Gracie---who is all togged out for it---and I---who am not---wish you a very Happy Easter and hope that all your eggs will be chocolate creams.
Much as I love them, however, it is neither chocolate nor spice jelly beans nor potted white lilies that revives memories of Easters Past so clearly. No; as I waded through the advertising supplements in the yesterday's papers, I realized that the holiday is vividly tied up, so to speak, with getting new shoes, typically a pair of black patent leather Mary Janes.
Given my family's circumstances and my place in 20th century chronology, it's not surprising that such a mundane purchase could mean so much. To begin with, World War II loomed large over my early child-hood, and even after V-J Day, consumer goods of all kinds---but especially those like shoes, made of leather and rubber---were rationed. In addition, money was tight, particularly for a family of five in wartime New England.
Keeping shoes on our feet was no small accomplishment (I almost said "feat"), as my sister and brother and I persisted in growing and requiring larger sizes. Since my sister, who is older by two years, inherited the petite frame of our Polish grandmother and I the heftier build of our Irish forebears, hand-me-downs were not an option; my feet were bigger than hers from second grade on.
Hand-me-ups were not an option either, since I was blithely and unthinkingly hard on shoes. I well recall our mother's fury when she caught me deliberately scuffing my toes on the sidewalk because I liked the sound it made and because it was the easiest way to brake my tricycle.
Although we did not make it easy for them, our parents did manage to keep us in footwear---three pairs of shoes per kid per year. As noted above, the dress-up shoes arrived at Easter and were meant to last the year for special occasions, wearable to school ONLY if we were taking part in an assembly program OR if our school shoes were at the cobbler's being repaired. (In those days, sneakers were not allowed in school---even assuming the previous summer's pair was still intact.)
We got our sneakers---basic white Keds for my sister and me, PF Flyers for my brother---the day school got out, and woe betide the kid who ruined them before it was time to go back-to-school shopping the day after Labor Day. ("Pleasepleaseplease, Mom, can I have saddle shoes or strap shoes instead of those ugly brown oxfords?") I didn't manage to talk her into letting me have penny loafers until I was in junior high, and that was only because I bought them myself with my babysitting savings. They were red, and I loved them---the beginning of a lifelong passion for cute shoes. (Just ask my daughters, who refer to me as "our very own Imelda.")
In retrospect, it seems that, for me, Memory Lane is paved---I should say "soled"---with the shoes I wore:the dressy flats for the ballroom-dancing class in which we learned to execute the box step; the ballerina flats we wore on first dates; my first heels, which were purchased for Easter, red, what we now call a "kitten heel" and was then known as a "baby Louis heel;" evening shoes with heels calibrated to the height of my prom escort; dirty white bucks for those of us in the college prep program; white pumps for Class Day and graduation.
In college I wore black cotton strappy China doll shoes and spent horrendous Syracuse winters slogging up to campus in Keds and knee socks. Boots? Are you kidding? When the sneaks got too impossibly soggy, I went to Manny's on Marshall Street and got another pair for ten bucks. (My parents never knew this and also never knew I lost almost a week of classes with nearly-pneumonia.)
In most of my professional life I spent five days a week in mid-height heels. To my dubious credit, I did not give in to the hideous fashion of wearing running shoes with a business suit when commuting or going out to lunch. (I did wear floppy silk bow ties, however.)
It was a great day when I started working in the court law library and could wear flats again. (It is a little-known fact, according to my younger daughter, that Aerosoles are the official shoe of the American Library Association.) Low-heeled shoes, in addition to being newly chic and available in myriad attractive styles, are really the only practical choice for one who must frequently leave the circulation desk to help a patron or clear a copier paper jam. Indeed, given some of the contretemps I've had with book carts, steel-toed boots might not have been a bad idea.
These days, I wear whatever feels good on my feet---your basic white Keds, ancient moosehide moccasins I've had since forever, flip-flops (despite my ugly toes), or, for yoga practice, nothing at all. My latest love are suede thong sandals lined with faux fleece; not only do they keep my feet warm, they're cute!
Not as cute as black patent leather Mary Janes, I suppose, but I can't find those in my size anymore.
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