Shoes

Remember the manned moon landing? I remember it well: While the astronauts were leaving the footprint of man on the moon, I was busily leaving the mark of a heel on the earth.

Friday Letter #74 (if you haven’t guessed already) is about shoes. Read on.

New Shoes ! ! !

I was probably five. Mom and Dad took me to Denver to get my new shoes and leg brace.

You know how excited a kid can be to get a new pair of shoes. “Can I wear ‘em home, Mom?”

I was in for a disappointment and a life lesson. My orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Fred Hartshorn, had written a prescription for the design of the shoes and orthopedic device. Dad had fully understood the doctor’s design.

The shoe portion of the contraption had a built-in inch-and-a-half heel lift for my right leg, an attempt to reduce the limp in my gait. The brace fit through that heel. Steel bars with leather wraps ran up the sides of my leg, bracing my ankle, knee and hip.

Dr. Hartshorn had explained to us that the purpose of the brace was to help bring my right foot up and in. It was a complex device. (I still have most of my orthopedic stuff, in a box, here at work. I’m happy to show it to the inquisitive.)

But when the orthopedic expert put the brace on me, my foot instantly turned out and down – the opposite of the desired effect.

Dad looked at the brace and said, “It’s backward.” The technician, miffed, said, “There’s nothing wrong with it.” Dad persisted. Finally the guy said, “I’m the doctor here.”

Dad surprised me and Mom when he said, “No, you’re not. You’re fired.” I had to wait for my new shoes. We soon found a more obedient orthopedic shoemaker who was able to structure the device according to Hartshorn’s prescription.

It taught me this: One doesn’t always get new shoes on the day one expects; and one is always one’s own best doctor.

When the second brace-and-shoes was ready, we returned to Denver and everyone was satisfied. The shoes fit. The brace fit and functioned properly.

I watched Dad write a check for $200. In 1948, two hundred bucks was a lot of money. A lot. Especially for one pair of shoes for a child. Thanks, Dad.

-0-

In a few more weeks, I’ll go get my brand-new orthopedic shoes. It will be the first pair of shoes made just for me in more than 50 years.

This new pair will be black. In my childhood, orthopedic shoes came only in brown – vexing to a fashion-conscious youth such as myself.

We tried to get Medicare to pay for my new shoes, but they said I have to be diabetic. I’ll pass on the diabetes qualification, I said, so I’ll have to fund this myself.

Custom shoe patterns are made in much the same way now as 60 years ago. The tech wraps the feet in plaster of paris strips to form a pattern, then the shoemaker makes a last from that and follows the pattern.

Special allowances are made for anomalies or irregularities. It’s a fun process. I’d forgotten that plaster of paris warms up while drying, and shrinks just a little. Made my feet feel good.

Including the visits to the podiatrist who wrote the prescription, it’s a pair of shoes that will cost about a grand. I sucked in my breath at the mention of the bottom line. But then I thought, “If I needed a new clutch for the truck and it cost $1,000, I wouldn’t think a thing of it.”

Two hundred dollars back in the 40’s and a thousand smackers in ’08. Just for shoes. I am one high-maintenance dude.

The power goes out

Wednesday morning we were sitting with our teacups, dreading going to work, planning a Thanksgiving trip. Suddenly the lights in the living room went out.

We ran around like chickens for a while, and finally I found a breaker switch that wouldn’t stay “on.”

So I called Chris Erbacher. Chris called the power company, and a serviceman came within a few minutes and determined power was being supplied to the meter. The outage wasn’t the power company’s fault.

I called Chris back. He and his apprentice Fabian appeared shortly. Fabian located an almost invisible reset button in an antique circuit breaker, and electricity was restored.

Our tea had gotten cold, but that was the only inconvenience we suffered. An hour and a half. Ninety minutes from the appearance of the problem to its solution.

We are remarkably blessed. And here’s the deal. Chances are, we would never even have met Chris Erbacher if we hadn’t come to St. Peter Roman Catholic Church all those years ago.

Erbacher is quite generous to his church, and devoted as well to maintenance of the electrical system, a hugely important part of the physical plant.

I’m not so sure another electrician would have solved the problem at our home so quickly and inexpensively. Another electrician would probably have replaced the circuit breaker box, changed this or that, and spent money.

Sure, Chris will send me a bill for the service call, and sure, we may eventually have to replace or rebuild something. The breaker flipped off for a real reason.

But that’s not the point. The point is, we got quick and efficient service because we met Chris at church. It’s as simple as that.

Thanks Chris. Thanks St. Peter Church for giving us Chris. And thanks be to the good Lord for giving us the Church.

West Nile survey lottery

Some weeks ago, a survey came addressed to me from the Department of Journalism at Colorado State University.

It had to do with public perceptions of West Nile Virus. So I filled it out. Thought it my duty. Gave no consideration to the “West Nile Survey Incentive Drawing” mentioned in the materials.

Shortly, a Wal-Mart gift card valued at $50 came in the mail. Some people who took part in the survey got $50 prizes. Some people got thank-you notes.

See, I didn’t even realize I was gambling. Yeah, that’s it. I didn’t know. That’s my rationalization. So I spent the money on a new vacuum cleaner.

I couldn’t help but compare my good fortune to those bankers who got bailed out by the federales. Some got help, some did not.

Do I feel sorry for those who didn’t get gift certificates? Not really. It just seems so out of kilter. Some folks win, some don’t. Funny way to run a country.

Word of the week: Last week, Laura and I both forgot to give you this week’s word. Sorry you didn’t get a head start. The word?

Niggard. Ha ha ha. It’s not what you think. It comes from Middle English, “negarde,” and that came from Norman French, and a Norwegian dialect, knika or gnikka, to rub or pinch. A niggard pinches his pennies, hence the word now means a stingy person or a miser.

Next week’s word: Tryst.

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comments below!