Life's Little Pleasures

Diddle, diddle dumpling, my son John,
Went to bed with his stockings on;
One shoe off, and one shoe on,
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John.

I was reminded of this Mother Goose Rhyme as we drove home from the shoe shop. No not shoe shopping, shoe repairing. I took in a pair that needed a seam resewn, and upon looking down at my ancient leather Ked on my right foot, I was reminded where my big toe had pressured it into holiness last summer in the garden. "Yes, I can fix it," the butcher-sized fellow behind the counter said,"but I will have to put a patch on the inside so the hole will still show on the outside. "Bring it back when you pick up the one with a ripped seam tomorrow."

He Who Must Be Obeyed told him I would leave it right now, thus saving us the gas for an extra trip. He followed me to the Wrangler and took it back into the repair shop. Hence the Diddle, diddle.

Shoe repairing is a fascinating business. I have always thought so. It started with me leaning on my elbows watching my dad slip one of my shoes on the iron last bolted to his work bench and hammer on a new heel, or paste on a sole. Some tasks take on a pure and holy demeanor; polishing shoes, same thing. My dad polished my mother's, mine, and his own; a Saturday night ritual, while I was having my weekly bath in a little tin tub off the kitchen.

One of our dear friends, Fritz, a hero from the Grand Generation, had a shoe shop in South Dakota when he was just back from WWII and starting his family. In my small home town, Mr. Zoldie, a Jewish immigrant in that land of Finnish, Norwegian, and Irish immigrants, owned the shoe shop. If a job got too complicated for my dad, our shoes went to Mr. Zoldie and I had the opportunity to listen to his lovely Yiddish accent. He reminded me of Geppetto, a cobbler, in the Pinnochio book my Aunt Olga gave me for Chistmas.

He was found in his shop hanging one day, no family, no synagogue, he was alone in the hinterland; probably lonely, hopefully not hated.