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New Shoes by Jan Bartlett March 28, 2007 Each year, when I was a "young-un," as summer drew to a close, I got a new pair of shoes. School shoes. "Can't wear 'em till the first day of school." Getting brand new shinny shoes somehow made it easier to accept the cold hard fact that the unscripted days of endless adventures were ending, being replaced by structured school days, homework, and dresses everyday. I hated wearing dresses. I remember especially well my third grade new shoes. I loved them right from the start. My mother and I sat down in the chairs to await the salesman. I, being the one getting the shoes, sat in the chair that had the funny footstool attached which held your lower leg and foot at an easy angle for the all-important toe-pinching. I'll explain. This was the early 1960's, when children weren't so indulged, and school clothes and shoes had to last as long as possible. I was the oldest child with several younger siblings that also had to be clothed and shod, and money was not plentiful. When buying new shoes, they had to fit well enough not to fall off your feet, but must still have room in the toe of the shoe for growth. First the salesman (it was always a man back then) put the shoes on your feet, using a shoe horn which helped you slide your foot in smoothly. Then you had to stand up and put your weight down evenly on both feet while the salesman pushed his thumb down in the empty toe portion of the shoe to demonstrate that there was "room to grow." Then my mother would bend down and repeat the same maneuver, the "thumb-mashing-down-on-the-toe-room maneuver", just for verification. She and the salesman would then nod at each other knowing they had each correctly appraised the growth-potential area of the shoe. I would then walk around the shoe store on my new shoes, stopping to look at my feet in every single mirror and enjoying them from every angle possible. According to my mother, I was "hard on shoes." I was not a shy, demure, dainty little girl who played indoors with her dolls all the time. I loved to play hard, with boys and/or girls, just as long as the games were exciting and adventurous. That usually involved tree climbing, hiding in bushes, climbing fences, and getting dirty. And play in water of any kind was preferable to play on dry land. Pools, ditches, or the nearby Elizabeth River -- all acceptable. And so I would wear the heck out of a pair of shoes. This was a source of great consternation to my mother. But we were at a stalemate. She couldn't manufacture more money for more shoes, and I couldn't stop being a rambunctious child. Because I was "hard on shoes" my mother selected the styles with durability in mind. I heard her say countless times that if they would only offer steel-toed work boots in my size, she would buy them for me. I think that was overkill. But thinking about some of the school shoes I did have, I remember several times getting plain black oxfords that surely were the envy of every nun in town. It did not matter a bit to my mother that the shoes were ugly or uncomfortable, it only mattered that they lasted for a long time. And if they were sort of floppy on your feet because of too much toe room, and you looked really goofy trying to walk without appearing to be wearing clown shoes, well, that was too bad. She would bring me down to earth with the statement, "What makes you think anyone is looking at you, anyway?" I don't think she meant to crush the tender green shoots of my emerging self-esteem, but she certainly did stunt their growth for quite a few years. But, about those 3rd grade shoes. It was, as they say, a very good year. It was not to be a black oxford year, but it was the year of the saddle shoes! Never has there been a pair of shoes that excited me more, although nowdays I do get a bit woozy when spotting sexy Ferragamos on sale. But right there, seemingly within my grasp, were the black and white "saddle oxfords" that were both stylish AND durable. There was a bit of drama as the fitting and toe demonstration portion of the day was not without incident. At one point, the only saddle shoes they could find in my size were the inferior brown and white oxfords. They were the ugly cousins, the also-rans, the wannabes. But fate smiled on me and the tenacious salesman searched until he found a pair in my size. He put them on my feet, and laced them up with the beautiful whiter-than-white new laces, and I stood for the toe-measuring ceremony. When the shoes were pronounced acceptable, I took a victory walk around that shoe store to rival Miss America sweeping down the runway in Atlantic City - minus the roses and the tiara. I was almost moved to tears like her, too. It looked like I was going to go home with new shoes, durable shoes, and pretty shoes, all in one. A veritable combo platter! I continued my celebratory walk around the store for as long as they'd let me, and finally had to surrender the shoes and put on my old ones for the trip home. I never got to wear them home. Never. Not once. Soon summer afternoons of getting sprayed with the hose and chasing the "Popsicle Man" down the hot street barefoot gave way to Labor Day and 3rd grade called to me. On the first day of school, I was sitting in my desk, looking around at my new classroom, my pristine box of Crayola crayons, and then every minute or two, glancing down at my new shoes. I loved how smooth the insoles felt, and flexed my sock-covered toes repeatedly against the slick surface. It was a new beginning. A new teacher, a clean slate, and new shoes. Ah, the possibilities. However, decades later, there is still this unsettled score between my mother and I. When I go shopping, I now wear home stuff as soon as I buy it... sometimes before it buy it. (note: this can be dicey if security doesn't buy your story that you are really going to pay for the items and that you are just acting out to get back at your mother for wrongs suffered forty years ago) Last week at Walmart, my feet hurt a bit, so I marched right over to the shoe department, selected a nifty pair of white sandals, tried them on, deliberately ignoring the presence or absence of toe room, and then I KEPT THEM ON! I put my old shoes in the box and just kept right on shopping. Just like that. Ha! At the checkout stand I paid for the shoes with a flourish that the clerk thought uncalled for since they were $9.99 sandals from Walmart -- hardly a coup. And then, because I am still a defiant child of 48, I called my mother on my cell phone while walking to the car. I told her exactly what I was doing, and to my disappointment, she didn't try to stop me. I made a mental note to run with scissors and eat unwashed fruit when I got home. About the author: I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but currently am teaching 3rd grade and enjoying it. I have been a medical technologist, tv anchor and journalist, standup comic, actress, and tried selling cars once but was terrible at it. | | | |
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