My Da worked for Genesco Shoes back in the day. Back then, shoes were copied from other countries and made here in Canada and the US. I’m sure it’s still done today but you hear about this sort of thing going on in Milan or South East Asia. It was Da’s jobs to fly off to NYC or Singapore and look at/photograph shoes to bring ideas back to Brockvegas so the upper mucky mucks could decide which ones to copy lovingly remaster for sale in Canada.

As you can imagine when my foot was a size 8, I wanted for no shoe. Actually, I never bought shoes until Da retired from the big G which was about when I was twenty-something. I know, right? A gay kid not discovering the beauty of shoes until it was thrusted upon him well past his stylish teens.

Don’t cry. I did experience some wonderful freaky designs because Da always brought home things to try on the kids to see if they were popular. We were lovable lab rats as it were.

Around the age of Star Wars, Da shocked the hell out of me by getting me a pair of Wookie Boots (you kids may call them something else, damn you). I was in heaven:

I tired of them fast after the first slush/ice storm, when they became 1000x heavier with ice pellets matted into the fur. But I did wear them until they gave out, well past their style.

Then came the fun and flip Me Generation, the 80s. When I was in high school, I remember getting a box from my father and opening the top to find these:

Well. They weren’t black. Black would have been cool. They would have made me less of a target for bullies in the halls of high school. No, inside the box, the boots were more like the pavement after a Pride Parade blew through town, like this:

You get the idea. GaaAAaaaayyyy.

Regardless, I wore them out. I wore them so much the lining would ALWAYS come out, stuck to my feet, when I wrenched them off. I wore them so much I would slip repeatedly because the treads were long gone. I wish I could say that these were my last free pair from Da, but no. I don’t recall what they would have been, probably a pair of runners.

My point of this story is that I don’t think I ever thanked my Da for the shoes. So here goes:

Thanks, Dad. I know they were free and all. But walking into the warehouse and “signing out” 3 to 5 pairs of shoes at a time must have been a risk for your career, I’m sure. I appreciate all the footwear, either practical or fun and flip, Each shoe was well used, I assure you, to get me around town, get me to school, get me to my first date, get me into the basement to steal your home made wine, get me back home drunk and not so much to get me quietly back to my room before you noticed.

I know the job was weird at times – like wearing gold platform shoes through customs so you didn’t have to claim them (story embellished) but you did sacrifice a lot to keep us walking safely.

I thank you. Now that I purchase my shoes out of my own pocket, I can appreciate you more.