Recently, I arrived home after a less-than-stellar, more-than-irritating commute to find a mailbox stuffed with items fast-tracked for the paper shredder. As I rifled through the refinance offers (as if I’d ever part with my 2003 fixed interest rate) and flyers and bills, I felt the weight and trim profile of a once familiar, albeit wayward friend.  Sandwiched between the sheets of lesser mail missives, was good old Mr. J. Peterman. He (well actually his catalog) hadn’t changed one bit; 67 pages of time-traveled treasures, none of which I needed, all of which I wanted (at least the ones that could make me a better man).

It’s not any old catalog. Far from a register of things to buy, it is a more of a manifesto of how to travel, how to observe, how to cherish that which has been forgotten. It is from a world where traveling is a pleasure (or an adventure) and not a curse.

Each page unveils a dreamy sketch as if photographs were a crass alternative to that which the human eye and hand can conjure. And while the illustrations can slow a heart, it’s the writing that makes me swoon. Nothing is forcibly sold; instead the reader is taken on a trip to a place where the item was discovered, bartered, lassoed, traded or smuggled out. Certainly you can buy it, but that never seems to be the point. With no questions asked, magical things arrive in your mailbox, gifted by an heiress, prized by a Pasha, coveted by mere mortals.

For the ladies, perhaps a visit to Beacon Hill 1913

“Lamplight on the cobblestones, ripples of Mendelssohn coming from the big brick townhouse on Louisburg Square. It’s late December, party-time among the Brahmins. Inside the warm salon, a collective eyebrow arches slightly when a young woman enters wearing this dress, instead of the usual long, late-Edwardian gown; what to make of such a thing? Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., standing by the cut-crystal punchbowl, is observed to smile. Ah well, then, yes, there you have it. We do indeed appear to be entering a new era, and that’s just that. Beacon Hill Dress, ca. 1913, acquired at an antique shop on Charles Street.”

For the gents, how about a little role playing in an authentic French farmer’s shirt?
 
“When a man puts on this authentic French farmer’s shirt he may very well find that his hands look bigger. He will become sturdier and more forthright; either that, or more canny, only time will tell. At the dinner table, people will automatically start to offer him seconds and thirds. Is that sweet thing there giving him the eye and nodding toward the haystack? He knows what to do.
French Farmer’s Shirt (No. 1953), different and good-looking, found in an open-air country market near Lyon. I saw a gent there wearing the same shirt; he was either a peasant or a lawyer from the city getting back in touch with his roots, possibly both. It takes some confidence to wear this one, but nothing like storming the Bastille.”

The day my badger bristle shaving brush and soap arrived, I disposed of my disposables and never looked back.  And while not all men are destined for the Classic Inverness Cape or the Frontiersman Jacket, I’m glad my old wayward friend and consummate voluptuary has returned. When I travel with Mr. Peterman, it’s as easy as turning a page, forgetting about security and enjoying a little time travel.