For my regular readers who give me a few minutes of their time Sundays to spout off on anything and everything, this goes hand-in-hand with last week's column, "The Second Time Around".
Almost every town had a neighborhood cobbler. Or a shoe repair shop, plying their trade with posters of 'Give us three minutes, we'll give you new heels', or pictures of new shoes with high price tags, with the caption at the bottom that said 'See Me Instead'.
And it was always busy.
When you walked in, the place reeked of shoe polish and Lysol disinfectant.
But for very little money, those old shoes could shine like new yet retain the 'broken in' feel that often takes months, if not years, to accomplish.
I had purchased my first pair of all-leather dress shoes with my own money in 1984, when I was 15. Size 10 1/2 Stuart Holmes Presidents, which were moc-toe loafers sold by Kinney Shoes.
At the then-princely sum of $48, I was determined to properly care for them, and did so for about four years, and then about freaked out when I saw a seam bursting near the vamp.
By this time I was in college. The last thing I had money for was for new dress shoes. As I was pondering this on one sunny day, I walked past the neighborhood cobbler.
Wonder if he can help, I thought. I brought the shoe in the next day.
And the shop was busy. A woman in her 30s with big hair and a gray business suit with a poofy bowtie was ahead of me.
"Three minutes?" is what she asked the cobbler. "I'm on my lunch break."
"Five today," the cobbler replied. "I'm a little busy today. It shouldn't be more than ten."
The woman nodded approvingly. "Fine." She briskly removed the gray slingbacks she was wearing, handed them to the cobbler, and settled into a chair in her stocking feet and buried her face in a magazine.
He handed the gray heels off to his waiting assistant, then turned to me. I handed him the shoe. He checked it over, and said he could have them ready first thing in the morning. Shouldn't be more than five bucks.
I agreed and filled out a claim slip. Then out came the assistant, holding the woman's slingbacks.
Elapsed time: Four minutes...tops. She probably didn't finish the article she was reading.
"Ma'am, you're all set," he said. "Eight dollars."
"Already?" she said. "I love coming here. You guys work fast."
She handed the assistant a $10 bill and refused her change, jamming her feet into the shoes while walking out the door, obviously in a hurry.
By this time I was sold.
The Stuarts lasted until 1991, when the fourth round of soles finally outlasted the uppers. And perhaps could have lasted longer had I given them the same attention I did as a teenager. But once I got into the working world, free time became a sort of luxury.
Phil Donahue once bragged on his talk show in the mid-80s that his own black loafers he wore almost exclusively on the set were purchased in 1957 and that he regularly had them professionally shined and resoled throughout the years.
President John F. Kennedy was another. For someone coming from so much wealth, this was especially comforting to know.
Unfortunately, the cobbling business is fast becoming a lost art.
Many of the shoe repair shops I know of have either gone out of business or the owner has retired. Other than Gene Montemurro of New Kensington, I don't know of any other shoe repair shops in the area. No apprentices are being trained in this profession.
Think of how many shoes end up in landfills today. More than that, think about how much you spend on shoes nowadays.
Maybe you should "see him instead".
If you can find one, that is.
NEXT WEEK: Swing Shift
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