He was wearing a pair of Wallabys today, new-looking ones; I knew exactly how comfortable those were. Back when they were a huge fad in the ’70’s, my father was on a business trip to Spain and knowing my odd-size feet and how much I’d wanted a pair, and finding some at a good price, took a chance–and they were perfect. It was my first-ever experience at being so thrilled at the most perfect shoe purchase (with the love of my Dad to top it off.) I had never owned a shoe that fit well and was comfortable and was perfectly, totally in style. 6.5EE is never in style, but look at these! Authentic Wallabys!
I wore those through high school, I wore those in college, where I was walking in snow at I forget how many thousand feet up high in the Rockies. The salted soaking sidewalks ate at the suede. I wore them till they looked like Harry Potter’s sorting hat in the middle of a sentence.
My grandparents had recently retired and were living an hour north of BYU campus.
My grandmother was a very gracious woman who would never say a disparaging word to or about anybody. She once said that she’d listened to enough of her friends whine about old age that she’d decided that she, for one, was going to be a sweet old lady. And so she was.
So there I was at Gram’s, cousins gathered around for a Sunday evening get-together, when she notices my feet.
I knew I had this coming. I waited to hear what she would say.
She searched for the right words of–well, encouragement or something somehow, and finally just chuckled: “Alison. Your shoes!”
“I know, Gram. But they’re so comfortable!”
She laughed warmly. There wasn’t much left to constrict my feet anymore anyway–nor my heart. I felt so loved.
I gave up and let them be after that school year; there wasn’t enough left of them anymore.
My grandmother had been a concert pianist.
I said to the doctor today, “How did your concerts go?”
“You remembered! You have a sharp memory!” (Oh goodness if only that were true.)
But how could one forget–and then there were his shoes…
Not to mention the waiting piano hat I pulled out of my knitting bag at the end of the visit, to his astonished delight: I’d knitted this? For him? I’d designed this? “I think that’s maybe one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever received!” and he went out into the hall grinning hugely to model it at the nurses’ station.
I offered, and I’m writing it here just so they know I meant it, to knit something for his wife too. I asked what her favorite colors were?
How many men do you know that can answer that question right off the bat? He’ll get back to me on that.
The yarn is at the ready.
(Oh, yeah, and, my 20% hip bone loss in two years is now 29% in (correction–four), despite chugging the milk and trudging the treadmill. My grandmother went from 5’9″, very tall for a woman born in 1899, to a tiny little thing. I want to walk in her footsteps and be gentle to all to the best of my ability, but I’m trying to keep my own shoes on along the way.)