Saturday, May 31, 2008

TBD.com

So, Facebook led me to a new social network for those over 40 - Tee Bee Dee. I have joined, but there is not much to do other than join in Group discussions, but some are quite good. I did join The Writing Group (TWG) and submitted my first story, which is also posted below. I encourage those interested in writing to check it out.

My Father's Shoes

Damn!

“Sam, any idea if we have black shoelaces somewhere? This one just broke.”

Eric slipped the black, cap-toed Oxford shoe off his foot and went to rummage about in his dresser for a new lace. Hidden in the corner, behind the silk handkerchief and the mostly unused bow tie, he found a package of waxed shoe strings, black.

In 1963, when Eric was 8 years old and some of television was still black and white (although his parents had splurged on a Magnavox a year earlier with his mother’s inheritance money: that was a discussion) he sat in the family living room on Saturday nights and watched Paladin and The Old Ranger and hoped he could stay up to see wrestling from the Sportatorium. His father would polish those Oxfords. Routine: light a match to melt the Kiwi polish – gingerly drop the polish lid on this intriguing flame – dip the rubbing cloth in the melted polish and spread a fine layer all over the shoe (laces out, of course) – brush the polish to a high sheen, sometimes spitting, sometimes not – buff the shoe with the lambs wool buffer. Do it again on the other shoe. Lace them up.

That routine never varied, although sometimes it would be Sunday night, not Saturday night, when church fell away from the family rituals. Once a month, black sole dressing was spread on the overly scarred edges of the sole. It took a while longer for Eric to understand how his mother covered over the scars in her soul.

Eric didn’t know how long his father had owned that pair of cap-toed Oxfords, with the small line of punches in the cap’s edge, but he did know that they were to be polished every week. For a while, Eric’s dress shoes joined those of his father in the ritual. Later, it would be Eric who would do the shoes, all the shoes, under the not-so-watchful eye of his Wooden Indian father and his nervous, quiet mother. Someone would get up from the TV for a beer now and then: first one, then the other, matching can for can.

Eric finished lacing the shoe and sat down again to slip it on, tie it up, admire his polish-work. He was going to a wedding today, the very first one he was to officiate. The shoes had an ancient look to them, but sported new leather soles. Eric didn’t know why he pulled out these old shoes to wear: he had a dozen other pairs of dress shoes more modern, more stylish, more him. “Something old, something new . . .” his mind wandered as he drove to the outdoor park where the wedding was to take place.

…something borrowed, something blue.” His mother would have been proud of his shoes that day. That was the last time Eric ever wore those shoes, and later, when he dropped them in the Goodwill box, he thought about those Saturday nights with and without his parents.

Sunday, May 04, 2008

Got a New Look

Check out the new look on the blog. I have added some features, like the Video Log. I will try to change it out frequently. Also, I hope to get around to adding all those cool sites that people send me all the time, that never get collected in any one place.

I have also added commerce: click on the ads and give me mo' money!!!!