Was it a mistake to have waited so long to have grandchildren? A trip to Salvation Army yesterday to donate a huge load of “stuff” the grandchildren have accumulated in 2, 4 and 8 years, respectively, reminded me that somehow we got by in our youth with much less stuff. Yeah, I know. You’re thinking, “Here he goes again about his childhood deprivations compared to what people have today.” You’re right. But beyond being a “have-not” entering a “haves” society, I want to write mainly about shoes, or lack thereof.

     A “Family Circle” cartoon once featured a cutout view of an entire house, with little footprints indicating exactly where each child trod after hearing “time for bed.”
     It showed the youngest one’s tracks, starting with petting the dog, visiting the bathroom, back to the dog, to the TV set, to the fridge for a glass of milk, back to the dog, then to bed.
     What an excellent observer of children. But he left out a common phenomenon regarding kids: as they enter the house they remove items of clothes, one by one, as they become overheated due to rough play. One of Murphey’s Laws ought to read: “Kids’ shoes are never removed in the same place.” Murphey should have added that, no matter how implausible the hiding place, we need to look there too. Like on top of the freezer or inside a sofa.
     A large part of yesterday’s donation consisted of shoes. Someone needs to come up with a kids’ shoe rental facility, where for a modest price, kids can check out a pair of shoes for a month, or until they’re outgrown—whichever comes first.
     No child in late 20th-century America has ever worn out a pair of shoes. Rather, they outgrow them. In anticipation of the growing out of stage, too often we grandparents buy huge shoes with the justification that “the kids will grow into them.” And that’s why some kids walk around looking like Ronald MacDonald.
     So as we dropped off loads of still-usable kids’ shoes, I harked back to the days when shoes were such a rarity. As an upper-elementary student, I had shoes for dodgeball, hiking, traipsing in the snow, running and attending school. But unlike kids today whose parents plunk down $100 for a pair of name-brand “running” “walking” or “cross-training” shoes, my multi-purpose footgear consisted of ONE pair only.
     It’s with some embarrassment that I reveal the following, but it’s necessary in order to explain just how things were back in the forties.
     In elementary school, I feared I was developing a permanent limp wrought by never extending my right ankle. Why? Climbing the steps at Immaculate Conception School once revealed a hole in my shoe. So much derision did that hole create—compliments of Jane and Marilyn—that one would think I’d become an apostate (not to be confused with apostle). But I had not soled my soul to Satan; I’d merely been exposed in the holeyest of ways by two sole-mates who soon became my arch-enemies.
     I became fearful of bringing up needing shoes. Once, with great trepidation, when I showed the evidence to my dad, he lectured me about being such a wastrel and suggested—I thought he meant it—taking me to a blacksmith shop to be fitted with horseshoes. I felt solely responsible for the condition of my shoes and vowed that every penny I could lace together as an Optic seller would go toward new shoes.
     Once, during a heavy snowfall, we invited some classmates to our house. One visitor, Eddie, suggested I change into a dry pair of shoes when we got to the house (he was wearing overshoes). When I explained that that was my only pair, he offered me a pair, since “I have four or five pairs at home.” Four or five pairs! A person who doesn’t even know how many pairs he has must be related to Imelda Marcos.
     Another classmate, Chris, came by for me one morning. Mom told him to wait a few minutes, as “Arthur’s in the back building himself a pair of shoes.” Not only was I having a heel of a time hammering on the shoe, I was also looking for a piece of cardboard with the right color and texture, to stick inside. In those days, soles were made in plies of leather; wearing out the outer ply and exposing the second ply was a peccadillo. But wearing a better-ventilated shoe, as I did, one whose orifice admitted light and rain, was a crime tantamount to being identified as one of those Communists that Sen. Joe McCarthy was trying to ferret out at that time.
     Looking back, I don’t see that things were so radically different from today. True, kids have many more pairs of shoes today than we used to. But kids—at least as far as my grandchildren are concerned—wear only one pair anyway.
     Until they lose them. I even found a shoe (Gesundheit!) behind the spice rack.