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| Dad & me. |
A
story letter I wrote to Dad back in 1998:
Shiny Shoes
and Smoky Sundays
When
I was little, I didn’t see you much during the week. You worked hard at the
hospital, you ate a big supper, and then I went to bed.
But
everything was different on the weekend. On Saturdays, I had a very important
job to do with you…shining shoes for church on Sunday. Down in the basement,
the wooden shoeshine box was set out on the ping-pong table. The family’s
footwear was lined up in a row and together we would wax and buff and shine. I
slipped my tiny foot into each shoe, one at a time, and then carefully
positioned it on the black footprint on top of the shoeshine box. And I polished
like my life depended on it. You told me what a good job I was doing and that
nobody else could make those shoes as shiny as I could. I burst with pride!
On
Sunday, after we got home from church, our shoes still quite glossy, I had the
task of counting the pennies from the collection plate. As I got older and
could count by fives and tens, I was allowed to count the nickels and dimes
too. It was such an honour to be the treasurer’s assistant.
After
lunch, it was time to relax. You turned on a game, usually football, sat back
and lit up a cigarette. As the sun streamed through the picture window, the
smoke lazily drifted in the air. I lay on the rug of the turquoise and beige
living room, soaking up the warmth of the sunlight, the smell of roast beef
cooking in the oven and the magical feeling of security, peacefulness and love.
One request: Someday I hope that the
shoeshine box will be mine. Just looking at it brings a rush of memories of
weekends with you.
One apology: I know that smoking is
unhealthy and politically incorrect now, but it was part of my growing up. It
was part of you. It was a different time.
One update in 2016: I have the shoeshine box now. Dad quit smoking many years ago. I still love small moments with him.
©Conni Cartlidge June 2016
