skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Ah, summer, the season when a woman's thoughts of summer sun and romance make a beeline to fear and dread, or so I've been lead to believe by popular media for years. What's to fear? Oh, yes, swimsuit season, the realization that most women have when they see just how awful they look after a year of wool sweaters and bulky overcoats. And, you know what? Most of them don't look that awful, they just don't look like (insert the current 'sexiest woman alive'). I laugh in the face of swimsuit season, having decided that I'm never going to look like the sexiest woman alive, except to my husband, and I'm okay with that. I have far bigger worries: The search for cute and comfortable shoes.
Does this mean that I'm getting old? No, I've been this way for a very long time, perhaps for my entire life. I can remember vividly a pair of "oxfords" that my mother bought me for my fifth birthday: they were black velvet with red leather trim. I thought they were adorable, but, they were so uncomfortable that I hated to wear them. I tried to explain to her that the shoes were not right, but, no words could change my circumstance: I would wear the shoes until either I out-grew them, or they wore out.
If I could have figured out a way to make my feet grow faster, then I wouldn't have had to resort to my only other option...
One day after returning home from an outing, I decided that I had had enough of the terrible velvet shoes, that no amount of punishment could be worse than wearing the uncomfortable shoes for even one more minute. I crawled under the kitchen table, and pulled down one side of the tablecloth, in an attempt to hide myself from my ever-present-all-seeing-all-knowing-eyes-in-the-back-of-her-head mother, and went to work on the shoes.
Sadly, the shoes were not only uncomfortable, but seemingly they had been sewn together in such a way that my tiny fingers with neatly clipped nails were no match for the tenacity of the thread. It was a battle of wills, and the shoes were winning.
And then my mother caught me.
She was not pleased. That's a bit of an understatement. She was really angry.
It was my second battle of wills in only a few short minutes, and now I was double-teamed.
But, that was only one battle. Battles can be won or lost; it's the outcome of the war that establishes the victor, and I was determined to win the war of the velvet shoes.
I decided that rather than 'wear out' the shoes in one stroke, I would need to resort to a slow and steady progression, like soldiers painstakingly gaining ground, I would, seam by seam, bring about a full surrender of the shoes, my only weapons were my determination and a butter knife, stolen from the the kitchen drawer.
It seemed to take forever, but, slowly, the threads began to break, they began to wear down, and out. I had conquered the velvet shoes, at last. The funny thing about the velvet shoes though, was that after a while, they weren't uncomfortable, but, that was no longer the issue: I wanted my shoes, my way. I had been tested, and my resolve was stronger than the stitching on those shoes.
I don't even remember which shoes came after. You would think that I would, after having worked so hard for them. I guess that they were comfortable, though unmemorable.
I still have issues with shoes. For the last few weeks, I've been looking for cute and comfortable shoes for summer. I need shoes that I can walk in, but, they have to look good, too. That's a challenge for me, because sometimes an aesthetically pleasing shoe, isn't comfortable, and a comfortable shoe is just downright ugly. So, I've been shoe shopping. I have to try on every pair of sandals in the shop, until I find a pair that I can live with, at least for the summer.
My last salesperson was a charming young woman with a thick French accent. With a smile, she brought me pair after pair of sandals to try, carefully checking back on me. As I stood staring at my feet in a pair of tan sandals, she approached, and asked how that pair, the seventh pair, was fitting. I told her my concerns, that they were too tight across the top of my foot.
"They're leather," she said sweetly, "they'll give up."
I know that she couldn't possibly know why that made me laugh, but, I told her that I wasn't sure that the shoes would surrender to me, and asked for a different pair. Only shockingly bright white in my size. My feet looked like beacons. No.
A cute, khaki colored, pair with only one buckle. I liked them. I walked in front of a tall mirror and focused on my feet. Another woman, who was also trying on shoes, and having similar results, judging by the boxes of rejects on the floor nearby, looked down at my feet and said, "Those are cute."
I agreed with her, but, pointed out that there were about two extra inches of shoe beyond the tips of my toes; it looked like I had strapped surfboards to my soles. "She's got the same problem," her daughter told me, as she pointed to her mother's short-toed feet, which inspired a conversation about shoes and feet.
Ready to call it a night, I chose a pair of Born sandals, and figured that if they fit and were comfortable, I'd just get them. Last week, I had purchased a pair of cute Dansko shoes, so, I wasn't desperate, I just wanted a pair of sandals. Was that too much to ask?
As it turned out, the Born sandals fit nicely, though they will not be on any hot shoe list, I'm certain. I bought them, and I've been wearing them now for some time, and they seem to be serving their purpose.
I am glad that I met the other woman who has a similar shoe issue; it makes me feel as though I'm not entirely alone in stiletto wonderland, where many things look lovely, but, just don't fit, or make sense. I'm not the only woman with chubby feet and stubby toes, in a world of svelte, sleek, "Sex in the City," type feet.
