Mother Buys Me Shoes
I’m not the only beneficiary of this goodwill; she buys for my brothers and my sons as well. She never told me why she chose shoes to become her gift of choice. On that I can only guess.
Mother was raised hard. Life on a subsistence farm in the thirties on poor land was a hardship I’m thankful I’ll never have to endure. But it didn’t make her bitter. I guess it was because of all the love. She knew that no matter what, if her daddy had a nickel in his pocket, if she asked for it, it was hers. She seldom asked. As a young girl, she often only owned two dresses growing up. She never mentioned how many shoes.
She and her sister cackle like hens when they get together. They retell old stories about people like Sam and Tiddle. These local old widows would burst through the door every time it thundered and would walk right up to their beds and whisper “Is this where I shleep?” they would crawl in bed with who ever said yes.
They tell the story about the time the widows inquired about the storm. They would ask “Is it fixing to stop?” to which my grandfather would respond “Oh no it’s getting worse”. The lie would make them gasp, shake and cover their heads with the blankets. They laugh and laugh at that one. As they recollect that story the years melt away and I get a glimpse back in time. I can imagine my mother as a spry little rambunctious girl. It makes me happy.
I’m biased but my mother is a more attractive lady than her sister. However, I was startled when I saw my aunt’s feet for the first time not long ago. My aunt is now aged and stooped but as she convalesced at my mother’s home after a recent surgery I couldn’t help but notice her feet. They looked like the feet of a pampered aristocrat and not those of a farmer’s daughter. I could tell in a moment that she took pride in her feet. Her toe nails were painted and there were no visible corns or calluses. Her toes were long and straight. I looked up at her face and saw something that somehow I had missed over a lifetime of knowing her. My aunt is a wonderful a person but what I never knew is that there was one small part of her body that she knew to be beautiful and she hid it away for only those closest to her to know.
As a young boy I was horrified when I first saw my paternal grandmother’s feet. The balls of her feet looked enormous and her big toes curved at a grotesque angle overtop her second toe. It wasn’t until I saw her in her high heels before she went to a meeting of the Eastern Star when I finally made the connection.
My own mother’s feet did not suffer the mutilation of over exposure to high heels. Her feet bear witness to a life of hard work and sacrifice. She almost never paints her nails. I see her often working on her feet. She does it dutifully but I often wonder if she longs to have the dainty feet of a ballerina. She loves to buy high heeled shoes but always stops short of full out pumps.
Thing is, she knows what kind of shoes I like to wear. You know, nice shoes with leather uppers, maybe a leather sole with the rubber put where the balls of your feet touch the ground so you won’t slip and fall; casual shoes, the slip on variety, or dock-sider style. She buys me the black slip on type with tassels. She once bought me a pair of black penny loafers that I thought I wouldn’t like, but I did.
When she went to visit family in Texas she bought me back cowboy boots.
I think maybe that she has an ulterior motive in buying me shoes. I scarcely can take a step without thinking about her or thanking her in my mind. She’s with me every step.
