protectors to a coat of mine. When he handed me the finished product two weeks later he told me, “The coat looks great, but get out of here quick. My seamstresse wants to kill you.” Where will I ever get advice like that again? So I watched Jack Sweeney fill in my sales slip by hand, figure the tax, take into a account the going-out-of-business discount and tell me that my drawers would be ready in about a week. They’re good pants and I’m sure that they’ll last a long time, but that sales slip . . . well, I just make keep it forever.