Do women really enjoy wearing those pointy torture chambers? Dumb question. Do men like to see women wearing those pointy torture chambers? Dumb question.
Will those torture chambers ever give up? Yes, but, only if you have a butter knife and a lot of determination.
A swell photo, taken by me.
(Maybe 'swell' is a bit of a stretch...it's an okay photo.)
Friday evening, and as usual, Rob and I were out walking about the neighborhood. I don't know if either of us mentioned to the other, or not, but, I was wondering if we would see William. From about a block away, our unspoken question was answered: He was sitting at his bus stop bench.
The sidewalk is narrow there in front of the bench, and the traffic -- both by pedestrians and vehicles -- is heavy. William was just resting on his bench, maybe waiting. But, I don't know.
As we approached, Rob let me walk first and as I passed, I smiled and said, "Hello," to William, who seemed happy to see us. He acknowledged me, and greeted Rob, too. Then unexpectedly, he asked Rob, "Could I get a dollar from you, to buy some food?"
Rob said something like, "Sure, you've never asked for anything before," and reached into his pocket and pulled out exactly one dollar. Now, sadly, one dollar isn't enough to buy much, but, it was all of the cash that we had on us, as we make it a general rule not to carry money. And we do not give money to panhandlers. But, William is different. William is not a panhandler.
In my last post, I wrote that William will never ask me for anything, and I still believe that this is the case. He could have asked me for money, instead of asking Rob, but, he did not. I've tossed about all sorts of theories as to why he spoke to the man, rather than to me, but, then, I've decided not to over-analyze his motivations. I simply don't know what he was thinking.
But we were glad that he had asked, and we wished that we had more for him.
After exchanging the usual, 'have a good day' type of chit-chat, Rob, said, "Take care, Brother." And William replied, "Yeah, see you tomorrow!"
But we didn't.
And we're not worried, because William is, now, more than a face in the crowd.
Buildings in downtown Portland, OR
Photo by Rob Cork
While drinking coffee at our favorite Starbucks one evening, we watched him walk by. Rob and I started out calling him, "Crazy Homeless Dude." Actually, I probably started out calling him Crazy Homeless Dude, and it stuck.
As it turned out, Rob and I had both taken notice of the disheveled man with dirty dreadlocks and filthy, tattered clothing. There is something about him that strikes a chord of curiosity; we wish that we knew his story. But, we don't. So over the years, we've made up a story for him, then edited it and rewritten it. About six months ago, we decided that he needed a proper name, so we decided to call him William. He looks like a guy who should be named Will, but, I still slip up and call him Crazy Homeless Dude, once in awhile.
Portland has a seemingly large homeless population, and in my neighborhood there are panhandlers who have their corners, benches or patches of sidewalk. They're part of the mosaic. And as much as I expect to asked for money by some folks, I know that William will never ask me for anything.
For months, I assumed that he didn't speak. He seems to float in a bubble of his own making. He walks about the neighborhood, sometimes checking trash cans for discarded foods and drinks, which he consumes at the can and promptly tosses the unwanted parts back into the bin. He seems to be only semi-lucid, until he makes eye contact. Then it's obvious that there is a person deep down under the grime.
One day when I was walking to the Safeway, I saw him talking to another man on the street. Actually, he was bantering, and laughing, as he talked about the Portland Trailblazers basketball team. I remember being completely surprised that he actually does speak. And I was strangely happy with this new information.
If Rob and I don't see him for a few days, we begin to worry. One day after nearly a month had gone by, we saw him in another neighborhood, clean, neatly dressed and with a fresh new haircut. We had to look twice to make sure that it was him. But, when he looked at us, with recognition, then we knew for sure that it was Will.
As the weather gets warmer, the neighborhood begins to come back to life, and more people begin to fill the streets. One day, Rob and I walked past a bench where Will was sitting, and excited to see him after several weeks, we both smiled, maybe said a silent hello and prayer for him as we walked past. I remember how carefully he looked at us, then a slight smile came to him. Rob and I talked about this later, deciding that, we must stand out to him, just as he does to us.
So there is this odd 'relationship' forming. I've tried to think of a comparison, but, I don't really have one. Perhaps it is akin to chatting with the cat lady who lives in the basement apartment down the street, when you see her at the grocery store. Perhaps it's nothing like that. Perhaps it's nothing at all. Perhaps it isn't even a relationship, except that Rob and I choose it to be. Perhaps it is completely one-sided, and that we only imagine that he recognizes and acknowledges us. Then something happens to make us think otherwise.
