Back in the Day: The Fancy Lady's Shoes

Back in the Day: The Fancy Lady's Shoes Pin It

The Fancy Lady's Shoes

Grandpa Campbell was, among other things, a shoemaker. He worked in a shoe repair shop right across the street from where he and Grandma lived, just off the Court House Square in Union, MO. When I was there, Grandma and I would take him his lunch, a tin of sardines and a sleeve of soda crackers. It was never different and it must have been what he wanted as no food that Grandpa didn't like would appear in that house.
One day while they sorted out the lunch I found at the bottom of a dark dusty bin an old pair of leather high button shoes in a bright red and yellow spatter pattern. I had never seen such things in my life! I coveted those shoes even more than the mary janes my mother would not allow me to wear. (Bad for my feet, she said.)
To my astonishment those shoes came home with Grandpa one night and were packed away in my suitcase to take home.
Who was the "lady" who brought them in to be repaired and never came back? I was a child during WWII and such shoes had not been worn for 40 or more years, at least by a fancy lady! Where is the back story when you want it?

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An Ending

Part of our daily routine was visiting the burrow of Old Grumpus the gopher tortoise. Grumpus was a mighty good sized critter, standing nose to nose with a West Highland Terrier and about twice as wide. I am not sure what he lived on, but he lived well, it was obvious.
At least once a day Billy would head canalward and nudge the entrance of Grumpus' hole. Occasionally we would get a leg or a tail, but usually a tortoise nose emerged in greeting, before shrinking back into the sand.
This day we made an early morning visit, not our usualy routine, but Billy insisted. He was straining and pulling on his leash as we neared the burrow, again, not normal Billy behaviour.
Even from a distance, I could see deep trenches where tires had piled sandy soil in hillocks. I couldn't tell where exactly the burrow should be, but Billy knew. He nosed and pawed but made no effort to dig. His friend wasn't there. We never saw Old Grumpus again.

Old Grumpus

An ancient gopher tortoise was Billy dog's best friend. Old Grumpus had a burrow in a vacant lot and our daily walk always included a house call in which Billy would sniff the entrance and a tortoise head would emerge briefly in acknowledgement. Satisfied, Billy would continue his business walk.
When Grumpus visited our house he would appear through the shrubbery and as slow as only a tortoise could be he would make his way across the lawn. Billy would wait in the corner of the lanai watching his poky pal stump through the grass.
Through the screen wire, dog and tortoise nudged noses in greeting. Shoulder to shoulder they would walk to the far end of the lanai where the night blooming jasmine bush would block their progress. Billy would turn, sit and wait for Grumpus to make his much slower turn, then side by side at a tortoise' pace they would return to the meeting corner.
Swinging his reptillian head, Grumpus would continue around the side yard, Billy watching until he was out of sight.

HIDE & SHRIEK

When hot summer evenings closed in the game of choice was hide and seek, the dusk making it more fun to hide beneath the old willow or behind the pillars or in the chimney ell. But playing at the funeral home was the best.
Although it was forbidden, we would slip one at a time into the house..."I need a drink"..."I have to use the bathroom" or any other excuse. And of course the grown ups aren't paying any attention, right? Right.
The rooms were full of shadows lit only from a front hall light left burning all the time. We hid beneath tables, behind sofas, in back of half open doors and jumped out to scare one another in lieu of being discovered. But when we discovered the best, most wonderful hidey place of all, we could hardly believe our good fortune. THE CASKET ROOM!
I suppose it was a normal, though good sized room, but in my memory it stretches on and on into forever, darkening into nothingness as it goes. Casket after casket stands on display, some open, some closed. Satiny wood finishes, gleaming metal handles cold to touch, the silky fabrics on the interiors. It took a dare to get me into the room and a friend's hand guiding mine to touch the objects....then it was game ON, and we ran, hooted, hollered, jumped, and laughed between, around, under and across the caskets.
Bobby was drumming on one of the caskets, when a moaning sound ululated from inside. We froze.
A pale hand lifted the casket lid. A moon face rose washed in the dim hall light and a maniacal laugh issued from the open mouth.
Screaming ourselves breathless, tangling feet and arms at the door, squirting out into the hallway we made a mad dash for the safety of our parents' presence.
Behind us, the shrill laughter lowered to a familiar tenor cackle as Uncle Harvey, short and round as a beach ball, levered himself up and out of Uncle Bill's very best casket.
Do you suppose it had to be sold as 'used'?