All in the Family
Cuauhtémoc Q. Kish
Funny that a pair of really nice shoes make us feel good in our heads—at the extreme opposite end of our bodies.
There is nothing quite like a package sent from relatives, especially from distant ports of call, like New York City.
Our relatives had left the family nest in Pennsylvania and went both east and west to seek sanity, away from busybody clan members and from neighbors who acted as if they were actual blood relatives. Communication with these family members, especially Aunt Midge in Arizona and Aunt Mary in New York City, was sporadic at best. Usually, communication was limited to the annual Christmas card or, on rare occasions, when they would mail out a package.
Aunt Mary, who was my father's older sister, sent such a package of goods in the middle of the summer. Her family was doing well, so well that she had to periodically clean out her small New York closet to make room for new clothing. She sent her hand-me-downs to my mother, as she knew Mama Dida had no budget for clothes, what with six kids and all, and would welcome this generous contribution from the Big Apple.
Although Mama Dida was appreciative, Aunt Mary had a style that rather clashed with my mother's idea of practical fashion sense. Principally, my mother looked for clothing with one thing in mind: stain resistance. Her life was simply a whirlwind of cooking, cleaning, and dealing with the six kids, a perfect opportunity that invites dirt, grime, and mildew to an ongoing, twenty-four-hour-a-day party at the Kish household.
We decided that some of the clothing could be adapted to accommodate Mama Dida's wardrobe, and the rest would be given to Aunt Gladys, who owned a secondhand clothing store in downtown Tarentum. After she picked through the box of clothing, my mother placed the leftovers in the upstairs hallway, awaiting delivery to Aunt Gladys. I assisted Mama Dida in her ultimate selection.
Our only disagreement surfaced when she tossed aside some perfectly fine high heels. Although I agreed that these four-inch-high white pumps would not be worn for gardening purposes, I thought the Lord would welcome the heels if they were worn on a Sunday church visit. Mama Dida, however, refused to wear heels that raised her natural height more than two inches.
This perfectly good set of heels begged me to try them on, and since the entire household was on a mid-day excursion, I went for it. I placed the citified pumps on the floor, side by side. I assumed that you placed your feet into each shoe much like you would place your feet carefully on a small kitchen stepladder. So I leaned on the wall for additional support, placed one foot in each shoe, and all of a sudden, I WAS TALL!
But I was not just tall, I was glamorous! My tiny, fat feet were transformed into haute couture. I slowly took one step at a time, and when I found the rhythm of the shoes, I glided across the floor and heard the sounds of high-step clip-clopping. I imagined a fashion show runway in my bedroom, and entered and exited, never tiring of this newly invented game.
Suddenly, I heard the Kish clan pulling into the driveway. I nearly toppled over when I heard the tires crunch over the black jagged stones we called the family parking space. I jumped out of the pumps and tossed them on top of the box of clothing in the hallway.
"Jim, are you upstairs?" Mama Dida called out.
"Yes, I just finished dusting the bedrooms, like you asked me to do," I answered.
Everyone helped unload the car, and I went downstairs to investigate the new purchases.
"Can someone go upstairs and bring down that box of clothing that's in the hallway? Dad and I are going to drive over to Aunt Gladys' shop and give it to her," Mama Dida announced.
"I'll do it," I offered right away.
I brought down the box of used clothing, including the pair of high heels that I had fallen madly in love with. Should I hide them and play fashion show runway later? With insufficient time to find a good hiding place, I packed the shoes inside the box and placed it in the family station wagon for immediate delivery to Aunt Gladys. It felt like one of my favorite toys had been taken away from me.
I sighed; I pouted; I lamented the loss.
Once you get a taste for fashion, you can never stop. It's such a natural high, like that intoxicating smell of real leather. Fashion designers, acutely aware of this addiction, revel in the fact that the constant craving can never be fully satisfied. After just one taste of the furtive delight of wearing four-inch heels, I craved more. I took chances that might eventually out me to my family.
I hungered for any opportunity to sneak into my mother's bedroom and try on her high-heeled shoes. Yes, I realized that Mama Dida's two-inch heels were not fully satisfying, but two inches is better than no inches, as any woman can attest.
"I must be losing weight. My shoes just don't fit like they used to," Mama Dida said after she put on her shoes one Sunday before Mass. (I had obviously widened them by having one too many clandestine fashion parades in her bedroom.)
I knew I had to be more careful in the future. My mother's double A-size shoe was no match-up for my double-Es. Darn, the jig was up. I couldn't continue to jeopardize my high standing in the Kish household. I had to detox, and quickly.
Walking in high heels would just have to wait until I was absolutely safe from scrutiny or innuendo. Who knows? Aunt Mary might send another box of used clothing with other high-heeled pumps—except this time, with my name written all over them. But until then, I would just have to wait it out in a pair of sensible flats.
(1042 words)