Shoes

I’m sitting on my Hickory rocker in the corner of our bedroom. It was given to us by my Daddy probably 30 years ago. It’s a perfect place for thinking and remembering. On this morning, I’m polishing my shoes. For some reason this particular activity gives me pause for reflection and a whole lot of memories.

My shoes are black. They are tie shoes. They are sensible. They fit me. I have worn the same SAS brand of footwear for at least 25 years. About every two years, I will go and buy a new pair. The same style, usually the same size, and relegate my older pair to second best, and my third oldest pair to garden shoes.

Shoes have always been somewhat of an issue with this girl. I was born with very wide feet, and also a genetic deformity that is predisposing me to serious arthritis in my feet. I remember as a little girl that one of the things I wanted was a pair of patent leather Mary Jane buckle shoes like my cousins had. I remember that my parents finally gave in to my five-year-old pestering and brought home the perfect pair of Mary Jane shoes. Like Cinderella’s stepsisters I forced my feet into them, and they were long enough, and almost wide enough, but alas! The strap did not even meet the buckle on the other side of this shoe. My Daddy, ever the practical one, voiced the opinion that there would never be a pair of Mary Janes that would fit me.

I kept hoping though. One year when my shoes were worn out, and I desperately needed a new pair, daddy and Mama took me along to Milford, and took me into the Bata Shoe store on North Walnut Street, where pair after pair did not fit. Mr. Bata was very kind. He eventually brought out a pair of Girl Scout shoes. Brown. Tie. Masculine. He gently put them on my feet and tied them up. They fit perfectly. They were comfortable.

And I hated them!

I remember standing in that store with boxes of shoes around me on the floor and crying. Mr. Bata put his arm around my shoulders and gently said, “What is wrong?”

“They’re boy’s shoes,” I sobbed, trying desperately not to blubber.

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Bata, his arm still around my shoulder. “They are not. Would I put my girl in boy’s shoes?” It certainly looked like it to me, but his earnest kindness was genuine, and I was comforted by that. A little.

However, the teen years were ahead of me. The tiny spike heels, with the dainty pointed toes were in style and a lot of girls had them. Shoes mattered in my circle, and there was more than once when I overheard things whispered (or not so whispered) along with giggles about the shoes I had to wear. The truth was, I could not fit into that dainty kind of shoe, and somewhere along the line, I decided that I didn’t care. That I wouldn’t care. That I couldn’t care. It took blisters and pain and wasted money on shoes that I thought I could somehow bear to wear and couldn’t, but there seriously came a day when I decided that it just wasn’t worth it.

And so the years passed.

I will never forget that when Certain Man and I were getting married, I shopped for suitable shoes and I think I found them at the famous Lou’s Bootery here in Milford. They were a sweet pair of white Hush Puppies, wide width, with a very low heel and a classy basket weave. I was working for Dr. and Mrs. Crabb at the time, and Mrs. Crabb was hospitalized in her final, vicious battle, just days before she slipped away from us. She had an inordinate curiosity about the details of the wedding, and I trundled shower gifts and my wedding dress and penciled plans to her hospital room to show her everything.

One day she said to me, “Mary Ann, have you bought your shoes yet?”

“Yes!” I said, happily. “I have!” And I tried to explain them to her.

She hesitated, then said, “Would you mind bringing them up and showing them to me?” Well, this was different. She wanted to see my shoes? Oh, well. I fetched them along on the very next visit. I laid the box on her bed and removed the cover. She lifted them out, almost reverently, and examined them carefully. Then she said, “Oh, Mary Ann. I’m so relieved! These are beautiful! You do have the frumpiest tastes when it comes to shoes, but these will be okay!”

Frumpy, eh??? I laughed. I was a 19-year old bride who loved the woman who delivered that statement with a loyalty that would have survived almost anything she said to me, and I wasn’t in the least offended. But over the years, I’ve polished serviceable black shoes with shoe laces (that I can–at least– walk in) and I hear her voice and remember.

What if I am truly more comfortable in those “frumpy” shoes. What if, instead of opting out, I can stay longer, walk further, and think about something besides my aching feet when they are frumpily ensconced?

I have heard (and suspect that it is true) that there are people in this world who notice shoes first and form opinions. If you are one of those individuals, and you see my frumpy shoes, and have an opinion, it’s okay. Think what you will. I’m going to try to be comfortable.