Thursday, November 20, 2008


The other morning I was unsuccessfully trying to clean my jacket to avoid buying a new one when Steffi walked up close to me and inhaled deeply. "Oh, that's not shoe polish," she said disappointedly. She loves the smell of shoe polish, and loves helping me polish my shoes. It reminds me of when I was a kid, because I loved my dad's shoe shine box, and remember wanting to help him. The shoe shine box seemed like a symbol of someone who was important, at least important enough to have to shine their shoes. It represented making a living, because they were the shoes my dad wore to work every day. It was a way to connect with my dad, as well as a way to pretend to be a grownup, if only for the few minutes it took to help him shine his shoes.

Maybe Steffi feels the same way, or maybe she just really likes the smell of shoe polish. Either way we made a date to polish my shoes this Saturday.

1 comment:

Gerry Schramm said...

I remember that sturdy wooden shoe box. It had an inclined foot rest so you could wear the shoe while wearing it. I especially loved the long brushes, its bristles blackened with waxy polish, and the smudged polishing cloth. I wonder if mom still has it. I bet she does. I'll ask her to bring it for Thanksgiving if she does.