My First Pair of Loafers

As I mentioned, loafers were the ultimate shoe I had wanted for years before I got my first pair.  I was wrongly told that a loafer offered no support to the foot. Such a lie! I loved the suede variety, the penny loafer with a penny in them, the ones with the tassels, I loved the reddish cordovan leather ones.  I would stare at them through the plate glass windows in the shoe store, I would look at each pair of loafers both on the men's side, women's side,children's section and fantasize about having a pair one day, quietly happy as the Trix Rabbit just to look at them.  I LOVED that fact that you could just slip them on.  I loved the name of them...loafers. If I saw somebody wearing them I would walk up to them and comment what a nice pair of shoes they were wearing...loafers..good choice.  Et tu Loafew??  I would stare at the photographs of them in the fat Sears catalog. Before I received my first pair I had to troll through years of hideous shoe ownership of some of the most ugly, orthopedic looking, vice grip oxfords ever made. Loafers were the happy medium and I knew instinctively that I would never get white patent leather GO GO boots, I also wanted,without causing some kind of heart attack.  Always..even before Michael Jackson made them famous, loafers were the quiet cool.

It was a sunny day, walking with my grandmother, my mom's mom, at an outdoor market selling everything from clothing to kitchen gadgets, fruits and vegetables.  Just the two of us enjoying the day.  She would push the old lady wire folding cart to keep her kitchen finds and bought groceries.  It was somewhat fun until I turned and low....before me were rows and rows of loafers....children's loafers. Not behind a plate glass window display but my size within my reach.  Beautiful, cheap, vinyl no name loafers, I could actually touch them, pick them up and if nobody was watching maybe I could try one on.  I was five feet off the ground, and if I had one of those ladders attached to the wall, as in a bookstore, I would be swinging from side to side with only one hand and foot on the ladder.  Bellyflop into these wonderful  rows of a standard, dark brown, thin metal buckle, children's....loafers.  They were put together with a cheap plastic ring that allowed you to try them on but not run too far.  They even had a heel, unlike the ugly flat oxfords. I loved them.  I loved every part of them.  Without thinking, I began talking about them to my grandmother telling her why I didn't own a pair. She told me to find my size. I just couldn't believe it, suddenly my sweet grandmother was about to commit a family felony.   She saw me, she saw what I had wanted, and she bought them for me.  If I remember right, they were about all of $4, she used her own money to buy them.  She was poised and she didn't get caught up in my self saving objections not to buy them.

As a child you know your shoe size readily like your phone number, address, favorite ice cream flavor, favorite color, all these captive self facts were at the ready in case anyone wanted to know, you could steer them in the right direction. We wandered through this outdoor market until we found the rack with my shoe size, I put them on and loved them from the first slip of my foot inside the vinyl, hollow heeled shoe. I put them on myself, a welcome change from having some shoe sales pervert put the shoe on your own foot, not tie them to the right feel, despite your capable hands.  I kept saying to my grandmother, that my mother "didn't allow" loafers because they didn't have any support.  I talked like a guilty accomplice being questioned at the station...BUT a loop hole came to my rescue of indecision.  I thought if I MUST obey MY MOTHER then logically MY MOTHER had to obey HER MOTHER.  This is all backed up by Catholic school and religion..and dogma..probably somewhere in the bible there was a scripture, the Catholic constitution...honor thy father and thy mother..it was even in the 10 commandments!!  I would win my court case.   A loop hole in my favor backed by all the right institutions, loafers now on my feet, I was armed for the possibility of an unfair ruling when we got home. I skipped all the way to my auntie's home where my mother was.  I was waiting, wondering, and praying...would my grandmother's decision be able to trump my mother?

I did and didn't care.  It's like finally getting to drive your favorite car, you've looked at and longed for, for years. Your first motorcycle ride after being over warned not to do it but feeling the wind in your hair. The first time on that "dangerous" roller coaster.  Yes, wearing loafers in my family was like disobeying the law or worse getting all the right signatures to pass the bill to change an unfair law.  I might as well enjoy them while I could.  Coming home, to my amazement, I was allowed to wear them only at play and keep them. Really?? They would be mine??  I turned into the Trix rabbit right after he names all the fruity flavors in Trix, he jumps up, blows his disguise, and his ears of happiness are exposed.  I actually owned my very first pair of loafers, I looked at them for years in store windows, wanting them and the pure joy of finally owning and wearing a pair.

