I Can’t Shop for Shoes on Father’s Day

Lester Irving Gordon sold shoes for a living. We liked to tease him by saying, “There’s no business like shoe business,” sometimes sung in the style of Ethel Merman. I never picture him without a shoehorn sticking out of his back pocket. The last one he had I had framed, along with the worn-down silver dollar he always carried. It hangs in my house to this day.

He didn’t own the shoe store. He was just an employee. He was the salesman whom people waited for so he could wait on them. He fit mothers and their children expertly, and they didn’t mind waiting so that he could help them try on their Naturalizers and StrideRites. He knew them. When he was diagnosed with cancer, he received cards and letters from his customers, who wished him well and filled him in on their important life events. Bobby made it to middle school. Sally loved the shoes she wore to kindergarten. They shared their lives with the man who held their feet in his hands.

When my father died in June, 1983, just days short of Father’s Day – the day he was buried – our family received so many lovely notes from people sharing their memories of my father and how he touched their lives. He wasn’t a doctor who saved their lives. He just made sure they wore the right shoes so they would feel comfortable and happy. That was his gift.

Growing up, my sister and I never shopped for shoes. My father always checked out the wear and tear and brought home new ones for us to try on when the time was right. We all wore pretty basic shoes in those days – penny loafers, saddle shoes, Keds or PF Flyers – so it wasn’t a question of picking out something new or different. We simply restocked.

After my father died, his boss insisted that we return and shop in his store and he would always give us the shoes wholesale. We took him up on his offer for a while, more to maintain the connection than anything else, but eventually we felt like we were taking advantage of his kindness, so we started shopping – and buying – retail. The man my father worked for admired him as much as his customers.

My father never needed to wear English Leather cologne. On a busy day – especially after the sidewalk sales – he smelled of leather. To this day, when I go shoe shopping, I have to pick one up and surreptitiously take a sniff. I instantly feel the connection with my father.

So, I can’t shop for shoes on Father’s Day. After nearly 40 years, I still miss that smell of leather and that special man. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.