From an entry in progress for Emily Spivack's "Worn Stories"

My father’s vintage Ralph Lauren cardigan is age-stained and moth-nibbled, the cuffs are all stretched out. Although I don’t have any memories of him ever actually wearing it, it certainly corresponds to the type of man that he was then. In the early eighties, he had great hair and a mustache—a long-legged, rare-steak eating, tennis playing man who belonged to clubs with letter-pressed stationary in royal blue and cream. He always gave me a sip of wine at dinner, but would tell me to smell the bouquet first. This will give you the impression that my dad is cultured, snobbish. He isn’t. He pushed the wine across the table to me to piss my mother off.