My Uncle's Shoes

                                  My Uncle’s Shoes
                                                                              Tom Froehlich

I had barely unpacked my bags when my mom called. “Do you want me to send you your uncle’s shoes?  He wore a size 14 or 15 and you’re the only one we can think of that they would fit.”

The thought of wearing a dead man’s shoes seemed kind of morbid to me. Granted he was my uncle, but even had he been living I’m not so crazy about wearing someone else’s shoes.

 “But mom, last time I checked I wore a size 13,” I said.

“They’re nice athletic shoes and I think one pair hasn’t even been worn. Stuff a little tissue paper in the toe,” she added, pushing the issue being the frugal midwestern German she is.

“Okay, my shoes have been feeling kind of snug I guess, but no need to send the wing tips,” I said, knowing my uncle had a full arsenal of dress shoes due to his life long career as an attorney. I had been told my uncle and I were alike in many respects, but foot wear and career choice were not one of them.  My uncle had practiced law in a small town in Wisconsin yet he had still been voted one of the top fifty family law attorneys in the country.  Certainly an accomplishment, but I would never say his greatest.

My uncle was the kind of man whose charismatic presence filled a room, no matter the size. Whether it be in a courtroom arguing a case or a cocktail party, enjoying a bourbon and water, his charisma filled the room.  And his energy was infectious. If my uncle laughed, which he did often, you laughed. You had no choice because there was no question his laugh was genuine and from the heart often the result of an off color joke he had told that may or may not have been appropriate for everyone present. Yet, they all laughed. They laughed because he told his jokes to circuit court judges and spinster schoolteachers alike, with the sly and mischievous grin of a ten-year-old boy that somehow superseded impropriety. They understood his only intention was to bring them joy. To bring them a temporary reprieve from the troubles of their day. And he did.

With a glimmer in his eye, he would look straight into your own and say, “Hey Tom, I got one for you,” and you somehow felt he had been waiting and saving the joke solely for you although you knew full well he had most likely told it countless times.  But it didn’t matter, because at that moment he made you feel as if you were the most important person in the room. It was important for him to bring joy and laughter to all those he came in contact with regardless of age, race or social standing. He told his jokes with no apologies and no regrets. It was who he was. There was no bullshit. No façade. For those things he had no time.  For a good laugh with a friend, of which he had many, he had all of the time in the world.

It’s not as if my uncle was without his opinions. Far from it.  And he voiced those opinions as loudly and colorfully as he told his jokes. You always knew where you stood.  He may not always agree with you, but you still had no doubt how much he loved you.  Although he may see your flaws those are not the things he chose to dwell on. He found your gifts and he applauded them. “God dammit Tom, just love what you do and be good at it. Who gives rat’s ass what anyone else thinks?  Screw ‘em!”, he would bellow.  He believed in and supported those he loved with out question. Without any doubt. You may have had our own doubts, but he didn’t. He just believed.  “You’re my nephew for God’s sake, of course you’re terrific! In fact, you’re damn near perfect!”, he would bluster with that familiar gleam in his eye well aware of his egocentric comment, yet believing it on some level which somehow made you believe it as well.

At the reception following my uncle’s memorial service, a continual slide show played, put together by my cousin’s wife, the unofficial family photographer, accompanied by his favorite songs.  They were the same songs he would sing with the same joy he would tell a joke, not caring if he was out of key or had to ad lib some of the lyrics.  The animation and joy with which he sang allowed you to forgive all foibles.  Again, he was there merely to share his joy and take you along for the ride. To bring everyone in the room a brief respite from everyday life. 

While I was watching the slide show, my cousin’s wife approached me and said with tear filled eyes, “You are him you know. If anyone in the family is, it’s you.”  I looked at her confused and surprised.  Laughing she continued, “You just don’t see it do you?  You are the one who fills a room with your smile and your laughter. All you have to do is walk in the door and the energy shifts. Remember at my wedding when the photographer explained to you that in her job she always looked for where the fun was at an event because those were always the best shots and whenever she arrived at the fun spot there you were?” she laughed, “My God, she joked about hiring you to take to other weddings!  You make people feel special and if you’re in the room they’re having fun. Just like him. That’s all I’m saying,” she closed with a wink. 

A few days after my mom’s phone call, my mail carrier, Gloria, delivered a box wrapped in brown paper, inked with a Wisconsin postmark, giving me her brilliant smile and said, “This one’s for you sweetie!” Yes, I know her name. Gloria lives up to the postal workers’ creed of "neither sleet nor hail nor dark of night shall keep her from her appointed rounds", which frankly in southern California isn’t too tough, but she does it with a smile on her face and always something friendly to say.  I don’t think calling her by name and returning her smile is too much to ask. 

As she was pulled several large boxes from a cart, I said “Hey Gloria, if any of those boxes are filled with cash deliver them to my place,” I joked.

Laughing along with me she said, “Only if you split it with me honey!”

“It’s a deal!” I agreed.

 Looking at the return address, I grinned at my mother’s frugalness and I had no doubt, satisfaction, that these not often worn shoes would not go to waste.  Smiling, I thought of the man who had worn them.  A man I loved.  A man I admired.  Putting the box away in my bedroom closet still unsure of the idea of wearing a dead man’s shoes, I laughed knowing my uncle would understand, he himself being somewhat squeamish about those kinds of things.  I guess we did share more than I had realized. 

One afternoon a few weeks later I was having difficulty and doubts about the new book I was working on.  A book about the joy in everyday experiences. The blessings we tend to over look. I thought, what if no one understands what I’m trying to say? What if it doesn’t touch their soul?  Change their life?  Those kinds of cliché  expectations.

It was a beautiful day and I decided maybe I would find inspiration with a walk along the Venice canals.   Fashioned after the canals of Venice, Italy by Abbott Kinney, the founder of Venice, California I always found them magical and just walking through them altered my everyday reality. 

Grabbing my gym shoes I realized they had seen better days. I reached for the box in my closet and opened it to a pair of Nikes.  I paused for a moment.  At that point it didn’t really matter to me if they had been worn previously or not. All I thought about was the man who had worn them. The man who made others laugh and brought joy to their lives merely by sharing who he was.  The man who believed in those he loved without question.

I pulled the shoes on and tied the laces.  My feet had once been a size 13, but I’ve heard that as you age your feet can flatten out and grow a size or two.  My uncle’s shoes fit just fine. In fact, they were perfect.

Stepping onto Venice I heard a horn honking and I saw the mail truck coming down the street with a hand waving out the window like crazy as if I were President Obama on a stroll or something. As the truck rolled by there was Gloria waving at me and flashing me one of her big ole’ smiles. I couldn’t help but return the grin as I waved yelling “Hey Glo, What’s happening!?”  

Suddenly my doubt felt less of a burden as I walked down the street in my uncle’s shoes.  I thought of the man he was and how I had been compared to him. I heard the words, “God dammit Tom, just love what you do and be good at it. Who gives rat’s ass what anyone else thinks?  Screw ‘em!” 

 

I walked in my uncle’s shoes that had once been two sizes too large for me, knowing that who I was and who I fully intended to become, was more than good enough.  In fact, it was damn near perfect.