I wore them everywhere.  Yes, they were slippery on pavement but I didn't tell anyone, for then they would be excommunicated.  The hollow heel made a cute little high heel sound, my foot looked good in them, finally I did get something I had wanted so badly for such a long time.  They soon bore the battle wounds of many games of tag and hide and go seek, the top of them would simply split but not too noticeably. The hollow heals wore two little holes in the bottom, but I loved them like the velveteen rabbit.   I was allowed to wear them to school every once in a while. 

One sunny day, I wore them to school and in running to the bus stop the hole in the right loafer heel attracted and captured a noisy small pebble and it made a rattling noise with each step.  This would only be funny until you lined up to walk into school, in Mrs. Parks second grade class after the morning school bell rang and you fell into rank.  I limped to mask this noticeable noise.  I don't know what it was about Catholic school and small noises, but let me tell you this;  "If the noise was unexpected or not allowed you paid a price."  No talking in the hall, no talking in the class, hands folded, head down.  It was only the beginning of the day and I had to hide this renegade pebble and it was like hiding a small puppy in my lap.  I didn't raise my hand to walk to the blackboard that day. When we lined up to go to lunch I limped trying to muffle it.  After lunch, we would always line up to use the bathroom before recess.  After coming out of the bathroom you would walk to the end of the line, down a long corridor, and you had to pass the teacher standing guard in the front of the line. I was hoping she would be busy or disciplining someone, anyone else, while I walked past.

In second grade I was NOT blessed with a teacher who was patient. She should have never been a teacher. "Edge" was her middle name and she was an ice cold shower of discipline in an already strict Catholic regime.  Mrs. Park was taller than she should have been, walked with huge, quick strides in quiet soft soled shoes and she always wore kelly green, coat, shoes, everything. I never saw green leather shoes before in my life before Mrs. Parks. To complement the ubiquitous green attire, she was always seen with super fuchsia lipstick across her common tight lipped expression.  Add a pair of large, thick, coke bottle glasses, she was the Catholic teacher cross dresser version of Cruella De Ville. 

I knew how to stay out of her way as I saw what she did with Phillip, the poor little ADHD kid who was ball and chained to her desk in the front of the class, everyday.  If his untamed energy got the best of him as it did when he was tired of constantly having to stare at a blank wall...all day...she would "get angry." When angered, she would tell him to stand facing the class, put out his hands, arms outstretched. and swing down a yardstick like a guillotine in front of the entire class and your would hear a loud crack.  He never screamed or cried, only quiet tears would flow freely. In this Catholic school, you managed to quickly observe a situation and assess it and work with its rules, fair or not. Even though it wasn't me, I shut my eyes when Phillip got slapped on his hand with a piece of wood. As her intention, the act frightened us all into heart beating submission.

The rules would not be fair to me that day.  As I walked down the hall from the lunchtime bathroom line up, I had to pass her, not looking up and praying she would be preoccupied with whatever. I tried to be quick and with each step.  It was no use, the pebble was not released and it echoed with each step taken on the waxed floor or a corridor that wouldn't end.  I wasn't sure if she was yelling at me to come back but logically I had to get to the end of the line so the noise would stop. This stepping produced unwelcome giggles from the others  they only giggled but did not dare move from their spot.  I turned the corner to take my place at the end of the line. 

They say the punch you don't see coming is the one with hits you the hardest. All of a sudden, there she was, grabbing me off the ground vice grip on my arms and in my face, glasses, lipstick and all inches from my face, unparalleled anger and frustration, yelling at me, "What was that noise?!!"  Horrified and simply unable to breathe I could not answer her as she shrilled the repeated command over and over again.  She stupefied all the girls into quiet paralysis around me. Not even thinking of being humiliated, I remember being truly frightened, I'll be embarrassed later.  I was thrown into her rage instantly without knowing or being able to avoid it, or sidestep it.  I was totally shocked and because I was unable to speak, not even to utter the word "loafer,"  I was to be punished and ordered back into the classroom and miss recess, an emotional and physical outlet one looked forward to right after lunch.  It didn't matter that I was a good kid, knowing not to talk or move unless I was supposed to, I was a decent student, I was smart enough not to cause any trouble especially with that one. One incident could send you into solitary confinement..do not pass "GO", do not collect $200.  I turned the second corner on my way back to the classroom to sit there by myself. I was at least glad she let go of her grip on me.

