I have been thinking about the piece of foot apparel. I am not developing a fetish, so you can forget about those crazy ideas. I was thinking about these wonderful sandals that my beloved had me buy because they are supportive (both of them, the sandals and my beloved) and they should help me with my recovery. They were not cheap, they weren't even inexpensive, and they will help.
Thinking on those lines, I remembered as a youngster what my father would do in the late spring and early summer, when my feet would be getting too big for my shoes and there was no money for buying new shoes. My dad, along with all the dads on our street and probably most of Walkinstown and Dublin, would cut the front out of the shoes so that my toes could wiggle freely in the air without restriction. There was no shame in all this, everyone did it. Clearly, no one could afford the luxury of new shoes the way that we can buy them to the tune of Imelda Marcos. It doesn't appear to be something that happened in North America, at least my beloved never had this type of home made sandal.
It makes me think of the limited resources that my parents had. The were both born in 1921 and were married on June 5, 1944. They lived through times of abject poverty both in financial and emotional terms. But they found a way. My parents raised 7 children in a home smaller than my first home of 1000 square feet. They didn't have central heating (never mind air conditioning). The heated our home (the home I was born in; 109 Bunting Road, Walkinstown, Dublin 12) with coal. I can still remember the coal delivery days having to put newspapers down to try to minimize the inevitable dust the collier would leave behind. I remember going out to the coal shed to fill the scuttle and bring it in to heat the house. I remember laughter and singing. I remember the angry times too but as I get older the sad and bad memories are being replaced with the good and happy ones. I remember the many Irish Christmas mornings (I celebrated 11 there) and the orange in the stocking. We didn't have and couldn't afford fresh fruit, so Christmas was about more than toy presents, it was about a Jaffa orange, all the way from Israel. There was the mesh packets of Cadbury's chocolate, the annual compendium of games and the books, usually followed by my Dad saying to me "Robin, read everything you can get your hands on, it will be the best education you can get".
My Dad's pet name for me was Robin. I can't recall when that started, probably when I couldn't comprehend anything but food and nappies. He continued to call me that even for many years after we came to Canada. It was one of the ways that he demonstrated fondness towards me. There were many more, I'm sure.
That's what I love about doing this blog thing. One single thought, a mental picture becomes an engine through which my mind takes me through the forgotten recesses of memory. A simple thought about a sandal, a mere piece of footwear, has brought me back 45 or more years. What a gift I have been given with the ability to remember.
I wonder what will stimulate the next venture and bring the next memories to light? I have my book by my side so that when they do arrive like the birds at the feeder, I can write them down so as not to lose the thought.
