PAD Day 23 – Footwear – I Never Knew I Could Write So Many Poems About Shoes…

I never would have thought that I could have gotten four poems from footwear. Seriously, my first thought at 2 in the morning when the prompt came out was, “Heels. I can write about my love of heels.” Well you get two heels poems and two more shoe poems as well.  I was reading three of these off to Mel this morning and I loved her insight and laughter.

I have to say though that I was holding back tears with Flip Flop Childhood.  How can you not get weepy and sentimental about your first crush when you were a little girl? I was five. I was in love with a neighbor boy and it was horrible and awful and wonderful and there were arguments and tears… mostly because I kissed him on the cheek and oh, the terror of it for him.  Even to this day, thinking about him brings a fondness and melancholy moment. Ah childhood.

The rest are true, with a touch of exaggeration. Just a very slight touch.  Enjoy.

 

In Heels I Know My Limitations

Tap tap tapping down the street
I go in heels too tall
click click clacking on pavement
I’m a lady, I’m a girl
And the heels are my badge
They are my license to be
feminine and helpless
though I can almost run better in heels
than in my running shoes
Running on my toes, gazelle-like,
worrying about placement and pebbles
that might trip me up;
In running shoes I think I can make it
till I twist my ankle for being cocky and brave
In heels I know my limitations
Tennis shoes make me arrogant.

Inherited Bunions
My mother wore heels during both her pregnancies
In the eighties of stiletto heels and big shoulder pads
and bold colors.
She had dainty feet — size four and a half.
Cool green snakeskin kitten-esque things
that I said I would wear when I was older and a lady.
My feet are seven and a half.
I was never able to indulge in
her suede forest green pumps.
It makes me sad to see them go
to the second hand shops;
Because those heels gave my mother bunions.
I didn’t inherit the heels,
but I’m inheriting the bunions.

Flip-flop Childhood (for CMM)

Flipflops and popsicles
and skinned knees and chalk
and bike rides and summer
roll together into my childhood
when summer heat melted rubber
and flip flops protected against
burning sidewalks from his house
to my green lawn and cool garage
where the cars were
or the blocks, and teeter totter
and kisses to cry over
and records to laugh over
before I moved, before he
grew up and moved and
before we were too old
to realize that we didn’t
really get each other, but
for those five years
I was in love with
a boy who was younger than me

The Hiking Boots of My Life

The hiking boots that take me up
the granite rocks where my
sister and I play, making
pine cone soup with pine needle
noodles on the side with a
lichen salad and a sand
and gravel dressing.
The hiking boots that grip the
creek stones as I hope across the
rocks, staying dry till they hit
an algae patch and my foot
plunges into mountain water.
The hiking boots that sit on
the bank as we wade into
the creek sliding on rocks
the water so cold and fresh.
The boots sit there, impossible to
get on, after wet feet try to tug
on socks, then the snug boots.
The hiking boots that made me
love boots more than tennis shoes
and sandals, sturdy and strong
faithfully taking me from there
to here. From eight to much more
than eight.
I still wear hiking boots.

Sounds of My Childhood

Sometimes in life I go along not remembering little things from my childhood, even though I do attempt to remember as much as I can.  I suppose writing it down would be a good idea so that when I reach my parents age I’m not going, “What?”  However, I’m not that adventurous, the writing it all down part.  It just seems like too much to write down.

So I go along and something happens that brings back an insta-memory.  That happened last week. I woke to the sound of a hammer pounding on a two-by-four.  Ah, the sounds of building.  Our neighbor was getting a new outside staircase built and the carpenters start early around here.  Okay, 8 isn’t that early, but for me it is.

Okay, getting back to the pounding.  I grew up in housing developments.  My parents built a house when I was five and the whole neighborhood was a new developement.  After our house and the court was built, not long after the open land behind our houses became another developement.  So pounding was pretty common.  Along with that, I’ve lived in other areas where there was building.

Plus my father worked in the lumber business, the family company being a wholesale lumber yard.  Building and wood is in the genes and I have a fine appreciation for lumber and wood.  So, building, and the sounds of building take me right back to when I was a young girl.  It’s amazing how I miss that sound.

The second sound was yesterday.  Ah, Superbowl.  I hate football.  Never really appreciated the game.  Well, despite that, I watched the whole game yesterday, (Go Giants!) (yeah, yeah, I still have teams I root for even if I don’t like the game.  I just have this thing against Tom Brady. Sue me).  All four hours of the game, and it was actually really enjoyable.  I actually enjoyed the game.  The sound that took me back though, was the ref’s whistle. 

I heard it at some point in the game and even though I had been hearing it, that one time was like that moment in Ratatouille when Anton Ego takes the bite of ratatouille and Whoosh! He’s taken back to when he was a child.  Yup, that was me.

Ever holiday my family would gather at my grandparents house.  And all the holidays have a game on.  Especially Thanksgiving.  The game was always on as my grandfather is a big football fan, and my uncles always watched it too. My cousins (girls), sister and I would try to watch the game.  We’d pull out these giant corduroy pillows my grandmother had made, pile them on the floor in front of the tv, and try to understand what the heck was going on.  I never figured it out, and  even now I spit out  really bizzare  things that my parents shake their heads at. 

But the sound I remember the most was the whistles.  Maybe all the teams blurred into one.  Maybe all the years and games just are one big blur, clearly it is that way, and all I remember are the sounds of the whistles.

It’s a good sound.  I can bring it back now just thinking about it.  Same as the pounding of wood.  They are familiar sounds. 

I forgot how much I missed them.

Signing off

~Kate