In a so-called civilized society, most people wear shoes. I'm not altogether sure that's a good thing, but yet we do. In the process of our shoe-wearing life, we learn to rely on built-in arches to support our foot, and we squeeze and contort our southernmost appendages into restraining leather until they protest with pain and sometimes worse, e.g. corns and calluses, bumps and bunions. But custom and fashion, by all means, seem to dictate that we wear shoes and so we do, from the earliest stages onward until the time we're buried in—guess what?—our very best shoes.
      I imagine my first pair of footwear was booties and probably hand-knit, either by Mom or some other loving family member or friend. From there, I moved into the sturdy, little, white, high-top baby shoes, which we all wore for our first few years (this was before the days of baby Mary Janes and teeny, tiny sneakers and sandals). I remember Mom (and I assume she did this for me, as well as for my older brother), as she polished my little sister's white high-tops and washed the shoelaces and hung them to dry, so that her baby would never have to appear in public in scuffed or dirty shoes.
      Eventually, these high-tops (presumably worn in order to give our wobbly little legs some extra ankle support) gave way to standard oxfords, and I went from baby white to sturdy brown lace-ups for school. Dress-up time, which consisted of Sunday School and official occasions such as birthday parties, brought out the special shoes which were, of course, never worn for school or any other everyday function. These dress-up shoes were usually black patent leather with a strap across the instep (Mary Janes), and, by my later elementary years, black patent leather with an ankle strap, which made me feel very elegant indeed—kind of like Betty Grable or Linda Darnell, except that the heel on my shoes was all but nonexistent, while theirs were spiked and probably at least four inches high.
      School shoes eventually evolved into penny loafers. These were first worn in the later grade school years and off and on from then on. I still love their easy, slip-on comfort. For play, we wore sneakers—PF Flyers—sometimes white (but rarely clean) and other times, red or navy. Running shoes, walking shoes, aerobic shoes, etc. had not yet been invented. Just plain sneakers or, for the boys, high-top basketball shoes, usually black.
      And then there was the ritual of shoe buying in the forties and fifties. Mom would take us downtown, usually to Dayton's or Donaldson's, at certain appointed times—just before school started, right before Easter, and at the start of summer. We would circle the shoe department, eyeing the various styles and inevitably falling for something colorful and exotic, until Mom pulled us back to reality, directing our attention to some basic school oxfords, as she asked, "Which of these two styles do you like best—the brown or the black?" We then would sit down and the salesman would come over with his amazing, sliding measuring device. He would then sit down on the funny shaped stool, we'd put our feet up on the measuring slide rule, and he would say, "Hmm, let's see what I have in your size."
      Disappearing into the curtained back room, he'd bring out two or three boxes, set them on the floor, and open the first with a flourish, as if he was revealing golden treasure. He'd take out a shoe, pull out the stuffed paper in the toe, bend the shoe toe back and forth and then put it on my foot, after which he'd do the same to the other foot. "Now walk around and see how it feels," he instructed me, after pinching the shoe toe to show Mom where my toe stacked up against the toe of the shoe, while at the same time giving his little spiel about "leaving room to grow." After dutifully walking around and checking out the looks in the small, low-placed mirrors, and declaring that they fit just fine, he'd take me over to this big machine, where I inserted my feet and they were illuminated, which could be seen from a little viewing box at the top of the machine. He then invited Mom to take a look. She studied where my toe came in the shoe, the shoe man studied it, and I studied it as well. How strange to see those bony shapes superimposed on the greenish-glow of the background.
      Finally, it was determined that these shoes were indeed the proper fit. If I was lucky, I was allowed to wear them home, but otherwise they were carefully wrapped back up in the tissue in the box, with the lid placed firmly on top. They weren't the bright-red strappy sandals with the three-inch heels that I, in my third-grade mind, thought were cool, but still they were brand-new and shiny and best of all, they had that wonderful, brand-new leather smell about them, a smell that meant fall and the first day of school.
      Come the approach of summer, if our sneakers weren't too badly worn and had to be replaced just then, we got to buy sandals. I had brown ones and white ones over the years, but my favorite pair was red, in the general style that they now call fisherman's sandals. I remember wearing these during one of the last summers of grade school, along with the rest of my vacation uniform of a sailor hat with the brim down, and a plaid camp shirt and shorts. I loved those shoes, and I loved those summers, when we were such free spirits, living just for the moment and enjoying it to the hilt.
      Going into junior high and then high school fine-tuned our fashion sense to the point that above all, we had to dress like everyone else. Loafers were still in, as well as the sneakers (now always white, but never perfectly clean, which would have been uncool). For a little bit dressier appearance at school, we'd wear flats, black in the winter and red or white in the spring. Other faddish styles came (and usually) went. These included white bucks (which required a special polish and brushing) and saddle shoes, a style that still keeps reappearing. These latter two—the white bucks and the saddle shoes—were probably not the most attractive, especially for large-size feet that longed to look small, because just the whiteness and bulkiness of these styles made your feet look so large that you might as well have been wearing the boxes they came in.
      For dances, we went downtown to one of the small shoe stores that lined Nicollet Avenue, such as Baker's, and bought a pair of pumps for $4.99. The heels were not too high (about two inches), but high enough to make one feel grown-up (as well as unsteady). These usually came in white, black, or red, plus you could also buy a satin version and have it dyed to match your dress for those really special occasions. The shoes I most remember were red, and I wore them with a polka-dotted red and white strapless dress. We teetered into the gym in our stylish shoes, but long before the dance was over, our feet were hurting and the shoes came off and were all lined up along the periphery of the room. To this day, I dislike wearing high-heeled shoes and wear them (and then, only with the lowest of heels) under extreme duress.
      Going off to college and then into nursing school, I put on my first pair of white nursing shoes. Not especially pretty, but important to me, as they were a sign of my new profession, and they definitely were designed for comfort, which was a good thing, as we were on our feet for hours. Nowadays, most nurses wear walking shoes—maybe not as professional, but comfort is the paramount concern.
      And comfort in footwear becomes more and more important to me each year. Some women dress for style, but me, I dress for comfort. I schlump around the house in my moccasins and walk miles around my neighborhood each week in my New Balance walking shoes. Even when I go to town to meet my husband Duncan on occasional Fridays after work, I usually hike down to the ferry in my comfortable walking shoes, with my dress shoes (usually flats) in my backpack, to be put on at the last possible moment, such as at the door of the restaurant or the concert hall.
      Pretty soon, I suppose I will be back to booties (with no-skid soles, of course), and I will have come full circle.