Thursday was as close to a perfect Spring day as I will ever see. Rob and I both had busy days, and as evening approached, I didn't want to cook, so we decided to go out for sushi. We walked hand-in-hand under a crisp blue sky, enjoying just being together, soaking up the sunshine. As we walked past the Starbucks our favorite barista stopped washing the store windows for a moment and waved enthusiastically. He always has a genuine smile, and a kind word for people. Rob needed to buy cigarettes, so we dropped by the tiniest tobacco and beer store you've ever seen, a transformed garage, now a market, owned by a husband and wife, immigrants from Ethiopia. She commented on how much she enjoys seeing us walking together in the neighborhood, and how the other day, when Rob was alone, she asked about me. Later in the evening, Rob and I talked about how just living life, happily doing so, and with the grace of God, can be a blessing to others.
And, we saw William that night. Actually, we saw him twice, though I only now remembered the first time. I was driving home after picking up Rob. Will was trying to cross the street, but, got confused by a car that went against the light. He stopped in the street, then returned to the safety of the corner, seemingly unsure of what was the right move to make. I was turning left, and was waiting for him to realize that, indeed, he had the walk signal and that it was his turn to cross. He looked directly at me, then stepped into the street, slowly crossing.
The second time we saw him that night was when we were walking home from the restaurant. He was sitting in a bus stop shelter, about one block from where he had crossed the street earlier in the evening. He had his dirty gray blanket with him, pushed to the side, taking up space on the bench. He looked right at us, and smiled. We smiled back and said, "Hello." Then, unexpectedly, he said, "Hello," back to us. After years of silently wishing him well, of praying for God's blessings upon him, it was the first time that he has spoken to either of us.
As simple as this sounds, we each had such a sense of joy that we were acknowledged by this curious stranger to whom we feel this connection.
I cannot explain why any of this is important to me, or why you should be interested, but, what I can tell you is that, Rob and I believe that we are being called to be a blessing to this man. And, I cannot tell you what that means, what 'being a blessing' looks like, or what will be asked of us. I can only say that it is real, and that we are awaiting whatever our next step will be.
"Head at Arches"
If you will indulge me a moment, I'd like to introduce you to another blogger whom I think that you'll find fascinating. Of course staph growing in a specimen dish can be fascinating, as can the range of blue to green to yellow of a bruise, but, I assure you, this is nothing like you've ever seen before.
O'syryous is an artist and writer from Santa Cruz, California. More than this, he is a close friend, Rob's Best Man at our wedding, and someone whom you need to know. Acting as ringmaster, he presents a linguistic sideshow, a freakish kaleidoscope of the strange, complete with everything from daring high-wire acrobatics to more clowns than you ever thought possible to pack into a '74 Gremlin.
I offer you a season ticket, so check it out for yourself: O'syryous Art Productions
On the local television news last week, there was a story about a man who was arrested on suspicion of killing his wife. The reporter stated that the couple had a history of loud arguments and calls to the police department. Continuing, it was explained that the wife had filed for a divorce about a week prior, and on Tuesday, while she was gardening in the couple's yard, the husband allegedly, rammed her with his pickup truck, crushing her against the wall of their garage with enough force to nearly demolish the structure. The video showed the buckled wall, with its gray siding forced out away from the framing.
In true TV Reporter style, the newsman went about gathering up the splinters of the story, pointing out the crime scene tape cordoning off the spring green lawn and garage, and the modest, but well kept street of tidy homes. And, he talked to the neighbors, getting their opinions of situation and the man.
"He seemed like a nice guy," was the comment from one woman. And, what did she base this opinion of his character on? He always greeted her when he rode by on his scooter.
Later in the week, the same news station ran a story about a coach who is accused of sexually abusing one of his athletes. Of course the parents and community were shocked, because, "he seemed like a nice guy." One of the parents interviewed commented that the coach was friendly and talkative.
Then it happened again yesterday, a man with a gun in a neighborhood, near a school. After firing several times at the police, he was shot and killed by one of the officers. In the subsequent interviews with people who knew this man, the story was the same: He seemed like a nice guy.
If I had a nickel for every time someone says, "He seemed like a nice guy," I'd be rich. Think about how many times you've heard this comment, probably, like me, more often than you can count.
We all want to believe as Anne Frank did, "that people are really good at heart."
Until they prove to be otherwise.
Also in the news recently, not that he has ever really left the spotlight for any length of time, is O.J. Simpson, the handsome football hero, actor and spokesman. He, and his group, were declined service at a Louisville steakhouse, the night before the Kentucky Derby.
At first, O.J.'s lawyer said that it was because the restaurant owner is a racist.
If O.J. Simpson were any other man trying to eat a dinner at a restaurant, and was declined service, I might think that possibly the restaurant owner had a problem with someone of a different race, but, O.J. isn't any other customer. O.J. is a celebrity, and a very controversial one at that.
