Cobbled

You might remember the boots from this post. I loved them right from the start and have worn them faithfully. Over the months some tragic things befell my beloved $4 boots.

Firstly, I fell down HB's back steps of death on Halloween night during the only five minutes it was sleeting. It's actually the only time I remember falling down, without catching myself before I was on the ground. Falling down steps is frightening. And it resulted in the front of both boots getting scraped. I bought a little shoe polish and fixed things up and kept wearing the boots about once a week.

Then, the unthinkable occurred. A huge crack, right across one of the soles. Super glue? No, not going to work. I could not wrap my mind around letting my $4 real Spanish leather boots go. I felt like the father from A Christmas Story when he is holding the broken pieces of his Major Award. I needed a shoe guy...a you know, what are they called? I needed an elf! No, no. I needed...a cobbler!

Then I remembered that there was a shoe repair shop right next to my gym. I brought my boots in, cradling them like an injured puppy. The shop was small, but I loved it instantly. There were home made wooden shelves lining the walls behind the small counter. They had no doubt been made and painted a cool mint green in the 50's. The shelves corralled a curious display of shoes. Other people's shoes. The cobbler was working in the back when I walked in, giving me a few moments to spy on the shoes and imagine what type of people brought them in. They each were fitted with a paper tag. There was something inspiring and magical about those rows of other people's shoes. Shoes that people love enough to take to the shoe doctor.

The cobbler came to the counter wearing a much used apron and a mustache. He bobbed his head to me and I explained my case. I know I was looking too concerned over a pair of boots. He took them gently and then proceeded to lean into the broken sole, really opening the gap up. I gasped. He smiled a quiet smile and never looked up at me from the patient. He said, "I think I can put half soles on them and new heel tips." I wasn't sure what that meant, but I was good with it. Now for the rub. How much? $30. Since I had only paid $4 for the shoes, I thought I could handle it. I shelled out the dough and he said in a quiet voice, "These are nice boots. I'll clean them up for you too."

I picked the boots up the next Saturday. He had them for one week because I couldn't get there before then. I walked in hesitantly, not knowing what had become of my boots. The cobbler looked through the shelves to find my boots and brought them to me. They were...stunning. Shiny bright! Like new! I could only goggle at them. He flipped them over so that I could see the half soles. He put new soles on my boots. With grip. And new heel tips. It was almost overwhelming, the change that had come over my $4 boots. If the counter hadn't been in the way I would have hugged that man. He seemed proud of his work in a modest craftsman like way. I thanked him profusely.

I wear these boots all the time. In the winter weather, in the rain, in the...office. The grip on the bottom actually makes them one of my least slippy pairs of shoes in the snow. And they have high heels, people! Needless to say, I want to recommend this cobbler to you. Incidentally, I don't know if he qualifies as a cobbler since he doesn't make shoes, just fixes them. Ah, well. Anyway, behold! New treads and heels!

No, my left ankle is not broken. It's hard to take a picture of your own legs at this angle, ok?