Walking in Mama's Shoes -- Redux

While I was out of town, Jill undertook cleaning our bedroom closet. I only wish I had before and after pictures, because the results are spectacular.

One of the improvements concerns the organization of shoes. Despite the recent thinning of my collection due to a young dog who loves to chew footwear, I am still the fortunate owner of a gracious plenty of shoes, boots, slippers, flip-flops, heels, moccasins, and even an ancient pair of tap-dancing shoes and some bedraggled black ballet slippers. Among this extravaganza are many pairs that formerly belonged to my mother.

If you read a previous post Walking in Mama's Shoes, you'll remember that she was convinced that her shoe size was 2 sizes smaller than it actually was. This was not entirely due to dementia --- small feet are highly prized in our family. My mother's father owned a shoe store. Back in the 50s he even had one of those x-ray thingies, I think. I definitely remember the slide rule foot measurer and the slanted footstools. We bought our fall school shoes at Grandpa's store. I especially remember the red leather first grade shoes, the ones with the buckle across the top.

I'm not entirely immune to the small-foot fetish, and I have to admit that I've often thought that my pretty little feet are one of my best features. Yes, they're smaller than those of the other women in the family ---- except my teensy daughter. Even my sister teases me that my feet look like they've never been used. They haven't. I screw them off and put them in a satin lined, climate-controlled box every night when I go to bed.

In the interest of organizing our shoes, Jill purchased a fancy-dancy round, hanging shoe holder, with spaces for everything ---- quite amazing. Now that Mama's shoes were no longer tumbled on the dark floor among the suitcases, old gift boxes, and discarded t-shirts waiting to go to the thrift shop, I could see and wear them. Yesterday, I donned a pair of slip-ons, black loafers like I have never bought in my life, but since they were free.... The were too small, especially with warm socks on a cold day. But I was only going out for an hour. They would be ok.

By the time I got home, the toes that were not altogether numb from being squooshed, ached. I gratefully slipped the loafers from my feet and started to return them to the shoe bag, when I stopped myself. What in the world? Was I going to keep these shoes, and the other pair like them only a different color, just because they were free? Because they were Mom's? Because they have a lot of wear left in them?

That's what I've always done. That's why my closet it stuffed to the gills with things I rarely or never wear. They used to fit, but they don't anymore. They used to be my favorites, but they're old and outdated. They used to belong to someone I love. They were given to me free. They're vintage. They're soooooo cute (or I used to be cute in them, 30 years ago!). Not one of those is a good reason to keep clothes I don't use, but perhaps the worst is the "someday it may fit me" reason.

What if I simply got rid of everything that doesn't fit me right now? Even if it almost fits. Even if it's just a little too tight around the waist or across the toes. Even if the skirt hangs just a little funny, or the pants aren't exactly the length I like or I got it on a great sale, but never liked the color. What if I only had clothes and shoes I actually wanted to put on and wear, instead of waiting till that magical time when I lose weight, or have more money to shop, or go back to work, or have to go to a funeral. Well, ok. I'll keep the funeral outfit. Sooner or later I'll need it.

I have lived too much of my life making do and waiting for something to change. I don't have to wear Mama's shoes just because they're in my closet. They're too small to be comfortable. They were too small for her, but she wore them anyway. I don't have to do that ---- I don't have dementia.

What did you say your name was?

The other day I was in a gathering of women, some of whom I know well and many who are relative strangers. As part of the opening, we went around the room saying our names. There were a few repeats, as you would expect in a group of 35 or 40, but since the ages ranged from about 20 to 70, there was also quite a variety.

When my mind began to wander during the meeting, I spent some time examining individual people and trying to imagine them as babies or youngsters. It's one of the ways I entertain myself. It made me think about the names. They didn't pick their own, most likely. That's not how it's done. When they were born, their parents decided on a name and pasted it onto the new little person without a clue whether it would fit or not. And some names don't fit at all.

As I looked around and paired names and faces, I could imagine the parents full of hopes for their new little babies. There were Melissas and Lisas and Katherines and Susans, and even two Natashas. The older names sound so solid, and a little intimidating, like Mary Margaret or Nora or Dolores. Some have been shortened or altered by their owners --- Toni for Antoinette, Pat for Patricia, Jill for Julia. I was struck by the simplicity of Jane. You don't run into a lot of Janes anymore. Some of the more foreign or ethnic sounding names I can't even remember, but they definitely convey a cultural message.

I wonder what effect a name has on the developing child. Some names can be a definite hindrance, others can make the difference between fitting in or not. Some have associations that are thrust upon them by popular culture or famous figures. Do we live up to (or down to) our names? Do we take on characteristics of family members we're named after?

When I was a storyteller, I usually made sure that the villain had an unusual name that would not likely be shared by any of the children in the audience, while the hero usually had a fairly common name like Tom or Mary. I could always tell when I hit on a name in the group; all the other kids would turn to that child and giggle or point. By the end of the story, the heroic exploits of the character would be attributed to that child, who would often be beaming with pride. I always wondered how long that carried over.

One of the things I enjoy about being a novelist is that I get to come up with names. After all, you can only have so many babies in a lifetime. You wind up with a drawer full of unused names, perfectly good ones that would look so cute on a little kid.

That's one of the troubles though, isn't it? Halfway through the pregnancy the naming conversation begins. Everybody has an opinion. There are family names, traditions, customs and religion that can influence a child's name. And, of course, the trend factor. Everybody named Jennifer who was born in the 70s and 80s please stand up.

I collect names from live people, from books and news articles, baby name lists, cemeteries, movie credits, and my own genealogy. I just found a good one when I was looking through my mother's high school photo album. One of her friends was named Clella.

I guess I'm going to have to keep writing fiction until I run out of names. That's ok. At least it keeps me off the streets and well caffeinated.