O.J. Simpson is a man who was on trial for killing his ex-wife and one other person. He was found not guilty. He vowed to continue searching for the killer, but, his investigation of nearly every golf course in America, has yet to yield another suspect. He wrote a (yet to be published book), hypothesising how, if, he were the killer exactly how he would have committed the crimes. He seems to be a person who seeks attention, without regard to the kind of attention that he is receiving.
The restaurant owner had every right to protect his business and his patrons, and, if he thought that O.J.'s presence at his restaurant would upset people or cause a stir of curiosity, then he did the right thing by declining service. And from the accounts that I read, it sounds like O.J. did the right thing by leaving without creating an incident.
Then the lawyer got involved, and the "R" word was used.
Perhaps O.J. doesn't realize that his reputation is questionable, and that it isn't always about skin color, that on some level, there has to be consequences for actions, and that a restaurant owner has the right to decline service to someone whom he feels is potentially disruptive to his business. I suspect that O.J. knows full well why he wasn't served that night, but rather than showing some grace, he has decided to exploit a situation, perhaps to build some sympathy for himself.
But, in another odd twist, I have read that O.J.'s attorney has decided not to pursue the racial discrimination lawsuit, that he had been touting, instead, calling the restaurant owner a publicity seeker. I don't know this attorney, but, I'm certain that with a client like O.J., he would know a publicity seeker when he met one.
Maybe we, as a society, should re-evaluate which characteristics make up a "nice guy." If it is only our impression of the way they treat us personally, how often they greet us, or how sweetly they smile, then I wonder if that is an accurate gage of how nice a "nice guy" really is. By all accounts, convicted and executed murderer, Ted Bundy seemed like a nice guy, otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to gain the trust of his victims. And his trial proved him to be otherwise.
I can imagine O.J. and his friends walking out of the restaurant that night. O.J. probably smiled at the other patrons as he exited, maybe he shook a hand or two. As he brushed past a young couple seated by the door, an onlooker whispered to her dinner date, "He seemed like a nice guy."
(A photo of my mother)
And things were never the same again.
For those of you who know exactly what this means, I wish you a wonderful Mother's Day!
Just when I thought that it was safe to start blogging again... Splat! I was hit in a game of Blogger Tag! To my understanding, the person who gets tagged must list seven random facts about themselves, then tag seven other bloggers to do the same. After considerable thought, I came up with four truly awe-inspiring facts about myself, and three which were merely amusing, then, without warning, or further provocation, POW! I was hit again! Shocking. Could there possibly be seven more amusing, or even remotely interesting facts about me? Read on, and decide for yourselves.
#13. I am NEVER without ChapStick.
#52. I don't technically have a high school diploma. When it arrived in the mail, the name printed on it was, "Denny" not "Penny." I felt too awkward to request it to be re-done, since I figured that my poor handwriting must have lead to the error. I corrected it myself with white-out and a black marker.
#5. I have my own fork. I am the only person who uses it. My family knows that it is my fork, and they know not to use it without my permission. It was a hand-me-down fork that I was given for my first apartment. It has very long tines, and possibly magical powers, though this has yet to be proven.
#76. I hate to buy gasoline. This has nothing to do with the price. I just hate to park next to the pumps, for fear of crashing and setting off a major explosion. (In Oregon there is no self-service gasoline, so it has nothing to do with getting dirty.)
#11. When I was 12 years old, I lost an art contest but still had my losing poster about conserving energy published in a teaching guide.
#33. If I could only eat at one type of restaurant, I would choose Japanese. I love sushi.
#97. I love chocolate, it is my drug of choice.
#86. I have (as of this writing) never been given a traffic citation of any kind, not even a parking ticket.
#16. I'm a pore speller, sew I keep a dictionary on my desk at all thymes.
#27. I have never traveled outside of the United States.
#63. I avoid public restrooms, except in dire emergencies. Once inside a public restroom, I will not touch anything with my bare hands ( I cover my hands with my sleeve or a paper towel.) I even flush with my foot. (There's a nice visual for you.)
#10. I sleep wearing socks.
#36. I always have a glass of water at my bedside.
#45. My favorite cartoon character is Tweety because he seems very sweet and innocent, but, he really kicks ass.
And now dear friends, I have to share another fact: I very rarely ever participate in games like this. I usually don't even open emails from people whom I know are sending a "pass this on to 2347 people in 13 seconds, or else a 'giant meteor is gonna land on your house' (credit Pokey Allen, late, great PSU football coach.)" I feel uncomfortable imposing on people. But, that being said, to the two wonderful ladies who 'tagged' me, there are absolutely no worries! But, I apologetically am only tagging one person, someone whom I asked in advance because I thought that she would enjoy playing.
My arrow is aimed at: Cherie! Check out her blog here.
