I cannot put on a pair of tennis shoes (aka sneakers or trainers depending on where you reside) without thinking of my dad. This has always been the case, even before he died. The man had a thing for athletic shoes.
My dad loved shopping - his kind of shopping that is. His style was not the wandering aimlessly through stores searching for that elusive must-have-new-thing, he relished the purposeful hunt for a particular item. And that mission usually involved new tennis shoes.
He was the absolute best when it came to back-to-school shoe shopping. I always had the latest ‘in’ shoe to propel my walk into a new grade in the fall. And when those wore out, another new pair seamlessly backed up my shoe game. I can’t tell you how many times I exaggerated a ‘hole’ or flaw in my shoes to score a new set. Dad always played along...although I now think he knew better and just indulged me.
Back to that fresh pair of kicks.
Once the in store approval was met and funded, the second half of our story takes place. You brought the shoes home and took them out of the box…normal, right? But in our house, the next step involved taking all the shoelaces out. Every single bit, so the shoe was completely laceless. Then you lovingly replaced the laces so each side laid perfectly flat against the tongue of the sneaker and hugged the grommets exactly right.
It was a process for sure, involving patience and dexterity, manipulating those laces across the shoe and rotating ‘just so’ as you thread and repeat. I loved every minute of it. I still do.
It will forever remind me of dad.
As I tied up my Stan Smiths this morning to take my daughter on an adventure in our new town, I thought of him as I made sure the laces were flat and the tie was even.
Almost four months Dad, and I still want to call you every day to talk about stuff like this.
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