“Hon,
do you have good black dress shoes?” my wife asked as we
packed for our trip north for our granddaughter’s chain of social events.
May has become more than just the climax of the
academic season, wrapping up not only the scholastic year, but dance
classes, chorus, music lessons, and just about every other after
school activity a student can be enrolled in. This year was even more
special with our granddaughter’s communion, so it was time to dry-clean suits and dig out the old shoes I haven’t worn in years.
“Sure,”
I replied, “I still have my old wingtips from when I left IBM. Let
me dig them out, they're in a closet somewhere.” I tossed out my last pair of black loafers, my semi-official footwear for formal events here in Florida, a couple of months ago.
As I
pulled out my comfortable old friends from the back of my closet where they had resided under assorted bags and
boxes, I suddenly faced my own mortality. No longer the spit-shined, combat
boots of corporate America, they were now sadly distressed, forlorn, shockingly aged almost beyond recognition. They were far removed from being the forefront of the uniform of confidence and determination I remembered when I placed them there over twenty years ago. I naively thought they could be
pulled out at any time and once again be worn with the distinction and authority they
once held in the arena of interpersonal combat in the world of
corporate America.
I
stared at the faded, cracked shoe leather. Pieces of the polished
leather had peeled off, exposing the vulnerable, soft under-skin of
the shoes I had worn so many times. I turned the shoes over, the
soles were as good as new. I had replaced the soles twice in the
wingtip’s lifetime and the soles were still ready. Ready to stride
confidently into a customer’s meeting or a region seminar. The uppers however, were
like me; no longer ready to stand in front of a crowd from behind a
podium or stand toe to toe with a competitor.
I
had placed them in the back of my closet, complete with wooden shoe trees in them to keep
their shape back when I retired. They were highly polished the last time I saw them,
ready to be put into service at a moment’s notice. They had spent the last quarter century in retirement,
but they were no longer serviceable. My old standbys, my stalwart support in the face of perils that could not intimidate them, unfortunately could not answer the call to duty.
I
couldn’t help but be nostalgic as I stood there looking at my past,
the memories of a quarter of a century ago. I carefully carried them
out into the garage and as one last gesture, photographed them. Then
they went into the trash.
I
walked back into the house. “Hey, Hon, we’ve got to go shopping.
I need new black shoes.”
But
the new ones won’t be wingtips. They may not even have laces. A pair of nice slip-ons will do nicely.
