If Shoes Could Tell Stories

I smiled at my life as I tipped the sand out of my shoe and onto my quilt on a recent autumn morning.  Attempting to apply lotion to my legs while leaning against my bed frame, removing the shoes from my feet one by one, and ready to toss them onto my bed, I noticed the tiny mound of ancient crystal grains in the heels of my canvas slip-ons.  Which lake or river bank had they come from? I’ve been to quite a few in these shoes.  Rather than emptying my shoes into the trash can, I decided to create a tiny sand mountain on my blankets. I leaned in to examine my treasure.

Remember Forrest Gump? “My mama always said you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes, where they going, where they been.” If Forrest’s mother peered into my closet she might be able to make some assumptions and not be entirely incorrect. Yes, I have some high heels, but only a couple pairs. What I have the most of are these slip-on canvas shoes made by a company called Sanuk. Of those I probably have a dozen pairs. And I do not own even one pair of athletic shoes at the moment, other than my unicycling shoes. Look in my sock drawer and you might find two or three pairs of socks. I’m not a sock person, even in the winter.

I wear Sanuk’s because I can trounce around all over the muddy places with my puppy dog. I can walk a river bank, and if the wake of a boat off shore sends a wave that pummels me to the calves, my shoes can get wet and then can dry quickly. I toss my cloth loafers into the washer, an violà, like new. I can turn around and wear the trouncing-shoes out to dinner. That is how I roll on good days.

Our feet don’t always take us where we would like to go, however, or where the sun and the sand warm our bodies and souls. There are times when our feet walk hospital corridors, or pace back and forth in a waiting room. Times when we are stranded and need to walk to find help. Times when we have to deliver bad news, or when we have to walk away from hurtful situations, or when we have to leave people behind. If our shoes could talk, what stories they could tell.

Nurses’ shoes carry empathy, kindness, and healing from exam room to exam room all day long. The hardy boots of construction workers create homes for the homeless. The galoshes of letter carriers bring news from far away friends (and also our bills). Our garbage collectors, our fire fighters, our teachers—what fits on their feet as they selflessly take care of the rest of us? Running shoes, soccer shoes, basketball shoes, held together with duct tape, tell of the endless hours of dedication that test the limits of the human mind and body.

Somewhere in my parents’ house in Florida there is a single bronzed baby shoe that belonged to my father as a toddler. Even bronzed one can see the scuffs and scrapes from over 85 years ago when he first learned to scoot around during the Great Depression, in the little town of Rosebush, Michigan.

Shoes are our transportation into the rich experiences of life. The shoes of my favorite human, and those of his family, have taken them to some of the most interesting spots on the planet. They generously share the stories of those places with the readers of the column, A Bird’s Eye View, in memory of his beloved wife, journalist and creator of the column, who passed away in 2016. From Ireland and Italy, to Iowa, to the local libraries, and to memories of times past, the shoes of this family house an immeasurable wealth of music, love, tears, and hope. And we get to share the journey, from their shoes. You can find their collective efforts on Facebook under the name A Bird’s Eye View.

Pretty soon, my children will be coming home to visit for the holidays. My Sanuk slip-ons have been replaced with Sanuk wool boots (yes, they make boots that feel as comfy as my loafers). When my daughters get home, trailed by their boyfriends, they will kick off their footwear, leaving heaps of laces, socks, and soles across my living room. I’ll need to tidy it all, of course, but no worries. I plan to line up all of the pairs of the shoes, boots, and slippers of my kids, in a row next to my front door. I intend to snap a photo of them—used, stained, maybe a little smelly, bent into the shapes of their feet, holding the secrets of their travels and experiences.  I intend to treasure the array.

As for me and my autumn morning, my tiny pile of shoe sand, that amounted to about a teaspoon full, has been scraped up and poured into a little nondescript finger bowl. I keep it in a corner of my dining room on a shelf, and smile at it from time to time. It came out of my shoe, out of my experiences, out of the core of who I am.