In My Grandfather’s Shoes
What can a pair of shoes say about the man who wore them?
Around thirteen odd years ago, when my maternal grandfather passed, I received an inheritance of sorts: a pair of good-quality brown leather Church’s Oxford dress shoes, the kind you might wear for a wedding or some other special occasion. We were both a size ten, so I was the logical recipient. Inherited items from a beloved grandfather carry an emotional weight that I wouldn’t expect to be connected with a pair of shoes; it makes me question what I can learn from them.
They are a hazelnut brown colour with reddish undertones that remind me of worn church pews and crisp autumnal leaves. With a little research, I discovered that they were manufactured between 1959 and 1964. It is a shock to find out I have been wearing shoes that are older than me, but that explains the tanned leather soles and the nail construction of the stacked leather heel block. The insides still show handwritten codes detailing the size, model, batch, leather code, and possibly the workers’ initials or QC marking. There are a few minor scuffs and some wear on the heels, but all in all, they are in pretty good shape for a pair of shoes that are galloping towards antique status.
So a question follows. What can you tell about a man from the shoes he walked in? Despite these shoes being older than me, they are still in near-perfect condition. We can understand he was a fastidious man, a man who was careful about his appearance. A clean-shaven man who cared about the detail. I remember watching him shave when I was a child with an old-fashioned foil and trimmer electric razor. He would let me run it across my cheek to feel the buzz of it.
They say the shoes hold the gait and walk of a man. But I have bought second-hand boots before and felt the shape of another man’s feet. These shoes feel barely broken in, still tight in all the right places. Maybe we have the same-shaped feet. I suspect not. I think they were very expensive, and he only wore them for special occasions. I wonder whether I was there for any of them. Maybe my christening.
My grandfather was a detail-oriented man. His surname was Butler, so maybe that makes sense in some way. But he worked as an aircraft electrician. In the Second World War, he was not drafted or deployed, and the same is true for my paternal grandfather, who was a fireman. They were both considered essential workers, one fixing the planes that flew off to protect our shores, the other putting out fires from blitz bombs, or so my teenage mind told me. When I was a war-obsessed, historically fascinated child, I was bitterly disappointed at the lack of war stories. As an adult, I am glad neither of my grandparents endured that hellscape. I am old enough to have known some of those damaged by it.
The man himself had a wonderful turn of phrase. He would talk about when he was courting Nana and having a gay old time long before the word gay meant something else. Nana, in her turn, also had a wonderful way of speaking. I remember picking her up from the hairdresser’s after she had been getting a blue rinse. I asked, “Where’s Grandad?” and she replied, “He is on the promenade enjoying the dolly birds.” A level of understanding I still aspire to. They were married for over seventy years, got a letter from the Queen and everything.
So maybe these shoes confirm to me the detailed mind of a man who was paying attention. I remember when he would drive from Coventry to Hastings to visit us. He would relate in great detail every road he drove down, with observations about traffic and weather along the way, as if he were describing a visual mind map in words. He had a fascinating and infuriating way of eating. Imagine a roast dinner, chicken, carrots, roast potatoes, broccoli, all smothered in gravy. I tend to approach these items one at a time, a mouthful of chicken followed by a mouthful of potato. But he had an entirely different way. Each forkful had a little of everything. Chicken pushed on first, then carrot, then potato, almost everything on the plate carefully loaded onto one fork. For sure, this man was an engineer. It was infuriating at the time, begging my parents to let me get down from the table while my grandfather took forty minutes to finish a meal. How I took such pleasures for granted.
I imagine it was not entirely welcome when my mother agreed to marry my father, a divorcee with two boys, my beautiful brothers, from a previous marriage. I reckon he was probably not initially impressed. As a father myself, I doubt I would be enthusiastic about the proposition either. But I never heard a cross word from him, although this was long before I was born. And in all honesty, I do not think he could have hoped for a better son-in-law.
One Christmas, I had the mumps. I remember that I was too sick to open my presents. I was small and sick and cuddled up to Grandad while he helped me open them. He did not smoke or drink much, except for one cigar every Christmas Day. It was a different time, back when the world was still brown, orange, beige and mustard yellow, and cars came in loads of fantastic colours.
I cannot feel any of these things when I wear his shoes. But I can look down and see that this is a fine pair of shoes. So I take my time with them. Like him, I also enjoy a good pair of shoes. Not like the disposable shite they make nowadays, but shoes that were made to last. So I make a ritual of it when I polish them. First, I clean off the old polish carefully. Then I apply a new layer before brushing it all vigorously, one shoe and then the next. I enjoy the smell of it, a little bit of spit in the mix to get a shine on the toe caps. I take pleasure in the process, the attention to detail, the beauty of taking something dirty and old-looking and making it shiny and new. And for a moment, I understand that we have that in common. He also took pleasure in this same process, and I feel a little bit closer to him knowing we spent time giving care and attention to this same pair of shoes.
They are a doorway, an access point to a man who is no longer with us.
So what have I learned along the way? Maybe you can’t really tell much about a man from the shoes he wore, just glimpses; however, they are a doorway, an access point to a man who is no longer with us. I think that’s what makes them important. I do not have to fill them. They are my shoes now. I only have to respect the man and where they came from.