Low...God was with me and He offered a small solace of human compassion on the form of Mr. Medierous.  Mr. Medierous was the school janitor who always wore a red and gray, ombre ,plaid, flannel shirt, white hair, thinning on top, russet skin.  All the kids loved him as he would always smile at you even though he didn't say much.  We loved him because he loved us.  That was all. When I turned the second corner from being uplifted by this "monster" of a teacher, I saw him and burst into relief immediately.  All I remember is I fell into his waiting arms as he quickly put his mop aside and let me fall and bawl into all the red flannel, I cried heavily for just a minute, tyring to find words to tell him the fear, the unfairness, the embarrassment. He already knew as he was only around the corner when it all happened. However, the monster rounded the corner and would not have him undo any of her horror.  She chastised him but he went right back at her mostly in Portuguese, of her unfair and brutal attack.  I grabbed his shirt hard, hiding behind him, hoping that "as an adult" he could "save" me.  I didn't think of him as any less by his position, in fact to me all adults told me what to do.  This was a situation with no previous experience to draw on, pure instinct.  He walked me to the classroom where I was told to go and on the way I told him then what had happened. To this day, I figured he must not have known the English words but he had the compassion and love of a really good friend, the kind you never forget.  He listened to me with love and then sent me in the classroom as not to further "interfere." I don't remember what he said to comfort me but I remember the love he gave me.

I'll never forget him and what he did for me that day.  I never really knew the extent of how much he risked his job by standing up to that monster.  I only knew that I would never wear these loafers to school ever again, as in my childhood logic,  I would fix the problem and tell no one... a common childhood solution we overused to at least "Not make it worse."  To all those children who had to bear much darker secrets, I understand what you "had to do" at the time.  Logically, if you were punished at school, you were "bad" and logically if the teacher would not listen to you, your parents would most likely take her side so better not tell them anything to be on the safe side.   Cognitively,  I connected the dots that I must have done something really bad to get her that mad.  Even Phillip was never yelled at like that.  I was now alone in the classroom, on a warm sunny day, missing recess, humiliated, now labeled the "worst kid" in the class. I was glad the yelling and lift off the floor was over.  Now in sitting there alone, shame would set in, I would be ashamed to be in front of anyone. I wondered what would await me once she and everyone came back.

After missing most of recess, this teacher sent in one of my classmates to find out what had happened.  I told her, through new justified tears, wiped with my hand.  But I did not want the teacher coming back in.  This bipolar drag queen came back in and mildly said "Oh....you should have told me."  She even fixed my shoe out of guilt I hope she carried through the years.  I gave her the obligatory smile to appease her.  That sleeping crocodile would go off at anything out of order.  Smartly, I thought better smile than to tick her off.  In those days, you had to cope, you had to survive within rules set up to trip you up. On your toes all the time was an understatement, now learn the Palmer method of handwriting within the lines, neat and clean, forget what you saw, try not to pee in your pants for your nature calling came not within routine bathroom visits, you were horrified to ask to go, don't talk during class, and most importantly try to stay out of the way. I was "let out" for the last part of recess, to join my classmates.  I would have to answer the questions of the paparazzi as to what really happened.  I remember avoiding everyone that day, I didn't want to relive it.  When the school bell finally rang to let us inside again, I heaved that latent sob that controls you like a sneeze.  On the way in, I passed Mr. Medierous again in the hall, mopping the floor, his head down as I walked past but ever so quickly we exchanged grateful glances.

I still loved my loafers.  My mother probably wondered why I didn't beg her to let me wear them to school.  I made an excuse of the hole in the bottom of the heel but I would have worn them into the ground if that incident never happened. They were my first favorite pair of shoes, bought within a Catholic loophole, with love from my grandmother.  They were the light of my life as in wearing parochial uniforms, your shoes were your only style statement.  They had a story linked to them one of human anger and human compassion and always, no matter what, you have your story.  I still remember the way they felt on my foot and the joy I had while they lasted.

The worst coat I ever owned.

