Notwithstanding the modest income that kept our family afloat, Mother insisted that we wear good school shoes. They had to fit well; perhaps allow for a bit of growth through the school year; offer arch support; keep my feet from pronating; and be sturdy. Sunday shoes were a bit different—often hand-me-downs from my sister or from cousins. And they could be slip-ons. And summer meant a new pair of the ugliest rubber and canvas sandals you could possibly imagine. In fact, you have to imagine them because even Google Images carries no examples.
So school shopping—a once a year experience at best—meant a trip to Sweeneys Shoe Store on South Main in McPherson and the attentions of one of the professional salesmen employed there. These were not teenagers, but middle-aged men in dress slacks, long-sleeved shirts and ties. All veterans of the trade. In fact, we had our favorites.
Sweeneys didn’t use one of those controversial x-ray machines–fluoroscopes. But each visit did begin by standing on the silver and black metal foot measuring gizmo. Both feet—data recorded on width and length. If you’re interested, the gizmo is called a Brannock Device—named after its creator.
I found each school shoe visit troubling. Early on, I knew that I wouldn’t be leaving with cute shoes—the loafers or Mary Janes that other little girls had. But I appreciated Mother’s concentrated attention and the shine of a new pair of tie shoes in one form or another.
But then came the pre-high school visit. That momentous transition. And we went to Sweeneys as usual. Other girls were choosing saddle oxfords about then or good penny loafers or just nice white tennis shoes. Even, ignoring winter weather, nice flats. I was closer than I’d ever been to melding Mother’s specifications for shoes with current fashion. After all, saddle shoes were sturdy tie shoes. But for reasons lost to me now, my eyes were drawn to a pair of white oxfords. They looked so bright—like they might one-up saddle shoes. They had deep, comfy looking soles. The salesman found my size. They met Mother’s preferences. And off I went.
With nurses’ shoes. In fact, really well-made nurses’ shoes that required constant polishing.
I don’t remember how long it took me to realize what a ghastly choice I’d made. I was a dyed-in-the-wool nerd anyway. My clothes all came from Mother’s sewing machine. Grades mattered to me. I was likely perceived as a teacher’s pet. So I was never going to join the cool crowd. But still. . .
The shoes were comfortable. I did keep after the polishing. I was embarrassed, but not really depressed. Or angry. I have faint memories of feeling rueful—knowing that I couldn’t blame Mother or anyone else. In fact, in a twisted way, I had seen myself as being clever or slightly bold in the choice. But, of course, teenage “look-alike-ness” still mattered—still stung.
I can’t remember whether I remedied the situation before my sophomore year. What I can pinpoint is that by the time I was a junior, I’d come into myself in a whole bunch of ways. I’d actually joined the pep club and had the requisite red skirt and vest. I’d become a debater—a good one, in fact. Off to tournaments all around the state. And somewhere toward the end of the year, I decided that I really could beat James Holecek for Student Council President. And did. And somewhere about then Mother must have sanctioned the purchase of loafers. I never owned saddle shoes.
I cannot account for odd memories like this one burbling to the surface. But I am struck by the preferences born of my nurses’ shoes episode. For as long as my feet would allow it, I spent serious money and time finding delicate, sexy shoes. And even though my years of walking in heels across Gettysburg’s battlefield and Washington D.C.’s marble corridors took a dreadful toll, I still hunt for the most graceful version of an orthopedic, old lady shoe I can find. ©
