MY MINK COAT

I live in the Land of the Puffer Coat. 

When Maine’s January temperatures plummet to the low teens, and the north wind whips in from the Nova Scotia tundra, I slip on my thick maroon jacket stuffed with four layers of duck down so I won’t succumb to hypothermia or frost bite during morning constitutionals. But only a few decades back, my go-to winter warmer was a glossy black mink coat lined in emerald satin with “Valerie B. Tamis” embroidered on the inside.  

Back in the ‘60s and ‘70s, mink coats represented the height of chic luxury in cities and suburban towns across America, including my village of Ridgewood, New Jersey. You’d spot mink coats at church services, in country club foyers, even while carpooling the little ones to nursery school. A wife felt lucky (one might even catch her wondering, hmmm, Why?) when her husband walked in the door with a ribboned-box containing an autumn haze mink coat.

VOGUE magazine featured Blackglama ads asking, “What becomes a legend most?”, depicting photos of Lauren Bacall, Lena Horne, Diana Ross and Liza Minelli sporting full length minks. Saks Fifth Avenue’s Revillon offered “summer camp” storage and I religiously took “Stinky” (as mine was named) to Saks for camp every May.

Stinky? 

My coat was dubbed Stinky on its maiden voyage to New York City. We were heading to a Broadway show with good pals Gael and Duke on a monsoon-drenching evening in the Big Apple. I whispered to Gael, “Will this weather ruin my coat?” She answered, “Val, minks live outside. It’ll be fine. But it might start to stink.” 

The following Christmas I opened an exquisitely-wrapped box from Gael containing her hand-designed cross-stitched “Stinky” hanger. 

My first clue that mink coats were not a standard or popular down east fashion occurred in the mid-1980s when we invited friends to enjoy Christmas Prelude Weekend in Kennebunkport. Temperatures hovered in the 20’s while snow fell sporadically. We three ladies were sashaying through Dock Square, gussied up in our full-length minks, when I heard a woman walking behind us snicker and say, “Get a load of those three.” 

The anti-fur activists and PETA also made it uncomfortable to stride Fifth or Ridgewood Avenue wearing a mink. Gucci, Burberry, Coach and Chanel soon announced they would no longer use exotic skins. 

When I moved to Maine full-time nearly 30 years ago, Stinky rarely saw the light of day. It hung on its special hanger in the hall closet.  LLBean and Patagonia became my coat purveyors of choice. 

Eventually and after much soul-searching, I took Stinky to Return to Cinda, a local resale shop. The owner leaned close and whispered, “Canadian women who vacation here during the summer come into the shop specifically looking for mink coats.” Stinky was bought within a month.

I often wonder if Valerie B. Tamis’s embroidered mink coat is seen along Yonge Street in Toronto … or warming a dowager on St. Catherine Street in Montreal.  If so, that’s great. But they can’t have the hanger.