It came in a box handed down from my cousin, a depression era brown and slightly red plaid, old lady,itchy wool coat secure with a fake brown fur collar.  It was useless to argue it would be too ugly for the schoolyard.  I hated it from the moment I saw it.  It was old and ugly and I think my mom was nostalgic about it as a winter "pile" coat from Sears was under $20 and at least I would fit in.No I was going to learn how to wear something ugly and get people to not talk about it and learn fortitude and perseverance and up my personality to joke it off.   It was a double breasted wool coat, much like a man's coat than a women's coat.  A dark ugly color, a fake fur collar that closed with a Captain Hook hook and eye closure.  This closure would freeze from my breath on cold school mornings, how gross. It was the worst muddy brown coat with no bright color or design.  I felt powerless and had to think quickly how I could explain myself for wearing it.

It was NOT fashionable.  It was NOT girly. I wouldn't put it on a homeless person.  It lasted for not one but two school years. On the school bus I was often asked "Where did I FIND this coat?"  I would answer.."I don't know...but I hate as much as you do." To match this disaster of a coat, I wore this fire engine red hat and scarf ensemble, you know which red I'm talking about.  The funny orange red that only be shown in acrylic. I finished off this What Not to Wear ensemble with RED rubber boots that would tightly fit over your school shoes and they had a button on the side with an elastic.  That was a "winter" boot and NO they were not warm, no lining just a school shoe that fit inside them and some thin, cotton, school sock. My ugly red, practical, oxford, school shoes had an additional curse the first half of my kindergarten years.  I didn't know how to tie my shoes then.  When you took off these boots your shoes would stick to them and had to be slipped off of your feet.  Inevitably, I had to retie my shoes or in this case, walk right past my crockety, hard nosed, know it all, spinster  teacher, shoes untied, while she shook her head in disgust. She refused to tie my shoes and chastised me for not knowing how to tie them. Sweet little first teacher I ever had. Yeah thanks for that. 

No bother, when we turned all of our attention to the flag and the cross to say our prayers and the pledge of allegiance, I had 2 minutes of the back of our teacher to get help from a classmate, Linda.  We sat on chairs around large rectangular tables.  During these prayers,  Linda, would scoot under the table and tie my shoes for me. I was so nervous we would "get caught" for such an act of defiance. The others were warned "not to tell the teacher"...the kiss of death in any Catholic school arbitration  Linda always insisted on tying my shoes and popped up from underneath the table just in time with a big grin of feeling useful, important, and connected. I let her as some connection as a friend to anyone would help her social standing, she wore the eyeglasses with the patch. 

I'll never forget this small act of kindness, in an unyielding kindergarten Catholic school.  We knew as children how to rely on each other to get what we needed. It was a truest form of giving what she had.  Later, in second grade, I was her "reading" partner.  She would read to me as we would do to stand by the school window, sunlight passing through the window blinds, as we took our readers to practice our reading. She memorized this story about a squirrel trying to plant jellybeans to grow a tree.  Why do I remember it so well?  Because it was the only story she wanted to read to me, she read very slow and struggled to grab words properly.  I'm guessing she had dyslexia, in Catholic school it wasn't talked about or recognised, you simply had to manage and do what your teacher told you to do. She was always so proud when she finished the story and she did get better at it. But she never wanted to attack a new story with new words to memorize to try to sound out. I remember letting her read the same story over and over again.

It is these tender memories of kindness that make the memory of that awful brown coat with red boots not so bad.  Some kids had it worse.  I often wonder what happened to Linda.  Is she alright?  Does she know after all these long years, I still remember her small acts of kindness? As children we managed to fill in the gaps of an overstrict regime and pass on love and caring to one another for the small things we really needed.

As for that ugly coat, I was transformed when after the second year of being imprisoned in that ugly thing I came home to see a beautiful Aline trench coat, with a single line of buttons..LOVE at first sight.  To this day, I love just about any trench coat.  The next winter season I was to don a "Navy Blue" fake fur/pile coat that looked warmer than it actually was but I was so glad to get rid of that brown thing I didn't care.  The bonus was nobody asked me questions about it on the school bus and at least a few other kids wore a similar one. 

My first pair of school shoes were also the ugliest shoes I've ever owned.

 

 

Up, Up and Away..5th Dimension. That's what would happened to you if you turned a corner too fast in these slippery, couldn't be uglier shoes. Click on this photo to hear the song.

