Sole man

I've been thinking about shoes.
When I was growing up, I heard several things about shoes:

• "The surest way to know the measure of a man is to look at his shoes. (If you see a man in a $1000 suit wearing shoes with worn-down heels or in need of polish, you know the nice suit is just a facade.)"
  
• "If you would truly know an indian, you must walk a mile in his moccasins."


• "Never wear white shoes before Memorial Day or after Labor Day."

A strange assembly of injunctions all centering around shoes.

When I was a kid, I was blessed to have two pairs of shoes. One dress-up pair that were saved for special occasions and one everyday pair (last year's dress-up shoes if they still fit -- although they rarely did.)

We lived in hot west Texas so going barefoot was a good alternative, I thought. My mom had rules about that, however -- "no going barefoot til after May 1." (That always seemed unfairly arbitrary to me.) We did go barefooted most of the time during the summer -- at home. We were never allowed to go barefoot in public. It just wasn't done.

My most memorable childhood shoes were my ballet shoes. First, I had the classic ballet flats, and then later I had my first "toe shoes" with the glorious satin ankle laces. These shoes were my first "special purpose" shoes and were an extravagance. When I wore them, I was transformed into something graceful.

The shoe store that sold the ballet shoes had a machine in the back of the showroom where kids could stand and it would tell the salesman what size shoe was needed. I've wondered over the years exactly what that machine was. (??)

When I was in high school, my favorite shoes were a moccasin-type shoe called a "squaw boot." They had soft soles, extended up to the ankle bone, and had great fringe around the top. As I recall, I wasn't allowed to wear them to school, but I wore them everywhere else for a long while. I loved them because they were comfortable -- and because they proclaimed my individuality and independence. (Not my mother's shoe -- or anyone else of the older generation! After all, it was the 1960's.)

When I was in college, I bought a pair of navy-blue, lace-up shoes, a kind of oxford, that widened at the toe. My steady boyfriend liked them and dubbed them "duck shoes," and I wore them until they finally just fell apart. I even have pictures of myself in a frothy cinderella-style formal and the duck shoes. They were fun because they were somehow unexpected and helped me defy stereotypes.

Also when I was in college I had a pair of rust-colored suede boots that extended up to mid thigh. They had the usual zipper from the ankle up the calf, but they also had laces from the knee to the top. At the time, they were scandalous! A daring purchase.

Now why would I remember random pairs of shoes?

Maybe one reason is that -- unlike most other things we wear -- we can actually see our shoes.