I wear tennis shoes almost everywhere; it really doesn’t matter where I go, out on the town, work, or even church. Yeah I have one pair of leather dress shoes that I bought for my son’s wedding, and a couple of pair of cowboy boots that I wear with my extra long jeans that are reserved for those special business meetings where tennis shoes would really be out of place.
I have 4 pair and almost always have 4 pair. There is the pair with the hole in the toe and broke shoe laces that have been tied together, if there at all, dyed green from the last lawn mowing that I wear on that rare occasion when I want to embarrass DeAnn. My next best pair, the ones that are only fit for a quick trip to the store or playing catch with the grand kid in the back yard, they are older shoes not fit for running or wearing to church but still comfortable. I usually wear them when working on the house we are remodeling. They will be my next lawn mowing pair. Pair number three, my newest running shoes that are too colorful for anyplace but in a race, thin, fast, and bright all things to which I aspire. The last ones I wear to work, church, dinner out, that I think go good with a sport jacket.
This last Saturday DeAnn and I started early, it was still dark outside. After the last couple of weeks I thought it wise to do the safe work. I was going to work at the house taping and mudding the drywall, she was going out of town. I set drinking my coffee, all dressed except shoes, when she came in ready to go. Rather than trek to the bedroom to get my work shoes I donned the closest pair, my best pair.
I am not the neatest of drywall finishers and by the end of the day if drywall mud was green my best pair of tennis shoes would have looked like my worst. Drywall mud was crusted into the mesh of my good shoes and embedded in the tread. As I return from the day’s work I took them off at the door without another thought. The next morning I dress for church, nice shirt, blue jeans, clean white socks, and then remember my tennis shoes. It’s a good thing that joint compound easily cleans with water.
As I stand at the kitchen sink cleaning my shoes of the previous days hastiness a flood of memories rush through my mind, not of the work or the mess from the day before but from my childhood. I see myself sitting in the kitchen, dad in a chair to my side, each of us holding a shoe in our left hand as we rub polish on our shoes with our right. Dad spits on his, I mimic. There wasn’t much conversation as I remember it, no profound wisdom. Dad just quietly insured that everyone’s shoes were cleaned and polished including the white baby shoes of my brother.
That was an every Saturday evening chore, to this day I don’t know if he was teaching me to take care of my possessions, that I should look my best on Sunday or that I should help others in the family. Was he trying to have quality time with his son, or was he just doing a job that needed to be done and sharing that? The best life lessons come disguised. Today standing by the sink I relished that memory and the learning that proper shoe polish tools include an old tooth brush and nothing but the right mixture of shoe polish and saliva makes leather shoes glisten.
My kids are grown, I wonder what they will remember, what times they will relish, what have they learned from me besides how to watch a football game from the couch through closed eyelids? What lessons have they received in disguise? Have I done my job, am I through?
My son and grandson walk through the kitchen and my thoughts are interrupted and I turn to the present. I fix my grandson a bowl of cereal escort him to the dining room table, get myself a bowl and a cup of coffee and return to his side, its unusually quiet except for the clatter of our spoons and the slurp of hot coffee. I reach the bottom of the bowl, set my spoon aside, and raise the bowl to my lips to drink the remaining milk. To my side is a three year old mimic with his bowl to his lips.
No, I am not done.
David