 

In looking at how many pairs of shoes we have allowed ourselves to have is becoming all too common. With heels and platforms rising ever higher, as a child, I remember having three pairs of shoes. One for church, one for school, and one for play.

I will never forget the experience of buying my first pair of school shoes. Wanting desperately to get out of the house and into school, I could not wait. My mother and I drove over to a small family owned shoe store "downtown"(downtown is where we went before malls and Internet shopping) I was thrilled as we walked into the small store, displays of shoes through the plate glass windows, smelling of shoe leather, small "Hush Puppy" display and "Buster Brown" all set up carefully by brand and color. The children's section didn't have much. However, I did eye a suede brown saddle shoe with diamond cutouts on the side each diamond had a different color suede underneath, so creative and cool and it did fit into the practical allowable oxford must have a shoelace or a buckle with elastic style. To this day I'm a sucker for suede and loafers. Did I ever want a pair of loafers. I liked the fact that they didn't have any laces and I would watch the opening credits on the TV show "My Three Sons" with the dancing loafers. I just thought they were so different and simple. I even liked the name of them...loafers. No patent leather "church" shoes were allowed, a very practical and Catholic household would never allow such impractical choices. They should be well made, sturdy, and most of all ugly...the ugliest shoes in the entire store.

Alas, I was never asked what I wanted but instead had to choose one of the laced up "oxfords" because they had "more support"...such a lie. I remember the cold feel of the metal piece used to measure your foot. Having a wide foot and a narrow heel gave me two choices of shoes both of which were hideous "Stride Rite" shoes...one step above the white high top shoes, soaked with white shoe polish, used for toddlers. I wanted those brown suede ,saddle shoes but they didn't come in "Wide" in fact I was looked at as having feet one step above orthopedic shoes. There was nothing wrong with my feet and frankly shoes made for wide feet always stretched out, and would in a week's time look like two round waffle irons with socks. The beautiful "oxford" suede shoes were not available in my "wide" size. This was at a time, (don't forget) where MEN told WOMEN what shoes to buy, what was comfortable and doable, and even they would PUT THEM ON FOR YOU!! I cherish sale racks and Marshall's do it yourself try on shoe racks. I remember having to sit still while some bald headed, serious comb over, hairy earred, know it all pervert handled my foot, as HE put on my shoes with a cold shoe horn AND THEN TIED THEM FOR ME even though I was fully capable.

The most hideous "red" (always hated the color not in my palette) boy looking, flat, leather soled shoes were the only ones available and I was forced to buy them. I sat in the chair arms folded for a long time tyring to tell everyone..just let me try on those brown saddle shoes. The pervert wouldn't go and get them for me, as I would have "made them fit" in honor of style and human dignity. These red leather oxfords were as awful as they sound. They felt like a tight leather vice with a hard dinner plate underneath, practical was being kind. The leather was unyeilding, the bottoms offered no comfort between my foot and the hard floor. I hated them from the minute the salesman put them on my foot I wouldn't put them on a dog. They did NOT go with my first day of school navy blue jumper with triangle pockets and the attached sewn in polyester shirt, short, short, underwear line, like Cindy Brady's dresses. Bend over in any direction and anyone on the playground would make fun of your flowered Sears underwear (I see London I see France...), not to mention that you froze in the crisp Fall air with the stupid white ankle socks because you weren't old enough to have knee socks. No lace, no flowing skirt to spin around in at recess. What a sight, I must have been! I had to "pony up " my personality to compensate for this ridiculous, nun driven outfit.

It so turns out though that God heard my cries of fashion desperation. Those red "Stride Rite" boy shoes were like wearing Nancy Kerrigan's ice skates. Leather soles make a loud noise when you walked and on the Catholic waxed floors and in running around in the school yard, I slipped and fell all the time, arms flying up trying to catch my balance, as I would try to turn a corner quickly, revealing once again the cheap underwear. To my happy fate, one day I fell and skinned my knee so badly that my mom finally returned the shoes and gave the shoe salesman an earful. O happy day that I "was allowed" to buy the "Buster Brown" suede saddle shoes, with the diamond cut outs, and a bass oxford type of bottom, no slip and quiet as a mouse when I walked up to the teacher’s desk. They looked good, they felt good, I didn't slip and now I had some kind of style in the flow of all the lacey full dresses the other girls had. It suddenly didn't matter my mother dressed me like a boy, cut my hair short and uneven, exposing my ear on one side and not on the other....I had the shoes I wanted. No, they were not the ultimate... a loafer which I did not get a pair until 2 years later, but I was so happy with them, they suited my style. I do understand how one pair of shoes can make up for so many other wrongs in your attire and your life. The sheer joy of choosing and getting what I wanted and in a parochial school system, you value every creative choice as there aren't very many given.

