As a little girl, I tagged along on visits to the shoe repair shop where we found new heels, half-soles, new straps, and could request worn seams restitched. The air and shelves reeked of raw or well-worn leather, the black grease of the machines, the acrid scent of dyes, relentless dust and the sweat of the man who repaired the shoes. Always a man, though a woman now and then assisted by managing the claim tickets and payments.

Both my parents eventually called the man by his name and occasionally talked to him about his life outside of the shop. My dad once found a fellow fan of bowling. Almost all of the shoe repairmen we used were immigrants, often speaking with a slight or strong accent. This fascinated my mother who loved languages and dreamed of traveling. The last repairman I remember came from Korea. I had recently returned from a visit to Hong Kong where I had learned to say “Good Morning” in Cantonese. My mother, not knowing the origins of the gentleman, tried out the Cantonese greeting. The man’s face lit up.

“How did you know?” he asked.

Mother, totally confused, admitted the story behind her Asian speech. The man then informed her, that the sound she emitted was the same as the ancient name for his home, Korea. He was disappointed, but it remained a bonding moment for both of them.

I cared little about the repairmen. I focused on the shoes. Lined up along the shelves they sat awaiting repair or newly shined and ready for their owners to return. Some remained on those shelves, shifted from recently received to newly repaired, to waiting one week, then two, then three. Their once bright shine gathering dust, their claim tickets yellowing.

I worried about the shoes forgotten or abandoned. Would their owners ever return to take them back home? I felt sorry that the shoe man did not get paid. But the shoes held my thoughts, and suggested stories.

Some ugly styles worn only by old women, for instance, had they been abandoned in favor of newer more attractive styles or had something terrible happened to their owner who could no longer claim them? Others began their life in glamor. Did their owners have no more parties at which to dance and shine? The many work boots concerned me. Had the owners been injured on the job, or fired or found some occupation not requiring work boots?

The repairman, when asked, told me that after shoes sat unclaimed too long, he offered them to institutions who helped the poor. This news pleased me. The shoes could have another life and ease the life of someone new.

Yet, a visit to the shoe repair shop was remained sad for me. Before leaving, I always wished the long-waiting shoes a happier day and a new home.

#NationalOldStuffDay