Shoes, Glorious Shoes!

 

I wrote this in 2009. Given that Spring shoe-shopping is right around the corner, I thought this would be a proper post to welcome NEW SHOES:

Every time I go home to Montreal, it’s the same thing: Rushing to fit my friends and family into a tiny time frame. There aren’t enough hours in the day, and I always end up feeling guiltier about how short my visit was rather than how often I actually do visit. But hey, I’m Jewish. The guilt is genetic.

It’s always nice to go home and see that everything is the same as it was when I moved away five years ago. The same kitchen floor with the rub marks where our chairs have been for over 33 years, pushed away from the table as my brother and I rushed to play outside, talk on the phone, or get away from further parental questioning. IE. “Amy, are these YOUR rolling papers?” The same brick fireplace I ran into face first as a toddler, because I was dancing for the guests. The same sink where my father washes the dishes every night because he "does it better than anyone else”.

My old bedroom is now an office/guest room of sorts, with all of my mother’s art supplies, pictures she cut out, and selected quotes taped to her desk. I still take a look around and try to picture the way it was when I was a kid. I actually remember every single flower in the wallpaper my mother chose for my room, with matching linens and curtains. It was like living in a shrub: A large, all encompassing, dusty rose-colored shrub. Bless my mother, Laura Ashley, and the 1970s.

The house is big and warm. The rooms are the same, save for new furniture and appliances here and there. Of all of the rooms and all three floors, the place I like best in the house is where time stands still: My mother’s shoe closet.

When I was a little girl, I used to sit on the floor in her shoe closet surrounded by all of her shoes. I took great joy in trying them all on. Repeatedly. I organized them by color, by heel height, by season, and even sometimes by occasion. Surprisingly, I’m not actually OCD. My friends reading this may disagree. *ahem*

Each time I sat in her closet was different, and each time I would learn something new about my mother. I would ask her about the beautiful red satin Mary-Jane pumps (they made her feel like Dorothy), or I would tell her that her hand-made gladiator sandals were my favourite. There was always a story of a great sale, an impulse buy, or wedding she didn’t want to go to but really wanted to dance in her new shoes. She was a great dancer, and I always boogied with my Mom at family weddings.

On this particular visit home, I open my mother’s shoe closet, and look down at all of the shoes. Over a hundred pairs, easy. There are some in boxes, some strewn on the floor, some on a shoe rack. None of them have left the closet in a very long time. It has been over three years since she died, and when I go home, I still sit in my mother’s shoe closet. It’s where I feel closest to her, and where I remember her best. I don’t fit in there as well, and I have to shove some things aside to make room to sit. It’s in those few moments that I can still hear her voice, telling me about the sandals she wore on her honeymoon, the shoes she bought to feel like a movie star, or the boots my father bought her in Europe that she only wore once because they were “too nice”.

I can still see her face, smiling at me as I organized things and tried every single pair on, modeling them in her full-length mirror as though it was my job. Mostly, I feel like she is in the closet with me. In those moments, I feel like she’s still alive and my heart hurts just a little less.

My mother wore a size 5.5 shoe. I used to be able to wear them when I was a kid, but soon they were a half size too small.  Sometimes she would buy her shoes a size bigger so that we could share them. I learned from this extraordinary woman that love isn’t giving someone your last Rolo or French-fry: Love is buying the wrong shoe size so you can share them with your daughter.

After her funeral, her best friend pulled me aside and asked me for a pair of my mother’s shoes. I went through her closet, and found the pair my Mom liked best. They were far from stylish, but she wore them all the time. I mentioned this to the friend, saying they were probably really comfortable. 

Her response was that she wasn’t planning on wearing them. She just wanted to keep them at her front door, so that it would always feel like her best friend was visiting her.  Maybe I will do the same. There are so many to choose from, but the choice is clear: Dorothy, there’s no place like home.

In 2008, I wore my Mom's running shoes to do the 60km Weekend to End Breast Cancer.  They were a little too small, and I may have done permanent damage to my left big toe (shout out to my Podiatrist), but it meant she was with me. I walked in her shoes, and it was like she was by my side holding my hand the entire time.

I think about my own shoe collection sometimes, as a woman is wont to do, wondering what I was thinking when I bought 4 inch heels, or why I own 4 pairs of Chuck Taylor's. The truth is they all have a story and a life, just like my mother did.

Maybe the reason I am so obsessed with shoes, is simply because I LOVE them. Maybe it is because I just can’t resist a sale. I am a woman, after all. It’s how I’m programmed. 

Then again, perhaps it goes deeper than that, and it’s because I imagine what their story could be and want to be part of their adventure.

Or maybe they just remind me of the woman who taught me that the best way to determine if the shoe fits is to dance in them.