 

To this day I love a pair of foot hugging, suede loafers..no socks, with a pair of khakis or jeans, it is a testament to who I am and who I always was.  I don't have to have the high heels because, let's be honest, nobody can walk with ease and comfort with super high heels. My first pair of loafers, that's another post. Hope to get to it soon. This post is dedicated to all people who remember their first pair of shoes. To those children who know their own style and stayed with it despite the obstacles and naysayers. To all women who remember their favorite dress or piece of clothing and wore it to death way past the “it still fits” stage. It is part of who we are.

Squish the Melon

This is the closet photo I could get for Squish the Melon..see how happy they are too!

Oh the memories of a Catholic school girl sitting in a classroom with itchy wool jumpers, white pressed "school" shirt, navy crisscross Girl Scout  tie with a snap, and "school" shoes only to be worn at school, and summer shorts under our uniforms in case our skirts flew up.  Yes, folks, this is me on the early school bus.  Walking up the large cement stairs of the Catholic school, early 70s.  Let's start with those nuns who NEVER let us inside the school before the school bell rang.  Oh great joy if you were allowed to ring the large brass bell. We fahroze on early January mornings.  The nuns would watch us from inside the front school door to make sure there were no fights.  We were too cold to fight and had to look at our imaginative resources...each other and a game we invented.  It is called "Squish the Melon" invented from our last Catholic school we went to before that one too shut down.  We would come out of a warm school bus to the freezing friends who walked to school. 

Here's how you do it, we would begin instructing the others. You find a pillar of jutting out part of the brick school building.  You would cozy up inside the corner of this pillar and the wall.  Then the girls, no boys allowed on your part of the playground, would all rush up to you and squeeze their entire bodies into one continuous line, shoulder to shoulder, squished, face to face with each other, laughing and somewhat warm.  Teeth frozen in the cold, fake navy blue acrylic fur winter coats(wind would pass right through these polyester layers) , they were stylish with their droopy gold buttons, matching scarves and hats from Sears flying everywhere, laughing hysterically, we soon forgot how cold we were.  What's so exciting about this game?  First of all, we won.  The nuns wanted to make us miserable and instead, we laughed until we cried.  Second we were warm.  Third was blood flow, because, the last person had to be the "caboose" somewhat exposed, you had to push on the entire line and work your way to the corner where you were laughing the hardest and it was, by so many bodies, the warmest place, until someone wedged in and popped you out.  No special words or phrases were said, it was all personalities and play, with rules we invented. 

The game was lame but invented out of sheer necessity of the exposed Catholic girls in winter, when there were no "UGG" boots but rather these plastic molded slip on rubberized "Goodyear" type knee high boots with fake shearing lining.  They were all the craze, with their "molded" side buttons, and fake alligator texture and one inch molded heel, no name boots purchased on sale from Thom McAnn or Sears.  However, they were not very warm with worn school knee socks, and after a few games of tag, they soon had a hole in the bottom.  If water soaked through then you could put on "Wonder Bread" plastic bags on your feet to at least keep the water out. 

I miss "Squish the Melon" and often wonder was that game ever reinvented or is it only local to our school(s).   So funny, the nuns looking out of their lair, all the girls are miserable jumping up and down in the schoolyard sending in the weakest girl to knock on their door to let us come in early and all of a sudden the miserable girls are missing from the window view.  The nuns would venture out of their warm hallway and they would march over to our happy cluster but alas there was nothing in the guidebook that would "not allow" us to do it.  Besides  they would have to come out and yell at us in their ugly little ankle zip up old lady boots, we would laugh at those too.  Laugh at anything you could in Catholic school, it kept you warm, connected with the others, and saved your sanity.

Any other made up games that anyone has to add, please do. Catholic coping stories also welcome, there is more to come on this topic.  The games were not "dumb" but creative little saviors of the body and soul.